The man struggling with the girl gave a shrill yelp of dismay and tore himself free, hurling her backward so that she struck the wall with a thump. As he whirled, Tracy’s finger fired the silenced gun blindly. Scarcely a sound. The thug’s body shivered. He said, faintly: “Hey!” and went over backward on the edge of the mattress. It bounced him sidewise to the floor and he rolled on his face.
The knockout victim was trying dazedly to get up, one palm flat on the floor, the other groping weakly like a flopping fish. Tracy ran over and clubbed downward at the skull with the barrel till the threshing stopped.
He picked up the girl and set her in a chair. She was chalk-white, her clenched hand crammed into her open mouth.
“Don’t squawk, kid!” Tracy begged. “We’re sitting pretty.”
He was shaking like a leaf himself. There was a faint smoke-haze in the room and a smell like smoldering rags. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped off the gun he still held. He tossed it on the bed and tiptoeing over to the door, opened it a crack and wiped both knobs. Then he shut it softly and went back to the girl.
He slipped an arm around her, Stroked her red hair, patted the clenched hand. They rocked back and forth together like two scared kids. He drew the hand downward from her mouth.
“Looks like you’re on my side, honey.”
She buried her face in his coat and began to cry. He dabbed awkwardly at the wet eyes with his handkerchief.
“I swear to Gawd, Mr. Tracy—”
“I know. It’s okey. … Who hired the act?”
“A—big slick-haired greaseball. He said he—he come from Detroit and we got chummy, talkin’ about places an’ people we knew out there. That cab was a plant. I got a phone call. … I was dead hungry—haven’t had a square for a week—eatin’ fifteen cents a day in Coffee Pots—an’ he promised faithful there wouldn’t be no—”
“Sure, sure. … You don’t know his name?”
“No.”
“Remember him if you saw him, eh?”
“I—I think so.”
Tracy glanced at the slumped figures on the floor. Assurance flooded back into him like a warm wave.
“This ain’t your room, is it?”
“No.”
“I thought so. Let’s breeze.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Bunk! Shove on a little make-up, sweet. You’re all right.”
She clung tightly to his arm as they crept down the dark, creaky stairs. A yellow light burned in the entry. He grinned at her in the cracked mirror of the ancient hatrack until her frozen reflection melted in a wispy smile. From the basement stairs came a warm gush of fried onions and the mellow tootling of a soprano sax running the scales. Jerry shut the door softly behind them.
It was quite dark outside. His mind was racing at top speed. This tough party from Detroit—this greaseball chiseler—if he was like all the rest of the small-timers he’d be on the prod tonight in some flashy ankle-joint, smirking like John Napoleon, looking the Big Town over. All these guys were alike—hot trombones and giggle-water and a great big smile for the ladies!
He glanced at the girl and said abruptly: “Listen—you’re hungry, kid, and so am I. We’ll put on the feed-bag in a nice quiet place off the stem. I know a dozen. … ” The voice hardened. “After that we’ll go places. Whaddye say? Got an evening rag?”
She nodded tremulously.
“That’s swell.”
They walked west and he flagged a cab. The restaurant he picked was a dingy place under the clatter of the 9th Avenue L. No music, no celebs; a pot-bellied chef named Andre, who lived upstairs with a wife and nine kids, and whose meat sauces and gravies were almost unique on the island of Manhattan.
Tracy ordered for both of them, and excusing himself politely, went to a glassed phone booth in the rear where he could easily watch her. He called up his man Butch.
When he returned to the table the girl was eating ravenously. He grinned sympathetically and touched her arm. “Slow down, babe; we’ve got an evening ahead of us.”
Butch arrived before they were finished. He brought a suitcase with him.
Jerry answered the girl’s eyes. “My valet. Leave the bag here. That’ll be all for tonight. Beat it!”
Butch blinked calmly, gave the columnist’s guest a stolid once-over and walked out.
“Trip?” said the girl. She glanced at the bag and there was a shadow in her eyes.
“Work clothes.” He paid the check. “Take another puff on that butt and we’ll roll. … You haven’t told me where you live.”
