Green Ice

by Raoul Whitfield

  “Be careful of the glass, Mal—it’s almost too pretty.”

  She went out. The others went out with her. The short, dark-haired man closed the door silently behind him. Phil Dobe took a step toward it; I caught him by an arm.

  “Easy,” I warned. “That quartet looked a lot like dynamite to me. It never makes any noise until it explodes.”

  Dobe swore softly. “They hijacked you,” he muttered. “They’re dirty crooks.”

  I shook my head. “Not dirty,” I said. “That would be easy. They’re clean, smooth. Damned smooth, Phil. I hate them when they’re that way.”

  Dobe stared down at the stones on the bed. I counted them. There were fourteen. They looked pretty. I picked one up and studied it. It was larger than the one the girl with the oval face had taken from me. I liked it better.

  “They hijacked you,” Dobe muttered again. “And that bird Christenson—passing off as Quirt; he saw you—”

  He stopped, his eyes narrowed on mine.

  “You held back on me, all right,” he muttered. “You didn’t say anything about picking up that stone they grabbed. And you didn’t say anything about this Virgie Beers.”

  I was frowning down at the green cuts of color. Phil Dobe kept walking around the room and muttering to himself. I scooped the green stuff up, went over to my bag, opened it up. I got out the stick of shaving cream, went into the bathroom, held it under warm water until it softened up. Then I shoved down the stones into the white stuff, one by one. The cream was held in a nickel container, and there was room for all the stones. I smoothed over the stuff at the top, ran the surface over my face a few times, wiped the skin off with a towel, held the cream under cold water.

  Phil came in and watched me finish. He looked puzzled. I put the nickel cover on the shaving cream, put it back in my bag. I kicked the pink slip out of the way, got the wine, poured the last two drinks.

  “I’m beginning to think you’re right, Phil,” I said slowly. “The green ice isn’t the thing. It’s just giving us a play. It counts—but not most of all. The killings aren’t for the green stuff.”

  Dobe grunted. “You were damned careful with the glass that sweet-looking lady traded for the real article,” he said.

  I nodded. “Forget you saw anything green around here,” I said. “Stick around fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  Dobe stared at me. “You’re still holding back on me,” he muttered.

  I shook my head. “Virgie Beers is just another name to me,” I said. “The thing’s as thick now as it was at the start. But I think someone would like to frame me—in the right way.”

  The city editor grunted. “They heard you were going after the big guys—and that scared them to death,” he mocked.

  I shook my head. “I blundered into something,” I replied. “I’m still in it.”

  “You’re still blundering,” Phil stated grimly.

  I nodded. “That’s all right,” I said. “I know some people that can’t move around enough to even blunder.”

  It was two o’clock when a lot of footfalls sounded outside the room. There was a knock—a pretty heavy one. I got up from my chair, told Phil to stay seated, went over and opened the door. Two dicks were outside. One looked like a dick—the other didn’t. They were both middle-aged, and they looked as though they hadn’t missed a meal in a year. One of them had a gray mustache; the other was smooth-shaven. They both looked at me and they both walked into the room.

  Phil Dobe greeted the one with the mustache. “Hello, Landy. What’s keeping you up?”

  Landy stared at the city editor, frowned, looked around the room, frowned at me, coughed. His companion stood by the door and fingered a gold watch chain.

  “Got a tip,” Landy said. He looked at me for several seconds. “You Ourney?”

  I nodded. “Out of the stir just a few days,” I said. “But I didn’t go up for robbing a bank. I stood a rap because women are the mothers of men—”

  “Yeah,” Landy cut in. “I’ve heard that, too. Nice, ain’t it?”

  “It’s big,” I said. “Bigger than all outdoors.”

  Landy made a noise that was something between a sniffle and a snort. He looked at the bed, then at the bag over in a corner.

  “A guy named Malendez got taken for some emeralds over in New York not so long ago. We got a tip that the guy that had this room before you might have planted them here. We come over to look around.”

  “Nice to have your company,” I told him. “The guy that had this room didn’t have my clothes or bag—but you might look at everything, anyway. You never can tell.”

