The Oxford Book of American Det (66 page)

“I’ve told you all I know, yes.”

“Then let’s go to the gow. You’re still under arrest. Frankly I don’t believe a word you’ve told me.”

I goggled at him. “You mean you intend to hand me to those brainless wonders in Venice? Me, your best friend?”

“Yeh.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “I even pinched my own grandmother one time for robbing a blind man. All my family are heels, including me. Stick out your fins for the nippers and be quick about it.”

I reached in my pocket for a coffin nail. At the same instant, my front door opened a crack and a roscoe stuttered: Ka-Pow! behind me. The blast was bad enough but the slug’s nearness was worse. It scorched a blister on my left ear as it went by; and then Dave Donaldson clapped a hand to his noggin, lurched drunkenly and fell down. Gore commenced leaking from his furrowed scalp.

CHAPTER IV - The Night of the Raid

I let out a strangled oath, swung around, hurled my heft at the door. It was closed again by the time I reached it. And it wouldn’t open when I tugged at the knob.

Somebody had jammed it from outside.

An acrid stench of burned gunpowder hung in the air, stung my smeller. I whirled and went racing buckety-blip to the kitchenette, where my stash had a second exit into a short elbow corridor. This portal worked okay. I lunged out to the short hall; pelted for the main one. Nobody was in sight when I got there, though; nobody, that is, except some nosy neighbours poking their beaks out to see what the shooting was about.

“Hey!” I rasped. “Did any of you see—?”

It developed that nobody had tabbed anything. I sailed down the main staircase: no dice. I drew a blank with the automatic elevator, too. But there was still a rear stairway I hadn’t covered; and there was no use trying to, now. The gunsel had long since had time to scram out of the building—and out of the entire neighbourhood if he had a fast enough jalopy.

Panting fire and brimstone, I returned to my front door and found out what had jammed it. Some sharp disciple had wedged a .32 Colt between the knob and the doorcase in such a way that when you tried to open up from inside, you merely made the wedge tighter.

It was no trick to dislodge the roscoe. It had the same burned cordite odour I’d noticed in my wigwam an instant ago, meaning this was the heater that had drilled Dave Donaldson. I gave vent to a frantic bleat as I realized it now had my fingerprints on it from plucking it away from the knob. And the short hairs prickled at the nape of my neck when I tumbled to another fact that was a lot worse.

The rod was my own: the one those harness bulls had forced me to drop on the amusement pier!

I moaned: “For the love of—!” and shoved my portal open so hard it almost came off its hinges. Once inside, I kicked it shut again to keep out the busybodies. Then I hunkered down alongside Donaldson’s sprawled tonnage; forced myself to look at his colourless puss. He and I had been through plenty together, month after month for more than ten years without a break. Now he was defunct... and I’d probably be accused of creaming him.

He proved this by mumbling: “Hello. Headquarters. Put out the net for that rat Turner.

I was about to handcuff him when he shoved his fist in his pocket and shot me. Hello.

Operator. You cut me off. Say, doctor, have you got an aspirin on you? A pound of hamburger, please, and here’s the ration stamp. Yeah. Turner shot me, Chief.

Delirious? Me? Well, you’d be delirious too if your hospital bed was as hard as mine.

Feels like I was sleeping on the floor—“ He opened his groggy glimmers, took a swivel and bellowed: “By gosh, I am on the floor!”

Realising he was alive made me feel as good as a guy having an abscessed tooth pulled. The relief was terrific but the aftermath hurt like the devil. That slug from the doorway had merely creased his cranium, maced him silly; but now he was conscious again and thought I was the bozo who’d nicked him.

To make it lousier, he tried to flounder up on his haunches. I restrained him. “Easy, Dave. Easy,” I said. Then I realised I was prodding him with the .32 in my duke.

He lamped it and sagged back. “Oh. Going to finish your job, hunh?” His shoulders twitched. “Okay. I’m ready.”

I snarled: “Don’t be a dope, you dope. I didn’t plug you. It came from the doorway.”

“Hurry up and pull your trigger,” he ignored what I was saying. “And don’t miss.

Because in another minute I’m going to be strong enough to tangle with you. That’s a warning.”

“I tell you I—“

He came off the floor slowly, an inch at a time. Mayhem glittered in his glims and there was violence in his knotted mitts. “Gonna beat your brains out,” he announced distinctly. He swung a roundhouse haymaker, missed and folded like a punctured balloon. He was snoring before he hit the rug.

