Wildly, blindly we fired? Well, maybe Armin did. I didn’t. My lead spun him from the desk, turned him completely around. I took a slug in the right side just above the hip bone.
And I did it. Two shots into his stomach, another one into his chest. He was spinning like a top now, firing as he spun, and I got him—just as clean as I ever got any man.
Eyes that were bright and hateful dimmed, faded, and went blank. A small hole started to widen in his forehead, turn from black to blue, then a dull sort of red with tiny bubbles in it.
He didn’t pound to the floor—not Armin. He sank very slowly to his knees, stayed there a moment, then twisted grotesquely and rolled over on his back. I wasn’t any too steady myself now as I stood above him. I was nodding my head, saying over and over: “No fooling, Armin. No fooling.”
The Flame! She had been in the chair. Now she was close to me, under my arm, holding me there. Had they done it? Had Armin done it? Had he ripped that knife across her face and—and—
“Florence,” I said. “Your mouth—your mouth.”
“Yes, Race, yes,” was all she said as she pulled down my head and put her mouth hard against mine.
* * *
I had never really known if I loved the Flame. I didn’t know then. But I stretched out my arms, pulled her to me, felt the guns still tight in my hands and—Suddenly I turned and faced the door that was opening. The machine-gunners—the men Raftner had there! I had saved the Flame. We were alive. I wanted to live and now—
The door slid wider. Figures were there in the gloom. I felt the Flame grab at my arms, but I was aiming straight at those figures as the trigger fingers of both my hands closed tightly.
Click, click. No more. Both my guns were empty, and—and Sergeant O’Rourke was pounding flat-footed toward me. There was Nelson, too. A couple of harness bulls and some plainclothesmen. And sneaking along on the side I saw the trembling figure of Conklyn Lee.
I guess Lee was talking to me. Anyway he was saying: “Mary was gone—no word from her. You were here—no word from you. I—I telephoned Sergeant O’Rourke and here I am. I—I had to.”
I said to Conklyn Lee: “What did you tell him—tell the sergeant—these others?” I saw things going after all.
“He didn’t tell us anything, Race,” O’Rourke said. “He met us before the shop. There were guys with tommy guns outside. But they dropped them and ran when they saw us. Flannigan and his men will get them on the block behind. Suppose you tell us.”
“Suppose I tell you, Sergeant—and you, too, Inspector.” The Flame was as serene now as if nothing had happened. “You never believed in me, Sergeant, but Race did; kept it from you, but believed in me. These men here—one, Raftner, whom you’ve wanted for a long time—were blackmailing Mary Morse for something her Uncle Frank Morse, who disappeared, had done. They made use of her store. She came straight to Race. We advised her to pretend to submit to the blackmail, once Race suspected it was the narcotic crowd. You nearly spoiled it a couple of times, Sergeant—the government men, too. You see, I had to pose as a friend of Armin Loring.”
Now you’ve got to admit that was a good story. I couldn’t have told a better one myself—maybe not so good a one.
I added my bit by saying that Mary Morse was safe. I didn’t say where; she might speak out of turn. I wanted to see her first—regardless of the lead in me.
“And the narcotics?” It was Nelson who shot that one in as he nearly stumbled over Armin’s outstretched legs.
“In the vases over there—the real ones in the back,” the Flame said almost indifferently. “Race and I moved them away from the other vases to be sure nothing would go wrong if Race were killed. Race is hurt, Inspector. He’ll have to have treatment. No hospital—I’ll take care of him.” And looking at me, “And what’s more, Race, you’ve got an assistant who’ll see that you collect this time from the Mary Morse fund or there’ll be a surrogate shot around here.” And when I started to ask her what of Mary Morse she whispered, “I’ll set her free when I have you home in bed and a good surgeon digging into you.”
O’Rourke, with the help of Conklyn Lee, had found the drugs. Nelson was looking at the body of Armin Loring—bending closer. He straightened finally and paid me a compliment. Oh, maybe he didn’t mean to, but it was in his voice more than his words.
