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Authors: Hugh B. Cave

Tags: #Anthology, #Mystery, #Private Investigator, #Suspense, #Thriller, #USA

Long Live the Dead (10 page)

BOOK: Long Live the Dead
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Innman’s face was gray again. “My son killed someone?”

“He butchered my dog. What he’s going to get now won’t hurt him any, and it may help to straighten out his morals. If you’ll just leave us alone for a moment …”

The District Attorney’s gaze traveled from Hartley to Russell Innman and back again. He nodded slowly, turned on his heel and walked out. He closed the door behind him.

A few moments later, when Hanley opened the door, the District Attorney was waiting in the hall. He said simply: “If your knuckles aren’t too sore, Mr. Hanley, I want to shake hands with you.”

Pooch Hanley winced at the pressure of his grip.

Shadow

This little story appeared in
Black Mask
only a month after “Dead Dog.” It probably isn’t the best tale in this collection, but I believe you’ll like the former kid boxer called “The Nut” and will want to see the villain brought to justice.

HBC

H
is name was Weinbaum, but of course by the time he reached the goofy stage his name and most of his past were forgotten. The lads who hung around Johnson’s Gym knew him as “The Nut” and dimly remembered that he had once fought under the tag of Tiny Tim Winters. Anyhow, he was harmless.

Detective Carney knew it because Carney was an old hand. Patrolman Steve Dougherty, still green enough to be gazing at his reflection in store windows, hadn’t encountered The Nut prior to that night or heard about The Shadow.

Steve had been a patrolman just twelve days and was doing his night shift for the first time. And of course he hadn’t been told about Tiny Tim Winters. Rookies were never told about The Nut. Ready to laugh themselves sick, the wise boys just hung back and waited for the first encounter.

Almost always, after Johnson’s Gym closed up for the night, Tiny Tim staggered down Harrison Street, then along Rigney to the subway entrance. That night, Steve Dougherty was all alone on Rigney. A clock uptown had just struck one
A.M.
and around the corner, as usual, weaved Tiny Tim. Drunk, guessed Steve. Waddling like a duck, The Nut approached. He seemed to be hurrying, as always, but made little progress.

When within arm’s reach of the patrolman, he suddenly struck up a fighting pose, went through some fancy footwork, and took a few lusty jabs at the night air in front of Steve Dougherty’s face.

“Got ya!” The Nut wheezed.

Utterly amazed, Dougherty gaped at him. “What the devil! Get on about your business, you crazy drunk, or I’ll run you in!”

The Nut struck an attitude and sidled closer to paw at Steve’s sleeve. “Listen,” he whispered confidentially. “I’m bein’ followed!”

“Huh?”

“I’m bein’ followed, I tell ya!”

Dougherty’s handsome, boyish face lost its shape in a black scowl. “By who?” he demanded.

“I dunno. Only I’m bein’ shadowed. I been hearin’ footsteps behind me. Ya gotta do somethin’ about it. I gotta have protection!”

“You’re drunk!” Dougherty growled. He didn’t know The Nut never touched alcohol.

“I ain’t!”

“Well, get on about your business. Be off with you!”

The Nut grinned. His shoes scuffed the sidewalk as he delivered a knockout punch to an imaginary opponent. “Got ya!” he yelped triumphantly and then, waddling like a duck again, continued on his way.

Steve Dougherty scowled after him and did some pondering. “Followed, huh?” he mused. “Now I wonder what …”

But Dougherty was a rookie. How could he know that Tiny Tim was always being followed—that for years The Nut had been hearing footsteps and demanding protection from invisible pursuers.

Dougherty discovered the theft about fifteen minutes later when, hiking down Harrison Street, he saw that the door of Angelo DiConti’s store was open. It had been locked the last time he walked past it.

Using his flashlight, he entered to look around and instantly spotted the safe in the corner, behind the counter. The safe door had been hacked off its hinges. Watches, jeweler’s tools and cheap junk of every description lay strewn about on the floor.

Dougherty remembered something. A while ago, when he had come on to relieve Bill Gilson, Gilson had said, “Keep an eye on DiConti’s Jewelry Store tonight. He says he’s got some valuable rings in the safe.”

There were no rings in the junk on the floor. Apparently the thief had pulled the junk out in order to get at the rings.

Dougherty shut the store door behind him and hurried to the nearest call-box. He was just finishing his call when Joe Lenehan, the lad who cleaned up the Eagle Pool Room after hours, came skidding around the corner from Rigney Street and began yowling at him.

