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

  And The Flame laughed.

  “You’re somewhat of a dumb bunny, Michelle.” Her voice was that of the young girl again, but her eyes and face weren’t. She looked at me defiantly as she stretched both hands upon his shoulders. “You too listen to the gossip of the street, Michelle.” She put her head close to him and whispered something softly. I didn’t get it, but somehow it riled me just the same. I said, purely vindictively, and perhaps without point, but anyway what was on my chest.

  “High class house, this. No references needed to get an apartment here, I guess.”

  Michelle Gorgon shook his head.

  “On the contrary, the clientele is picked most carefully. Miss Drummond’s references were of the best. From the owner of the apartment himself.” And with a smile, “You see, the deeds to this property happen to be in my name.”

  While I tried to laugh that one off Michelle Gorgon raised an arm and placed it about The Flame’s shoulder. What did it all mean? Was Florence tired of poverty, and taking riches? Was she tired of being ruled, and wanted to rule? Was—? And Michelle drew her close to him, his eyes ever on me, steady, staring things. Watching me, not in alarm or fear; more, a curious glint, as if he had brought me there for this very purpose. To watch how I took it.

  Maybe I didn’t take it well. My left hand clenched at my side, my right caressed the butt of a heavy caliber six-gun in my jacket pocket.

  The temptation was strong to slap him down. Maybe I would have acted upon that temptation. Maybe I wouldn’t have. But the thought came then. Was The Flame, after all, the one lured by wealth, by the strange influence of this man? Or was Michelle Gorgon the one lured? Lured, as so many other men had been, by the fascination of this strange girl? Was Michelle Gorgon now the moth attracted by the flame?

  Any way you put it, I turned my head, hesitated a moment, then walked toward the exit door. I heard The Flame say:

  “And these strange messages, this shadow that bothers you, Michelle. Can’t I—”

  “Uh-huh.” At least Michelle Gorgon made a funny noise in his throat that sounded like that before he said, “At a time like this, Florence, why bring that up?” He was annoyed, and showed it.

  But Michelle Gorgon reached the apartment door almost the same time I did. We passed out into the wide hall together. He hadn’t gotten my goat, and I’d show him he hadn’t. I said:

  “I thought a man doesn’t introduce his future bride with a wife still living.”

  “No, not with a wife still living. I have a presentiment that—” He paused and looked at his watch, and smiled with his lips. “But the offer I made you, Race, the money I will pay for the name of the one behind McBride, behind O’Rourke. Tut, tut, don’t answer yet. The shadow that overhangs my—yes, my life—will be wiped out, as all other shadows have been wiped out that threatened a Gorgon, The Gorgon.

  “Since you’ve entered this, shall we call it a case, what has happened? Who has taken every trick? Toney, the little Italian drug addict. He died before he spoke out the whole truth to McBride. Giovoni. He died before he spoke out the whole truth to McBride. Every one who has stood in my way has died.”

  “Every one but your wife.” I was thinking of his talk of marrying The Flame.

  “I have told you that I am psychic. I have a feeling now, a strong feeling now, that the wife you speak of, God rest her soul—is dead.”

  He pressed the two elevator buttons. The one for an up car and the other for a down, and we waited. Almost at once the machinery broke into life. There was the hum of a motor far below. But it was the down car that came first. Just before the elevator reached our floor, Michelle Gorgon said:

  “No. A man never introduces his future bride while his wife is living.” And, damn it! he rubbed his hands together, as if he gloated over something, something which I could not believe. “You have been with me all the evening, Race, no one is to deny that. What a nice alibi for a husband who might be suspected of murder. The abstract, Williams. The abstract is—”

  The door of the car clanked open and I stepped within.

  “Every trick.” Michelle Gorgon stood by the door a minute. “And not a single one for you.”

  “No. No.” Maybe it was foolish, maybe it wasn’t. But I was mad—damn good and mad. Anyway, I did it. I shoved my hand quickly into my pocket and drew out that envelope. The envelope Michelle had asked me so sarcastically to deliver to his brother, Eddie.

