Dick Tracy

by Max Allan Collins

  Muttering, the clerk got out from behind his counter to close the door; the old man in the derby returned to his racing form.

  The figure in the yellow trench coat went to the fourth floor, where numbers on the door were tarnished brass nailed on: 429. The figure unlocked the door and went in.

  Inside the room, the city’s District Attorney was waiting, none too patiently.

  “Tracy,” Fletcher said tightly, standing as the figure in the yellow coat entered, “what’s the meaning of this? If you think I can be blackmailed . . .”

  The figure in the yellow topcoat, having shut the door, turned so that the District Attorney could see the face under the fedora.

  Only there was no face.

  “Who are you?” the D.A. demanded indignantly, but the fear came through. His cigarette in its holder, held tight in his teeth, wobbled as he spoke. “What’s the meaning of—”

  The cross-examination, however, had already ended. Two silenced shots sent the D.A. over backward, dead when he hit the wooden floor.

  Tracy heard a voice. The voice was shouting. It was faint, as if in another room, or another world; yet faint as it was, groggy as he was, he somehow knew the voice was shouting.

  “Are you insane, trying to blackmail me?” the voice shouted. “If I go to jail, you’ll go to jail! I’ll have you run off the police force! You won’t get a dime out of me, Tracy . . .”

  Tracy?

  The detective tried to force himself awake.

  The voice was still shouting: “Put that gun away, Tracy! Put that gun away . . .”

  As groggy as a drunk coming home New Year’s Eve, Tracy opened his eyes as best he could; the room was black. Did he remember someone carrying him, did he remember being hauled over someone’s shoulder like a sack of grain and deposited here? Carried up a hill, or was it up endless flights of stairs? Or had he dreamt it?

  The shouting had stopped. His night vision began to take hold and he could see a bed, a figure on the floor alongside it, on its back; a male figure, in a coat and tie and dark pants. A man on his back with a cigarette in a holder still in his lips.

  And two other figures moved in the room. Indistinct figures. Was the room this dark, or was it him?

  Someone whispered in his ear; the voice was a hoarse, muffled, somehow theatrical voice, not the speaker’s natural one.

  “You were right about the D.A.,” the voice said. “He was dirty . . .”

  The figure passed a bottle of ammonia under Tracy’s nose and the detective sat up sharply.

  He didn’t see the Blank slipping out the window behind him, past the ghostlike flutter of the sheer curtain, joining accomplice 88 Keys on the fire escape.

  He saw only himself, sitting in a chair in a shabby hotel room, with his topcoat and hat on. All dressed up, no place to go.

  Except down.

  Because he could now see that the prone male figure was District Attorney Fletcher. And soon he was not alone in seeing this: the night clerk and two uniformed cops rushed into the room to see the same tableau.

  And all of them, Tracy included, saw the gun in Tracy’s hand.

  All of them saw it, that is, except the District Attorney, who—like Blind Justice—was seeing nothing at all.

  The County Orphanage was in the city.

  In this dreary institution in the shadow of the El tracks, an overcast sky adding to the gloom, the Kid had to himself a cold, vast dormitory, with paint-peeling pale green walls and wooden floors and facing rows of metal beds with wafer-thin mattresses and one horsehair blanket each. He stood looking out the window at the courtyard of the orphanage, and its pitiful scattering of ill-maintained playground equipment, wishing he were anywhere else.

  This was his third day here—actually, his second full day. The people had been nice enough—the lady in charge, Mrs. Plett, was kind and spent a lot of time talking to him. Or anyway, trying to talk to him. He didn’t mean to be mean, or even disobedient, but he had no intention of fitting in here.

  The other kids seemed all right, though they were mostly keeping their distance from him, and he was doing the same with them. The tow-headed kid who had the next bed was ten years old and a tough little character who’d ridden the rails himself for a couple years. He cornered the Kid and made a big speech about how he was the boss of the dorm, and anybody who didn’t like it could lump it. The Kid let him get away with that noise, only ’cause the Kid didn’t figure to be around here long enough to make a scrap worthwhile.

