Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

This time when the driver asked me ‘Where to?’ I had a definite point of destination.

‘Back to the “Egyptian Lure”,’ I said simply.

Oh, I’ve often blown about my sense of humour, but I didn’t laugh then. I just sat back in the cab and thought, and my thoughts were not pleasant. At least, they shouldn’t have been pleasant — but I think I got some satisfaction over the little surprise I promised Nick.

And Nick would tell that story around, and Race Williams would be the laughing stock of the Avenue! Good enough. They could have their laugh — that is, all of them but Nick. But most of all, my pride was hurt — and I had paraded my courage and confidence and ability before Bernie. Where was my boasted service now? And Bernie’s money was in my pocket.

Was she in actual danger? Was she back with her guardian or still at Nick’s? But I didn’t believe she was still at Nick’s. Then why was I going to Nick’s? I tapped the driver on the shoulder.

‘Pull up for a minute,’ I said, ‘and don’t disturb me. I’m going to think.’ And if he got a laugh out of that last crack, he got it to himself.

Why was I going to Nick’s? That was the question I had to answer. If it was simply for private vengeance, then I was wrong. My duty now more than ever was to Bernie. Nick had double-crossed me. But why? Money? Certainly. Was Nick in the game all the way through? No — the coincidence would be too great for that. He didn’t know the reason, and he didn’t know the men, maybe. He worked as he always worked — blindly, on the size of the bank roll. But perhaps he knew where Bernie was. Oh, they wouldn’t tell him, and he’d deny it to me. But I knew Nick — he’d look for more money in the game, and he’d probably try to follow the car that Bernie went away in. And if he succeeded he’d tell me — maybe he thought he wouldn’t, but he would. There wouldn’t be a cent in it for him either. I have most persuasive ways. I set my teeth grimly — ten minutes before, I’d strutted before Bernie like a game-cock; now — I tapped my gun. I’d find Nick and stick that forty-four down his throat, even if he had Joe the bouncer and all the other waiters in the establishment ready for me.

‘Drive on,’ I said to the chauffeur, and this time our destination hadn’t changed much. I was still going to the ‘Egyptian Lure’ — but I’d stop the car around the block and get out. Nick had taken me in like a child — well, I’d play the child’s game and make this visit a surprise party.

‘Listen, Big Boy,’ I told the driver as I slipped a few yellow-backs into his hand, ‘this is for telling a bed-time story — any you wish. I want to know if Nick’s at the club. If he isn’t, I want you to tell me when he gets back. If he asks about me, strike him for a tip; tell him I got out of the cab and raised hell, and left you. I’ll wait in the doorway around the corner.’

‘You’ll freeze to death, mister.’ He shook his head.

‘Not me—’ I told him. But if I had added that I was so hot that the perspiration was pouring down me, he wouldn’t have believed it. Anyway, I was hot under the collar.

I didn’t threaten this lad with what I’d do to him if he put it over on me. He wasn’t that sort of a bird. I simply promised to double the fistful of jack I’d given him if he made good. There was no use in my going to the ‘Egyptian Lure’ if Nick wasn’t there. And if he was out snooping on Bernie’s little playmates, it was ten to one he’d ring up to find out if I’d come back before he returned.

Perhaps Bernie needed me at once. Perhaps Bernie was in danger. Yet I could not afford to hurry things. I must give Nick a chance to get the information I needed. Of course, it might be possible to work back over the ground and track down the two swarthy boys who had grabbed Bernie in the restaurant, and so find her. But that would take time. No — for a bit I must move cautiously — cautiously, until I was sure — and then strike. I clenched my teeth tightly. What a fine mutton-head I had been!

The taxi had gone. The little narrow street was empty, and the hallway I shivered in, a dismal, cold, damp place. Twice I looked out, but there was no sign of a taxi, but the third time the street was not entirely deserted. Down the block a figure dashed from an alleyway, looked up and down the street — then, turning, ran quickly along the sidewalk in the opposite direction from my hiding-place.

For a moment I stood there watching the fleeing figure. But there was nothing odd in that. A criminal? Maybe. The lower city is full of them. A derelict — a poor, homeless creature of the night? Probably; just frightened out of a sleep in a rubbish heap. And I got a glimpse of those broad shoulders and a fleeting vision of his face as he passed beneath a street lamp.

It jarred me erect and out on to the sidewalk. Imagination? Maybe. The thing was on my mind, of course. But the man who sped down the street was strangely like the swarthy man whom I had helped out of Nick’s some time before; the man Bernie had called Ferganses. As I say, maybe it was a mind picture; certainly there was little else under my hat. Anyway, I was out of that doorway and speeding after him.

Whether he was my man or not made little difference. He heard me, or saw me, almost at once — for his head darted quickly back over his shoulder. There was a brownish-white face in the darkness, and he increased his speed. Whatever his purpose, it wasn’t an honest one.

The chase was hopeless from the beginning. He was around the corner before I was half-way down the block. I heard the throb of a racing motor — the grinding of gears, and when I reached the corner the street was deserted. Maybe a car had been waiting for him — maybe he had disappeared in any of the numerous tenements — and maybe, again, he was not my man at all. But if he was, what business did he have in the alley a few houses down from the hallway where I had parked?

So I retraced my steps. The run had done me good; warmed up my body and cooled off my head. I’d have a ‘look-see’ in that alley. And it was like most other alleys of the lower city. Garbage-cans piled along the sides and the little yard in the back — cans that might stay there until a sensitive nose from the health department drifted by.

There was a printing shop in front and the rear yard was full of boxes. I looked up at the tenement windows above — all dark. Yet I dared not use a light, and there was no moon. I stumbled over the thing before I saw it. A foot — a human foot, with the shoe protruding from beneath some boxes.

I’m not easily thrilled or shocked and I am entirely without nerves — but I’m willing to admit that I got at least a kick out of that foot. There wasn’t enough light to tell me if it was the foot of a man or a woman — just the dull outline of the shoe and the feel of the ankle as I kicked it. And my heart did a jump — neither of fear nor horror — sort of a conscience twinge of remorse. For I thought of Bernie and the fear she felt.

I knelt on the ground and removed the boxes from the body. It wasn’t Bernie. The figure was too bulky and the clothes were a man’s — black, but for the generous expanse of white stiff shirt. One hasty glance at the windows above and I jerked out my flash. Just a single instant the bright rays lit on that stiff white-bosomed shirt and the patch of red with the handle of a knife sticking from the centre of it. There was a pudgy hand, too, with fingers clenched across the body. Then the sharp brilliancy rested on the face — pasty, greasy white, with wide, staring, sightless eyes. Enough is enough, and sometimes too much. When I jerked myself to my feet I knew that I wouldn’t get any information from the lips of Nick. I had planned vengeance on the poor, money-grabbing Greek — now, that was forgotten. Nick had double-crossed me. To the old proverb, ‘The way of the transgressor is hard,’ might be added another line — ‘also speedy’. They don’t come much deader than Nick.