Green Ice

by Raoul Whitfield

  I started to speak, changed my mind. The funeral car was running over a rougher road now. It was making more noise.

  “Carrie and me—we were wise, all right. We worked with Herb—he went for your bag. The big stuff wasn’t there. Herb figured maybe you’d gone copper—you was working with the bull Donelly. He made us duck to Pittsburgh, but we fed that fat landlady a number. You worked fast, Ourney—damned if you didn’t. Wired that grafter Butman that we had some of the Malendez haul. He came over and raised hell. Carrie had the stuff—she laughed at him. He went back to the Widow’s place and took it out on her.”

  “Why, Virgie?” I cut in. “Why’d he take it out on her?”

  Her voice was pitched high, but the driver was separated from us by a partition of glass. And the car was running fast.

  “You don’t know!” she mocked. “You don’t know—the hell you don’t! You knew the Widow was Carrie’s sister. You knew that grafter Butman took her to Pittsburgh after he got on the bull force. And when she told him she didn’t know anything about Carrie having green stones, he went hunky. He grabbed a knife—”

  Her voice broke. I was staring toward the back of the driver’s head. We weren’t so far from Furnaceville now.

  “Who got him?” I interrupted.

  She shifted around in the seat. She got the gun muzzle raised a little.

  “It won’t hurt you to know,” she said. “It won’t hurt you to know anything. There’s just one out for you. Carrie got to two coppers who wanted him out. They figured he was taking you for a ride. They put out red lanterns—and when the car stopped they let him have a Tommy load. Then they steered the reporters off. They’re still doing it.”

  I smiled grimly. I’d thought I was getting the women clear—out of the house before Butman got to them. And Carrie Donner had already fixed it for him. The Widow had been her sister—that meant the Widow had been Wirt Donner’s sister, too. And when she’d refused to work on Carrie—and get the stones for Butman—he’d knifed her.

  “He must have been hitting the booze,” I muttered.

  Virgie Beers laughed nastily. “He was always doing that,” she said. “The bulls under him hated him—he was a dirty grafter.”

  I nodded. My eyes met her narrowed ones.

  “I didn’t send him any wire,” I told her. “Maybe he just was suspicious—and went over. He knew the Malendez job had been worked—he knew Wirt Donner had been in stir—”

  She laughed at me. Her mouth was working a lot, and she didn’t look nice. Her face was all splotchy.

  “You tagged us—and we played along. Carrie figured you had the big stones—you were working a stall. I wanted to stop it. Herb came out and you walked in on the three of us. We were trying to figure things. You got Herb by the throat, and Carrie let go. She missed you—”

  Her voice broke again. I didn’t speak. Her voice was hard when she started again. Hard and steadier.

  “We had to leave Herb and make a getaway. You had some of the mob down below. They tailed us. We split, in the hotel—Carrie had the small stones. I got out the back way, and I could hear the lead pounding, two blocks off. Goddam you, Ourney—”

  “Steady,” I said as her voice started to shrill. “You’re messing things up. I wasn’t in on that—”

  “Don’t crawl!” she shrilled. “You got the little stuff—hogging it all—”

  “Christenson got it,” I said. “His mob finished Carrie. He came to me, tried to plant the stuff. He sent in two dicks to get it on me. It didn’t work. He figured like you—that I had the big stuff.”

  She laughed hysterically. She was rocking a little, beside me. The gun muzzle wasn’t steady, but it was close. Too close.

  “You’re yellow, Ourney!” she stated. “You worked with Tip—don’t I know it? And you’ll get the dose with him—don’t I know that?”

  I leaned forward and tried to figure an out. I knew Virgie’s story was straight enough. Only two things were wrong. I hadn’t sent the wire to Butman—he’d just gone next door and made a good guess. Good—and bad. Bad for him. And I hadn’t been working with Tip Christenson. Two mobs, fighting for emeralds that were worth big money—with me in between. And Virgie’s show ahead. I looked toward the back of the driver’s head.

  “You’ve got me wrong, Virgie,” I told her. “I was playing fair—trying to get at the big guys. I’ll admit that. You’ll be rubbing me out for that—nothing else.”

