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

  He sat me down very politely when he found what I wanted; sat my one hundred and seventy pounds on the flimsiest gilded chair in all that gilded drawing-room, so he had the drop on me from the start.

  “Anything I can do to help solve this horrible affair, sir, I’ll be delighted to do,” he rumbled, standing over me. “But, unfortunately, I am completely in the dark—”

  “It seems to have been a dark night all around,” I interrupted him.

  He bridled at that.

  “I have alibis, sir!” he declared; “at least a dozen people—”

  I flapped my paw.

  “Save your alibis until you’re accused of something,” I said. “I just dropped in for a pleasant little chat.”

  Well, we talked about art and literature and one thing and another, but I wasn’t getting any news that I’d come for, and I was just about to let up on him and lift anchor—when I settled back again.

  I’d caught him looking at the clock.

  Now there are ways of looking at a clock, and then there are ways.

  Well, I kept him there for another twenty minutes, and at the end of that time he was as nervous as a debuting opera singer with the hiccoughs. At last he couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Warren,” he said, “but I must put off this pleasant conversation till another time. You see, I—I’ve an engagement with a—” he leered; “you understand, sir, don’t you!”

  I jumped up.

  “I sure do,” I answered. “You should have told me before. I have those engagements myself sometimes.” And I gave him leer for leer. In another minute I had shaken hands with him and watched the door shut tight; and the moment the latch clicked, I was sliding across the hall to the elevator, where I rang the bell and kept my finger on it till I heard the bang of the metal door below. Even then I wasn’t comfortable.

  “Anybody on the switchboard downstairs?” I asked the boy as he opened the door for me.

  “Nobody, sir. Just me,” he replied.

  I nodded. I was safe there, anyhow. And if Jobson went out or anybody came in to keep an appointment, I could spot them from that little alcove.

  “Listen, son,” I said, as we gently parachuted down to bottom, “they seem to give you a lot of jobs to tend to around here.”

  “They do that, all right,” the boy grumbled. He opened the door. I passed out and waited for him.

  “I guess an extra ten spot wouldn’t look bad to you, hah?” I said as he settled down by the board.

  He eyed me funny.

  “Well …” he murmured. I patted him on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry; nothing like that, buddy. I just want to take your switchboard job off your hands a few minutes.” I pulled my hat over one eye and set my jaw in the proper fashion, and the kid got it right away.

  “You’re a dick!” he whispered, all eyes. Then his glance dropped to the roll that was coming out of my pocket, and he slipped off his seat and gave me the switchboard. I pulled on the earphones and waited. I know how to run a board; a good dick has to know a lot of things. Even being an expert window-washer comes in handy because—but you’ve read all about that.

  Then came the first call. Mrs. Winslow’s maid wanted those lamb chops right away, and wanted them in a loud voice; and then in a lower voice she added: “bring them around yourself, Tony dear, if you can.” Then came the second call on the heels of that one, and Hattie Somebody and I learned all about what the doctor thought of Jessie’s kidneys. He didn’t think they were so hot, Jessie was glad to tell us; and I was beginning to be afraid I’d pulled a boner—that either Jobson was going out or somebody was coming calling (in which case I’d hear the ring for the elevator) when a third call was put in.

  “Duval 8390.” That was Jobson’s deep voice; there was no mistaking it.

  I plugged in, passed on the call, and waited. Not long. I heard a receiver come off. Then:

  “Hello.” A woman’s voice.

  “Is this Miss Kelly?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Jobson. You know—Jobson.”

  “Yes.” Short, noncommittal.

  “I wanted to know is—is you know—there?”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “Well, get ahold of him right away. Right away, you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “And tell him not to come around here. It’s dangerous. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell him to meet me at the hotel there. At that room—what’s the number?”

  “311.”

  “311. In about an hour. You understand?”

  “Yes. I’ll tell him.” Her receiver went down, and his after it. I pulled out the plugs, and plugged in central.