I hurdled him, picked up my phone, dialled headquarters. The desk sergeant who came on the line didn’t suspect anything when I said: “Lieutenant Donaldson speaking.

Look. I’ve just collared Dan Turner. You can cancel the pickup order we had out for him; I’m bringing him in personally.”

“Okay, lieutenant. I’ll notify Venice, too.”

“Right,” I said. Then I hung up and got out of there. Fast.

For a little while I knew I’d be safe. Cancelling that pickup order had been a stroke of sheer genius on my part. Now the radio prowl cars would quit hunting me; I could move around without being forced to duck every time I piped a blue uniform and a set of brass buttons. This wouldn’t last long, though. Pretty soon Dave Donaldson would wake up again, phone his minions what had really happened. Then the heat would be on.

I blipped downstairs, barged outdoors, whistled a Yellow over to the curb and piled in.

“Hollywood Times, brother. Don’t spare the horses. I’m in a yank.” Presently we came to the newspaper building and I hotfooted up to the file room. The attendant was a guy I knew. “Hi, Larry,” I said.

A flabbergasted look came into his optics. “Hawkshaw! Do you know the cops are—?”

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” I said bitterly. “I’m hotter than the inside of a stove. Let’s understand each other. If you figure to stool on me, I’m leaving. If you feel like helping me, I’ll be grateful. Take your pick.”

“Why, I’ll help you, of course; if I can. Stooling is out of my line.”

“Thanks. How’s for slipping me your envelope of clippings on a certain Sunset Strip dice joint raid about a month ago? You remember the place I mean.” He said yes he remembered, and scuttled to a file; extracted a thick manila folder.

“Here’s what you want. Your own picture’s in it, incidentally.” I knew that as well as he did. The press photogs had made a Roman holiday of the raid, having been tipped in advance that it was going to be pulled. They’d snapped a slew of pix which were smeared all over the following day’s front pages. One shot showed Vala DuValle clinging to my arm and looking hysterical, with a caption under it: PARAVOX STAR WITH FAMOUS SHAMUS. This photo was the one that had subsequently given Bernie Ballantyne an attack of the jealous jitters.

I spread the clippings on a desk; began studying them. The silliest picture was of the phony Grand Duke Mike Voronoff, restaurant proprietor and general moocher, trying to sneak through an exit on his hands and knees. There was another of Roy Cromwell haughtily informing a county cop that he’d come stag to the joint—a lie he got away with for the simple reason that he had palmed the DuValle brunette off on me a moment before. And then there was a medium long shot of the whole place, showing almost everybody who’d been there when the law busted in.

This was the snap I particularly wanted to gander. I glued the gaze on it, hunting people I knew. One yellow-haired cookie caught my attention.

She was Maizie Murdock.

I took a closer hinge to make sure. There was no mistaking her bleached tresses and gamine pan. She was with a pasty-faced jerk I’d never seen before; a guy who didn’t seem to amount to anything unless they gave medals for a Victory Garden of pimples on the chin. I puckered my kisser, whistled softly.

Larry, the newspaper file clerk, ankled over. “Something?” he said.

“Maybe,” I told him. “I’d like a phone and some privacy if you can manage it.” He led me to a secluded desk. “Help yourself.” He left me there.

I fished a number from my mental note-book; dialled it. The bozo I called was Pedro Criqui, a French Spaniard who’d been in more hot water than used tea-leaves. Most recent on the list of his misfortunes was the fact that he’d been the proprietor of that raided dice drop.

“Pedro?” I said.

“I’ll see if he’s-a een. Holda wire, oui?”

“Stew that stall. This is Dan Turner.”

“Oh. That’s-a deeference. How you are, you sonagun? You een troubles, hah? Ees een the papers, on radio, you bumpa mamselle. You beeg chomp, Sherlock. You wanna keel somebody, ees crazy to pull eet in poblic. Fooey!” I said patiently: “Fooey on you too, bub. I didn’t bump her. Listen. I need some information.”

“Whatsa cookeeng? I don’t got information. Whats you’re wanna knoweeng, hah?”

“How often Roy Cromwell brought Vala DuValle to your joint.”

“Lotsa times, two - three, maybe six. Alia time he’s-a shoots the snake-eyes. He’s can’t make point weeth lead pencil. Theesa DuValle pigeon she’s like hees company, aplenty, you betcha. Boy oh boy.”

