Innocent Bystander

by Craig Rice

  “Who, the old woman?”

  Smith made a half-threatening move toward him.

  Tony slid off the desk and adjusted his necktie carelessly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s more, I don’t think you do, either. I’m on the prowl solo nowadays, and—”

  “That girl saw what went on in the Ferris wheel.”

  “What went on?” Tony asked.

  “She saw you on it.”

  Tony’s stomach froze for an instant. “Well, did she now? Did she say so?” he said easily.

  “And you’re out to kill her before she can say so,” Smith snapped at him.

  Tony eyed the police officer. “Am I?” he said. “Look, copper. If that girl, whoever she is, could really put the finger on me, you’d have had me in the can three minutes after you’d talked to her. Who do you think you’re feeding the malarkey? I’m not a punk kid fresh out of reform school. I’ve graduated. I’ve been around, and I’m going to keep right on being around.”

  He walked to the door, slowly, almost insolently. He paused, one hand on the knob, and wheeled around.

  “Anything else you want to ask me?”

  Smith made a half-motion as though to stop him.

  “If you’ve got anything on me,” Tony said, “I’m in no particular hurry.”

  “Beat it,” Smith said. “If we want you, we can find you.”

  “See you, pal,” Tony said.

  Art Smith watched him leave. He sat looking at the closed door for a long time.

  Then he rose from behind his desk, sighing with weariness, and reached for his hat. Some day soon, he reminded himself, he ought to buy a new one.

  The car had pulled up and stopped before Tony was aware of its presence. He’d walked swiftly from the police station, in the direction of Ellen’s hotel. Clear of the cops now. For a while, at least.

  Then, the car was there. A voice asking street directions. And suddenly a hand thrown over his mouth, other hands dragging him into the back of the car. A powerful blow on the back of his head.

  From then on, silence.

  He came to, slowly and uncomfortably, in a room that seemed vaguely familiar. He was lying on a couch, he could tell that much. Something sharply glistening was hurting his eyes. He let his lids close, opened them again and cautiously.

  Silver behind glass. A collection of silver cups and trophies, behind glass in the door of a cabinet.

  He knew now where he was. McGurn’s office, behind the gambling-dive. And as the haze of unconsciousness cleared from his eyes, he turned his head a fraction of an inch and saw the two gunmen sitting near by, grinning at him.

  Tony forced himself to grin back and mumbled, “Nice to see you again.”

  The taller of the men got up and walked over to where Tony was seated on the couch. He raised his hand and punched Tony on the side of the face, knocking him against the couch arm.

  “That’s in case you think you’ll want to hold out on us,” the tall one said.

  Tony looked around the room to make sure of his bearings. He was in McGurn’s old office, all right. He was sure of that. Those sport cups of McGurn’s cinched it.

  “What do you want?” Tony asked.

  “The dough,” the short one said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The tall one raised his leg as if to kick Tony. “You sure about that?”

  Tony backed into the couch. “Sure!”

  The tall guy let go with his foot and it caught Tony on the shinbone. Tony howled as he nursed the leg. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he moaned. Suddenly he remembered his gun. Was it still under his arm? He tried to shake his shoulder as if to test it for a weight dangling in a holster. It felt suspiciously light. Quickly he reached into his coat, hoping desperately the gun would be there.

  It wasn’t. The short guy laughed. “Looking for this?” he asked. He held up Tony’s gun.

  Tony said nothing.

  “Look, punk,” the tall one said. “We ain’t got no time to monkey around with you. We know what you were after when you bumped off McGurn.”

  Tony still said nothing.

  The short one got up and said, “Listen to what Tommy says.”

  Tony listened. Tommy talked.

  “We took over when you bumped off McGurn. Okay. So you done it. McGurn was a rat anyhow. But McGurn was working for us, see, not us for him. He was passing our dough over his tables. You worked one of them, didn’t you? But you didn’t know the stuff was hot, yeah! Hotter’n you are now with the cops.”