  “Thanks.” Landy grinned at Dobe. “It’s decent of you. You take the bed, Al. Make it right.”

  They did a pretty fair job. The best work was done around my bag. My overcoat got a lining pressing, and they were careful about the carpets, hangings and the two pictures in the room. It took almost a half hour. Landy had the shaving cream in his fingers, and the nickel cover off. But he didn’t dig into the white stuff. His partner was breathing hard when they finished. Landy bit off the end of a cigar, lighted it.

  “Hell!” he muttered. “Never had a tip yet worth a good goddam. But they’re startin’ to raise hell in New York about the Malendez stuff.”

  Dobe grinned. “Why?” he asked.

  Landy shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe the stuff was worth more than they figured,” he said. “All I know is that the chief told me to keep my eyes open. When this tip came through—”

  He broke off, looked at me. I got a puzzled expression in my eyes.

  “Where do I come in?” I asked. “I was in stir when they rolled this South American gent.”

  Landy nodded. “You were out when they started to fumble things,” he said cheerfully.

  “They?” I watched him relight his cigar. “Who’s ‘they’?”

  Landy grunted. He brushed ashes from his coat with stubby fingers. He grinned at me, then at Phil Dobe.

  “You know him well?” he asked Phil, letting his eyes flicker to mine.

  Phil swore. “He was one of the Post-Dispatch chain gang, Landy. I know him well enough.”

  The detective widened his eyes on mine. There were little wrinkles running out from his lips.

  “Nice training your sheet gives,” he observed.

  I leaned forward in the chair. “You wouldn’t have guts enough to stand a rap for anybody,” I snapped. “And remember, you haven’t got anything on me.”

  Landy looked hurt. His companion made clicking noises with his lips pressed together.

  “Don’t get hard,” Landy said. “We can take you along and ask you where the stones are.”

  He moved toward the door, followed by his companion.

  Phil said: “You rate page ten on the search, boys. I’ll use Landy’s picture.”

  The detective who had run the job grinned. He opened the door.

  “That’s all right, too,” he replied. “You’ve used worse faces.”

  They went out. I lighted a cigarette, inhaled, swore. Phil Dobe smiled at me.

  “Getting fed up, eh?” he said. “Why the hell don’t you pull out?”

  I laughed that off. I was thinking of the girl with the oval face. And the bird she had called Christenson, who had posed as Quirt. I was thinking of the flock of stones she had planted—and the one she had taken.

  “It’s just getting good,” I said grimly.

  “For someone else, it is,” Phil came back. “She grabbed off a money stone and planted a flock of glass. She tipped the bulls. Had just about time. She furnished a guy to stick with you until he saw something. She told you she could tell you a lot of things, but she didn’t tell you a damn thing. You got taken.”

  I got up, went over and opened a window. The sky in the distance was red from blast-furnace flame. The cold air felt good. Turning around, I faced Phil.

  “You interested?” I asked. “Want to give me a lift?”

  He glared at me. “You know damn well I do, Mal,
” he said.

  I got the shaving cream out of the bag, took off the nickel cover, got a nail file in the white stuff, and dug out a stone. It was fair-sized, had good color. The imperfection was slight, but easily seen. I handed it to Phil.

  “A good jewel man can tell you what it’s worth,” I said.

  He groaned. “I’m not an expert, but I can tell you right now. About a buck.”

  I shook my head. “If it’s fused glass it’s worth more than that. About seven or eight bucks. You may be wrong.”

  He chuckled harshly. “You’re going crazy,” he said. “I suppose that oval-faced kid came in here and traded you more than a dozen real emeralds for one, eh?”

  I didn’t smile. “That’s what I’d like to know,” I said. “She wouldn’t gain much by planting fake stuff. The bulls wouldn’t have me for anything.”

  Dobe narrowed his eyes and muttered to himself. He wrapped the green stone in a corner of his lavender handkerchief and got out of the chair.

  I said: “I think the bulls know something new on the Malendez case. You might have one of the bright boys look around at Headquarters.”