“It’s The Nut! He fell down the subway stairs! I think he’s croaked!”

Dougherty hesitated. By rights he should stay where he was and keep an eye on the looted store until men from Headquarters arrived. But the subway wasn’t far distant.

“All right,” Dougherty said, and followed him.

Tiny Tim Winters would be pursued no more. His pitifully frail body lay in a crumpled heap in the gloom of the subway entrance, at the foot of the first flight of steps. Dougherty saw

that he was dead.

Apparently he had fallen down the steps.

There was blood at the corners of his mouth, and both of his spindle legs seemed to be broken, and he was dead. Dougherty carried him up the steps and around the corner to DiConti’s store, where a police car at the curb was disgorging men.

One of the men was Matt Carney, of the Detective Division, who knew all about Tiny Tim. To him Dougherty told the whole of it.

“Followed?” Carney said, with hands on hips and a grin spreading. “The Nut—followed? Sure, sure. You want to look into that, mister. That may be the key to the whole situation.”

The others laughed, and Dougherty didn’t understand their laughter. He flushed a little because he was sensitive. But being more bewildered than sensitive, he kept his peace.

Carney and the others trooped into the store and looked the place over, but it was Dougherty who picked up one of the watches on the floor and said, “It happened at ten minutes to one.”

“Huh?” said Carney.

There was a tag attached to the watch, and Dougherty read it aloud. “‘Clean. Adjust stem. Mrs. Haggerty. Two dollars.’ And look,” Dougherty said. “It’s marked O.K. That means it was running. It stopped when the thief dropped it.”

He turned to peer out at the sidewalk, where lay the body of The Nut. Ten minutes to one, eh? After that, the thief had looted the safe, which must have used up five or ten minutes more. And then Tiny Tim had come weaving around the corner just after talking to Steve Dougherty at one o’clock.

“Maybe he saw the thief,” Dougherty said, pointing.

Carney and the others laughed. “Now that is a possibility,” Carney said, grinning. “Too bad he can’t tell us. Tiny Tim was a real smart character.”

Dougherty felt a little foolish and resented the jeers of his companions, but again kept his peace. After the others had finished their investigating and gone away, though, he did some heavy thinking.

M
att Carney made the DiConti case very interesting by accusing DiConti himself. It was open and shut, said Matt. “Listen. Weeks go by and there ain’t a thing in that store worth stealing. Then DiConti buys a fistful of diamond rings from a pawnbroker uptown who needs money, and what happens? Thieves break into the store.”

DiConti wailed his protests. To be sure, the stuff in his store was insured against theft. He admitted that. But why would be steal it? Was he not an honest man?

“Listen,” said Carney. “No one else but you even knew the rings were in the store.”

“That is not true! Solly Minkler, who sold me the rings, he knew I had them. And so did Officer Gilson, to whom I said, ‘Please keep a careful watch over my store tonight!’ ”

Without tangible evidence Carney could make no arrests. He concentrated on the task of locating the stolen jewelry.

About that time, Steve Dougherty, who did not know that The Nut had always been followed, arrived at certain grave conclusions and went to work. He first asked questions concerning the reputation of Officer Gilson and learned that Gilson’s record was of the finest. Then one afternoon when off duty and out of uniform, he strolled to the pawn shop of Solly Minkler.

It was a grimy little store and Solly Minkler was a grimy little character with small, wide-awake eyes and a shrill voice. Dougherty took some long looks at Minkler and bought a second-hand camera.

“My name’s Anderson. I got something maybe you’d like to buy,” said Steve Dougherty.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Well, I got a friend who knows the fight game, see? Me, I ain’t interested in the fights much, but this friend of mine, he owns a collection of pictures that’s supposed to be worth real dough. Maybe you’d be interested?”

It was not a blind stab in the dark. A number of old-time fight pictures hung on the walls of the shop, and dozens of dog-eared, sporty lithographs were stacked in a corner.

“Whatta ya mean, real dough?” Minkler demanded suspiciously.

“Well, they ain’t junk like these. They’re real.”

Minkler hesitated, rubbing his chin. “We-e-ll, sometimes I buy stuff like that. You bring ’em in Friday when Jake’s here. I wouldn’t buy no fight pictures without Jake’s approval.”

Having no friend who owned a collection of fight pictures, Steve spent the rest of the afternoon in second-hand bookstores acquiring a collection, and went that evening to Johnson’s Gymnasium.

“You remember Tiny Tim Winters?”