  The short one took up the tale. “But McGurn stashed away the dough he took in for the hot stuff we gave him. And he never paid us. That’s why we came West. To collect. If not from him, then from you, see?”

  “Look, fellas,” Tony said, “you got me all wrong!”

  “Oh, yeah?” The one named Tommy leaned over him. Accenting each word with a long, manicured finger which he poked into Tony’s ribs, he said, “We know you got McGurn’s safety-deposit key!”

  “I was looking for it when I found McGurn dead!” Tony said quietly. “Believe me!”

  “You got it!” the shorter one exploded. “And you’re gonna hand it over, see?”

  Tony knew one thing. They would never bump him off. Not so long as they thought he knew where the missing key to McGurn’s safety-deposit was. But they could give him a pretty bad going-over. He shuddered when he thought of how bad it could be. New York hoods were tough. They wouldn’t stop at anything short of murder. Only one thing left. Fight it out. He’d get a beating either way. At least he’d have a chance, a fighting chance, having it out with them. The little guy with his gun wouldn’t dare use it. Maybe get him in the arm or something. But nothing too serious.

  With his mind made up, Tony lay back on the couch and watched warily for an opening. “That don’t make sense,” he replied cautiously.

  “Oh, no?”

  “No!” Tony sat up on the couch and planted the balls of his feet squarely on the floor, pressing down firmly on them like a runner, so as to have good leverage in case he had to leap quickly.

  “Let’s suppose I had the key—”

  “Let’s not suppose—we know!”

  Tony grew impatient. He was safer now that he had them listening to him. “What the hell would I be doing running around without picking up McGurn’s dough if I had his key?”

  “I don’t getcha!”

  “Wouldn’t I open up the safety-deposit box,” Tony explained easily, “grab the dough, and take a powder? Wouldn’t I, huh? If I really had the key?”

  Puzzlement crossed Tommy’s face. He looked across at the little guy for an answer. Suddenly Tony catapulted himself up from the couch and was on him. A blow at the guy’s wrist knocked the gun out of his hand. Another blow at his chin sent him and the chair sprawling over backward.

  Then Tony made a dive for the gun over the chair and the sprawled-out figure of the little guy. But just as he reached it, he saw a long leg come loping in and kick it across the floor. Then he felt a kick in his ribs that almost knocked him breathless.

  “Wise guy, huh?” he heard the big guy crow over him.

  By this time the little guy had shaken the knockout daze from his head. He got up from the floor groggily and hit the flat of his hand against his temple a couple of times. When he saw Tony leap up and cower back to the case of silver cups, he raised his hands like a wrestler, and advanced slowly to Tony.

  “So you wanna play, huh?” the little guy said. A trickle of blood oozed out of the corner of his mouth where Tony had hit him.

  The big guy stood back, his drawn gun handy.

  Then the door opened. The two men turned their heads to identify the newcomer.

  A grin of relief wreathed Tony’s face.

  “Hi, copper!” he called out.

  It was Art Smith. He stood in the open doorway and surveyed the scene. It was obvious to him what he had interrupted.

  Tony brus
hed himself off and straightened his clothing. Then, as he smoothed back his ruffled hair with his hand, he said easily to Smith, “My pals and I were trying out a couple of new wrestling holds.”

  “With guns?” Smith looked quizzically at the gun dangling from the little guy’s fingers.

  Tommy smirked. “Yeah, with guns,” he said. “It’s a brand-new angle we thought up for rasslers.”

  Tony ambled over to the door. “You won’t be needing me,” he said to Smith. He turned to the hoodlums. “You, either.”

  He dusted off a speck of fluff from his coat lapel with a jaunty flip of his wrist and sauntered out.

  Tony heaved a sigh of relief outside the gambling-joint. Except for a pain in his side where the big lug had kicked him, he had come out of the fracas practically unharmed.

  But there was one thing bad about it. Now he wasn’t the only guy in the know—like he’d thought before. Now he’d have to work harder to find that damned key. Before those New York hoods could get it. Or Smith. Or God knows who else.

  He decided to wait until dark before going back to Ellen. It would be easier to shake off any trailing wise guys.

