Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter

by Tinsley, Theodore A.

  “He’s gonna sit you in a hot squat up the river for the murder of Solly Arnstein,” Tracy said. “You know that without me telling you—or you wouldn’t have had Griffin and Izzy and the other gorilla hand Jimmy Earle a deal like this.”

  He grinned faintly at the gambler.

  “You fell over Benny Griffin downstairs—remember? Izzy’s kinda dead, too. So is the other monkey. And you’re next in line Herzog. In the first place, because you’re a lousy murderer and justice is justice. In the second place—and I wouldn’t kid you for the world—the Planet’s in business to sell papers.”

  His gun lifted as the gambler sprang. Butch’s ponderous fist knocked Herzog sprawling and dazed.

  “Stick him in that closet over there and turn the key,” Jerry said curtly. “Hurry it up, Butch; we’re late. … All right; now gimme a hand with Earle.”

  “Let go of him a minute, Boss,” Butch said mildly. “Lemme show yuh how it’s done.”

  He heaved the unconscious reporter over his shoulder in a fireman carry and tramped heavily downstairs. At the front door Butch lowered Earle’s heels to the ground; and they got on either side of him and took him by the armpits. His feet bumped down the steps to the sidewalk like a trailed broom.

  There was nothing in sight along the murky street except the cab at the curb. The driver hopped out and helped stow Earle inside. He said: “Hi-yuh, Mr. Tracy?” with elaborate unconcern and slid swiftly back again to his wheel.

  Tracy shoved a palm at Butch as the big fellow started to get into the cab.

  “Wait a minute, Bum.” The columnist’s eyes were a dead, even lustre; like wet, gray beach pebbles. “You know what cops do when they catch a cop killer, don’t you?”

  “Huh?” Butch’s jaw got lumpy. He looked interested.

  “Personally I don’t like Earle,” Tracy said. “I don’t like the guy as a pal; but he’s a newspaper man, Butch—a hell of a good one—and so are we. And he took a pretty tough goin’ over. … We newspaper guys don’t stand for stuff like that, do we?”

  “Damn’ right we don’t!” said Butch, who could barely write his own name.

  He hesitated. Tracy was silent. “Maybe I better stroll back again, huh?”

  “Maybe you better. Hop upstairs. Yank Herzog out of his closet and put him back again when you’re done. If you get careless and bust a rib or two, I won’t cry. And if you think he might walk away on us when you’re through, you better leave him tied.”

  Butch stepped away with a pleasant sound in his throat. As he lumbered up the front stoop Tracy called softly:

  “Don’t forget to lock the closet. Then go straight back to my place and read the funnies. I’ll phone the cops when the edition is on the street.”

  He slammed the taxi door and the cab shot away. At the corner Shultz slowed up.

  “Where do we go, Mr. Tracy?”

  “Marvin’s Baths. Know where it is?”

  “Paddy Marvin’s? Sure thing.”

  “Stop at the side door on Dyker Street.”

  Jerry Tracy lit another cigarette from the stub of the last. He kept on walking up and down. Marvin’s office was bare except for a couple of white chairs and a desk in the corner with a phone on it. Tracy’s eyes kept jerking irritably from his watch to the phone and back again.

  A swinging door opened and a tow-headed Swede emerged. He had on white pants and sneakers and a soiled singlet with a torn armhole. He carried a pail of discolored water in one hand and a sponge and a couple of bloody towels in the other. He went down the hall and came back, whistling pleasantly, with a long brown bottle and a glass. He butted the swinging door open with his hip.

  “Tell Paddy to hurry it up,” Tracy snapped.

  Paddy’s voice roared from within: “Keep your shoit on! We’re all set right now.”

  “Can he talk yet?”

  “Jist about.”

  “Drag him out here. We’ve got to get him on the phone.”

  “Okey. Hold that door open. Grab an end, Svenska!”

  Jimmy Earle came out feet first on a narrow rubbing table; Paddy and the Swede set him down with an air of conscious pride. Tracy bent over him.

  “Hello, Wealthy,” the feature man said wearily.

  His eyes were clear but he looked bloodless and shrunken. His naked body was spotted generously with iodine stains and lumps of gauze. His whole right flank was corsetted with broad strips of adhesive tape wrapped in overlapping layers. He still breathed with that curious whooping-cough catch.