The room was a small one. A battered wardrobe trunk stood in one corner; there was a shallow closet, two cane-seated chairs and a scarred oak dresser. Beyond the bed, a half-opened door showed a peep of dark, tiny bathroom.
Tracy put his suitcase on one of the chairs.
“Still scared?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, hell. You’re all tuned up like a fiddle. We’ve got lots of time, so for Pete’s sake, be sensible.” He glanced at the bathroom. “Turn on the tap in there. Toss in a big soap-cake. Make it hot and steamy. Close your eyes and soak.”
She didn’t say anything. He picked up a copy of Variety from the cluttered dresser, dragged a chair towards the light and began studiously to read. He heard her, after a while, moving about in the bathroom. The gurgling splatter of water sounded and the door closed. Jerry grinned as he heard the curt snick of the lock.
He scrutinized his face in the mirror, fingering his chin. Smooth enough! He pulled down the shade, heaved the suitcase to the bed and opened it. The efficient Butch had packed thoroughly. His employer stripped and changed. When he had finished, the gleam of his shirt front was irreproachable, his silk lapels faultless, the set of his bow tie smoothly trig. He was studying the principal exports of Yucatan in a torn almanac when the bathroom bolt clicked.
She held the robe folded about her. The shabbiness of the thing made a curiously effective sheath for the draped mold of her slim dancer’s body. She flushed suddenly and he stopped staring.
“Climbed into my overalls while I was waiting. Feel better?”
“Lots.”
She moved over to the open wardrobe trunk and hesitated.
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, I don’t know—I’ve only that one damn’ rag. … ”
“Break it out. Let’s have a look at it, girl-friend.”
She held the thing against her body. Not so good, Jerry thought. Effective as hell, though. Like the dressing robe, its very dry-cleaned shabbiness was an effective contrast with her red hair and the cream of her throat.
“Swell,” he announced. “Stop frowning and crawl into it.”
The bathroom bolt didn’t click this time. Tracy rummaged through his opened suitcase. He uncorked a bottle of rye, filled a silver flask and pouched it on his hip. When the girl finally reappeared she looked at him smilelessly, steadily.
“Shoot,” he said.
“Just exactly what are we doing tonight?”
“I told you once, sweetheart. We’re going to cover an assorted bunch of ankle joints from the Village to Harlem. We’re looking for a certain party from Detroit. You’re going to point him out for future reference—or are you?”
“And after that?”
“After that we’ll shrug happily and let a big honest Mick with iron-gray hair and square-toed shoes take care of him.”
“Then you’re a police stool?”
“What of it?”
Her eyes fell before his. “I don’t know,” she admitted.
“You don’t know,” he repeated coolly. “I do. There’s the difference. Listen. I’ll probably shake hands and say hawzit! to about fifty assorted mugs tonight—some of ’em killers, all of ’em grifters and wrong guys. Not one of ’em belongs outside of a jail-house, but they’re all pals of mine and the Commissioner—up to a certain point. They tell me things and I tell them things. … Oh, hell, what’s the use of talking—you poi
nt out the guy and leave the code of ethics to me. … Here!”
He held out her fur-trimmed coat and she slipped her arms into the sleeves. He donned his own coat and reached for the snap-brim gray hat.
They stood by the railing in the Club Timbuctoo in darkest Harlem and Tracy glanced moodily at his watch. Quarter past two. No dice—it had been that way all evening.
The girl’s glance moved quickly over the crowded floor, among the tables, into every dim corner. It was hard to see dearly; the air was thick with cigarette smoke and heavy with the odor of perspiration and cheap gin. Drowsy couples moved like corpses in a slow, sticky rhythm. On a raised platform a semi-circle of sweating bandsmen rocked in unison, eyes closed, black skulls gleaming. The music was raw jungle.
Tracy looked at the girl. She shook her head slightly.
“I don’t see him.”
“Let’s go.”
They walked towards Lenox Avenue.
“Tired, kid?” he asked.
“A little.”
“Me, too; my pups are numb. Tell you what we’ll do. There’s a couple of joints we really ought to cover before we quit. If we can’t spot him then we’ll call it a night.” He grimaced.
