The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  He said, “You make a mistake like that again and see what happens. Get your coat, Arnold, or so help me I’ll blast you out right here.”

  Arnold went to the closet and picked a coat. The broken-nosed one said:

  “I know where to find you, you——!” to McCarthy. McCarthy said, “Snap it up, Arnold!” and to the broken nose, “And you’re a fool if you come looking for me.”

  The Babe woman said again, “He’s snatching Orrie!” in a surprised stupid voice, and the man by her said, “Shut up, kid, for Jees’ sake.”

  McCarthy said, “That’s sense. Everybody keep quiet.”

  He backed to the door, took the key from the lock. He said, “Now listen! I’m walking out of here with Arnold and I’ll be watching this door. The first guy that sticks his face out, I’ll shoot it off him.”

  He reached up to the wall telephone, jerked it free, and dropped it on the floor. He opened the door with his left hand, fumbled the key into the outside of the lock, and said:

  “O.K., Arnold. Away we go,” and to the broken-nosed man, “I want you to come out, you heel. I want a crack at you.”

  “You’ll get one.”

  “I hope.”

  McCarthy took Arnold by the front of the coat and jerked him out after him through the door. He twisted the key in the lock, threw Arnold toward the stairs, and said:

  “You’re going through the lobby. You’re going right. You get it?”

  Arnold said he understood. He didn’t sound in the least afraid, either. Rather, he sounded a little scornful and more than a little confident. They went through the lobby, McCarthy half a pace behind Arnold; McCarthy’s gun, again in his side pocket, jammed against Arnold’s side.

  In front of the hotel McCarthy said, “Turn right, heel. My car’s that way.”

  * * *

  —

  Arnold felt himself gun-prodded to McCarthy’s battered coupé and McCarthy opened the door.

  Marge Chalmers, who’d followed Pat, came up and said, “I knew you’d be back, Pat. What are you going to do with him?”

  Arnold said, “He’s going to turn me loose right here and now, if he’s smart. I can throw my weight around in this town, don’t think I can’t.”

  McCarthy stared at Marge, then said, “As long as you’re here, you can drive us. I can handle him by myself but why take chances? The beach road will be best. There isn’t much traffic and if anybody hears it they’ll think it’s a back-fire.”

  He forced Arnold in beside Marge, crowded after him, and Marge kicked the motor into life.

  Arnold said to Marge, “You wasn’t putting anything over, tramp. I knew you were this lug’s. You were so dumb about that act of yours that you were funny.”

  McCarthy reached across with his gun barrel and swiped it across Arnold’s face. He said, in almost a placid voice:

  “You ain’t got long to talk, brother, but I don’t even want to hear you that long. Shut up or papa clout.”

  They went on for ten minutes in silence. Marge drove, eyes intent on the road, but her cheeks were hot and red and the color didn’t come from rouge. McCarthy watched Arnold, a half grin on his face, and the rakish bandage and this constant grin finally got to Arnold. He snapped out:

  “You can’t get away with this.”

  “You’re here, ain’t you? You guys got away with it with Cantwell, didn’t you? You’re a cinch.”

  “They saw me go out with you.”

  “I let you out of the car after I talked to you—that’s my story. With the record you got, there isn’t going to be any fuss made. I doubt if anybody’ll say they saw you go out with me even.”

  Arnold argued, “The hotel people saw me go out with you,” and McCarthy made the grin a little wider and more vindictive and said:

  “They saw you and some other guy go out of my office building with Cantwell, too. What’s the difference?”

  “Cantwell ain’t hurt.”

  McCarthy reached up and tapped the bandage on his head. He said, “I was. Plenty. I’m getting my own back. I’m turning my dog loose.”

  “It wasn’t me that did that.”

  “Who did?”

  “It was Bennie Schultz. The guy that was giving you the argument in the room.” Arnold’s voice sounded a little eager and hurried. “He’s got a broken nose, Schultz has.”

  McCarthy said in the same indifferent tone, “O.K.! I’ll get him next time. You was with him, so it’s just the same to me.” He watched the road from the corner of his eye, said to Marge:

  “Turn on the first cross road, hon. It’s O.K. any place off the highway. No houses and no traffic.”

