The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

Chapter Four

Trap for Rats

Captain Dombey looked just what he was — a straight cop. Nature had molded him for the task; years in harness had sculptured his character in deep, seamed lines. He was broad and strong, built close to the ground, with powerful neck and ham-like fists, the better to fight when the going was rough. His crag of a jaw might represent bull-headed aggressiveness, or perhaps just strength of character.

Time had mellowed nature’s work by carving deep channels along his leathery old face, by crowning his massive head with thick silvery hair, and by giving to his voice a low richness that stirred the listener. Through twenty years of departmental intrigue, of crime, of hatred and tragedy, old Skipper Dombey had gone his quiet, sure way, doing his work as best he could, sticking, helping, fighting.

As Duke Martindel swung onto the running board of the Skipper’s machine, he felt all those things in one quick rush of confidence.

Dombey wasted no words in idle greeting. “That number you gave me — it’s a roomin’ house on Chester Street. Want to go there?”

Martindel slipped into the seat, nodded. “Who killed Washburn, Skipper?”

Dombey grunted. “I’ll bite. It was supposed to be Sam Skuro an’ Gus Nuene.”

“Couldn’t have been. They got an alibi.”

Dombey glanced sideways. “How do you know, Duke? You were supposed to be robbin’ a bank.”

Martindel nodded grimly. “Sam and Gus framed me on that, Skipper.” He briefly recounted the series of events that had transpired since the moment he was awakened to find Skuro and Nuene in his room.

Dombey remained silent. At length he shook his head deliberately. “Nuene might pull that, but it don’t sound like Sam Skuro. Sam has slugged too many men to make a mess of it like you say Foy was.”

“That’s the rub,” Duke growled. “Foy was either beaten to death and then gagged, which would be silly, because any fool could have seen he was finished, or else he was bound and gagged and then battered, which would be needless brutality.”

“That’s what I can’t figger,” Dombey contributed. He took a gun out of his coat pocket and pushed it toward his companion. “I don’t think you’ll need this; I’ve pinched Sam a dozen times an’ never had to use one.”

Duke tested the balance of the revolver, flipped open the cylinder and checked the load, then shoved it into his pocket. He was about to speak, when Dombey suddenly slowed the machine.

“What’s this?” he growled. “There’s the dead wagon in front of the roomin’ house I was headin’ for.”

Duke felt a queer, unfamiliar tightening around his diaphragm as he glanced through the windshield. A crowd stood in a great semi-circle around the coroner’s small black truck, and uniformed policemen were seeking to clear a path for traffic.

“Looks like we was late,” Dombey commented morosely. He pulled over to the curb and stopped. “You wait here, Duke. I’ll mosey over an’ prowl the joint.” He slipped out to the sidewalk and melted into the excited throng.

Duke slumped in his seat, jerked his hat down until the brim rested on the bridge of his nose and lighted a cigarette. Intuitively he knew the answer, but when Dombey came back to the car five minutes later, he verified it.

“Sam an’ Gus got it,” he grunted laconically. “Resistin’ arrest.”

Duke felt a little sick. It came to him suddenly that he had not eaten since the day before. As though the veteran read his mind, Dombey suggested:

“Let’s get a cup of coffee, kid.” Without waiting for a reply, he piloted the car around the first corner and drove until he came to a small, counter lunchroom.