He whistled a cab to the curb and helped her in. As they sped southward he slipped his arm about her and her head drooped drowsily. He glanced down at her. Poor kid! She must be nearly dead! He hadn’t tabbed her wrong at all. He liked the way she kept her mouth shut and her eyes busy. And he wasn’t forgetting those strap-pumps of hers, either! He’d get her a hot spot in that second act of Spellman’s new revue—or tear off both of Sammy’s ears!
He lit a cigarette.
“About this next dive,” he said tonelessly. “Club Humpty-Dumpty—it’s a tough puddle. Tip me the wink quick if he’s there. If he isn’t, we’ll move right out”
Her head turned on his shoulder.
“He’s a snake, Jerry,” she warned. “Be careful.”
He laughed. “What have we got cops for?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said jestingly, but her eyes remained grave.
“Not many do,” he told her. “Why do you s’pose there’s a half dozen big shots in this town that nobody bothers? Graft? Don’t be nuts. There isn’t enough dough in Manhattan to square that fella in the Commissioner’s office. The big shot operators are business men. When they bump a mug—and they’ve bumped plenty—the ordinary citizens of this burg are getting a break, sister. Sounds screwy, but it’s true. Innocent bystanders don’t get killed as often as you’d think. I’m not kidding. … ”
The Club Humpty-Dumpty was a weathered brick structure in the middle of a short block.
A slot opened in the heavy door and a shadowy face peered.
“ ’Lo, Bum! Open up!” said the newspaperman.
The face split into a sour grin. “ ’Lo, yourself.”
They stepped into a dim hallway. From behind a long wooden partition wall came the steady bleat of tinny jazz.
“Anybody around?”
“Jist a few.”
“Keep your wraps on,” Jerry told the girl.
They walked down the passage towards an open doorway framed in draped black velvet, tied back in dusty folds. The girl’s hand vised on Tracy’s arm.
“The guy in the middle,” she breathed into his inclined ear.
There were three of them at a table across the tiny dance-floor. The man in the middle sat directly facing the entry. A swift flicker crossed his face as he saw the girl and Tracy. The corner of his mouth jerked inaudibly to his nearest companion. His face was unfamiliar; he looked like a Spick—sleek and dark. Black hair, jet eyes, pale olive cheeks. There was a stiff poise to his head and neck, a lidless quality in his stare that made Jerry think of a snake regarding a robin.
The newspaperman was in a tough spot and he knew it. He didn’t dare walk out, so he walked in. His feet felt like lead. He waved the waiter aside and stepped behind the girl, pushing her chair in as she sat down. As he bent over her he breathed: “Sit tight. If they go for me, scram!”
He needed a drink badly but he didn’t dare to reach for his hip-flask. A thin, hatchet-faced woman at the next table peered owlishly at him; the man with her was moodily intent on a pair of sugar-cube dice that he kept rolling monotonously across the tablecloth with a neat flick of his hairy wrist. Jerry didn’t know him; he couldn’t see anyone that he knew. The dance-floor was empty but the music blared horribly without a pause. It hurt his head to listen but he prayed silently for it to go on and on. He had a queer certainty that the moment it stopped, the man with the jet eyes was going to rise and stroll across. He was settling his check now, carelessly peeling a bill from a thick roll that he hardly looked at.
His eyes suddenly lifted past Tracy towards the velvet-draped entry.
A hubbub was going on in the hallway. A noisy crowd came spilling in—a half dozen couples, girls and men—skylarking, playing drunk, bumping against tables and waiters with cold-sober hilarity. A girl squealed out shrilly: “I smell rye! Gimme, gimme, gimme!” and the waiter jerked his tray backward as one of his glasses crashed to the floor. He wriggled away with a feeble grin; no flying wedge appeared to rush these hard-faced jokesters to the sidewalk.
Tracy saw a red moon of a face in a kind of foggy blur. He could hardly breathe. He smiled wanly and waved a small, stiff salute.
“ ’Lo, Dan,” he quavered.
The big fellow crowed with elephantine delight. “Look who’s here! Hello, yuh little bum! I’ll buy yuh a drink—whaddye think of that!”
“Just a second,” Jerry whispered to the red-headed girl.
