Стюарт Стерлинг - The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

Out in the car, Taylor pulled a folded-up newspaper from his hip pocket. “That kid who found the leg this morning squawked all over the neighborhood. We warned him to keep his puss shut — but the papers got it just the same.”

Teccard didn’t read it. “They can’t print much, if they don’t know any more than we do, Taylor. What you know about number 971?” He pulled up half a block away.

The patrolman craned his neck. “Nine-seven-one? The old brick house? Nothing much. Just four- or five-buck-a-week furnished rooms. No apartments.”

“Who runs it?”

“Old dodo named Halzer. Him and his wife. They got 969, too — operate ’em together. He’s harmless, stewed about half the time.”

“Yair? You ever hear of a guy, name of Harold Willard, in this parish?”

“Harold Willard. Harold Willard. I don’t recall it, Lieutenant. What’s he look like?”

“Dark, about thirty-five years old. That’s all we’ve got to go on. My guess is he fancies himself for a double of one of the movie stars. Likely to be a flash dresser.”

“I can’t seem to place him. Maybe he’s just moved in. They keep coming and going in a joint like this.”

“Yair. If he happens to be in now, we’ll keep him from going.”

“We can do that, Lieutenant. There’s no rear doors on this side of the block.”

“You go on ahead, then. Go into 969. Find out from Halzer what room Willard has. When you know, stand in the door of 969 and wait for me to come past. You can give me the high sign without anyone watching you from one of the windows next door,” Teccard explained.

“Check.”

“And after I go in, nobody comes out. I mean nobody. Until I say so.”

“Got you, Lieutenant.” The patrolman strolled away, idly twisting his night-stick.

Teccard stood on the curb, tamping out his pipe. He gazed curiously up at the lighted windows of 971. What kind of murderer could it be who took such care to hack his victim to pieces — only to attempt to hide all the remains in one spot? There had been other instances of dismembered corpses in the records of the Criminal Identification Bureau but, so far as Teccard could remember, limbs and head and torso had invariably been strewn far and wide, to prevent any reconstruction of the body. Was he up against one of those unpredictable, pathological cases of sadism — where mutilation gives the killer a diabolical satisfaction? That didn’t seem to match up with the carefully planned disposition of the victim’s funds...

Taylor’s club showed, in the areaway of 969. The lieutenant walked along, briskly.

“Third floor rear,” the policeman whispered hoarsely. “Room J.”

Teccard didn’t turn his head, or answer. He marched up the steps to 971. The front door was unlatched. There was a row of battered, black-tin mailboxes. He paused just long enough to make sure one of them bore a piece of paper with the penciled scrawl: Harold M. Willard. Then he went in.

The hallway smelled of cooking grease and antiseptic, the carpeting on the stairs was ragged. Somebody was playing a radio. A baby squalled. There was a sound of running water from a bathroom somewhere on the second floor.

Over the sill of room J was a thread of yellow light. Someone was moving about in the room, but Teccard, with his ear to the panel, heard nothing else. He transferred his gun from his left armpit to the right pocket of his coat, kept his grip on the butt.

He knocked and, without waiting, raised his voice.

“Telegram for Mister Willard.”

The movement behind the door ceased. There was a pause, then: “Slide it under the door.”

Teccard kept his voice high. “You got to sign a receipt, mister.”

“Shove your receipt book under, too. I’ll sign it.” The answer came from halfway down the door — the man inside was evidently trying to look through the keyhole.

“The book won’t go under. You want the telegram, or not?”

Another pause.

“Wait a second. I’m not dressed.”

“O.K.” Teccard tried to make it sound weary.

“Where’s the wire from?” The man had moved away from the door, but the tone was strangely muffled.

“We ain’t allowed to read telegrams, mister. If you don’t want to accept it—”

The door opened.

The man was in his underclothes. He stood sideways, so Teccard couldn’t get a good look at him. His black hair was rumpled, he held a towel up over his mouth and the side of his face, as if he’d just finished shaving.

“Is there anything due—” He reached out with his other hand.

The lieutenant stepped in, fast.

“Yair. You’re due, mister. Put down—”

There was a faint “Hunh!” from behind the door, the uncontrollable exhalation of breath when a person exerts himself suddenly.

Teccard whirled.

The blow that caught him across the top of the head knocked him senseless before his knees started to buckle!

Taylor poured a tumbler of water over Teccard’s head. “Take it easy, now. Amby’ll be here any second.”

The lieutenant rolled over on his side. “Quit slopping that on my head.” The floor kept tilting away from him, dizzily. “Lemme have it to drink.”

The cop filled the glass from a broken-lipped pitcher. “You been bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Teccard paused with the tumbler at his lips. Was that a pair of shoes lying on the floor behind the patrolman? He shook his head, to clear away the blurriness. “Who in the hell is that?” he cried.

Taylor’s jaw went slack. “That’s the lad you was battling with. You fixed his wagon, all right!”

“I wasn’t fighting with anybody! Someone slugged me from behind that door, before I could even get my gun out.” The lieutenant got his elbows under him, propped himself up. The man on his back was T. Chauncey Helbourne — and his skin was a leaden blue.

The officer nodded sympathetically. “A crack on the conk will do that, sometimes. Make you forget what’s been goin’ on, when you snap out of it.”

Teccard felt of the back of his neck. His fingers came away wet and sticky, the ache at the top of his skull was nauseating. “I didn’t kill him, you dope!”

“Geeze! You had a right to drop him, didn’t you! He was resistin’ arrest, wasn’t he?”

Teccard crawled on hands and knees to the dead man’s side. There was an irregular dark blot on Helbourne’s vest, just inside the left lapel; in the center of the blot something gleamed yellow-red, under the naked bulb overhead. The lieutenant touched the fat man’s face. It was still close to normal body temperature.

“You got him first clip out of the box.” Taylor pointed to the gun on the floor, by the side of the iron cot.

Teccard stood up shakily, sat down again, suddenly, on the sagging edge of the cot. Taylor, the corpse on the floor, the barren furnishings of the room — all seemed oddly far away. He bent over to let the blood get to his head again. “Where’s the other gent who was in here? The one in shorts?”

The uniformed man squinted as if the light hurt his eyes. “The only lug I saw is this stiff, Lieutenant.”

Teccard closed his eyes to stop the bed from shimmying. “He let me in here. How’d he get downstairs, past you?”

Taylor put up a hand to cover his mouth, his eyes opened wide. “Now I swear to God there wasn’t a soul on them stairs when I come up. If there’d been a guy with his pants off—”

“How’d you happen to come up, anyway?”

“Why, geeze, Lieutenant. When this dame comes scuttling down to the front door, yelling for ‘Police’ naturally I hotfoot over from next door.”

“A woman? What kind of a woman?” Teccard demanded.