The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

2

Have you ever noticed how people flock to the scene of an, accident, a man painting a flagpole, or a safe being lowered from a ten-story window?

MacBride cursed under his breath as, the flivver rounding a bend on Farmingville Turnpike, he saw up ahead dozens of headlights and scores of people. A bicycle patrolman was directing traffic, and the flivver’s lights shone on his bright buttons and shield. Automobiles lined either side of the road. People moved this way or that. One pompous old fellow, with a squeaky voice, remarked that truck drivers were reckless anyhow, and served him right for the spill.

MacBride stopped on the way by, glared at the man. “Did you see this spill?”

“No... oh, no, no!”

“Then shut your trap!”

The captain was thinking of Haggerty Alley, and his tone was bitter. He moved on, and Motorcycle Patrolman Brunner materialized out of the gloom and saluted.

“Right down there, Cap. Guy’s dead, and the truck’s a mess. Can hardly see it from here.”

“How’d you spot it?”

“I went up and down this pike twice, and the second time I noticed how the macadam is scraped. The guy skid bad, and you can see the marks. Closed cab on the truck, and he couldn’t jump.”

“Wrecker here yet?”

“No — any minute, though. Hoffman’s handling traffic.”

“Give me your flashlight. Go out with Hoffman and get these cars moving.”

“Right.”

MacBride took the flash and started down the embankment. Kennedy, huddled in his overcoat, followed. The way was steep, cluttered with boulders, blanched bushes; and as they descended, they saw turned earth and split rocks, where the truck had taken its headlong tumble.

Then they saw the truck, a twisted heap of wood and metal. A ten-ton affair, boxed like a moving van. But the truck had crashed head-on into a huge boulder, and the radiator, the hood, the cab and the cargo were all jumbled together. And somewhere beneath this tangled mass lay the driver.

Kennedy sat down on a convenient stump and lit a cigarette. MacBride walked around the wreck, probing with his flashlight. The beam settled on an arm protruding from beneath the snarled metal. Bloody — the blood caked by the cold.

He snapped out the flash, stood alone in the chill darkness, quivering with suppressed rage. The wind, whistling across the open fields, flapped his coat about his legs. Probably that girl was still sitting up, with her slippered feet in the oven of the kitchen stove, and her wide, sad eyes fixed on the clock. Brutal thing, death. It not only took one, but stung others. He wondered if there were any insurance, and thought not. Good thing, insurance. He carried twenty thousand, double indemnity, in case of accident. Could a guy in the Second Precinct die any other way but through an accident? Or was getting a slug in your back by a coked wop, death from natural causes?

A broad beam of light leaped down into the rocky gully.

“Wrecker,” said Kennedy.

MacBride nodded, watched while several men came weaving down the slope.

“Cripes!” muttered one, upon seeing the wreck.

Another said, “Hell, Joe, we can never haul this out. Need a derrick.”

“Well,” said MacBride, “you’ve got axes.

Hack away enough junk so you can get the man out.”

MacBride stood back, hands in pockets, chin on chest. Axes flashed, rang. Crow-bars heaved, grated.

Brunner came down and said, “Morgue bus just came, Cap.”

They got the body out, and one of the men became sick at his stomach. Another — case-hardened — chuckled, said, “Hell, buddy, you should ha’ been in the war!” War! This was war — guerrilla warfare! War of intimidation!

They put a blanket over the dead man, laid him on a stretcher, carried him up over the hill and slid him into the morgue bus.

“I want the report as soon as possible,” MacBride said to the man from the morgue.

The bus roared off into the night.

MacBride and Kennedy climbed into the police flivver. It was a bleak, cold ride back to the precinct.

The captain, without a word, went straightway into his office, uncorked the bottle of Dewar’s and downed a stiff shot. He rasped his throat, stood staring into space.

Kennedy drifted in, espied the bottle, rubbed his hands together gingerly. “B-r-r! Cold out.”

MacBride turned, eyed him, then waved toward the bottle. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks, Mac.”

Alone, MacBride went out into the black, windy street, turned a corner, crossed the street and entered Haggerty Alley. He stopped before a drab, three-story dwelling. Aloft, one lighted window stared into the darkness. He drummed his feet on the cold pavement, then suddenly pushed into the black hallway, snapped on his flash, and ascended the worn staircase.

Third floor. One lighted transom. He knocked. The door opened. That pale young face, wide, questioning eyes. Shoulders wrapped in a plaid shawl.