  He nodded. “Any other instructions?” he asked with sarcasm.

  I nodded. “I’ll see you at the paper—don’t call me,” I said. “Maybe, for once, you’ve got a decent reason for carrying that cannon of yours. Jeanette said she didn’t know what the paper would do without you. She doesn’t like your mixing in.”

  He went over to the door. “Hannelman’s talking about making the office boy city editor,” he said. “He could sign the advance slips as well as me—and that’s the biggest job, anyway.”

  He went out. I smoked another pill, got undressed, called the Schenley, and asked if a Miss Jeanette Ramone was registered. I said that I was her uncle and it was important. I spelled out the last name. The clerk said Miss Ramone was registered.

  While I was recovering from the shock he complained that the hour was late, but that if it were important he would ring the room. I told him to ring. After a few seconds I heard Oval Face’s voice. It sounded a little sleepy.

  “This is Uncle Mal,” I said. “Sorry to awaken you, my dear. But I just wanted to tell you that the law was here. Their luck was bad. And give my regards to Cousin Christenson, will you?”

  There was a little silence. She said finally: “I’m sorry, but there must be a mistake. This is Miss Ramone. You must have the wrong number.”

  I chuckled. “I’m getting closer to the right one, dear,” I returned. “If you talk in your sleep don’t mention any names.”

  She hung up. I did the same thing. I called the desk, asked some dumb questions, and learned that the man who had been shot in room 651 had been taken to the General Hospital. I called the hospital, said that I was a cousin of Edward Flynn, had just learned that he was in the hospital. I wondered if they could tell me his condition.

  It took time and more explaining. Finally a cold-voiced nurse stated that Mr. Flynn was in ward B, that his condition was satisfactory, that he was sleeping easily, and that the visiting hours were two to three-thirty tomorrow afternoon. I thanked the cold-toned one and hung up.

  I was sleepy, but I wasn’t so crazy about the idea of sticking in the William Penn. There were a lot of hotels in town at which I hadn’t stayed yet. One was two blocks away. I packed up, went down, and checked out. I took a cab and drove to the P. and L. E. station, got out, went through the station, came out at the other side. I didn’t see anyone tailing along. I got another cab, was driven back to a corner about a block from the Waldron Hotel.

  There wasn’t much traffic. It was starting to drizzle. A dirty drizzle. No one followed me into the hotel. I registered as Elmer Christenson, was shown to a room on the second floor in the rear. The room was clean and the bed was hard.

  The transom was opened—I closed it. There was a snap lock on the inside of the door—I snapped it. The shaving soap I tossed on the bureau with the brush. I got out a pair of green and white striped pajamas, washed, got into the stripes, got into the bed.

  It felt good. I started to figure a few things out. I decided that Oval Face’s trade had been a plant. She wanted me to have the green ice—and she figured that if she took the one stone Christenson had seen me pick up I’d think she was panning off glass for the real thing. She figured I was dumb enough to hang on to the stones—and not get them out of sight.

  I didn’t know whether Christenson had planted the one stone beside Carrie Donner’s body—or whether she’d had it. Or whether someone else had planted it. The more I thought about the whole deal, the less sure anything became. There were too many outs. I was still strong for working on Virgie Beers. But she’d made a duck. Oval Face was too new to guess about. I wasn’t so sure that anyone was running things—and yet I had the feeling that if someone wasn’t running things, there was too much tough luck coming my way.

  One thing was fairly obvious. Someone figured I was worth more alive than dead. There was a reason for that. I couldn’t even get close to it. When I got to sleep, the drizzle had become a pretty heavy rain. It beat against the window glass. I dreamed about the girl with the oval face. And there was the old cliff that I was always falling over—always waking up before I reached anything. Sometime not far from dawn I fell asleep and didn’t dream. That helped.

  3

  I slept until ten, shaved, ate a combination breakfast and lunch. The rain had turned to snow. It was a wet, clinging snow. I walked to the Post-Dispatch building, went upstairs. The staff hadn’t arrived yet. Phil Dobe usually came in at about one-thirty. I got two papers from the files. One was an afternoon sheet, the other was the rival morning paper.

