Hue and Cry

by Thomas B. Dewey

  “The bald-headed guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was his racket?”

  “He didn’t have any racket that I know of. He just worked for a living.”

  “If he didn’t have no racket, then why’d he get knocked off?”

  “I told you I don’t know.”

  “You kill him?”

  “Certainly not,” Don said.

  “Yeah,” said the mug, “the same way you didn’t kill that schoolteacher that got croaked last night.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Don said. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Where’d you get that wad of dough you’ve been flashing around here?”

  “What dough?”

  “Don’t give me that,” said the mug. “I seen it. You must have two thousand smackers in that wallet.”

  “I made a few sales,” Don said. “That’s all. They really go for those smokes.”

  The mug laughed.

  “A few sales,” he said. “Hear that, Willie? A few sales, he says.”

  Little Willie laughed too—“Heh-heh-heanh,” like that.

  “Why, you haven’t sold enough hay in that dump to pay expenses,” the mug said. “You were going to work that territory like a fine-tooth comb, you said. Hell, those hicks wouldn’t buy penny pencils from a blind man. First place, they got no money.”

  “Look,” Don said. “It takes a little while to get started. You have to be careful in a small town. I’ve made a lot of little sales to the high-school kids.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Two bits a throw—you call that business?”

  “Look—if you’ll just give me a chance—”

  “A chance—Oh, Christ! I always said you didn’t have any business trying to peddle dope in a hick town. Now I’m sure of it. And goddam it, I don’t trust you anymore.”

  He was beginning to sound pretty mean again, and it looked like Don Eastman might be in for a little of that special conversation. After what I had been hearing, I couldn’t bring myself to feel very sorry for Eastman.

  “And that other dope you brought down here, that banker’s kid,” the mug said. “He’s probably spilled to his old man already. If his old man tips off—”

  “He hasn’t said a word to his old man,” Don said. “He’s too scared. The scandal would ruin him. You don’t know what it’s like in a little town.”

  “I know what it’s like in that town, and I don’t like it. You’re through here, Eastman, you might as well know it. And you know how things will go if you talk.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Don said. “I’ve done a lot of business for you. What about that big order for the guy on the farm outside of town? He even mortgaged his place to get the stuff. That was a nice piece of business. And as soon as they get started, the cigarettes will go like hell. And I’ve got a girl lined up for you too. I’ll be able to bring her in any day now.”

  Oh, Don Eastman, I thought, if they don’t kill you first, I will—if they don’t kill me first.

  “A girl, you say,” the mug laughed again. “I seen enough of your girls. That schoolteacher was going to be wonderful. Then you get to her she’s going to have a kid—what about that?”

  “But I—”

  “Aw, shut up. I’m sick of listening to you. You’re even dumber than I thought. I’m giving you a chance to get out of this racket free. I’m the only guy in the world would be sucker enough to let you walk out of here alive. And you don’t want to quit. My God! Where’s that other guy they’re looking for? Why did I ever let a bunch of yokels from some goddam hick town—I ought to be hung—”

  “You want me to go look too, boss?” said little Willie.

  “Shut up,” the mug rasped. “Shut up and let me think.”

  Little by little my strength was coming back. I was getting cramped lying in one position, not daring to move, but I had to wait a little while longer. I was hoping Willie would leave. But he just kept hanging around. I had heard a lot of stuff about Don Eastman but I couldn’t put it together yet. It was pretty dirty stuff and I could hardly believe it. But that ugly mug wasn’t the type to kid, and I had to believe it.

  So Marian Mason was pregnant by Don Eastman. And it was Don who had been leading Tommy Rowe astray, along with Marian. And all of a sudden, Don Eastman had a wad of dough. And somewhere in here Curly Evans was supposed to fit. But where?

  I wasn’t up to much thinking yet. I tried to relax inside and gather up a little more energy.

  “If these guys tip off the Feds,” the mug said, “you’ll go to the can along with us, you know.”