  Today was Saturday, and day after tomorrow they would expect him to start school classes. But he’d be out of here and have found himself a freight to hop by that time. Mrs. Plett had figured out he could read after he asked if he could see a newspaper (to check up on how Tracy was doing), and the class he was supposed to go into would be for second- and third-graders.

  “You’re a bright young man,” she’d said as he sat in her office yesterday morning. “Despite the fact that you’ve never attended school proper, I think you’ll fit in best with children your own age.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he’d said. He was polite to Mrs. Plett, even though he didn’t say much or answer her questions very good. She was nice, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings; besides, he wanted her guard down, so he could bust out of the joint. It ought to be a cinch.

  “Now, we’ll need a name for you,” she said, a big record book spread open in front of her on her desk. “We have no records on you, whatsoever. And the caseworker informs me that you claim not to have a name.”

  “I don’t have, ’xactly,” he admitted. “People just call me ‘Kid,’ ” He shrugged. “It’s a name, far as I’m concerned.”

  “Well, it’s not enough for our purposes. Why don’t you select a more proper name?”

  “Okay,” he said. “Put my name down as ‘Dick Tracy, Junior’ ”

  The headmistress winced. “ ‘Dick Tracy’ is a well-known name, in these parts. Do you really think it prudent to select the name of a policeman? We have some boys here that don’t like policemen much.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “And Detective Tracy is in a good deal of trouble right now.”

  “I know that, ma’am. I saw it in those newspapers you give me.”

  “Gave me,” she corrected gently. Her kind face was creased with doubt, with worry. “You put yourself at risk of being teased, being an object of ridicule . . .”

  “I didn’t pick the name ’cause he’s a cop, or ’cause he’s famous.”

  “Why did you then?”

  “Because, ’cept for Steve the tramp, he’s the closest thing to a pop I ever had. And I don’t fancy bein’ called Steve the Tramp, Junior.”

  Now, a day later, as the Kid stared out the window—through the crosshatch of wire that reminded him he was, for all of Mrs. Plett’s kindness, nothing more than a prisoner here—he thought about Tracy. He knew he should help Tracy, but he wasn’t sure he could.

  The night Tracy got in all that trouble, the Kid had sat with Sam Catchem in Tracy’s office. While the caseworker waited impatiently to haul the Kid off to the orphanage, the freckled, rumpled-face detective leveled with the boy.

  “Tracy’s in a real jam, son,” Catchem said. “Me and Pat Patton are gonna do everything we can to get him out of it, but it ain’t gonna be easy.”

  “What happened, anyway?”

  “It’s a frame-up,” Catchem said, lips tight over his teeth. “Some people who want Tracy out of the way bumped off the District Attorney and made it look like Tracy pulled the trigger.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “You know it, and I know it. But the evidence, so far, is stacked against him. I gotta give my all to this, kid. I’d like to take you under my wing, like Dick did—but I just can’t do it. I gotta turn you over to that welfare worker out there.”

  “Yeah,” he’d said fatalistically. “I figured as much. What can I do to help Tracy?”

  “Just stick it out,” he said. “Don�
�t bolt from the orphan home. Tracy’ll get out of this fix and come after you. He and Tess think the world of you, kid.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Well, will you ask Miss Tess to come see me at the orphanage?”

  “Uh . . . well, sure, kid.”

  But the Kid could read it in Catchem’s face: something was wrong.

  “Is something the matter with Miss Tess?”

  “Look, son. We’re not sure. We can’t locate her, and Tracy thinks she’s been kidnapped by the ‘mystery man,’ as the papers put it.”

  “What? You mean, that faceless guy has her?”

  “Like I said, we don’t know anything for sure. We’re lookin’ for her . . . and we got every available man on the case. We’ll find her, all right. You can take that to the bank.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Catchem,” the Kid had said glumly. “Banks fail, sometimes.”

  Catchem hadn’t denied it.

  Now the Kid was staring out the wire-mesh window, wondering if he’d be letting Tracy down if he ran off. But what could he do for Tracy? How could he help him?

