The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

by Penzler, Otto

  “All right,” I told her. “We’ve played the game together and we’ve played it as opponents. I haven’t squawked yet, and I won’t squawk now. I—”

  And I broke off suddenly. A knock, not too loud and not too low, upon the outside apartment door.

  I swung quickly, half stepped toward that door—and stopped.

  “Don’t!” The Flame clutched me by the arm. “I—It’s better not to have it known you came here. Please! The fire-escape. It’s the top floor— a single flight to the roof. Please, Race. It means more than you think, to me.”

  “Then it’s not war yet.” I smiled at her now, took a few steps forward, threw back the tiny curtain, flipped the window open higher, and took a last glance over my shoulder at The Flame, who stood there uncertain—at least, seemingly uncertain—for it’s hard to believe that The Flame could be uncertain about anything. So I’ll just say that she stood there in the center of the room.

  With half an eye on that small, aristocratic right hand of hers with the long tapering fingers, I threw up a leg and placed a foot on the window sill—and stepped back into the room again. I was looking straight into the sneering eyes and twisted lips of the gangster, Eddie Gorgon—but, much worse, I was also looking straight into the mean, snubbed nose of a forty-five automatic.

  As I stepped back, Eddie Gorgon quickly slipped through the window I had so accommodatingly raised for him, and stood with a look of triumphant hatred on his face.

  CHAPTER X

  THE TRAP IS SPRUNG

  HERE WAS NO excuse for it. I wasn’t proud of myself at that moment. Certainly I didn’t trust The Flame, but at the same time I didn’t expect—even if she did decide to hate me—that she’d shove me on the spot so quickly. Truth is truth. I didn’t trust The Flame. Hadn’t trusted her when I came. But a mind like The Flame’s doesn’t lead a man to a trap in her own apartment. And the reason why isn’t “good ethics” or even “good sportsmanship.” It’s just common sense. Even in a city where gang murders have ceased to be front page news it’s not quite safe to decorate your own room with a corpse.

  Now, as I say, the thing was surprising—but not unexpected. And maybe “unexpected” is not the correct word there. Maybe it might be a better choice of words to say that I was simply not unprepared for such an emergency. If I happened to be looking down the nose of Eddie Gorgon’s gun, my gun was drawing a bead some place along about the center of Eddie Gorgon’s stomach. And my finger too was tightening upon the trigger as I raised my jacket pocket slightly and picked out the spot where any ordinary man, according to Gray’s Anatomy, would wear his heart.

  I won’t mince words. And I won’t say that there aren’t heroes in the pictures, and in real life too, for that matter, who can knock a gun out of a man’s hand even when shooting from a jacket pocket. I can do it myself—probably could have done it right then. But “probably” isn’t enough. And where a bullet through Eddie’s arm or leg would have been noble and high minded, it wouldn’t have interfered with the quick pressure of his finger upon the trigger of his automatic.

  No. I know gangsters. I knew Eddie Gorgon. There was death in those bloodshot eyes. Bum hooch in them too, but I didn’t get that then— and his twisted lips were cut and raw, where I’d leaned on him a few hours before.

  But truth is truth. I was going to kill Eddie Gorgon—kill him before he killed me. Nothing saved him now but his tongue, which licked at his lips—and his eyes, that gloated before he talked. He was a lad who liked to shoot a little bull before he shot an enemy—especially when he had that enemy covered.

  I wasn’t worried. A single roar, a prayer for the dead, and the stiff on the slab in the morgue would be labeled EDDIE GORGON. Eddie Gorgon, the racketeer who had beaten his last rap. I like to see a lad go out with a gun in his hand—a gun gripped tightly in a dead hand. It has a soothing effect on a jury.

  Eddie didn’t say, “Throw up your hands.” He was lucky there. Those simple words would have been the same as the medical examiner’s signature on his death certificate, though he didn’t know that.

  “So,” and there was a sort of snap to Eddie’s lips when he spoke, “I was right about the dame and you. She’s to step out again—so you’re back. And I was right about myself too. Me—Eddie Gorgon. There ain’t a guy living who’s mussed up Eddie Gorgon and lived to tell about it. The boys will know who done you in. The boys’ll know why. They’ll say it took a Gorgon to step in and smack a gun against Race Williams’s chest and blow hell out of him.” The grin went, the gun came forward more menacingly. His face shot closer to mine, and his whisky sodden breath made halitosis seem like a rare perfume from the Orient.

