The Second Pulp Crime

by Mack Reynolds

  Donovan said “Sure you have.” He played with his fingers on the bare flesh of her thigh. He said, “I feel sorry for you. It’s a tough racket, yours is.”

  “You’re damned right!” she answered harshly.

  “Too bad you didn’t marry that bank clerk—what was his name?”

  “You mean…Ben Gordon? You seem to know a hell of a lot about me, copper.”

  Donovan shrugged. “Gordon would have made you a good husband, baby.”

  “I suppose he would have,” she answered. “But—well, Silk Whitman had a lot more on the ball. I fell for him.”

  “Ever hear from this Gordon fellow?”

  She shook her head.

  Donovan got up. He said, “Well, honey, you’d better make up your mind. What’s it going to be—a confession on the Whitman bump-off, or five years for hustling on the streets?”

  The girl said, “You’re sure I’ll go free?”

  “Reasonably sure.”

  “Then—I confess. I killed Silk Whitman.”

  “How?”

  “I—shot him.”

  “You didn’t shoot him. You stabbed him.”

  “All right. I stabbed him.”

  Donovan grinned. “Okay, you lousy tramp. That’s all I needed. I’ve a dictaphone in this room—and there are two witnesses waiting outside the door, listening. You’ll sit in the hot squat for killing Silk Whitman!” He grabbed at the girl.

  She cried out. She tried to break loose from him.

  And then a closet door burst open. An unshaven, hollow-eyed man stepped out of concealment. He had a revolver. He aimed it at Donovan. He said, “God damn you, you lousy dick—take your hands off her!”

  The girl said, “Ben—Ben Gordon!”

  The unshaven man said, “Yes. Ben Gordon. I heard the whole thing. I heard this bull putting the frame on you, Marie. And he ain’t gonna get away with it. Because you didn’t kill Whitman. I did.”

  “You—you did—?”

  “Yeah. After you turned me down three years ago, the bank found out I’d been stealing funds. I went to jail. Last week I bumped off a keeper and got out. I came back here to find you. I found out what had happened to you. So I bumped off Silk Whitman for what he’d done to you—what he’d made of you.”

  “But—but—what are you doing here—?”

  “I sneaked up here to your room tonight. I wanted to see you. I heard you bring this mug in. I heard what he said. And I know these damned double-crossing bulls. He talked you into confessing you killed Whitman, when you were innocent. He’d have railroaded you to the chair.”

  Donovan said, “So you confess you killed Whitman, do you, Ben Gordon?”

  Gordon said, “Yeah. But you ain’t gonna grab me for it. Marie and I are leavin’—right now.” He turned to the girl. “Put on your things.”

  The girl got dressed. The unshaven Gordon kept Donovan covered with the revolver.

  When the girl was dressed, Gordon backed toward the door of the room. It smashed open. Two uniformed officers came in. They pinioned Ben Gordon. They slipped handcuffs on him.

  They took him away.

  Donovan looked at the girl. He said, “I knew he was in there all the time. Our men trailed him here to your room.”

  The girl said, “Why didn’t they pick him up right away?”

  Donovan answered, “Because we wanted a confession out of him. That’s why we framed this whole scene.”

  “You mean—you tricked him into confessing he’d killed Silk Whitman?”

  Donovan shook his head. “No, we tricked him into confessing he’d killed that guard up at the state pen. You see, there were several convicts who made a break. One of them killed the guard but we didn’t know which one. This was our way of finding out.”

  “But—he also confessed killing Whitman—”

  Donovan grinned. He said, “Gordon did that to protect you. He didn’t kill Silk Whitman any more than you did. Because Silk Whitman wasn’t killed. We’ve got him down at Headquarters on a dope-running charge.”

  The girl sank down on the bed. She said, “You—you mean Silk’s still alive?”

  Donovan nodded. “But he won’t bring any more Filipinos to you, baby. He’ll do a nice long stretch for running dope.”

  “Then—then what will become of me?” the girl whispered.

  Donovan pulled some crumpled bills out of his pocket. He counted off two hundred. He tossed them into the girl’s lap. “Your share of the reward offered by the state for the capture of that guard’s murderer,” he said.

