Black Mask Detective (Vol. 34, No. 3 — May 1950)

Always Leave ’Em Dying by Jim T. Pearce

Vincent, top dog in a murdered gang-czar’s pack, was slated for the Sing-Sing dog house — unless he could persuade a hotsy honey to toss him a bone.

When the desk clerk gave me the message, I knew it was trouble. “Mr. Bradford wants to see you,” he said. “He wants to see you in his room at three o’clock. You better go up now. It’s three already.”

“Don’t worry, Jack,” I said. “I’ll get there.”

I would too. The way things stood in the organization now, it wasn’t smart to play hard-to-get when the boss called. So I got back into one of the elevators and said “ten” to the boy.

Boss Tom Bradford’s suite was on the tenth floor. The Little Man and I had apartments on the ninth. Beefer was on the fifth. Shultze and Ransy, two strong-arms, had basement apartments. Bradford’s girl, Helen, lived in a bungalow on the outskirts.

I stepped out onto the thick green carpet on the tenth and walked slowly toward Bradford’s door. I was in no hurry for the bad news. A small-time racketeer, Chip O’Brien, was trying to muscle in. The police were cracking down. Bradford was suspicious of all the boys. Only no news could be good news.

I rapped lightly on Bradford’s door. It swung open a bit. I pushed it a little further and stuck my noggin around the edge. I was right. Trouble sprawled across the center of the heavy, yellow rug.

Bradford lay face down, hands at his side, palms up, and feet wide apart. He must have fallen like a bag of cement. The cause was a small, dark hole in the back of his graying head.

I settled back on my heels and closed the door a little. I didn’t want to go in. Beefer, Little Man, and I were Bradford’s top men. Of late, Bradford hadn’t been feeling at all kindly toward any of us. I didn’t want to be the one to find the corpse.

On the other hand, the clerk and the elevator boy knew I was up here. I shoved the door open and walked in.

Bradford was a well-built man in his early fifties. He had probably been a pretty husky, tough youth. Later he had picked up some fat, and his hair started to go gray. Once he had been as tough and wild as they come. But he had gotten away from that and started using his brains, of which he had plenty.

Six years ago, this city had been a hodge-podge of small gangs striking inefficiently at each other. The strongest of these gangs was under Beefer Logan. Then Bradford moved in with his two thugs, Shultze and Ransy, and a complete system of blackmail. He soon had nearly complete control of the city’s underworld. The key to his tightly-knit organization was his phenomenal blackmail file. Bradford never told any of his men where he kept it.

I bent over his body and felt his wrist. He was dead all right. But he was still warm.

I stepped around the body to see if there were anything else unusual. I looked about the room. Everything was in place. It was a neat room done in light colors. Soft, heavy green easy chairs, a matching sofa, yellow pine tables and bric-a-brac were tastefully arranged about the room.

I looked at the telephone, which I’d better use. I looked at the open door. Captain Haskin and Lieutenant Brix of the police force stood there watching me.

“Bradford told me this would be a surprise party,” said Haskin. “But I don’t think this is what he meant.”

Haskin was a tall, lean man with straight gray hair. He had a set, almost sullen mouth and sharp, bright eyes. He walked into the room, all the while keeping his eyes on me. “Frisk him,” he said to the lieutenant.

“I don’t carry a gun,” I said. Haskin said nothing, and the lieutenant frisked me.

Haskin looked at the body and felt the wrist. “Been dead maybe about five or ten minutes,” he said to the lieutenant. “Maybe just before we got off the elevator.”

He turned toward me. “Where’s the gun, Vincent?”

“I don’t carry a gun.” I snapped.

“Look for a gun,” Haskin told the lieutenant. Then he saw Beefer in the hall. “Come in, Logan,” he said.

Beefer trudged in. He was a tall, husky man who had run to fat. He looked at me. “Who did it, Rick?”

I shrugged.

“Any ideas, Logan?” asked Haskin.