“Did Cromwell ever take her to one of your private dining rooms?’ I said casually.

His tone got distant. “Now waiteeng a meenute, palsy-walsy. Theesa DuValle chicken, she’s-a nice mamselle.”

“About the private room,” I said.

“Theesa Cromwell ees being a rat. Me, I don’t know nothing about nothing. Whats you theenking I am, a squealer?”

I grinned. “Thanks. So he did take tier to a private dining room.”

“You sonagun. I deedn’t telling you thees.”

“No. You just let it slip, is all.”

He cursed me fervently in four languages. “Two minutes they go in private room.

She’s-a no like the idea, you unnastand me? Maybeso she’s-a like theesa Cromwell’s company, but not so moch as that. He’s telling her they have
petit dejeuner a deux
.

Catch what I’m meaning? Dinner for two, cozy by theirselfs. She’s go een, look around, she’s-a saying nix brother, ees bad for reputation.” I said: “I get it. She didn’t mind going out with him, playing the night spots; but when it came to a nest behind closed doors it was no dice. Right?”

“Ees damned right. Whatsa matter, you no unnastand English? Hah?”

“Okay,” I soothed him. “So Vala was strictly on the up and up with Cromwell. What night did this private room episode happen?”

He said the night of the raid, and started cursing the cops that knocked him over. “Ees costing me all I ever win from guys like—“

“Remind me to send you a towel to cry in,” I said, and hung up on his dolorous moans.

Now I had something I could sink my bridgework into. The DuValle cupcake and Roy Cromwell had come downstairs from a private room the night of the raid. Their visit to the second floor had been brief, true enough, but they had come downstairs.

And anybody gandering them as they descended might have made gossip of it.

And Maizie Murdock had been in the joint that night.

And later Vala DuValle had apparently been blackmailed.

And Bernie Ballantyne had threatened to kill the blackmailer.

And Maizie Murdock got croaked.

And Bernie had been on the scene of the murder.

And he had tried to frame me for it.

I said softly: “Turner, you’re a genius. You’ll be a marvellous detective some day if you live long enough.” Then I torched a gasper and left the newspaper building. I wasn’t very happy, though. I was afraid I might not live as long as a guy should if he hopes to be a marvellous detective.

Another taxi wafted me across town to the cheap apartment wikiup where the late lamented Murdock quail had lived. It was along toward dusk when I rousted out the manager, a slatternly old hag with henna-red hair that had grey streaks showing through. If she’d paid more than fifty cents a pint for the gin on her breath, she’d been robbed.

“Something, dearie?” she asked me.

I gave her a swift squint at my badge, not long enough to let her know it was only a private op’s biscuit. “Official business,” I said. “Homicide headquarters.” From within the harridan’s flat a snivelling voice full of adenoids whined: “What is it, maw?”

“So you’re from headquarters,” the dame stared at me. “Just another cop, junior,” she called to the voice inside. “Shut your mouth or I’ll kick it shut.” Then, to me: “Junior’s my son. Sometimes I wish I’d drowned him.”

“Tell him we’re tired of cops,” the voice snivelled spitefully. “Tell him to dust, maw.” I said: “I’d like to ask you some questions, lady.”

“Questions!” she grumbled. “Questions, questions, always it’s questions.” A burp boiled up from around her insteps. “Oops, sorry. Something I et, no doubt.” The adenoids got vocal again. “What’s he want, maw?”

“Quiet, bum. He wants to know about Maizie, of course.” She looked at me. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah. Isn’t this where Miss Murdock lived?”

“Hey, maw, tell him to blow. You ought to paste him, maw. It would learn him something.”

She pitched her voice to a shrill, infuriated screech. “Sock cops, is it? You keep running off at the face and I’ll take you apart with a club.” Then, with no change of expression on her unlovely puss, she lowered her tone to normal. “Just like his old man. A creep.”

“About Miss Murdock,” I said,

“How many times have I go to go over it?” she made an indignant mouth. “Ask those other dicks that’s already been here. For goodness’ sakes, ain’t you flatfeet got nothing better to do but pester a body crazy?”

“Heave him out, maw,” the adenoids said.

She screamed: “Will you button that lip of yours?”

“Look,” I said reasonably. “Can I help it if headquarters assigns me to check up on those other detectives? I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble, but—“ The dame sighed. “Okay.” She scratched herself. “I’ll tell it again. Maizie Murdock lived here until yesterday.”

“You mean she moved?”