  “Where’s your damned phone?” he whispered to Tracy.

  “Take it easy, Bum. Got your facts straight and your story clear?”

  Earle’s jeering laugh made him cough and wince. “You and your cheap, lousy dirt column! What do you know about a front-page story, you—you plumber! Gimme the phone!”

  “Attaboy!” Tracy crowed with delight. He jumped swiftly for the phone and dialed the Planet’s number. His left thumb jerked. “Move that conceited ape over here, Paddy. … Hello? Gimme the desk … Tracy. Yes, yes, yes! He’s right here—I got him—and he’s leaking story from every orifice. Shove a good man on the wire and don’t drop a comma. … Right. Take it!”

  He laid the telephone on the cot next to Earle’s pale lips and the Swede held the receiver against the feature man’s ear.

  “Who’s taking it? Okey, Brady. If you bungle it I’ll cut your heart out. And don’t forget the most important thing in this yarn. … Correct. The James K. Earle by-line.”

  He grinned insultingly at the Planet’s columnist.

  His voice was low, fragile; but the words flowed clearly, without emphasis—like a child’s thin voice reciting a familiar memory-gem.

  Tracy thought: no wonder we hate each other; we’re the only prima donnas in the shop! He listened with grim awe to the man’s easy competence. The first wallop sentence, with its damning smash. The easy paragraph of transition; the marshaling of names and facts; back to the steady smash of proof. …

  “—— But Jack Herzog didn’t leave New York on the 5:27 from Pennsylvania Station on that afternoon of July 14th, the day on which Arnstein was shot to death. Instead, Herzog sent a craftily worded message to his intended victim that lulled Arnstein’s growing suspicion of his partner. It was this message that led to the subsequent farce of Smoky Dolan’s trial and acquittal. Smoky Dolan was privy to the scheme; he was well paid for his trouble. It will be remembered that late in the afternoon on the 14th of July it began to rain. Herzog telephoned to his garage. … ”

  Jerry Tracy could hardly tear himself away; but he stepped noiselessly aside and plucked at Paddy Marvin’s sleeve. The ex-wrestler listened and nodded.

  “When Earle gets through,” Jerry whispered, “give him another drink and slip him a dream-powder till I can arrange to transfer him to a safe spot where he won’t be apt to get a bad relapse from bullets. Don’t let anyone see him unless I call up first and say okey.”

  “Bad as that, eh?” Paddy muttered.

  “You’ve got ears. What do you think he’s throwing at Herzog and his clique—roses? Make sure that Swede of yours locks the side door.”

  He squeezed Paddy’s arm briefly and slipped away. There was a drug-store a little ways down Fourth and he popped in and called the Planet. The managing editor was still in the shop. Good sign. He said to Tracy: “Go to hell. Don’t bother me. I’m busy,” and banged the receiver down.

  That was all Tracy wanted to know. He grinned happily. The old wheels were turning, throwing off sparks!

  He grabbed a taxi at the corner and gave the driver the Planet address. He rode four blocks or so, grinning like a monkey; then he stiffened suddenly. The grin wiped off his face.

  He told the driver: “Never mind that first address. I forgot something. Go on straight up Seventh Avenue. I’ll tell you where to turn.”

  Ten minutes later he climbed rickety stairs and barged down a dusty hallway.

  Dot West was lying fully dressed on the bed when Tracy rapped a
t her door and shoved buoyantly in. At sight of him the dancer sprang up without a sound. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her mouth flew open but her haggard eyes did all the talking.

  “He’s safe and okey, baby,” said the columnist gently. “You can take my honest word for—Whoa! If you faint, I’ll sock you!”

  “Where is he? Where? Where?”

  “Marvin’s Baths. West Fourth and Dyker. Slam a little powder on and go down, dope! Tell Paddy I said it’s okey. I’ll phone him you’re coming. Hell—I’ll go down with you!”

  He smiled oddly as he watched her jumping crazily about the room, spilling powder, fighting with the loose sleeve of a coat, plucking on a hat over one ear. Crazy in love, he thought moodily. With a tramp like Jimmy Earle, out of all the people in the world! No sense to it.

  He forgot her as he stared at a frayed spot in the carpet.

  The frayed spot danced and became a newsprint headline:

  ARNSTEIN SLAYER SEIZED! POLICE NAB HERZOG!

  Tracy leered at the carpet.

