The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

by Penzler, Otto

  IV

  There was a crowd in Riddle Street.

  The night was dark, but the red glow of the burning house lit up part of the street. Fire engines were there, and hose lay like great black serpents in the lurid glow, and the black rubber coats and helmets of firemen gleamed as they shot water into the flames.

  The water fell back into the street and froze and glazed the pavements. Behind the fire lines stood men pointing and talking; and there were women with shawls around their heads and with coats flung hastily over night-dresses. There were a few women with children in arms.

  A sleek red touring car with a brass bell on the cowl drove up and the fire chief, white-haired beneath his gold-braided cap, got out and looked up at the flames and had a few words with a lieutenant.

  Part of the house wall caved in with a muffled roar, and dust and smoke billowed, and some of the onlookers cried out. A couple of patrolmen kept walking up and down and pushing back those who tried to edge in beyond the lines.

  MacBride arrived in a police flivver driven by Hogan. Kennedy was in the back seat with him. MacBride got out and shoved his hands into the pockets of his neat gray cheviot and looked around and then spotted Patrolman Scofield. Scofield came over and saluted and MacBride asked:

  “Where’s Tony?”

  “In that house across the street—number 55.”

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “Tony got a bash on the head, that’s all. His wife wasn’t hit, but she’s pretty hysterical.”

  “Where were you when this place was blown?”

  “Three blocks up River Road. I heard it and came on the run.”

  “I’ll take a look at Tony.”

  He went into number 55. The hall-door was open, and there were some people in the hall. The sitting-room was off to the right, and MacBride saw a white-coated ambulance doctor sitting on a chair and listlessly smoking a cigarette. Tony was sitting on another chair wrapped in a heavy bathrobe and staring into space. His wife was sitting on a cot, holding her baby in her arms and moaning and rocking from side to side. Several women were grouped around her, trying to comfort her, and one held a glass of water.

  MacBride drifted into the room, looked everybody over with quick scrutiny, and then went over and stood before Tony. After a moment Tony became aware of his presence and looked up and tried to say something, but he could only shake his head in dumb horror. MacBride took one hand out of his pocket and laid it on Tony’s shoulder and pressed the shoulder with brief but sincere reassurance.

  “Snap out of it, Tony.”

  “Holy Mother…. Holy Mother….”

  “I know, I know. But snap out of it. You’re alive. Your wife and baby’re alive.”

  “Like—like the end of the world….”

  MacBride caught his toe in the rung of a chair and slewed it nearer. He sat down and took a puff on his cigar and then took the cigar from his mouth and braced the hand that held it on his knee.

  “You’ve got to snap out of it, Tony….”

  Tony winced. “Out of bed I was thro wed … out of bed … like—” He groaned and put his hands to his head.

  MacBride looked at the cigar in the hand on his knee and then looked up at Tony. “Were you asleep when it happened?”

  “Yes … I was asleep. The wall fell in….”

  “Did you get any warning before-hand? I mean, was there any threatening letter?”

  “No—no.”

  “Well, try to snap out of it, Tony. I’ll see you again.”

  MacBride got up and put the cigar back in his mouth and his hands back in his pockets. He looked around the room, his windy blue eyes thoughtful. Then he went out into the hallway and so on out into the street. He stood at the top of the three stone steps and watched the firemen pouring water into the demolished house. The flames had died, but the water was still hissing on hot beams.

  Kennedy came out of the crowd, his face in shadow but the red end of a cigarette marking out his mouth. From the bottom of the steps he said:

  “Now why do you suppose they chucked a bomb at Tony’s house, Cap?”

  “Who chucked a bomb?” said MacBride.

  “Are we thinking about the same guys?”

  MacBride went down the steps. “Yeah, I guess so. But I don’t know why.”

  “Let’s go back to Headquarters and get a drink.”

  “I’m hanging around a while,” said MacBride.

  Half an hour later water stopped pouring into the ruins. The firemen began to draw in the hose. The front of the building had disappeared. You could look into the lower and upper stories and see the debris.

