The Noir Mystery MEGAPACK ™: 25 Modern and Classic Mysteries

by Joseph J. Millard

* * * *

  I must have dozed off and when I came to I realized how hungry I was. After a quick bite at one of the eateries in the arcade attached to the hotel I decided to take a leisurely stroll up the main thoroughfare, stopping for junk food desserts at a couple of kiosks and finishing up at the wax museum. She always loved that place. It absolutely amazed her, the craftsmanship of the entire affair. How she used to marvel at the rich and famous, captured by wax and tool, frozen in time and place, for the entertainment of seeking and searching eyes that would never actually view their flesh and blood counterparts. I felt her elbow in my ribs the evening she asked me when I thought we’d be looking at her likeness. We both had a great big laugh over that one.

  And that’s why I killed him.

  What else is there to do to someone who puts out the kind of light she had within her?

  * * * *

  I found myself at the top of the long busy hill, the street filled with visitors and honeymooners from who knows where and staying for who cares how long. It was beginning to drop dark and the familiar pall began surrounding me with its usual solemnity, even with the lights and hubbub of the crowd demanding my attention. I had learned long ago how to ignore demands of any kind from anyone. My father had taught me that. “A man’s attention comes at a price” he used to bark. “And that price varies with the worth of the man.” Needless to say, he considered himself “priceless” and very rarely let anyone capture his full attention for any appreciable length of time.

  I found an empty bench and took a seat, lit a cigarette and squinted through the column of smoke lazily lifting itself heavenward as I replayed the familiar facts of the situation yet again.

  We had met here, she and I, and had to steal what meaningful moments we could in-between her daily commitments; and they were considerable and non-negotiable. But find them we did, and enjoy them, we most certainly did, as often as her schedule and our ingenuity allowed. It was arguably the greatest and most fulfilling month of my entire young life. We shared a bond unlike any we would ever have with any other person. And yet, for different reasons, neither of us even knew each other’s real names.

  * * * *

  The air was getting cooler now and the crowds were beginning to thin out some, but I couldn’t seem to find the energy to get up and go on back to the room.

  That room, with its manacling memories, was my master. It had been that way since the day I’d found the note. Just like a scene from a movie, she’d left a pale pink envelope on my pillow just before she’d up and left town without so much as even a hint of a warning. I’d gone out for a local paper and planned on reading it over a cup of coffee in the room. I knew she’d be out until late because of her work. When I opened the door, there it was, center stage on the bed that had been carefully made by the early morning cleaning crew. I quickly scanned the room for any hint of her lingering presence. There was none except for the faint aroma of perfume on the envelope and the lipsticked-kiss on its underside. Not only the air in my lungs, but the energy of my entire life itself, seemed to sigh out of me as I lay back on her pillow, snatched up the letter and then began to read its contents.

  Apart from the usual and expected pledge of love, she shared a very real and urgent fear for her life. The note, apparently scrawled very quickly, intimated that she had inadvertently become involved with some rather unsavory characters. It had become clear to her that in their collective mind she was possessed of information potentially damaging to their business and political interests. I considered the idea preposterous of course, but also found it difficult to believe that she would deliberately concoct such a tale. What possible motive would she have? And why share the information with me? But, as I said, I could think of absolutely no reason why anyone would want to wish her physical harm. In my mind she was simply no threat to anyone nor anything.

  * * * *

  I folded my arms over myself and squeezed. I found my eyes filling up once again at the memory, and after all these years. I looked out at the lights of the city shimmering in the darkness, like so many beacons of hope promising a better and brighter day that never seemed to arrive. I was a prisoner in self-imposed isolation from life and really living it. I owned only a month. One month that brought love into my young heart, and, eventually, murder. Here I was, some sixty years later, still stubbornly stuck in the past, clutching at a memory as ethereal as the smoke from the dying embers of my cigarette.

