Long Live the Dead

by Hugh B. Cave

  “Got ya!” The Nut wheezed.

  Utterly amazed, Dougherty gaped at him. “What the devil! Get on about your business, you crazy drunk, or I’ll run you in!”

  The Nut struck an attitude and sidled closer to paw at Steve’s sleeve. “Listen,” he whispered confidentially. “I’m bein’ followed!”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m bein’ followed, I tell ya!”

  Dougherty’s handsome, boyish face lost its shape in a black scowl. “By who?” he demanded.

  “I dunno. Only I’m bein’ shadowed. I been hearin’ footsteps behind me. Ya gotta do somethin’ about it. I gotta have protection!”

  “You’re drunk!” Dougherty growled. He didn’t know The Nut never touched alcohol.

  “I ain’t!”

  “Well, get on about your business. Be off with you!”

  The Nut grinned. His shoes scuffed the sidewalk as he delivered a knockout punch to an imaginary opponent. “Got ya!” he yelped triumphantly and then, waddling like a duck again, continued on his way.

  Steve Dougherty scowled after him and did some pondering. “Followed, huh?” he mused. “Now I wonder what …”

  But Dougherty was a rookie. How could he know that Tiny Tim was always being followed—that for years The Nut had been hearing footsteps and demanding protection from invisible pursuers.

  Dougherty discovered the theft about fifteen minutes later when, hiking down Harrison Street, he saw that the door of Angelo DiConti’s store was open. It had been locked the last time he walked past it.

  Using his flashlight, he entered to look around and instantly spotted the safe in the corner, behind the counter. The safe door had been hacked off its hinges. Watches, jeweler’s tools and cheap junk of every description lay strewn about on the floor.

  Dougherty remembered something. A while ago, when he had come on to relieve Bill Gilson, Gilson had said, “Keep an eye on DiConti’s Jewelry Store tonight. He says he’s got some valuable rings in the safe.”

  There were no rings in the junk on the floor. Apparently the thief had pulled the junk out in order to get at the rings.

  Dougherty shut the store door behind him and hurried to the nearest call-box. He was just finishing his call when Joe Lenehan, the lad who cleaned up the Eagle Pool Room after hours, came skidding around the corner from Rigney Street and began yowling at him.

  “It’s The Nut! He fell down the subway stairs! I think he’s croaked!”

  Dougherty hesitated. By rights he should stay where he was and keep an eye on the looted store until men from Headquarters arrived. But the subway wasn’t far distant.

  “All right,” Dougherty said, and followed him.

  Tiny Tim Winters would be pursued no more. His pitifully frail body lay in a crumpled heap in the gloom of the subway entrance, at the foot of the first flight of steps. Dougherty saw

  that he was dead.

  Apparently he had fallen down the steps.

  There was blood at the corners of his mouth, and both of his spindle legs seemed to be broken, and he was dead. Dougherty carried him up the steps and around the corner to DiConti’s store, where a police car at the curb was disgorging men.

  One of the men was Matt Carney, of the Detective Division, who knew all about Tiny Tim. To him Dougherty told the whole of it.

  “Followed?” Carney said, with hands on hips and a grin spreading. “The Nut—followed? Sure, sure. You want to look into that, mister. That may be the key to the whole situation.”

  The others laughed, and Dougherty didn’t understand their laughter. He flushed a little because he was sensitive. But being more bewildered than sensitive, he kept his peace.

  Carney and the others trooped into the store and looked the place over, but it was Dougherty who picked up one of the watches on the floor and said, “It happened at ten minutes to one.”

  “Huh?” said Carney.

  There was a tag attached to the watch, and Dougherty read it aloud. “‘Clean. Adjust stem. Mrs. Haggerty. Two dollars.’ And look,” Dougherty said. “It’s marked O.K. That means it was running. It stopped when the thief dropped it.”

  He turned to peer out at the sidewalk, where lay the body of The Nut. Ten minutes to one, eh? After that, the thief had looted the safe, which must have used up five or ten minutes more. And then Tiny Tim had come weaving around the corner just after talking to Steve Dougherty at one o’clock.

  “Maybe he saw the thief,” Dougherty said, pointing.