  MacBride went over and had a few words with the chief. He borrowed a flashlight from one of the firemen and went up the blackened stone steps. He climbed over the broken door and swung his flash around. He stepped from one broken beam to another and finally reached the living-room. The floor was slushy with black ashes that had been soaked by the water. The smell was acrid. He looked at the chair wherein he had sat one night and talked with Tony. It was burnt and broken.

  He proceeded over fallen plaster that was gummy beneath his feet and reached a stairway. He climbed this and came to the floor above. The white beam of his flash probed the tattered darkness. Overturned chairs, beds soaked with water and blackened with soot. Tony’s home in ruin…. He sighed.

  There were three bedrooms, and he went from one to another, and looked around and meditated over several things, and then he went down by the cluttered stairway and worked his way back to the street.

  He returned the flashlight to the fireman and said, “Thanks.”

  He stood on the curb, his chin on his chest and his hands in his pockets. Presently he was aware of Kennedy standing beside him.

  “Where’ve you been, Cap?”

  “Places,” said MacBride.

  “What did you see?”

  “Things.”

  V

  Tony Maratelli stood by the window of number 55 Riddle Street and looked across at the epitaph of his home.

  It was not a pleasant sight, in the sharp clear light of a winter morning. He could see the broad bed wherein he and his wife were used to sleeping; the smaller bed in another room wherein his daughter had narrowly escaped death; the other room and the other bed that were Dominick’s….

  Tony looked sad and haggard, and when a fat man looks haggard it is in a way pathetic. A couple of men were already at work removing the debris from the sidewalk, and a policeman walked back and forth, guarding what remained of Tony’s possessions.

  Of course, mused Tony, he would have a nice house again, somewhere. He had plenty of money. But—that house was an old one, and he had lived there for fifteen years—first as tenant, then as owner. It had been one of the milestones of his success as a building contractor. Wherefore its ruin made him feel sad. He pulled his heavy bathrobe tighter about his short, adipose body and sniffed.

  He saw MacBride come down the opposite side of the street, pause to have a talk with the patrolman on duty, then run his eyes over the ruined house. Tony’s eyes steadied. He licked his lips. MacBride was his friend, but….

  The captain turned abruptly and crossed the street. Tony waited for the sound of the doorbell. It came. Mrs. Reckhow, who had been good enough to give him and his family shelter overnight, appeared from another room.

  But Tony said, “It’s for me, Mrs. Reckhow, thanks.”

  “All right, Mr. Maratelli,” she said, and disappeared.

  Tony went out into the hall and opened the door and MacBride said, “Morning, Tony,” and walked in.

  They came back into the living-room and MacBride took off his hat, looked at it, creased the crown and then laid the hat on a table.

  “How you feeling, Tony?”

  “Not so good. I feel rotten, Cap. Yeah, I feel rotten.”

  His black hair was tousled about the ears and he needed a shave and his jowls seemed to hang forlornly towards his shoulders.

  MacBride, who had had on
ly six hours sleep, looked fresh and vigorous. He went over by the window and looked at the men working on the sidewalk and then he turned around and looked at Tony.

  “Tony,” he said, and looked at the floor, pursing his lips.

  “Uh?” came Tony’s voice from somewhere in the roof of his mouth.

  “Tony … about Dominick.”

  Tony wiped a hand in front of his face as though he were brushing away a spider-web. “Uh … you found him?”

  “No.”

  “Oh … I thought you found him.”

  “No, I didn’t find him.”

  “Oh.” His voice was weary, coming out like weary footsteps.

  MacBride brought his eyes up from the floor and fastened them on Tony’s eyes and seemed to screw down the bolts of his gaze with slow but sure precision.

  “We’d better talk plain, Tony.”

  Tony’s eyes glazed and seemed to stare as though at something beyond MacBride’s shoulder.

  “Plain,” said MacBride, his voice going down.

  “Well….” Tony shrugged and looked around the room as if there was something there he wanted.

  MacBride clipped, “How long was Dominick in your house before they blew the front off?”

  Tony muttered, “Holy Mother!” and sat down heavily in a chair.

