Dead Sure

by Herbert Brean

  There was a row of battered letter boxes, most of whose little metal doors hung askew and nameless. Mail did not mean much here. There was no bell or sign marked superintendent. That was bad.

  “I think I heard him go up or down the stairs,” said Ryan.

  Jablonski pushed the door open, and they stepped into a high-ceilinged old hall heavy with the scent of cooking and rotting plaster. Jablonski flashed his light around. There was a massive, sagging staircase of dark wood at the end of the hall. He pulled a dangling string and the feeble hall light came on.

  “You stay here. I’ll try the basement.”

  “Isn’t that light liable—”

  “Anyone comin’ in late could have turned it on,” said Jablonski patiently. “Now remember, them back doors are locked on the inside. If he breaks, they will slow him a few seconds when he tries to get out. We may need those seconds, so remember.” He tiptoed to the back stairs and descended them.

  It was cold in the house, a damp, unhealthy cold more chilling than the street’s fresh gusts. Ryan’s chest began to feel tight again. It was all right as long as they were moving or acting—! Suddenly he realized that he could smoke in here. He lit a cigarette.

  Jablonski reappeared at the top of the stairs, listened at two doors in the back of the hall and came forward. He looked troubled. “There’s one sort of room downstairs, but I don’t think nobody’s in it. Not a sound. Gimme one of your cheroots, will you?”

  Ryan handed him the pack and flicked his lighter. Jablonski bent over it, holding the cigarette awkwardly to unaccustomed lips. “I’m goin’ to try the second floor.”

  “Let me take the second floor.”

  “Me,” said Jablonski. He continued smoking hurriedly in silence for a few minutes. “Wish you’d carry cigars, Neill,” he grinned, then ground the stub under his heel and started up the stairs.

  In a minute he was back. “The super is on the second floor,” he whispered. “There’s a sign. And I can hear someone threshing around in there. No lights.” His breath was flavored with the knackwurst he had had for supper.

  “You think he’s in there?”

  “Either he is or he ain’t. If he ain’t the super tells us what room he’s in. And if that’s how it is he might well have made for here after the job. It was a sudden job. He probably didn’t have no hideout planned. Huh?”

  Ryan nodded. “Let’s go,” he said. This was the finale. Suddenly he felt good, not nervous or anxious or tight in the chest, but clear, sure, quick. It was the feeling of being in danger and knowing you could handle it. It was wonderful.

  Jablonski led the way to the big staircase. “Me first,” he whispered. “If we go up together the stairs may creak.”

  Again Ryan nodded. He waited until Jablonski’s portly back disappeared in the blackness above, then followed him. Little light filtered up here from the weak bulb below. Their feet made soft, sandy sounds in the grit of the hall’s unswept floor. Jablonski stopped at a door near the end of the hall and leaned over the knob.

  After a time he twisted his bulky body close to Ryan for quiet communication. “It ain’t locked!”

  “Good. How do you want to do it?”

  “I’ll swing the door open and you go in fast with your light. Keep low and get well into the room before you turn it on. I’ll cover you from the door—so for Christ’s sake, keep down.”

  “Right.”

  “And. Neill—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Remember, we don’t know who’s in there and we’re going to surprise them. So whatever they do, don’t start shooting until you’re sure it’s Derby.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ryan held his flashlight in his left hand, his revolver in his right. He could feel the heavy throb of his heart. The back of his neck was cold. Jablonski swung the door back. It creaked.

  Crouching, Ryan moved quickly through the doorway, took three steps into the room’s blackness and then one to the right. His thumb solidly found the flashlight button and clicked it. The first beam showed him the foot of an old iron bed, the white enamel generously chipped, then the frightened face of a middle-aged woman, red, puffy and framed by short, frizzled hair.

  “What’s that?” She blinked in the light.

  “Someone’s in bed with her,” warned Jablonski from the darkness.

  Ryan flashed the light around.

  “Who the hell is it?” the woman demanded again, frightened.

  Jablonski advanced into the room. Ryan’s beam had caught a string with a little doll tied to it dangling from the ceiling. Jablonski pulled it and an ancient chandelier spread light around the frowsy bedroom. Beside the woman another figure lay in the bed, blankets pulled up tightly around its head. Jablonski stood over it. Ryan took his place on the other side of the bed.

  “We’re cops,” he said. “Who’s that next to you?”

  Hate and fear burned in her look. “Get out of here.”

  Jablonski dug his gun into the blanket cocoon, felt under its pillow, then spoke to the woman. “Look,” he said. “Tell your boy friend to open up. If he’s not a guy named Derby he has nothing to worry about—we don’t care what else is going on here. Get me?”

  There was a second of immobile silence.

  Jablonski dug harder with the gun. “If that’s Derby,” he said more loudly, “he either opens up or he gets a bullet in the guts. If it ain’t, he gets the bullet anyway if he don’t show his face. One…”

  The woman reached over and seized the bedclothes. Two fine, thin hands appeared from beneath them and grabbed them desperately.

  “…two,” said Jablonski.

  A man’s high forehead appeared, then a face, big-eyed, frightened, then a mustache that was like a hyphen over tight, pale lips. Ryan relaxed.