  “I won’t get a chance to deliver this message, Doctor.” I tried to keep the vindictiveness and the gloating out of my own voice, but I guess they crept in. After all I’m only human. “So, since you’ll see Eddie before I do, I’ll ask you to deliver this.”

  He just eyed me, steadily, unblinkingly, as his hand stretched out for the envelope. But I didn’t give it to him then.

  “I’ll just put Eddie’s address on the envelope for you,” I told him, jerked out my pencil and scribbled quickly upon the white surface. Then I shoved it into his hand, pushed him back from the door, slammed it shut and said:

  “Down, John. Make it snappy.”

  Maybe I’d made a mistake, but I didn’t care. I’d have done it again any time, under the same circumstances. I’ll bet that grin was wiped off his lips, and the unblinking baby-like stare out of his eyes. For I had written on that envelope:

  Eddie Gorgon, Esq.,

  Slab One,

  The City Morgue.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  MURDER IN THE ABSTRACT

  As I left the building and hurried to my car, yes, hurried, I thought to myself: There, let Michelle Gorgon count up the tricks in the game, and laugh that one off.

  There was nothing to do now, of course, but tip O’Rourke off that Eddie Gorgon’s body could be picked up and carted away, for Michelle Gorgon to deliver the envelope to.

  Michelle Gorgon was some boy. He had a way of getting at you, a convincing way. I thought of Colonel McBride, and more than half wished that I had gone through with the thing and sunk fingers into that white, delicate skin of Michelle Gorgon, until he told me where Colonel McBride was. And then, there was The Flame. I didn’t try to think overmuch on that. I didn’t want to think about that.

  There was also the guy who had something on Michelle Gorgon, knew who his first wife was, if there was a first wife. At least, knew enough to put fear into Michelle Gorgon. It looked as if, for once in his younger days, Michelle Gorgon had gone in for a bit of murder that wasn’t in the abstract, after all. But enough of that.

  One other dominant thought. Michelle Gorgon’s crack about “a bride and a living wife,” and his crack about having psychic power. I entered a subway station and found a telephone booth, decided to pass up the hospital as a call at that hour, but buzzed O’Rourke at home. His wife answered my jingle. She was not reassuring.

  “The Sergeant,” Mrs. O’Rourke always called him that, “hasn’t been home. But he called a little while ago, saying he wouldn’t be home tonight at all. And him only a Sergeant, with the worries of an Inspector.” And after a few more natural complaints, she told me, “He said, if you called him, Mr. Williams, for you to come straight to—to some hospital. I don’t mind the name of it, but—.

  And I hung up on the good lady, dashed from the station, sprang into my car and made monkeys out of the few traffic lights which were still operating.

  O’Rourke was the first lad I saw when the cop by the door of the hospital stood aside for me to enter. O’Rourke didn’t wait, or couldn’t wait. Anyway, he led me smack into a little room and chirped it out.

  “She’s dead, Race. Yes, I know, with a cop in the alley and me at the door—in the hall, mind you.”

  “Shot?” I said.

  “No.” His laugh wasn’t pleasant. “I’m not as bad a cop as that.” He clasped his hands together. “Poisoned. Murdered by her husband, just the same as if he stuck a knife in her chest and turned the blade. But you won’t get a verdict on it, not a chance. There ain’t a jury in the country, nor the medical examiner for th
at matter, but will call it suicide.”

  “What sort of poison?”

  “There was no label on the bottle, but the smell of burnt almonds was strong. Prussic acid. I guess we all agree on that.”

  “And how— Who do you think gave it to her?”

  “She gave it to herself, you fool. I tell you I was at the door, Donnelly under the window. Michelle Gorgon left it for her. I can swear to that. But who’s to believe it? Not the doctors. Not the medical examiner. And certainly no twelve men in a jury box. There’s enough evidence to disprove that Michelle Gorgon brought it here. Listen!” And O’Rourke gave me the whole show.

  “Most of the time I heard Madame moving in the bed. Then she sort of cried out. Miss Agnes, who was writing right across from me, on the other side of the door, went in to her. I went as far as the door, and looked in. Madame waved us out. She spoke too, said she was all right. She was holding a book very tightly closed in her hand, but she didn’t want anything, wouldn’t take anything. And Miss Agnes came out and closed the door. Madame asked that the door be closed, when we left it open a crack.