  Suddenly he remembered he’d lost his gun. He’d have to pick up another one at the Gimp’s. You never could tell when he might have to use it.

  Fifty thousand smackers was a helluva lot of dough!

  Chapter Thirteen

  “WHAT DOES SHE KNOW?”

  Ellen had discovered that if she looked out of the extreme corner of the window she could see the boardwalk, teeming with people. For hours she had sat at the window, staring down at it. Up and back they flowed past her vision. Endlessly flowing up and back. To and fro. Up and back.

  The effect on her was almost hypnotic.

  She rested back with her head on the wall and closed her eyes. The ceaseless motion had made her drowsy.

  In the distance, as though from millions of miles away, came the monotonous hum from the Pier. The barkers’ raucous croakings. The joyous shrieks of thousands of happiness seekers. The grind and groan of the machinery. The ceaseless wash of the ocean waves. The multi-voiced sounds of the carnival, all blended into one. And, overriding the droning hum, Ellen heard the insistent music of the Merry-Go-Round’s Wurlitzer organ. It was playing Strauss’s “Vienna Woods” in mechanical waltz time.

  As though in a dream Ellen got up from the window and walked to the bed. She had taken off her clothes and put on the thin, pink nightgown that clung to her body like another skin, swaying in the slight breeze like clouds.

  Soon she lay outstretched on the bed. With her arms raised over her head and her hands clasped under the nape of her neck, she listened to the distant waltz music floating in through the window.

  A smile curled the corner of her mouth.

  It was a peculiar smile. Not happy. Not joyous. Mysterious, almost secretive.

  She closed her eyes. The music began to weave its way into her dream.

  It would be so nice—so nice—to be held in someone’s arms. To be dancing, dancing, swaying in time to the music, to the waltz music, dancing—dancing—swaying—so lightly, so lightly—

  To be happy. It would be so nice to be happy. Happy and not afraid any more. Just to dance on, dreaming—

  The door opened slowly.

  It was Tony. He was smiling at her. He closed the door gently behind him so as not to awaken her. The poor kid’s bushed, he thought. Waiting up for me.

  He stood over her, looking down at her young body, outlined under the chiffon nightgown. And she’s such a nice kid, he thought, such a nice kid.

  She stirred fitfully under his gaze.

  Then she opened her eyes. First there was a dreamy sleepiness in them. Then a slow awakening to her surroundings and the realization that Tony was standing over her.

  She drew the coverlet over her in embarrassment.

  Tony turned away. “Get dressed,” he said almost gruffly, “we’ll go out for dinner.”

  He turned and went to the window. He heard the bed springs creak. She was getting up. He heard the soft patter of bare feet on the floor. She was going into the bathroom to dress. He heard a door close.

  He stood there for a long time, wondering about Ellen. What was there about her that made him wonder? Why was she so mysterious about everything? As if she didn’t belong in the world. As if she was a ghost. Without a body.

  He heard the bathroom door open and turned to her. Once again she was the shy, demure girl. For a moment as he had stared down at her lying outstretched on the bed, he’d had a crazy idea that she was just another dame. There was something about the way her body was draped. Something about her whole attitude that seemed to say, “Come on! Take me!”

  But now she was different. Now there was something about her that held back. It promised, all right. But it didn’t say “Take me.” No. It said, “Maybe later.”

  She advanced to him and stood waiting for his next move. But it did not come from him alone. It seemed to come from both of them. He held out his arms and she stepped slowly into them. She held up her lips to him and he kissed her. A slow, sweet, passionate kiss.

  For a moment she laid her head against his shoulder. Then she stepped quickly away from him. Her eyes shone with happiness.

  “Come on!” she said gaily. “Let’s go where we can dance.”

  She ran to the door and opened it for him. Tony looked down at the lapel of his shoulder. There was a light patina of powder on it. From her cheek, he thought. And then that strange, reminiscent fragrance of perfume came back.

  “You know,” Ellen said, “I had the funniest dream.”

  He started for the door. “Yeah?” he asked.

