Dick Tracy

by Max Allan Collins

“Not really,” she said.

  “You’re wearing its twin,” he said, moving closer. “I saw you wearing it out there. So I sent for it. Figured you’d want it back.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I am missing an earring, but taking a close look at that one . . . I don’t think it is the mate.”

  “A little detective work, checking local jewelers and so on, and even without your help, we’ll I.D. it as yours all right.”

  “So what?”

  “We found it at the warehouse tonight. Where Lips Manlis was killed. You know how they killed him?”

  She looked at the floor.

  “Actually,” Tracy continued, “we don’t know yet whether he was alive or dead, when the cement was poured in. Be better if he were dead first. Drowning in wet cement, ye gods. That’s a rough one. Local hoods call it ‘the bath.’ ”

  “Please be quiet.”

  He came over and held the earring in her face. “You were there. You know it and I know it. Now, I can take you down to headquarters and we can sweat it out of you under the hot lights, or . . .”

  She touched his lips with a fingertip. “I sweat better in the dark.”

  Their eyes locked together; his will was as strong as hers, and she liked that. The attraction, the pull, was magnetic; she could tell he felt it, too.

  “I know how you feel, Tracy,” she said, making her voice as sultry as possible—and that, she knew, was plenty sultry. “You don’t know if you want to hit me, or kiss me. I get a lot of that.”

  He sighed, shook his head; he was clutching the earring tightly in a fist. He raised his other hand and pointed a finger at her. “I’m going to put Big Boy away. You want to help, you give me a call. You don’t want to help, you might find yourself living in a room a lot smaller than this one. It won’t have a makeup mirror or fancy white carpet. And your roommate won’t be some man you can wrap around your pinky. More likely some hard-nosed harridan who strangled her husband.”

  “Stop,” she said with dry sarcasm. “You’re scaring me.”

  He grimaced, shook his head. Then more softly, he said, “Right now you’re safe. Big Boy’s in jail—you’re the one who can keep him there. Just think about it. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He started out.

  “Dick . . .”

  He looked at her.

  “See you again, Tracy.”

  She kissed the air.

  She thought she saw him smile, ever so faintly, before he disappeared out the door.

  The radio was on, softly, when Tracy entered his two room apartment—“Stay as Sweet as You Are,” a crooner seemed to be advising Tess, who had fallen asleep in Tracy’s favorite easy chair. A ladies’ magazine lay across her lap, her head nestled sweetly against an oversized arm of the chair.

  He took off his coat and hat and hung them on a hook on the wall just inside the bedroom, where the Kid lay sleeping—snoring—on Tracy’s bed.

  He felt a strange tug of emotions—guilt was part of it, from the encounter with the sultry saloon singer; but most of it was that feeling of warmth that Tess gave him. He went to her and knelt beside her, and gently touched her hair.

  She awoke with a start.

  Tracy, a little startled himself now, said, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Oh my,” Tess said, sitting up straight, yawning. “What time is it?”

  “Before dawn,” Tracy said. “Barely. How did you and the dead-end kid fare?”

  Her smile was crinkly. “He’s been sawing logs since his head hit the pillow, about two minutes after we got here.”

  “You gave him the bed, I see.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I didn’t figure he’d had the opportunity to sleep in one too often.”

  “Probably not.”

  “I’d better go,” she said, smoothing herself, standing. Tracy got up and helped her into her coat, and moved with her toward the door. She paused to adjust the position of a vase of lilies she’d given him earlier.

  “Aren’t these pretty?” she said. She yawned again. “I’ll have to be getting to the greenhouse before you know it. New delphiniums coming in.”

  “Thanks for taking care of the kid,” Tracy said. He reached in his pocket for his car keys. “You take my buggy home; it’s parked right in front. I’ll have Pat pick me up on his way to work.”

  She took the keys, smiled, and said, “You needn’t walk me down.” She touched his face. “You look exhausted. Please get some rest.”

  Tracy glanced toward the bedroom. “Do you want me to make the arrangements with the orphanage . . . ?”

  She squeezed his hand. “Not just yet. He’s such a sweet child.”

  Tracy grinned. “Sweet child?”

