Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter

by Tinsley, Theodore A.

  “Who was he?”

  “His name is Georgie Gray.”

  “The moniker doesn’t mean a thing to me, sweetheart. What’s he look like?”

  “A little man. About my height but kinda solid and heavy in the shoulders. He has jet-black hair but his eyebrows are gray and kinda bushy.”

  “And a busted nose, maybe?” Jerry shot at her eagerly. “You know—bunchy looking? Smeared a little to one side?”

  “Why, yes. That’s right.” She stared wonderingly. “Do you know him?”

  “Uh-huh. … Just distant friends—pretty damned distant.”

  He rubbed his own nose slowly. Georgie Gray, hell! Georgie Grecco sounded more natural. Georgie Gray to the kid here—George Grecco to the homicide squad. A finicky little Greek chiseler on the wrong side of fifty who liked to dye his hair black and carry a perfumed handkerchief. He never used a gun; he had long muscular fingers.

  Jerry said huskily: “You were sure sensible, baby, to turn that mug down. He’s mean!”

  She nodded dully, without comprehension.

  “He made me a proposition,” she said. “Said he was taking a quick trip to Boston and he’d be back Wednesday. I told him I’d think it over. Thought maybe I could get another meal out of him before I turned him down. It was last night when I got to the end of things and—and lost the hallroom and the suitcase. I—I just kept walking around in the snow. … Just yeller, I guess.”

  “Yeller, your aunt fiddle-de-dee! What was Grec—er—Gray’s proposish?”

  It sounded screwy the way she told it.

  Gray met her in a cheap restaurant on Broadway, got friendly right off the bat, took her out a couple of times and then sprang his scheme. He had a swell idea to nick a wealthy playboy for plenty jack. He’d stake Lily to a swell evening rag, tow her to a speak where the wealthy sucker usually hung out. After a while Gray fades, Lily smiles and lets the prospect pick her up, lets him taxi her home—not his home. Lily feeds him a couple of drinks—and bingo!—in comes Gray from the next room. “My wife, you hound!” The playboy’s legal Park Avenue wife is hot for a divorce excuse; he pays sweet to hush up the mess. And a grand in cash for Lily’s cut. … Sez Gray!

  It sounded screwy as hell to a case-hardened Broadway snoop-and-peep artist like Tracy.

  The old-fashioned badger game! Whiskers on it. A throwback to Little Egypt and strip dancers with petticoats. The gay Nineties. … Georgie Grecco wasn’t pulling any cheap jerk like that! What was his racket? Whatever it was, Lily wasn’t hep. Grecco’s proposish undoubtedly called for a pair of saps, including Lily. …

  Who was the proposed sucker?” the columnist asked. “Did Gray say?”

  “He gave me a photo from a newspaper. The name on the bottom was cut off. Just a clipping from a paper.”

  “Still got it?” Tracy snapped eagerly,

  “Why, yes. … I think I had it in my handbag.”

  He gave a shrill snort like a pony and jumped up. His eyes scanned the room. The cheap black handbag was on a side table. Tracy scooped it up and gave it to her.

  “See if you still have the picture, honey!”

  Wealthy playboy was right! It was Freddie Hullen. “Boots and Saddle” Hullen. Polo, horse-flesh, fox hunts, stable smell—and about ninety-two millions in his own right. A fish for liquor; a fool for women.

  Tracy gave the impassive girl a curious look.

  “You’re a nice-looking number, Lily. And when I say nice I mean beautiful. But what makes you think this wealthy coot would be apt to pick up an unknown little gal on her uppers? How did your old pal, Georgie Gray, figure that slant, sweetheart?”

  “He said that was the easiest part of the whole thing,” Lily Carson said in a low, embarrassed voice. “He—he said I was a natural—made to order. He said that the playboy was the kind of bird that got friendly with nightclub flower-girls, girls with cigarette trays. … ” She flushed. “Young, he said, and—er—slim and … ”

  “I getcha. The boyish form divine—and no educated chatter to make his head ache.”

  Her flush deepened and so did Tracy’s funny smile.