  The girl said, “Oh—!” Then she said, “I’ll go somewhere—start life all over again—”

  Donovan said, “Good luck, kiddo.” Then he went out.

  FATAL FACIAL, by Cary Moran

  Originally published in Spicy Detective Stories, September, 1936.

  Her hair was red, her face heart-shaped, her lips full and attractive, a perfect frame for white teeth. Only her eyes didn’t fit. They were black, with long, shadowed lashes, black and cold. Cold, like agate. Even in the white uniform, she managed to exude sex appeal. Pinned low to reveal plenty of white, curved flesh in front, the uniform covered her flaring hips like a sheath. Beneath the desk her knees were crossed to reveal slender tapering legs in sheer hosiery.

  Across the office, little Sanderson chewed on a nickel cigar and regarded the legs with great approval. Miss Murray looked up.

  “The doctor will be out soon, Mr. Sanderson!” Her lips smiled but the eyes remained agate-like.

  Sanderson grinned. “No hurry, no hurry at all. The longer I stay, the better I like it here!”

  He leered at the slim legs.

  Miss Murray made a moue, pulled the hem of her stiffly starched skirt down in such a way as to reveal even more than before. A slender circle of white flesh gleamed above the shadow of the chiffon.

  “I think the doctor is considering your proposition,” she said gravely.

  Sanderson started to speak but the door opened. Dr. Max Harrin entered, nodded briefly and went to the outer door. He glanced at the waiting room, then closed the door and locked it. Sanderson stood beside the desk.

  “I brought ’em, doc. Here you are.” He laid two photographs on the desk. Both showed the head and shoulders of a man approximately forty-five years of age. There was a vague resemblance between the two, nothing definite, only a shadow of similarity in the general contour of the two faces.

  Dr. Herrin picked them up, adjusted his glasses, and held them toward the light. He said, “Hmm-mm.”

  Sanderson spoke eagerly, thrusting a dirty thumb at the picture on the right.

  “Now that one there’s the boss, and this other gee is Hudson, the butler. Do you think you could do it?”

  Herrin put the pictures back on the desk and smiled wolfishly at the little man. “What’s to prevent me from calling the police instead of falling in with your plans?”

  Sanderson said, “You could do it. But ten grand is not to be sneezed at. Beside you probably like living.”

  Herrin said moodily, “I don’t think I want anything to do with it.”

  Ruth Murray arose and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Sanderson, you pardon us for a few minutes and we’ll go in and talk it over.” She led the doctor in to the adjoining room.

  “Are you a fool, Max!”

  Sullenly Herrin said, “I don’t like to fool with the law, you know that.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time!” Her voice was cold. “I thought you loved me! Where can you pick up that much money so easily? Besides, there might be more later on!”

  He shook his head stubbornly. She walked to him, put her arms about his neck. “Max, do this for me. If you love me, you’ll do it.”

  Her lips were very close to his. Soft curves were warm against his chest, hips pressed c
lose. Slowly he put his arms about her, pulled her closer, his long thin fingers sliding down across the small of her back. For a long moment he kissed her, then sat down on the leather couch with the cold-eyed woman in his arms.

  “Say you’ll do it,” she whispered. He nodded dumbly and drew her against him once more.

  * * * *

  Later they went together into the waiting room.

  “For Pete’s sake!” said Sanderson. “You must have had a debate!”

  Ruth Murray said levelly, “Dr. Herrin will do the job, and you may depend on it that it will be well done. When will your friend be in?”

  Sanderson was fumbling at his pocket, his face wreathed in smiles. “There’s no time like now. Tonight? I’ll get him up here and in the back way before midnight.” He placed a bunch of bills on the desk, leafed through them rapidly. “Five grand. Five more when he walks out of here. Right?”

  Miss Murray swept them into a drawer. Sanderson grinned as he closed the door. Herrin stood moodily at the window. The nurse looked up from the photographs she was examining and spoke to the doctor.

  “Did you notice that your own general facial characteristics are in the same classification as both these men? If you weighed a few pounds less, yon might pass for either one of them.”

  The doctor didn’t turn his head.