  “She was restless, Race, very restless. And I couldn’t swear that she didn’t get out of that bed and crawl across the room. But I would swear to that if it would roast Michelle Gorgon.

  “The whole thing seemed silly, my sitting there like that, when I ought to be out on the McBride hunt, and I was just about to call it a night and put another lad on the door, when— well—it’s almost funny. I didn’t hear anything, unless you can hear a sudden quiet. But Madame wasn’t restless any more, hadn’t been for some time—hadn’t—. And I called to Miss Agnes. Not because I was alarmed at the quiet, but because I just wanted to have a last look at Madame before I left.

  “And,” O’Rourke’s hand went under his collar, “she was dead, Race, and in one hand was the empty bottle that had held the poison, and in the other withered hand— Well, make a guess.”

  “The book of love stories,” I tried.

  “Wrong,” said O’Rourke. “In the other hand she held a tiny mirror. For the first time, she looked at her face in a mirror—and took her life. That’ll be the verdict, and don’t you forget it.”

  I put my oar in.

  “But who gave her the mirror? Who left her the mirror and poison? Michelle Gorgon, of course. He had the opportunity when we were out of the room, and—”

  “Yes, he did. If that was all there was to it we might pin it on him, at least as manslaughter. But there is more to it. The devilish cunning of the man, or—. But listen to this. Beneath her bed was an open bag, the small, over-night bag she brought with her to the hospital. And that bag had an inside flap, a sort of secret pocket, that was now open. No—” he saw the question on my lips, “Miss Agnes had put the bag in the small closet. She hadn’t noticed the flap when she unpacked the bag—it was well hidden. And she hadn’t noticed since early evening if the bag was still in the closet or under the bed. But in the pocket beneath the flap that now hung open was another tiny bottle of the same poison. Pointing out nicely to a jury where Madame hid her poison, maybe for weeks.

  “Brophey sums it up like any dick, any lawyer for the defense would, and any jury would believe. Madame had secreted that poison there for the moment she could bear her terrible affliction no longer. And the mirror too—for the day she got the nerve to look at herself. For the mirror was a pocket affair, and could be hidden in a case. The case was on the bed beside her.”

  “And you sum it up, O’Rourke?”

  “Like you,” he said harshly. “Michelle Gorgon planned this for a long time. He came here tonight, gave her the mirror and the poison. Maybe he threatened her, maybe he didn’t. Maybe she had been pleading for the chance to end her life. But he did it. Defiantly, while I was there. Just laughed at me.”

  “Murder in the abstract.” I thought aloud.

  “Abstract or no abstract, the woman’s dead. God!” O’Rourke threw up both his hands, “if I only had the guts to lay a hand on him and drag him in for it.”

  “No, O’Rourke, you can’t do that. With what Michelle Gorgon told me, for he knew his wife was going to die, and what you suspect—well— the jury would just think it a police frame-up. We couldn’t hang the crime on him.”

  “No, we couldn’t,” O’Rourke admitted grudgingly. “Doctor Revel says it’s quite possible that Madame crawled to the closet and got the bag. But he’d like it a straight suicide, with no investigation, of course.”

  “Of course.” I agreed. “Did you—did some one notify Doctor Michelle Gorgon?”

  “Yes. He should have been here by this. Word was left with his servant. Gorgon had stepped out of his apartment for the moment.”

  “Yes.” I thought aloud. “He was with me.”

  And now what? I suddenly realized that I had entirely forgotten, in the rapid happenings, that I had had no word of my boy, Jerry, whom I had left waiting for me when I went to visit Colonel McBride. Jerry, who had disappeared when I decided to make my appearance at the Colonel’s house from the rear instead of the front. Jerry, whom I thought I had seen leave an areaway far down the street and follow the person—the man who had left McBride’s house with Colonel McBride. Jerry, who might be able to tell me who—. But no more thought. I had forgotten Jerry. I’d give my home a buzz now and see if he had returned.

