“Lemme see,” McFee said. “There’s a murder tied up with the indictment, isn’t there?”
“Sam’ll beat that. But you know how it is, election coming on.”
“Well, I haven’t got it.”
“Now, look here, McFee, you aren’t in any shape to stand off me and the boys. Melrose wants that Grand Jury indictment.”
McFee had begun to creep noiselessly towards Metz and the door. “Who give you the notion that I got it?”
Metz said coldly, “You gotta have it—or know where it is. Damon had the money and the Shelldon file in his hands when that .32 bumped him. He flopped into Blondy’s arms. She threw a faint—” Metz interrupted himself to say, “There’s places where women is swell, but a jam like that ain’t one of’em.”
The Leclair woman cried, “You got your nerve! After what I been through—”
Metz laughed. “I’ve said there are places where women is swell.” He proceeded swiftly. “When Blondy woke up Damon had the five grand in his fist, but the file was gone. She give me a bell at the Shawl. McFee, you got that Shelldon file, or you know where it is. Better play ball.”
McFee said softly, “I’m covering you, Joe.” And then, “You mean, I killed Damon?”
Metz answered carefully, “Damon don’t count now. He isn’t going to be found here. It don’t matter who killed him. There’s plenty boys Melrose can plant when Dietrich is in. If you killed Damon, swell! You know your business. But you better not try bucking Melrose.”
McFee moved some more.
He was in a spot. If Metz was bluffing, a Melrose heel had killed Damon, and the Melrose crowd had the Shelldon file. That would mean McFee knew too much and must become casualty No. 2. If Metz was not bluffing, he probably was convinced McFee had done the job and copped the file. Bad, too. And it left the question: Who shot Damon?
McFee asked, “Where’s Melrose?”
“Aboard Larry Knudson’s yacht,” Metz answered smoothly.
McFee crept forward again.
The Leclair woman shrilled, “Joe! He’s coming at you—”
5
Rising straight from his heels, a little to the right of Metz, McFee threw his left to where he thought the man’s chin was, landed. Metz’ head snapped back. The rest of him followed it. His gun spat flame. McFee steamed past. Metz cracked against the foyer wall.
Metz howled, “Watch those fire exits!”
“Lights!” another man yelled. “Where the hell—”
The Leclair woman screamed, “Backstage—” and then, “Look out for that redheaded tramp—”
McFee ran towards the north side aisle. McFee knew what he was doing. The switch was in the front of the house, off the backstage, north side. He was depending on the red-headed girl. They had a reasonable chance with the house dark—none if the lights came on.
Someone collided with an aisle seat. McFee jumped the man, struck bone with the nose of his gun. The man fell among the seats. He groaned, then shouted faintly, “Over here, you birds—”
Metz yelled, “The other aisle! Gun him, if he jumps an exit— Some’dy find that damned light room—”
McFee found it. Hadn’t he been a Gaiety usher when he was a kid? There were steel switch boxes on a wall. The master switch box was largest. He plucked out a couple of fuses. They heard him. They drummed after him. Sets snapped back as someone crossed the house.
McFee cleared the switch room door, a flash beam jumped up the stage stair, pranced around in the wing.
A man howled, “Now we got the—”
Leclair screamed. “That red-headed witch—”
McFee ducked across the backstage. The light lost him. A door hinge creaked, and he knew what was troubling Leclair. Very swell!
But the others didn’t hear Leclair. They didn’t hear the red-headed girl opening the exit door. Somebody monkeyed in the switch room, but the house stayed dark. A couple of men collided in the backstage. McFee wasn’t one of them. The light jack-rabbited around the wall, shied at McFee. He chased towards the south wing. A shot came after him.
Metz yelled, “Jump him, Tony—”
The flash beam plucked Tony Starke out of the north wing. Starke had been a pretty fair heavy, and he owned a gymnasium. He looked tremendous. McFee twisted sidewise and leaned on the canvas drop that shut the backstage off from the house. The canvas was rotten old. It ripped with a thin scream, spraying dust, as McFee fell through it.