  * * * *

  At twelve-thirty the operating room of the little Herrin Sanitarium blazed with light.

  But from the outside the place appeared dark. Heavy blankets were tacked over the windows. Even the cracks beneath the doors were stuffed.

  On the operating table lay a man, his body sheet-covered, his eyes blazing up into the bright light. Sanderson was talking to him quietly, grinning as he spoke. At the head of the table Nurse Murray laid out sponges, material, sterilized instruments for an operation. Dr. Herrin entered drawing on a pair of rubber gloves.

  “Fix his fingerprints, too, eh doc?” grinned Sanderson. Herrin nodded. The man on the table whispered something. Sanderson went on, “And just to be sure nothing goes wrong, I want your John Henry on this before you start.” He put a slip of paper on the table, drew an ugly gun from his pocket and waved it menacingly.

  Herrin read the paper coldly and laughed, “This amounts to a confession that I performed an illegal operation on the features of this man.”

  Sanderson laughed easily, thrust a pen toward the doctor. “Just in case you decide later on that ten thousand isn’t enough!”

  The nurse said something sotto voce. Herrin signed the paper. Sanderson stuck it in his pocket and laughed.

  “You going to stay here and watch?” from the nurse.

  “Absolutely,” from the little man.

  “Suit yourself,” snapped Dr. Herrin. “It isn’t a very pretty sight. If I were you, I’d sit over there in the corner and keep still. There’s a bottle of Scotch in the cabinet.”

  “Thanks.” Sanderson went over to sit down.

  * * * *

  The smell of ether. Almost utter silence. The surgeon and his nurse moved like automatons. Sanderson tried to look away but the scene held his eyes. He saw the tiny sharp chisel, the small rubber mallet, heard the grating of bone being split out and removed. He retched a little, swung the cabinet open, and tilted the bottle of Scotch for a long drink.

  He sat there looking at the ceiling, the bottle in his hand. Presently he drank again. The room was stuffy. Ether still swirled through the stifling atmosphere. Sanderson’s eyes grew cloudy. His chin dropped. He caught himself with a jerk, put the bottle down on the floor, and shook his head. Presently his eyelids grew heavy, his chin dropped to his breast, and Sanderson sighed and slept.

  The nurse touched Herrin’s arm, nodded toward the sleeping man. Herrin tore the mask from his face, his lips twisted in a snarl. He picked up a handful of gauze and the long thin lancet from the table, a lancet as long and as slender as an ice pick blade. Quietly he stole toward the sleeping man.

  He touched him on the forehead, said, “Sanderson!” Sanderson slept on. Swiftly Herrin pulled the coat from the little man’s left shoulder, tore the shirt and undershirt aside. He placed the point of the lancet at a spot between the ribs.

  The cold eyes of the nurse gleamed a little as she saw him push mightily on the steel. Sanderson’s figure jerked convulsively, straightened momentarily, and then relaxed. Herrin withdrew the lancet quickly, held the gauze against the tiny wound. There was barely any blood.

  He turned. “There, damn you! I told you I’d do it and I did! Now I’ll finish the job!” The nurse said, “Don’t bother. It’s done.” The man on the operating table lay still and white. There was no breathing apparent.

  * * * *

  In Haleyville a mob of shouting, rioting people were kept back from the doors of the Haleyville Trust Company by three policemen with riot guns. The air was filled with curses as men and women battled toward the guards. The door of the bank opened and Sheriff Jud Tolliver stepped out, wheezing and blowing, mopping his fat face with a dirty handkerchief. He held up his hand for silence.

  “Now, boys,” he began, “there ain’t no use starting a riot. The examiners are checking the books and maybe they’ll save something out of it yet. Starting trouble in the street won’t get you any place. Go on home now and take it easy. We’ll let you know when you can get your money.”

  A voice roared from the crowd, “Have you found Lawrence yet! Have you cornered the dirty crook?”

  The sheriff continued his face mopping. “I’m working on it now, boys, and I’ll have him before the end of this week, I got our dodgers all over the country and I’ll get him, don’t you worry!”

  “Yah,” taunted the voice. “You fat old fool! You’ll get him! And him with three weeks start. You couldn’t catch a cold!”