“I don’t know. Maybe one of Chip O’Brien’s boys.” Beefer shrugged his thick, soft shoulders.

The lieutenant was fishing behind the sofa. He caught a tiny black .22 automatic with hand-inlaid silver. I had seen that gun before. It was one of Beefer Logan’s.

“You carry a pretty gun,” Haskin said to me.

“It isn’t mine,” I said.

“We’ll see.” He picked up the phone with a handkerchief and dialed a number. “Hello,” he said, “is this Bill? Well listen, Bill, I’ve got a little automatic here.” He gave the serial number. “See if we’ve got anything on it, and call me right back.” He gave Bradford’s telephone number.

There was a knock on the door, and the Little Man peeked in. His jaw dropped a horrified two inches when he saw Bradford.

“Come in here!” Haskin shouted.

Little Man came in. He was about five-feet eight. He had small, slender hands and a sharp, half-boyish, half-impish face. It was from this, rather than from his size, that he got his name. He was trim, muscular and spoke in a quiet, commanding tone.

Haskin glared down at the Little Man from his rangy six feet. “Who’re you?” he growled.

Little Man looked up at him. “Who’re you?” he said softly.

Haskin pulled out his wallet and badge for the first time and glowered down at the newcomer.

Little Man looked at it slowly. “My name, Captain Haskin, is Robert Hill. I’m — was — one of Mr. Bradford’s salesmen.”

That was the truth, too. I was Bradford’s accountant. I kept the books in as legal a manner as possible. Beefer had been the small racket organizer in the city five years ago. He had found it wise to go in with the boss. Little Man Hill was a smooth talker that Bradford had hired several months ago to talk nice to the big customers and the new ones. When Little Man’s nice talk failed, tough guys like Shultze and Ransy took over under Beefer to apply pressure.

I was feeling better since the lieutenant had found Beefer’s gun. Ordinarily I’d have been sorry for Beefer. But now it had to be one of us, and I didn’t want to be the one.

The telephone rang. Beefer didn’t wink a muscle. Haskin picked up the phone.

“Hello,” he said. “Speaking... Yeah... Yeah... That’s all? Okay.” He hung up. “The gun was stolen from a Longview home over a year ago.”

I knew then that I was back in some very thick soup.

“Captain Haskin,” Little Man said half apologetically, “we’re all employees of Mr. Bradford. We were all called up here for a meeting. Couldn’t you tell us the nature of this situation?”

“Okay, Hill. Bradford called me about noon. He said that he had found out that one of his employees was wanted by out-of-state police for something big. He said if I would come up here at three, he would turn the man over to me. It seems that our man got here before us.” His eyes glittered at me. “I’m taking you in,” he said. “Don’t any of you leave town.”

I was stuck. It wouldn’t do me any good to tell them Beefer had pulled the stunt. Only Beefer and I knew it was his gun. They wouldn’t believe me. Beefer certainly wouldn’t tell them.

“Let’s go,” said Haskin.

The five of us, with me in the lead, marched over the carpets toward the elevator door. The lieutenant rang the bell and then he stepped back again.

There were three ways to get down from Bradford’s apartment: the fire escape, the inside stairway, and the elevator. I am six feet and weigh two hundred. Until ten years ago, I used to earn nice dough around the stadiums by boxing some nights and wrestling others. I still have fun in gyms surprising young suckers. At thirty-five, I am a lot trimmer than some people would think. I figured the elevator would be my best bet.

When the elevator door slid open, I turned to face the others. Haskin and the lieutenant were now following the rest close behind. Beefer was closest.

“Look, Captain,” I said, “if you want to know the real story behind the whole—” I rammed Beefer. He flew, arms flailing, against the two officers.

I slipped back into the cage and pushed the button for the eighth floor. I grabbed the elevator boy and threw him in front of the closing door just to remind Haskin not to shoot, and we were on our way.