“You, Race—” he said. “You shot it out man to man with—with Armin Loring. Why he was the most feared man in the city. No one—”
I cut in waving my hand deprecatingly as the Flame took my arm, supporting my slightly sagging body. But I got my final crack in before she sat me in a chair. I said: “It was really nothing, Nelson. Armin Loring. Nothing to me, Inspector—just another stiff.”
NORBERT DAVIS
Norbert Davis (1909–1949) was one of a handful of thirties and forties pulp writers who wound up making a good living writing for the slicks. All the more mysterious, then, was his death by suicide when all seemed to be going well in his life.
A number of pulp crime writers tried to blend the screwball comedies, then fashionable at the movies, with the soft-boiled crime story. Craig Rice and Norbert Davis had the greatest success with this fusion, both with the public and with the critics.
Davis had an affection for oddballs. He created Doan and Carstairs, the former who is a rather snooty and uppity Great Dane, and the latter a perpetually hungover private eye not exactly in league with Sam Spade as far as trench-coated competence goes.
As John D. MacDonald once noted, what gets lost in all the hilarity and high jinks of the Davis stories is what a damned fine writer the man was.
Something for the Sweeper
Jones limped slowly along, his rubbers making an irregular squeak-squish sound on the wet cement of the sidewalk. He was not a large man and, walking as he was now, humped forward in an unconscious effort to favor his feet, he looked small and insignificant. He wore an old trench-coat with grease stains running jaggedly down the front. The sun was bright on the slick-black wetness of the asphalt paving, and he had his hat-brim pulled low over his tired eyes.
The houses on this street were gaunt, ugly and brown, and as alike as the teeth in a saw. They all had a wide flight of worn stairs leading up to the front door with another flight beside it leading down into the basement. They had all been built by one man, those houses, and he evidently was a person who believed in getting a good, plain plan and then sticking to it.
Jones was watching house numbers out of the corners of his eyes. He was coming pretty close now, and he began to walk even slower. His mouth twisted up at one side every time he came down on his right foot.
Ahead of him he could see a man’s head and shoulders. The man was halfway down one of the basement flights of stairs. His head and shoulders moved back and forth in a sort of a jigging rhythm. Approaching, Jones saw that he was sweeping up the stairs of the basement. He swept in careful, calculating little dabs, as precisely as if he were painting a picture with his broom.
“Hi,” said Jones, stopping and standing on his left foot.
The man made another dab with his broom, inspected the result, and then looked up at Jones. He was an old man, small and shrunken and wiry, with white, smooth hair that was combed straight back from his softly plastic face. He nodded silently at Jones, solemn and wordless.
“Hendrick Boone live here?” Jones asked.
The old man sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Who?”
“Hendrick Boone.”
The old man considered for a moment. “Live where?”
“Here,” said Jones.
“Yes,” said the old man.
Jones stared at him sourly. “Thanks a lot,” he said at last.
“Oh, that’s all right,” the old man said, and smiled.
Jones went up the stairs, grunting painfully, and, when he got to the top, leaned over and pinched the toe of his right rubber and muttered to himself under his breath. He straightened up and looked at the closed double doors ahead of him. There
was a narrow frosted-glass panel in each one, and the pair of stiff-legged storks, with toothpick beaks depicted on them, leered disdainfully at him with opposite eyes. Jones looked around for a doorbell, finally located a little iron lever that protruded out of a slit in one of the doors. He pulled it down and then up again, and a bell made a dismal blink-blink-blink sound inside.
Jones waited, standing on his left foot, and the door opened slowly, squeaking a little. Jones touched his hat and said: “Hello. Is Mr. Hendrick Boone here, and if so, can I talk to him for a minute?”
“He’s not here. He’s really not here.”
“Oh,” said Jones.
She was a very small woman with gray hair that was puffed up in a wide knot on the top of her head. She wore thick, rimless glasses and behind them her eyes were a distorted blue, wide and a little frightened and anxious to please. She wore a long skirt that rustled and a white waist with lace stiff on the front. She had a timid, wavering smile.