  She swore harshly. “You’re a yellow liar,” she said. “I told you there was an out—there is. You didn’t get Herb—that’s why. You can split with me. Me alone. All of the stuff. Big and little. That’s the out.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve never seen the big stones,” I said. “I had the little ones—someone grabbed them from my room last night.”

  She leaned back. I looked at her. There was a terrible smile on her splotched face. She coughed, and her thin body shook a lot. She rolled down the window on her side and tossed Phil’s rod out. She got her body shoved into the corner opposite mine, with her gun muzzle toward my stomach.

  “Don’t try to grab this rod,” she warned. “You’re through, Ourney.”

  My mouth felt pretty bad. Dry. I tried to smile, but it wasn’t much good. The driver turned, tapped on the glass. He couldn’t see below our shoulders—the window glass was high. He pointed ahead.

  We were running along near the Furnaceville Cemetery. The town was a few miles beyond. Ahead, some cars were moving; they were turning off the road, going slowly. There was the hearse. Then came three open cars, packed with flowers. Sedans followed—I counted four of them before Virgie spoke.

  The driver had shoved aside the sliding window behind him. He looked toward Virgie.

  “Follow in—keep a hundred yards back of the last car,” she said.

  He nodded, closed the window, slowed down. The last car turned in; I looked at the cemetery. It was pretty bad. Overgrown—gravestones slanting at angles. The road through it looked rough. The cars ahead were moving very slowly.

  The driver pulled our car off to one side. Virgie told me to pull up the curtain on my side. I did. She was smiling bitterly as I turned my eyes toward an open grave, across a plot of grass. The cars had all stopped behind the hearse. Seconds passed. Then I could see men from the funeral parlor carrying the casket toward the grave. A minister followed.

  Virgie said quietly: “Get out, Ourney.”

  I looked at her. Her eyes were narrowed and shining a little. I looked at her gun.

  “Don’t do it—Virgie,” I said unsteadily.

  “Get out, Ourney!” she repeated. Her voice was pitched higher.

  I opened the door, got out. Other car doors were opening. Oval Face got out of the first one—the one that followed the last flower car. One man got out of a second car. Two men got out of the third. A minister was leaving the fourth. The oval-faced girl was in black; I didn’t recognize any of the men. And then I saw Christenson, stepping clear of the second car.

  One of the flower cars had pulled out of line. The fourth car pulled over near it. Men got out, went toward the hearse. They looked like the funeral-parlor men. They were moving the casket out now, taking it toward the open grave.

  Virgie’s voice sounded loudly. “The second car—Christenson!”

  The oval-faced girl swung around. Her slim body was tense. Flowers spilled upward and outward from the flower car that had pulled out of line. Men rose, lifted Thompsons. There were two of them working the guns now.

  I shouted toward the oval-faced girl, hoarsely: “Get—down!”

  I was on my knees as the bullets tore into the second car. Dirt splattered near my right shoulder, splattered again near my head. It wasn’t machine-gun bullets that kicked up the dirt—Virgie was letting go. I heard one of the sharp cracks from the car I’d ridden in.

  Twisting my head, I saw Christenson stagger, near the second car. He ran several feet—turned, faced the flower car. The three other men whirled, swung up guns. Sub
-caliber guns. Christenson went down, was motionless. Two of his companions went down. The other was spraying lead toward the flower car. He did it for several seconds—then he dropped his gun, slumped to the earth.

  Two cars came in through the gate—traveling fast. I twisted my head, saw them slow up. Men piled out of them. I caught a glimpse of Mike Donelly.

  “Dicks,” I muttered. “Donelly—coming in—”

  The flower car was getting under way. It circled around the open grave, cut in toward the cemetery gate. Donelly’s voice reached me.

  “Low—let ’em—have it!”

  Donelly’s men turned loose their lead. I was out of line of the fire, but I could see things pretty well. It didn’t last long. The funeral flower car shot off at an angle, stopped abruptly. A figure stood up, shouted something hoarsely, slumped back into the flowers.

  I waited a few seconds, pulled myself to my knees. The oval-faced girl was lying fifty feet away. I could hear Donelly telling his men to get in close, but to watch themselves. I got up and went over to the girl who had called herself Jeanette Ramone. She was unconscious, but she moaned a little when I lifted her head. I got my coat under her—went back toward the car Virgie and I had ridden in.