Art Kline was on the runway that fronted the orchestra. Pretty nearly as big as Starke, Kline bounced for Joe Metz, at the Spanish Shawl and was famous for his hands. He had broken a man’s neck with them. Kline pulled a fast jump over the orchestra and landed on top of McFee. They milled for a moment. Then Metz, coming through the ripped curtain, collided with them, and all three pitched into the orchestra, McFee on top.
Kline conked his head, but it didn’t do him any harm. He and Metz held McFee. Metz yelled for the flashlight. They milled some more, bone thudding on bone; then a door opened and they rolled down a short stair under the stage and hit a wall. The place smelled of stale beer and fried onions.
Leclair shrilled, “That red-headed tramp’s gone for the coppers. I’m telling you—”
McFee was getting plenty now. The flash beam came. Monty Welch brought it. Welch was five feet four. He dealt blackjack at the Spanish Shawl and knew when every cop in the city paid his next mortgage installment. Tony Starke rolled in with him, sat on McFee’s head.
Metz went through McFee’s clothes, then said, “What you done with that Shelldon file?”
McFee said nothing. He didn’t like it under Tony Starke’s two hundred and twenty, but he still was figuring on the red-headed girl. The coppers could make it in three minutes flat—if they wanted to.
Monty Welch said in his whispering voice, “Gimme a cigarette and a match, Art. I’ll open his trap—”
The Leclair woman showed up then. Tony Starke put the light on her. She wore an ermine coat pulled tight around her body. Leclair had brought the coat from Broadway. Somebody said she had traded a couple of letters for it. She said very quietly, “McFee’s red-headed friend went for the cops while you birds was playing tag-”
Metz blurted, “What’s that?”
“I been telling you—the tramp that was with him—”
Metz said huskily, “We got to get outta this.” He sucked in his cheeks. His bulbous temples were wet and gleaming. “We take McFee. McFee’ll talk later. Monty, you jam your gun in his kidneys. Hand it to him if he squawks. Tony, Art, carry Damon. I’ll drive.”
Kline and Starke hoisted McFee to his feet. Welch’s gun made him step fast. They drummed up the stair. They climbed out of the orchestra, paraded up the center aisle, cut across to the south aisle by the seventh row. It was like a scene from an old Gaiety play.
As they clattered into the side aisle, a police siren wailed somewhere down Carter Street.
Metz said tersely, “We go through the Palace. Monty, fan that light—” And then, as Welch spread the beam on the aisle floor, “Cripes!”
They forgot McFee. His toe sent the flash whizzing out of Welch’s hand. It shattered against the wall and darkness buried them. McFee sank back into the seat right behind him.
Metz howled, “Some’dy’s been here—”
“I fell over him when I came in,” Starke sobbed.
“Grab McFee—”
But the coppers were hammering on the foyer door, and they hadn’t time to look for McFee, Metz said, “Scram!” They jumped through the fire exit, pushed through the Palace service door. Sam Melrose had taken over the Palace along with the Gaiety.
The coppers were coming down the alley.
McFee crawled out of a seat and spread his hands on the aisle floor, where he had left Damon’s body. It wasn’t there.
McFee leaned against the wall. He rolled a match in his ear. “That’s funny,” he said.
6
McFee felt a draft on his face. A man carefully let himself i
nto the house. Two other men were behind him. The first man, Pete Hurley, of the homicide squad, spread a flash beam over the aisle floor. Hurley’s hard hat sat on the back of his square head and he jiggled a cold cigarette between pouchy lips.
Hurley said bitterly, “Hello, Handsome.”
“You got a pip this time.” McFee sucked on a loose tooth, felt his jaw. “Tell one of your boys to fix a light. Here’s a coupla fuses.”
One of the men took the fuses, went away.
“Some’dy belled the desk and yelled ‘Murder at the Gaiety,’ “ Hurley said querulously. He added cautiously, “Ranee Damon. What’s the dope?”
“Sweet,” McFee answered, and stood up. “A box full of medals for Some’dy, and nob’dy wanting to wear ‘em.” Wobbling, he put on his shoes. “Gimme a cigarette, Beautiful.”
“I ain’t looking for medals,” Hurley said harshly. “Medals ain’t safe in this town. Where’s Damon?”
“Damon’s dead. He went away. Ask Mel-rose’s boys.”