  He watched her profile silently as she stared at the crackling logs in the fireplace. Why did Grecco deliberately pick poor little Lily Carson? There must be a reason for it—but what? There were plenty of slim dames for a bunco steer of that sort. Syrup-eyed wenches with straight little bodies and crooked little minds. Tracy could name a dozen offhand; Georgie Grecco probably knew fifty. Then why try to line up a decent little brat without dough, without friends, nameless. …

  His heart skipped a beat and he sat quite still.

  He said, in a gentle, faraway voice: “I want to ask you something, Lily. Think hard.”

  She turned a little. Her eyes were round with wonder at his manner.

  “Did you,” Tracy purred, “tell this man Gray, at any time, what you told me a while ago? I mean about the redbrick asylum in Pennsylvania? About being alone in the world, without a friend or a relative?”

  She nodded. “We got pretty chummy. I told him. Shouldn’t I? It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “No. That’s all right. It’s okey, Lily.”

  Her throat was like a slim white column rising from the silken V of the negligée. Like her name it was—lily—slender, graceful. Tracy shuddered as he saw for a dreadfully clear second of fancy the white skin blotched with purplish marks; the edge of a man’s shirt-cuff slowly withdrawing; sinewy fingers curling and relaxing. …

  “You look so funny at me,” she cried out. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, Lily. Nothing at all. Lemme think a minute.”

  The badger game—the silly yarn that Grecco had spun for Lily’s benefit—began to blow away like a smoke screen. Underneath it, coming slowly into focus, was the real racket.

  Tracy’s case-hardened newspaper brain had no trouble fashioning the correct picture. Suppose … And suppose still further. … She’d pick up the millionaire sucker, all right; that part was true. Her slim, virginal type was made to order for a wealthy decadent like “Boots and Saddle” Hullen. Okey, she leads the sap to the kill! Feeds him drinks. Fake husband in next room? Fake husband, nerts! All right, what then?

  She feeds him drinks. … Remember one thing, Jerry, oldtimer: Grecco’s a sure-thing squeezer and he’s after real dough. Lily’s a corpse from the minute Grecco gave her the first once-over. … So she feeds Hullen drinks. Drugged, of course. And then?

  He shut his eyes to see the filthy thing the clearer.

  Grecco comes in from the next room. All smiles, little pats for Lily’s shoulder. “Swell, honey; swell!” Hullen out like a light. All set. … And then—the red blaze of hell in Grecco’s eyes, the hands shooting out to quench her scream of terror, the clamped fingers on her constricted throat. Soft hiss of Grecco’s breathing. His fingers tightening. …

  Jerry shuddered. He was cold all over.

  There’s your answer, his mind shrilled triumphantly. No crude knockout drops for Hullen. A quick buzz. A little nap for him—the old “One minute, please, while we change reels.” Hullen wakes up when Grecco comes in and shakes hell out of him. Grecco’s no comedy husband; he’s a city dick and there’s a warm corpse on the floor, and Hullen is sick and scared and can’t remember what happened. He holds his aching head and there’s a warm corpse on the floor in an evening gown—purple marks on the still throat. … “God in Heaven, man! I tell you—I swear—” Maybe it could be fixed for a prominent fella like “Boots and Saddle” Hullen. Does he pay? Does he pay? With ninety-two million?

  Jerry Tracy walked across the soft rug and poured himself a stiff peg of rye. There’d be a crumpled Lily to get rid of somehow—a nameless brat in a torn evening gown. … Maybe a plank across a narrow airshaft; a freight elevator, maybe. … Wake up, Jerry! You’re going dime novel. The hell I am—and I’m nobody’s innocent orphan, either!

  He went back to the lounge.

  “Don’t mind me, kid. Just woolgathering. The
fire here always makes me dopey.”

  “That’s all right,” she said listlessly.

  “Are you—” He sounded casual. “Are you planning on anything for—Wednesday?”

  “Wednesday?” She had forgotten.

  “I mean about Gray—the fella we were talking about a while ago. Remember? He was going to Boston, you said, and you were going to meet him when he gets back Wednesday and say yes or no to the proposish. You left him up in the air, figuring you might get him to buy you a few more meals. Remember?”

  Her shoulders jerked as though he had struck her.

  “That’s finished! You—you did that much for me last night in the snow. I might have caved and gone to him—but not now. Not after—”

  Her eyes filled with tears and Jerry said awkwardly: “Sure, sure. Forget it.”