  Marge twisted the battered coupé off the road and McCarthy stopped her a hundred yards up the dirt road she’d selected. He swung the door open, said to Arnold:

  “Come on, guy. Might as well make it easy for me.”

  Arnold said, “My God! You mean it.”

  McCarthy nodded as though surprised. “It’s what Cantwell got. Marge, take the car back to the highway and wait for me. This isn’t going to be pretty.”

  Arnold stared from Marge to McCarthy but he couldn’t look long away from the gun McCarthy held. He gripped the car door as though to steady himself, said:

  “You do mean it. Why, it’s murder!”

  “Go on, Marge. I’ll be there almost as soon as you are. Brace up, Arnold. Take it right.”

  “What if I tell you where Cantwell is?”

  McCarthy let irritation creep into his face. He jerked Arnold away from the car door and Arnold sprawled on the ground. McCarthy snapped at Marge:

  “Get going. Damn it, how many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Pat, I won’t let you do this. It’s just cold-blooded murder.”

  “Get going. So help me, get going or I’ll turn loose right here in front of you. Get going, I say.”

  Marge put the coupé in gear and drove away. McCarthy said to Arnold, and his voice was almost friendly:

  “All right, guy. It won’t hurt.”

  Arnold bleated, “So help me, I’ll tell you the truth. You can check it. My God, man, don’t do this.”

  McCarthy hesitated just the slightest. His eyes were very watchful. He said, “You was with Frankie Giles when he got the bonds in that St. Louis job, weren’t you? This Schultz was along too, wasn’t he?”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you. There was three of us besides Giles. Schultz, Cantwell, and me. We never made a cent out of the job; Cantwell and that gang of his robbed Wansner of the stuff before Wansner paid off. Then he wouldn’t pay. That’s one reason Frankie’s so hot to get the stuff.”

  McCarthy thought a moment, then said with apparent frankness: “If it wasn’t for Cantwell, I’d turn you loose. But he was my client and I’m working for him. I’m going through this mob of yours right in turn.”

  “I’ll tell the truth. He’s in a shack on Florence Avenue. I can’t tell you the number but I can show it to you. It’s the truth.” McCarthy hesitated, finally said:

  “Will you sign a ticket on that St. Louis job, and show up Giles and Schultz? It’s that or staying here.” He waved the gun. “That’ll give the law something to hang on them.”

  Arnold saw that McCarthy was weakening. He said promptly, “No. That’s at least five years for me, too. No.”

  McCarthy cocked the gun then. He leaned over Arnold, who promptly fell on his face to the ground, gripping his head with his two arms. McCarthy said, in a persuasive voice:

  “O.K. Get it over with.”

  He held the gun muzzle back of Arnold’s ear and Arnold moaned, “I’ll sign. I’ll sign.”

  McCarthy said, “Then get the hell off the ground, you crying rat. You can put it out but you can’t take it.” He had to half carry Arnold to where Marge waited with the car.

  * * *
/>   —

  Marge drove south on Florence Avenue and Arnold said, “It’s in the next block, and at the intersection. It’s the third house on our side of the street. Where that cab—” He tensed in his seat and McCarthy said, “Quiet, now!” and to Marge: “Easy does it, hon. Here’s that broken-nose guy now, come to check up.”

  Marge slowed the coupé and the cab pulled away from the curb. The broken-nosed man, Schultz, who had been in Arnold’s hotel room, started up the walk to the house. Marge eased ahead to where the cab had been and stopped, and Schultz heard the sound of the motor and turned. He twisted his head in a puzzled way, stared at the coupé and took a couple of steps toward it, then changed his mind and again started for the house. He walked fast and with his head down.

  McCarthy opened the door of the car. He said, “You, Arnold! You hold tough!” and then called out: “Hey! Schultz!”

  The house had five steps leading up to the porch and Schultz was half way up these. He stopped and turned, but said nothing. McCarthy started to climb from the car, facing Schultz. He had his gun half raised, cocked and ready. And then Arnold shoved him in the back and cried out:

  “Bennie!”

