Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

I opened the package and a human head rolled out into my lap. A man’s head — with a bullet-hole between the eyes.

It was late at night, in my apartment. I’d been to see Chaplin’s latest picture at the Chinese, and when I got home I found a bundle wrapped in brown paper outside the door of my flat. I picked it up and carried it in.

There weren’t any postage stamps on it; no express-tags, either. Evidently someone had delivered it personally. Printed across the front was: ‘For Dan Turner, private detective’. That was all. No sender’s name; no return address.

I cut the strings and unwrapped the bundle. And that’s when the severed head rolled spang into my lap.

It startled hell out of me. I said: ‘What the hell!’ and jumped to my feet. The head hit the floor with a gruesome bounce. It rolled halfway across my living-room rug. Then it came to rest, face upward. A damned nasty sight.

For a minute I was shaky as hell. I reached for a bottle of Vat 69 and tilted it down my throat. That made me feel a little better, but not much. I walked over and picked up the severed head.

There wasn’t any blood around the bullet-wound in its forehead. None at the neck, either. That had all been washed away, nice and clean. I took one good gander at the white, cold features; and I recognised the face right away.

It was the head of Skinny Arkle. Maybe you remember him. He was a big-shot screen comedian back in the silent days. Skinny Arkle had been even funnier than his name. He’d been tops in the old pie-throwing class, and the way he used to pop his false teeth out of his mouth and fold up his face kept the whole country in stitches. But at the height of his popularity, Skinny Arkle had got himself in a hell of a jam.

He’d gone on a binge in San Diego with an obscure extra dame named Nancy Norward. He and the Norward girl had got plastered together — and the dame kicked the bucket. They’d tried to pin her death on Skinny Arkle, but a jury finally decided she’d cashed in from acute alcoholism coupled with gizzard trouble or something. Anyhow, they turned Skinny loose.

Just the same, the scandal had cooked Skinny Arkle’s goose in the movies. All the studios blacklisted him; the stink had given Hollywood too much of a black eye, so Skinny had to take the rap — be the goat.

He’d faded out of pictures; hadn’t appeared in a single film since the mess. For a while he went back to his native Jugoslavia; then he returned to Hollywood and married a cute kid named Kitty Calvert — a wren with red hair and a shape like seven million bucks. She was an Altamount semi-star, and she dragged down enough cookies in her weekly pay-envelope to keep herself and Skinny well fixed. For that matter, it was rumoured that Skinny himself had salted away a nice stack of geetus from the days when he was in the big dough.

Well, that was Skinny Arkle’s history as I remembered it. And now, here was his decapitated head grinning at me from my living-room floor — with a bullet-hole in its brain.

I picked up the head and put it on my library table. Then I grabbed for my phone. I dialled the home number of my friend, Dave Donaldson of the homicide squad. When he answered, I said: ‘This is Dan Turner. Listen, Dave — something screwy has happened.’ I told him.

Dave said: ‘For God’s sake! Say — you’re not drunk, are you? You haven’t got pink elephants, have you?’

‘Hell, no. This is on the level,’ I told him.

He said: ‘Cripes! Meet me down at headquarters in fifteen minutes. Bring that head with you!’

I said: ‘Okay,’ and hung up. Then all of a sudden I thought I heard a sound outside my door.

I was nervous anyhow. I had the jitters. I dragged out the .32 automatic I always carry in a shoulder-holster, and I dived for the door.

There was a tall, statuesque blonde bimbo standing outside my door for some while. She looked scared as hell when I popped out at her. She said: ‘Oh-h-h—!’ in a sort of muffled gasp.

I said: ‘Who the hell are you? What do you want?’

‘I... I’m looking for Dan Turner,’ she answered me.

I looked her over. She seemed worried, all right. But she was gorgeous, too — in a flashy sort of way. Her blonde head came above my shoulder, and I’m over six-feet-two. At a guess, I’d say she was close to thirty — but she wore a damned good make-up that made her look younger. And her figure was something to remember.

She wasn’t skinny, like a lot of tall dames. She wasn’t too hefty, either. Just well-proportioned for her size. Sleek and slinky! Every lithe contour, every curve exactly right.

I said: ‘Well, kiddo, I’m sorry you’re worried, but I haven’t got time to talk to you now. See me at my office tomorrow.’

She said: ‘No! You’ve got to listen to me right now, Mr Turner! You must!’

I thought of my date with Donaldson at headquarters in fifteen minutes. I said: ‘Sorry, sister. You’ll have to excuse me.’

‘You... you mean you won’t listen to me?’

‘Sure I’ll listen to you. Tomorrow.’

Her eyes got sort of wild-looking. She said: ‘I’ll make you listen!’ And before I could stop her she rumpled up her yellow hair and ripped at the front of her dress. She said: ‘I’ll scream and tell people you attacked me!’

‘Hell!’ I said. ‘If it’s that important, go ahead and spill your story. But cover yourself up or maybe you’ll have something to scream about.’ I reached over and pulled her frock together. My fingers were tingling at the near contact.

The girl said: ‘I... I’m Constance Calvert. I’m Kitty Calvert’s sister. Kitty Calvert, the Altamount star. She’s Skinny Arkle’s wife.’

I stiffened. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. And I’m worried for Kitty. Afraid for her. Skinny Arkle and she have had a terrible row. Skinny left after the fight. That was three days ago. He left, threatening to come back and m-murder Kitty. We haven’t seen him since, but I’m frightened. I want you to find him—’

I grabbed her by the arm and said: ‘Come on in my apartment. I want to show you something. You won’t have to worry about Skinny Arkle any more.’

I pulled her into my living-room. She saw Skinny Arkle’s severed head on my table. She went white. ‘Oh, my God!’ she choked. And then damn’ if she didn’t faint!

She fell sprawling on the floor, and the tom front of her dress gaped open. White skin peeped from the ripped frock.

I said: ‘What the hell—!’ and leaned over her, lifted her up. I carried her into the next room, put her on the divan. She was dead to the world. I didn’t know how long it would take me to bring her round — but I didn’t have time, just then. I had to scram down to headquarters to keep my date with Donaldson.

On the other hand it struck me that this blonde baby, Constance Calvert, might be a key to the whole business.

It was stretching the long leg of coincidence to think she had just accidentally come to me the same night I’d received Arkle’s decapitated noggin. She was mixed up in the deal some way. Maybe she was the one who’d brought that package and left it at my door!

Well, I couldn’t take her down to headquarters with me. Not when she was unconscious. But I didn’t want her to get away. So I used a trick I’d pulled many a time before.

I stripped the dress off her limp form, and took her shoes and chiffon stockings off while I was at it. The whole business got me hot under the collar. But I stuck to my job and pretty soon I had her down to black lace underthings.

She was a hell of a sweet number. Her skin was as smooth and warm as new cream, and she had what it takes to drive a man utsnay. But I didn’t have time to be driven utsnay, so I covered her with a blanket and left her.