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:
I wet my lips. “Look, Slats, how come you found me?”
He gave me a sour grin. “They found Cora first. After that there was a general alarm out for you. A prowl car located your car in an alley near here and it had a bullet hole in it — you must have missed Cora with that one — and so they sent me out because I could describe you better than most. Funny, huh?” He wasn’t liking this much better than I was.
I said yes, it certainly was very funny. All the time I kept wondering what to do about Fran. If I didn’t drag her into it, let Slats think she’d lammed, then what? Why, then he’d grab me and she’d be left alone. With a general alarm out, he couldn’t keep the pinch quiet. Big Ed, knowing Fran had been with me, would send a batch of hoods after her.
I almost went down on my knees to the guy. “Slats,” I jittered, “I didn’t kill Cora. She had it coming, and I admit I’m not so awfully sorry, but I didn’t kill her. I swear it.”
His dark eyes said I was a snivelling heel. “Who else would want to, punk?”
Well, I’d look cute telling him Big Ed had done it. I wasn’t even sure he had. He’d probably ordered it done and had an unbreakable alibi. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight; maybe you can figure what I should have done. All I’m telling you is what I did. I took a chance on McKenna’s gun, came out of a sort of half crouch and hung a hard right on his lantern jaw. His head snapped back against the hall door. After that he just kind of folded up in sections, a little at a time, till he was sprawled out flat. All but his head. That still leaned against the door. I wondered if I’d broken his neck, got down on my knees beside him. His neck was all right. He was just out.
Fran’s door opened and she popped in, gave a little screech. “Oh, Jerry, is he dead?”
“No,” I said. “Better get your coat and hat, Fran. We’ve gotta go places before your dear husband hears where we are.” I was going through Slats’ pockets now, after my gun. Believe it or not, the guy had a big hole in the pocket he’d dropped my rod in. The damn thing had slid way down into the lining. I let it go, grabbed his own gun, clipped it under my arm as Fran came back. Together we went out and caught a down elevator. The lobby of the Mercer was L-shaped, the elevator bank around the turn from the desk. Fran and I got to the turn just as the night clerk glanced in that direction. I saw his mouth flop open, saw the movement of his body as his toe reached for the alarm button under the desk. He didn’t step on it, just waited to see if Slats McKenna was behind us.
I grabbed Fran’s arm, pulled her back out of sight. My left hand located the roll of dough, pressed it into her fist. The elevator operator was watching us now. I said, “Here, kid, don’t stop to argue. You’ve got clothes now, and money. Beat it out the back way, go down the alley and snag a cab on Fifth. Go to the Palais in Hollywood and wait for me.”
She shook her head. “Jerry, I can’t leave you like this. You’re in trouble of some kind. Besides me, I mean. I... I heard part of what Slats said. I can clear you.”
“You might,” I agreed. “If you lived long enough.” I put on the old act here. “It’s really for my sake, Fran. It sounds like Ed and this guy Ames might swing a lotta weight. I don’t want you picked up by either Ed or the cops till I know just where we stand. In other words you’ll do me more good at present if nobody knows where you are.” A fat house dick waddled around the ell, looking important. I gave Fran a shove toward the service entrance, tripped the fat guy as he went by. He started yelling bloody murder. So did the kid in the elevator. I took it on the lam out past the desk. The clerk had a gun. He shut his eyes as he pulled the trigger and naturally you can’t expect to hit much with your eyes closed. All he hit was one of the big plate-glass windows and this went out with a booming crash just as I made the sidewalk. Slats McKenna’s police job was at the curb; there was not a cab in sight. I scrambled into Slats’ car. The well-known Cassidy luck was still with me. Slats had taken his keys with him.
The clerk and the operator and the fat house dick were all stuck in the revolving door. I crawled out the far side of the car just as another car swung into the street. Two men got out, slanted toward me, not running, just a couple of jay walkers headed for the hotel. The car came on. I swiveled, ran smack into a second car. This one was without lights, coming from the other direction. I hadn’t even heard it. As I went to my hands and knees from the impact, the brakes locked. Two guns started a sort of rhythmic one-two, one-two blasting and from the sound of falling glass I guessed they were shooting at the revolving door of the Mercer. I had Slats’ rod out when the car nudged me again, not hard, just enough to knock me sprawling without exactly running over me. Somebody stepped on my hand. Somebody else kicked me in the head. Then both somebodies reached down and hauled me to my feet.
“Going some place, Cassidy? We’ll give you a lift.” This polite offer was followed by a swing that practically jerked my head right off and I was only vaguely conscious of being shoved into a car. Motor sound drummed in my ears. Presently that too faded out.
IV
By and by I got the idea that somebody was shaking me, and opening my eyes I discovered that this was the first Jerry Cassidy idea that had panned out all evening. The guy really was shaking me. I was still in the car, in the back seat, and the guy working me over had an assistant. I was sandwiched between them.
Up front, under the wheel, was a third guy who was paying strict attention to his driving. We must have been miles away from the Mercer Hotel. I hoped Frances was too. The guy shaking me found out that I was awake and rapped his knuckles against my teeth.
The other one said, “Hey, cut that out. You been working for ten minutes tryin’ to get him awake and the minute you do you wanna slap him back to sleep. Where’s the percentage?”
“My pal,” I thanked him.
“Oh, yeah?” he said, and smacked me himself. He was nothing but a hypocrite, that guy. He took out a knife and flipped open a four inch blade and tested the edge on his thumb. I watched that knife with a great deal of interest, wondering which part of me he was going to try it on first. First my stomach got goose pimples, then my throat. He fooled me. He jabbed the point into my knee. “Where’s the dame?” he wanted to know.
“What dame?”
Jab went the knife again. This time in my ribs. He must have measured off the exact distance because it didn’t go past the ribs. He pretended it was a corkscrew, taking it out. The other guy had an arm under my chin. That’s all that kept me from yelling.
The guy with the knife wiped the blade fastidiously on the back of the front seat. “All right, Percy, leave him talk.” He had a face like a wedge. Percy took his arm away and I began to talk. You learn a lot of nice words in the navy. I gave them the whole works in one breath. Percy got hold of one of my flailing arms, shoved it up between my shoulder blades. “Shut up, punk.”
I shut up. The guy with the knife licked his lips. He reminded me more and more of a hyena I’d seen in the zoo when I was a kid. This hyena had been watching a keeper with a chunk of meat, and it was a toss-up which he wanted most: the keeper or the meat. Hatchet-face made up his mind on the exact spot he was going to carve next. He turned a little more in the seat, got my right ear between a thumb and finger and sliced off a little piece of the lobe. I let him have my right fist in the kidney. Percy snapped my left arm. I passed out.