The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

by Penzler, Otto

Croker gasped. “You can’t get away with this!” he reiterated, but his tone was beginning to lack conviction.

  Greeves asked: “Can you prove … ?”

  Barnaby grunted. “One of the guns—a hood named Rieg—confessed to the whole thing. He told us Swarm ordered them out after a conference with Croker.”

  “You tortured Rieg!” Croker interrupted hysterically. “You can’t use that kind of testimony …”

  “He talked,” Barnaby went on grimly. “After they killed the baby, they threw the machine-gun over the West bridge so that it couldn’t be traced and then went back with a sawed-off riot-gun to complete the job. Well, we fished the machine-gun out of the river. We can now definitely tie up that job to Swarm and Ritter with the help of a ballistician—the guy that can tell which gun fired which bullet.

  “Now that dead baby stands over this whole proceedings. Rieg’s testimony isn’t enough to circumvent a lot of legal red-tape, but he did tell me where to find evidence. Croker’s got a safe deposit box in the First National Bank under the name of Peter Hoople. I want a search warrant, or better still, a forthwith subpoena and have the contents of that box brought before you men. That will supply us with priceless data to continue our work. What do you say?”

  Croker became shrieking. “You can’t do this!” he wailed. “It isn’t legal! I’ll bring charges against you that will…”

  Barnaby made an imperceptible motion with his hand. Hallahan stepped up and drove his fist against Croker’s jaw. The lawyer folded like a carpenter’s rule.

  Tweedie daubed his face. “This is irregular …” he began helplessly.

  Greeves’ features were tense. “I demand that you issue the subpoena as Captain Barnaby requests, Judge Tweedie! And have you any more witnesses, Captain?”

  Barnaby nodded. “Plenty,” he promised; then to Hallahan. “Take Croker away and bring on another.”

  Tweedie gulped. “Where is this going to end, Captain?”

  “It’s going to end, Judge, when I get enough evidence to smear over every court in this county; when you and the rest of the judicial trained-seals have to act to save your own hides; when I have the necessary evidence to get a warrant and go legally gunning for Coxy Swarm and Dave Antecki. Not that I care for your flimsy warrants; I just don’t want those rats to die martyrs. It’ll soon be daylight, Judge, and when the banks open, I want my boys there with warrants and subpoenas signed by you.”

  Skipper Barnaby had his wish. In a variable night of hell, a scared jurist and a dumfounded juror listened to the whines and sobs, the lies and ratting of gunmen and thieves. And later, when Forsythe, Hallahan and Duane began to bring back the evidence they claimed by search warrants, the work began in deadly earnest. In the case of Croker’s safe deposit box, claimed by a forthwith subpoena, a representative of the bank came with the evidence. He was amazed and terrified when Hallahan steered him into the subterranean courtroom, but after a talk with Greeves, he fell into the spirit of the thing. Barnaby commandeered him to examine accounts.

  It was late afternoon when the work was finally completed. Gaunt, haggard, weary, but very game, Greeves pushed aside the papers before him and looked at Barnaby.

  “This is incredible! It will shake the city to its very foundations! At least a score of the biggest names in local politics will go to the penitentiary!”

  Barnaby nodded heavily. “And now for the real job.” He turned to Hallahan. “Bring in ‘The Scourge.’ “

  Rieg was brought in to stand in fear before the grim board. All his bravado was gone, leaving a spineless, trembling rat.

  Barnaby glared at him for a full minute before speaking. Then he began:

  “Rieg, I’m turning you loose!”

  Greeves burst out: “But he’ll warn the gang …”

  “That’s just what I want him to do,” Barnaby stopped him, and continued speaking to the startled gunman, “I want you to tell Coxy Swarm that Clyde Barnaby, Dennis Hallahan, Sam Duane and Louis Forsythe are coming to get him. Tell him we have warrants for not only his own person, but for every man in his gang. You can assure him from me that if he submits peaceably to arrest, we will take him alive … and hang him later. Now get out!”

  Rieg bolted, uninterrupted. He left behind him a void of startled silence. Greeves broke in:

  “You deliberately warned Swarm! You’ve provoked a fight!”