  “They won’t tip anybody off,” Don said. “You can scare them out of that. They’re just a couple of hicks.”

  “Scare them hell,” the mug said. “I’m going to see to it that they never get back to that little dump. I should have done that before, when that bald-headed lug came snooping around here. He had plenty of stuff on us. Thank God somebody rubbed him out—saved me the trouble.”

  “He wouldn’t have made any trouble,” Don said.

  “Hell,” the mug said, “he’s probably made trouble already.”

  I wondered what time it was. I opened my eyes again and saw Willie staring at me—full in the face. I blinked and held my breath. After a couple of years he looked away. I had a cramp in my right leg, which was bent under my left one, and the more I thought about wanting to stretch it out the more it hurt. I knew that before long it would force me to move whether I wanted to or not.

  “Go bring that kid in here,” the mug said.

  Willie got up and went out. I waited for the door to slam. That would cover up the noise I would make when I straightened out my leg.

  He didn’t slam the door. He eased it shut. It didn’t make a sound, and the cramp in my leg got ten times worse.

  “What are you going to do with him?” Eastman said.

  “Shut up,” the mug said, in his usual form.

  My leg began to get numb, which would have been line, except that it wouldn’t do me much good that way. I might have to use it. My head felt better now, but my back ached and there was a hard knot in my chest. The floor was cold and damp.

  Maybe, I thought, now is the time to move, before Willie comes back. Maybe I can trick this mug into stubbing his toe.

  But it was just about this time that Willie came back, pushing somebody along in front of him.

  They crossed the room from the door to the mug’s desk, and when they got into the yellow circle of light the lamp threw I saw that the newcomer was Harley Granger’s boy, Sam. He hunched up to the desk, his hands in his pockets, and stood there looking at the mug. He had an awful load on.

  The mug looked him over for a while and then said, “You know this guy?”

  Sam Granger looked at me and nodded.

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s Joe Spinder.”

  “He from your home town?”

  “Yeah.” The Granger kid’s voice was thick, and it took him a long time to get the words out.

  “Is he a cop—a private dick, or something?”

  Sam thought it over. He shrugged. “I guess not. Not as I know of.”

  “Then why’d he come around here?”

  Sam shrugged again. “Maybe he came to find me.”

  “Why should he go looking for you?”

  “I don’t know. He put me up in his hotel last night. Maybe he feels—res-responsible for me.” Sam began to giggle. “Responsible—Sounds silly, don’t it?” He giggled some more.

  I cussed out the pain in my leg and my headache and the hard floor and thought, It’s about time somebody got responsible for you.

  “Shut up that laughing,” the mug said. “You and this guy”—he jerked his head toward Eastman—“are pals, that right?”

  “Sure,” Sam said. “Good pals.”

  “Did you know he killed that schoolteacher in your town last night?”

  “I did not—” Eastman started to get out of his chair. The mug pushed him back
down.

  Harley Granger’s boy stiffened. You could see fear sobering him up—but fast.

  “He—killed her?” he said, staring at Don Eastman.

  “Sure,” the mug said. “He killed her.”

  “Did you kill her, Don?” Sam Granger said.

  “No,” Eastman said. “You know who killed her. You did it. You were doped up.”

  “No—no—I couldn’t—”

  “You were out of your head,” Eastman said. “You didn’t know what you were doing.”

  Sam Granger started around the corner of the desk toward Don Eastman. Eastman got up out of his chair.

  “You can’t say I killed her,” Sam said. “You killed her yourself.”

  “I saw you sneaking out of her room,” Eastman said. “After you sneaked out of the hotel this morning I went in your room and found bloodstains on the bed.”

  Sam Granger was getting frantic. You could tell by the way he kept looking around the room—trying to find somebody to help him. I caught him looking at me and I had to fight to keep from blinking. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it.

  “Where’s Roy Blake?” Sam said. “He knows I didn’t do it. I’ll find him. He knows—”

  “He’s probably ratted on you already,” Eastman said. “Anyway, you can’t go back to that town. They’ll nab you right away.”

