The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps: The Best Crime Stories from the Pulps During Their Golden Age--The '20s, '30s & '40s

by Otto Penzler

  The cab slowed still more and Casey said: “Keep going, you mugg. Right on by ‘em! Don’t slow down!”

  He slouched on the seat as soon as he saw the two men leave the sedan and cross the sidewalk. When the cab passed the apartment house he called to the driver.

  “Take another street, turn right, go around the block.” He slid up on the seat, got out at the corner beyond the sedan a minute or so later. He gave the driver the promised five dollars, added: “I’ll remember you. You got what it takes.”

  Casey spun about before the driver could thank him. As he turned into Alson Street he moved warily, and his eyes sought the shadowed niches and areaways.

  Alson Street was not much different from Pratt Street. It was a little wider, and on one side, the opposite side from Casey and the parked sedan, there were some remodeled brownstone fronts. The apartments on the near side of the street were a little taller, a little more flossy and pretentious than that of Alma Henderson’s; but the reputations were about the same.

  The roadster was parked nearly to the next corner, but Potter stepped from the shadows directly across the street from the sedan. Casey crossed to him and pulled him back into the areaway which had concealed him.

  Potter said: “What’s up?” He was a stringy, long-necked fellow who wore glasses and a perpetually tired look. “I parked the roadster down the street a ways, because I wasn’t sure just what you wanted me here for.”

  “It’s just as well,” said Casey and took out the automatic.

  “Hey!” wheezed Potter.

  “Wade’s in that apartment,” Casey muttered, and went on with a brief story of what had happened. “I got you to help because I wanted to check on this address, and because no matter what happens, there’s gonna be a sweet story for some guy.”

  “But why don’t you get Logan—”

  “That’s your job,” clipped Casey. “For all I know they might try to develop that plate inside—might be developing it now. So find a phone. There’s a drug-store two blocks down. Tell Logan the set-up. He oughtta get out here pretty damn’ fast.”

  “But what—” stammered Potter. “You ain’t goin’ up there and try to shoot it out with those hoods alone?”

  “I hope not,” Casey said grimly. “I’m gonna try and stall, throw a bluff—till Logan gets here. He’ll know how to handle it; only if the shooting starts, I’m not gonna be empty handed.”

  Casey had left the Globe without his topcoat. Now he took the .38, reached around and stuck it down inside his pants, right in the small of his back. The pressure of his belt held the gun securely; the coat, draped from the shoulders, showed no suspicious bulge. He started across the street.

  6

  The foyer of the apartment house was U shaped and the single, self-operated elevator door was directly opposite the entrance. Casey stopped in front of it, realizing that he did not know where Jaeger and Russo had gone.

  He muttered, “No one’s been in or out of here since they came. They mustta left the elevator where they got off,” and started up the stairs.

  There was no elevator at the second floor; none at the third. He found it waiting on the fourth. He thought: “It’s after twelve. I’ll try every place with a light in it.”

  Eight doors opened from the wide, deserted hall. Casey started at the front, dropping to his knees at each door and peering at the bottom crack. The first three were dark. At the fourth— the second door on the right—a hairline of yellow met his gaze.

  Casey put his ear close to the keyhole. A subdued murmur of voices reached him, unexcited. He straightened a little, drew a long, silent breath, glanced, unconsciously, back over his shoulder, then bent to the keyhole again.

  He felt that he could wait a few minutes, give Logan that much time. Not too long, for if the plate could not be developed here, they wouldn’t waste much time in taking it where it could be, and Casey had to stall them here if he was to count on Logan’s help. The slow minutes dragged. Casey tried to estimate their number; tried once to reach his watch, but gave it up in preference to keeping his ear glued to the keyhole. Finally he straightened, took a deep breath and knocked.

  After a moment a voice said: “Who is it?”

  Casey grunted and his lips pressed into a weird, tight smile. The palms of his hands were damp, but he wiped them on the sides of his coat.

  He said: “Santy Claus.”

  The knob turned slowly, but the door opened in a jerk that flung it wide. Jaeger and Russo stood to one side, their automatics leveled at Casey’s stomach. Beyond, Moe Nyberg stood behind Wade, held him by the coat collar and pressed a gun in his back. Over by the windows stood Mike Handy.