  Carney and the others laughed. “Now that is a possibility,” Carney said, grinning. “Too bad he can’t tell us. Tiny Tim was a real smart character.”

  Dougherty felt a little foolish and resented the jeers of his companions, but again kept his peace. After the others had finished their investigating and gone away, though, he did some heavy thinking.

  Matt Carney made the DiConti case very interesting by accusing DiConti himself. It was open and shut, said Matt. “Listen. Weeks go by and there ain’t a thing in that store worth stealing. Then DiConti buys a fistful of diamond rings from a pawnbroker uptown who needs money, and what happens? Thieves break into the store.”

  DiConti wailed his protests. To be sure, the stuff in his store was insured against theft. He admitted that. But why would be steal it? Was he not an honest man?

  “Listen,” said Carney. “No one else but you even knew the rings were in the store.”

  “That is not true! Solly Minkler, who sold me the rings, he knew I had them. And so did Officer Gilson, to whom I said, ‘Please keep a careful watch over my store tonight!’ ”

  Without tangible evidence Carney could make no arrests. He concentrated on the task of locating the stolen jewelry.

  About that time, Steve Dougherty, who did not know that The Nut had always been followed, arrived at certain grave conclusions and went to work. He first asked questions concerning the reputation of Officer Gilson and learned that Gilson’s record was of the finest. Then one afternoon when off duty and out of uniform, he strolled to the pawn shop of Solly Minkler.

  It was a grimy little store and Solly Minkler was a grimy little character with small, wide-awake eyes and a shrill voice. Dougherty took some long looks at Minkler and bought a second-hand camera.

  “My name’s Anderson. I got something maybe you’d like to buy,” said Steve Dougherty.

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Well, I got a friend who knows the fight game, see? Me, I ain’t interested in the fights much, but this friend of mine, he owns a collection of pictures that’s supposed to be worth real dough. Maybe you’d be interested?”

  It was not a blind stab in the dark. A number of old-time fight pictures hung on the walls of the shop, and dozens of dog-eared, sporty lithographs were stacked in a corner.

  “Whatta ya mean, real dough?” Minkler demanded suspiciously.

  “Well, they ain’t junk like these. They’re real.”

  Minkler hesitated, rubbing his chin. “We-e-ll, sometimes I buy stuff like that. You bring ’em in Friday when Jake’s here. I wouldn’t buy no fight pictures without Jake’s approval.”

  Having no friend who owned a collection of fight pictures, Steve spent the rest of the afternoon in second-hand bookstores acquiring a collection, and went that evening to Johnson’s Gymnasium.

  “You remember Tiny Tim Winters?”

  “The Nut? Sure I do!” said Johnson.

  “He was pretty good once, wasn’t he?”

  “Sure. He fought some good fights in his day.”

  “Well,” Dougherty said, “I want to get a picture of him in his fightin’ clothes. You know—for a collection.”

  Amused, Johnson took a dusty one from the wall and gave it to Steve.

  Friday morning Steve strolled again into Solly Minkler’s hock shop. “I brought the prints,” he said.

  “Yeah?” said Solly dubiously. “Let’s have a look at ’em.”

  Dougherty spread a dozen large, good prints on the counter. There were lithographs of famous
fights and fighters—Cribbs, Sayers, Mace of the old-timers, John L., Jeffries, Jack Johnson and others. “Worth dough, eh?” he said hopefully.

  Solly Minkler examined them, then walked to the rear of the store and opened a door. “Jake!” he called. “I want you should look at some fight pictures for me!”

  A large individual with cauliflower ears came and looked at the pictures. He seemed impressed until he bent closer to examine one marked Kid McCoy. Then he frowned at Dougherty and expelled a prodigious guffaw.

  “McCoy!” he bellowed. “Would you look at who the sap thinks is McCoy!”

  “What’s the matter?” Dougherty mumbled.

  “What the matter? This here ain’t Kid McCoy, sap! This is Goofy Tim Winters. Who in hell wants a picture of him?” “There must be some mistake,” Dougherty faltered. “McCoy!” Jake choked. “Tryin’ to pass The Nut off as

  McCoy! G’wan, scram!” Dougherty looked scared. He meant to look scared. Hastily snatching the bundle of prints, he hurried to the door.