  “How long, Tony?”

  “Look, Cap! Could I go and give my boy up when he come to me for protection, crying like a baby? Could I? Didn’t my wife she plead with me, too? But she did not have to plead, no. Dominick is my son, my flesh and blood, and if his father will not give him protection, who will? He is only the boy, Cap! He—”

  “Now, wait a minute, Tony,” broke in MacBride. “I can guess all that. What I want to know is, how long was he there?”

  “Three days—just three days. But—I couldn’t go tell you, Cap! The boy he ask me to protect him. He is sorry. He is sorry he got mixed up with that Chibby. He didn’t do nothing, Cap. He didn’t kill that box-fighter—”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tony….”

  “Please to God, I don’t know!”

  A muscle jerked alongside MacBride’s mouth. “Dominick knew! He told you!”

  “No—no!”

  “Tony"—MacBride’s voice was like a keen wind far off— ”Tony, I’ve given you every break I could. I know you’re a good guy—the best wop I’ve ever known. But—you’ve got to come clean. Listen to me: I’m being razzed for that killing. You know why—because I happened to be in Al’s joint when these bums got soused and Barjo got knifed. But aside from that—even if I wasn’t razzed—I’d want the killer just the same—”

  “But Dominick he didn’t kill—”

  “Don’t go over that. He must have told something. What did he tell you?”

  Tony spread his arms and looked as if he were going to cry. “Nothing, Cap.” And he kept wagging his head from side to side. “Didn’t I keep asking him? Sure. Didn’t I beg him to tell me? But he don’t tell. He just say he didn’t kill Barjo—and he swear by the cross and kiss it. Cap, please to God, that is the truth!”

  MacBride took one hand out of his pocket and rubbed his jaw and put the hand back into his pocket again. A flush of color was in his lean hard cheeks, and there was a cool subdued fury lurking in his wide direct eyes. His voice became almost laconic:

  “All right, then. He was in your house. When did he get away?”

  “It must have been when the fire started. I heard him yell from the other room, and then he was gone when I got there. He must have run right out. And now—now, where is he?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. I knew he’d been there when I poked around after the fire. He must have left in a hurry. His dress shirt and his studs were on the dresser, and his Tux was hanging on the wall. That’s why I knew he’d been home.”

  “Yes, he didn’t go out once. He was … afraid.”

  “Sure.”

  “And now—”

  His life,” put in MacBride, “won’t be worth two cents if Chibby and his crowd find him. That’s why I want to know where he is. He must have run out on the crowd and come home. They’re afraid he’ll spring something. That’s why they crashed your house.”

  Tony rocked back and forth. “And if I knowed where he is, Cap, sure I’d tell you. I don’t want my boy murdered. God, if I only knowed where he is!”

  “Listen,” said MacBride, “where are you going from here?”

  “I think we’ll go to a hotel. The Maxim, yes.”

  “Okey. But remember—if Dominick gets in touch with you, tell me right away. The only safe place for him is in the jail.”

  “Jail!”

  “Now calm yourself. Jail—yes. Let me know when you get in The Maxim.”

  “Yes.” He got up, wobbling about. “Cap, you’re my friend, ain’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure, Tony.”

  “Thanks, Cap—thanks!” His breath wheezed. “My poor wife, she is all bust up.”

  “Well, you’re not helping her any by slopping all over the place. Buck up. Get a shave. Don’t crack up like a damn’ hop-head. For crying out loud!”

  He laughed bluntly and slapped Tony on the back and went out.

  VI

  Moriarity and Cohen were trying to get a kick out of playing two-handed Michigan when MacBride breezed into the office. They looked up once and then went on playing while MacBride got out of his overcoat. He came over and sat down and said:

  “Deal me a hand.”

  Cohen said, “Well, how’d you make out?”

  “Yes and no. Tony doesn’t know a damned thing. But Dominick did come back to his house. He breezed when the place was blown.”

  “And didn’t the kid tell his old man anything?” asked Cohen.

  “No.”

  Moriarity said, “What makes you think Tony was playing ball?”

  “I just know it.”