“The Nut? Sure I do!” said Johnson.

“He was pretty good once, wasn’t he?”

“Sure. He fought some good fights in his day.”

“Well,” Dougherty said, “I want to get a picture of him in his fightin’ clothes. You know—for a collection.”

Amused, Johnson took a dusty one from the wall and gave it to Steve.

Friday morning Steve strolled again into Solly Minkler’s hock shop. “I brought the prints,” he said.

“Yeah?” said Solly dubiously. “Let’s have a look at ’em.”

Dougherty spread a dozen large, good prints on the counter. There were lithographs of famous fights and fighters—Cribbs, Sayers, Mace of the old-timers, John L., Jeffries, Jack Johnson and others. “Worth dough, eh?” he said hopefully.

Solly Minkler examined them, then walked to the rear of the store and opened a door. “Jake!” he called. “I want you should look at some fight pictures for me!”

A large individual with cauliflower ears came and looked at the pictures. He seemed impressed until he bent closer to examine one marked Kid McCoy. Then he frowned at Dougherty and expelled a prodigious guffaw.

“McCoy!” he bellowed. “Would you look at who the sap thinks is McCoy!”

“What’s the matter?” Dougherty mumbled.

“What the matter? This here ain’t Kid McCoy, sap! This is Goofy Tim Winters. Who in hell wants a picture of him?” “There must be some mistake,” Dougherty faltered. “McCoy!” Jake choked. “Tryin’ to pass The Nut off as

McCoy! G’wan, scram!” Dougherty looked scared. He meant to look scared. Hastily snatching the bundle of prints, he hurried to the door.

Half an hour later, when the man named Jake came out of Solly Minkler’s store, a shadow straightened in a doorway across the street and moved along in stride with him. The shadow was Steve Dougherty and the rookie, despite his size, shadowed well.

I
tell you,” Carney declared, “DiConti is guilty as hell. Look. He buys those rings and puts ’em in his safe. He tells Gilson to keep an eye on the place, when he knows Gilson won’t be walking that tour after six
P.M.

Then what? The thief got into the store without any trouble because he had a key. As for bustin’ the safe open, of course he busted it open! He had to, to make the job look real. We didn’t find any fingerprints on that safe, though, did we? None but DiConti’s!”

It looked very bad for Mr. DiConti, but DiConti himself was still wailing his innocence. And Carney still had no proof.

Meanwhile, Matt Carney heard something. Heard it first from Murray Saunders, who ran the Eagle Pool Room, and later from others along Harrison Street.

“Sa-a-ay, Carney. What do you know about that new cop, Dougherty?”

Carney grinned. “Dougherty? Ha! The dumb rookie is still tryin’ to find out who was shadowin’ The Nut that night!”

“Yeah, but listen. He’s no sap. He may be drawin’ a rookie’s pay but he knows how to get more.”

It seemed inconceivable, of course, but Carney discreetly checked around and discovered it was true. Despite his faults, Carney was honest. It grieved him to learn that Steve Dougherty, for a price, was willing to overlook some of the things that went on around Harrison Street.

“Listen, kid,” and the frown on Carney’s face had roots that ran deep, “what’s this I hear about you drawin’ extra pay? Are they kiddin’ me or is it true?”

Dougherty shrugged his shoulders. “Sure it’s true. All cops do it, don’t they?”

“Not in this department they don’t!”

“Well, I’m gettin’ what I can.”

Carney could have gone to those higher up, but didn’t. The kid was up to something, he told himself.

He wasn’t there, though, when Steve Dougherty put through the important phone call. Steve was off duty that afternoon when he telephoned the pawn-shop of Solly Minkler. Minkler’s high voice answered.

“Listen, Solly,” Dougherty said, his mouth close to the phone and his voice pitched low. “This is Whitey.”

It had taken many days of cautious inquiry to unearth the fact that a Mr. Whitey Reynolds and the man named Jake—whose other name was Bartell—were Solly Minkler’s two closest associates. Such things are not easily learned.

This afternoon, more than two hours ago, Whitey Reynolds had boarded a train for Albany. Dougherty had watched him depart.

It was now or never.

“This is Whitey,” Dougherty mumbled. “Listen. I ain’t left

town yet. By accident I heard something and I been checkin’

up—and what I heard is true.”

Solly Minkler listened most attentively.

S
teve Dougherty stayed at home that evening. Home was a small, tidy two-room apartment on Beecher Street, just around the corner from Police Headquarters.

BOOK: Long Live the Dead
7.85Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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