The elevator boy was a big, tough kid, and he saw that I didn’t have a gun. He came up from the corner fast. He dived at me swinging. I stepped to the back of the cage, grabbed the back of his collar as he went by, and helped him butt into the metal wall. I straightened him with an uppercut, brought his face down on my knee, and put the side of my hand hard and fast against the back of his neck.

I knew he wouldn’t give out any information for at least ten minutes.

The door opened at the eighth. I pushed the button for the basement and stepped out. At the end of the hall, I slid the window up slowly and quietly and stepped onto the fire escape. I heard hurried footsteps clumping down the inside stairway past the floor.

I had to move fast. As soon as Haskin got to the elevator, he would guess that I hadn’t been on it all the way down. In short order, this city block would have a dragnet around it too fine for a stunted gnat to escape.

On the ninth floor, I slipped into my own apartment. I tipped over an easy chair and ripped out the bottom. From it, I took a .38 revolver and a shoulder holster that I had hoped never to use again.

I slipped out of my door and ran to the fire escape. At the seventh floor, the fire escape on the next building crossed with mine about six feet away.

I took off my jacket and tossed it across the space. I stepped over the railing and didn’t look below. I pushed off for the next building. My feet missed the grating, but my hands grabbed the iron railing. I bent up, got my feet under me, and clambered over.

There was an open window on that landing. I pulled on my jacket and slipped through. The noise my feet made hitting the floor awakened the chubby, tousled blonde in bed.

She propped herself up on one arm, exhibiting an abundance of soft, white flesh. Surprise plastered her lipsticked face. She peered at me through bleary eyes.

Just my luck, I thought. Just when I’m in a hurry.

The blonde pulled the blankets up to her shoulders. “Hey,” she said sleepily.

“New house-manager,” I said. “Lost my way.”

In the little hall inside her apartment door, there was a telephone. I ripped the wires out of the wall and ducked out into the hall.

By now, Captain Haskin would have a call into headquarters. I hit the inside stairway and followed it to the basement. I ran to the delivery entrance. No one was in the alley.

I raced through to the other side of the block and grabbed a taxi. “Take your next left and go straight out,” I told the driver.

The light was green at the next crossing, but we had to wait while a patrol car, siren screaming, went through. Then we went on. I straightened my jacket, lit cigarette, and leaned back in my seat. I flicked my thumb at the disappearing patrol car.

“The desk sergeant must have sent the boys out for a pack of gum,” I said.

I switched taxis twice and then took a stroll to think things over. The two torpedoes, Shultze and Ransy, had been with Bradford from way back. They would consider breaking my head in for revenge a matter of professional and personal pride. I had to get the evidence on Beefer before Shultze and Ransy, Beefer, or the cops got me.

I could not do it alone. There was one man I could bargain with. That was Bradford’s small-time competitor, Chip O’Brien.

I hailed a taxi and told him, “Palace Casino.” That was the crummy little alley-dive where O’Brien hung out. Before I went in, I stopped nearby and had hamburgers and coffee.

Then I slipped the .38 into my coat pocket and strolled down the alley into the Palace Casino. Nobody was at the bar. A newspaper woman nursed a beer on one ringed table. Her big sack of papers leaned against her chair. At the back, playing set-back with three sour-looking characters, sat a small, seedy man. This was Chip O’Brien.

None of them looked at me, and they didn’t lay down their cards. But they stopped playing. Nobody said anything.

I walked toward them, keeping my hands away from my pockets.

“O’Brien,” I said, “I want to talk to you. Alone.” He didn’t look at me. “This is big business, O’Brien. You’re getting your chance. Take it or leave it now.”

O’Brien tilted his head the way they do in the movies, and his friends stationed themselves at the front of the bar.

I sat down. “You know Bradford got it this afternoon,” I said.

He nodded.

“I was Bradford’s top man.”

He nodded.

“If they get me on the rap,” I continued, “the organization will fall apart.”

O’Brien smiled.

“Then Beefer Logan and you will fight for peanuts.”

O’Brien’s face went straight. “Maybe,” he squeaked.

