Dick Tracy

by Max Allan Collins

  The small holding cell, one of a dozen such cubicles on the third floor of Central Headquarters, and the only one presently occupied, consisted of the cot he lay on, a small table with a Bible, and a toilet sans seat (and no sink). It was cold, rather dank, and for the first time in his life, Tracy felt a certain sympathy for the many felons he’d sent here.

  It was quiet right now. It was usually quiet here, though postmidnight the previous two nights, he’d been serenaded by the discordant music of the current residents of the drunk tank around the corner from him.

  His accommodations would soon improve: he was due to be shifted to the county jail, where (he’d already been assured) he’d be kept away from the general population. Putting him in among those he’d sent up could be dangerous for all concerned.

  Bail had been denied him, but he felt confident he’d be out on the street soon. His wealthy friend Diet Smith was providing the best lawyer in the city, Kenneth Levin, who ironically had been Tracy’s adversary in many a past case. But at the arraignment, Judge Debirb—who had long been a legal thorn in Tracy’s side—found the evidence “simply too overwhelming” to set bail.

  Levin should eventually prevail over Debirb’s ruling, but for the time being, this holding cell and another, slightly roomier one at the county jail, would be his home.

  He understood, for the first time, the meaning of despair. Part of him wanted to kick these concrete walls down so that he could find those who’d put him here—and he knew who that was: Al “Big Boy” Caprice joined in an unholy alliance with that faceless gunman, who in all likelihood was this year’s model of one Frank Redrum.

  But another part of him wanted to curl up in a fetal ball, and die. Because as much as he wanted to believe that Tess was still alive, he couldn’t conceive of how she could be.

  Today, Saturday, had been the second full day to slip by since Tess’s disappearance. There had been, of course, no ransom demand. The motive of the kidnapping was an unusual one: Tess had served as bait.

  She’d been kidnapped to lure Tracy to that greenhouse. So that Tracy could be fitted for his frame. That had been accomplished, and then some.

  Her kidnapper or kidnappers, their objective reached, had only two options where Tess was concerned: spring her loose, assuming she’d not seen any of their faces (and with the blank-faced guy, how much face was there to see anyway?); or they could do what so many kidnappers ruthlessly did—dispose of their victim.

  The only small solace was (he hated even to form these words in his mind) her body had not been found.

  But so many never were.

  Was Tess, even now, in a wooden-crate coffin, encased in cement? Was she at the bottom of the river, or the lake, where so many of Big Boy’s vanquished rivals kept the fish company?

  Was she with Lips Manlis right now?

  In the silence, in the darkness, in the coldness of the cell, Dick Tracy did something that might have surprised or perhaps amused his foes: he wept.

  He was not out of control, however; he did this almost willfully, purging his system of the emotions. Similarly, he’d made himself sleep—despite the dreams, in which the grotesque countenances of the likes of Flattop, Itchy, and Pruneface, as well as the void that was the mystery man’s blurred face, haunted and taunted him.

  He had to be ready. Three times a day, he’d done pushups and sit-ups on the cold concrete floor. He would, eventually, in hours or anyway days, be out on bail. Of that he was confident. And he would look for Tess, however hopeless that seemed, and he—despite the fact that at the first misstep bail would be revoked—would bring Big Boy down.

  In fact, his plan to find out what happened to Tess consisted mainly of putting a gun in Big Boy’s face and inviting him to speak.

  The door down the hall clanged and footsteps moved toward his cell. He sat up. Through the bars appeared the massive blue-uniformed shape and sad, friendly face of Chief Brandon.

  “How are you, son? Bearing up okay?”

  He nodded. “I’ll make it, Chief. Any news?”

  Brandon winced, but then shook his head.

  Tracy got up, met the Chief at the bars. “Look—I don’t want you to pull any punches. If you find Tess’s body, I want you to tell me. Understand?”

  Brandon nodded. “She may not be . . . that is, she may still be alive.”

  “There’s little hope of that. This frame Big Boy hung on me, probably with the help of Frank Redrum, can only fit this tight if Tess never turns up. Alive or dead.”

