Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  The turnkey took Joe by the arm.

  “All right, kid,” he said.

  Joe walked between the turnkey and the policeman, who had called him. They took him into a big room where there were three policemen and about a dozen prisoners. Joe saw Bugs Liska, Steve Gollancz’s lieutenant. They exchanged a glance.

  A police sergeant got to his feet and shouted: “All right, you birds, let’s go.”

  The turnkey pushed Joe into line. A big door was swung open and he saw a small, brilliantly lighted room with a crowd of people lining the walls. Joe looked for the peroxide blonde. There she was, pale and hardboiled, between two bulls. Joe started. God, he had her now. She was standing side of Courtney when he dropped. Joe began to sweat.

  The line in single file was herded in. Bugs Liska, who was in front of Joe, whispered:

  “Say, what’s this all about?”

  The sergeant heard him and leaping across the room grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “Any more of that,” said the sergeant, “and some of you bad eggs is gonna get cracked.”

  “Drop dead,” said Liska.

  Joe found himself face to face with the blonde. She stared at him. Flaherty walked along the line and examined the prisoners. When he got to Joe, Joe looked away.

  “How’s that bath?” asked Flaherty.

  “O.K.,” said Joe.

  Liska said:

  “Say, Irish, what’s this all about?”

  “Shut your dirty mouth,” said Flaherty.

  A man Joe had never seen before, a big husky man with curly gray hair, went over to the blonde and said:

  “Is he in that bunch, Mrs. Weil?”

  The blonde nodded.

  “Well, Mrs. Weil, this is a very serious matter so don’t make any mistakes. Now if you’re sure he’s in that bunch, point him out.”

  The blonde compressed her lips and walked over to Joe.

  “There he is. There’s the dirty skunk.”

  “Jesus,” said Liska, glancing at Joe, “it’s your funeral, hunh?”

  The blonde stood glaring at Joe.

  “I hope they hang you,” she cried, “shooting a guy like Jim Courtney.”

  “I never shot him,” said Joe.

  “Shut up,” said Flaherty. “All right, sergeant, march ’em out.”

  In the big room Liska said:

  “Joe, it sure looks tough for you.”

  “They can’t prove nothing,” said Joe.

  The sergeant rushed at them.

  “Where do you birds think you’re at!” he cried.

  Stepping back, he struck Joe a hard blow with his fist. Mechanically Joe set himself and raised his hands, then, coming to himself, he dropped his hands and stood looking at the floor. Liska said:

  “Say, sergeant, I guess I can go home, can’t I ? My old mother’ll be worried to death.”

  The sergeant stared at Liska, then he laughed.

  “I’m gonna hang on to you just for fun,” he said.

  “Yeah?” said Liska. “Well not long, cause Steve’s gonna spring me.”

  The sergeant motioned for the turnkey.

  “Lock the dago up,” he said; “you plant yourself over there in a chair, Bugs.”

  Joe lay down and tried to sleep. Over his head the barred window began to get gray. Morning sure was slow in coming.

  Of a sudden he thought of Red Gus. He got to his feet and began to walk back and forth. Yeah, they sure put the rope on old Gus and there wasn’t a tougher guy in the world. Yeah, he was so tough he didn’t die right away and kept kicking. Cops fainted and all that stuff. Joe climbed up on his bunk and stood tiptoe to look out the window. Morning was coming. He saw a milk wagon passing the jail. How come he had to think of Red Gus?

  He thought he heard a noise and turned around. There were two cops standing in front of his cell, looking at him. Joe felt uneasy.

  “Want me?” he called.

  They didn’t say anything; they just stood there looking, then went away.

  Joe got down from the window and sat on his bunk. No use trying to sleep. Down the corridor someone began to scream. The turnkey passed his cell on the run. Joe felt his hair stirring and sweat stood out on his forehead.

  “Christ,” he said, “it’s only that dope.”

  In a minute the turnkey came back and stopped at Joe’s door.

  “Couple of guys coming back to take a look at you,” he said.

  “Yeah?” said Joe; “say, what was all the noise?”

  “The dope blew his top again,” said the turnkey; “the Doc’s gonna give him a shot pretty soon.”

