Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

He looked at me with a cold eye that the cops reserve for newspaper guys and started bolting his food like he was in a hurry.

‘Don’t strangle yourself, Cap,’ I said, ‘I’ve got plenty of time and I won’t run away.’

‘I know,’ he said, sticking a sandwich way down his throat. ‘But I ain’t got nothing for you.’

‘Tell me one thing,’ I returned, ‘has she talked?’

‘Not a word; not one goddam word.’

‘OK, Cap. I won’t worry you again.’ I slid off the stool. ‘That was a nice little red-head you were leading into temptation last night; I admire your taste. Well, Cap, I’ll beat it.’

The Captain looked like he was going to have a stroke. His neck expanded and his eyes looked like poached eggs. ‘Hey!’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘Where do you get that stuff?’

I paused. ‘I didn’t get any stuff, Cap,’ I said, ‘it was you who were doing the trafficking.’

‘Now, listen,’ he said feverishly, ‘you’ve got to keep your trap shut about that. It was business — you understand?’

‘You’re of interest to the public,’ I pointed out; ‘it’s got to go in the column. If your wife gets mad, what the hell do I care?’

He sat like an exploded balloon. ‘OK,’ he said bitterly. ‘What do you want to know?’

I resumed my stool and ordered a club sandwich. ‘Give me the dope, Cap. You’re not telling me that you haven’t unearthed a lot of stuff what would interest me. I won’t print it until you say so. I’ve been in on this from the start, and I may as well finish it.’

It took me a little time to handle him, but the red-head threat worked like a charm.

Rabener, he told me, was the brain behind one of the biggest dope-rings in the country. He used the night-club as a front. He had to have some place where pedlars could come with safety each month to collect the dope. What better place than a well-established, busy night-club? Rabener was a killer too. Years ago he’d been a small-time heist man. His ruthlessness as a killer took him slowly to the top of the ladder of gangdom. He was smart. He always kept in the background. Whereas other big-shots were rounded up by the FBI, Rabener managed to keep clear. When repeal came in, he decided to go in for dope. So thorough were his preparations that no one had ever suspected the night-club to be the distributing centre of the dope-ring.

Somehow or other Fanquist fitted into this picture. The Captain wasn’t quite sure where she did fit in. But they couldn’t tie her up with the dope traffic. They could get nothing out of her. The smaller members of the ring had vanished. Fanquist was the only one who could enlighten the police, and she wouldn’t talk.

‘Maybe she thinks someone will knock her off if she squeals,’ I suggested.

‘Yeah, it might be that; but why did she kill Rabener?’

‘I’d like to know too,’ I returned. ‘Think she’ll get off?’

The Captain shrugged. ‘I don’t mind if she does,’ he said. ‘Nice-lookin’ dish, ain’t she?’

I agreed very heartily.

The trial was fixed at last, and the court-room was packed to the ceiling. Strong men trampled on weak women to get in; strong women gave up in despair. It was a real picnic for the men all right. They’d come to see Fanquist, and nothing on two legs would stop them.

The Judge was a dopey-looking old hound. The DA seemed nervous, but the defending counsel was as cocky as hell. There was not one woman on the jury. I thought that it was almost inevitable the Fanquist woman was going to get acquitted.

I had a front seat, a packet of sandwiches, and a flask of rye. No one was going to stampede me. Jackson, the night editor, was with me. We both felt that we had an interest in the case.

Fanquist looked good. She sat by her counsel, quiet, still and restful. Boy; how she could dress! Any young dope wanting to know what the female form looked like had only to step up and get an eyeful of Fanquist. He’d learn more in that glance than all the text-books on anatomy could teach him in a year.

‘If I have to watch that dame all day,’ the night editor grumbled, ‘I shall go nuts.’

I understood how he felt even though he was a coarse-minded slob. I knew the court-room was steamed up to hell.

The DA got to his feet for his opening speech. It lacked the ginger and hate he usually worked into his openers.

‘That guy,’ the night editor grumbled, ‘ain’t got his mind on his job. If you ask me, he’s worried by his lower nature.’

It didn’t matter how much the DA played the killing down, the facts were undeniable. Fanquist had shot Rabener in front of a hundred witnesses. Even if the DA didn’t want to be responsible for burning her nice little tail, he couldn’t very well help himself.

The counsel for the defence rose to his feet. ‘Your honour,’ he said with a bland look on his face, ‘before going further with this trial, I would like to ask the District Attorney a question.’

The Judge told him to go ahead.

The defence turned to where the DA was sitting. ‘Can you assure me,’ he asked, ‘that the bullet found in Rabener’s skull could have been fired from my client’s automatic?’

You could have hung your hat on the silence that followed.

The DA went all colours of the rainbow. He got to his feet with a feeble, ‘Your honour — I object!’

The Judge, who had been giving himself an eyeful of Fanquist, looked at him coldly. ‘I think that is perfectly in order. In fact, I will go further and say it is a very proper question.’

The defence smiled. ‘I take it that you are unable to do so,’ he said blandly. ‘In which case, I must ask for an adjournment while this point is verified.’

The Judge looked at him intently. ‘Why have you raised this point?’ he asked.

‘Your honour,’ the defence returned, ‘my client did not kill Rabener. It will be found that the bullet in Rabener’s skull could not possibly have been fired from a small automatic. The bullet, I should imagine, came from a Smith-Wesson revolver. Perhaps at this point I should wait until the bullet has been checked.’

So the Judge adjourned the Court for two hours.

It caused a sensation. There wasn’t one person who left the building during those two hours’ wait; the atmosphere was electric.

When the Court sat again, I think the only person in the room who wasn’t worked up was Fanquist.

The Judge looked at the DA. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what are your findings?’

The DA looked a sick man. ‘Your honour,’ he returned, ‘the defence is right. The bullet that killed Rabener was fired from an Army service revolver.’

When the uproar died down, the Judge scowled at the defence. ‘Why was this case ever brought to trial?’ he demanded.

The defence rose to his feet. ‘I can explain, your honour, and will do so immediately. You will recall that on the night of the killing, Rabener had put on a special form of entertainment. The idea being that his usual floor-show was continually interrupted by faked shootings, thrills and so on. Rabener had arranged with Fanquist that she should participate in this publicity stunt. He thought it would be amusing if she pretended to murder him. She was given a gun loaded with blanks, and she carried out her instructions. She had no more idea that Rabener was killed when she fired than she had that someone, using a gun fitted with a silencer, had fired at the same time as she had at Rabener. She returned to the office. And when she was arrested she instantly thought that by some accident the gun had been loaded with live ammunition instead of blanks. The realisation that she had killed a man was such a shock to her that her reactions were slightly abnormal, which was only to be expected. Rabener was killed by a person unknown who used a silencer and an Army service revolver. This is pure supposition on my part, but I did take the trouble to examine the wound, and thought it very unlikely that so small a bullet could have made such a big hole in Rabener’s head. The prosecution, having so many witnesses who actually saw my client apparently kill Rabener, did not think of checking the matter, or even of checking Fanquist’s gun, which was only loaded with one blank round.’