Masters of Noir: Volume Two

by Craig Rice

  There he bought a three-week-old New York paper and found an outdoor table at the cafe. Morning passed, the heat blazed. Noon and he retreated to the cooler interior of the cafe. With the siesta, the streets emptied and came to life afterward. Jim sat outside again, nerves ragged, patience worn. He had changed from coca cola to brandy and soda. Time oozed, the phone call from Alfredo never came.

  At five, he gave up waiting, hailed a taxi, drove back to the hotel and sought out Alfredo who met him with a smile that made him want to smash his face in.

  "I am very sorry, Mr. Withers, but there was no need to phone."

  An obvious lie, but it was too late to do anything about it. “How much did you ask of the lady for not phoning me?” said Jim.

  "Your wife? But she knew nothing. I went to Juan and he offered more than you.” Alfredo smiled and shrugged. “Of course you want your money back."

  "Keep it,” Jim snarled, walking away.

  The shower was running when he entered the room. He slammed the door shut and Kathy called out: “How was the trip, darling?"

  "Wonderful. I didn't go."

  "You didn't?” The pattering and splashing ceased in the bathroom. Towel around her, Kathy came out to find Jim standing at the door to the balcony, his face flushed and sweated, his eyes like glass.

  "I don't understand,” she said.

  "There's nothing to understand. I didn't go because I met a party from New York. We went to a cafe and talked."

  "And drank."

  "So what? As long as you enjoyed yourself."

  "I didn't exactly pine away."

  Still acting, flippant now. He wanted to knock her little head off. Why in hell did I marry her? he asked himself. But he knew why and turned away, going to the bathroom to shower himself. “I'll meet you on the upper balcony,” he said.

  Kathy was waiting for him and, as usual, Juan was at the table. He bowed, smiled at Jim, drew out his chair, and suddenly the cook began screaming at him from the kitchen. She was brandishing an ugly machete. Juan turned pale and didn't move till she turned away. Then he scampered into the kitchen.

  "My God, did you see that?” said Kathy.

  "Perhaps he'll tend to his business now,” Jim answered calmly.

  But he was wrong about that. At least, Juan found time to return to their table to drop a word when he served them coffee.

  "And how was the jungle trip?” he asked with a gloating smile.

  "You should know,” Jim answered. Then, to deflect comment concerning this curious remark, he quickly turned to Kathy and said, “You know, we're leaving tomorrow. Do you think a hundred and fifty pesos too little to tip the cook?"

  "Are you going out of your mind, Jim?"

  "In deepest appreciation for services rendered, that's the way I feel about it."

  "Oh, do what you wish."

  Smiling, Jim counted out the money while Juan watched, obviously shocked. “And this is for you,” said Jim, adding a mere ten-peso note as a tip for Juan who could not protest. He looked sick but managed a smile and retreated to the kitchen from which he returned some moments later to extend the cook's appreciation.

  7.

  Later, on the lower balcony after Kathy had gone to join the card players, Jim sat with another guest. Conversation led to the cook and her tirade against Juan.

  "Nothing new about that,” said the other guest. “Last year she got to him with that machete and put him on his back for a month."

  "Really?"

  "A nasty old woman, but she can really cook."

  "The best,” said Jim, looking at his watch. He stood up, excused himself and went to the upper balcony. Quiet there, the diners and waiters gone, a light in the kitchen, the Indian woman cleaning up. As Jim stepped into the kitchen, she turned.

  "Just wanted to make sure you received the tip I sent you,” said Jim. “You did get it?"

  The cook nodded, smiled.

  "All of it? A hundred and fifty pesos?"

  "It was but ten, Senor."

  "That was for Juan. He must have made a mistake,” said Jim and, with that, he turned round and left the kitchen.

  Some minutes later, while standing at the front of the lobby, Juan passed him without notice and started down the dark road under the motionless palms. Almost within seconds the Indian woman followed him.

  Next morning neither the cook nor Juan appeared at the breakfast hour. Then news came of the murder. Juan had been found just below the hotel in the bushes, hacked to death. The Indian woman could not be located.