  * * * *

  And so I watched and waited, and matured and mated, and took on all the trappings of life as it’s normally supposed to be lived. But always, in the inner recesses of my mind, the contents of that note remained. And the name. “Sal Lombino,” she’d written. “If anyone is ever involved in any violence toward me, it will be him.”

  * * * *

  I learned the trade and did my part in the family concern without too much anxiety over her. After all, it had been almost a decade by that time, without even a hint of her suspicions and fears having even a remote possibility of being fulfilled. We’d gone our separate ways, with no bitterness on either of our parts. I had kept abreast of the important facts of her life, including her failed marriages and work success. But for the most part, she drifted into the background of my mind as I sought to live my life without her, pouring all of my energy into “making it” according to the common definition of the term in corporate America.

  But all of that changed the day I read about her death, almost ten years after our brief encounter. The various stories were so conflicted that I eventually hired my own private investigator, to no avail, it seemed. The contents of her note now stood out in bold relief in the very forefront of my mind. I began to do my own investigating, primarily into the life and times of Sal Lombino. It wasn’t long before I finally had enough material to connect the dots in a series of events and innuendos that did, in fact, involve his business and political associates. I came to the very sad and sobering conclusion that she had, indeed, died at the hands of someone in Sal’s employ.

  * * * *

  It’s difficult to describe the process that takes you out of your comfort zone and catapults you into another life altogether. But it happens, usually without your permission. At least that was my experience. I knew that I had to acquire retribution for her and closure for myself. And I also knew that that meant my becoming involved in a degree of violence I’d previously known only from motion pictures and television dramas.

  Due to the fact that some of our business connections occasionally intersected in various ways, I was able to get closer to Sal’s life than the average uninvited individual.

  I arranged a meeting with him at his private office uptown. That entire evening was surreal beginning with the unlocked door at the front of the gaudy affair he called home, to the opened, inner office of his private place of self-employment. He was completely alone in the imposing domicile.

  He wore a satin smoking jacket, a ring on every finger and a gold chain around his flabby neck, sparkling as it lay nestled among his graying chest hair. His salt and pepper hair was a close-cropped crew cut. As he stood to greet me, he resembled a crude caricature of a Hollywood agent. He opened a cigar box next to his desk blotter and lifted one of Cuba’s finest out and toward me. I declined, his smile faded and he motioned for me to sit down. I gladly complied.

  “So, it’s been a long time, eh Boy? What’s up?”

  I slid the slightly worn envelope across the desk to him. His pudgy fingers opened it and he tilted it toward the light from his green and gold desk lamp. Presently, he sighed and slapped the contents down on his desk. He squinted as he pierced me with cold, dark eyes containing the warmth of century-old marbles.

  “You kidding? Me? Seriously, I’m supposed to be involved with some frail’s death?”

  My inarticulate reply was the report of the .38 Colt Detective Special which I fired direc
tly into his forehead. He went suddenly slack-jawed, eyes wide and instantly bereft of either anger or attempted intimidation. A halo of smoke and the odor of cordite surrounded him like the spray from the Falls you feel as you pass under them on one of the scenic boat tours.

  But that was Chicago, not Canada. And it was ten years after my month in heaven with her, now, some fifty years in the past.

  * * * *

  I lay for quite awhile atop the spread on the bed we’d shared sixty odd years ago. I clasped my hands behind my head and stared vacantly at the night sky beyond the window. Tomorrow, this August fifth would become yet another bead on the string of consecutive yearly trips to this haven of hospitality, this monument to lovers seeking to seal their vows with a honeymoon spent at true love’s ultimate cliché.

  I ordered room service and lingered over a breakfast shared with her, at least the “her” of my brightest and best recollection. Kisses warm and sweet, the embrace of her lush body and the sharing of an emotional bond I would never even come close to duplicating with another woman, filled my mind. And then I knew I could return to the present, at least for one more year.

  * * * *

  The corridor was cool and quiet and I nodded with appreciation at the black and white photos on display in the hallway as I wheeled my suitcase to the elevator. Yet another blast of air conditioning greeted me as the doors opened and I approached the registration area of the hotel’s well-appointed foyer.