  Barnaby pushed himself erect. “I hope I did,” he growled savagely. “I can still see that little kid!”

  Dave Antecki was a mobster of the old school. He was built close to the ground, with a flat face to match his figure. He was called Dave the Ape, but never in his presence; he had a blow-torch personality.

  Dave the Ape made no pretension as to his headquarters. Where Swarm picked the quiet seclusion of the city’s finest residential quarter, Antecki preferred the section that spawned him. As a thin front, he ran a small beer-parlor. It was a tough joint, with a tough clientele; the music was discordant, but it was loud; the food came in quantity rather than quality.

  Antecki was seated at his favorite table, in the lee of the trap-drummer, eating a raviola dinner in company with a flousy blonde. She was as loud as the music and as coarse as the food, but she was young and big-chested and that was all that interested Dave the Ape. He had unbuttoned his vest in anticipation of some heavy eating, when one of his trusted henchmen came up to the table.

  “Dave, Coxy is on his way over here!”

  Antecki gagged, belched and sat very stiff. “Him … ? Comin’ here?” Assured that his man was in earnest, he shouted, “He wants trouble, eh? All okey. Call in the boys….”

  The informer shook his head. “He don’t want no trouble, Dave. He’s in a jam … we all are. Somebody’s snatched Chief Grogan …”

  “Grogan?” Antecki gasped.

  “An’ Judge Tweedie an’ Hymie Croker, an’ Ritter an’ …”

  Dave the Ape stopped him. “Somebody’s crazy!” he growled, “but if this is a frame, we’ll be ready. Get Tony an’ Perez to get behind them palms on either side of the dance-floor with the choppers. I’ll meet Swarm right here.”

  The blonde with the big chest and the willing way started to get up. “Well, thanks for the salad, Dave, an’ so long. I just remembered I got to see a man about a dog some place.”

  “What’s the matter, Amy, scared?”

  “Uh-huh,” demurred the charmer, “just my stomach. I can’t stand the taste of hot lead.” She tossed him a kiss and moved away. Antecki might have stopped her, but at that moment, a stir near the entrance attracted his attention.

  Swarm stepped into the big room, followed closely by five men. Their hands were all in plain sight, obviously so. Swarm took his bearings, glanced around the place and saw Antecki standing beside his table. He raised his right hand like an Indian and walked quickly across the room. As his men fell in behind him, a half dozen of Antecki’s boys converged from various parts of the room.

  Swarm paid no attention to them, nor did he offer to shake hands with Dave the Ape. He said:

  “Hello, Dave. Can we talk some place?”

  Antecki’s eyes strayed casually in the direction of his machine-gunners, and nodded.

  “Sure, sit down; we’re as good here as any place. These are all my boys.”

  Swarm dropped into a chair and motioned his men to do likewise. They all sat down and carefully placed their hands on the tables.

  Swarm spoke again.

  “Do you know Captain Barnaby and Sergeant Duane?”

  Antecki nodded. “Sure. Cops. I heard you got ‘em fired.”

  “They quit,” Swarm corrected him. “Well, they’ve snatched about five of my best boys and killed at least one.”

  “You want me to take my hair down an’ have a good cry, perhaps?”

  “The only reason I came to you, Dave,” Swarm snapped pointedly, “is because we’re in a spot. It ain’t only my boys, but Croker, Tweedie, every key man in the machine is snatched. Maybe the Federals are b
ehind this, but we got to find that out.”

  ‘We… ?”

  “Yes, we! Maybe it’ll interest you to know that Grogan’s gone, too. That leaves you in a hole, Dave.”

  Antecki made no admissions. He massaged his heavy jowl thoughtfully, a little stupidly. He had paid well for protection and it never occurred to him that any force on earth could disrupt the whole machine. His own lawyer had advised him he was safe from prosecution as long as he paid his tribute.

  Rieg came stumbling into the place at that moment.

  Swarm swore. “Rieg … ?” and the others just stared.

  Rieg picked up a glass of red wine that still stood in front of Antecki’s plate, emptied it down his throat and stared wild-eyed at the group.