  “I dreamed I was back on the Pier.”

  He stiffened. “What doing?” he demanded, almost brusquely.

  “Oh! Having my picture drawn again,” she replied, “by that little artist. Near the wheel—remember?”

  When she saw him approaching her she started out of the door and went out into the hallway. Tony stood in the doorway. His face was now clouded with doubt and suspicion. What does she know? What does she know?

  “What else?” he called out after her.

  “I don’t remember everything,” he heard her say. “But it had something to do with the Ferris wheel.”

  His mouth tightened to a thin, grim line.

  “You did, huh?” he said introspectively.

  Then he slid his hand under his coat and felt the new gun he had bought from Gimpy. Maybe he’d have to use it, after all.

  He closed the door slowly behind him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE SMELL OF MONEY

  Tony ate his dinner without tasting it. Too many questions were bothering him. He tried to draw Ellen out about the details of her dream, but she turned his questions aside, pleading that she had forgotten everything by this time.

  “What about the Ferris wheel?” Tony demanded. “Was there anything about it you remember?”

  “Nothing, I tell you.”

  “Who was on it?”

  “I don’t remember!”

  “Think back!” he ordered. “Try and think back and see if you can remember.”

  Ellen put her extended fingers to her temples, closed her eyes tightly, and squinted up her face comically, as though she were trying desperately to think. Finally she opened her eyes, made a funny move with her mouth, and gave it up.

  “Maybe if we hear that waltz music again,” she suggested, “like I heard coming from the Pier just before I went to sleep. Maybe that’ll bring my dream back. When we go dancing, we can get the band to play that waltz. It goes—” She hummed the tune for him.

  Tony frowned. “What good’ll that do?”

  “If I can hear that music again,” she said softly, “then maybe it’ll bring back the dream.” She smiled. “Like when the police re-enact a crime.”

  Re-enact a crime. The thought stuck with Tony. Maybe that would be one way of finding out just how much she did know. Re
-enact the crime. Not bad.

  Ellen pleaded prettily that they leave for the dance palace immediately. “What about it, Tony?”

  He shook himself out of his reverie. “Sure! Sure!”

  “I hope they play lots of waltzes!”

  “Sure, sure!”

  When. Art Smith finished questioning the two New York gunmen, he decided to go home. There were too many interruptions at Headquarters. Too many memos to fill out. Too many questions to answer. And there was Lee Dickson, saying nothing but demanding a hell of a lot. Asking him mutely, what about the girl? What about Tony? What about McGurn’s killer?

  Accusing him, too. You’re going nuts about that girl.

  He let himself into his dreary two-room apartment.

  Somehow, now, it was drearier than ever. Lonesomer, that’s what it was, he decided. He thought back, remembering his visits to the homes of his friends on the force. They had never had the dreariness, the forlornness that his place always had. Especially now.

  He threw himself onto his bed without bothering to take off his hat or coat and, as he stared up at the ceiling, he tried to bring back the memory of the girl’s face as she had appeared in his office.

  But that wasn’t enough. He dug into his inner coat pocket and extracted the torn portrait Amby had made of her. Try as he would, all he could concentrate on was her mouth.

  Grimacing, he returned the paper to his pocket and lit a cigarette. Got to think about something else, he thought. Something else. Wisps of conversation from his talk with the New York gunmen came back to him.

  “—like I said, see, McGurn owed us the dough—”

  “Yeah! and we come out to collect!”

  “—that punk, Tony Webb!”

  They had wondered how he had known about it. He grinned when he thought of how he had simply put his ear to the crack of the late McGurn’s office door, while the whole sordid story poured into his waiting ears.

  There would be a couple of things to clean up once he got rolling on the McGurn matter. Passing hot money. That would tie in with those New York punks. They didn’t know he knew that. “Mac owed us a lotta dough,” they had said. Hot money. That would be cleaned up. The Feds would be grateful for the tip-off, when he was ready to give it to them. That, at least, gave him the motive for McGurn’s murder. Dough, stashed in a safety-deposit vault.