  The guest of last year, whom Jim had spoken to the night before, was heard to say the obvious: “I wouldn't be surprised if it was the cook. They scrapped last night, and she slammed him with that machete once before, you know. Too bad, because she could wrestle up a meal."

  Kathy had nothing to say. Not until she and Jim were aboard the plane and flying north toward Mexico City. Then she turned to Jim and said, “Wasn't it awful?"

  Not looking at her, he lit a cigarette. “You mean about Juan? He had that coming, I think."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Jealousy, of course. The cook was soft on him, but yesterday she found he'd been going around with another woman. One of the hotel guests. Lucky the cook didn't go to work on her."

  Kathy had turned dead white. “How do you know all this?” she finally asked.

  "Alfredo told me,” he replied, continuing the lie. Then he waited, for she had to ask, her woman's curiosity greater than her fear.

  "Did he say who the woman was?"

  Her words were weighted, barely audible. They made Jim smile, and at last he turned and looked at her. “Alfredo didn't have to,” he said slowly, watching her turn pale again. Then she raised her hand in a peculiar constricted gesture, as if to ward off a blow, and he laughed.

  "You see, I knew all the while,” he went on. “And next time, if there is a next time, you'll know what to expect."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  BIG STEAL by FRANK KANE

  1.

  The girl at the mike had a husky voice that did things to the spine.

  She was tall, redheaded, put together in a way that flowed tantalizingly as she swayed to the rhythm of the music. Her black, decollete gown clung to her like a wet bathing suit.

  At the bar, Johnny Liddell hung a cigarette between his lips, let it dangle there unlighted. He could hear the heavy breath of the bartender as it whistled through his teeth. The rumble of conversation that had filled the room a few minutes before had died down to a whisper, glasses stopped jingling as she did things to a torchy number.

  Suddenly, the song was over, the house lights came up. There was a moment of silence as though the audience was catching its collective breath, then a roar of applause exploded.

  Johnny Liddell swung around to the bar, discovered the unlighted cigarette between his lips, dropped it to the floor. The glass in front of him was empty, he signaled to the bartender for a refill.

  "Quite a number,” Liddell grinned.

  "That babe's all woman,” the bartender wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I watch her twice a night seven nights a week and she still does it to me.” He reached to the backbar, grabbed a bottle, tilted it over a jigger. He replaced the bottle on the backbar, dumped a couple of pieces of ice into the glass, washed them down with soda.

  Liddell dropped a bill on the bar. “Full house you got. She draw them like this every night?"

  The bartender pursed his lips, his eyes hop scotched from table to table. “Every night. And all spenders, not a stiff in the place. All big uptown society people.” He snagged the bill, headed for the cash register.

  On the floor, the redhead was still taking bows. Liddell found a fresh cigarette, lit it. He took a deep drag, blew it through his nostrils in twin streams. He swung around on his barstool, squinted through the smoke, studied the faces around the dance floor. Some he knew, some he recognized from the Sunday supplements. The bartender was right when he tagged it a top
-drawer crowd.

  The audience finally let the redhead go. She turned, headed for the backstage entrance. The walk was a production.

  The house lights went down, a yellow spot probed through the semi-darkness, picked up the M. C. as he pranced out onto the floor. He was tall and thin, had unbelievably broad shoulders and walked with a peculiar mincing step. Even from where Liddell sat, his teeth looked too white and too even to be real. He fluttered through a couple of off-color jokes that brought a faint ripple of laughter and sang two nasal choruses of a number never destined to become popular as the result of his rendition.

  The door to backstage opened and a man in a tuxedo that fitted snugly across the hips, showed signs of ample and expert padding at the shoulders circled the floor, threaded his way through the tables. He walked down the bar to where Liddell sat, stopped at his elbow.

  "You're Mr. Liddell?” The voice showed the faintest trace of an accent.

  "I'm Liddell.” He dropped the cigarette to the floor, got down from the stool.