  “Listen, I only have to work half a day,” she said. “You and Pat drop the boy off at the greenhouse on your way to headquarters this morning.”

  “What . . . ?”

  “Let me have the boy. Let me show him a good time, buy him some new clothes, give him a taste of what being a real kid is like, not some wild boy of the road.”

  Tracy sighed, but he was smiling. “You know what?”

  “What?”

  He leaned his face to hers and kissed her. A soft, sweet kiss.

  “That,” he said. “I’ll drop him off about eight. You just hold onto my car and I’ll meet you two at Mike’s for supper.”

  Her smile was glowing.

  Tracy laughed softly. “And you wild boys and girls of the road be good, now—hear?”

  “I hear,” she said sweetly, gratefully.

  The warmth, and the guilt, flooded him.

  “Tess . . .”

  “What?”

  “I’d do anything in the world for you, you know. You do know that?”

  “Even take me for a drive in the country?” She touched his face again. “Good night, Dick.”

  And she was gone.

  The sun was shining, reflecting off the sandstone steps of the majestic County Courthouse; winter seemed held at bay, for the moment. Unfortunately, Tracy thought, the same could be said for a certain blind woman who could be seen balancing scales by way of a statue near the top of those stairs.

  Tracy and District Attorney Fletcher held back for a moment, not wanting to get caught in a confrontation. A crowd of reporters had come in a tide up the steps toward the descending Al Caprice and his several expensive attorneys. Big Boy, beaming, waving his fedora to them as if he were a grand marshal and they were a parade, gesturing with the other hand in a magnanimous manner, had won a victory here today.

  “What’s your reaction,” reporter Bush of the News asked, “to having your case thrown out of court?”

  “Judge Debirb is a fine American,” Big Boy said. “He knows police brutality when he sees it.”

  Charet of the Tribune asked, “Isn’t a strong police response understandable when one of their own is slain? Specifically, Officer Lefty Moriarty?”

  “What?” Big Boy blurted indignantly. “Are you sayin’ the ends justifies the means? That’s a shockin’ way to look at this world of ours. But I will say I think Officer Moriarty’s murder is an awful thing. A tragedy. I sent flowers.”

  “Will you be taking legal action against the city,” another reporter followed up, “for false arrest?”

  “Or against Dick Tracy specifically?” asked another.

  Big Boy patted the air, smiled sweetly. “Fellas, these legal matters are up to my attorneys. But I’ll say this.” His expression darkened. “This Tracy character is outta control. He’s either a fool, or flat-out crazy. The city had oughta get rid of him.”

  “If you don’t get rid of him first, you mean?” called out a voice in back.

  “Who said that?” Big Boy snarled. But then the snarl eased into a smile. The sweet one, again. “You boys have me all wrong. You believe these police lies. I’m no criminal. I’m a respectable businessman. In fact, other than a couple juvenile raps, I got a clean record.”

  “But dozens
of arrests,” Bush said.

  One of the attorneys stepped forward. “And no convictions.”

  “I’ve heard that about Big Boy.” Bush smiled.

  “My name,” Big Boy said tightly, pointing a thick finger at the reporter, “is Al Caprice. You fellas want me to keep givin’ out with the colorful-quotes, you better treat me with some respect, capeesh?”

  “Mr. Caprice,” Charet asked, “who do you think killed Lips Manlis?”

  “Well, who’s to say he’s been killed? I think he left town or something. Anyway, you know what the witnesses say.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, three cops yanked him out of his club. I’d like to know if this loose-cannon of a cop, Tracy, has an alibi.”

  “Mr. Caprice,” Bush said tightly, “you know as well as any of us that Tracy shot it out with those three ‘cops’ in the warehouse where Manlis was seen going in, but not coming out. They were torpedoes from Philadelphia.”

  “Sounds like Tracy covering up for himself, if you ask me,” Big Boy said.

  One of his lawyers, apparently distressed by his client’s public accusations about a member of the police department, whispered urgently to Big Boy, who brushed him off like a fly.

  “Any other questions, gents?”