  “Now will you get outta here?” the woman cried.

  “Shuddap!” said Jablonski savagely. They had made a mistake, but what was worse, they had made too much noise. That worried him.

  For the second time Ryan stepped in to the older man’s rescue. He said, “Look, lady. We’re looking for a man named Derby—Harry Derby.”

  “The guy they had on the radio tonight—who killed the old lady?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “Well, there ain’t nobody named Derby in this house. So you two crapheads—”

  “Harry Derby,” Ryan repeated patiently. “Better listen, lady. I’d rather not have to take you in. But I will if you make me do it. We know he’s in this house—right now. He’s tall. Thin. Brown-haired. Wearing a checked jacket. Might have moved in here this afternoon.” His tone changed to angry urgency. “Now where is he?—and talk low!”

  The man was listening owlishly, only his head visible over the bedclothes.

  “For God’s sake, Maud, tell ’em what they want to know,” he said.

  The woman deliberately pulled covers over her wrinkled nightgown. On a chair beside her were cigarettes, glasses and a whisky bottle. She lit a cigarette. “I don’t think I remember anyone like that,” she said.

  Jablonski reached across the man and grabbed her bare shoulder. His fingers tightened until the knuckles stood out and he shook her so hard the smoldering cigarette fell from her fingers. Then he threw her back on the bed. There were little red arcs on her shoulder where his thick nails had dug in. They looked at each other.

  “We’re in a hurry,” said Jablonski.

  She retrieved the cigarette.

  “For God’s sake, Maud,” the man said again.

  When the woman spoke it was as though every word hurt her. “That’ll be Mr. Quinn,” she said. “In thirty-three. The room just above this. Came in today.”

  Jablonski continued looking at her. “I hope that’s right,” he said. “Because if he gets away now, you go up for harboring, common adultery and breaking every housing ordinan
ce in the book.”

  “Did anyone else come in with him?” asked Ryan.

  “No.”

  “Did he meet anyone here, or ask about someone?”

  “No.”

  That took care of the accomplice, if there had been one.

  “Let’s go,” said Jablonski.

  “Wait a minute,” said Ryan. He had been studying the tall, old-fashioned door to the room. “All your doors like this?”

  “Why not?” said the woman.

  Ryan pushed his hat back on his forehead. It revealed, that his black hair was threaded with a little premature gray. He looked boyish and serious. “If he’s locked in behind a door like that,” he said, “we’re going to have to blast him out. They built these places. A door like that won’t give with one heave.”

  Jablonski said, “Yeah,” dismayed. “That’ll sure give him time to go for his gun.”

  The man in bed whimpered, “Oh, God.”

  Jablonski grinned humorlessly. “I know what we’ll do,” he said. “C’mon, Maud. You’ll get him to open the door.”

  “You know what you can do,” she said, and told him.

  Ryan looked at her. “You’re the landlady,” he said mildly. “We’re police officers making an arrest. You wouldn’t want to obstruct justice, would you?” It wasn’t really a question.

  The woman slowly swung gnarled legs out of the bed and took a dressing gown that hung from an old gas jet on the wall. She put it on leisurely and fluffed out her bobbed locks with both hands.

  “Atta girl, Maud,” said the man in bed.

  She looked behind at him. “You better not be here when I get back,” she said. “You know what I mean. Don’t be here.”

  They went quietly out into the hall. Its air was fresh and sweet; now Ryan remembered that when they broke into the room he had smelled the scent of stale powder.

  “Not so fast,” Jablonski said. “We ain’t barefoot like you.”

  On the third floor she found a light and they gathered silently before a door bearing a card with 33 on it. And as they did from behind the door came the unmistakable sound of a beer can being punctured.

  “Holy Mike,” said Jablonski.

  There came the lesser sound of the opener’s wedge making the second puncture.

  Suddenly Ryan was scared.

  Jablonski had his gun out. He waved it between the woman and the door. “Make him open it,” he whispered. “I don’t care how—but get goin’.”

  Ryan found his own revolver in his hand without knowing he had drawn it. He wondered if this wasn’t a mistake. They could still wait—But it was too late. The woman’s fingers beat a light tattoo on the door.

  From the other side of the door came a silence they could feel.

  The woman rapped again. She smiled with an unexpected girlishness. She was playing a part, so that when she called. “Mr. Quinn, honey?” anyone could tell by the soft tone that she was smiling invitingly.

  A voice behind the door said, “Who’s that?”

  “It’s just me, honey. Mrs. Daniels, the landlady. How’s about that beer you mentioned when you came in? I can’t seem to get to sleep tonight. Are you having trouble, too?”

  There was a pause. “Who?”

  “Mrs. Daniels, honey. You know.”

  The voice said, “Wait a minute,” and the doorknob twisted and a key turned with a loud switching sound.

  Ryan grabbed Mrs. Daniels by the shoulders and flung her powerfully back and to one side. The door opened and a tall man peered out. The first things he saw were the short barrels of two police revolvers.

  The long lean face looked surprised and a little stupid.