“I can make you a better offer than that.”

“Yeah?” said O’Brien doubtfully.

“Beefer killed Bradford because the boss was going to turn him in on an old count. You call Haskin at five o’clock and tell him that you heard the murder weapon was a little black .22 automatic with hand-inlaid silver. Tell him that you and a couple of your friends have seen Beefer carry it and that it is his.” I paused.

“I’m listening,” said O’Brien.

“After you’ve done that, I’ll also turn in Bradford’s evidence on Beefer. That will supply the motive and put Beefer into more hot water. With Beefer out of the way, I cut you into the organization.”

“Now, O’Brien,” I continued, “the racket’s not my type of business. So when everything is under control, I’ll sell the whole thing out to you.”

O’Brien had to think a minute. He wasn’t the smart businessman Bradford had been.

“Come on, O’Brien,” I said. “Other customers are waiting.”

“Okay,” he said, “it’s a deal.”

“I’ll see you later,” I said and left.

I wasn’t bluffing about getting Bradford’s evidence on Beefer. Somewhere in the city, Bradford kept his file on all the key men in his outfit. Under each name, he had enough info to cook each man’s goose for a long time.

Sometimes he got the info through the grapevine. Other times he got it as an admittance fee into his organization. There was stuff on my embezzlement that would be good for at least ten years.

Other than that, there were no spots on my record until this murder rap. Whatever Tom Bradford’s businesses had been, my association with him had been free of scandal.

My next move was to get my hands on the file. There was one person who did know where it was. That was the one person whom Bradford trusted enough not to get anything on — his slinky, tight-lipped girl-friend, Helen.

She was a small brunette with a shape strictly for connoiseurs. As I flipped the little knocker on her bungalow door, I wished I could be in a position to be more friendly.

She opened the door, and I shoved inside. “Be quiet, Helen,” I said.

She looked at me out of deep, dark eyes wide with fear.

“Now listen, Helen, get this straight.” I held her by the shoulders. “Beefer is the guy who killed Bradford!”

“I don’t believe it!” she said, her eyes watering a little. “The police found you right there.” She almost shouted, “Get out of here, you — get out of here before I call the cops!”

I shook her. “Listen, will you? I saw the gun. It was that little silver inlay job. You know that’s Beefer’s. But the cops don’t know it. That’s why they think I did it.”

I continued, “I’m in a jam. I’ve got to work fast. Where did Tom keep his private files?”

She stiffened. “Oh no. No, you don’t get those!”

“Helen,” I pleaded, “everything’s cracking up. The whole set-up will go to pieces if I don’t get those files! You’ll be out in the cold if that happens.”

“No, Tom took care of me. And he said never to tell.”

I had to remind myself of what she really was before I could do it. I slapped her hard.

She’d have fallen if I hadn’t braced her by the shoulder. I backhanded her across the mouth and then went over it again. “Shut up,” I hissed. “You want to send an innocent man to the chair?” I rapped her a couple more times. “Where are they?” I rasped.

“Go to hell,” she mumbled.

I biffed her hard and let her slide to the floor. I got a pitcher of water from the kitchen and woke her up. I worked her over again with the same results. When I came back with the second pitcher, she was sitting up with her back against the front of an easy chair.

“Okay,” she gasped through swelling lips, “you win.”

“Where are the files?”

“The Columbia. Apartment 201.”

“If you aren’t telling the truth, I’ll be back, you know. And don’t call the cops, or they’ll get the files.”

“I ain’t dumb,” she whispered. “But I’ll get you for this, Vincent.”

I left her sitting there.

I’d never known that Bradford had an apartment at the Columbia. It was a ritzy place. An apartment there would be an expensive — but entirely secret — safety-deposit box. On the way, I picked up a screw-driver, a bit and brace, and a couple of cheap jack-knives at a hardware store.

As I feared, there was no fire escape near any of the apartment windows. I would have to go in through the door. When I got to the second floor, there was no one about. I went to work with the tools and shortly was able to roll the door and lock so that the lock came out and I could get in.