  “Yes,” a voice from the back of the group called out. It was Matt Masterson, the Chronicle’s crime-beat columnist. He was a strikingly handsome man with a full head of dark curly hair. “What about the Seventh Street Garage Massacre? The police seem to think you were involved.”

  “The cops want to make me their patsy for every murder since Booth popped Lincoln. Well, I was at my dancin’ lesson that night. And I can prove it.”

  “You can?” Bush asked.

  “Sure.” Big Boy put a hand on his stomach and did a little mambo step, right there on the courthouse steps.

  Flashbulbs popped, and the reporters smiled and laughed. Except for Bush, Charet, and Masterson, who as hardened crime reporters had seen too much suffering and murder to be amused by gangsters who got off scot-free with the press by giving them colorful quotes and snazzy pics.

  Caprice moved through the reporters to his limousine, where Itchy was behind the wheel; Flattop, who’d also been riding in front, got out to open the door for his boss.

  “Don’t any of you boys miss the grand opening of the new Club Ritz,” Big Boy called out by way of farewell. “Tomorrow night! You’re all my personal guests.”

  He bowed, making a sweeping gesture with his hat, and climbed in back of the limo. Shutting the door for his boss, Flattop wore a tiny smug smile on his perpetually puckered lips.

  Up at the top of the stairs, behind the statue of blind justice, Tracy said to Fletcher, “Those reporters aren’t going away. We’d better brave it.”

  “You take the side exit,” Fletcher said tightly, his eyes cold behind round-lensed glasses. “Have my driver bring the car around.”

  Tracy nodded and went back inside.

  D.A. Fletcher waited while Tracy got a head start, then moved down the stairs, the reporters swarming back up to meet him.

  “Mr. District Attorney,” a reporter said, as the cacophony of questions finally died down into one decipherable one, “will you be taking disciplinary action against Chief of Detectives Tracy for making this false arrest?”

  Fletcher smiled gently and raised a benedictory hand. “Please. Gentlemen—please. Detective Tracy is the most honored, decorated officer this town has ever seen. He has a reputation, highly justified, for his scrupulous procedural approach. It’s ludicrous for you to suggest that his actions would be anything but by-the-book.”

  “But isn’t this a personal matter?” Bush asked. He could be just as tough with those representing the law as he was with criminals. “Doesn’t Tracy blame Big Boy for the murder of his girlfriend’s father, Emil Trueheart?”

  “Yeah,” Charet said, “isn’t this starting to look a little like a vendetta on Tracy’s part?”

  “Detective Tracy,” Fletcher said, quietly, mustache twitching, “is indeed under a good deal of strain. But I have the utmost confidence in his good judgment.”

  “Mr. D.A.,” Masterson called out, “what’s the story on Frank Redrum’s escape?”

  “Yeah,” Bush said, “if Redrum returns to our fair city, the bullets could really start to fly!”

  “I have no more facts on that matter than you do,” Fletcher said. The D.A. gave them his most ingratiating smile. “All I know, gentlemen, is what I read in the papers.”

  And Fletcher, nodding his thanks to the press corps, moved down the steps through the throng to where a black sedan, with a police driver behind the wheel, had drawn up to the curb. Fletcher joined Tracy in back as the sedan pulled away, leaving the frustrated faces of reporters behind.

  “Shall I drop you at headquarters?” Fletcher asked, as they settled into the backseat.

  “I’d appreciate that,” Tracy said.

  The D.A. frowned. “Tell me—what’s this ‘Frank Redrum’ business the pressboys are so worked up about?”

  “I spoke to Inspector James Trailer of the F.B.I. this morning,” Tracy said easily. “Apparantly Redrum escaped . . . or attempted to escape . . . from Alcatraz Prison last night. He was using a homemade raft, made of shirts from the laundry and scrapwood from the prison shop. The raft was found washed up, in pieces, on the island’s shore. He would seem not to have made it.”

  “The wire services say he’s assumed dead. What do you think?”

  Tracy shrugged. “There have been no successful escapes from the Rock that I know of. On the other hand, his body hasn’t been found.”

  “If he survived,” the D.A. asked, “would he come back here?”

  “I doubt it,” Tracy said. “I think, whether Redrum is at the bottom of Frisco Bay or not, we’ve seen the last of him.”