  “And do we sell papers tomorrow!” he said aloud. “Do we sell papers!”

  An elbow dug into him. He turned like a sleep-walker and nodded at the impatient girl. Women got all worked up over nothing, he thought moodily. One idea was all their skulls could hold. He was impatient to get back to the Planet and dive headlong into the roar. The kid made him sick with her one-track mind. How did people get that way?

  Smoke

  Where fires burn, smoke rises and gets sometimes even into a killer’s eyes

  JERRY TRACY SIPPED DELICATELY at the alleged Cointreau, wrinkled his thin nose at Clarkson like a rabbit and said with utter disgust: “Exquisite.”

  Clarkson nodded glumly. He was a fleshy young man with a premature bald head, sad eyes and a pouting lip. Broadway’s busiest theatrical ghost writer and perennially broke. A sucker for the wheel. If you showed Clarkson a wired roulette layout he’d promptly borrow a hundred from you and lay it on the line. He always looked puzzled when he lost.

  He set down his Cointreau untasted and his eyes swept listlessly across the noisy restaurant. Suddenly he turned on his sad, fleeting grin and turned it off again.

  “Reminds me. I’ve got a brand-new; red-hot for your column, Jerry.”

  “Swell.” The columnist’s voice? sounded utterly dreary.

  “Sam Volga is carrying the torch.”

  Instantly Tracy’s well-tailored shoulders stiffened. He moved in his chain but he didn’t turn around. He stared at Clarkson with a quick and alert incredulity. “Stop horsing.”

  “Okey. I’m a horse. Have it your way.”

  “Your red-hot doesn’t make sense, sweetheart.”

  “Does it have to?”

  Tracy thought that one over for a second. He said meditatively: “Sam here by any chance?”

  “Yeah. I thought you saw him come in. Corner alcove. With the number. I think she’s scared about it in a quiet way.”

  “Big time?”

  “Nope. Pork and bean—and pretty as hell. Shut up a sec and I’ll place her.” He closed his eyes and blew out his cheeks slightly. “Oh, yeah. I remember now. Maxie Bloom’s tinsel spot on 51st. Sings one lousy number and makes it sound even lousier. Does a tap like a blind man on a strange street. She’s got something, though—don’t ask me what; I’m tired of geography. Try tipping your hat to her and calling her Flip Kern.”

  Jerry Tracy laid ten manicured fingertips on the table edge and drummed delicately for ten seconds.

  “Yes, yes; go on—you interest me strangely.” He stopped kidding. “Are you absolutely sure the smoke is rising from Sam and not the kid? You couldn’t be wrong, by any chance?”

  “I said it was one for the column, didn’t I? There always has to be a first time for everything. Sam Volga, the big icicle and bullet man, has been burning quietly for a week or so. Maxie Bloom giggled it to me on the q.t. yesterday, but I thought it was a gag.”

  Tracy touched his lips fleetingly with his napkin. There was a faint frosty spark in the eyes of the Daily Planet’s dapper little columnist. He shoved back his chair.

  He said softly: “Be a good fella, Harry, and don’t spread this thing around. I don’t want to spill it in the column just yet. There’s a couple of angles I want to play with—see what I mean?”

  Clarkson said, “Sure,” but he looked puzzled. Tracy snapped flame at a fresh cigarette, said carelessly, “I’ll be seein’ you, sweetheart,” and moved unostentatiously away among the noisy tables.

  Volga was parked pleasantly in the corner alcove. His eyes were glued on the girl opposite him. He was leaning forward, toying with a wine-glass, and there was no tension in his body. Light glinted lazily from the square-cut emerald in his ring. He didn’t see Tracy until the columnist spoke.

  “ ’Lo, Sam.”

  The big head turned. A quick, stabbing scrutiny. Then the eyes went expressionless; veiled and pitiless.

  “Hi-yuh, Jerry.”

  Tension flowed back into the big shot’s shoulders. He grinned with a faint ripple of his lips and said, “How’s tricks?” His icy eyes didn’t join in the grin. They said, unmistakably, “Scram, pest; you’re bothering me.”

  Sam Volga didn’t offer to introduce the dark-eyed number. The kid was a little beauty. Cute figure, skin like cream, no jewelry. V-e-r-y nice and very young. And scared about something—if you’d been tipped off in advance and were looking for the small repressed signs. Her chin, for instance. Her hands.