“Melrose’s boys?”
“Joe Metz, Art Kline, Monty Welch, Tony Starke. It was good while it lasted.” McFee lighted a cigarette, then spread out his hand. Lights began to go on. Hurley stared at McFee with his bitter, button eyes. McFee added presently, “Irene Mayo brought you boys.”
“Who’s this Mayo queen?”
“A nice little number. She’s been in pictures. Likes to pull strings. She wanted Damon to be governor.”
“You got that Shelldon file?”
“I didn’t kill Damon, mister.”
Hurley didn’t look at McFee, as he said slowly, “The birds that shot Damon musta got away with him. You say Melrose’s boys didn’t take him away, so they didn’t shoot him. That’s reasonable ain’t it?” He forced his uneasy, hostile eyes up to McFee’s cold grin. “I said, that’s reasonable, ain’t it?”
“Anything’s reasonable that’s got to be,” McFee answered.
Hurley’s tone was sullen as he proceeded, “Melrose’s boys is out then. How about that redheaded number. I mean—”
“You mean, did she carry Damon out in her stocking? No, Buttercup, she didn’t. And if she didn’t she couldn’t have rubbed him out. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”
Hurley’s cigarette became still. “Mebbe there’ll be a coupla medals in this after all—”
McFee said, “You can always sell ‘em for hardware.”
Hurley spread light upon the wet smear Damon’s body had left. Sign indicated that the body had been dragged to the fire exit and out into the alley. There the sign ended.
Inside again, Hurley asked McFee, “Why don’t that red-headed dame come back?”
“I guess she’d had plenty. You’ll find her at the St. Regis.” He added dryly, “Melrose’ll tell you where to find Leclair.”
“I’ll find Leclair.” And then, impressively, “Melrose is aboard Knudson’s yacht.”
Hurley followed the blood drop down the aisle. Here and there on the drab wall were imprints of Damon’s wet, red hands. They leaped at the eye. They implied a frantic striving, a dreadful frustration. The two dicks tailed Hurley, McFee trailed the three of them, chewing the end of his cigarette. They crossed the backstage, shoved into the dressing room.
Hurley looked the automatic over, put it down. He looked at the glasses and gin bottle, at the upset table lamp, at the squashed tube of crimson grease paint.
“Some’dy better change his shoes,” Hurley muttered.
McFee said casually, “Leclair’s shoes looked clean.”
Hurley stared sourly at the picture album around the walls. “Burleycue ain’t what she was. You need a pair of field glasses to see the jittering toothpicks that prance on the boards nowadays.” Turning to one of his men he said, “Harry, go give Littner a bell. Tell him he’d better slide over. Tell him—” Hurley slanted his eyes at McFee. “Tell him we are in a spot.”
Littner was Captain of Detectives.
Hurley chalked crosses on the floor, near the dressing table and close to the couch, to indicate where he and McFee thought Damon and Leclair had stood, when the shot was fired.
Littner and the Chief came first; then Larrabee, the District Attorney, and Atwell, a deputy coroner. Larrabee said it was too bad about Damon. Pretty nearly everybody said it was too bad and something ought to be done. When Larrabee heard about the Grand Jury Shelldon file he went white around the gills, and shut up. Larrabee was half and half about most things. He had Bright’s Disease. That was why he wasn’t going to run again. The camera boys stood up their flashlight set. The fingerprint lads prowled around with their brushes and powders. A flock of dicks were detailed to do this and that. Littner turned the pistol over to Walter Griggs, the ballistic expert. The newshawks came.
The Chief said to Littner, “Melrose is gonna be damn good and sore.”
“He ought to be damn good and glad some’dy else lifted Damon,” Littner muttered.
“You figure he needs an out?”
Littner said cautiously, “Melrose is aboard Knudson’s yacht, isn’t he?”
Littner ought to have been Chief of Police.
After a while, McFee said to Hurley, “I guess I’ll go finish my coffee.”
7
McFee walked up Carter to Third, stood there a minute, rolling a match in his ear. The block between Second and Third was full of police and county cars, but the rest of the town looked empty. It was three-fifteen. McFee had been in the Gaiety about two and a half hours. He saw a coupe parked half a block down Third and walked towards it.