  Half an hour later, when the man named Jake came out of Solly Minkler’s store, a shadow straightened in a doorway across the street and moved along in stride with him. The shadow was Steve Dougherty and the rookie, despite his size, shadowed well.

  I tell you,” Carney declared, “DiConti is guilty as hell. Look. He buys those rings and puts ’em in his safe. He tells Gilson to keep an eye on the place, when he knows Gilson won’t be walking that tour after six P.M.

  Then what? The thief got into the store without any trouble because he had a key. As for bustin’ the safe open, of course he busted it open! He had to, to make the job look real. We didn’t find any fingerprints on that safe, though, did we? None but DiConti’s!”

  It looked very bad for Mr. DiConti, but DiConti himself was still wailing his innocence. And Carney still had no proof.

  Meanwhile, Matt Carney heard something. Heard it first from Murray Saunders, who ran the Eagle Pool Room, and later from others along Harrison Street.

  “Sa-a-ay, Carney. What do you know about that new cop, Dougherty?”

  Carney grinned. “Dougherty? Ha! The dumb rookie is still tryin’ to find out who was shadowin’ The Nut that night!”

  “Yeah, but listen. He’s no sap. He may be drawin’ a rookie’s pay but he knows how to get more.”

  It seemed inconceivable, of course, but Carney discreetly checked around and discovered it was true. Despite his faults, Carney was honest. It grieved him to learn that Steve Dougherty, for a price, was willing to overlook some of the things that went on around Harrison Street.

  “Listen, kid,” and the frown on Carney’s face had roots that ran deep, “what’s this I hear about you drawin’ extra pay? Are they kiddin’ me or is it true?”

  Dougherty shrugged his shoulders. “Sure it’s true. All cops do it, don’t they?”

  “Not in this department they don’t!”

  “Well, I’m gettin’ what I can.”

  Carney could have gone to those higher up, but didn’t. The kid was up to something, he told himself.

  He wasn’t there, though, when Steve Dougherty put through the important phone call. Steve was off duty that afternoon when he telephoned the pawn-shop of Solly Minkler. Minkler’s high voice answered.

  “Listen, Solly,” Dougherty said, his mouth close to the phone and his voice pitched low. “This is Whitey.”

  It had taken many days of cautious inquiry to unearth the fact that a Mr. Whitey Reynolds and the man named Jake—whose other name was Bartell—were Solly Minkler’s two closest associates. Such things are not easily learned.

  This afternoon, more than two hours ago, Whitey Reynolds had boarded a train for Albany. Dougherty had watched him depart.

  It was now or never.

  “This is Whitey,” Dougherty mumbled. “Listen. I ain’t left

  town yet. By accident I heard something and I been checkin’

  up—and what I heard is true.”

  Solly Minkler listened most attentively.

  Steve Dougherty stayed at home that evening. Home was a small, tidy two-room apartment on Beecher Street, just around the corner from Police Headquarters.

  Dougherty did a lot of other things while staying home, but when the phone rang he was at ease in his shirt-sleeves, stockinged feet propped on a chair, and a newspaper in his lap. Without disturbing himself he reached for the phone.

  “Is this Steve Dougherty?” It was the voice of Jake Bartell.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’d like to have a talk with you. In person, I mean.

  You gonna be home this evening?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I’ll drop around. The name’s Bartell. O.K.?”

  “O.K.,” Dougherty said.

  Bartell arrived about twenty minutes later, alone. He knocked, and Dougherty shouted, “Come in. Door’s unlocked. I figured you’d be around eventually.”

  Bartell didn’t take a chair right away. He looked around first and seemed to think he might find something to justify the suspicions that were obviously gnawing him. He glanced through the open door to the bedroom and said, “I just gotta make sure, buddy.” His right hand stayed in his pocket all that time, and when he came back to the table Dougherty said, “Take it easy. I don’t bite.”

  “This joint is too near Police Headquarters to suit me,”

  Bartell muttered. “Anyhow, I guess you know why I got the jitters. I only found out today that—” His eyes widened.

  “Sa—a-ay! Ain’t you the guy that brought in the pictures?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then there’s somethin’ screwy here! I was a sap to come here!”

