Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

Woolrich’s literary reputation has grown with every passing year through film, radio and television adaptations of his work — the Alfred Hitchcock version of his story, Rear Window (1954), long ago attained classic status. Here is one of his stories of police brutality written in 1935, in which a tough, wisecracking rookie cop investigates the death of a girl at a marathon dance and demonstrates a malicious lack of feeling for either the victim or her luckless partner. The contrast between Nick Glennan and Woolrich’s young Smitty could not be more striking...

‘And another thing I’ve got against these non-stop shindigs,’ orated the chief to his slightly bored listeners, ‘is they let minors get in ’em and dance for days until they wind up in a hospital with the DTs, when the whole thing’s been fixed ahead of time and they haven’t a chance of copping the prize anyway. Here’s a Missus Mollie McGuire been calling up every hour on the half-hour all day long, and bawling the eardrums off me because her daughter Toodles ain’t been home in over a week and she wants this guy Pasternack arrested. So you go over there and tell Joe Pasternack I’ll give him until tomorrow morning to fold up his contest and send his entries home. And tell him for me he can shove all his big and little silver loving-cups—’

For the first time his audience looked interested, even expectant, as they waited to hear what it was Mr P. could do with his loving-cups, hoping for the best.

‘—back in their packing-cases,’ concluded the chief chastely, if somewhat disappointingly. ‘He ain’t going to need ’em any more. He has promoted his last marathon in this neck of the woods.’

There was a pause while nobody stirred. ‘Well, what are you all standing there looking at me for?’ demanded the chief testily. ‘You, Donnelly, you’re nearest the door. Get going.’

Donnelly gave him an injured look. ‘Me, Chief? Why, I’ve got a red-hot lead on that payroll thing you were so hipped about. If I don’t keep after it it’ll cool off on me.’

‘All right, then you Stevens!’

‘Why, I’m due in Yonkers right now,’ protested Stevens virtuously. ‘Machine-gun Rosie has been seen around again and I want to have a little talk with her—’

‘That leaves you, Doyle,’ snapped the merciless chief.

‘Gee, Chief,’ whined Doyle plaintively, ‘gimme a break, can’t you? My wife is expecting—’ Very much under his breath he added: ‘—me home early tonight.’

‘Congratulations,’ scowled the chief, who had missed hearing the last part of it. He glowered at them. ‘I get it!’ he roared. ‘It’s below your dignity, ain’t it! It’s too petty-larceny for you! Anything less than the St Valentine’s Day massacre ain’t worth going out after, is that it? You figure it’s a detail for a bluecoat, don’t you?’ His open palm hit the desk-top with a sound like a firecracker going off. Purple became the dominant colour of his complexion. ‘I’ll put you all back where you started, watching pickpockets in the subway! I’ll take some of the high-falutinness out of you! I’ll... I’ll—’ The only surprising thing about it was that foam did not appear at his mouth.

It may have been that the chief’s bark was worse than his bite. At any rate no great amount of apprehension was shown by the culprits before him. One of them cleared his throat inoffensively. ‘By the way, Chief, I understand that rookie, Smith, has been swiping bananas from Tony on the corner again, and getting the squad a bad name after you told him to pay for them.’

The chief took pause and considered this point.

The others seemed to get the idea at once. ‘They tell me he darned near wrecked a Chinese laundry because the Chinks tried to pass him somebody else’s shirts. You could hear the screeching for miles.’

Doyle put the artistic finishing touch. ‘I overheard him say he wouldn’t be seen dead wearing the kind of socks you do. He was asking me did I think you had lost an election bet or just didn’t know any better.’

The chief had become dangerously quiet all at once. A faint drumming sound from somewhere under the desk told what he was doing with his fingers. ‘Oh he did, did he?’ he remarked, very slowly and very ominously.

At this most unfortunate of all possible moments the door blew open and in breezed the maligned one in person. He looked very tired and at the same time enthusiastic, if the combination can be imagined. Red rimmed his eyes, blue shadowed his jaws, but he had a triumphant look on his face, the look of a man who has done his job well and expects a kind word. ‘Well, Chief,’ he burst out, ‘it’s over! I got both of ’em. Just brought ’em in. They’re in the back room right now—’

An oppressive silence greeted him. Frost seemed to be in the air. He blinked and glanced at his three pals for enlightenment.

The silence didn’t last long, however. The chief cleared his throat. ‘ Hrrrmph . Zat so?’ he said with deceptive mildness. ‘Well now, Smitty, as long as your engine’s warm and you’re hitting on all six, just run over to Joe Pasternack’s marathon dance and put the skids under it. It’s been going on in that old armoury on the west side—’

Smitty’s face had become a picture of despair. He glanced mutely at the clock on the wall. The clock said four — a.m., not p.m. The chief, not being a naturally hard-hearted man, took time off to glance down at his own socks, as if to steel himself for this bit of cruelty. It seemed to work beautifully. ‘An election bet!’ he muttered cryptically to himself, and came up redder than ever.

‘Gee, Chief,’ pleaded the rookie, ‘I haven’t even had time to shave since yesterday morning.’ In the background unseen nudgings and silent strangulation were rampant.

‘You ain’t taking part in it, you’re putting the lid on it,’ the chief reminded him morosely. ‘First you buy your way in just like anyone else and size it up good and plenty, see if there’s anything against it on moral grounds. Then you dig out one Toodles McGuire from under, and don’t let her stall you she’s of age either. Her old lady says she’s sixteen and she ought to know. Smack her and send her home. You seal everything up tight and tell Pasternack and whoever else is backing this thing with him it’s all off. And don’t go ’way. You stay with him and make sure he refunds any money that’s coming to anybody and shuts up shop good and proper. If he tries to squawk about there ain’t no ordinance against marathons just lemme know. We can find an ordinance against anything if we go back far enough in the books—’

Smitty shifted his hat from northeast to southwest and started reluctantly towards the great outdoors once more. ‘Anything screwy like this that comes up, I’m always It,’ he was heard to mutter rebelliously. ‘Nice job, shooing a dancing contest. I’ll probably get bombarded with powder-puffs—’

The chief reached suddenly for the heavy brass inkwell on his desk, whether to sign some report or to let Smitty have it, Smitty didn’t wait to find out. He ducked hurriedly out of the door.

‘Ah me,’ sighed the chief profoundly, ‘what a bunch of crumbs. Why didn’t I listen to me old man and join the fire department instead!’

Young Mr Smith, muttering bad language all the way, had himself driven over to the unused armoury where the peculiar enterprise was taking place.

‘Sixty cents,’ said the taxi-driver.

Smitty took out a little pocket account-book and wrote down — Taxi-fare — $1.20. ‘Send me out after nothing at four in the morning, will he!’ he commented. After which he felt a lot better.

There was a box-office outside the entrance but now it was dark and untenanted. Smitty pushed through the unlocked doors and found a combination porter and doorman, a black gentleman, seated on the inside, who gave him a stub of pink pasteboard in exchange for fifty-five cents, then promptly took the stub back again and tore it in half. ‘Boy,’ he remarked affably, ‘you is either up pow’ful early or up awful late.’