The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

And that was enough. The old boy had let his head sink down so that it rested on my knees, which gave me a chance to lean forward and spill my stuff close to my client’s ear.

“Let me tell you this. A split second’s delay in that bit of gun-play, and — bing! there’d be some one to say ‘Doesn’t the Colonel look natural?’ You got me into it. You brought me along. If you were aiming on committing suicide, so that the insurance companies would call it homicide, you should have told me so.” And waxing just a bit sarcastic now, “You misrepresented the job — or at least Myer did for you. You got your life saved and a lad knocked over for five hundred dollars.”

“I never expected it. Never thought they’d dare. It couldn’t have been the old man, Giovoni, they wanted to kill. They couldn’t have known. It must have been me. But — I’ll pay you more. What you wish — what you charge for—”

“A flat rate for a corpse, eh? Well — I took the five hundred and I’ll call it a day, unless unpleasant complications arise. It was your party — your fun — and you’ve got to foot the bills.”

“I shouldn’t mind.” He was nodding his head now, as he narrowly missed a cruising taxi. “I’ve been through it all — in the war. But here, in the city streets — sudden and violent death!”

“Then don’t stick your face into the business end of strange guns,” I told him. I was a bit hot under the collar as I ducked another look back over my shoulder to be sure we weren’t tailed.

You’ve got to admit I had a right to feel sore. Here I was, due for a pat on the back — or several pats for that matter, and this lad was crabbing and throwing the “human life” stuff into my face. What did he want me to do? Break down and run to the district attorney’s office with a confession? If ever a lad needed one good killing, that gunman was the lad. I started to rake it into the Colonel again — and stopped dead. It took his mind off his driving — at least I thought it did, for he dashed toward the curb and a pole — and finally stopped before a large house on an up-town side street. There was a name that stretched across between the entrances of two houses. I didn’t get the lettering then.

The occupants of those two combined houses were more or less expecting us, for the Colonel had hardly climbed the stone steps and pressed the bell when two men in white coats came down the steps, bearing a stretcher. They made quick work of the old guy, Giovoni, in the back of the car. He was muttering now, and breathing sort of heavy. It didn’t take a minute to place him on that stretcher and carry him inside.

I climbed out of the car and walked up and down a bit, as the Colonel followed them inside. There was a round shouldered, mustached gent who stood by the door as the stretcher bearers passed. You didn’t need three guesses to tell you that he was a doctor — The Doctor.

From the sidewalk it was easy to lamp the name across the two buildings. ELROD’S PRIVATE SANITARIUM it read. But I didn’t need that bit of information to wise me up that it was a Quack House.

I spent my time killing butts and looking the street over, but it was a cinch we hadn’t been followed. Twenty minutes passed, and one of the white coated stretcher bearers came down the steps and asked me to go inside. I did that little thing. Entered the hall, turned left and stepped into a large waiting room, where the Colonel and the lad I had spotted for the boss sawbones were chewing the fat over a bottle which stood on a table. The white coated stretcher bearer closed the door, leaving himself on the outside.

“Mr. Williams — Doctor Elrod.” The Colonel smiled as the Doctor and I shook hands. Doctor Elrod was a harmless, slightly bent, calm little man, with the professional grin of confidence perpetually stamped on his good natured face. I passed him up and listened to the Colonel.

“I have told Doctor Elrod a little — just a little of our experience and strain of this evening. The Doctor was in the war with me.” The Colonel emptied his glass, lifted the bottle, poured himself out another hooker, shoved the bottle toward me and indicated a glass with his free hand.

“What’s this for?” I looked at the liquor. It said “Genuine Bourbon” on the outside of the bottle.

“It’s been a trying evening,” said the Colonel, “and I’ve been a little severe with you.” He shoved a glass across the table now. “You’ll need something to steady your nerves. I think I have — have further work for you.”

I shoved the bottle back across the table to him. He was the army man again, I thought. Severe — kindly — patronizing. I didn’t like it. And I’m not a guy to nurse a thing. I gave him what was on my chest.

“You couldn’t be severe with me,” I told him, and meant it. “You’re not big enough.” And letting him down on that, “Nor is any one else. And I haven’t any nerves. Some day maybe I’ll drink with you. But liquor comes under the head of pleasure with me — not business. It’s not that the stuff would bother me any,” I threw in, for I didn’t like the way he nodded his head. “It’s the psychological effect. I like to feel that when a guy,” and I looked at the Doctor and toned my line down a bit, “falls down, he didn’t collapse through the neck of a bottle I’d been handling.”