I swung the door back against the wall so the jammed lock couldn’t be seen from the hallway and turned on the light. The little apartment contained a bed, mattress, a couple of chairs, and a bureau. It smelled musty. A casual prowler would think that the room wasn’t even rented.

I tried the bureau first. The bottom drawer was filled with clean, folded sheets and blankets. These I dumped on the floor. I took out the thin brief-case that had been under them.

With one of the jackknives, I sawed the leather away from the lock. In the case, there were paper folders for every member of the organization except for Bradford, Shultze, and Ransy.

My folder contained only one sheet of paper, but it was a complete history of my embezzlement.

When I pulled out Beefer’s folder, there was a heavy little package attached to it by wire. It was another automatic. According to the folder, the gun had killed two pawn-shop owners six years ago. But this one was registered in Beefer’s name.

One folder was thicker than all the rest. It was the Little Man’s. There were histories of his past record. What made it thick were the numerous reports by people in Bradford’s organization on Little Man’s activities. His career under Bradford had been filled with many unexplained absences and suspicious movements. He had often been followed to the Palace Casino. Bradford had concluded that Little Man’s real boss was Chip O’Brien.

Little Man was the one whom Bradford had meant to turn into the police! He’d have saved himself a lot of trouble if he hadn’t kept it quite so much a secret.

I slipped the folders back into the case. I started for the door. Two men stood there.

One was short and made of oily fat. His black hair was greased flat. He kept one hand in a bulging jacket pocket. His name was Shultze.

The other was Ransy. He was short too. But his chest and shoulders were as thick as any two men’s. Heavy, calloused hands hung at the ends of his long, bulging arms. His face looked like a flat, yellow pansy that someone had pushed into the mud.

I had been dumb. Helen hadn’t needed the cops. She had just put in a call to Bradford’s faithful torpedoes. These boys would take the files back to Helen, and nobody would ever know what three trucks hit me.

Shultze stepped inside and brought out his .45 automatic. “Give the case to Ransy,” he said. Ransy took the case and handed it to Shultze.

Shultze looked quickly up and down the corridor. “Work him over,” he said to Ransy.

They were going to do it the slow way.

Ransy smiled and came in. I danced back and dusted his nose with a left. Ransy stopped, looked at Shultze, and smiled again.

He stepped in and swung one of his hams with enough force to floor a pony. I slipped to one side and clouted him on the ear. He kept smiling.

He turned. I ducked his two swings that whistled over my head. I sunk two solid ones into his gut. I got a left against his Adam’s apple and brought an uppercut from my knees to his chin. He stepped back.

Then my brain exploded and the floor hit the top of my head. Ransy had connected.

Shultze’s voice drifted through to me. “Okay, Ransy. I’ll finish it.”

I rolled onto my stomach and shook my head. I could see light again. Shultze’s feet shuffled beside me. I got my hand under me, pulled out my .38, and rolled over again.

I saw Shultze hovering above me as if through a muddy window. He was swinging his heavy automatic behind his head. I pressed my trigger and the butterball flopped backward.

I pointed my revolver at Ransy as he came into focus. “Don’t move!”

He didn’t. I picked up the brief case and backed through the door.

Again I took the inside stairway down. My right eye was closed by the time I left the basement. I knew that my face, in general, looked like a half-eaten steak.

I kept my head down as I walked along the crowded street and watched for cops. After a half a mile I dropped into a drugstore pay-station. I phoned the Palace Casino.

“Yeah?” said the hoarse voice at the other end.

“Put O’Brien on.”

“Who wants him?”

“His godfather! Put him on.”

There was silence, then the shuffling of chairs. O’Brien’s squeaky voice came over. “Okay, this is Mr. O’Brien.”

“Vincent,” I said. “What did Haskin say?”

“What did he say when?”

“When you told him about Beefer’s gun, you sap.”