  The big man with the curly gray hair, Flaherty, and two policemen came down the corridor.

  “All right,” said Flaherty, “let him out.”

  The turnkey unlocked the door and pushed Joe into the corridor. They all stood staring at Joe; nobody said anything.

  Finally the gray-haired man said:

  “Well, it’s too bad. Nice-looking boy.”

  “Yeah,” said Flaherty, “but he’s hell with a gun.”

  Joe didn’t say anything. But Flaherty said:

  “Joe, I never thought you was the kind of a bird that’d shoot a guy in the back.”

  Joe didn’t say anything.

  “Hanging’s too good for you, Joe.”

  “Poor old Jim never even had a gun on him. You lousy dago!” cried one of the policemen, and took a step toward Joe.

  Flaherty motioned him back.

  “Just let the law take its course, Luke,” he said, “they’ll hang this baby sure.”

  “Will they?” said Joe.

  The gray-haired man shook his finger at Joe.

  “Yes, my boy, I’m afraid they will.”

  “They can’t prove nothing on me,” said Joe; “I wasn’t even in that end of town the night Courtney was bumped off. That dame’s full of hop.”

  One of the policemen stepped past Flaherty and knocked Joe down. Flaherty grabbed the policeman and pushed him back. Joe got to his feet and stood holding his jaw.

  “I’m gonna put it to you birds for this,” said Joe.

  Both the policemen made a rush at Joe, but Flaherty held them back.

  “Well,” said Flaherty, “got an eyeful, Mr. McClure?”

  Joe stared at the gray-haired man. So this was the Crime Commission guy that was kicking up all the row.63 Joe took a good look at him so he’d know him the next time he saw him. Maybe, if things broke right, he could deliver a nice package at that bird’s house some morning.

  “Yes,” said Mr. McClure, “lock him up, turnkey.”

  The turnkey took Joe by the arm and flung him into his cell. Joe fell on his hands and knees.

  “Say,” said Joe, “what’s the idea?”

  The turnkey came over and put his face against the bars.

  “Orders, buddy,” he said, then he went away.

  Yeah, it was orders all right. They wasn’t going to let up on him till he spilled something. Joe felt panicky. He flung himself face down on his bunk and began to sob.

  “Won’t I never get out of here?” he said.

  They had been questioning Joe for over two hours. He sat under a blazing light and they sat round him in the darkness. Joe was so thirsty that he could hardly swallow. They took turns at him: first, Mr. McClure, then Flaherty, then Rieger. Flaherty sat near him and when he was slow with his answers rapped him over the knuckles with a ruler. But Joe stuck it out.

  The turnkey took him back to his cell and gave him some water. Joe took a big drink, then lay down on his bunk and tried to sleep, but it was no use. He felt hot all over and his tongue was swollen.

  He put his hands under his head and lay looking at the square spots of sunshine in the dark corridor.

  “God,” he said, “I can’t stand much of this.”

  In five minutes the turnkey came back.

  “They want you again, kid,” he said.

  “God, I can’t move,” said Joe.

  The turnkey unloc
ked the door and came into the cell.

  “Get on your feet,” he said, “and snap it up. The prosecutor’s in there now and you’re gonna ketch hell.”

  Joe got slowly to his feet and the turnkey led him down the corridor.

  V

  Sam Vettori sat half-dozing in an armchair watching a crap game. It was about eleven o’clock in the morning and most of the blinds were still down. All the wheels were covered and the chairs were piled up on the tables. The game was desultory as nobody had much money. As it wasn’t a house game, but merely some of the Vettori gang amusing themselves, Sam occasionally staked one or another of the players.

  Since the rise of Rico, Sam had confined his efforts to the managing of Little Arnie’s old joint. He was making money hand over fist and he was content to sit all day in his armchair and superintend the work of his employees. He drank wine by the gallon and ate plate after plate of spaghetti. In a month he put on fifteen pounds. As he was fat to begin with, this added poundage made him immense. His aquiline features were puffed out nearly beyond recognition and there were rolls of fat at the base of his skull. Sam had loosed the reins and gone slack. Formerly, effort had kept him in better condition, but now, perfectly at ease, free of responsibility, the deadly lethargy which had threatened him all his life took possession of him.