  It was true that he had held out on Tracy on one thing. He never told the detective about seeing that flat-headed guy, the nervous hood, and that mushy-mouthed creep at the garage; he never told Tracy he’d been an eyewitness to that massacre.

  It wasn’t that he was afraid that the gangsters would try to get even with him if he ratted them out. It was the concept of ratting them out, period. Tracy was a great guy, but the Kid had lived on the streets his whole life. One of the things you learned on the street, one of the first things Steve taught him, was that you didn’t squeal.

  There was an unwritten code on the streets, and this was a major entry in the invisible rulebook: You did not rat anybody out to the cops, under no circumstances whatsoever.

  Anyway, the Kid didn’t see how telling Tracy about that flat-headed guy and his pals would help the detective out of the jam he was in now. Besides, the Kid thought, who would believe a little juvenile delinquent like him?

  Footsteps on the hardwood floor caught his attention. He turned and saw Mrs. Plett, portly, attractive, in a floral-print dress, her salt-and-pepper hair back in a tidy bun, approaching with a small tray on which were a glass of milk and two cookies.

  “Are you sure you won’t join us downstairs?” she said. “The entertainment is really quite good this afternoon.”

  “No thanks, Mrs. Plett. Is that for me?”

  “Of course it’s for you.” She put the tray on his bed. “I realize it isn’t fancy here, but we are a kind of a family. I want you to know you’re welcome here.”

  “Thanks, ma’am.”

  “Sure you won’t come downstairs now?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “We do want you to feel at home. School days are devoted to work, but Saturdays and Sundays you can have a little fun. What do you like to do?”

  “Well . . . I like to draw.”

  “Really?” She smiled. “Do we have a budding artist amongst us? That’s wonderful. Would you like me to get you some paper, and perhaps some pencils, or crayons?”

  “Well, uh . . . that would be real nice, Mrs. Plett.”

  She nodded and went out. He lay on the bed and gobbled the two chocolate chip cookies and gulped the milk. He’d skipped breakfast because he was feeling so low; but now he was starving.

  Before long, Mrs. Plett returned with a tablet and some crayons.

  “These are yours,” she said. “Please understand that you can always come to me for help. There are a lot of children here, and nobody gets pampered—and we do not spare the rod, when necessary. But my door is always open to you.” She smiled but it was a sad smile. She put her fingers in his hair and ruffled it. “This is your home now, Dick Tracy, Junior,” she said.

  Not hardly, he thought.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

  Idly, sprawled on the saggy bed, he began to sketch. He drew the flat-headed guy; he drew several pictures of him, including one of him shooting a machine gun. The guy was really creepy and, in a weird way, fun to draw. Then he drew that guy that was always scratching himself—an odd-looking bird; took a while to get the glasses right. He was using a black crayon, so he couldn’t erase, and had to start over when he didn’t get something the way he wanted.

  Next he drew the squinty-eyed blond guy who mumbled; he was easy to catch, even though he’d only got a glimpse of him sitting in that car.

  He was just putting some finishing touches on, when he heard footsteps again. Thinking it was Mrs. Plett, he glanced up and was about to thank her once more when he saw a tall creature with the body of a bear and the head of a man.

  Startled, even frightened, he sat up, and then he realized it was a guy in a bear costume; the man was holding the bear’s head, or anyway the headpiece of the costume, under his arm, like a basketball. It was an old guy, with a mustache; his hair was white, and real messed up, probably from being inside that bear-head.

  “Young man!” he called. “Are you the young protégé of Richard Tracy?”

  “Huh?” the Kid said.

  The mustached guy in the bear costume padded over to him.

  “My name, lad,” the bear-man said, gesturing grandly with a clawed paw, “is Vitamin Flintheart. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

  The old guy said this proudly, but his face fell when the Kid said, “No. Sorry, mister.”

  “It’s of no great import,” he said, though it obviously was to him, and he sat down on the bed next to the Kid. Now the bed really sagged. “I’ve been sent here on a mission.”

