J. Fletcher - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 5, No. 1 — April 1922)

Harbin entered the room where June Jennings was defiantly awaiting developments, swinging in his hand a string of glistening, rose-tinted pearls. At sight of them the girl gasped, then flung her cigarette into a cuspidor, cursing the world in general.

“Well, young lady,” said the Captain, “it’s all off, you see.”

“Yes,” she answered, drearily. “I might have known the dirty sneak wouldn’t have the nerve to go through with it. If he’d given me the beads this afternoon I’d be on easy street. Now the whole works is off. I’m through.”

“Any use holding those boys we have got locked up?” inquired the captain.

“Not a bit,” replied June Jennnings. “They were just a stall for a good getaway. You fell for that fine. Who put you wise?”

“Oh, a couple of women — Nell Anthony for one,” answered Harbin.

“I might have known that. She thought I was playing for Jim, but I was just sore at the whole gang — afraid to work in New York. Bah! Jim planned the job but didn’t have nerve enough to tackle it. He laid out the whole thing to show how easy it was. Last night was the night for it but they wouldn’t budge, and so when Bill came into Eichorn’s and acted nasty, just after they’d kicked out the Frog—”

“The Frog,” shouted Harrison and Kelso.

“Yes, the Frog,” the girl repeated. “I chased after him, gave him the dope and Bill’s gat and drove him out there in Red's car. I guess that’s all.”

“Yes,” said the Captain, touching a bell, “I guess that is all.”

The door opened and a uniformed officer led in the slinking form of Frog Fagin, outcast even of crooks, who had had his big chance and failed as usual.

The telephone bell rang and Harbin answered it. It was a woman’s voice.

“Have you asked June Jennings yet?” it queried tauntingly.

At fifteen minutes past ten, “Little Joe” raised the window of his room and stepped out onto the fire-escape. He was short, squat, with an oblong head, and a thick growth of jet black hair grew vigorously above his low forehead. His jaws were heavy and distinct, and his mouth was fixed in a habitual sneer.

He moved casually up the fire-escape, ascending with apparent unconcern. Little Joe was muscular, thick-set; an ape-like animal.

Earlier in the morning Joe had tried to borrow five dollars from Pug, but had been refused. Even though Pug had made two hundred dollars the day before, he declined to make a loan to Joe.

And Joe had a “sure thing” on the third race at Belmont. By investing five he would win sixty. Often before Pug had staked him. This morning, however, Pug had been surly and vicious. Too much bootleg. Pug dealt in illicit liquors, and sometimes he sampled his own stock.

Through the open window of Pug’s room, Joe saw the stingy financier asleep in bed. Pug had removed his coat, vest and shoes before retiring the night before, though he had neglected to completely disrobe. A short nose and a huge lower jaw had given Pug his name. He was an unlovely object as he slept. His mouth was open; his forehead was wrinkled as he tried to keep the morning light from his eyes; he breathed heavily.

The gruff rumble of traffic wavered and growled in the air. An elevated crashed by a block away. In this mean, crowded section of the city, men lived and died in sordid, half-crumbling buildings.

No one had noticed Joe as he climbed the fire-escape. If they had seen him, they would not have remembered the fact. People were too busy in the unending struggle to keep alive to bother with gossip, or remembering the movements of their neighbors.

Joe crept softly into the room. He must not awaken Pug, for then there would be an argument, and possibly a fight. Joe did not fear a tussle; battles were an everyday occurrence. A well-used black-jack reposed in Joe’s hip-pocket. It had seen experience, and possibly it would see more.

To the left of the window in Pug’s room was a small table. Joe was seized with a humorous idea. He drew a stub pencil from his pocket, and looked about for paper. A newspaper slumped upon the floor. With laborious fingers, Joe wrote on the edge of a page, “I O U 5 Little Joe.” He had gained the sobriquet in a crap game, and it was used by everyone.

As Joe tore the words from the margin of the newspaper, Pug stirred uneasily. Joe halted, and kept still. Apparently, he had suddenly been turned to stone. Not a muscle moved; he held his breath; he was rigid.

And then the even breathing began again on the bed. Joe relaxed, and moved toward the sleeping man. He paused and glanced once, swiftly, at the recumbent bootlegger, but Pug made no sound or movement.

A truck ploughed down the street outside, clattering and bumping, and the air hummed with the muffled roar of the ponderously alive city.

In the small cell-like room a small, squat man thrust his hand cautiously beneath the bed-pillow. His careful, sensitive fingers touched the cold steel of a stiletto. Joe stopped, chilled by the knife’s keen edge. This was not what he sought. Pug’s money was somewhere near his stiletto, though.

Pug sighed, and again Joe grew tense. If Pug awoke, he would be in a murderous humor. Joe’s intrusion would not be misunderstood. For Pug would be positive that Joe had come to rob him. Which was correct.

Joe’s stubby fingers fumbled with the end of the pillow-case and then searched within it for the bootlegger’s banknotes. Joe dared not look at Pug, for a steady stare will arouse a sleeping person. And then, a vise closed upon Joe’s windpipe and began to squeeze. His head was forced back by the pressure of a huge, hairy arm. An instant later Pug’s other hand increased the pressure upon Joe’s neck.

From the moment Joe had entered the room, Pug had been awake. His sleep had been interrupted twice before during the morning. Once when Joe had requested a loan, and later when someone else knocked upon Pug’s door.

Pug had awakened the first time with his temper ragged. He had swallowed a large quantity of whiskey the night before while celebrating a lucky escape from revenue officers. So, when Joe came in and tried to borrow five dollars, Pug had been angry. It was damnable that a man whose throat was caked with concrete, whose eyes were pin-points of pain, should be awakened for such a reason. Pug had a grouch, Joe was the first man he had seen; therefore, Joe’s request was declined violently.

Rebuffed, and equally angry, Joe had departed, and Pug went back to bed. But the bootlegger could not resume his interrupted slumbers. His tongue tasted unpleasantly, and his forehead was hot and dry. For several moments he tossed uneasily, and then someone else had knocked on the door.

This time Pug answered by locking the door. The person on the outside announced he wished to enter. Pug told him to go away, whoever he was, and suggested a destination. And, notwithstanding their repeated knockings, he had not opened the door.

When Joe had entered from the fire-escape, Pug had been almost asleep. But the tearing of the newspaper had roused him, though he had concealed the fact that he was awake.

And, when Joe had neared his money, Pug had been moved to action. He opened his eyes and grasped Joe at the same second. A second later Joe leaped backward, dragging Pug from the bed.

Joe snarled, and a wordless oath rasped from between his yellow teeth. He knew that he had been tricked; that Pug had not been caught unaware.

Pug sprawled upon the floor; his grip upon Joe’s neck had been broken. But he did not remain recumbent. Flashing upward, Pug uttered a cry of rage and surged forward.

The small uncarpeted room held few articles of furniture. A small table was perched near the window that looked upon the fire-escape. There was an unpainted, wooden chair tilted underneath the knob of the door. The bed occupied one side of the room.