  “Dick . . .” Brandon looked at the floor.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Brandon sighed. “Dick. The authorities in San Francisco . . . they found Frank Redrum. He washed up on the rocks of Alcatraz. Deader than McKinley.”

  “What?” He gripped a bar with one hand. He grimaced, shook his head. “I told Pat and Sam the shape of the head and the ears were different! Check the police sketches I had made, Chief.”

  “Dick—the papers were half buying your story about the faceless man because of speculation that Frank Redrum was back in circulation. But now . . .”

  Tracy smiled humorlessly. “Now they’ll say I just made up this business about the mystery man. That I conveniently implied an old enemy of mine had framed me . . . a trigger-happy nutcase with a track record for revenge.”

  Brandon nodded. “Yes, a man who was unlikely to really turn up and contradict your story. Chances were good Redrum was at the bottom of Frisco Bay, leaving you free to pretend he’d returned for revenge.”

  Tracy shook his head, laughed mirthlessly, but said nothing.

  “After all,” Brandon concluded, “nobody saw your faceless friend shoot Pruneface at the Southside Warehouse, except Influence, who’s not likely to back your story up; even Bug Bailey didn’t see anything—he was drenched in wet cement.”

  Tracy’s mouth was a thin firm line. “I’m going to beat this, Chief. Nobody’s going to buy blackmail as a motive. I didn’t write that note in Fletcher’s pocket, no matter what the handwriting experts say.”

  “There are those who are speculating that you didn’t intend to blackmail Fletcher,” Brandon said, playing devil’s advocate. “That you were just pretending to, to get evidence on him, to prove he was crooked.”

  “Okay, in which case, why in heaven’s name would I kill the man?”

  Brandon shrugged. “You were seen arguing at City Hall. There was no love lost between you—let’s face it. So you lured him to that hotel room, to flush him and his crookedness out—but somehow things got out of hand. After all, Tracy—shortly after two witnesses saw someone they think is you going into the hotel, voices were heard heatedly arguing in that same room where Fletcher turned up dead.”

  Tracy sighed in frustration. “Yeah, dead from bullets from my gun.”

  “You also had the powder burns; the paraffin test indicates you did fire a gun recently.”

  “Chief, they must’ve fired a gun off in my hand, when I was unconscious!”

  “You don’t have to convince me,” Brandon said. “It’s a judge and a jury you have to worry about. And I think they can be convinced. I think you can beat this. I believe you, and I believe in you.”

  “I . . . thanks, Chief.”

  “But it’s not going to happen today. It’s going to happen in court, weeks, maybe months from now. It’s going to be a long, hard-fought battle. You’ve got to stop thinking about nailing Big Boy—and you’ve even got to stop planning to try to find Tess.”

  Tracy said nothing.

  “Your job right now,” Brandon said, “is to work with your attorney to clear yourself. If, when you finally do get bail, you insist on going out and playing tough detective, you’re going to foul up the whole damn case—and your whole damn life, as well.”

  “Chief . . .”

  “Dick. This is our case, now. We’re looking for Tess. The F.B.I. is lending a hand, too—your friend Inspector Trailer is rallying his forces.”

  “I’m gratefu
l, and it’s a kidnapping case all right—but no state line was crossed.”

  “We don’t know that. Trailer is taking the position that it’s a federal matter. And as for Big Boy, we’ll get that louse. Sam Catchem and Pat Patton are first-rate men and they want nothing more than to clear you and nail Big Boy and all the mobster lowlifes. Trust us to do our job.”

  “Sure, Chief.”

  Brandon’s smile was a thin wrinkle. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

  Tracy smiled back, faintly; his first smile in days. “Oh, I heard you.”

  “You just didn’t listen.”

  Tracy lifted an eyebrow in a shrug.

  “Well,” the Chief said wearily, “I tried.”

  “You know, Chief—Big Boy’s having the big horse-laugh on all of us. Can you deny there’s been an upsurge of mob activity in the last forty-eight hours? I’ve seen the papers.”