  She was lying back in the seat—a smile on her face. Her right-hand fingers held the gun—very loosely. I took it away from her. There was red over her left breast—her dress was opened. Two stones were on the seat beside her. Three were spilled on the floor of the car. They were big, beautifully cut—a rich green.

  “Got—off?” she said weakly. “I hope—to Christ—Tip—didn’t. He was—your—big guy—Ourney—”

  I said slowly: “He didn’t, Virgie. You had—the stones all the time?”

  She shook her head. “No—good,” she said very weakly. “I don’t—know who—”

  She stopped speaking and turned her head to one side, away from me. I thought she’d gone out, but she spoke again. She said in a whisper: “Herb—”

  When I touched her left wrist there was no pulse. I left the green stones where they were, went away from the car. The driver was standing ten feet away, talking to himself.

  “Jeez!” he was saying. “Jeez!”

  He kept repeating the word as I went past him. Donelly was bending over Christenson. He straightened as I came up.

  “Dead,” he said. “Tip Christenson—all shot up.”

  I nodded. “Virgie Beers’s party,” I told him. “Her boys, in the flower car. I don’t figure why—she’s got the emeralds beside her. Shot herself. All through.”

  Donelly swore softly. “It’s a big party,” he said. “Some of ’em aren’t dead—most of ’em are. A Tommy bullet hurts like hell.”

  I said again: “Virgie’s got the big ice—in her car. Why she staged this party—”

  He walked away from me, went toward Virgie’s car. The minister was leaning over, talking to the oval-faced girl. I went over and she smiled at me.

  “All right, Mal?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Chris is, too,” I told her. “He’s dead.”

  She shuddered, got her hands over her pale face. People were coming toward the plot of grass, the cars. They were running. Donelly came back with the green stones in his hand. He stood beside me.

  “Pretty as hell, this stuff is,” he muttered. “Five of ’em, eh?”

  I nodded. Donelly slipped them into a pocket. Men were crowding around asking questions. Donelly spoke to me.

  “You and the girl stick close, Ourney. I got work to do. Got to get some of these guns to the docs, so they can get well, get lawyers, and get out to use Tommies another time. Stick around.”

  He moved off, giving orders as he went. The oval-faced girl was crying. The minister looked at me with a stupid expression in his eyes.

  “It’s terrible,” he said in a stunned tone. “I can’t comprehend—and that poor soul—over there—”

  He gestured weakly toward the casket. I felt like swearing, but didn’t.

  “Herb’s all right,” I said grimly. “He’ll keep a few hours longer.”

  2

  We sat in my room at the Waldron—Donelly, Phil Dobe, and I. There was a little gin left in the glasses, none in the bottle. Five green stones rested on the table around which we’d pulled the chairs. Donelly looked at them and swore.

  “Pretty, pretty!” he said mockingly. “Beautiful, fused glass. Malendez wasn’t a complete sucker, at that.”

  Phil Dobe grinned. “When the Associated Press tapped out that dispatch from Puerto Colombia I got a big kick,” he said. “Christenson never figured Malendez would work in the glass stuff. Not after the way that baby spent coin in South America. He was a playboy.”

  Donelly grunted. “You can’t figure crooks—and you can’t figure suckers,” he said. “He had me fooled—leaving the money stones down there. Wise baby.”

  “It didn’t save his neck,” I reminded him. “They got him—Cherulli and the Mullens nigger.”

  Donelly swore softly. “And we’ve got her—in the big burg,” he said. “Couldn’t figure you for a while there, Ourney. Didn’t know which way you were going to jump. Figured that big guy chase of yours might be a stall.”

  I smiled. “The others did, too,” I said. “No one was sure who had the big stones. Virgie must have checked up, learned these hunks were fakes. So she played along—until Herb Steiner went out. She must have had it bad for him. She went a little off her head, I guess. That final show of hers was put on to get us. Christenson and me—and maybe you, Donelly. The oval-faced kid, too. And Virgie damn near put it across.”

