The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

1

Kennedy chuckled. “So you’re back in the Second, Mac.”

“See me here, don’t you?”

“Ay, verily!”

The old station-house blown up during the last election had been rebuilt, and the office in which Captain Stephen MacBride sat and Kennedy, the insatiable news-hound, stood, smelled of new paint and plaster. Something of the old atmosphere was lost — that atmosphere which it had taken long years to create: dust, age-colored walls decorated with news clippings, “wanted” bulletins, likenesses of known criminals.

Two days ago MacBride had been suddenly and inexplicably shifted from the suburban Fifth to the hectic Second. He was surprised, more than a little incredulous; and he suspected some ulterior motive behind the new Police Commissioner’s leniency.

So did Kennedy. And Kennedy said, “This is funny, Mac.”

“As a crutch.”

“Now, if you’d asked me a week ago, I’d have said you were stuck in the Fifth for the rest of your term — or shoved farther out in the sticks. What did Commissioner Stroble say?”

“Said we ought to get on well.”

“Was he nice?”

“Gave me a drink and asked about the health of my family.”

“Hot damn!” Kennedy clasped his hands and with a serio-comic expression stared at the ceiling. “O, Lord what hath come over the powers that be in this vale of iniquity, Richmond City?”

“You jackass!”

“Mac, poor old slob—”

“Don’t call me a slob!”

“Mac, my dear, what’s up now? Why did the Commissioner suddenly put you in the precinct nearest your heart’s desire?”

“Out of the pure and simple goodness of his heart.”

“Amen!”

Kennedy sagged limply and supported himself with one extended arm against the wall.

“Of course, Mac,” he said, “you know and I know that this is one awful lot of liverwurst.”

“Then why ask?”

“Kidding you.”

“Ho!”

“Getting your goat.”

“Ho! Ho!”

Kennedy left the wall, crept dramatically across the floor and slid silently upon the desk. And in a hushed voice, with mock seriousness, he said, “Mac, somebody’s trying to make a boob out of you!”

“How do you know?”

“I suspect, old tomato — I suspect. It’s too sudden, Mac. Stroble has got something up his sleeve. He’s brought you back into the town for a purpose.”

“How big do you think he is?”

“Pretty big.”

“Big enough to be the Big Guy?”

“Almost — and yet, not quite.”

“Who is?”

“Beginning to get a faint idea. If I’m right, the Big Guy has been behind it all from the very beginning. The gangs have come and gone, but the Big Guy has succeeded in remaining hidden. If it’s the bozo I think it is...”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think you’ll reach him.”

“Oh, go to hell, Kennedy! Listen, I’ll get to him. Man alive, I couldn’t lay off now! The thing’s got in my blood. I’ve got to see it through. And I’m going to.”

“Well, Mac, so far you’ve surprised me. Why you aren’t occupying a snug grave in somebody’s cemetery, is beyond me. But you’ve still got lots of opportunity of following in Jack Cardigan’s footsteps. He was a poor slob.”

“A martyr, Kennedy.”

“Well, dignify it.” Kennedy put on his topcoat. “I’m going places, Mac. Good-luck.”

He wandered out, trailing cigarette smoke.

MacBride creaked back and forth in his chair, stopped to light a cigar, went on creaking. Damn new chairs, the way they creaked! The whole room was strange, aloof. Not like the old one, not as dusty — as intimate. Those three chairs standing against the wall — mission oak, bright and shiny, like the desk. Everything trim and spic and span — on parade. Even the clock was new, had a fast, staccato tick. He remembered the old one, a leisurely, moon-faced old chronometer, never on time.

A noise in the central room roused him. He raised his eyes and regarded the door. It burst open. Rigallo and Doran and a third man weaved in. The third man looked like a Swede, and was a head taller than either of the detectives. He slouched ape-like, great arms dangling, and his sky-blue eyes were wide and belligerent. He wore corduroy trousers, a blue pea-jacket.

“What’s this?” asked MacBride.

Rigallo said, “Know him?”

“No.”

The two detectives steered the man across the room and pushed him into one of the three chairs. He looked more the ape than ever — an ape at bay — sitting there with shoulders hunched, jaw protruding, huge hands dangling across his knees.

“Who is he?” asked MacBride.

“Says Alf Nelson,” clipped Rigallo. “Me and Tim here were poking around the docks. We caught this baby trying to set a Tate & Tate barge adrift. He’d slipped the bow line and we caught him as he was on the stern.”

“H’m,” muttered MacBride. “That right, Nelson?”

“It ain’t.”

“He’s a lousy liar!” snapped Rigallo.

“We saw him,” supplemented Doran.

MacBride said, “Come Nelson, why did you do it?”

“I tell you, I didn’t do nothin’.” His Scandinavian accent was barely noticeable. “These guys are tryin’ to frame me.”

“Ah-r-r!” growled Rigallo. “Can that tripe, buddy! D’ you think we waste time framin’ guys? Come down to earth, you big white hope!”

“Look here, Nelson,” said MacBride, rising. “This is damned serious. It’s a rough night on the water, and that barge would have caused a lot of trouble. Riggy, was anybody on the barge?”

“Yeah, guy sleeping. We woke him up. Scog-gins. He was scared stiff, and I’ll bet he doesn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night.”

MacBride took three steps and stood over Nelson. “Did you have a grudge against Scoggins?”

“No. I tell you, I ain’t done nothin’. I found the lines loose and was tryin’ to fix ’em.”

“Cripes!” spat Rigallo.

“Who’s he work for, Riggy?”

“Dunno. Frisked him for a gat. Here it is. Thirty-eight.”

MacBride said, “Who do you work for, Nelson?”

Nelson growled, pressed back in his chair. MacBride reached down toward his pockets. Nelson raised a hand to block him. Doran caught the hand and knocked it aside. MacBride went through the man’s pockets.

“H’m. Badge,” he said, “of the Harbor Towing. This guy’s a barge captain. Here’s his Union card. Name’s right. Thirty-five. Unmarried, citizen. Listen, Nelson, come across now. Why the hell did you try to cut that barge loose?”