  McCarthy went to the sidewalk on his hands and knees. Schultz jumped to the top of the steps and turned, light flashing on a gun he held in his hand. He raised it, and as he did, McCarthy, still on knees and one hand, brought his own gun into line and sighted deliberately. He called:

  “Schultz! Drop that!”

  Schultz fired and McCarthy shot back so closely the two reports lapped. Schultz wavered, then pitched down the steps to the walk.

  McCarthy was up and running. Marge was trying to hold Arnold, who’d lost his head. He pulled free, got clear of the car, and started down the sidewalk at a run. By this time, McCarthy was on the porch. He passed the door, brought glass crashing to the porch from a window with the barrel of his gun.

  Marge climbed from the car, almost breathless, and saw McCarthy start through the window. She saw him stop, one leg over the sill, heard the racket of his heavy gun as he shot. She sobbed out:

  “The fool! The damn fool!” and ran up the walk and toward the house. She got to the porch as another shot roared out inside, and she almost fell through the window and into a bedroom. She heard a heavy fall toward an open door, got to the door and saw McCarthy lying on the floor of a short narrow hall.

  She said, “Pat!” and somehow managed to scream the word.

  McCarthy got to his feet, swearing viciously. He snapped back, “I tried for a guy when I come in here and he ducked back and I missed. Get the hell back in that room and in the clear. I saw that door there slam and was going to try for the guy again, but I fell on this damned rug.”

  He kicked the rug to one side, roared out, “Did I tell you to get in that room? Move, damn you.”

  She scuttled back from the hall and into the bedroom and peered out at him. He went down the hall, very cautiously, and into a kitchen, where he saw the back door standing open. He heard the roar of a suddenly accelerated motor and got to this door in time to see a car turn from the alley in back and skid onto Florence Avenue.

  Then he went back to the front bedroom and said to Marge: “Let’s see if Cantwell’s here.”

  Cantwell was there, his mouth bandaged with tape and with both hands and feet tied with the same material. He was lying on the floor of a small room off the hall and when McCarthy took the tape from his face, it showed battered and discolored. He tried to speak, had trouble doing so, and finally managed to get out:

  “Have they gone?”

  “Who was here?”

  “Frankie Giles, a guy named Schultz, and one named Arnold.”

  McCarthy grinned and said, “Well, Schultz is here. I was holding on his neck and I bet I didn’t miss his Adam’s apple an inch either way. I had Arnold but I let him go, in the excitement.”

  Marge said, in her small determined voice, “If I’d had a gun, I could have watched him. But I didn’t. If you’d killed him that terrible way, Pat McCarthy, I’d have told the law about it. That would have been murder.”

  “Did you think I was going to? Couldn’t you tell I was bluffing? I had to get the straight of this out of him somehow.”

  Marge said, “I’m not so sure.”

  With McCarthy helping, Cantwell managed to get out on the porch. A dozen people were already there, staring at the dead man at the bottom of the steps; and a prowl car was just pulling into the curb behind the coupé. Marge and McCarthy shoved Cantwell through the crowd and to their coupé and one of the crowd volunteered:

  “A car come out of the alley like a bat out of hell. It picked up a guy that was running down the street.”

  The prowl car driver worked his way through the crowd, heard this, and said:

  “What’s this? You did that shooting.” He reached out and gripped McCarthy by the shoulder and McCarthy shook the hand off and said:

  “Now wait a minute. It’s O.K.”

  He reached for his pocket and the policeman grabbed for his arm again and missed it. McCarthy grinned, brought out identification and said:

  “This. We’re on the same side, Jack.”

  The other man from the prowl car came up, waving the crowd back, and McCarthy said, “Let’s go into the house.”

  The prowl car driver looked at the bandage around McCarthy’s head, said, “What in hell happened to you?” and McCarthy reached up and felt of the bandage. He said, “Why, I forgot all about that,” in a surprised, startled, voice. He said, “Come on in and I’ll tell you the score,” and took the driver by the arm and started for the house.