  “Don’t move!” Eddie almost spat the words as I half drew my face back. “I want you to know the truth before you go out. I’ve not only taken your life but I’ve taken your dame. The Flame won’t be sorry for the message she sent me that you were coming here. She’ll be Big Time now. No one will bother Eddie Gorgon’s woman.” And with a sneer or a leer—or just a twisted pan, call it what you will, Eddie sputtered on. “She’s a neat piece of goods, Race—but they don’t come too good for Eddie Gorgon. A guy’s life and a guy’s woman! Well—it ain’t so bad for a bust in the mouth when I wasn’t looking. I guess, Race—”

  My finger tightened upon the trigger, hesitated a moment, and I shot the words through the side of my mouth at The Flame.

  “Is what this rat says true? I don’t mind the trap so much.” I half shrugged my shoulders and glued my eyes on his finger that held the trigger of the automatic. “But I do think you might have grabbed yourself off a pickpocket, or even a stool-pigeon. Besides which—”

  “All right—now,” Eddie Gorgon horned in. I had seen the sign in his face while I talked. Just the lust to kill, that so many gangsters work up with dope, or hatred, or passion—but which Eddie Gorgon didn’t need to work much in order to bring it to the surface. He was an alley rat; a great guy to hide behind an ash can and shoot a lad in the back. A great guy to—

  But no more words. He was a killer. And my finger started to close upon the trigger of my gun. Just a sudden tightening, and—

  I held back, my finger half closed, my eyes glued on Eddie’s gun. The Flame spoke.

  “He lies, of course. Eddie, drop that gun!” There was the single movement of The Flame’s right hand, a flash of nickel and ivory, and the girl had jammed a gun against the racketeer’s ribs. There was nothing of fear or desperation or hysteria in her action or her words. Just that single movement—and the slightest grunt from Eddie. He didn’t have to look down to know. And what’s more, he didn’t look down.

  The sudden impulse to raise my left hand and twist the gun from his died without a movement. I’ll give Eddie credit for that much. He wasn’t the movie villain, who, at the first disturbance or even suggestion to look up, lets his gun be taken from him. It takes time, you know, to raise your hand and grab a gun—a second or two. And a second or two may not be much time in life, but it is an eternity in death. Even a novice can close his finger upon a gun trigger in a second. But as I said, Eddie knew his stuff. He saw the danger— from me more than The Flame, and cried out his warning.

  “Don’t you make a move, Race, or I’ll plug ya. The girl ain’t got the guts to put a Gorgon on the spot. She ain’t—”

  “Drop your gun, Eddie.” The Flame’s voice was hard and cold. “The Flame fears neither man nor devil, and that last, I guess, throws in a Gorgon. I’d rub you out like a dirty mark. Where do you get that stuff about me? Where—”

  “You! What did you bring me here for? Why did you send for me?” His gun dropped from close to my head to my chest, and flattened there. “Why, I was smack on the fire-escape.” And half incredulous—half pleading, “What’s eatin’ ya, kid? Didn’t I set you up handsome? Didn’t I get you rocks and—”

  “You! You talk too much. You bought my mind, not—” She laughed. “The Flame your woman! Drop that gun.”

  “Not me.” Eddie Gorgon jabbed th
e gun harder against my chest. “You ain’t still got a yen for this yellow dick, eh? I drop my gun, get knocked over, and you send me a wreath!”

  “Talk sense, Eddie.” The Flame seemed to try to reason now. “Suppose I did send for you. I didn’t expect you to come up here to my rooms; to have the police drag me over the coals just when I’m ready to step out again. And, you—”

  “Me!” said Eddie. “They can’t do nothing to me. I’m a Gorgon. Why, kid, I have an alibi that—”

  “Would roast me,” she cut in, and her voice was hard again. “I tell you, Eddie, if you press that trigger—”

  A soft voice broke in from the little hallway.