  Sam crossed his legs with difficulty and took out a stogie. The crap game had ended in an argument. Kid Bean loudly contended that he had been gypped.

  “Shut up, you guys,” said Sam, “I’m doing you a favor to let you shoot in here. Any more of this kind of stuff and you don’t do it no more. If you guys’d save your money you wouldn’t have to be fighting over two bits.”

  “Aw, rest your jaw,” said Kid Bean.

  Joe Peeper took the dice and flung them out the window.

  “Them babies’ll never bother me no more,” said Joe.

  “Can you beat that!” said Kid Bean.

  “Well,” said Sam, “since Blackie’s got all the jack, the rest of you guys can pitch pennies. Listen, Kid, don’t forget you owe me two bucks.”

  “You can take it out of my hide,” said the Kid.

  “Your hide ain’t worth it,” said Sam.

  Chesty, the doorman, came out of Sam’s office rubbing his eyes.

  “Sam,” he said, “Scabby wants to see you.”

  “Tell him to come out here,” said Sam.

  “No,” said Chesty, “he wants to see you private.”

  “Hey, Sam,” said Kid Bean, “give us a deck of cards, will you?”

  “No,” said Sam, “you don’t even know what they’re for.” He pulled himself slowly to his feet and turning to Chesty went on: “Get these guys a pack of cards and lock ’em up some place. They’d bump each other off for two bits and I don’t want this nice carpet spoiled.”

  Yawning and stretching, Sam went into his office and shut the door. Scabby was standing in the middle of the room, biting his nails.

  “Want a bottle of wine or something, Scabby?” asked Sam.

  “Christ, no!” cried Scabby.

  Sam stared at him, then dropped into a chair.

  “Well,” he said, “you look like you got something on your mind, so spill it.”

  Scabby was so nervous that he couldn’t control the muscles of his face.

  “You’re goddam right I got something on my mind,” said Scabby. “Joe spilled the works.”

  Sam opened his eyes wide.

  “Joe who?”

  “Joe Massara,” said Scabby. “They nabbed him on the Courtney business and he squawked.”

  Sam’s jaw fell and he ran his hands over his face in a bewildered way.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “It’s the God’s truth,” said Scabby; “boy, the bulls sure played this one slick. Listen, I didn’t even know nothing about it. They kept the newspaper guys out and when a couple guys who were in the know came looking for Joe they told them that they must have him at the Chicago Avenue station. And out at Chicago Avenue they sent ’em some place else. Yeah, it’s all over now.”

  This was too much for Sam. He just sat there staring at Scabby.

  “God, Sam,” said Scabby, astonished, “don’t you get me? It’s all over. Listen, if it wasn’t for you I’d be on my way right now. I don’t know whether I’ll be named or not, but I ain’t taking no chances. Love of God, Sam, don’t just sit there. You got to do something.”

  “Joe spilled everything?” asked Sam, taking it in slowly.

  “Yeah, he stuck it out for four hours, but he didn’t have a chance.”

  There was a flash of the old Sam Vettori. He got up and took Scabby by the arm.

  “Is Rico wised up?”

  “No,” said Scabby.

  “All right,” said Sam, “you keep your mouth shut.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” said Scabby.

  Sam looked about him, bewildered.

  “But, good God,” he cried, “what am I gonna do?”

  “Well,” said Scabby, “I got a can down here and I’m hitting East. Want to go with me? I’ll take a chance.”

  Sam looked his bewilderment. Things were moving too fast for him. Why, he hadn’t been out of Chicago for twenty years. He hadn’t been out of Little Italy for over five. Just pick up and beat it.

  “What the hell!” said Sam, “I got a good business. . . . God, what am I gonna do?”

  Scabby stared at him.

  “Why, Sam,” he said, “you must be losing your mind.”

  Sam wiped the sweat from his face and sank back into his chair.

  “Joe spilled it, hunh? Rico said he’d turn yellow.”

  Scabby took him under the arms and tried to pull him to his feet, but Sam pushed him away.