  The police hadn’t a thing on the mobbing out of Carrie Donner. They had a couple of humans who had seen the car speed around a corner. There had been no taillight, and neither witness had noticed a license. The theory was that it had been a revenge kill, but the police didn’t seem to know what the revenge had been for—and they figured Carrie had got the dose for the same reason her brother had been shot out of things.

  Herb Steiner wasn’t talking; he was too sick. The whole thing came down to two facts: Carrie had been finished, and the bulls were in the dark. Herb had been shot in the belly—and the bulls didn’t know what it was all about.

  I read a couple of comic strips, learned that “Big Boy” Danver had taken one on the chin in the second session of his scrap with Kid Harpen, read that rum-runners had been stopped once again up around Detroit—and quit reading. I killed thirty minutes by watching a soprano make faces near the microphone of K.D.K.A.’s radio station, in the Post-Dispatch building. When I went back into the editorial room Phil Dobe was taking off his coat. A few reporters were around, waiting to get advance slips signed.

  After that was done I sat on the edge of Phil’s desk. He shook his head slowly.

  “It beats hell!” he muttered.

  “The weather?” I asked.

  “That hunk of green.” There wasn’t anyone around, but he lowered his voice. “It’s the real thing.”

  I grinned. “Sure,” I said. “And so are the others. How much?”

  “About eight hundred,” he said. “Can you beat that?”

  I nodded. “There’re thirteen more chunks,” I said. “Some of them are larger. Say ten grand for the lot. Not a bad trade, eh?”

  Dobe grunted. “She did it with a smile,” he said. “I don’t like it.”

  I lighted a cigarette. Phil got a piece of newspaper from his pocket—a small piece. It was wrapped around something. He handed it to me.

  “That’s it,” he said. “I’d rather you kept it around you.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “Don’t suppose you’ve done anything on the Malendez case yet?”

  “Wrong,” he said. “I went down and had a talk with Reever. He’s the chief of dicks just now. Next week it’ll probably be someone else. Reever’s getting too prosperous. Anyway, there’s some fuss on about Malendez. Reever admitted that, but he
wouldn’t say just what. He gave me some advice.”

  I waited, but Phil didn’t go on.

  “Good advice?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Told me to keep a block or so away from one Malcolm Ourney,” he replied.

  I whistled a few bars of a popular funeral march. Phil didn’t smile.

  “He thinks I’m spotted?” I asked.

  Phil shrugged again. “He didn’t say that,” he said. “He just told me it looked as though there was some hell breaking loose. He had a wire from New York. I got a look at the end of it. On his desk. Conelly sent it.”

  “Donelly, maybe?” I said. “You didn’t get a look at the C, did you?”

  “Maybe it was Donelly,” Phil replied. “That’s close enough, I guess. Does it help?”

  I shook my head. “Donelly’s a New York dick,” I told him. “Every time I ran into him he was working out of his district. I figured that might be important. I’m sure of it now. Thanks for the ice job, Phil. I’ll drop in later.”

  The city editor narrowed his eyes on mine. He tapped his barrel chest with the knuckles of his right hand.

  “It’s tough to quit on a job—but it’s tougher to be dead,” he philosophized.

  “I’m going over to see a friend, at the General,” I told him. “He didn’t see something coming—and it hit him.”

  Dobe yelled for the morning editions, got a cigar going, swore at me.

  “I hope you see it coming—and don’t get hit,” he said.

  “Just to know you’re with me in spirit—that’s everything,” I told him, and went away.

  13

  BLACKJACK

  I killed some more time and got to the General Hospital at two-ten. It was still snowing, and ore dust was dirtying everything up. The hospital was a depressing-looking building on a hill. It smelled like all hospitals and was a little more noisy than most.

  I talked at the reception desk, talked some more at the third floor. A nurse with a poker face led me into a small ward. I spotted the bull reading a newspaper, half the way down. There were screens around some of the beds—and the nurse stopped at the foot of one.