  Casey felt no fear now. No surprise. Rather a tense grim satisfaction gripped his brain. But after that first glimpse of the occupants of that room, he went into his act. Surprise flooded his face, choked his voice.

  “Hey,” he wheezed. “What the hell?”

  “Get in here!” clipped Jaeger.

  Casey stepped across the threshold and Russo shut the door.

  “How’d you get here?” jerked Nyberg.

  “He followed us,” said Jaeger. “He must’ve—”

  “Followed you?” croaked Casey, licking his lips. “No. Honest to gawd. I didn’t know—”

  “It’s a plant!” growled Handy, starting forward. “Look in the hall.” He turned and looked out the windows at the street below.

  Russo opened the door, peered out, said: “Naw. It’s clear.”

  Handy said: “Clear outside too,” and relaxed.

  Nyberg purred: “You’d better spill it, Flash. And you’d better make it good. How did you find us?”

  Casey was stuck here, and he knew it. To tell the truth about either Wade’s taxi-driver, or his following the two gunmen would probably scare Handy into moving them out of the apartment— before Logan could get there.

  So he let his imagination go, and made up his story as he went along. How logical it sounded did not particularly bother him; he wanted to make it interesting—and take plenty of time.

  “A taxi guy told me,” he said nervously. “Wade said he took the Henderson woman downstairs after the raid, and a couple tough looking muggs picked her up. Well, he was stuck on the girl; see? And he thought something might be up. But he couldn’t run out on me, so he got a taxi-driver to follow this other car and find out where these two guys went.

  “When the cabby came back to the office, Wade was out. He got worried about his pay so he looked me up. I took care of the fare and he gave me this address—just before you two came to the Globe” He nodded at Russo and Jaeger. “Maybe you saw him go out and—”

  “Go on!” pressed Nyberg ominously.

  “Well,” Casey shrugged. “I wasn’t sure of the set-up so I thought I’d do some checking.”

  “Oh,” grunted Nyberg. He looked relieved and loosed his hold on Wade.

  Casey, apparently still bewildered, glanced around. Jaeger brushed his mustache with an index finger and smiled again. Nyberg pushed Wade down on the divan. He was a sturdily built fellow, Nyberg. Bald, greasy-looking, with a heavy red nose and a thick-lipped mouth. His dress was slovenly, his fingernails dirty. Casey met his shrewd stare for a moment, then glanced at Handy.

  Mike Handy looked worried. There was a film of moisture on his fatty face, and his eyes, which were black and seemed all iris, shifted nervously from the door to the windows beside him. The fingers of his other hand, which hung loosely at his side, moved spasmodically.

  Wade said: “You were wrong about her, Flash.”

  Casey did not answer, or look at Wade. He gave no sign that he had heard, because he did not want to let on what he knew—not yet.

  Then Handy said: “Let’s get out of here. I don’t like it. If we get caught in here—” He moved to a chair and picked up his black topcoat.

  Nyberg nodded and stepped towards Wade. And Casey felt his nerves grow taut. They couldn’t leave. Logan would never find them. He decided to tell what
he knew—all of it. Gambling that his revelations would hold attention, postpone the present plan.

  “How was I wrong about her?” he growled, and turned on Wade. “She got you to her place so these guys could take you, didn’t she? She put you on the spot and—”

  “So—” breathed Nyberg, “this surprise business was an act? You know about that, huh?”

  “Sure,” said Casey and made his voice confident, aggressive. “I oughtta. I was there when we trapped your other two hoods—in fact, I shot the stocky guy right over the eye. He’s in the morgue now.”

  “She didn’t spot me,” Wade said, and Handy’s gasp was a background for his words.

  Casey felt the sudden tenseness in the room, but he watched the young photographer. Wade was sitting on the divan with his elbows on his knees and his head down. His voice was listless; so was his attitude. He acted as though he did not care what happened, and Casey knew, in such condition, he could get little help from Wade in a showdown.

