The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

Devine was a small, slender man, thin-featured, and quick of I manner. His hair and the wisp of mustache on his upper lip were deep black. His sharp eyes, wrinkled at the corners, watched the man across from him with a mixture of anxiety and forced lightness as he spoke.

“You must understand that I’m not taking it seriously,” he said.

Flaherty nodded. He knew the type — money, position, pride and a manner that told nothing whatsoever of the man himself.

The banker’s low voice went on more rapidly:

“I received the first letter two weeks ago. After that they kept coming at intervals of two or three days. Of course I paid them no attention — men in my profession are constantly getting letters of this type. Cranks, most of them. But yesterday they put in a phone call here to my office; it was then that I decided to send for the police. Professional advice, you know—” He smiled faintly with an uncertain upward curl of the lips.

Flaherty nodded. “The right thing to do,” he said. “Have you got the letters?”

Devine turned slightly in his chair, pressing one of the white-disced buzzers at his side. “Why, no. Unless Barrett — my secretary — kept them. I didn’t imagine—”

A tall man with gray eyes, gray clothes, grayish-brown hair, came noiselessly through the door. He stared coldly at Flaherty after a brief nod.

“No,” he answered, when Devine repeated the question. “Sorry — I threw them in the waste-paper basket; in fact, it seemed the best place for that kind of rubbish. I had no idea they were necessary.”

Flaherty’s lean young face soured. Snobby guy, he thought. “You should have saved them. Sometimes there’s a lot to be got out of stuff like that. Hold any more.” He turned back to Devine. “What did the phone call say?”

“It came in about noon. When I picked up the receiver there seemed to be two voices at the other end. But they were speaking too far away from the instrument for me to make out the words. Oh, yes — I think I got one; something like Ginger or Jigger. I took it for one of the men’s names. When I said hello a voice replied: ‘We’re not fooling. Have the money by noon Thursday. No police. If you’re ready to pay put an ad in the Morning Herald to Charlie. We’ll let you know what to do with it.’ Then they hung up.”

“That all?” Flaherty asked, shortly. At the banker’s nod he rose and gripped his hat. “Don’t do anything until you hear from me; I’ll phone you tonight. We might have to put that ad in the morning paper to get them. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Devine’s thin features broke in a smile he couldn’t quite control; his tongue tipped out nervously for an instant. “I’m not afraid, of course. I have no intention of paying. They can’t frighten me like they would a little shopkeeper. I’ll leave it in your hands, Mr. eh — Flaherty.”

Flaherty didn’t like that eh stuff so much as he went out. He slammed the door behind him and passed through the outer offices of the First Commercial Bank to the shaded crispness of a late September afternoon. His dark, small eyes flickered right and left along the street. Nothing to stuff like that, usually. Still—

He handed in his report at headquarters and was going down the stairs from the chiefs office when he met Mike Martin coming up. Mike was big and paunchy, with a gruff voice and hands like fleshed mallets. Beside the younger, slimly muscled Flaherty he resembled a fat pug next a whippet.

Flaherty grabbed his arm and drew him into a niche by the elevator shaft. “Just the man, Mike. You’re working with me on an extortion case. Old man’s say-so.”

“The old man’s getting’ smart,” said Mike. “He musta wanted someone with brains on the job.”

“Yeh,” said Flaherty. “And he thought you’d pick up a little experience. It’s Conrad Devine, head of the Commercial Bank.”

Mike took a cigarette from Flaherty’s pack and puffed slowly.

“Devine?” he said. “They’re not picking smart. There’s talk the Commercial’s about to crash.”

Flaherty grunted. “What bank ain’t?” he said. “They called him up yesterday. He says he heard one of the names — it sounded like Jigger to him.”

Mike spat thoughtfully into the corner of the wall. “Jigger? That might be Jigger Burns — been pretty quiet for a while now. But he don’t figure in a case like this.”

Flaherty said: “That’s the way I got it. This ain’t the Jigger’s line. But anything’ll do these days.”

“Let’s see,” said Mike. “Jigger’s a peter man — expert on nitro. He’s cracked enough jackboxes to blow us to hell.” He stared at Flaherty wide-eyed, without seeing him. “I saw him in Joe’s place Monday night — fourteen minutes to eight. He was wearin’ a blue suit, white spats, yella gloves—” Mike stopped admiringly. “Yella gloves! The old lady bought me some last Christmas, but I’m damned if I could ever wear ’em. I had to tell her they were lost. He was talkin’ to Johnny Greco.”

“You’re fading,” said Flaherty. “I didn’t hear you mention his tie. What you got on Johnny Greco?”

“Tough,” said Mike, spitting again. “Thirty-five; five feet eight; one sixty on the hoof; dark hair and eyes; scar on right eyebrow. Up twice for assault — once for homicide. Acquitted — no witnesses. He—”

“Can it,” said Flaherty. “I know the ginny. Davis brought him in on a loft job last week, but had to drop him on a writ. He plays around with a Polack girl at the Esplanade. We could stop there this evenin’ and pick him up.”

Mike looked at his watch. “Make it nine,” he said. “The old lady’s havin’ company, and she’ll want me around for a bit.”

“Run along,” said Flaherty bitterly. “They oughta put married coppers on desk duty, with aprons and bibs. I’ll bet you look sweet with a baby blue dishtowel spread on that belly of yours. What do you use to make your wash so white, Mr. Martin?”

“Honest to gawd,” Mike scowled, “some day, Flaherty, I’m gonna lay you like a rug.”