  “In a bear suit?”

  He touched a paw to his shaggy brown chest. “I arranged for my theatrical group to give a presentation here, this afternoon, of ‘The Three Bears.’ I, of course, am Papa Bear. I had expected you to be in the audience, but when I inquired, I found you were not.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “My great and good friend Richard Tracy, America’s answer to Sherlock Holmes, has recruited me to give you a message.”

  “Are you talking about Dick Tracy the cop?”

  Flintheart’s eyes under shaggy white eyebrows flared. “Have you no ears, lad? That’s precisely what I just uttered.”

  “Uttered?”

  “Said, lad! Said!”

  “What does Mr. Tracy want?”

  Flintheart pointed a bear paw at the boy. “He wants you to stay put. He beseeches you not to hie to the highway—he implores you to resist the siren song of the railways.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t run away, lad. Tracy says he’ll come for you.”

  “Mr. Tracy is in big trouble, mister.”

  “The name is Flintheart, lad. And yes he is.”

  “The papers say he’s up for the murder of the D.A. They got two witnesses at that hotel who saw him go in, and he was seen arguing at City Hall with the guy they say he killed.”

  “Alas, you speak the truth. There’s also the matter of a blackmail note written in Richard’s handwriting, found in the pocket of the deceased prosecutor.”

  “Well, it’s not the truth that Tracy’s goin’ around murdering people. That’s not the way he does things. And he’s no blackmailer, neither! He’s tough, but he’s fair.”

  “As well I know. But Richard has prevailed over many a scrape indeed in the past, and he will overcome these dire circumstances, as well. Do as he says: wait for him. He will come for you.”

  “Baloney! They got ’im cold! And where’s Miss Tess? The papers say nobody can find her!”

  Flintheart shrugged his shaggy shoulders. “Miss Trueheart’s mother indicates that her daughter returned to the city the night of Richard’s unfortunate arrest. Apparently Miss Trueheart and Richard had encountered difficulties in their relationship . . .”

  “She caught him with another dame.”

  “Do tell. At any rate, there are those who think she has gone off somewhere, t
o be with herself.”

  “That’s the bunk! Miss Tess didn’t take no powder. It’s a snatch. Big Boy grabbed her!”

  “In fact,” Flintheart said, “that is indeed largely the opinion Richard has shared with his fellow gendarmes, though as yet the fourth estate is not aware of it.”

  “Fourth estate?”

  “The newspapers, lad.” Flintheart noticed the drawings. “What’s this, boy? These are quite remarkable.”

  “I draw.”

  “Ah!” Flintheart raised a paw grandly. “You will never regret pursuing a life in the arts, my lad. It’s a difficult life, but so rewarding.” He looked at the drawings carefully. “My boy, these really are outstanding. Your gift is truly singular. But tell me . . . why this gallery of grotesqueries?”

  “Well . . . Mr. Flintheart, can you tell me something? I mean, you got lots of experience; you’re an old guy.”

  Flintheart blinked. “It’s the costume, lad. I consider it maturity, not age.”

  “Yeah. Right. Anyway, you been around. Do you think it’s wrong to squeal?”

  “My boy, I’m performing in ‘The Three Bears,’ not ‘The Three Little Pigs.’ ”

  “No, no—I mean, is it wrong to rat guys out? What if you saw somebody do something real bad, would you tell? ’Specially if you thought ratting ’em out might help somebody else, somebody you liked.”

  Flintheart nodded sagely. “I believe I would, lad. It’s the socially responsible thing to do.”

  “I don’t know if this would help or not. But let me tell you what I saw . . .”

  So the Kid told Vitamin the whole story, pointing to each individual drawing as if reading an illustrated tale to a young child.

  And Flintheart, sitting in his bear costume, the bear’s head under his arm, listened with the rapt attention of a very young child, indeed.

  Flat on his back on the uncomfortable cot, Tracy stared at the cement ceiling of the cell, hands behind his head; but he didn’t notice the discomfort, nor did he see the ceiling: he saw Tess’s face.