  “She was on the level,” Wade went on. “You know why she chased me out of the office this afternoon? Because these guys—all but Handy—were in the next room. She was scared—for me, and for herself. She got me out and hoped to run for it.

  “But these two guys"—he nodded at Jaeger and Russo— ”ran down the back way and picked her up. She told ‘em I didn’t know a thing. Then, when she called me at the Globe”—Wade hesitated, continued wearily— ”that was okey. Only—”

  “To hell with all this crap,” barked Nyberg. “What else do you know, smart guy?”

  “Plenty,” said Casey and grinned deliberately. “I know about Dopey Donlan, and the private dick, and the dope ring you were promoting at the tracks, and how you hooked that up with that track gambling outfit that got raided.”

  “You spoke your piece, smart guy,” Nyberg said and his thick lips twisted in a mirthless smile, “and now you’re in it up to your neck. You’re gonna find out just how it feels.”

  Handy put on his coat. “Let’s get out of here. There’s something screwy about this. I don’t like it.”

  The sweat was on his forehead again and his lip trembled. “You, Russo, put the gun on the kid. Nyberg, Jaeger, watch Casey. Better search him first.” He waited while Jaeger patted Casey’s pockets, and Casey held his breath and stuck out his stomach, stuck it out and leaned so that his back arched slightly and the unbuttoned coat hung out and away from the gun.

  “We’ll take ‘em out,” Handy went on. “If this plate is okey, I’m set.”

  “You’re set?” sneered Nyberg. “How about me—the rest of us.”

  “Well,” flared Handy. “I was in that raid this afternoon. Lucky they let me go after I paid the fine. If anybody’d seen me come out of that washroom—”

  “Nerts!” said Nyberg. “I’m getting’ sick of your angles. Why all the panic? Why don’t we knock these guys off right here and now?”

  “No—no,” said Handy, and his voice was shrill. “Take them out. I pay you plenty. I want a chance to get this plate developed, get an alibi.”

  “You’re with us,” snapped Nyberg contemptuously, “and here’s once you stay with us. I’m beginnin’ to hate guys like you—all mouth and no guts.” He stepped to Wade, yanked him to his feet. “Come on, Kid.”

  Casey waited there by the door. He was glad now that he had put on the bluff. It had worked longer than he expected. But was it long enough? He couldn’t tell. It was hard to judge time in this kind of a spot. And you could say things awfully quick. How much time had he killed? Five—six minutes. More, he hoped.

  Russo had stepped over behind Wade. Handy opened the door and looked into the hall. Nyberg and Jaeger came alongside of Casey and he felt the guns in his side.

  Casey made one more attempt to stall. “Say.” He let the fear come into his voice. “What’re you gonna do. You can’t—”

  “Who can’t,” sneered Nyberg. “You know what we’re gonna do—so quit stallin’. You can take it, can’t you? Or is all these things I’ve heard about you just a lot of hot air.”

  He dug his gun into Casey’s ribs, and they went out into the hall. Handy, and Wade and the bull-necked Russo; then Casey and Nyberg and the grimly smiling Jaeger.

  7

  The elevator was still waiting in the hall. On the silent downward trip, Casey tried to map out some logical course of action. Logan had not arrived. Otherwise he would have been waiting in the hall.

  The elevator door slid open and they started across the narrow, dimly lighted foyer. Casey felt the reassuring pressure of his gun in his back. He thought he could get to it. But there were three other guns—and there was Wade.

  The kid did not know about Casey’s gun. He would have no tip-off to a plan, even if Casey had one. And if the heat went on—

  Handy paused after they went through the inner doors. There, in the imitation marble entry way, he said:

  “It’s too risky—six of us piling in that little sedan. Besides, we’ve used it twice today—we might get picked up. We’ll just walk down the street easy-like. I’ve got a car in a garage around the corner.”

  He hesitated and the dim light from the foyer, sifting through the glass doors, made his fatty face jaundiced and shiny with moisture. He made one more plea.

  “I’ll make it a grand more apiece if you’ll let me—”

  This time it was Jaeger who voiced his contemptuous opinion. “I’ll string with Nyberg. It’ll be worth my grand to see you play ball.”