  “I’ve got to go back,” Sam said.

  “Why?”

  “Because—it’s where I live. It’s—my father—”

  “You wouldn’t live long if you went back,” Eastman said.

  “I didn’t kill her,” Sam said. “I know I didn’t.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Eastman. “I practically saw you do it.”

  “Then why didn’t you stop me?”

  Don Eastman shrugged. The mug was leaning back in his chair, watching. He seemed to be getting a kick out of it. Little Willie sat on the corner of the desk.

  Suddenly, without any warning, Sam took a poke at Eastman. It caught him on the side of his head and he stumbled backward. It made Eastman sore enough to fight. He came back, plowing into Sam. Willie started to slide off the desk.

  “Wait,” the mug said. “Let’s see if the punk’s any good.”

  The punk was either pretty good or pretty desperate because he crowded Eastman all the way. It made me nervous. They kept working over my way. I didn’t want them falling on me. I needed what strength I had left.

  Sam was slugging Eastman in the belly again and again and pushing back toward me steadily. The mug was laughing. I could hear it over the sounds of their heavy breathing.

  I had braced myself against the shock of feeling Don’s foot in my face when the mug’s voice rasped, “That’s enough. Stop it.”

  They did. And just as they stopped, the door opened and somebody walked in.

  It was Singer Batts.

  He was all alone, and he stepped in the room as calm as you please and shut the door behind him. He ambled across the room, smiling a friendly kind of smile, as if these guys were long lost pals.

  You poor innocent baby, I thought. Why didn’t you stay out of this?

  Then I wondered how he’d found us.

  For a few seconds nobody said anything. I guess the mug was too surprised to talk. Little Willie just stared. Finally the mug found his voice.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Batts is my name,” Singer said. “What’s yours?”

  The mug looked at Don Eastman. Don nodded his head.

  “I’m looking for Joe,” Singer said. “Thought maybe you’d seen him. I hope nothing has happened to him.”

  Then he saw me. I don’t know whether it was really the first time he saw me or whether he had seen me from the beginning. But it was the first time he had let it be known.

  “There he is,” Singer said. “You won’t mind if we go now? There’s a bus—”

  I still played dead. I had no idea what Singer’s game was, but I wasn’t going to do anything to get the mug stirred up again until I was good and ready.

  “Your pal, Joe, don’t feel so good,” the mug said to Singer. “How did you get in here?”

  Singer just laughed. He pointed at Sam. “You would be Harley Granger’s boy,” he said.

  He looked at Don Eastman. The mug looked at Eastman, too, and from what I could see of it, it wasn’t a pleasant look.

  “Honest to God,” Eastman said, “I never told this guy a thing. He just snooped around and found it, that’s all. He may be from the country, but he’s not dumb. I tried to tell you—”

  “Shut up,” the mug said. He went over Singer with his eyes. “So he ain’t dumb, eh? I think we better work him over a little. Maybe that’ll make him dumb. Willie!”

  Little Willie stepped up to Singer and slapped him across the face viciously.

  Singer just stood there. He didn’t even take his hands out of his pockets. He laughed a little.

  “You’re going to waste a lot of time with that sort of thing,” Singer said.

  Willie slapped him again. I took advantage of their interest in Singer to draw my feet up into a position that would get me up fast when the time came. I had the feeling the time would come before long.

  “Wait a minute,” the mug said to Willie, and to Singer, “What’s that crack mean?”

  “Why,” said Singer, “you’ve a lot of incriminating evidence around here. I’d think you would want to get rid of it before the Federal officers come.”

  The mug stiffened up in his chair. “No Feds coming around here,” he said. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “They told me they’d be here any minute,” Singer said. “I gave them a call ten minutes ago. You can check that fact with the girl at the desk. Of course, she doesn’t know whom I called. I didn’t put it through the hotel switchboard.”