“Where is he?” Jones asked.
“He’s in the hospital.”
“Hospital?” Jones repeated.
“Yes. He fell downstairs. Are you the man from the installment company?”
“No,” said Jones. “I’m a detective, believe it or not. I know I don’t look like one. I can’t help that. I didn’t pick this face, and, to tell the truth, I don’t think so much of it myself.”
“Oh, but he didn’t do it! Really he didn’t, officer! He couldn’t have, you see. He’s been in the hospital, and his condition is very serious, really it is, and he couldn’t have done it.”
“Done what?” said Jones.
She moved her hands a little, helplessly. “Well—well, whatever you think he did. Was it—windows again?”
“Windows?” Jones asked.
“I mean, did you think he broke some windows, like he usually does?”
“He makes a habit of breaking windows?”
She nodded. “Oh, yes. But only plate glass ones.”
“Particular, huh? What does he break windows for?”
Her sallow face flushed slightly. “He sees his image. You know, his reflection. And he thinks he is following himself again. He thinks he is spying on himself. And so he breaks the windows.”
“Well, maybe it’s a good idea,” said Jones. “Is he ever troubled with pink elephants?”
“Yes, he is. He often sees them walking on the ceiling when he wakes up in the morning.”
“What does he do for them?”
“Oh, he always saves a half pint, and as soon as he drinks that they go away.”
“I should think they would,” said Jones. “I’m still talking about Hendrick Boone, by the way? Are you?”
“Yes. My husband.”
“Oh,” said Jones. “You’re Mrs. Boone. Could I come in and sit down and speak to you for a moment? I’ve got some news for you, and besides my feet hurt.”
“Oh, yes. Surely. Excuse me, please. I was a little flustered when you said ‘detective’—”
The hall was dark and small and narrow with a carpeted staircase running up steeply just to the right of the front door. The wallpaper was a stained brownish-black. There was a hole worn in the carpet at the foot of the stairs.
“Right in here,” Mrs. Boone said anxiously.
It was the parlor that stretched across the narrow front of the house. The furniture was stiff and awkward, mellowed with age, and there was a clumsy cut-glass chandelier that had been originally designed to burn gas.
Jones sat down on a sofa that creaked mournfully under him and looked down at his feet, wincing involuntarily.
“Now,” said Mrs. Boone. She was sitting primly upright, looking very small against the high carved back of the chair, with her hands folded on her lap and smiling a little, timidly. “Now—you wished to speak to me?”
Jones nodded, still thinking about his feet. “Yes. Your husband was born in Awkright, Idaho, wasn’t he?”
She nodded brightly. “Yes.”
“Had one brother—by the name of Semus Boone?”
“Yes.”
“Not any more,” said Jones. “Semus Boone died a couple of months ago.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Boone. She was silent for a moment. “We hadn’t seen him for over twenty years. He didn’t like Hendrick. He invited us to a Christmas party, and Hendrick took a drop too much and broke the plate glass window in Semus’ living room. Semus was very angry.”
“He must have gotten over it,” said Jones. “He left your husband all his money.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Boone. She smiled vaguely. “Was it enough to pay his funeral expenses?”
Jones nodded. “Yes. And a little bit to spare. About a million and a half.”
Mrs. Boone’s hands gripped tight. Her eyes glazed behind the thick glasses, and her lips moved soundlessly. After a while she drew a deep breath. “You’re not—joking?”
“No,” said Jones.
“You’re—you’re sure there’s no mistake?”
“No,” said Jones. “I don’t make mistakes—not when there’s a million and a half in the pot. I’ve been hunting your husband for two months.”
“A million and a half!” said Mrs. Boone dreamily.
“Yes,” said Jones. “Your husband can’t touch the principal, though. It’s in trust. That’s where I come in. I’m an investigator for the Suburban Mortgage and Trust Company. The company’s the trustee—handles the principal. Your husband gets the income—he and his heirs and assigns and what not—for twenty years. Then the principal sum goes to certain charities. The income amounts to over a thousand a week.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Boone. “Oh!” Her eyes began to gleam behind the glasses, and she swallowed. “Sarah!” she called, and there was a gasping catch in her voice. “Sarah! Sarah!”
