The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“Say, Cap, there’s a Polack out here wants to see you. He lives on Jackson Street.”

At a nod from MacBride, an old man came in, fumbling with his hat.

“Hello,” said the captain. “What’s your name?”

“Ma name Tikorsky. I got somet’in’ to tell. See, I live number t’ree-twent’-one Jackson, up de top floor. I look out de window, watch de show, see. When de big fellar drop down, I hear” — he looked up at the ceiling — “I hear noise on de roof, like a man run, see.”

MacBride jerked up. “You heard a man run across the roof?”

Tikorsky nodded.

“Is there a fire-escape back of where you live?”

“Yeah, sure.”

MacBride reached for the phone, called the morgue. In a moment he was speaking with the deputy medical examiner. When he hung up he pursed his lips, and his eyes glittered.

“All right, Mr. Tikorsky,” he said. “You can go home. Thanks for telling me. I’ll see you again.”

The Pole shuffled out.

MacBride looked at Kennedy. “Out, Kennedy. Go home and hit the hay.”

“Ah, Mac, give a guy a break,” said Kennedy. “What’s in the wind?”

“A bad smell. Come on, breeze, now. When there’s any news getting out, I’ll let you know.”

Kennedy got up, shrugged, and sauntered out.

Moriarity and Cohen regarded the captain expectantly.

MacBride said, “I just got the doctor’s report. The bullet was a thirty-eight. It hit Bedell in the chest, knocked off part of his heart and lodged in his spine. But get this. The angle of the bullet was on a slant. It went in and down.”

“Then,” said Cohen, “it couldn’t have been fired from the corner where the broad saw this guy she was beefin’ about.”

“No,” clipped MacBride. “The Polack was right. He heard a guy on the roof. The guy who was on the roof bumped off Bedell.”

“What about this guy in the gray suit?”

“I’m wondering. But we know he couldn’t have done it. A bullet from him would have gone up and hit Bedell on the left somewhere.” He tapped his foot on the floor. “Well, the show is on, boys. Bonelio, the late alderman’s buddy, has a whale of an excuse to oil his guns and start a war of his own. And Krug, the State’s Attorney, will give him protection. Bonelio will suspect the same guy we do.”

“Duveen,” said Moriarity.

“Exactly. I know just what the greaseball will do.”

“Let him,” suggested Cohen, with a yawn. “Let the two gangs fight it out, exterminate each other. Who the hell cares?”

MacBride banged the desk. “You would say that, Ike. But I’m responsible for this precinct. I’ve got one murder hanging over my head as it is. Personally, I wouldn’t care if these two gangs did mop each other up. But in a gang war a lot of neutrals always get hurt.” He put on his hat. “Let’s look over the Polack’s roof.”

The three of them went around to 321 Jackson Street, located the rooms where the old Pole lived, and then ascended to the roof. Moriarity had a flashlight. They discovered nothing to which they might attach some relative importance. They took the fire-escape down to a paved alley that paralleled the back of the row of houses and led to Holly Street.

“See here, boys,” MacBride said. “Wander around and get the low-down on Duveen’s gang. If you see Duveen, cross-examine him. Better yet, tell him I want to see him.”

The two detectives moved off. MacBride headed back for the station-house and requisitioned the precinct flivver. A man named Garret was his chauffeur. After brief instructions on MacBride’s part, they drove off.

Twenty minutes later they stopped on Paradise Street, uptown. It was a thoroughfare of old brownstone houses that, following the slow encroachment of the white lights, had been turned into tearooms, night-clubs and small apartments, patronized mostly by people of the theatre.

Garret remained with the flivver. MacBride entered the Palmetto Club, to which an interior decorator had tried his best to give a tropical air. The manager did not know him, and said so.

“That’s all right,” said MacBride. “I don’t want to see you, anyhow. Where’s Bonelio?”

A moment later he met Bonelio in a private room handsomely furnished. Bonelio was a chunky Italian of medium height, dressed in the mode. He had smooth white skin, dark circles under his eyes, and an indolent gaze.

“Sit down, MacBride. Rye or Scotch?” he asked.

MacBride noticed a bottle of Golden Wedding. “Rye,” he said.

“Ditto.” Bonelio poured the drinks, said, “Well, poor Bedell.”

“What I came here about.”

They looked at each other as they downed their tots.

“About what?” Bonelio dropped on to a divan and lit a cigarette.

“Just this,” said MacBride. “I’m banking on the hunch that you suspect who’s behind the killing. I’m asking, and at the same time telling you, to keep out of it. We’ve never been friends, Bonelio, and don’t get it into your nut that I’m making any overtures. But I don’t want any rough work done in my precinct. I’ll handle it according to the law. You just stand aside and keep your hands off. You get me?”