Хал Эллсон - Masters of Noir - Volume 3

Crestone loaded the shotgun as he ran. The blue Mercury was at the first meter south of the police parking zone. She spun her wheels on the gutter ice and then the sedan lurched into the street. He put the muzzle on the right front window. Her face was a white blur turned toward him. He could not do it. He shot, instead, at the right rear tire and heard the shot rattle on the bumper.

He raced back to the radio and put the dials where they belonged. He poured it out then in crisp code. All cars, all stations. First, a ‘53 green Hudson sedan, K2066, possibly four men in car. Left Wampum Club, Midway, two minutes ago. Armed robbery. Dangerous. Second, a ‘52 blue Mercury sedan, K3109, last seen going north on Meredith one minute ago, possibly shotgun marks on right rear fender.

The phone blasted. “This is Sonny Belmont, Bill. We’ve had some trouble down here. Four men in a late Hudson tudor, a light color. They cut toward town on Market. The license was a K2 — something.”

“K2066, a green ‘53 Hornet, Belmont.”

“Who is this?”

“Crestone. What’d they look like?”

Belmont’s descriptions were sharp. “I slipped, Joey. They nailed me opening the safe.”

“How much?”

“About eighty grand.” Belmont said the amount reluctantly. It would be in the papers and he knew it. “How’d you boys get hot so quick, Joey?”

“Luck.” Crestone hung up. Car 750 reported that a speeding Hornet sedan had outrun the cruiser and was headed north on 315. Crestone sent that information to all cars north of Midway.

Car 752 came in. “We’re on the blue Mercury with the woman,” Purcell said. “She’s got a flat rear tire.”

“She’s got a .38 too,” Crestone said.

Three minutes later Purcell called from Glencoe and Pitt. “We got her. Car 751 is here with us.”

Crestone dispatched Car 751 to the old brick works with the dope on a cream Cadillac sedan. Car 55 came in from Highway 315. “The green Hudson got past me, Midway. I’m turning now to go north. Tell Shannon.”

The Shannon dispatcher said, “10-4 on that message, Midway.” A moment later he was talking to a sheriff, and then state patrol 54 came in.

When the channels were clear again Crestone called Steel City to cover State 7 from the east, just in case. He called the police chief and the sheriff by telephone. The chief said he would be down at once. Crestone was still talking to the sheriff when Car 751 reported. “We got the cream Cadillac sedan at the brick plant,” Kurowski said. “The guy scrammed into the weeds and took the keys with him.”

The message went into the mouthpiece of the telephone. The sheriff said, “I’ll be down there with a couple of boys in ten minutes.” Crestone hung the phone up. He told Car 751 to stand by at the brick works.

Everything was set now. There would be a tough road block at the Y on State 20 and Highway 315. If the Hudson got around that, there would be trouble on ahead, piling up higher as more cars converged.

Crestone lit a cigarette. The phone rang. A man asked, “You got my car yet?”

“What car?”

“My Cadillac! My God, man! I just called you.”

“The only stolen car in the world,” Crestone said. “Yeah, we got it. You can pick it up at the police garage in the morning. Bring your registration and title and five bucks for towing charges.”

“Towing! Is it hurt?”

“No keys.”

“Oh,” the man said. The party was still going on around him. “Look, officer, I’ve got an extra set of keys. If you’ll send a car around—”

“Get it here in the morning.”

“Okay then.” The man hung up.

Crestone decided that his skull was breaking. He punched his cigarette out and tried to swallow the bad taste it had left in his mouth.

They brought her in, Purcell and Old McGlone. The tension was gone from her now; she looked beaten down and helpless.

“Cute kid.” Purcell held up the .38. “She put a couple of spots on 752 by way of greeting us. Is the chief on his way?”

Crestone nodded. The woman looked at him and said, “I’m sorry I kept hitting you.”

“Yeah.”

“She was here?” Purcell asked. “She slugged you?”

“She did.”

Old McGlone needed a shave as usual. He was staring at Judith Barrows. All at once he asked, “When did you leave Pulaski Avenue, Zelda Tuwin?”

Her eyes jerked up to Old McGlone’s face. “Five years ago. It was raining.”

“I remember you. You were a chubby kid, Zelda. You—”

“I was a big fat slob!”

“You been a dress model?” Crestone asked.

“Yeah! Big stuff! I got tired of parading in front of bitches and their men. I couldn’t eat what I wanted to. I had to walk like I was made of glass. I got tired of it.”

Old McGlone nodded. “Sure, sure. So you wanted to have the money like them you pranced in front of. You were doubtless making plenty yourself — for a kid from the Polish section of Midway. You’d have been better off staying on Pulaski and marrying a good boy from the mill, Zelda Tuwin.”

Old McGlone looked sad and wistful. He never did want to believe the things he had been seeing for twenty-five years. He was tough but not hard. He understood and he deplored but he never could condemn. Zelda Tuwin watched him for several moments and seemed to recognize those things about him.

And then she stared at the floor.

The chief tramped in. Crestone gave him the story. The chief nodded, watching Zelda Tuwin. He tilted his head toward his office and clumped down the steps. Old McGlone and Purcell took her out, Purcell walking ahead. Old McGlone said, “Watch them steel steps there, Zelda.”

After a while the sheriff’s car came in. He had Brownie, who had tried to jump a canal and nearly drowned. Car 54 was on the air a moment later.

“We got the Hornet, Midway. Four men. What’s the authority?”

“Midway PD. Bring ’em back, and everything they have with them.”

“They got it too. Cars 55 and 86 are coming in with me.”

Crestone sent out a cancellation on the two stolen cars. He could hear the chief talking to Zelda Tuwin downstairs. He knew how Old McGlone felt about some things there seemed to be no help for. It was 3:41 A.M.

Joe Crestone had a hell of a headache.

Ron Jordan saw the relief man coming across Berkeley Street and knew something was up. Jordan was standing in the gore on the Trimount Avenue side, letting the traffic flow by on both sides of him. At three o’clock the traffic was full but not bad. The sun was behaving for June, and Ron Jordan was standing there letting it flow and looking at the girls going away from him in the crosswalk. Then this relief, an old traffic fixture named Dennehy, walked out and gave him a funny look.

“You’re wanted at the station,” said Dennehy.

“What for?”

Dennehy’s face, with its puckered round mouth, had a knowing and maybe pleased shape to it. He shot a veiled glance up at Jordan’s cap, which sat at a jaunty angle like a flying colonel’s; he let his eyes travel slowly down Jordan’s trimness and thought the gesture was explanation enough. “I don’t know,” he said.

“You know. Give, my friend, give.”

“I said I don’t. But the sergeant was talking to the inspectors’ bureau before he sent me to relieve you. When he hung up he said, ‘Send Lover Boy back here, and tell him to hump it.’ “ The relief gave Jordan a sidelong glance. “So maybe you know.”

A girl in the crosswalk crowd said, “Hi, Ron.” She was a chick from the office building on Berkeley below Trimount. Ron said, “Hi, honey,” and answered her smile, and absently watched her tick-tock gait as she walked away from him. At the curb she looked back and smiled again.