  "Will you follow me?” The man in the tuxedo led the way back through the tables to the backstage door.

  The glitter and the tinsel of the dining room had no counterpart backstage. There was a long, dingy corridor lined with doors. It smelled exotically of one part perspiration, compounded with three parts perfume.

  They stopped in front of a door decorated with a peeling gilt star. The man in the tuxedo knocked. “It's Charles, Mona."

  "Come in. I'm decent."

  The redhead sat on a straight-backed chair in front of a cluttered dressing table. Half a dozen snapshots and telegrams were stuck in the molding of a fly specked mirror over the table. Her thick red hair was hanging down over her shoulders, and she had changed the close fitting dress for a black silk dressing gown. Her face had been wiped clean of make-up, giving it a fresh and youthful look. Her mouth was moist and soft looking.

  "Thanks, Charles,” she dismissed the man in the tuxedo with a smile, waited until he had closed the door behind him.

  "I'm glad you could come, Liddell. I need your help.” She studied him frankly, seemed satisfied with what she saw. She reached over to the dressing table, picked up a long silver box, shook out a cigarette. She offered one to the private detective. He took one, smelled it, put it back.

  "I prefer tobacco in mine.” He reached into his pocket, brought out one of his own cigarettes. “You're in trouble, you say?"

  The redhead leaned forward and accepted a light. “Not yet. That's what I need you for. To see that I don't have any trouble.” She let the murky, sweet-smelling smoke dribble from between half-parted lips. “Anybody see you come back here?"

  "Just the guy you sent for me."

  "Charles? He doesn't matter.” She got up from her chair, walked over to the door, opened it a crack and looked up and down the corridor. Satisfied that nobody was within hearing distance, she closed the door. “I have to talk to you, but this isn't the place to do it. Can you meet me after the last show?"

  "I'd like to think it's my fatal charm, but it's business?"

  The redhead nodded. “It'll be worth your while."

  Liddell grinned. “I'll bet.” He pulled over a chair, reversed it and straddled it, resting his elbows on the back. “Can't you give me some idea of what it's all about? Maybe I can put the next couple of hours to good use."

  The redhead caught her full lower lip between her teeth, shook her head. “I want you to have the whole picture before you begin. I can't give it to you here.” She walked over to where he sat, ran the palm of her hand up his lapel. She wet her lips with her tongue until they glistened. “In this place you never know when someone might walk in—and I get nervous with an audience."

  Liddell shrugged. “You sold me. Where and when do I meet you?"

  "My place. About 3."

  Liddell grinned at her. “It may be unchivalrous to mention it, but I don't know where your place is."

  "I thought you were a detective?” she chided. “I'm in Marlboro Towers, suite 3D.” She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. She reached into her pocket, brought up a key. “I don't usually pass out any keys to my apartment, but you understand. This is business. Besides, I may not be there exactly at 3. You can wait inside."

  Liddell bounced the key on his palm, dropped it into his pocket. “You'll be all right until 3?"

  The redhead nodded. “You're going to see to that."

  "I am? How?"

  She walked over to the dressing table with the same strut she had used on the dance floor. From the top drawer, she took out a paper-wrapped package. “You're going to mind this for me. Nothing will happen to me while you have that package. It's sort of like an insurance policy."

  Liddell took the package, turned it over incuriously, dropped it into his side pocket.

  "No questions?” She turned the full power of her green eyes on him.

  "Not unless you want me to ask them."

  He pushed back his chair and stood up. The redhead ran her incredibly graceful fingers through her hair, stared at him thoughtfully. “You're quite a man, Liddell. My kind of man, I think."

  "What kind's your kind, Mona?"

  She shrugged. “A man who knows there's a time and place for everything. Who asks questions when they should be asked—and who knows when to wait for answers."

  "I'm the patient type."

  She grinned at him. “Two hours isn't so long.” She went over to him, reached up on her toes, pressed her mouth against his. Her lips were as soft and moist as they looked. “That'll carry you over."