“I didn’t bother.”

“Why not?”

“Because I found out just in time that Beefer has a perfect alibi. He was in front of the apartment house talking to the doorman for fifteen minutes before three. Haskin even saw him when he went in. Vincent, you’re hot. Don’t call here again!” The phone clicked off in my ear.

That rocked me. The Beefer idea was a blind alley. But who else could it be? Then it hit me — the Little Man. He was even more logical than Beefer because he was the one Bradford had been after.

The solution was clear. If O’Brien could swear that the gun was Beefer’s, be could just as well swear that it was the Little Man’s. But it would be harder this time.

There were no taxis in sight when I came out of the drugstore. Some pedestrians looked quizzically at my swollen face and closed eye. Once a cop came by, but I kept my back to him, and he didn’t appear to notice me. I finally flagged down a cab.

The taxi driver looked at me questioningly. But when I gave him the Palace Casino address, he looked as if that explained everything.

As soon as the taxi left me at the dive, I switched my revolver to my jacket pocket again and stepped through the doorway. I had the brief case under my left arm, my right hand on my gun.

It was the same as before, except that the newspaper woman had left. O’Brien and his three henchmen started to jump from their chairs at the rear of the hall. I jiggled my pocket, and they sat down.

I walked to the table, keeping the bartender in sight. “These guys okay?” I asked O’Brien.

“They’re my very good friends,” said O’Brien. “You’re not.”

“The deal is still on, O’Brien.” I laid the brief case on the table and faced them squarely. “In this case are the goods on every important man in Bradford’s organization. This is what holds the big set-up together. There’s stuff in it that clearly shows that Little Man Hill was the one who killed Bradford. All you’ve got to do is to tell Haskin that the gun that killed Bradford belongs to the Little Man. Then I turn the case over to you.”

“No. You almost burned me once today. How do I know the Little Man hasn’t got an alibi too? No thanks, Vincent. You’re a bad penny.”

I stepped back from the table and pulled out my revolver. “O’Brien, get on the phone!”

I’d forgotten the bartender. A full quart bottle of burgundy hit my wrist. The gun bounced and skidded underneath the table. The bartender’s big mitt grabbed the back of my coat. His knee hit the small of my back.

I slid around him, rammed my elbow into his stomach, and broke loose. I yanked the brief case from the table and sprinted for the door. But my luck was running out.

Five men came in the door. Two were big, rangy men, one was little, and the two behind were cops. Captain Haskin and Lieutenant Brix caught me, one under each arm.

They walked me backwards to O’Brien’s table. They frisked me and found the empty shoulder holster. That cop at the drugstore had recognized me.

I saw that the third man in civilian clothes was the Little Man. “Well,” I said, “I’m glad to see you picked up Little Man, Captain. Now you know who really did Bradford in.”

“Yeah, we know.”

“I can help you out. I’ve got it in Bradford’s own writing that he was going to turn Little Man in to you. Just before the meeting, Little Man walked up one flight of the inside stairway, stepped into Bradford’s apartment, and shot him with that stolen automatic.”

“You’ve got it partly right,” said Haskin. “You’re right that Bradford was going to try to turn Little Man in. He guessed right that Little Man had another boss. But, Vincent, here’s where you slipped up. When the murder was committed, Little Man was at head-quarters with us. Little Man is really Police Lieutenant John Murphy on loan to us from another city. He has been watching your gang and reporting to us for the past six months. You were the one who walked up one flight and shot Bradford in the back of the head.”

I sat down on a chair. “Captain, you’re right. You’re perfectly right. I... I—”

My lunge for the .38 under the table didn’t succeed. Haskin’s and Brix’s service revolvers roared one after the other.

I crumpled onto the dirty floor. My .38 was a shadow a foot from my nose. All I could do was look at it.

After a long time Haskin’s voice swam in a whirlpool:

“Hand me that brief case, Murphy. There should be something very interesting in it. And Brix, call the doc. I want to save this crumb for trial.”