  He tried again: “Suppose I ask you to meet this guy Gray and play ball? I mean, pick up the wealthy sucker and go through with the play. Would you do it if I told you it was on the level? I mean—”

  He floundered.

  “On the level?” she faltered. “How can that be?”

  “I can’t explain exactly. It’s straight crooked, or crooked straight—or something. … Listen, kid: I told you I wasn’t a crook and I’m telling you again. Do you trust me, Lily?”

  “Does that matter particularly?”

  “It might matter a hell of a lot. Will you do as I ask?”

  She saw his eyes watching her throat as though fascinated. She misinterpreted the look and her face flushed. A tide of crimson spread down her neck. “It’s your right. You’ve fed me and sheltered me.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he snapped. “Put it that way and I ask nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re free in this thing, Lily. Get that in your dome! You either trust me or you don’t.”

  She turned slowly so that she faced him directly. Gave him a long level look.

  “I never met a man like you before.”

  He said: “I like your eyes, Lily; they’re clean.”

  Neither of them was smiling. His gaze was as steady as hers. Steadier.

  “So are yours,” the girl said. “Clean eyes. … I’ll meet Gray on Wednesday night and tell him yes.”

  Tracy leaned suddenly and brushed her lips lightly with his own.

  “You’ve just paid me one hell of a sweet little compliment, Lily,” he growled huskily.

  Detective Harry Wilkie turned the knob of the hotel door softly, carefully, with an even pressure of his big red paw. He had waited patiently at Tracy’s whispered request. He knew Jerry was holding back some of the story—always did, the little bum!—but the girl inside was a very special friend of Jerry’s and the big City detective was deep in Jerry’s debt for a flock of authentic police tips. Nice info that had pulled Harry Wilkie high in favor with the Gruff Guy in Centre Street.

  So Wilkie waited. Then he heard a faint, funny noise and a thump and his big hand turned the knob.

  Through the widening crack he could see part of a table. There was an overturned bottle on it and a man in evening clothes sat slumped forward with his head on his extended arms.

  The detective couldn’t see the girl. She was on the floor beyond his vision. Lily’s eyes were wide open and protruding. A man was crouched above her on both knees, his fingers clamped on her throat. Georgie Grecco’s face was a sweating mask of relief and satisfaction. He gloated to think how neatly he had timed his rush to quench that terrified scream of hers. His nostrils flared and he inhaled air with a soft, hissing sound.

  Wilkie bounded in with a blue-steel .38 special in his paw. One hundred and ninety-two pounds of hard meat. He saw the killer squatted low like a hunched ape and dived at him. He struck at the bobbing black head with the barrel of his gun. It was an awkward blow but it tumbled the man five feet away.

  Grecco squirmed, monkeylike, to his feet—and stopped. Stood there frozen and glaring with a trickle of blood on his cheek and his hands raised, palms outward.

  Wilkie panted: “Stay that way! Are yuh here, Jerry?”

  “Right behind you,” Tracy murmured. He had closed the hall door as he came in. There was another door, wide open, leading to an adjoining room of the suite. He skipped hastily over and looked in. Empty.

  The girl on the floor was getting to her knees, one hand fumbling at her throat. She was chalk white with terror. More scared than hurt, Jerry saw at once, to his immense relief. The Greek’s fingers hadn’t had time to do more than bruise the flesh.

  “Take it easy,” he begged.

  The drunk in evening clothes was still slumped over the table, his face hidden between his extended arms. Tracy clutched him by the hair, peered at his face, dropped it with a bump. “Boots and Saddle” Hullen, all right! Tracy wrinkled his nose disgustedly. The guy smelled like a prohibition distillery.

  “Who is he?” Wilkie growled. “Know him?”

  “Nope. Drunk as a coot. Hell with him.”

  Wilkie was grinning balefully at the crook in front of his gun. “Little Georgie Grecco! Well, well, well. … How d’yuh do an’ please t’ meetcha an’ how are all the folks?”

  “You got nothing on me, fella.”

  “No? I might think up a few. How ’bout unlawful entry?”

  “She invited me in. Whaddya think of that!”

  “Oh, yeah? You mean a conspiracy to commit a felony?”

  Grecco shut up suddenly.

  “How about the mugg in the soup and fish? Attempted robbery, maybe? Extortion? Blackmail? An’ this pretty little dame in the evenin’ gown—would yuh call that felonious assault, assault with intent to kill—Hell, I’m forgettin’ the good old Sullivan Law.”

