The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

Chapter VII

A Bit of Murder

But I didn’t drive straight to the Golden Dog, for I had plenty of time to put on my act for Joe Gorgon and still meet The Flame. I went smack to the Morning Globe office. I knew the man who’d be on the desk at that hour and I’d done a bit of thinking.

They work fast in newspaper offices. They have to. I was turned loose in the morgue, with a man who knew his pictures. Ten minutes later I was staring into the face of the man known as the Colonel. That set chin and those determined eyes stood out in that photo. There was quite a bit to read about him. His war record; his marriage; and his wonderful accomplishments in the army intelligence department.

His full name was Charles Halsey McBride, and he had graduated from college with a deputy Police Commissioner of the city of New York. A commissioner who was taking his job seriously and raising hell all up and down the line, for he was a wealthy man who had the money to do it with and even the backing of the Commissioner — at least, that was the rumor.

“Sure,” said the newsman, chewing what he must have thought was a cigarette. “McBride’s done some good work, though he blew up in the Chicago investigation. Too much notoriety, I guess, though he never made a squawk. There was talk of the government sending him into New York, but on account of his friendship with the Deputy Commissioner it might make hard feelings. At present, I think he’s got a leave of absence, though there’s a rumor he’s working secretly for Washington on the Power Trust. It’s unconfirmed though, and we don’t know where he is. But city rackets are out of his line. Trusts — big business — mergers — and oil investigations are his meat. He’s got a brain in his head, but you can’t sit down in a courtroom behind locked doors and hang murders on lads who have witnesses kidnaped or killed — intimidate witness, who won’t dare talk — and hire others to do their killing; others, who don’t know for sure who really paid them to do—” The phone rang. “But McBride isn’t the lad for that kind of job. It doesn’t call for sharp questions from behind a desk.”

“No,” I said, “it doesn’t.” But I was rather thoughtful at that, as I left the chap to his phone and departed.

Colonel McBride! Here was a lad who didn’t intend to sit behind his desk and listen to big guys explain their positions through the mouths of clever and high paid lawyers. This lad had guts — and sense, I thought, when he took me on. But it was a cinch he hadn’t come on orders from Washington. If he had, it would have been in the papers. Then, who was behind him? Certainly he wasn’t doing this on his own initiative — besides, Detective Sergeant O’Rourke was taking orders from him — and what’s more, Colonel McBride had authority. But — he had said that he wished to clean up the city — the Gorgon brothers — before outside authority stepped in. It might be possible that he was working for the Commissioner himself — privately and secretly, until the time to strike came — building up an evidence that would stand the gaff of a jury trial.

And I didn’t feel that I had broken a confidence by looking him up. He knew who he was hiring. I had a right to know for whom I was working. A lad in my position can’t tell what might be put over on him. I wouldn’t even put it past certain officials to try and frame me. But... I had other things to think of. Jerry, the boy who worked for me, would have to be reached and be outside the Golden Dog to tail Joe Gorgon.

After giving Jerry a jingle at my apartment, I drove up town and entered the Golden Dog at exactly seven minutes after twelve o’clock.

Rudolph Myer had something under the table that wasn’t ginger ale. He was pounding nervously on the table, but bobbed up straight as I entered the room.

And at the next table was Joe Gorgon with four other men. His great bulk was shoved far back in the chair, his knees crossed, his thumbs stuck in the armholes of his vest, and a cigar protruding from the corner of his mouth. The other four men I knew. One was a ward leader, called Jamison, and beside him my little playmate, Eddie Gorgon. The other two guys’ faces were familiar. One, a fairly well known lawyer — and the other, well — just a face. I couldn’t place the name of either.

Joe Gorgon didn’t see me. His mind was suddenly occupied by the entrance of Billy Riley, one of the three biggest political leaders in the city.

I heard Gorgon call to Riley as he passed the table, and what’s more, Riley was nearer to Gorgon than to me. It was a cinch that Riley heard him. It was a cinch too that Riley didn’t want to hear him. Like most of us, Riley liked to claim the acquaintance of well-known men — influential men. But Joe Gorgon was getting himself just a bit too well known. Yet Riley didn’t have the stomach to turn him down flat. Money flowed from Joe Gorgon’s pocket like from the United States mint — and Riley had a fondness for money.

Jamison, the ward leader, looked up quickly — questioningly, from Joe Gorgon to Billy Riley. I read, just as well as Joe Gorgon did, what was in his mind. Perhaps Jamison didn’t word it as the book of etiquette might, but in his own way Jamison sensed that Joe Gorgon was getting “the cut” direct.