  Donelly nodded. “Tip Christenson was a fool to show up,” he said. “But then, so were you, Ourney. And so was I. Virgie figured we’d be that way. Steiner didn’t rate a grand parade after his finish. He wasn’t such a little guy, but he wasn’t so big.”

  “Christenson wanted to get close to Virgie—that’s why he came,” I said. “He had an idea about putting on a funeral for Herb, too. He wanted to pull Virgie in. The oval-faced kid told me that—said he went out to make arrangements. But Virgie had one of her boys there first. And she used more money on the job.”

  Donelly grinned. “And I got the local bulls to let it go through, when I saw something queer was on the make,” he said. “Give me credit.”

  Phil Dobe swore. “We don’t have to,” he stated. “You’ll take most of it.”

  Donelly looked hurt. He narrowed his eyes on mine.

  “I handed you a bum line in here last night, Ourney,” he said. “I figured that if you knew why the funeral was being thrown, you’d come through to clear yourself, when I accused you. I said a lot of things that weren’t just right.”

  I nodded. “And you took away the small stones I stuck in the shaving cream,” I said.

  He grinned. “It was a nice hideaway,” he said. “But I came early and worked slowly. Those stones are real—I checked them. Who planted them on you?”

  “Christenson,” I replied. “Then he tipped the local bulls. He wanted them to get me right—and then he was going to make a trick offer to ease me out of a stiff rap if I told him where I’d planted the big ones.”

  Donelly nodded slowly. “I believe that,” he said. “Got any more stones?”

  “Just one,” I said. “I’ll contribute it to the collection. Phil had it appraised for me—and I didn’t shove it in the soap. What’s new at the morgue?”

  The New York dick frowned. “One of the boys with me went out,” he said. “Two of Christenson’s guns are dead. I don’t know ’em. A guy named Scheafer, working for Virgie in the flower car—he won’t use a Tommy again. The others’ll come through, including one of the funeral-parlor gents. That makes four dead.”

  I swore softly. “Dot Ellis, Cherulli, Malendez, Wirt Donner, Ben Garren, the Widow, Butman, Carrie Donner—”

  “For God’s sake, cut that stuff,” Donelly interrupted. “But Virgie gave it to you straight on Butman and the Widow. I had a hunch on that. You didn’t do so
damned much reforming, Ourney.”

  “I was after the big guys,” I said. “You don’t often get ’em, Donelly. You know that. They got Cherulli, right at the start. Maybe Cherulli was pretty big. Christenson wasn’t so small. We got him out. And Virgie Beers was buying men to use as guns. We stopped her. Both of ’em were crime-breeders.”

  Donelly finished his gin, yawned.

  “Yeah,” he said slowly.

  “How about the oval-faced kid?” I asked. “She helped Christenson try to frame me into telling something I didn’t know. But maybe she never got a break. Got much on her?”

  Donelly whistled softly. “Hell!” he said. His eyes narrowed on mine. “Her name’s Louise Sarden. She’s never been fingerprinted. You might come along to see Lentz. You helped us a lot—we were pretty far behind you at times. You might sob a little for her.”

  I nodded. “I might,” I told him. “She might learn to be decent. I think she’s got it in her. I sort of—like her.”

  Donelly smiled. He didn’t say anything. Phil Dobe poked one of the emerald cut pieces of green glass with a dirty finger.

  “Cold stuff,” he muttered.

  “Goddam cold,” Donelly said.

  I stared down at the fused glass, shook my head slowly.

  “Cold as—death,” I said.

  A man in the room next to mine was taking a bath and trying to make it easier by singing. Donelly scooped up the green stones and rose.

  “If I had a voice like that I’d never take a bath,” he muttered.

  I told him he had a voice like that. Phil Dobe shoved back his chair and said he was heading toward his lousy sheet.

  “There’ll be something in it tomorrow,” he said grimly.

  I told them I was going to bed. By the time they had reached the door I had my vest off. After a while I called a number and asked for Louise Sarden. While I was waiting to hear her voice I smoked a cigarette and wondered why in hell I was calling her. It was probably a bad sign. I’d felt that way when I’d put up the bail money for her. But I’d put it up.

  Her voice sounded tired.

  I said: “This is Mal Ourney. I’ve been up later than this. Can I come over?”