He squeezed her cold hand and got up and walked over. Danny Murtha’s eyes narrowed soberly.
“Whassamatter, kid? You look sick.”
The columnist’s voice raced. “Listen, Dan. I’m on the spot. They got the finger on me. Those three guys—easy—don’t look.”
“No kiddin’?” Danny’s whine was flat, barely audible. “Them guinzos, you mean?”
Tracy whispered urgently.
“Dee-troit?” said Danny. “I’ll be darned! The free little guinzos from Dee-troit. … So that’s them!” He shrugged and the smiling eyes blinked sleepily. “Okey, Jerry. Thanks for the tip. … Gitcha doll and scram!”
The Planet man’s back crawled as he laid a five-dollar bill on his table. He helped the white-faced girl twitch her arms into her coat sleeves. As they walked towards the draped exit the three Detroiters rose without haste. The black-haired chiseler crossed the dance-floor to head them off. He bumped into Danny Murtha. Danny’s hand was in his pocket; he rocked on his toes and shoved slightly with his stomach.
“What’s th’ rush, monkey?”
The dark man backed up a step, his eyes cold with venom. His two companions moved quietly forward until they stood on either side of him. Other men came slouching in on either side of Danny. The trio saw that they were blocked off from the doorway by a small semi-circle of hard faces.
A voice called: “Hey! What’s goin’ on here?” and the jazz orchestra stopped suddenly.
Murtha glared sidewise at the frozen piano player.
“Well lousy, what’rye stoppin’ for? Go ahead an’ play!”
He crouched as he saw a sudden motion of the trio in front of him.
Tracy heard the roar of the shots as he shoved the girl helter-skelter to the sidewalk. Her feet dragged. She was like lead on his arm. She cried stridently: “Lemme go home! Lemme go home!” There was a night-hawk cab at the curb; they flung themselves into it and the chauffeur gagged a frightened oath and stepped on his starter. The cab rolled.
As it sped east a moon-faced man came leisurely out of the Humpty-Dumpty and helped his girl-friend into an automobile across the street. The rest of his party scattered in twos and threes and walked west. No flurry at all. …
“Lemme go home!” the girl in Tracy’s cab kept moaning to herself.
He shook her grimly. He felt as funny as hell. He wanted to choke he
r and kiss her—beat her into pulp, bury his scared face in the red mop of her hair. Poor little dead-game kid, with paper-thin soles and a pair of million-dollar dancing dogs—Hal LeRoy in step-ins—a smash hit for Spellman’s lousy second act!
“Listen, dope!” he said, with an odd snarl in his voice. “The war’s over. Snap out of it or I’ll whang you in the ear! I’ll be around for you tomorrow, understand? And for —— sake, stop sniveling! Sing a prayer to those sweet pups of yours, baby; they’re gonna tap you right out of the Coffee Pot circuit. If you’ve got a loose dime, bet on it.”
He left her staring frozenly at him in the dingy hotel lobby and rolled away in the cab. He was dead tired and his brain felt as thin as a razor blade.
He stopped in front of a dark theatre building in the middle of a side street. There was an alley alongside of it and he walked through to a doorway and rang the bell—two longs, two shorts. He went aloft in a tiny self-service elevator.
There were three men upstairs playing cut-throat poker.
“Thought I’d catch you guys before you quit,” he told the white-haired man with the large nose.
“You look lousy,” Spellman grinned. “What’s new?”
“Plenty! I’ve got a plug for that second-act hole you’ve been crying about. Laugh that off, Sammy.”
Spellman laid down his cards with a throaty grunt.
“Oh, yeah? He better be good, sweetheart.”
“Guess again. This he is a she.”
“I’ll do you a favor,” the producer shrugged. “I’ll look her over some time.”
“Play cards!” somebody growled.
Spellman picked up his pasteboards with inattentive fingers.
“What’s the kid’s name?” he asked.
The Planet’s playboy grinned foolishly. What in the hell was her name? He didn’t know; he didn’t care. A silly tune was jingling in his brain. “Redhead, red-head; gingerbread-head. … ”
“Big secret,” he grinned. “I’ll tell you in plenty of time for the billboards!”
Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter Page 3