  “Listen, operator,” I said when she answered. “Give me the address of Duval 8390, like a good girl, will you? I know it’s a hotel.”

  “Sorry, sir,” came the mechanical answer, “but we’re not allowed—”

  “I know, I know, honey,” I cut in; “but be big hearted just for once, will you? You see, I just got a tip that my wife and another chap—”

  I heard her giggle. A moment’s wait. Then:

  “Duvaal, a-it—thrrree—noine—O, is the Stopover Inn, sir, on the Eastern Highway.”

  I let out a noiseless whistle. I don’t think I even thanked her. I was thinking just one thing. I was thinking that I was going to earn that ten grand—if I ever got it.

  For the Stopover Inn, on the Eastern Highway, was the hangout of the Lewis gang!

  I canned the whistle, hopped up, and patted the boy on the head.

  “Nice boy,” I said; “you’ll be a millionaire some day,” and passed him the ten. Then I went back to my room, packed my bag with things I didn’t need and was on my way.

  The Stopover Inn is about ten miles out, and when I swung around the last corner, a flivver was just drawing up and I saw Jobson get out. I tore on past, interested in the scenery across the road, drove on for another mile, and then turned back.

  I parked my car near Jobson’s, got out, dragged out my suitcase, and walked into the small dirty lobby. There was just a dumb-looking, pimpled-face boy behind the desk, and I was glad of that.

  “Room,” I snapped. “Top floor, where I won’t get the traffic so much. I’ve got a lot of heavy sleeping to do.” One glance had already told me there were only three floors to the place; ten rooms to a floor, five front, five back.

  The boy stared at me stupidly.

  “You got to wait for Miss Kelly to get back,” he drawled without moving his lips; why use your lips when your nose will do? “She’s upstairs.”

  But Miss Kelly was just whom I didn’t want to see, she or anybody else who might ask questions, aloud or to themselves. I wanted to hold that off as long as I could. I glanced at the keyboard at my side. 31 l’s key was missing from its hook; but most of the other keys were there.

  “Baloney,” says I, like I meant it. “I’m not waiting for Miss Kelly or anybody else. I just come in from five hundred miles.” Luckily my car was turned the right way if they investigated. I glared at him. “I don’t want Miss Kelly, I want sleep! You understand? Here!” I made a dive for the key of 313, which was near me. “Show me a room!”

  But the boy’s hand was on the rack nearly as soon as mine.

  “That room’s taken,” he said, mighty quick for him. “I’ll show you a room.” He took the key of 317 and came out from behind the desk. He almost fell over my suitcase as he shambled towards the stairs. I picked up the valise and followed his shuffling steps.

  The two flights of stairs were narrow, dark and dirty, and so was the corridor at the head of the second flight. But both stairs and corridors were carpeted so thick you couldn’t hear your own footfalls; which had its uses and had its drawbacks. The boy showed me my room, a narrow back room with one window, and started off again. He was so dumb he didn’t even fool with the shades till I came across with a tip.

  “Here,” I said, as
I slipped him a quarter; “and I don’t want to be disturbed. I’m sleeping through twenty-four hours.” I slammed the door and noisily locked it, and gave him two minutes before I softly turned the key again, opened the door and stepped outside.

  It was always night in that windowless corridor, but it wasn’t any Gay White Way. One gas-jet burned in the middle, and even that looked pretty discouraged. I locked my door from the outside, and walked down the hall—I didn’t have to tiptoe on that thick carpet—to the last back corner room, number 311.

  There were two voices inside, a woman’s and a man’s; but I didn’t stop to listen. I moved back to the room beside it, number 313. I listened there a second; then I pulled out a pass key.

  Yes, it was unoccupied. A regular cheap hotel room, that was mostly bed. The bed used to be brass. You could tell that by the bits that glittered here and there over the rough rusty iron. There was one window that faced a large but mangy orchard in back, and one stiff-backed chair. I noiselessly pulled the chair over to the door that connected with 311, but which was locked with its keyhole stuffed. Then I sat down and waited.