  The same young lady from yesterday afternoon was at the desk and smiled warmly as I slid my room key across the counter.

  “Sleep well?” she asked.

  “About the same as usual” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

  She wrinkled her nose, looked quickly back and forth and then leaned toward me and whispered, “You know Marilyn Monroe stayed in Room 801 when she was here filming ‘Niagara’ back in 1953.”

  “You don’t say? Why, I guess I was nearly twenty years old back then,” I responded with a smile.

  She continued. “That room’s still an attraction after nearly sixty years.”

  I offered, “My father was slightly acquainted with her back in those days if I recall.”

  Her eyes widened with interest and then she added, “You may have noticed that the hotel has candid photographs of her mounted on the walls in the hallway leading to her room. She was born June 1st, 1926 and died August 5th, 1962. Imagine, she only lived for thirty six years and yet they reckon there was never anyone just like her.”

  I signed the bill as I responded, “No I suppose not.”

  Then the sweet young thing took my key and room charge slip. Her eyes twinkled as she said, “Have a wonderful day, Mr. Lombino.”

  NO LIVING WITNESS, by Emile C. Tepperman

  Originally published in Secret Agent X, June 1934.

  Cronin jabbed his automatic in the man’s stomach. The street, close to the water front, was dimly lit, deserted at night. Cronin’s thick upper lip curled back mercilessly from discolored teeth.

  “Stand still, guy. Don’t raise your hands—just keep ‘em where they are. Only don’t make no funny moves, see?” He accompanied the admonition with a jab of the gun.

  The victim was short, lean, and hard-featured. He evidently knew all about what a Colt can do to your insides if it’s fired with the muzzle against your stomach. For he stopped perfectly still.

  “If this is a holdup, you can have my dough. There’s a ten dollar bill in my pants pocket.”

  “That’s all I need,” said Cronin. “Turn around.”

  The other turned, very carefully.

  Cronin dug his hand into the man’s pocket and dragged out the ten dollar bill, keeping the gun handy. He pocketed the bill, and suddenly his big ham-like arm encircled the little man from behind. He almost lifted him off his feet, and whispered in his ear, “I’m gonna knock you off, fella. Jake Cronin never leaves a living witness!”

  The lean man squirmed, his hands clawing at the implacable arm about his neck. He tried to talk, but only a hoarse cackle gurgled out of his larynx.

  Cronin’s eyes glittered with killer’s lust. He gloated, his lips close to the other’s ear. “In case it makes you feel better, you ain’t bein’ rubbed out by any ordinary stickup. I’m the guy that pulled the Associated Jewelers job. That was a fifty grand haul. I just gotta have some spending money till the fence comes through with the dough for the swag.”

  The little fellow’s face was purpling. He raised his heels in the air and drummed frantically at Cronin’s shins. The sudden pain of the kicking heels drew an oath from the killer’s lips. His arm tightened viciously. There was a ghastly crunching snap, and the little man ceased struggling. Cronin expelled his breath in a wheeze and dropped the inert body. It sprawled slackly on the pavement, the head tilted back at a gruesome angle.

  The man was dead, all right. Cronin knew a broken neck when he saw one. Stooping, he started to go through the dead man’s pockets. There was an interesting bulge under the vest. But he was interrupted. Hard heels turned the far corner of the block, and he recognized the figure that passed under the street lamp. It was Detective Sergeant Pell.

  Cronin cursed and melted into the doorway from which he had ambushed his victim. He felt his way through a black hallway, out into a back yard, over a fence and into an alley that led to the street beyond. As he emerged, he heard the blast of a police whistle. He grinned. That would be Pell, finding the body. Well, let him find it. They’d have to chalk up another murder to the unknown “Strangler’s” account

  He strode swiftly away. A few blocks west he pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and entered a drug store. He bought a couple of packages of cigarettes, changed the ten dollar bill, and went into a phone booth. He dialed 211 and, when he got the long distance operator, he asked for a Chicago number. He got his connection, and a thin, rasping voice said, “Hello.”

