Стюарт Стерлинг - The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“Why, just an ordinary mouse like you’d expect to find in one of these joints. Kind of blond and plump — I don’t know.”

“What’d she say?”

“She says, ‘Officer, come upstairs quick. There’s a couple of men fighting and making a terrible racket right over my room.’ She says, ‘Hurry!’ So I figure it’s you subduing this Willard and maybe needing a hand. I come up on the jump.”

Teccard started to shake his head, thought better of it. “Where is she now? Bring her here.”

The policeman pounded out in the hall, downstairs. He left the door open. There was an excited hum of voices from the corridor.

Teccard took a pencil out of his pocket, stuck it in the barrel of the pistol, lifted it off the floor. He wrapped his handkerchief carefully about the butt, broke his weapon. Only one chamber had been fired from the .38. The bullet hole in Helbourne’s chest would be about right for that caliber.

Taylor came clumping upstairs. “She put one over on me. That room underneath ain’t even occupied. And she’s scrammed, anyway.”

“So has the jerk who was half undressed.” The lieutenant put down the revolver, poured himself another drink of water. “That’s over the dam, don’t get gidgety about it. You were right, according to the way you figured it.”

The cop wiped sweat off his forehead. “It’s all balled up in my mind. Was this Willard the one who shot the fat boy, here?”

“Might have been. The gun was still in my pocket when I went down. Somebody took it out and used it on T. Chauncey Helbourne. Somebody else. Not me.” Teccard gazed grimly around the room. “The worse of it is, I couldn’t absolutely identify Willard, even now. He was covering his smush with a towel and he sort of kept his back to me, anyhow.”

He didn’t bring up the point that bothered him most — it was a cinch Willard hadn’t been the one who crowned Teccard from behind that door. Maybe his unseen assailant had been Helbourne. In any case, what was the proprietor of the Herald of Happiness doing up here, when he had claimed complete ignorance of Willard!

A siren wailed, out in the street.

“Holler down to the doc, Taylor. Tell him all he needs to bring up is a few stitches for my scalp.”

“You’d ought to go to the hospital, Lieutenant. Have an X-ray, to be sure there ain’t any fracture.”

Teccard went over to the closet door, opened it. “There’s nothing more the matter with my head than’s been wrong with it for thirty-seven years. Did you buzz the station, too, Taylor?” he said.

“Yes, sir. Cap Meyer is coming right over, himself, with a couple of the boys.” Taylor went out into the hall, shouted down the stairwell.

The lieutenant sniffed at the empty closet. The only things in it were a few coat hangers and a sweet scent that made him think of church. Queer thing to find in a place like this, probably came from clothing that had been hung up here.

He looked around the room for the weapon with which he had been slugged. There wasn’t anything heavier than a cane wastebasket. The wastebasket was empty, too, except for a crumpled piece of cellophane stripped from a pack of cigarettes. He fished it out with the point of his fountain-pen, put it on the bureau.

The interne arrived, went to work with needle and sutures. Meyer and two plain-clothesmen came up. While the doctor jabbed the needle through his scalp, Teccard told the captain what was wanted.

“Box up that cellophane, run it down to my office. There might be prints on it. Get a photographer up here from Homicide. Have him powder the knobs, the bureau drawers, the iron part of the bed, those hangers in the closet. Run a vacuum over the floor, ship the dust down to the lab for examination.”

Meyer crouched over the fat man. “Who’s this guy, Lieutenant?”

“Crumb who ran a matrimonial agency. That’s what’s back of those bones your boys dug up today. Go through his pockets, will you? And mark someone down for going through the house, here, to see what they can get on Willard. Taylor, you learn anything about him from the landlord?”

The patrolman scratched his head. “Not much. Oh, one funny thing. He must have a night job. Because he only comes here in the daytime. And he must write a lot of letters, because practically the only thing old Halzer remembers his having up here, outside his clothes, is a box of writing paper and a bottle of ink.”

“Yair? See can you find if he threw any of his scribbling in the wastebasket. Maybe some of it is still in the trashcan.”

Meyer said: “Not much dough, but plenty of unpaid bills, on this fella. He’s been hitting the high spots, you ask me. Here’s a credit-jewelry store summons for non-payment on a diamond wristwatch. And a bunch of duns from department stores and an automobile company.” He tossed the sheaf of papers on the bed. “Eleven fish and some chickenfeed, a cheap ticker, two nickel cigars, a silk handkerchief stinking of whiskey, and a bunch of keys.”

“No weapon?”

“Not even a pen-knife, Lieutenant. You’re pretty positive he wasn’t the fella cut up that girl’s body?”

“He’d have been well-padded with folding money, in that case, Cap. No. You rustle around, get a description of Harold Willard.”

Teccard waited until the doctor growled: “Kind of a patchwork job, Lieutenant. You’d be smart to take a couple days’ sick leave. That’s an ugly gash.”

“If that stuff about the stitch in time is on the up and up, you must have saved about ninety-nine of ’em. Thanks. I’ll be around, for you to rip them out again.” He picked up the keys. “I might use these, Cap.”

“Want Taylor to go with you?”

“No.” Teccard examined his hat. There was a right angle cut where the brim joined the crown. He smoothed the felt thoughtfully. “You might let me have a gun, though. Mine’ll have to go to Ballistics.”

Meyer brought out an automatic. “You can take Betsy, if you don’t mind a big caliber.”

The corners of Teccard’s mouth curled up. “A forty-five is just the ticket.”

“You after big game?”

“Yair.” Teccard checked the magazine to make sure it was loaded. “You ever go after moose, Cap?”

“Moose? Hell, no. Duck is my limit.”

“Well, when a guy goes after moose, he uses a horn that makes a sound like a female moose. The bull comes a-running — and the hunter does his stuff.”

A puzzled scowl wrinkled Meyer’s forehead.

“I’m going to get me a horn, Cap. But there’s nothing in the book says for the rest of you to stop hunting.”

He went downstairs.

The night elevator man in the building housing the Herald of Happiness regarded Teccard coldly. “Who you want to see on the third, mister?”

“Just giving the premises the once-over.” The lieutenant held his badge out on his palm. “Snap it up. I haven’t got all night.”

“Ain’t anyone up on that floor.”

“That’s why I’m going up. Do I push the lever myself?”

The car started. “I can’t have people going in and out alia time. I’ll lose my job.”

“Don’t worry about it. Everything’s strictly copacetic.”

The elevator door clanged loudly. Teccard swung around the corner of the corridor into the ell where Helbourne’s office was located — and stopped short. Somewhere ahead of him a light had been suddenly extinguished. He stood still, listening. There were none of the noises to be expected when an office is being closed for the night. No door opened.

He balanced the heavy automatic in his left hand, held the keys in his right, tightly, so they wouldn’t rattle. Quietly, on the balls of his feet, he moved to the Herald ‘s door. Still he heard nothing, except the faraway roar of Broadway. He tried the key which showed the most signs of use. The latch turned. He stepped aside swiftly to the right, kicked the door open.