  “Race Williams will shoot suddenly from his right jacket pocket, and be a very much honored newspaper hero.” And as my finger half closed, the mellow voice went on, “No, no—Williams. I am sure things should be done more amicably. The gun, Eddie—on the floor—at once!” And in a sudden change of tone that was as metallic as a cheap phonograph, “Drop that gun— Edward!”

  Eddie’s gun smacked to the floor, like you’d knocked it from his hand with a crowbar. Mine came from my pocket and pounded against the chest of Eddie Gorgon. For the time I had forgotten that knock upon the door. Now—I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to. Some one stood in the doorway, and that some one undoubtedly had me covered.

  CHAPTER XI

  THE THIRD GORGON

  The voice behind me went on—soft, persuasive, almost like a woman’s, but with a sinister meaning to it that belied the words themselves.

  “That’s a good boy—a fine boy. You are impetuous, Eddie—and I am afraid you have been drinking. You will stand back—so—close to the wall.” Eddie moved as if a hand directed him. “And you, Florence, will lay your gun there upon the table. Mr. Williams, of course, will keep his. It is his trade. I am afraid he is not so susceptible to suggestion. But I am sure he is not so religiously fanatical as to object if I paraphrase even so great a book as the Bible. ‘Those that live by the sword shall perish by the sword.’ Which, I suppose, if we had a more modern version would go for guns too.”

  Feet moved now—slow moving feet. Both Eddie Gorgon and The Flame were unarmed. Eddie Gorgon was leaning against the wall, breathing heavily, but not watching me. Rather, the slow moving feet—and I could just see the shadow cast upon the floor.

  I swung quickly and faced the man. Maybe I knew—and maybe I didn’t. Here was the man who hobnobbed with greatness. Here was the man whom a few felt, and fewer mentioned, as the secret power of Joe Gorgon. The man who called judges by their first names, and political leaders by their last. One who had written books on civil and criminal law, though he had never practiced law. But I’ll give you the eyeful as I caught it.

  In the first place, he was not armed. There was a thin, Malacca cane over his left arm, a gray glove upon his right hand, and its mate clutched in the fingers of that hand. His muffler, slightly open at the neck, disclosed the whiteness of a boiled shirt. And his braided trouser legs added assurance to the impression that he was in evening dress. But his face got you, and the eyes in that face held you—held you in spite of the shadow thrown on them by his black felt hat.

  His face was as white as marble, and his eyes such a deep dark blue that at first glance you’d almost think they were black. There was not a single bit of color in his face and his nose was sharp and straight, his lips a single, thin red line. His eyes didn’t blink when they looked at me. They just regarded me fixedly; too alive to be compared to glass. Watched me from between heavy lashes that didn’t flicker. The whole outline of his face and perfection of his features couldn’t be compared to a portrait because of the unnatural whiteness of his skin—and the living fire of his eyes.

  I hadn’t seen him often—few saw him often. And his picture never graced the papers. But somehow I knew that I was looking into the granitelike countenance of the Third Gorgon, Doctor Michelle Gorgon.

  None of us spoke for a moment. Eddie leaned against the wall and stared at the man who, through some freak of Nature, was his brother. The Flame looked at him too, studied him, I think. Maybe I was wrong, but I did get the impression that she had never seen him before— despite the fact that he had called her Florence.

  And the Third Gorgon spoke.

  “I am not sure,” he said very slowly, “but I feel that at least one of you, and perhaps all of you, owe me a debt of gratitude. But we’ll skip that. It savors too much of our criminal courts. Plenty of knowledge but not enough evidence.” He paused a moment, sniffed at the air, let those flickerless eyes rest on his brother, and half bowed to me.

  “We must bow to you, Williams, as the physical dominance in this room—perhaps, thanks to me. Fine wines warm a man’s blood and make more active his brain. Poor liquor, even when taken by another, nauseates me. I know you, of course—have read about you and seen your picture in the papers. I understand you do not go in for murder.” A moment’s pause, and his head cocked sideways as he put those eyes on me. “That—that is true?”

  “It depends on what you call murder.” Somehow I couldn’t feel exactly at ease with this guy.

  He shook his head.