  Handy opened the outer door without answering. Nyberg said: “Keep your hands down and walk nice, guys.”

  Handy kept well in the lead, but the rest of them fanned out on the wide sidewalk. Casey cast a quick glance up and down the street and a blanket of dejection settled down upon him. His roadster was parked in the same spot, but the street was deserted. Logan had not—

  Then he saw Potter.

  At first there was but a blacker blotch in the shadows of that entryway across the street. Then the blotch took shape. It was Potter all right, his stringy height identified him. He was on the sidewalk now, and he was starting across the street.

  Casey sucked in his breath and held it. His glance slid sidewise. Wade was about an arm’s length away, on his left, the curb side; beside, and slightly behind, walked Russo. Holding the same position—beside and a pace behind— Nyberg and Jaeger flanked Casey.

  Casey had wanted to wait as long as he could in the hope that Logan might come. And if he did not come, that gun was the last resort.

  He and Wade? Well, they were in it: they had to take a chance, accept the risk. But Potter, the crazy fool: it was no affair of his. And he was married and—

  “Moe!” Jaeger’s voice was soft, jerky. “There’s a guy comin’ across the street.”

  “Let him come,” said Nyberg hoarsely. “If he horns in we might just as well shoot the works and—”

  Then Potter, now halfway across the street, said: “Hey!”

  It was absurd, that word. And Potter’s act, although he may not have known it, was suicidal. Casey inwardly cursed it as such. Yet that soft call undoubtedly gave him a second to get set, because every man but himself glanced at Potter as he spoke.

  Casey leaned to the left and made a vicious backhand swipe with the flat of his hand. He caught Wade alongside the face and the force of the blow knocked him off his feet, so that he fell over against Russo, carrying him to his knees. At the same instant, Casey’s right hand reached for the gun in his back.

  He forgot Wade as he spun about and his fingers found the butt of the automatic, but he was aware that somebody was fighting in the gutter. Then he had the gun free, up, and squeezed the trigger, twice, rapidly.

  Nyberg’s body jerked. Beside him and two feet away a flash of orange exploded and Casey felt something slice between his ribs and his left arm.

  The slug, the flash of flame, came from Jaeger’s gun. And as he fired, the fellow stepped behind Nyberg’s sagging body, intent on using it as a shield.

>   Casey’s finger already tensed for a third shot when he saw what he faced. He had but little time to act, and he did as impulse commanded. He ducked his head and half dived forward so that his shoulder crashed into Nyberg’s stomach.

  They went down, all three of them. And Jaeger was underneath. He was cursing now and so was Casey, although he did not know it. For a moment or so the three men were a tangle of arms and legs, and as they scrambled there, Casey thought he heard the shrill scream of a siren.

  Then Jaeger rolled clear, rolled clear and came to his knees. Casey’s right hand was partly pinioned by the now limp weight of Nyberg’s body. He yanked at the wrist, felt the gun come free. But his eyes had never left Jaeger, and he knew he was too late.

  The fellow’s teeth flashed in some reflected ray of the street light, and the gun leveled as Casey tried to swing up his hand in time. A hundredth part of a second maybe; no longer than that. But Casey looked down the muzzle of that gun and his muscles tensed for the shock.

  Somebody said: “You!”

  The crash of the gun wiped out the phrase, pounded at Casey’s right ear, half deafened him. And he could not understand it because he had seen no flash from that gun muzzle.

  A car roared past. Jaeger, still on his knees, began to tip over, half on his face, half on his side. When his shoulders hit the sidewalk Casey looked around. Potter was standing three feet away. His right hand was still stiffly extended— and there was a gun in it.

  Casey blew out his pent-up breath and spun about on his knees. Handy was fifty yards away, racing madly for the corner, his coat-tails flying. A touring car swung into the curb beside him.

  There was a shouted command, another. Handy raced on, swerving towards an entryway. The car kept pace. Then flame streaked through the night and two sharp cracks slapped down the street, reverberating from the brick walls. Handy took three more steps at breakneck speed. He stumbled; he slid forward on his face like Rabbit Maranville stealing home.