  The sheriff shouldered his way through the crowd, his face more flushed than ever. He started toward the battered Ford, moved into the traffic, then suddenly swung toward the curb a half block further along the street. “Hey, Jarnegan,” he bellowed.

  A slim little man with a turned-down black hat stood on the curb eating an apple. He waved his hand toward the sheriff and continued eating.

  “Come here, Jarnegan, damn it! Come here!”

  Jarnegan grinned, tossed the apple core into the gutter and went to the car.

  “H’ya, Jud. Hear anything from Lawrence?”

  The sheriff swore mightily. “Hell no and what’s more I don’t expect to! Him with three weeks start! He’s a smart man, Jarnegan. Any guy clever enough to empty a bank as clean as he emptied that one ain’t gonna leave no trail!”

  Jarnegan grinned. “How much did he get?”

  Tolliver spoke gloomily. “I stuck around all morning. When they got up to three hundred thousand I left. Of course that’s just bonds. He—”

  “All negotiable?”

  Tolliver nodded sadly. “Say, Jarnegan, ride out to Lawrence’s with me, will you? I got to ask Mrs. Lawrence a couple of questions.”

  “Sorry. When the county hired me, they said nothing but homicide. Rake me up a murder and I’ll go with you. You know, on second thought, I believe I’ll go along for that ride. That Lawrence dame is a honey. I always like them plump blondes.”

  He crawled in beside the wheezing sheriff.

  * * * *

  Banker Lawrence’s colonial mansion sat well back among the pines that topped the hill at the end of Haleyville’s main street. The Ford rattled and roared as it skidded up the gravel drive. Sheriff Tolliver sighed as he rang the bell. Jarnegan stood behind him, hands in his pockets.

  The door opened. Hudson, the butler, said, “Yes, what is it—oh, I beg pardon, Mr. Tolliver. Will you step in, please, I’ll see if Mrs. Lawrence can see you. This way, please.”

  The rug on the hallway was inches thick. Jarnegan said, “What’s your name, pal?”

  The
butler looked startled, drew back and said, “Hudson, sir. James Hudson. I’m the butler.”

  Jarnegan peered at him closely, said, “Butler? Hell, I thought you were advertising something!”

  Hudson frowned, turned, and went swiftly up the stairs.

  The sheriff spoke plaintively, “Don’t be that way, Jarnegan. Don’t ride these people. I got to depend on them!”

  Jarnegan walked through the curtained doorway and disappeared. Presently Tolliver stuck his head into the room, frowned with disapproval as he saw Jarnegan before the window, a glass decanter in one hand, a blonde maid in the other. The blonde giggled and trotted away.

  Tolliver said, “The lady is still in bed but she’ll see us.”

  Jarnegan nodded pleasantly, tipped the decanter, coughed, and put it down, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  Tolliver said, “Why in hell can’t you leave the dames alone? This is serious.”

  “Her name is Minnie,” said Jarnegan, “and she feels good all over. They got a cook, too, but she’s colored. And why should I leave the dames alone? I like ’em.”

  The sheriff grunted as the butler tapped on the door of a bedroom.

  A soft voice called to them. They went in. Jarnegan entered last, leaned against the door, and lit a cigarette, his sharp eyes sweeping the room.

  “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Tolliver.” The sheriff eased into a spindle-legged chair that stood by the bed. “And you, too, Mr.—”

  “Jarnegan,” said the sheriff. “That’s Jarnegan.”

  “H’ya,” said Jarnegan, and sprinkled ashes on the thick rug. He didn’t sit down.

  Mildred Lawrence was thirty-four and looked ten years younger. She was blonde, with a rose-petal mouth, tiny white teeth and wide, baby blue eyes. The satin coverlet was moulded over her figure, revealing flaring hips and a small waist. Through the thin material of her gown, her breasts were apparent, smooth upper slopes revealed by the low neck.

  The sheriff spoke at length, hesitating, his little pop eyes unable to keep away from the satiny skin revealed. “So if you’ve got any pictures at all that I haven’t seen, ma’am, I’d be much obliged to have them.”