  He leaned forward and slapped Grecco’s body expertly with his free hand. He frowned.

  “Too bad. We got enough without that, anyway. Stick out your mitts, sonny boy, for a pair o’ cuffs and a nice little ride in the wagon.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tracy said. “The girl is a particular friend of mine, like I explained to you, Harry. She doesn’t want to be mixed up in a whole lot of notoriety if she can help it. Lemme talk to her.”

  He went over to her, bent close and whispered seriously: “Buzz, buzz and a couple of more buzzes. Stall a little bit, honey. Recite the alphabet to Papa. Argue a little bit, and take it easy.”

  He nodded and straightened up. “Just as I thought, Harry. She doesn’t want her future ruined by a lot of tabloid publicity. She’s got half a mind not to press the charge.”

  “Let her press and see what it gets her,” Grecco sneered. “The whole thing’s a frame.”

  The detective chuckled. “The State can use her testimony fine. Come to think of it, there’s a law in this State concerning life sentences for habitual criminals. How many convictions have you got chalked up, Grecco?”

  Sweat stood out on the Greek’s forehead. He swung towards the expressionless face of the Planet’s columnist.

  “Maybe she wouldn’t wanta make a charge, hah?” he muttered thickly. His bushy gray eyebrows crawled with anxiety.

  Jerry looked at the big detective.

  “Mind stepping outside the door a minute, Harry?” His hand dropped into his overcoat pocket. It came out clutching a squat automatic. “I can take care of this guy all right.”

  Wilkie scowled, stared at him; then he opened the door and stepped out.

  Jerry’s eyes never left the prisoner. “Proposition me,” he said.

  Grecco licked his lips nervously. “If the kid don’t make a charge, there’s no rap against me—that the idea?”

  “That’s the general idea. Talk arithmetic.”

  “Half a grand—cash.”

  “Fourth offense means life in this State,” Tracy said.

  Grecco swore. “I’ll make it an even grand.”

  Tracy glanced over at Lily. She stared back at him dumbly.

  “The kid says,” he reported, “that she won’t take a nickel less than two grand. She says she wants it no
w and it’s up to you to figure how to get it here.”

  The Greek hesitated a moment. Then he nodded. He looked corpse-like. “You got me right. Lemme use the phone.”

  Tracy’s gun gestured towards the desk in the corner. The crook drew a notebook from his pocket. He riffled the pages briefly and then picked up the instrument.

  The girl, close beside Jerry, faltered in a low voice: “It’s rotten money. I don’t want it. I can’t take it.”

  “Wrong,” Jerry rejoined in the same low murmur. “It’s plain ordinary money. Neither good nor rotten. In Grecco’s palm I’ll admit it’s pretty damned dirty money. In yours it’s whatever you choose to make of it. … As we say in dear old Harvard, don’t try to personify an inanimate object. … Any comment?”

  She was silent.

  “Then shut up!” he grinned.

  He heard the click as Grecco replaced the receiver.

  “It’s okey,” the crook snarled. “Two grand on the table and it’s the last ——— cent I got.”

  “Fine. Details, sweetheart!”

  “In about ten minutes. He’ll come right up to the room.”

  Tracy lit a cigarette with his left hand and puffed a while. “Boots and Saddle” Hullen stirred briefly at the table and mumbled something faintly. Nobody paid any attention to him. After a while Jerry looked at his watch. The time was almost up.

  Suddenly he heard the deep murmur of Wilkie’s voice in the hall. The door swung open and Wilkie’s head thrust into the room. “Guy out here with a package, Jerry. Know anything about it?”

  “I’ll take it, Harry,” the columnist said. He walked over and held out his hand. He shut the door on the waiting dick and turned back into the room. He tossed the manila envelope on the table.

  “Count it for me, Georgie.”

  Big bills, little bills; all kinds. It added up to two grand. Tracy slipped it in the inside pocket of his overcoat.

  “Oke?” asked the crook sullenly.

  “Oke.”

  Grecco reached for his hat and coat and started for the door. When he opened it Wilkie’s huge bulk blocked the exit. The detective looked seriously at Jerry.

  “Listen! I can’t let him get away with this!”