  “No use running,” he said, “they’ll get you sure. I ain’t gonna go running all over hell and back and a bunch of bulls chasing me.”

  Scabby swore violently in Italian.

  “No,” said Sam, “no use running.”

  “Well,” said Scabby, “this bird’s gonna pull his freight. Sam, you must be full of hop.”

  Sam sat staring at his shoes.

  “Listen,” said Scabby, “I can’t waste no more time. Are you gonna pull out or ain’t you?”

  Sam didn’t say anything.

  “O.K.,” said Scabby; “I’m moving.”

  “Wait,” cried Sam. “Scabby, listen to me. I been good to you, ain’t I?”

  “You sure have.”

  “I give you the money to bring your old man over here, didn’t I? And I give you the money to bury him, didn’t I?”

  “You sure did.”

  “Well, listen, Scabby, if Rico gets away, pop him. Goddam him; he’s busted us all. Pop him, Scabby, for old Sam.”

  “He won’t get away,” said Scabby.

  “You don’t know that guy,” said Sam, getting shakily to his feet; “sure to God as I’m a Catholic, you don’t know that guy. He’s got a run of luck and it may last.”

  “If he gets away I’ll pop him,” said Scabby.

  The door was flung violently open and Killer Pepi stepped in.

  “I heard you bastards,” he said. “The Kid told me there was something up. Double-crossing the boss, hunh?”

  “Go to hell,” said Sam.

  Scabby raised his gun but it missed fire. The Killer shot from his hip, then ran out, slamming the door.

  “Did he plug you, Scabby?” cried Sam.

  “No,” said Scabby, “but I heard her sing.”

  The window behind Scabby had a bullet hole in it.

  “He’ll spill it sure,” said Sam, his face puckered.

  “Won’t do him no good,” said Scabby, “’cause the bulls are on their way. Well, Sam, I’m moving.”

  Sam just looked at him. Scabby raised the window and climbed out on the fire-escape.

  “Love of God, Sam,” said Scabby, “you got to do something.”

  Sam took his hat from the hook.

  “I’ll go see the Bi
g Boy.”

  “It won’t do you no good, Sam.”

  They heard someone running down the hall, then, there was a shot, followed by a rush of feet. Chesty flung open the door.

  “The bulls!” he cried.

  Scabby disappeared down the fire-escape. Sam took out his automatic and put his back against the wall. Spike Rieger put his head in the door, then drew it back hastily.

  “Sam,” he called, “better give up.”

  “All right,” said Sam, flinging his gun on the floor.

  Spike Rieger came in followed by two policemen.

  “Put the cuffs on him,” said Spike.

  Sam held out his hands and one of the policemen snapped on the handcuffs.

  “Spike,” said Sam, “did you pick the Killer up on the way in?”

  “No,” said Spike, “we don’t want him for nothing.” Turning to the policemen Spike said: “All right, put him in the wagon.”

  “Listen, Spike,” said Sam, “did you get Rico?”

  “I don’t know,” said Spike. “Flaherty’s after him. I guess you know Gentleman Joe squawked, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” said Sam, indifferently, “but you ain’t got no case against me.”

  Spike laughed.

  VI

  The Killer knocked at Rico’s door but got no response. He knocked again and again, then, getting impatient, he put his shoulder to the door and flung it open. No Rico. The Killer stood in the hall, wondering where Rico could have gone. From the landing above him, the landlady yelled:

  “Hey, what did you do to that door?”

  “The hell with the door,” said Pepi; “do you know where the guy that lives there is?”

  “No,” said the landlady, “but I seen him go out with a fellow.”

  “What kind of a fellow?”

  “A little fellow.”

  Otero! Killer took the stairs at a jump but slowed his pace as he reached the main floor. There was a police car at the curb. Flaherty got out leisurely and stood talking to one of the policemen in the front seat. Pepi went over to him.

  “Looking for the boss?”

  “Yeah,” said Flaherty, “the Big Boy sent me down. I want to have a talk with him.”

  “Yeah?” said Pepi. “Getting wise to yourself, hunh?”

  “Rico was always O.K. with me.”

  “That’s the talk,” said Pepi. “Well, the boss is upstairs by himself.”