  She sat smiling uncertainly while both men looked at her.

  Volga said dryly: “You’re an expert, Jerry. Like her?”

  “I’d have to hear her talk, Sam.” He sounded casual, bored.

  “Talk, baby,” Volga said with a cool contempt. His tone matched Tracy’s; but there was a flame in his somber eyes. The skin of his heavy forehead looked moist. There was a subtle uneasiness inside the man’s hard shell.

  “Say something, baby,” Volga sheered.

  The girl’s laughter made brittle sound. “Well, of all the nerve! I never heard of such a thing. What’s the point to all this kiddin’?”

  Her voice was flat, metallic, unbeautiful. She said “noive,” “pernt” and “hoid.”

  “Like it?” Volga said.

  “I love it, Samuel.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, pal?” A sudden thought seemed to strike him. He looked at Jerry curiously from under heavy lids. “Fifty to one you can’t name it.”

  “Who, Flip?” Tracy laughed indulgently. “Don’t be that way. Flip is the flashiest bit of tinsel in Bloom’s spot on 51st.”

  Volga passed over a neatly creased fifty. He became at once two shades more jovial. Tracy was struck by the resemblance of the big shot to Clarkson, the bald-headed and impecunious ghost writer. Except that Volga had a mop of thick curly hair, jet-black, and his flesh was solid and hard-packed on his body.

  “Sit down, Jerry,” he urged. “How ’bout a li’l drink?”

  “Sorry. I’m on the way out.”

  “Okey. Bloom say anything else?”

  “What else is there?” Jerry grinned impudently. He jerked out a small notebook and clowned a bit with poised pencil. “Do you think beer will come back, Senator?”

  Volga waved his cigarette impatiently and made a crooked tangle of blue smoke-threads above his cuff.

  “Don’t,” he said distinctly.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Put her in the column. Or me, either.”

  “I was thinking I’d save it, Sam.”

  “I would.”

  Flip laughed thinly. “I’ll take horseradish. What is this—a cross-word puzzle?”

  “This lad Tracy has a long nose, kid,” Volga said. “I’m helping him to keep it clean. Stick to me, Babe, and you’ll wear diamonds.”

  His eyes were on the girl but the words were for Tracy. Barbed words of challenge from a man that Tracy hated and despised. Something in their purring nastiness overbore Tracy’s caution. He thought of dead me
n—and a dead woman. He looked straight at the big shot.

  He said: “Stick to him, Babe, and you’ll land smack in a sidewalk ashcan.”

  He laughed as he said it. An exultant feeling as though he tasted blood. His words carried meaning under the commonplace jest, and Volga took the meaning. He blinked and his florid face went muddy with fury. A spasm of movement jerked his right hand out of sight. His forearm was a steel bar against his coat. He was like a granite carving of death. He didn’t say anything, just sat there.

  Music from the hi-de-ho orchestra battered at the silence in the little sheltered alcove.

  “I ought to hand it to you right here and now,” Volga breathed softly.

  Slowly the steel forearm relaxed and the hand came back from invisibility. The Planet man sighed and didn’t know it. His cramped lungs started in to breathe again.

  “Look me up some time,” Tracy said to no one in particular. His smile was glassy and idiotic.

  He turned on his heel and walked away, with his back crawling. People at tables looked at him curiously as he passed.

  He bought back his hat and coat from a blond smoothie in black satin and pushed out into the biting cold air of the sidewalk. The dim street glittered with ice. The wind strummed like a harp.

  “Twelve below zero,” the doorman mumbled. He spoke proudly, as though he had something to do with it. His face was purple.

  Tracy breathed deep of the icy air and shook off the moldy smell of death. Assurance came back to him.

  “How about a cab, Cap?”

  “Dunno, Mr. Tracy. Ain’t many rollin’. They’re still kinda scared account of the strike. … Uh-huh—you’re lucky. There’s an independent!”

  His whistle bubbled shrilly and Tracy climbed into the rickety taxi that slid alongside the curb with brakes set.

  There was a torn square of cardboard pasted against the side window, crudely lettered in crayon: Owner-Driver.

  Tracy leaned forward and gave the address. The driver hunched around and gave his fare a swift, piercing scrutiny.

  “Like me?” Tracy said.

  “Jist a habit, Mister.” He should have laughed apologetically but he didn’t.