  “Barnaby is comin’ for you, Coxy!” he choked.

  Swarm smiled grimly. “Where you been?”

  In halting, broken phrases, “The Scourge” mouthed out the story of what had happened to him from the moment big Clyde Barnaby had snatched him from the table in La Parisi-enne until his release. He told them about Tweedie, about Greeves and about Hymie Croker. He choked out the story of the warrants, of the bank secrets and of the work of the bank’s representative.

  “It ain’t legal!” shouted Dave the Ape.

  Rieg gave him a sour glance. “He’s got enough to send us all to the gallows!”

  Swarm reached over and caught “The Scourge” by the throat. “You ratted, Rieg! You must have … !”

  Rieg’s protestations of innocence did him no good. At a sign from Swarm, two men rose and grabbed Rieg by the arms.

  Swarm nodded his head towards the door. “He ratted, boys,” was all he said, but that was sufficient. The pair started out, dragging the snivelling gun-man between them.

  At that moment, a man appeared at the door.

  “A coupla cops!” he shouted. “A guy named Barnaby says he’s comin’ in after Swarm an’ you, Dave!”

  Antecki stood up. “There ain’t no damn’ cop alive what can take me outa my own place! You can beat it out the back way, Swarm. I got two tommy-guns in this room….”

  Swarm smiled a little thinly. “Just two dumb flatfeet and no witnesses. We’ll see this out right now, Dave.” He gestured for his boys to spread out.

  In a great semi-circle they lined the end of the big room facing the double entrance-doors. Antecki took out his gun and held it under a napkin atop the table. Swarm slid his automatic into a side pocket and kept his hand glued to the butt.

  In silence they waited.

  And abruptly the silence was broken by the voice of Captain Barnaby. He was calling from beyond the doors.

  “I got warrants for you muggs,” came the unseen voice. “Come out with your hands in the air.”

  Antecki and Swarm exchanged glances. Swarm answered for them both.

  “Come in and take us, flatfoot!”

  As though operated by unseen hands, the wide, double-doors swung outward. The waiting audience tensed themselves for sudden action … then stared unbelievingly at the apparition that met their slitted eyes.

  About fourteen men came through the door in one thick mass; not fourteen coppers, but men they knew well, all handcuffed together in a giant ring, backs to the middle. Ritter, Miller, Hymie Croker, Grogan … and about eight more ace-mobsters. Like children playing ring-around-the-rosy, their hands were joined in a protecting band, a human barricade….

  And in the middle of this trembling stockade, stood Captain Barnaby and Dennis Hallahan with riot-guns in their hands.

  “Drop those guns, Coxy, an’ you too, Dave!” commanded Barnaby coldly.

  Croker cried like a burnt child. “Don’t shoot, Coxy! We’ll all be killed!”

  Barnaby and Hallahan advanced with terrible finality, prodding the human fence ahead.

  “Come an’ get in the game, boys,” Barnaby jeered. “We’ll have a good dance.”

  Antecki glanced around the room. “Stop where you are!” he yelled. “I got machine-guns on you!”

  Barnaby mocked him. “Don’t shoot, Dave! You’ll cheat the State out of a hangin’! Put down your guns an’ come out with your hands in the air. Do what I tell you! We’re comin’ for you!” He advanced slowly, grimly.

  The mobsters stood, uncertain. Swarm was backed up against the slight rise of the orchestra dais; Antecki waited in front of the bass drum. At the first indication of trouble, the colored musicians had vanished.

  Swarm tried guile. “You can’t take us, Barnaby. We won’t be bluffed!”

  The circle drew closer, Barnaby hurled a taunting laugh. “I could kill you from here, Coxy, but I want you alive. I want to see you sweat in death row, I want to see you dance on the gallows and watch them open you up in the morgue. I want …”

  It was Antecki that gave way first. He screamed a foreign oath, threw aside the concealing napkin and shouted to his gunners:

  “Tony, Perez! Let ‘em have it!” Then he fired point blank into the approaching mass….