  “All right, Derby,” said Jablonski. “Don’t jump or we’ll blow your guts out.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Derby’s Dance

  Harry derby’s hair was silkily long, the color of brown wrapping paper, and it came to a deep widow’s peak on his pallid forehead. His gimlet eyes were fierce, uncomprehending appraisers of what he turned them on, his mouth a hard twist of petulance. Only the jaw, long and clean in its sweep, suggested something worthy.

  He said, “Who the hell—” out of a mouth still wet with beer.

  Mrs. Daniels began walking away from them toward the staircase, not hurrying, not looking back.

  “Put the hands up,” said Jablonski.

  Derby looked at him a full moment. Then he dropped the beer can in his right hand. It clunked on the floor and rolled, purling beer. He raised his arms, then recognized Jablonski and said, “Hi, cop.”

  “Over against the wall,” said Jablonski. “Hands against it and keep your head down.”

  When Derby had taken his position, back to them, hands flattened against the paint-blistered wall, he said, “What’s all this about?”

  Ryan saw Jablonski dart quick glances around the room. Across one corner of it a piece of faded blue cloth had been tacked to make a kind of closet. It could conceal a man.

  “What’s behind that curtain?” said Jablonski.

  Ryan approached it, keeping his gun on it and taking care not to get between Jablonski and Derby. He tore the cloth aside. There were a few coat hangers suspended from wire hooks.

  Jablonski said, “Clean him. Watch his pants legs. He may have a shiv.”

  “What’s this all about?” Derby asked again, but he did not sound as though he expected any answer.

  Ryan ran his hands roughly over the taller man, watching Derby’s shoulder for the muscle-tightening that would signal he was about to try something.

  “No gun,” he said. “No nothing.”

  “What’d you do with it?” asked Jablonski.

  Derby’s reply was two monosyllables.

  Ryan emptied Derby’s pockets, then went through the checkered jacket that was hanging on a chair. He strewed everything he found on a small wooden table that already held a pipe, a tobacco can and a half-played game of solitaire. The wallet held a small sheaf of greasy business cards bearing many names, a driver’s license in Derby’s name and a chauffeur’s license made out to Harry Durward, and a membership card in the International Longshoreman’s Union. There was a meal ticket with four ten-cent punches left. And there was a crisp, neatly folded one hundred dollar bill.

  “Got anything?” said Jablonski.

  Derby said, “How about me turning around?”

  Jablonski gave him the same monosyllables.

  Ryan was comparing the bill’s serial number with a page in his notebook. “I’ll say I got something,” he said. “Here’s the C-note. And the numbers check.”

  “Hah!” yelled Jablonski. “Now you can turn around! Want to see what’s gonna send you up?”

  Derby turned, straightening. He rubbed his long, thin-fingered hands nervously, like a pianist before sitting down to play. Ryan held up the bill.

  “Farragut will have a tough time explaining that one for you,” said Jablonski. Farragut was the first-class criminal lawyer occasionally retained by the union.

  “He’s also got nine dollars and twenty-four cents,” Ryan said. “Book of matches. Tie clip. Couple pipe cleaners.”

  Jablonski nodded. “It figures perfectly,” he said. “He was almost broke. Eh, Harry? So he clips the old lady. That gives him a hundred and twenty. He buys the beer and maybe got some food before that. That leaves one ten-buck bill to be accounted—Oh, the room rent. That’s it! He rented the room. Give him a few dimes to begin with and it just figures. Eh, Harry?”

  “You’re nuts,” said Derby. But his eyes moved jerkily in his head like a defective doll’s. He said, “On the level you’re wrong. I borrowed that dough.”

  “Who from?”

  “A shark. Guy on the dock.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t remember his name. I just see him around. I’ll
remember it.”

  “What’d you need a hundred bucks for?”

  “I was broke,” said Derby. “Like you said.”

  “When you remember the guy’s name,” said Jablonski with ponderous politeness, “you let me know. And you know how much good it’ll do you. This is a chair rap.”

  “Let’s call in,” said Ryan.

  But Derby was looking at Jablonski like a man in a trance, spellbound, waiting for the word that would enable him to move again. As he did his face grew red and his arms and hands, clenched in tight fists, began to tremble. A little scar that ran thin as a knife blade from his left eye began to show oddly white.

  “Chair rap.”

  Ryan had a sense of something happening inside Derby.

  “The old lady ain’t dead,” Derby breathed. “You don’t mean that.”

  “She’s dead,” said Jablonski. “What’s the matter?—Haven’t you seen a paper?”

  Derby looked down at the floor. When he raised his head again, his face was a putty mask etched with despair. Only the eyes were alive, glittering, hopeless. Ryan incongruously remembered something he had heard a sergeant say long before: “They can be tough as hell—I don’t care how tough. But when you’ve finally got them, and they know you’ve got them—something happens. You can see it happen in their faces.”

  It was happening to Derby. Ryan did not feel sorry for Derby; he hated him with a deep, contemptuous hate. But in Derby’s bent head and fallen shoulder, in the low voice and limp arms, he caught a glimpse of the ultimate human defeat, of the prey’s realization that it at last has been run to earth.