There was the flip-flop of slippers in the hall, and a girl came and stopped in the doorway. She had a wide red mouth and cigarette drooping in the corner of it that slid a smooth blue stream of smoke up past her cheek and the faded blondness of her hair. She was big and heavy-boned, but had a lazy, cat-like gracefulness. Her eyes were a deep-sea blue, set far apart. They were narrowed sullenly now, and she looked Jones up and down.
“Well,” she said. “And now what?”
She wore a blue kimono with the sleeves rolled back and was wiping her hands on a towel. Her forearms were white and smoothly muscled. There were birthmarks on both of them.
“Sarah,” said Mrs. Boone. “This gentleman here just came to tell us that your Uncle Semus died.”
“Too bad,” said Sarah. “What’d he do—bite himself on the tongue and die of hydrophobia?”
“No,” said Jones. “As a matter of fact he had a heart attack.”
“Somebody must have cheated him out of a nickel,” said Sarah. “That would do it, all right.”
“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” Mrs. Boone said in a gently reproving voice. “He left your father a lot of money.”
“How much?”
“The income from a million and a half,” Jones told her.
Sarah’s wide set eyes blinked once and then narrowed slowly. “Oh yeah? What’s the gag, mister?”
“No gag,” Jones said. “I don’t have anything to do with it. The trust company that handles the principal hired me to find you, and here you are. I’m through.”
“A million and a half,” said Sarah slowly. “About how much would that be a month?”
“Around five thousand.”
Sarah’s breath made a little hissing sound between her white teeth. “Five thousand a month! The old man will drink himself to death in a week.”
“Won’t make any difference to you if he does,” Jones said. “The income will go to your mother in that case.”
“Oh,” said Sarah thoughtfully. “It would, hey? That’s something that needs a little thinking about.”
Jones got up. “I’ll run down and see Mr. Boone before I leave town.”
Mrs. Boone blinked at him, worried. �
��He’s in the City Hospital. But, I don’t know. He’s really pretty seriously ill. I don’t know whether they’ll let you in his room.”
“I just want to look at him,” Jones said. “I’ll have to put it in my report. You say he fell?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Boone. “He came home late, and he was—”
“Fried,” said Sarah. “Drunk as a skunk. He crawled up the front steps and started walking around in circles looking for the front door and fell down again. He cracked his noggin on the sidewalk. He’ll get over it, though, I’m afraid.”
“Sarah,” said Mrs. Boone. “Sarah, now. He’s your father.”
“That’s your fault,” said Sarah. “Not mine.”
“Well, I’ll be going,” Jones said.
“Mr. Morganwaite,” Mrs. Boone said brightly, getting up with a sudden swish of her long skirt. “I must tell him! He’ll be so pleased! I won’t have to worry—” She hurried out of the room.
“Morganwaite?” Jones said inquiringly, looking at Sarah.
“He’s an old stooge we keep around to clean up the joint now and then,” Sarah told him. “He takes care of the old man when he gets potted. You probably saw him when you came in. He was sweepin’ the basement stairs.”
“Oh, yes,” Jones said. “Well, so long.”
“So long,” Sarah said. “Lots of thanks, mister, for coming around and doing a Santa Claus for us.”
Jones smiled. “I got paid for it.” He went down the dark hall and out the doors past the two storks that were still leering at him and the world in general.
The city hospital was a great square pile of brick, masonry and steel that covered a complete city block. Three hours after he had visited the Boones, Jones rode up and down on seven elevators and limped through a mile and a half of silent cork-floored corridors and finally located the section he wanted. He went in through a glass door in a glass partition that blocked off the short end of a hall. There was a middle-aged woman sitting behind a flat desk in a little cubbyhole off the corridor.
A Century of Noir Page 9