Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 2, March 19, 1938
- Автор: Clark Dale, 12627 Convict
- Год: 1938
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 2, March 19, 1938». Краткое содержание книги:
“How did you get away?”
She shivered. “Out the window. I crawled along a ledge till I got to a fire escape.”
I did a little shivering myself. I knew the penthouse; knew how it was built on a corner instead of in the middle of the roof. Crawling along a narrow parapet, in the rain, thirteen stories above the street — well, it was no wonder she was jittery.
I said, “Look, Fran, how much do you know of Big Ed’s business besides this kill? Who is this Ames guy?”
“I don’t know, Jerry. Somebody important, I guess. About Ed... well, I’ve heard rumors, of course. I read the papers. Lately things haven’t been going so well between us.” She gave me a direct look. “I... I guess I never loved him enough to overlook some of the things they’re saying about him. But that’s all I know; he’s never told me anything himself, except to mind my own business.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll get you some of Cora’s clothes.”
“That’s what you think,” Cora said. She was standing in her bedroom door, a nasty little grin on her face and not much else on her body. You could see right through the filmy nightie but somehow I didn’t get a thrill. I wondered how long she’d been there.
She told me that, too. “Long enough to get the whole picture, you heel.” Big violet eyes stared insolently at Frances. “I guess you’re the dame my husband is sorry he didn’t marry.”
Fran’s dark eyes went wide at that, but she didn’t say anything. I said, “Now look, Cora, you and I have had our differences but this gal’s in a spot. Do you give her an outfit or do I have to slap you to sleep?”
“Just try slapping somebody,” Cora said. She brought a hand around, the one she’d been holding behind her, and she had one of those small pearl-handled purse-guns in it. I’d dropped my own rod when I picked up Fran. I felt kind of foolish.
I said, “Now take it easy, Cora. We’ll work this thing out.”
“You’re damned right we will, punk. We’ll work it out so it adds up to some real money. Not the kind you’ve been handing me lately.” She got a curious, speculative look on her beautiful pan. You had to hand her that much; she certainly was beautiful. But she was as hard as nails. She grinned. “In fact, Jerry, I don’t think I’ll need you any more.”
Well, I suppose I could have jumped her gun. At another time I’d have tried it, at least. But she was all keyed up to shoot and she had everything on her side. I mean, she was my wife; it was our apartment. Fran didn’t have many clothes on either and Cora could shoot the both of us and claim we’d violated the sanctity of the home. Probably Big Ed and this Ames guy would pay her a bonus for doing the job herself instead of just fingering us. A sweet setup, huh?
I said, “Okay, baby, it’s your play.”
She came out into the room, kicked my rod under a chair. Then, gun held almost negligently, she gestured us into the coat closet in the hall. The key turned. I’d never noticed it before but that damned closet door opened in. Fran and I were liable to stay put for a long time.
The situation wasn’t funny.
III
Ora’s tinkly little laugh, brittle as glass, came to us. After that we didn’t hear any more until the outside door closed. In the dark I wrapped a spare overcoat around Fran. She was shivering with the cold.
I said, “Cheer up, kid. We’re not licked yet.”
She didn’t sound frightened. “I didn’t know women like that really existed, Jerry. Do they, or is it all just a bad dream?”
“No,” I grated, “it’s bad, but it isn’t a dream. Cora is just part of the well-known Cassidy luck. Funny, you coming here, Fran. I mean, of the million and a half people in Los Angeles you’d have to pick Jerry Cassidy and his wife.” I didn’t tell her that she’d run from one killer straight into the arms of another. There didn’t seem to be any point to making her feel worse than she did. Well, I thought, I won’t have to worry any more about taking the rap for the Heinie Ziegler kill. I’ll just disappear like he did. And like Fran will.
Frances said, “You think she will try to sell us to Ed?”
“No, I’m sure of it.” I told her to move over out of the way, grabbed the doorknob with both hands, wedged my back against the wall and put my feet up under the knob. You get a lot of leverage that way. My luck still held. The knob came off in my hands. I hit the floor at the same time the other half of the knob did, only it had the edge. It was on the outside.
Fran flopped down beside me. “Jerry, are you hurt?”
“Only my vanity,” I told her. Suddenly I chuckled. Not because that was a new name for the place that hurt, but because I’d just remembered something. Up on the shelf in that closet was a kit of car tools; the ones I’d swiped out of the old car when I traded it in. You’ve probably done that same thing yourself. It’s one of those little not-quite-honest tricks that goes under the head of good sense. You don’t get any more allowance for a car with tools than you do without, so why waste ’em? They say crime don’t pay. Well, if lifting those tools was a crime, the moralists must have slipped because they sure came in handy. We were outside in two minutes.
Fran picked out an armload of Cora’s clothes, went into the bath. I prowled through Cora’s vanity, came up with two diamond rings I’d given her and a small roll of bills. You’ll maybe get a better idea of Cora when I tell you there were two C’s in that roll. Two hundred dollars, and not three hours ago she’d nicked me for my last twenty!
Fran came out. She’d picked the more quiet things: a brown sport suit, brown hat and shoes. She looked tired, but like a million to me.
“Fran,” I said, “I’ve found a little stake. Enough to do us for a while if we’re careful and stick together. We can’t make it separately. You ready to go with a bum like me?”
She gave me her hand. “Anywhere, Jerry Cassidy. If you’re a bum, we’ll be bums together.”
I couldn’t say anything to that. I just took her arm and went out to the living room, stooping on the way to get my rod from under the chair. We went down to my car. It had stopped raining and I thought that might be a good sign.
We were about half way down the first block when I happened to look in the rear vision mirror. A car without lights had just pulled up in front of the apartment. A couple of guys got out, started inside. Then one of them half turned, looked down the street and spotted my tail-light. Anyway, I guess that’s what made him wave his arm in my direction. The car without lights got under way. That’s all I waited to see. I romped on the accelerator till the Chewy thought it was a super-charged vibrator. We raced around the first corner on two wheels, straightened out from a skid that almost smashed us against the curb, reversed at the next turn and did it all over again. We were probably making about fifty but it seemed like ninety.
Fran was on her knees, looking out the rear window and cheering me on like it was a race of high school kids at three in the afternoon. There was a little pinggg and a slug cut through the window and smashed the mirror. All right, I thought, you’re asking for it. I yelled at Fran: “Get down on the floor, nit-wit! We’re gonna play games too.”
The scenery, consisting mostly of darkened store-fronts, was going by us a mile a minute; the street was still as wet as the bottom of the ocean, only slicker. Fran was down on the floor now, saying little prayers, and I hoped the Chevvy’s body was as good as the ads said. I didn’t slam on the brakes. I was afraid to on that greasy pavement. It wasn’t necessary, anyway. From the tail of my eye I saw the emblem on the other car’s nose creep up, then part of the hood. All I did was take my foot off the throttle. You’d think we had stopped dead. I put two quick slugs in an open window as the other job leaped ahead, not knowing how many guys were inside, not caring. The big car was a full length up on us before it went into a kind of tail spin. It skidded the width of the street, bounced back to the center, started whirling. Round and round it went and I knew its brakes were locked. I was half around in a U turn by this time. Somebody in the spinning car took a shot at us, missed, then the machine he was in suddenly quit acting like a dizzy ballet dancer and went flying off at a tangent. The last I saw of it was when it crashed a light pole.