  But first I told O’Rourke about my message to Michelle Gorgon, but not of the envelope, for I didn’t want to bring The Flame into it—at least, yet. Just that I had wised Michelle Gorgon up as to where they could find his brother, Eddie’s, body. At the City Morgue.

  “Good!” O’Rourke snapped up the phone on the little table. “I’ll have the boys pick up the stiff, just say I was tipped off to a bump in Maria’s Cafe. Let the surprise and joy be theirs.” And he grinned at me, but his grin had lost much of its spontaneous good nature.

  As for me. I grabbed myself another phone and buzzed my number. And this time I got results. I’m telling you I breathed easier when Jerry’s voice came over the wire.

  “Never mind me, Jerry,” I cut short his interest. “Did you recognize the lad who left the block in such a hurry?”

  And Jerry did. And Jerry told me so. And the name of the man brought back to me the words of The Flame. “Use your brains. Go over this thing from the beginning.”

  And I did go over it—did think. And the thoughts I got were amazing, astounding, but not unbelievable. When I came to, O’Rourke was standing beside me.

  “O’Rourke,” I said, “now that that bit of shooting is out, I think I’ll go down and talk to Rudolph Myer.”

  “But I’ll cover you. The Commissioner will cover you, if we don’t find the Colonel. Hell! Race,” he cut in on himself, “you said to sit tight on that, you might know something.”

  “Might,” I said. “I will know something soon. But just for safety’s sake I’ll get over to Rudolph Myer. You can’t tell who might step over your head.”

  “The Commissioner’s head too?”

  “Who is Rose Marie?” The question just came to me.

  “God!” said O’Rourke. “If we knew that we’d know everything. Toney said it was Michelle Gorgon’s wife. Giovoni spoke of Rose Marie as Michelle Gorgon’s wife. And—oh, some one else said it was Michelle Gorgon’s wife. But we’ve gone back over the years and Michelle Gorgon was never married in Italy.”

  “Couldn’t Michelle have been married under another name?”

  “He could have, but he wasn’t.”

  “But if Giovoni was his father-in-law, then— then who was Giovoni’s daughter, and who was her husband?”

  “Giovoni’s daughter’s name was Rose Marie, all right. We’ve established that as a fact. And she was brutally murdered, too, by her husband. We’ve established that too, even if it was many years ago. But Michelle Gorgon’s name in Italy was Gorgonette, and Rose Marie’s husband’s name was Nicholas Tremporia and he was a Greek. He escaped after the murder, and was picked up on the railroad tracks on a dock ne
ar Naples. Fairly ruined by the train, he was. We only found that out since Giovoni was murdered. So you see, if Giovoni had lived and talked his head off, it wouldn’t have hurt Michelle Gorgon any. Giovoni was a little bugs, I guess.”

  “Then why have him killed?”

  “I don’t know,” O’Rourke said despairingly. “Something else, maybe. But certainly Michelle Gorgon was not Giovoni’s son-in-law. That much is established beyond a doubt.”

  “Yes?” I chewed that one over, but I didn’t like it. There didn’t seem any sense, then, in the kicking over of Giovoni. The phone rang and O’Rourke answered it. I had already started for the door.

  O’Rourke held up his hand. I waited until the call was over. Then O’Rourke said, and though his voice was calm, it was a false calm:

  “You needn’t bother about Rudolph Myer. The body of Eddie Gorgon has—disappeared.”

  “Disappeared!”

  “Well, it isn’t there in the Maria Cafe,” snapped O’Rourke. “Choose your own word for it. But if there’s no corpse there’s no criminal lawyer necessary. That much is a cinch.”

  “Nevertheless,” I told him, as I passed through the hall to the front door, “I’m a boy scout and believe in preparedness. I’m going to see Rudolph Myer. Wait here. I think something is going to break.”

  And smack at the front door I bumped into Doctor Michelle Gorgon.

  “Ah! Race Williams,” he said, and though he looked at me unblinkingly I read hatred in his eyes, “I have another presentiment, quite contrary to former thoughts of you. It is that you are about to die; to be found with—” He broke off as O’Rourke followed me to the door. Then he said, “I have just heard of Madame’s sad end. How distressing. Most distressing, Detective Sergeant O’Rourke.”