Gang Pulp

The Squealer By Robert Kiswold

Gangster Stories, November 1929

A stool — an ironic detective — and between them a brutal avenging underworld to hold the scales of justice.

A wizened rat — a stool — a copper’s snark — a punk! All ugly words and every one at one time or another had been used to describe that most unlovely individual — Nosey Snedden.

For a long time now, the underworld had suspected him. Just give them a proper tip-off and, well, Nosey Snedden’s wagging tongue would be silenced forever with a splash of hot lead through his guts.

First there was Topsy; piquant, defiant little Topsy. Good kid, Tops. Playing the lookout on a safe-cracking job she was snitched by the police and railroaded. Something queer about that lay.

Then the Monk was run down coming out of a nocturnal visit to a Post Office. The Monk was plugged — plugged dead with .45’s.

Two or three other of the boys had mysteriously run into poison at the hands of the bulls. And Nosey Snedden, well, somehow he always came through with an unpunctured hide.

The underworld wondered; and fingers itched around the butts of heavy automatics.

Night. Nigger Mike’s — the joint where booze and bullets mixed. Nosey Snedden lifted the mug of beer to his dry lips. His hand trembled slightly and two dark brown splotches slopped onto the oily table at which he sat. He drained the beaker without pausing for breath and set it down again with a defiant bang.

“To hell with Cassidy,” he muttered to himself; but the clutching devils of fear in his heart belied his words.

He lifted his head toward the bar for a moment to order the whiskey that his system cried for, but hesitated halfway through the gesture. Booze was no good on a job like this. Better shaky nerves than a fuddled brain.

The swinging doors of the bar were suddenly filled with a bulky black figure. Nosey Snedden’s eyes straying in that direction reflected the fear that crept through his veins.

“The damn fool,” he muttered. “If he speaks to me I’ll kill him—”

Slowly the big shape in the doorway strode through the bar room. He surveyed the groups at the tables with an amused cynicism in his eyes.

The drinkers stared back at him, with lips set in grim red lines and hands conspicuously above the tables.

For Detective Sergeant Tim Cassidy was the quickest and most relentless rod that the Police force boasted.

The hand of Nosey Snedden tightened about the handle of his stein. Sweat congealed on the thick glass of the vessel as Cassidy continued his round of insolent scrutiny. For a fleeting second he paused before the table of Nosey Snedden.

Snedden inhaled quickly and kept the breath in his lungs for a full ten seconds. Slowly Cassidy raised his brows and indicated the door. Then suddenly he turned and walked out of the saloon.

Nosey Snedden’s breath blew from his bursting lungs and his hand relaxed on the glass. Hastily he looked around the room. Quizzical inquiring glances were cast in his direction. He smiled nervously and fought with the tremor in his throat.

“Beer, Joe,” he called loudly, masking his emotions in a bellowing roar. “Beer! Pronto!”

He drank but half the second glass. The empty sensation at the pit of his stomach had somehow killed his thirst.

A half hour later Nosey Snedden, with a swift, surreptitious glance behind him entered police headquarters. Straightway he made for the detective’s room. Cassidy looked up from the depths of a racing sheet.

“Hello, Rat,” he greeted affably.

Snedden’s teeth jammed together and yellow hate flamed from his eyes.

“What’s the idea?” he demanded. “What the hell’s the idea of coming near me in Nigger Mike’s? Christ! If that gang knows I’m talking to you, they’ll croak me quicker than you’d cross me.”

“What do you expect?” returned the other. “That’s all part of your racket. Now listen, Nosey. I gotta tip, see? I know the Mullins mob is going to pull something tonight. I wanna know what it is and where!”

The hate in Nosey Snedden’s eyes was chastened by a haunting fear.

“I don’t know, Cassidy. Honest to God. I don’t know. This is the first I heard of it!”

“Yeah,” drawled the other. “I said I want to know what and where.”

The venom on Nosey’s face was conquered by the terror that gnawed at his heart. His voice cracked to an alto whine.

“Honest to God, Cassidy. Honest to God—”

“You wanna burn?”

“Honest to God—”

“Shut up. I can send you to the chair, Rat! And I’ll do it. I’m not asking you again.” He placed a thick hand on the telephone. “Come through.”

Nosey Snedden’s lips trembled. A single bitter tear streaming down his check, he came through.

“Get out!” said Cassidy and the contempt in his voice was vitriol. “You’re lower than I thought. I had to have the info. It’s my job. But I know and every mob in this town knows that Mullins dragged you out of the gutter when your name meant murder in this town. And now you rat on him!”

“Honest to God, Cassidy—”

“Screw!” said Timothy Cassidy.

The underworld was actually shocked. Mullins the Great was gone! The midnight Post Office robbery had ended in utter rout. Mullins was lying in the morgue his carcass riddled with police bullets. Shannon was laid out in the parlor of the Catholic home that he had left long ago, his face an unrecognizable bloody mass. Vittri was in the Police Hospital as the internes probed his abdomen for a .45 bullet. Nosey Snedden alone had escaped unharmed.

Nosey walked slowly into Nigger Mike’s. His face was drawn and pale. His narrowed eyes darted nervously here and there.

He started toward an occupied table with a greeting, but stopped half way. In response to his forced laugh, he found a duo of hard, unsmiling faces. He turned to an empty table and sat down.

This time he ordered double whiskey. The burning liquor poured his throat and surged through his veins. The screaming of his nerves was somewhat quieter.

He glanced again about the room and flushed uneasily at the suspicious looks that came his way. The third drink aroused a measure of defiance.

“To hell with them!” he muttered. “They can’t prove anything. Let ’em think. They won’t give me the works till they’re sure.”

He drummed nervously on the table. His wandering eyes shot toward the door and remained fixed upon what he saw.

A dry flame licked his throat, and the familiar form of Cassidy loomed through the entrance. Nosey Snedden stared at him as he entered. His heart hammered against his thin chest. His toes tightened against the soles of his shoes. His jaw tensed as his teeth came together.

Every eye in the house followed Cassidy. Usually he sauntered, strolled aimlessly through the bar, but tonight he walked direct — a purposeful walk.

Nosey Snedden gripped the whiskey glass. An almost palpable shadow of fear hovered over him. Closer and closer came Cassidy. Was he? No, he couldn’t!

The bulky form stopped and stretched out a hand.

“Howdy, Nosey,” said Cassidy. “Howza boy?”

He slapped him heartily on the back and then was gone. Nosey Snedden watched him stride toward the door. Each footstep marked off the time that Nosey Snedden would live. For a moment he was physically chained. Paralyzed. The awful intelligence that his brain had received was not yet translated to his rigid muscles. Cassidy’s pudgy hand was on the swinging door.

A brittle silence fought with the screech of the door hinge. Nosey Snedden’s muscles broke the spell. The glass dropped, shattered to the floor; the table banged over, as Snedden, his eyes distended marbles, his fingers claw like, saliva slobbering his jaws, sprang to his feet.

“Honest to God—” he shrieked. “Honest to God!”

The swinging door obscured Cassidy’s body.

Snedden’s hazy stare saw merciless eyes, thin bloodless lips. A score of hands flashed below the table.

“Honest to God—” screamed Nosey again. “Hon—”

A thud in his breast like a hammer blow! He screamed again in fear. He felt no pain. His mind was a searing flash of lightning. A roar sounded in his ears. His mouth framed words that were never uttered.

“Honest to—”

But a bursting bubble of blood drowned the end of his words.