  I heard the woman speak. She must have been standing near the outer door, talking to somebody back in the room.

  “Well, when he comes, I’ll send him right up,” she was saying. She had a nice, musical voice. I figured it must be Miss Kelly. “I called him right after you phoned. He ought to be here any minute.”

  There was a grunt right beside me. Jobson must be lying on the bed. The door opened and closed. I couldn’t hear her feet as she walked away, past my door, down the hall.

  A half an hour passed, with nothing more exciting than an occasional creak of the springs as Jobson twisted on the bed. I made myself as comfortable as I could on that lousy chair and waited; I think I even dozed once or twice. Then, all at once, I was sitting upright, ears cocked I heard the click of the outer doorknob in the next room.

  Jobson sat up on the bed; I could hear the springs creak.

  “Well,” he grunted, “you took long enough getting here.”

  There wasn’t an answer until the door was shut and the key creaked in the lock. Then a low voice mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

  “Uh-huh,” Jobson answered; “well, that’s all right. Now let’s get down to business.” And with that he moved off the bed and I heard him thump across the room, probably to a chair near the other bird. I pulled my own chair even closer to the door and stuck my ear against it. Then I got down on my knees and tried my ear at the key hole. I even took a chance at pulling out the wadding, but that wouldn’t work. And all I got for my pains was a thick mumbling conversation.

  True, now and then I caught bits of conversation, and they were interesting listening, though it was always Jobson’s voice, never the other guy’s.

  “How much?” he said, once. “Well, give me ten grand and little Freddie Jobson will be just a memory to you from then on.”

  I pulled one of my silent whistles at that. “Trying to blackmail the Lewis gang?” I thought: “I can think of safer things than that— like sleeping on railroad ties.” Another time he said something about poor, dead Mr. Fuller, and his tone of voice brought to mind the bereaved relatives. And then came the fast one.

  I heard him jump up, like he was sore.

  “Listen, brother,” he says, forgetting discretion; “don’t pull that line on me. I might not have been there when you bumped him off, but I was listening in when you was there that same afternoon. And I heard him speak about the hundred grand the gang was trying to hold him up for. And I heard you say: “Listen,” I heard you say; “I think I can show them the light if you give me fifty thousand—personally.” And then: “I’ll be around to get your decision shortly before eight.” I wonder he didn’t take a shot at you then, instead of waiting till you got back to try it, like you said. How would that story sound before a jury, brother? Hah? And how would it sound if the gang heard about it?’

  So! I smiled to myself. That was why Jobson dared try blackmail! It wasn’t the gang he had to face, but somebody connected with it who had tried to double-cross them! And right then there’s the little buzz of a telephone in their room.

  I glanced around the room here while I heard one of them thump across the floor. There wasn’t any phone here; probably 311 was used for business conferences only, and the only connecting phone was in that room. I heard Jobson’s voice muttering something into the mouthpiece. Then he slammed down the receiver with a vicious jerk.

  “Listen!” he said in a hoarse whisper, and I could almost see him whirl around to his companion. “She says to tell you the cops are on their way upstairs! I must have been shadowed, and—and—for—sake, I can’t be found talking to you! Hide, man! Hide!”

  And then, for the first time, I heard the other guy’s voice; just a half dozen low words:

  “Just a second. I want to tell you….” His voice became a mumble; then a whisper; then I couldn’t hear it at all, and I figured he must be hiding. And he only had a minute to do it before I heard the thump of two or three men’s feet coming along the hall. Oh, yes, I could hear it. It takes more than a thick carpet to deaden the step of a good bull.

  They passed my door, went on to the next, and rapped, short and sharp. I heard steps cross the room, heard the key turn in the lock and the door open. And then I got a jolt.

  A deep voice spoke, and I recognized it right away for Police Sergeant Rooney’s.

  “Well,” he says; “so here’s our little bird! You was right after all, Mr. Bond!”

  And I heard Bond say in that slow drawl of his:

  “Oh, I knew we’d find him, all right, Sergeant!” And I sat back and scratched my head.