  Brandon’s embarrassment was apparent. The Chief knew as well as Tracy that the gambling joints were back in full swing, houses of prostitution had reopened, small store owners were again being muscled for extortion money. All the key figures Tracy had jailed were out on bail and back in action; even Mumbles—lying low since his third-degree encounter with Tracy the night of the garage massacre—had surfaced, openly rejoining Big Boy’s retinue.

  “We were on the verge of putting Caprice out of business,” Tracy said with bitter irony. “Instead, we got the rug pulled out from under us, and he’s flourishing. Champagne flowing like water; money flowing into his pockets, the same way.”

  “We’ll get him.

  “A bullet would do it quicker.”

  Brandon’s face tensed. “That isn’t how we do things. That isn’t how you do things.” He touched Tracy’s hand where it gripped the bar. “Hold onto yourself, son. Don’t let them turn you into what they are.”

  Tracy swallowed.

  Brandon smiled, reached a hand through the bars and tousled Tracy’s hair, like a kid. Then the big old copper moved back down the corridor, his footsteps echoing.

  Tracy sat on the cot. Was the Chief right? Was Big Boy’s viciousness contagious? If Tess really were gone, Tracy would have nothing left, nothing, if he threw away what he was. And what was he, but a public servant who respected and upheld the law?

  But what was the role of a police detective in a world where district attorneys and judges and even cops were frequently corrupt? What was his role in a world where holders of high political office and half the city’s social register were among Big Boy’s favored patrons at his illegal casino? A world that gave its tacit approval to lawlessness and vice? Was there a place for Dick Tracy in that world?

  He had almost drifted off to sleep when he heard the clang of the door down the hall again, and footsteps moving quickly—too light, too swift a step, for the Chief to be returning.

  Tracy got to his feet instinctively and was to the bars of the cell by the time Sam Catchem’s rumpled face appeared there.

  And Catchem was smiling.

  “You got a visitor,” Catchem said.

  “A visitor?”

  “He’s just outside.”

  “Who . . .”

  Catchem remained evasive, playing it cute. “The Chief’s bringin’ ’em in. And I’ve put a call in for the Acting D.A. I think he’s going to be as interested in this new development as you are.”

  “New development . . . ?”

  But Catchem was gone.

  Moments later, the Chief had returned, and with him was the Kid, standing just beyond the bars; the man and child had mutually bright, eager eyes.

  “Your actor pal called me to pick the kid up at the orphanage,” the Chief explained, “and bring him around to see you.”

  Brandon had the keys and opened the cell door and stepped inside with the boy. Tracy sat on the cot with him, while the Chief stood in the doorway of the cell.

  “Tracy,” the Chief said, “your young friend is quite an artist. As Vitamin Flintheart says, ‘The stripling has a remarkable ability to capture the human physiognomy with his pen.’ ”

  “Crayon,” the Kid corrected.

  “Although, in this case,” the Chief continued, “we’re using the term ‘human’ loosely.” The Chief unfolded a piece of paper he’d been concealing in one hand. “Who is this, lad?”

  “That’s the flat-headed creep who shot everybody at the garage on Seventh Street.” The boy looked sheepishly at Tracy, who couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d been hit in the head with a two-by-four. “I seen it all. I was a, what-do-you-call-it . . . eyewitness.”

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything, junior?”

  “Where I come from, you learn to keep your mouth shut about things like that. I’m sorry, Mr. Tracy. I didn’t know it had anything to do with you. But . . . well, I guess I figured it did, later—when him and that guy that’s always scratchin’ snatched you and stuck ya in that boiler room.”

  “He’s drawn equally good likenesses of Itchy and Mumbles,” the Chief said. “They were at the garage massacre, too.”

  Tracy slipped his arm around the boy. “Son, this is very important. God bless you, we’ve got ’em, now.”

  “But I’m just a juvie . . . a street kid. Who’s going to listen to me?”

  “Everybody?” Tracy said. “Look—when all of this is over, I’ve got a job for you.”

  “A job?

  “Yeah. We’re going to make you the country’s youngest police artist.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. You’re on my team, junior. From now on. Shake on it?”

  He extended his hand, and the Kid took it and shook it, eagerly.