  The mug was having a hard time. He didn’t like to believe this hick snooper, but he didn’t want to get caught with his pants down, either.

  “Willie,” he said, “check that call. If he really did make one, then start clearing the place out, and right now.”

  Willie beat it.

  Singer moved closer to the mug’s desk.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, “Joe and I will go now.” The mug snorted. He reached under the desk and came up with a dainty little automatic that pointed straight at Singer. Singer only moved up still closer to the desk. He seemed to be stalling, and I couldn’t figure it out at first. Then after a while I caught sight of his feet.

  The cord of the desk lamp—the only source of light in the room—hung down over the back of the desk and plugged in somewhere underneath. There was quite a lot of slack in it where it hit the floor. Singer’s foot was crawling toward that cord.

  “We’ll just stay here awhile and see what happens,” the mug said. “If the Feds come, I’ll have plenty of time to pull this trigger and get out. And if they don’t come, I’ll have even more time. I’d like to know how you got in here and how you found out what the racket was.” Don Eastman spoke up.

  “Maybe I ought to go help clear the place out,” he said, getting up.

  The mug spit at him.

  “Sit down,” he said. “You’re in the same boat with your two pals here.”

  “No,” Don said, “you can’t shoot me. I didn’t do anything. I worked for you—I made money for you.”

  “I’m not going to shoot you,” the mug said. “I wouldn’t do a thing like that. I’m just going to let you be the one to knock off the two hicks here.”

  “No,” Eastman said, “I won’t do it.”

  “That I know,” the mug said. “You won’t have to do it. I’ll do it. Only we’ll make it look like you did it, so you’ll get the credit. We’ll give you a break. We’ll beat you up good—it’ll look like self-defense.”

  Don got up.

  “You won’t do that to me,” he said. “I’ll spill my guts. I’ll inform on all of you.”

  “Sit down and shut up,” the mug
said. Don sat down.

  I kept my eyes on Singer’s foot. I thought I saw him look at me and I tried to nod at him without making any racket. But the light was dim.

  The mug turned back to Singer.

  “You’re a smart guy for a small-town hick,” he said. “Too bad I didn’t get to know you sooner. We might have had a great time.”

  A bell rang softly and the mug picked up the telephone that sat on one corner of the desk.

  “Yeah?” he said. “…No Feds in sight? You send Jerry back here quick.”

  And at that moment Singer’s foot tangled with the lamp cord. The light went out, there was the sound of smashing glass, and a shot—then another shot.

  I had pulled my legs up when Singer’s foot moved and I was on my feet by the time the first shot sounded. I made for the desk and in the dark I banged right into the middle of the mug’s back. He turned and I hit him back of the knees with my shoulders. I could hear sounds of scrimmaging across the room and I figured Singer must be tangling with Eastman.

  The mug went down on his face and grunted as the wind sagged out of him. I socked him behind the ear and almost broke my hand. He squirmed over onto his back and tried to get up and I hit him again. I could see a little now. The mug reached for the gun that had fallen out of his hand when I knocked him down. I made a dive for the gun and we rolled over. I got up first and kicked him in the jaw. Then I kicked him again. He was a tough citizen. He rolled over and shook his head and started to get up again.

  Singer’s voice sounded plaintively.

  “I’m afraid I’ve knocked Don out. We’d better be on our way, Joe.”

  “Just a minute,” I said.

  The mug was still groggy. I got hold of his ears and banged his head on the stone floor a few times. Finally it didn’t move anymore.

  “Don’t kill him, Joe,” Singer said. “We don’t have time. We’ve got to get out and call the Federal agents.”

  My mouth fell open.

  “You sweetheart,” I said.

  I groped my way toward the sound of his voice. I stumbled over Don Eastman and grabbed Singer’s arm for support.

  “Where’s Granger?” I said.

  “I’m right here,” Sam Granger said. His voice sounded pretty small. It came from beside me.

  “You’re coming back with us,” I said.