Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933
- Автор: Day Stanley, Dunn J. Allan
- Год: 1933
- Язык: английский
- Год: Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933». Краткое содержание книги:
“Well, well,” he said, “my old college chum — Bill Brakey.”
Brakey nodded.
The men shook hands, and Kramer’s eyes strayed over toward The Patent Leather Kid.
“Friend of mine,” said Bill Brakey. “We want to talk a little business.”
“Sure, sure,” said Kramer. “Draw up your chairs and sit down.”
The dark-haired girl at the table fastened appraising eyes on Bill Brakey, then shifted them to The Patent Leather Kid. The eyes widened slightly and remained fixed on The Kid’s profile for a matter of some five seconds.
There were no further introductions. The newcomers sat at the table. Everyone seemed to take everyone else for granted.
Kramer nodded toward his companion and said: “Her name’s Dolly.”
“Hello, Dolly,” said Bill Brakey.
She parted her full red lips in a smile, then turned to The Kid. “Hello, everybody,” she said.
Brakey turned to Kramer.
“A friend of mine,” he said, “who isn’t over a million miles away from here, is in a position to control the business of a couple of clubs and some big individual buyers. He wants to know about a cut.”
Kramer was effusive. He shifted his eyes rapidly from Brakey to The Patent Leather Kid, then turned, and did his talking entirely to Bill Brakey.
“This friend of yours,” he said, “could get a pretty good cut if he didn’t get to shopping around.”
“What do you mean by a good cut?” asked Brakey.
“A couple of dollars a case on the quality stuff,” said Kramer.
Bill Brakey looked over at The Patent Leather Kid, and said musingly: “I don’t think this friend would want to swing the volume of business he’s got at that price.”
Kramer lost his smile.
“Shucks,” he said. “I’m giving you the very top cut on it now, Bill. That’s for the quality stuff which will run into money. On the ordinary stuff I could not possibly pay more than a dollar.”
Bill Brakey looked meaningly at The Patent Leather Kid. The face of The Patent Leather Kid was as a mask. Harry Kramer’s eyes shifted rapidly once more from Bill Brakey and studied The Kid’s face.
Dolly leaned across the table toward The Kid, smiled at him, and said: “Do you like dancing?”
“No,” said The Kid.
Bill Brakey shrugged his shoulders to Kramer.
“You see how it is,” he said. “I have an idea my friend would want more than that.”
“That’s a good cut,” insisted Kramer.
Brakey pursed his lips, flashed a glance at The Kid. “Well,” he said, “I’ll talk it over with my friend, and let you know.”
Kramer settled back in his chair, pulled down his vest over his trim waist, and beamed about the table.
“Well, now,” he said, “that’s all over with, let’s forget business. What you been doing with yourself these days, Brakey?”
“Just sort of loafing right now,” said Brakey.
Kramer shot The Patent Leather Kid a swift, searching glance, then turned back to Brakey.
“Heard you was acting as bodyguard for The Patent Leather Kid,” he said.
Brakey raised his eyebrows. “Who told you that?” he asked.
Kramer grinned, and said sagely: “I can’t tell you that.”
Brakey puckered his forehead in a frown.
“Say, Kramer,” he said, abruptly changing the subject, “you have Rodney Field as one of your customers, don’t you?”
Instantly the genial smile left Kramer’s face. His eyes became cold and hard.
“What about Rodney Field?” he asked.
“I want to get some information about him.”
“What information?”
“About a gun.”
“What gun?”
Bill Brakey leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “In this Pruett case, they’ve traced the gun that did the killing. It belonged at one time to Rodney Field. He said he lost it.”
“You mean the gun that killed Doc Lancaster?” asked Kramer.
“Yes.”
“It was Pruett’s gun,” said Kramer. “The guy that did the shooting. His fingerprints were all over it.”
“How did he get it?” persisted Brakey.
Kramer frowned. “I ain’t an information bureau, you know, Brakey,” he warned.
“That’s all right,” Brakey said, “but I figured you could give me some information about Rodney Field. I figured that if there’d been a hijacking out at his place you might have known of it.”
Kramer flashed a glance at the young woman.
“Well,” he said, “I don’t know a thing, and Dolly and I was just getting ready to go when you came in. Come on, Dolly.”
Bill Brakey looked from one to the other, with thoughtful eyes. “Don’t let me keep you,” he said.
Kramer half turned, looked at The Patent Leather Kid, then at Brakey.
“If I was you,” he said, “I wouldn’t lose any sleep worrying about that gun. Losing sleep is a bad thing for a man. It ruins his health.”
Then he turned and strode toward the door, the girl on his arm. Neither one of them looked back.
Bill Brakey turned to The Patent Leather Kid, and frowned.
“Now, why the hell,” he said, “should that have happened?”
“Well,” The Kid told him, “it happened all right, regardless of why it should have happened. We’re sitting on a powder magazine right now.”
Brakey nodded.
Molly Malloy was in the late forties, and approximately fifty pounds overweight. She sat in a huge overstuffed chair in a room which was over-furnished and gaudy. Once in awhile a young woman would pass through the room and nod. The place smelled of perfume and incense.
“Gee,” said Molly Malloy, staring at Bill Brakey, “you sure got a crust to ask me about Harry Kramer!”
“Never mind the crust, Molly,” Brakey said, “I’m asking you. I want to know what’s between Harry Kramer and Rodney Field.”
“What makes you think anything is?”
“I don’t know; call it a hunch if you want to, or don’t call it anything at all. Just tell me. That’s all I want you to do.”
Molly Malloy flashed a suspicious glance to The Patent Leather Kid.
“Are you sure your friend’s all right?”
Bill Brakey took the cigarette from his mouth and nodded.
The Patent Leather Kid said: “Go ahead and tell her, Bill.”
Bill waved his hand toward The Patent Leather Kid.
“This,” he said, with something of a flourish, “is The Patent Leather-Kid.”
Molly Malloy gasped. Her eyes grew round. Then she heaved herself to her feet, waddled across the room, and locked the door. She came back and dropped into her overstuffed chair with a great creaking of springs.
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” she asked.
“That’s all right,” Bill Brakey told her. “Go ahead and give us the dope. Never mind that.”
She said: “I don’t know how you found it out, but Harry Kramer had Rodney-Field robbed.”
“Go on,” said Brakey. “You interest me.”
“It was his country house,” said Molly Malloy. “He’s got a pretty place there, and he does quite a bit of high-class entertaining.”
“What was taken?” asked Bill Brakey.
She snickered. “What do you suppose? Be your age!”
Bill Brakey said: “You mean the booze?”
She nodded her head, and rolls of flesh rippled about her chin and neck.
“Sure,” she said. “You see, Kramer went to Field with the proposition of buying a whole bunch of the stuff. Kramer needed money, and he said he was willing to clean out his warehouse cheap. Field took him up on the proposition.
“That was fine, while it lasted. But after Kramer spent the money he started in to try to get Field to buy some more hooch. Field wouldn’t buy because he had his cellar full. He was drinking it like water at his parties, giving it to his friends and all that, but he still had enough to last him for a long while.