  Moriarity laughed. “Maybe you are getting soft, Cap.”

  “Lay off,” said MacBride. “Tony’s a square wop.”

  “Then why the cripes didn’t he tell you his kid was home?”

  MacBride looked at his cards. “You haven’t got a kid, have you?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Cohen laughed. “There’s a wisecrack for you, Cap!”

  MacBride put four chips on the queen. “Then you wouldn’t know, Mory, why the old wop didn’t tell me. But he’s square.”

  “Oh, yeah,” sighed Moriarity.

  “Go ahead,” said MacBride, “razz me. I can stand it. If I took you guys and the newspapers seriously I’d jump in the river as a total loss. But you’re all just a bad smell to me.”

  Moriarity laughed. “Poor old Cap!”

  “Can that, too! And listen, you gumshoes. We want Dominick. He’s lone-wolfing it somewhere. Even you, Mory, would realize that after he left Chibby’s crowd and went back home, he wouldn’t dare show his mug again with the crowd. You’d realize that, Mory—any dumbbell would.”

  Cohen said, “Chew on that, Mory.”

  “And,” said MacBride, “we want Dominick before Chibby or one of his guns nails him. They’re after him; you can bet your shirt on that. He knows something, and they’re after him.”

  “At least,” said Moriarity, “it crimps Kennedy’s idea that Dominick killed Barjo. I still say it was the broad.”

  Cohen snapped, “Hey, you, it was me first had the idea it was the broad.”

  “All right, grab the gold ring, guy—grab it.”

  “My idea may be crimped,” said Kennedy, a new voice in the doorway. “But if it was the broad, why the hell should Chibbarro be going to such great pains to keep Dominick and the three girls and himself out of sight?”

  “Now you’ve asked something, Kennedy!” chopped off MacBride.

  Kennedy strolled in and said, “All right, Mory. I was wrong, let’s say, on picking Dominick as the killer. I was wrong. Now, you bright young child, why is Chibbarro
playing hide-and-seek?”

  Mory put on a long face. “Well, if the broad was his friend—”

  “Bologney!” chuckled Kennedy. “She was just a broad. Chibby wouldn’t waste a sneeze on her if there wasn’t a reason. If she killed Barjo, and there wasn’t a good reason for his trying to hide her, that bum would have come right out and told Cap what she’d done. But he had to save her—for a reason. That’s how much you know, Mory.”

  MacBride had to chuckle, and he looked at his right-hand men. “Boys, you’re both good cops. In a fight, you’re the berries. But take my advice and don’t try to figure things out too closely. Not when this wiseacre Kennedy is roaming about.”

  “I’ll put your name in the paper twice for that tomorrow,” said Kennedy. “But get Dominick, and make him talk. I’m not saying the broad killed Barjo. I’m saying that if she killed him, then there’s something bigger behind this job than just a ham welter getting a knife in his gizzard.”

  “Kennedy,” said MacBride, “sometimes you’re a pain in the neck, but today you’re an inspiration.”

  “Three times in the paper tomorrow, Cap. Two more cracks like that and I’ll see about getting you a headline.”

  “And another crack like that, Kennedy, and I’ll plant my foot in your slats.”

  “Ah, well,” grinned Kennedy, “boys will be boys. How about a drink?”

  MacBride dragged out a bottle of Dewar’s.

  VII

  In a way of speaking, Dominick Maratelli was between the devil and the deep sea. That is reckoning, of course, on the conjecture of MacBride that Dominick had dropped the mob and that the mob was seeking him. The mob … and the law.

  Moriarity and Cohen worked overtime on the hunt. Precinct plainclothes men worked too. And uniformed cops.

  It was believed that when Dominick took hasty flight from the bombed house, he was broke. A man must eat. He must sleep somewhere. It was winter, and streets and alleys do not make comfortable lodgings.

  Nor was MacBride idle. He too, roamed the streets and made inquiries at lunch-rooms, speakeasies; and most of his roaming was done during the dark hours. He went alone, looking into the twenty-five-cent-a-night flophouses, conning the bread-lines in North Street.