  All hell broke loose! With the deafening chatter of the twin machine-guns came the screams of stricken men. And then it seemed that the stuttering crash of the Tommies was double in volume. Barnaby and Hallahan dropped in unison. Croker, his head almost torn away by the stream of lead, fell across Barnaby. But Hallahan had time to send Antecki into eternity before the corpse of Miller pinned him down.

  The chaos of sound ceased as abruptly as it had started. No gun thunder now, only gurgling sobs and low, throaty curses. And then Sam Duane’s voice filled the hall.

  “Are you all right, Skipper?”

  Barnaby pushed the body of the lawyer off him and lifted his head. The place was in shambles. He glanced back at the doorway. Duane and Forsythe loomed in the opening, each with a smoking sub-machine-gun in their hands. He rose, looked down at Hallahan.

  Hallahan sat up, pulled himself erect.

  Duane and Forsythe, white of features, came over. “It went off on schedule,” Sam Duane said through clenched teeth. “I never want another experience like that, though.”

  Barnaby shrugged. “It saved the State a lot of money an’ the taxpayers have earned a little con-

  sideration. That’s literally getting’ two birds with one stone.”

  Forsythe put his gun on the table and wiped his face. “We didn’t have much to do,” he told Barnaby. “Those two gunmen of Antecki’s went crazy. They cleaned the decks of everything that was standing and then we finished them.”

  Barnaby walked over to the dais. Antecki had fallen backwards and was sitting in the middle of the giant bass drum.

  Duane said: “Look, Skipper, seems like Swarm was tryin’ to run away.”

  Barnaby turned. Coxy Swarm lay across the edge of the dais, feet and knees on the dance-floor, tuxedoed torso flattened on the dais itself. There were three welling holes across his back and blood seeped over the polished floor.

  Skipper Barnaby sighed. “It took a guidin’ hand to put a finish like that,” he growled, a touch of reverence in his tone. “Destiny, I reckon some ‘ud call it.”

  “Hows that?” Hallahan wanted to know.

  “That’s just the way that little kid got it,” Barnaby grunted, and turned away.

  Red Wind

  Raymond Chandler

  ONE COULD EASILY make the argument that Raymond Chandler (1888-1959) was the greatest writer who ever sold a story to a pulp magazine, and I would further make the case that he was one of the half-dozen great American writers of the twentieth century.

  An oil company executive until the Great Depression caused the industry to collapse, he sold his first short story in 1933 at the age of 45. Less popular than either Carroll John Daly or Dashiell Hammett, he did not achieve fame until the publication of his first novel, The Big Sleep, in 1939 after having produced twenty novellas for Black Mask and other pulps.

  Few authors in any genre matched Chandler’s prose, which employed the use of metaphor and simile in a masterly way. The poet W. H. Auden described his books as
“works of art” rather than escape literature. Among his most important contributions to detective fiction may be his definition of what a private eye should be, as he wrote in “The Simple Art of Murder” for The Atlantic Monthly in December 1944. He compared him to a modern knight.

  “Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this kind of story must be such a man. He is the hero, he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man, and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor.”

  “Red Wind” was first published in Dime Detective in January 1938.

  Red Wind

  Raymond Chandler

  ONE

  THERE WAS A DESERT WIND blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.

  I was getting one in a flossy new place across the street from the apartment house where I lived. It had been open about a week and it wasn’t doing any business. The kid behind the bar was in his early twenties and looked as if he had never had a drink in his life.

  There was only one other customer, a souse on a bar stool with his back to the door. He had a pile of dimes stacked neatly in front of him, about two dollars’ worth. He was drinking straight rye in small glasses and he was all by himself in a world of his own.

  I sat farther along the bar and got my glass of beer and said: “You sure cut the clouds off them, buddy. I will say that for you.”

  “We just opened up,” the kid said. “We got to build up trade. Been in before, haven’t you, mister?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Live around here?”

  “In the Berglund Apartments across the street,” I said. “And the name is Philip Marlowe.”

  “Thanks, mister. Mine’s Lew Petrolle.” He leaned close to me across the polished dark bar. “Know that guy?”