  “Well,” Brandon said, pleased by what he’d seen, “I’ll leave the two of you alone for a minute. We need to try to get through to the Acting D.A. again. I’d like to connect with him before the county jail boys arrive to make your transfer.”

  “Can’t you spring me, Chief?” Tracy said, standing, gesturing with both hands. “We’ve got Big Boy, now . . .”

  The Chief’s big head shook no. “Not really, Dick. You have enough to go after Flattop and company, and Flattop works for Big Boy . . . but that’s not enough to go after Big Boy himself, is it?”

  “Damn it, Chief, if I could get back out on the street, I could find Tess and crack this case in the bargain.”

  Brandon thought about that. Then, softly, mysteriously, he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  A strange sensation rushed through Tracy in a wave; at first he couldn’t identify it. Hope. It was hope.

  Brandon nodded to the guard outside the cell as he left.

  Tracy sat back down next to the Kid and said, “I’m surprised the orphanage lets you stay up this late.”

  “It’s not so bad there.” The Kid shrugged, “Good food. And they let you out if a grown-up picks you up.”

  “Like Chief Brandon, you mean, or Mr. Flintheart.”

  “Yeah. Or like you and Miss Tess—when you find her. And I know you’re gonna find her.”

  Tracy said nothing; just tried to smile bravely at the Kid.

  “You know,” the boy said, “Chief Brandon gave me my permanent certificate, upstairs, when I gave him them sketches I made.”

  “Yeah? You finally picked out a name, huh?”

  “Yeah . . .” He got the scrolled certificate out of his pocket and unrolled it. He let Tracy read it.

  “Dick Tracy, Junior,” the detective read aloud, in a hushed voice.

  “I hope,” the Kid said tentatively, “it’s okay with you . . .”

  Tracy put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy threw his arms around Tracy’s neck and the detective hugged the boy; and the boy smiled and hugged back.

  Then suddenly Chief Brandon was just beyond the bars again. His face was intense.

  “I couldn’t get through to the Acting D.A.,” Brandon said. “We’ll make the transfer to county jail ourselves. A couple of boys are waiting out back.”

  Tracy pat
ted the Kid on the shoulder, and the boy stayed behind with the Chief while the detective was escorted by two guards. They cuffed him first, hands in front of him.

  “You should always cuff a prisoner’s hands behind him, fellas,” Tracy said. “A guy can do a lot of damage with his hands in front of him, cuffed or not.”

  One of the guards, embarrassed, said, “We trust you, Tracy.”

  They ushered him into the backseat of a squad car waiting at the rear of the building. Then they shut the door and he was alone in back.

  The two plainclothesmen in the front seat turned and the faces of Sam Catchem and Pat Patton beamed at him, a couple of cats who ate a couple of canaries.

  “What are you two doing here?” Tracy asked, dazed.

  “It’s a long ride to county jail,” Patton said with a shrug. “Could take all night.”

  “It’s only five miles,” Tracy said. “What . . . ?”

  Catchem was leaning back over the seat, unlocking Tracy’s handcuffs.

  “You said you could crack this case if you could get back out on the street,” Catchem said. “Well, welcome to the street, courtesy of the Chief. Your gun, two-way, and your badge are on the seat next to you.”

  Tracy glanced to his left, and there they were, in a neat stack. He slipped the .38 in his topcoat pocket and began strapping the two-way on.

  “Call for a car to meet us at Thirty-fourth and Central,” he told Patton crisply.

  “Isn’t that Mumbles’s apartment building?” Catchem asked.

  “Yes, it is. And tell ’em, step on it. Oh, and Pat, tell ’em to bring something along . . .”

  “What?” Patton asked.

  Tracy told him, and Patton’s round face broke into a grin.

  “Let’s go, boys,” Tracy said to his two chauffeurs, and they went.

  “I only wish Brandon were here,” Tracy said absently.

  “Yeah?” Catchem said. “Why?”

  “I’d like to kiss his big red Irish face,” Tracy said.

  Grabbing him by his expensive purple suitcoat, Tracy shoved Mumbles up against the wall. Hard.

  “Talk to me, Mumbles,” Tracy said.