  So Bond was doing a little detective work on the quiet, was he! Taking a crack at that ten grand reward himself! I set my lips tight. I didn’t know how he’d trailed Jobson here—unless by the bull stationed outside the apartments on Bradford Street—and I didn’t give a damn; but when they brought that other bird—the guy what had done the shooting—before the Captain, little Percy Warren (Yeah, that’s the name!) would be tripping alongside them, ready to put in part claim for the bonus! There are ethics in every trade, and Harley Bond was going to stick to lawyering, or I’d know the reason why! But I wasn’t feeling so cheerful while I sat there listening to Jobson’s pulling his sob stuff.

  “Why, I wasn’t doing nothing, Mr. Bond! I just came around here because—” And Bond cuts in:

  “Nobody’s accusing you of doing anything, Jobson,” he says; “I just wanted to have a little talk with you to see if you knew anything more about this affair; and I asked the sergeant to come along and—”

  And just then a truck went rumbling by; and though it was on the other side of the inn, it shut off all connections with the next room. Before the air cleared and I could tune in again it was all over.

  “Well, come along!” Rooney snaps.

  I stood up, ready to join the party and do a little arguing; and then I stopped short. Had they found the other guy—the bird that did the dirty work? They’d had time, maybe, to dig him out from wherever he was hiding; but how did I know they knew he was there in the first place? I crossed the room softly, slipped my key in the lock, turned it, and waited. If they had the killer with them, that was my tough luck; if they didn’t, it was Bond’s. I’d produce him in my own good time, when the lawyer wasn’t around to split the bonus.

  I listened while they piled out the door and locked it behind them; waited while they tramped past my door. Then I opened up a crack and peeked.

  There were four of them going down the hall. I could just make them out as they passed under the gasjet: the sergeant, another cop, Bond, and Jobson—and nobody else! I chuckled to myself, apologized to Lady Luck, and shut the door quick; for just then I spotted a girl down the hall ahead of them. Miss Kelly, probably.

  I locked the door, pulled the key out, and slipped across to the window. With that girl out there, the hall wasn’t safe. I pulled the wi
ndow way up, gentle, and stuck my head out.

  It wasn’t easy going. I planked my toes on a little ledge, pressing them tight against the side of the house; and I edged along, quiet as I could until I had my hand on the window-sill of 311.

  In a split-second I had my gun out, pointing up. I was a pretty target if the killer had heard me or came wandering my way, but I figured I’d get the first crack, if he stuck his head out.

  He didn’t, though; so I eased up above the water-line, leveled my gun on the sill. Then I shifted my grip from my hand to my elbow, jerked back the curtain and looked, my finger quivering on the trigger.

  There wasn’t anybody in the room; at least in sight. In another second I was over the sill and inside.

  It was a bigger room than the others, several chairs, a table, a bed—I slid across to the bed and pulled a quick old maid; but nobody was hiding there. I crossed to the door. Then I swung around and went over to the window on the side of the building and looked out.

  There was a maple there, reaching to the roof. One branch stuck out, almost to the window. It wasn’t a hefty branch; I’d hate to shinny down it, and I’d just put on an act myself that wasn’t so bad. But I figured a slim active guy could manage it, if it was that or the chair.

  He could have done it; but— I stood a minute, staring out the window. There was something wrong, somewhere; something that didn’t fit into the picture. I turned back, stared at the floor, thinking. I stooped to look under the bed again, just to satisfy myself.

  “Well? Lose something?”

  I whirled around. A girl was standing in the doorway. That had been a fast one! I sauntered towards her.

  “Just a hairpin. It doesn’t matter.”

  She forced a little grin at that—nice lips, they were; but her eyes watched me pretty hard through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. And now her smile got a little curl to it as she walked in to meet me.

  “What did you want it for? Clean a pipe, or just pick a lock?” She halted behind a chair, rested her elbows easily on the back of it, and looked me up and down. “I suppose you know you made a mistake and got in the wrong room?” she said.