  He tried to slide his hand around her waist but she slid under his arm. “I'll be expecting you at 3, Liddell.” She leaned back against the edge of the table, looked up at him from under lowered lids. “You won't be late?"

  Liddell grinned crookedly. “Not even if I break two legs."

  2.

  The evening breeze flapped the awnings on some of the fancier boites along the avenue, felt good after the closeness of the bar. Liddell checked his watch, found he had two hours to kill, decided it was a good night for walking. He was halfway up the block when a man came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  "Don't turn around fast, Liddell,” a whining voice told him. “I got a nervous finger.” The man took his position at Liddell's right, another man materialized on his left. The man on the right moved a topcoat he had folded over his right arm. The ugly snout of a .45 poked out from under its folds. “Let's walk around the corner. It's a nice night for a ride."

  His companion reached into Liddell's jacket, pulled out his gun, dropped it into his pocket. “What's it all about, friend?” Liddell looked the man over. He was thin, undersized, a fact that his carefully built-up shoulders failed to conceal. His hair was thick, black and rolled back in oily waves from his low hairline. He wore it in a three-quarter part, revealing the startling whiteness of his scalp. His thin, bloodless lips were parted in what was intended to be a smile, but there was no trace of it in the eyes that squinted across the high bridge of an enormous hooked nose.

  "We're going to a party."

  Liddell's eyes dropped to the .45. “You make it hard to refuse. But I'll take a rain check. I'm not dressed for a party."

  The thin lips tilted at the corners, the eyes grew bleaker. “You are for this one. It's a come-as-you-are party."

  They turned the corner, headed for a car sitting a few feet down the block without lights. The man with the gun signaled for his companion to get behind the wheel, then he and Liddell slid into the back seat.

  "What'd the girl tell you, Liddell?” the hook-nosed man wanted to know. From the tone of his voice, it seemed as though he didn't care whether Liddell told him or not.

  "What should she have told me?” Liddell countered.

  The man with the gun ignored the question. “Who you working for on this caper? The insurance company?"

  Liddell considered it, shook his head. “No one. She gave me hot flushes with that song of hers;
I went back to see if I could do myself any good.” He shrugged. “From the reception I got, I guess a lot of guys get the same idea.” He settled back in the corner, managed to work the package the girl had given him out of his pocket. He could feel the perspiration beading on his forehead as he shoved it down behind the seat.

  The hook-nosed man reached out, caught him by the lapel. “What are you squirming about?” His face was a white blur in the interior of the car. The snout of his gun bored into Liddell's midsection.

  "I was trying to reach a cigarette."

  Hook-nose pushed him away. “Okay. But get it with two fingers. Anything but a cigarette comes out, and I blast the hand off."

  Liddell brought up a cigarette, stuck it between his lips. He wiped the perspiration off his upper lip with the side of his hand. The gunman's lips were twisted in a grin in the flickering light of the match.

  "I always thought you private eyes were tough. You look real tough on television,” he chuckled. “What're you sweating about?” He jabbed the gun into Liddell's side, was rewarded with a grunt. “On T.V. you'd be taking this away from me. Here, I'll be giving it to you—slug by slug."

  Liddell smoked silently, watched the character of the neighborhood change from densely populated to suburban with longer and longer stretches of unpopulated areas showing up. About forty minutes from the Queensboro Bridge, the car left the paved road, found an old dirt road that headed toward the Sound.

  "What's on the program?” Liddell wanted to know.

  The hook-nosed man chuckled. “A swim. Only you're not going to know about it."

  The car shuddered to a stop and the driver swung around on his seat. “You better find out what he knows first, Hook. The boss is going to want to know what the girl has on her mind. If she's selling out—"

  "I know, I know,” Hook growled. “You stick to your wheel. Let me take care of my end.” He jabbed the gun into Liddell's side. “Out."

  "Suppose I don't?"

  "Then you get it here. Be my guest.” He pulled away from Liddell. “Don't count on us being afraid to muss up the car. It ain't ours."