  Fletcher seemed pensive. “I didn’t prosecute that case.”

  “It was just before your term of office began, Mr. D.A. Redrum was a grotesque-looking character—a regular Phantom of the Opera, unmasked. He ran a gang in the twenties, they betrayed him, he did time, got out, kidnapped and bumped ’em off one at a time. Strictly revenge. No pieces left here for him to pick back up.”

  “I remember it vaguely,” Fletcher said, nodding. “The newshounds had fun with it, didn’t they?”

  “They sure did. Like they’re trying to have fun with this. Listen, I heard most of that from the car—and I appreciate you sticking up for me back there.”

  Fletcher looked sideways at Tracy and the look was a hard, unfriendly one. “You think that was for you? I only did that to minimize the embarrassment of my going into court with so little.” He shook his head. “You told me you could deliver fingerprints.”

  “I know.”

  The lab had tried both the iodine transfer and the silver nitrate—twice—and could not pull Big Boy Caprice’s fingerprints off the walnut shells. Like Sam said, it had been a gamble. And Tracy had lost.

  “The newshounds are right, Tracy, and so is Big Boy: You’re out of control. You’re on a vendetta. And I won’t stand for it.”

  “I’m in complete control.”

  “I don’t think so. Listen, I’ve got a good shot at becoming Mayor, coming election. And you’re in line for Chief of Police. Don’t mess it up for the both of us. Back off. Cool off.”

  “It was a good bust, Fletcher,” Tracy insisted. “I had sufficient evidence at the scene to—”

  “You had nothing. You had less than nothing. When you go around beating up private citizens, kidnapping them, making false arrests, throwing them in jail . . .”

  Tracy’s mouth was a thin line as he said, “Private Citizen Caprice is responsible for seven deaths so far this week, including Officer Moriarty. Go back any farther, you’ll start losing count, quick.”

  Fletcher’s eyes softened; he shook his head, wearily, regretfully. “I’m sorry about Miss Trueheart’s father.”

  “Thank you.”

 
His face turned stern again. “But if you can’t control yourself,” Fletcher continued, “I’ll direct Chief Brandon to remove you from the Detective Bureau. And I’ll be forced to prosecute you for misconduct. And do you know something, Tracy?”

  “What, Fletcher?”

  “That’s a case I guarantee you I won’t lose.” The car drew to a stop. “Here’s headquarters. Go on in and see if you can get from here to your office without tearing a hole in the Constitution.”

  Just after dark, Tracy slid onto a stool at Mike’s Diner and ordered a cup of coffee; Sam Catchem had dropped him off here. The Major Crimes squad had spent a frustrating, unfruitful afternoon examining the evidence from both the garage and warehouse shootings.

  Mike set the steaming cup of black liquid before the detective.

  “Back so soon, Tracy?” the counterman said. “You working a case in this neck of the woods?”

  “Naw,” Tracy said. He sipped the coffee; it was bitter and near scalding. He took another sip. “Meeting somebody here.”

  “That girl of yours?

  “Yeah, and our little friend. He thinks your meat loaf is a miracle.”

  “Well, this is everybody’s lucky night—that’s the Blue Plate Special again.”

  Tracy smiled and sipped his coffee. He felt tired, and he felt discouraged. Big Boy was sprung, Mumbles was apparently in hiding, and Tracy felt his own job being threatened.

  Nonetheless, he had managed, at several points today, to connect up with Tess and the Kid. They’d called from Marshall and Bradbury’s Department Store, where Tracy had to intermediate when Tess and the boy clashed over clothes. In fact, Tracy had chased the Kid down the street, when the urchin—clad only in his underwear—made a break for it.

  Tracy had rounded the boy up, telling him, “if you don’t want to wear that suit, march back in that store and tell her you don’t. Are you going to run away every time somebody tries to make you do something you don’t want to do?”

  Later, he had joined with them again, at the northside florist’s shop where Tess worked, and had accompanied them to the zoo and aquarium, albeit fitfully, and for that long-promised if ultimately brief ride in the country. He’d even found time to buy the Kid a baseball and glove. But he’d been called back to headquarters and/or the courthouse five different times.