  “This is—you know who,” said Cronin, “callin’ from New York.”

  “Gott!” said the voice. “Not Cro—”

  “Shut up, you fool! You want to advertise it? It’s bad enough I had to call you up. I was sick and tired of hiding out in that stinking boarding house room for five days. And no dough. When I gave you them sparklers, you promised to send me the cash as soon as you got back to Chi. Well, where is it?”

  The voice shrilled despairingly. “Gott! Don’t yell like that! I told you it might take me a couple of days to raise the money. That’s why you held out two of the stones. You were going to pawn them, no?”

  “Yes, and all the hock shops were wised up. I couldn’t take a chance. If the cops caught on I was in New York, they’d figure me sure for that job. I’m supposed to be up in the mountains. I had to go out and get me some spending money on the q. t. tonight. So well where’s the dough?”

  The operator broke in. “Your time is up, deposit ninety cents for one minute more, sir.”

  Cronin thumbed three quarters, a dime and a nickel into the slots, and heard the other saying, “I raised twenty grand for that stuff this morning, and sent it with a guy named Gadwin. He’s flying to New York—started early this morning. He should be there by now. Hurry up back and you’ll maybe meet him.”

  “You sure you gave this guy Gadwin my right address, Dutchy?”

  “Yes, yes. The right address he’s got written down, with that phony name you’re using.”

  “Okay,” said Cronin. “I hope you ain’t stringin’ me, Dutchy. If you are—”

  He hung up and strode out, keeping his hat brim low.

  With the change of his ten dollar bill, he stepped into a lunch wagon and downed a plate of ham and eggs, two cups of coffee, and a cut of apple pie. He bought a newspaper and a fifteen-cent cigar, and strolled back to his rooming house.

  Two-thirty-one Ellery Street, where he was temporarily stoppin
g under the name of Jonas, was one of a row of bedraggled, crumbling four-story houses not far from the water front. Each one sported an eight-step stoop and a “furnished room” sign.

  With his usual caution, he surveyed the street from the doorway of the corner store, and seeing that it was clear, walked swiftly to number two-thirty-one and ascended the stoop. He stepped into the dark hallway and stopped, motionless, his hand arrested in mid-air toward the shoulder clip where his automatic rested.

  The powerful beam of a flashlight caught him full in the eyes. A moment later the hall light was switched on, the flashlight off, and his blinking eyes discerned Detective Sergeant Pell, covering him with a very steady thirty-eight.

  “W-what’s the big idea?” he mumbled. Sergeant Pell was grim, the bleakness of his face denying the levity of his words. “Well, look who’s here! If it ain’t Jake Cronin in the flesh! And here I was thinking you were far away in the mountains!” While he talked, he frisked him deftly, and took the automatic.

  “How’d you know I was here?” Cronin asked, dry-mouthed.

  “Just an accident, Jake, just an accident. I wasn’t looking for you. But now I know you’re in town, I’m beginning to get ideas about that Associated Jewelers holdup, Monday, where the girl cashier was killed. Looks just like it might be one of your jobs. Let’s go up to your room and kind of glance it over.”

  Cronin felt a thick sensation in his chest as he led the way upstairs with Pell’s gun an inch from his spine. The two diamonds he had held out were pasted to the bottom of the bureau drawer in his room. A good place to hide them from the landlady or a casual visitor, but they would never escape Pell’s practiced search.

  “How—how did you find this joint?” he demanded again, over his shoulder.

  “It’s funny about that,” said Pell. “I wasn’t looking for you at all. I was looking for a bird named Jonas. You see, I ran into a guy with a broken neck down by the water front. He had a wallet pinned under his vest. In the wallet was twenty thousand berries in big bills, and a card with a name written on it—Jonas, two-thirty-one Ellery Street. So I moseyed over, looking for Jonas, and who comes walking in behind me but Jake Cronin!”