Irene Mayo sat behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette. Her eyes were feverish. Her white face was posed above the deep fur of her wrap like a flower in a vase. She said huskily, “I thought you’d come.”
“It takes a while,” McFee answered. He got in beside her. “Thanks for giving the cops a bell.”
“Did they hurt you?” She looked intently at him.
“Some’dy sat on my head.”
The red-headed girl let in the clutch. They made a couple of righthand turns then a left.
McFee said, “Damon sold out, didn’t he, sister?”
“Yes—” The word tore itself from Irene Mayo’s lips. Her knuckles tightened on the wheel. “That blonde woman—”
“Hadn’t it in him, I guess,” McFee muttered.
She said in a brittle voice, “He could have been governor. I had what he needed … I could have given him—” She shivered, pressed her hand to her throat. “I don’t blame Ranee. A man is just so much—no more. But Melrose—Sam Melrose—” She uttered the name as if it poisoned her mouth. “Melrose knew how to break Ranee. And he had Ranee shot because he wasn’t sure—” She stared straight ahead, her eyes as hard as bright new coins. “I’ll make Sam Melrose wish he hadn’t come to this town if it kills me to do it.”
They drove some more.
“Some’dy took Damon’s body away,” McFee said.
“What did you say?”
McFee told her about it. “Damon must have been taken after you got away. There was a five minute interval before the cops came.”
“What do the police think?”
“It isn’t what they think—this is Melrose’s town. They take the position that Melrose didn’t have Damon blinked because it wasn’t his boys carted Damon’s body away. They say that means some’dy else killed Damon.”
“Don’t you see?” Her tone was stinging, vicious. “Those Melrose men had Ranee taken while you were talking to that Leclair woman. When the police came, and they couldn’t take you with them, they pretended Ranee had vanished. They knew you’d tell the police. They knew the police—Melrose’s police!—would use it for an ‘out.’ McFee—” She gripped his arm, her face terribly white, “you must see that! You don’t believe what the police are only pretending to believe?”
They made a right-hand turn.
McFee put a cigarette in his mouth, said quietly, “Sister, you better lemme take the wheel. There’s a car tailing us. They’ll
have more power than we have.”
“They can’t run us down.”
“They can do anything in this town. And they will, if they think I got what they want. Slide over.”
The girl said cooly, “Have you got what they want, McFee?”
A pair of white eyes grew large in the rear view mirror, McFee laid one hand on the wheel, slid the other around the girl’s hips. His toe lifted her foot from the gas pedal. McFee said harshly, “Don’t be a fool—this is serious.” She yielded then and glided over his lap.
McFee jumped the car forward. It was a handy little bus, but it didn’t have the steam. McFee made a left hand turn and they hit a through boulevard. The tail car showed its lights again. The lights grew bigger. A milk truck rattled past.
McFee let the coupe out, but the white eyes swelled.
McFee said, “This is your coupe?”
“Ranee’s.”
“Where’s your house?”
“Avalon. Eighteen hundred block. Avalon’s about a mile beyond the next boulevard stop.”
McFee looked at the girl out of slanted eyes. “I got a hunch they’re out to wreck us. I know those birds. If they ride us down, it’ll be as soon as we quit the boulevard.”
Irene Mayo said passionately, “I don’t know what they want, but nothing will make me believe Melrose didn’t have Ranee killed.”
They approached the cross boulevard, doing fifty or so. The neon lights of an all-night filling station blazed on the opposite corner.
“I’d like to stand those lads on their heads,” McFee muttered. He grinned, but his somber eyes were calculating as they looked at the girl. “I got a hunch. How much you good for, sister?”
“As much as you are.”
He laughed a little. “Maybe we could get away, but I doubt it. If we waited somewhere, and phoned for a police bodyguard, they’d jump us before the cops could find us. I don’t know but what we hadn’t better try to stand ‘em on their heads.”
The girl said nothing. McFee ran the car up to the filling station oil pumps. Behind them, the brakes of the pursuing car made a high wailing sound and the car—a rakish black sedan— rocked to a standstill. It had not crossed the intersection.
The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps Page 17