  “Take it easy,” Dougherty said softly. “You’ll be a bigger sap if you walk out. The pictures were just an idea, see? Just to find out what you and Solly Minkler knew about the fight game.”

  Bartell sat down, but kept a hand in his pocket. Sweat glistened on his face and the corners of his mouth twitched. “What do you know?” he muttered.

  “I know it all.”

  “Yeah?” Bartell’s voice was not much more than a whisper. “Well, listen. You ain’t no sap, Dougherty. I been around, checkin’ up to find out what kind of a guy you are, and you ain’t no dumb cop. Anyhow, it wasn’t murder. The Nut was goofy, wasn’t he? He woulda croaked anyhow in a little while. It was an act of mercy, almost.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Now look, Dougherty. I ain’t no millionaire, but I got a little dough, see? I inquired around before I come up here, and the wise boys tell me you’re a regular guy. Even if you are a cop.”

  “I might listen to reason,” Dougherty said quietly.

  Bartell relaxed a little and seemed to gain confidence. Then with a crafty gleam in his narrowed eyes he said, “What makes you so sure I done it, anyway?”

  “You were seen,” Steve Dougherty lied.

  “Who seen it?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “Well, look. It coulda been an accident, that’s how easy I shoved him. So help me, I practically only slapped him on the back!”

  “But the stairs were steep, Bartell, and that made it murder.”

  “You can’t prove that!”

  “You had the motive.”

  “You can’t prove that, either!”

  “No? You’re forgetting that the police know exactly what time DiConti’s store was robbed. Between ten of one and one. And at one o’clock, or a few seconds after, Tim came walking around the corner, Bartell. So …”

  “I could twist that around to prove The Nut stole the stuff himself!”

  “He wasn’t the type, Bartell. It proves only one thing: The Nut happened along and recognized you. You were scared. You knew he’d talk.”

  Bartell’s lips were twitching again. “All right, all right. I said I’d pay you off, didn’t I? How much?”

  “I been wondering. Why should you dig down for the whole of it?”

  Bartell’s eyes narrowed. Apparently it
hadn’t occurred to him that he might pass part of the buck to someone else. “Yeah, why should I? Minkler thought up the idea. I done the job alone, but he gimme my instructions. Why should I take the rap?”

  “Who’s got the loot now?”

  “He has! All I got was a measly five hundred for doin’ the job!”

  “Well, how you handle Minkler is your own business,” Dougherty said. “I’ve got my end figured out, and I’ll give it to you straight.” His glance roved to Bartell’s hands, which were now in the open. “See this?” he said softly, standing up.

  Pushing the newspaper from his lap, he exposed a small electric switch in his hand.A cord snaked from it down behind the couch and under the carpet to a large wastebasket under the table. Dougherty pointed to the wastebasket.

  “There’s a dictaphone in that. I paid out ten dollars to rent it, so Police Headquarters could listen to you later.”

  Most coppers would have told Bartell about the dicta-phone after closing a cell door on him. Dougherty said later that he kept looking at Bartell’s big hands and kept remembering Tiny Tim Winters and, well, the desire to mangle that smug, fat face was just too much.

  Bartell gaped at the cord. The color ran from his smug, fat face like paint from a cracked cup. It took about five seconds for the truth to seep home. Then he reached for his gun.

  Steve Dougherty’s head and right shoulder caught him square in the chest at the end of a flying tackle. Bartell’s contorted body broke through the back of the chair and crashed to the floor.

  The gun stayed in Bartell’s pocket. He couldn’t get to it, so he used his fists instead, and they weren’t good enough.

  He knew the fight game from first-hand experience in the ring, and outweighed Steve Dougherty by thirty pounds. He used his knees, feet and elbows and even tried to get a grip with his teeth. But although he threw all he had into every effort, fair and foul, it wasn’t enough.

  Dougherty said later he just kept thinking he was Tiny Tim Winters getting even. He kept remembering that small, broken body at the foot of the subway steps.

  He rid himself of that memory with blows that put Jake Bartell on ice. Then in his boyish exuberance he yelled at the unconscious Jake while he waited for Carney to answer his call to Headquarters.