  “Ah, no. No—not at all. My ideas of murder are not entirely expounded in my books. They are private thoughts and opinions which must be withheld for the public good. And I will not say murder in the legal sense, for if I’ve followed your exploits correctly you have not obtained your ethics from the criminal code.”

  “Well—get to the point. What’s on your chest?”

  His thin lips dropped slightly, and just for the fraction of a second those eyelids flickered before he spoke.

  “You disappoint me, Williams. You really disappoint me.” And with a sudden snap, “I am speaking of the putrid condition of the air, caused by the presence of my brother. Will you stand in the way of his departure? In plain words—he is unarmed. Are you bent on murdering him?”

  “There’s the police.” Maybe I was sparring for time. “He attempted my life, you know.”

  “Come—come, my dear Williams.” Doctor Gorgon seemed annoyed, and then he smiled— only his lips moving. “But you joke.” He turned and looked at The Flame. He stepped close to her. For a minute he stood so—then his hand went beneath his coat, and despite the fact that he was sideways to me I half raised my gun. But when he withdrew his hand it held nothing more dangerous than a pair of nose glasses attached to a very thin black ribbon.

  He placed the glasses upon his nose, leaned forward and stooped—for he was close to a head above The Flame. Then he raised his hand and removed his hat.

  If The Flame resented his attitude she did not show it. I saw her little head bob up—those brown eyes, hard and cold, stare back into his. Then he turned to Eddie Gorgon, half impatiently.

  “You may go, Eddie.” And with a raise of his hand as Eddie started to say something sulkily, “Tut—tut, boy. He shan’t kill you, you know. And if he intended to, he would hardly do it in my presence.” And when Eddie still held his ground, “That will be all, Edward. Not by the window, you scamp.” He crossed the room quickly this time, patted Eddie on the back as he half pushed him toward the door. “I am sure that Williams realizes there is a lady present and will not object to your leaving us.”

  I didn’t object. Maybe I realized there would have been nothing to do. That is, nothing to do but lay a chunk of lead in Eddie’s carcass or call the police. But one thing I did get, and that was that Eddie Gorgon feared that affected “Edward” of his brother’s more than even my gun.

  “Affected.” Well—I’ll withdraw that word. No— Damn it. One thing that Doctor Gorgon got over to me, even if I don’t get it over to others, was his sincerity—or perhaps, just his own belief in himself. He sure was the white haired boy, though now that his hat was off, there was just the glimmer of gray in the jet blackness of his hair. The first few strands of it, which hung near his forehead.

  The Flame looked quickly up at me as Doctor Gorgon followed his brother to
the hall. I smiled back at her. Not a pleasant smile, maybe—but one of confidence. There was a peculiar look in her eyes. A questioning, uncertain look.

  “Well—” she said at length—while the hollow, whispered, inaudible tones of conversation came from the little hall, “why don’t you say something? Don’t stand there looking accusingly at me. I—. What right have you? Why—. Well—say something!”

  And I did.

  “He travels farthest who travels alone.” I did a bit of quoting myself, like the Doctor. “And that probably goes for traveling fastest too. Your friend, the Doctor, noticed the gun in my pocket, which covered his brother.” And after a pause, “I wonder if you did, and if you were protecting Eddie or me.”

  “You think I brought you here to—to your death? Well—why don’t you say so?”

  “Should I?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Is it necessary? Rudolph Myer said I was the only one who took you for being weak minded. At least, Eddie was here—said you sent for him, and you didn’t deny it. That he muffed the works by acting too soon, and—perhaps—talking too much, isn’t your fault. But you certainly picked yourself a fine little playmate, when you did decide to—”

  “Race,” she said very slowly, “you and I can’t fool ourselves any longer. At least, I can’t fool myself. I’ve never posed as being good. Quite the contrary. To hear you talk you’d think I had suddenly changed. Just one thing. You don’t believe I led you into a trap tonight?”

  I sort of laughed.

  “What else could I—”

  “The same old song.” She came close to me, put those glims on me. “Always accusing— never believing. Come—” I let her get close to me, let her place her hands on my shoulders— even let her slip them back about my neck and onto the back of my head.

  “Come—” she said again, “you don’t believe it. Yes or no.”