Микки Спиллейн: Primal Spillane: Early Stories 1941-1942

Hawley held out his hand. “You did fine, Dick, a first class piece of detective work. We ought to make the pistols-in-the-pant’s-leg gag part of our equipment.”

Dick grinned. “It’s too bad it was all over a dummy case though, I would have felt better if I really carried the stuff.”

“You would have, eh?” Hawley said. “Well, the joke is — You did! The cases got switched in the office somehow and the bonds were with you all the time! A swell detective agency we would have turned out to be if it hadn’t been for you!”

“Jerry, hop over to the Wilkins Hotel. Someone just knocked off Big Tom Slade!”

The young reporter at the desk dropped his pencil and snatched his hat from the rack. “Big Tom, eh?”

Jerry’s thoughts were racing as he dashed for the elevator, scratching an itch on his back. Slade was just out of prison, where he spent a couple of years on an income tax evasion charge. Rumor had it that Slade had salted a nice pile of cash away to start over when he got out. No doubt the killers were after that.

At the hotel Jerry didn’t wait for the clerk to call up. He spied two cops heading for the elevator, and scratching as he went, got in with them.

“Say,” he asked, “what’s the story on the Slade killing?”

The cop glared at him.

“Who’re you?”

“Reporter from the Chronicle.” He flashed his press card. The cops looked at each other.

“I don’t know how it got to the papers so fast. He’s only been dead an hour or so. From what we see, Slade was killed by an unknown assailant by a bullet through the head. His place was untouched, so the robbery motive is out, and he had no enemies that we know of. Any that had reason to kill him are in the pen.”

“Any trace of that dough Slade was supposed to have bunked ever show up?”

“Naw, I think that’s a lot of hooey. He had plenty of it at one time, but he spent it pretty fast, too. He might have salted some of it away, but if he did it was hidden very neatly. No word of it ever came over the grapevine!”

Jerry rubbed his back against the elevator wall trying to get rid of a crawling sensation along his spine.

“Well if there’s no other motive, then the hidden dough angle ought to be a good bet to try anyway!”

Stopping at the eighteenth floor the door opened and they stepped out. Jerry was on friendly terms with the captain in charge so no one objected when he ducked into the room. One look around showed him that the room was in order. The body was sitting in an armchair with a neat bullet hole in the middle of the forehead, and the legs were crossed as if death were the last thing in his mind when the killer struck.

Jerry frowned, perplexed. If he were to scoop the other papers he had to clean this thing up fast. Some very puzzling thoughts were buzzing around in his head, and whenever that happened he knew he’d soon stumble on a clue to the crime. Quickly, he went through the drawers in the dresser and desk, but outside of a few hundred dollars in ten dollar bills he found nothing.

Sitting down in a chair facing the corpse, Jerry did some tall thinking. Robbery was out, as the cop had said, unless the murderer was after bigger stuff. Maybe there was something in that rumor, after all. If Big Tom had a half million hidden away as he was supposed to have, then the stakes would be high enough for anybody. From the position of the body, Slade must have known the intruder. Jerry scratched his neck. Doggone itch, he thought.

Suddenly a possibility flashed into his mind, Jim Collins. Slade’s former aide. He jumped up to go but something on the floor caught his eye. A match, bent double as though the person had lit it the trick way one does, with one hand, bending the match back against the striking surface. That was it. The one who lit that match must have had a gun in the other hand! He stuck the thing in his pocket.

He scratched all the way to Collins’ apartment, mentally reminding himself to get something to relieve the itch. The door was opened by a thin looking mug with eyes that were a cold grey. “What do yer want!”

“I’m Jerry Harper from the Chronicle, I wanna know if you got anything on the Slade killing.”

Collins’ jaw dropped open.

“Slade dead?” he gasped out. Jerry nodded, scratching his leg. He had hoped to trap Jim, but evidently he didn’t know about the murder since it wasn’t in the papers yet. Acting on a hunch, Jerry pulled out a cigarette and lit it with one hand. He ripped the match off and threw it to the floor; significantly Collins watched him, but said nothing.

“I guess that’s all then.”

Jerry turned down the hall as the door slammed behind him. The next stop was at Mike Bedloe’s office. He was Big Tom Slade’s lawyer, and his shady reputation was not beyond suspicion. Bedloe’s secretary admitted him to the inner chambers. The lawyer was a mean looking man, with a short mustache and close-cropped hair.

He sneered at Jerry. “I guess you want some dope on Slade, eh? Well, I haven’t anything to say!”

“How do you know about his death?” Jerry spat out. “It hasn’t been in the papers yet!”

“Captain Carter called me ten minutes ago. Now scram!”

Jerry felt like taking a poke at him, but he was too busy scratching. Instead he lit a match exactly as he did at Collins’ place, then walked out. A taxi took him to Slade’s old gambling house, now owned by “Whitey” Alpin. On the street the newsboys were screaming out the headlines. Nerts, he thought, he wouldn’t be able to trick Alpin into anything now that the story was out.

From now on he’d have to trust to luck, and if he ever uncovered the killer it would be a surprise to him.

Jerry’s hand slapped against his leg. The fingers clawed at an itchy spot, raking over it with sharp nails. Jerry looked at the roof and groaned. “Why did this have to happen to me? If I didn’t go to the country for a weekend I wouldn’t have caught this blasted poison ivy. On top of all my troubles I gotta get that!”

He fished in a pocket for the fare, paid off the driver and stepped out.

The copper club was running wide open when the reporter got there. Smoke hung lazily around the tables, and waiters that looked more like football players were everywhere. Whitey met him with a smile, his ever present cigar in his mouth. “So you’re on the Slade case! Too bad about Big Tom — he was a nice guy.”

Jerry scratched as he spoke. “What’s in the rumor that Slade had a pile of dough hidden away? Know anything about it?”

“Nope. That is, I think he had it all right, but I don’t know where.”

Jerry gabbed awhile, then pulled the match trick. No response. Well, his leads had petered out. He’d have to try a new approach. He climbed into bed at his bachelor apartments and pulled the covers over his head.

It might have been a sixth sense that awakened him, but he knew that someone was in the room with him. No light came in the window, leaving the place so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. He itched violently, but dared not betray the fact that he was awake by scratching. The tension was unbearable. A neon light in the street flashed periodically, and for a brief second he saw the glint of a knife! He knew that in a moment the killer would be on him, unless he acted.

The light blinked again, and Jerry’s hand shot out. He caught the wrist that held the weapon and twisted it furiously. The steel fell to the floor! But the battle was not over. There in the dark he stood toe to toe with the would-be murderer, slugging left and right. They tripped over chairs and fell with a crash. A roundhouse right caught his assailant, knocking him against the wall. Outside, feet were clumping on the floor, and a hand knocked at the door demanding to know what was going on. Before he could answer a fist got him square on the jaw and the lights went out.