  * * *

  —

  Half an hour later, after a carefully vague explanation of the shooting, Cantwell and McCarthy started back toward the center of town. Marge had left some time before with the understanding she’d wait at McCarthy’s office for him. They followed the morgue wagon a block down Florence and then McCarthy swung the coupé left and toward his office. Cantwell had surgeon’s tape across his nose and one cheek-bone, three stitches in one ear and five more across his forehead. Both eyes were so black and swollen that he could hardly see. He said:

  “Thank the Lord you came along,” in a voice that sounded as though he meant it. “I couldn’t have held out much longer.”

  “You didn’t crack, did you?”

  “No. Almost. That Frankie Giles is nuts. He’d do anything. That was him that went out when you came in.”

  McCarthy said, “Schultz went out, too,” and grinned, and Cantwell said, “But so did Arnold. The wrong way.”

  McCarthy agreed with this and Cantwell continued with: “If it was only Giles that got it instead of Schultz, I’d feel better. Giles is crazy, kill crazy.”

  McCarthy grinned, said, “His turn next.”

  They went into McCarthy’s office and found it empty and with the door locked. McCarthy prowled around, found a half finished letter in the typewriter that Marge had begun, and said aloud and querulously:

  “Now where the hell is she? She always says where she’s going, when she’s supposed to wait like this.”

  Cantwell stared at him and said, “Arnold!”

  McCarthy grabbed him and shoved him toward the door. He growled out: “Get moving, dope.”

  He hurried him downstairs and to the coupé, broke speed laws to the Carlton Hotel. The same boy McCarthy had talked with before came to meet them and said to McCarthy:

  “If it’s Arnold, he’s checked out.” He looked at the bill McCarthy held and added regretfully:

  “I tried to find out where he was going but he didn’t leave an address.”

  “Was there a girl with him?”

  “He and some other guy came in with a girl and then went out with that whole party that was in his room upstairs. The girl was blond and pretty.”

 
McCarthy grunted and swung away and Cantwell fell in step with him. Cantwell said, in a worried voice: “I tell you, Mr. McCarthy, this Frankie Giles is crazy. It doesn’t look good to me. Not at all.”

  McCarthy said, “Shut up,” and sailed out to his car. The bandage on his head had gotten dirty during the excitement at the Florence Avenue house, and his hat was riding high on this. His face was lined, drawn, and his eyes looked unholy. He was chewing at his lips, staring straight ahead, and on the trip back to his office he had the nervous Cantwell clutching at the seat. He went in, dialed the Central Station, said:

  “Shannon, please. Or Costello. Snap it up, man, snap it up.”

  He listened a moment, said, “You, Shannon? McCarthy. Listen, where can I get hold of Frankie Giles? He’s a crook, but I don’t think you got anything against him….You’ve been watching him?…Good. Give it to me.” He listened a moment, slammed the phone down, and swung on Cantwell. Then he said:

  “O.K. Where’s the stuff? Where are these hot bonds and stones? Come through, damn you.”

  Cantwell gulped and shook his head and McCarthy reached over and caught him by the lapel of his coat. He said in a harsh, rough voice that in no way resembled his ordinary tone:

  “Where? Damn you, I ain’t fooling. If they want to trade in the girl for the stuff I want it ready to give them.” He pulled back his fist, asked again, “Where?”

  Cantwell didn’t look at the fist but he looked at McCarthy’s face. He blurted out: “Well—well, it’s at the Security Trust. Safe deposit.”

  “Where’s the key?”

  “Under the carpet in my room. In a crack. Covered with dirt.”

  McCarthy gave him a tight-lipped smile, said, “Let’s get going.” He went outside, hailed a cab and boosted the reluctant Cantwell inside.

  They drove to Cantwell’s room and Pat held the gun on him while Cantwell got the key. Then they drove to the bank.

  The safe deposit vault of the Security Trust opened directly on the street. There was a small foyer with an armed guard and an attendant at a desk, then a barred door opening into a corridor that led to the vault proper.