Dan Marlowe - Shake a Crooked Town

“Probably one of Jack Riley's men.”

“Is there an all-night telegraph office in town?”

Lowell nodded. “Two blocks north and a block east. Why?”

Johnny took him by the arm again. “Let's go. It's not every day I get a mayor as my bodyguard.” With a firm grip on the mayoral arm he towed Lowell along.

“Really, Killain, I-” The mayor subsided, evidently considering a struggle undignified. He walked along beside Johnny, hurrying to keep up with Johnny's longer stride. At the Western Union office Johnny commandeered a table and dumped money from all his pockets upon it. Richard Lowell's eyes widened. Johnny sorted bills swiftly and counted out Mickey Tallant's original three thousand dollars. He made another bundle of the rest and counted again. He had thirty-two hundred dollars in the second bundle. He divided it in two, put half in his pocket, added the other half to the three thousand, and stepped up to the counter.

“Mind givin' me a money order for this?” he inquired of the clerk, and pulled a telegraph blank toward himself. He thought a moment and printed swiftly. YOUR MONEY WAS IN ACTION AND HITS HARDER THAN YOU DO. He signed it, inserted Mickey Tallant's name and the address of the Rollin' Stone above it and laid it down beside the stacks of bills the clerk was counting. He counted three times before looking up at Johnny inquiringly.

“I make it forty-six hundred.”

“I make it the same.” He waited for his receipt and put it carefully in his wallet. Outside on the sidewalk again he looked at Richard Lowell. “Who's Rudy payin' off to run wide open like that?”

“I have no idea.” The mayor's tone was indifferent.

“You're the mayor, man. You don't know what's goin' on in your own town?”

“We are not a reform administration,” Lowell said stiffly. “And I've already told you that my followers on the city council are in the minority.”

“The minority's not in on the take?”

“What makes you think there is a take, as you call it?”

“For God's sake, man, you think I was born yesterday?” Johnny demanded impatiently. “Are you in on this payoff yourself?”

Mayor Richard Lowell closed his mouth firmly. “Let me know when you find Mrs. Thompson, Killain.” He turned and started to walk away.

“Just a minute, buster.” Johnny caught him by the arm. “If I find her it could be because I'll have my own reasons. Now what the hell are yours?”

Richard Lowell freed his arm with dignity. “I thought I'd already made that clear. I think she's being coerced into something. I don't trust Daddario and I don't propose to stand still while he hunts for my head.” He stalked off up the street.

Johnny stood and watched him go. Could any reasonably honest politician afford to walk into a gambling joint the way Mayor Richard Lowell had done? And if there were two crooked politicians in this town wouldn't they almost have to be working together? Of course they could have had a falling out He was ahead in one respect, Johnny decided. Dick Lowell at least had not shown a passionate desire to remove Johnny from the scene. Dick Lowell on the contrary seemed eager for help. If Micheline Thompson had actually been in New York with her husband then coercion was about the only way you could explain her Manhattan suite appearance with Daddario.

Coercion. Or collusion Johnny stirred himself. He had to get some sleep. The adrenalin-charged excitement of the card game was gone. He set out for Mrs. Peterson's. He ought to call Sally in New York tomorrow, he mused. To find out if there were any developments at that end of the line. Find out, too, if a date had been set for that inquest. Joe Dameron could get a little sticky at Johnny's non-appearance at that affair even if it was cut-and-dried.

He turned into the street leading to Mrs. Peterson's, whistling tunelessly to himself. Maybe the whole thing would make more sense in the daylight. Perhaps he could Fifty feet from Mrs. Peterson's Johnny's quick eye saw a shadow across the street move soundlessly and blend with the deeper shadow of a tree trunk. Someone was watching the rooming house. There was only one reason anyone would be watching the rooming house. Conscious suddenly of the sound of his own footfalls in the pre-dawn quiet he repressed the instinctive urge to soften them. He swung on past the Petersons' without a pause, never missing a beat in his tuneless whistle. In the middle of the next block he changed gears and crossed the street, the whistle gone, the footsteps quieted.

He came back down the quiet street as silently as a windblown leaf. In the middle of the block across from the Petersons' there was no street light. If he hadn't known the man was there Johnny might easily have gone past him. The silent shadow behind the tree with his eyes on the darkened rooming house heard or saw nothing until Johnny's hands closed down from behind on his throat.

Johnny dug once with his thumbs, hard. The man in his hands went “Ur-r-kk!” and sagged. It would be the last sound he would make except with the greatest difficulty for two or three days. Then he would be able to whisper. Johnny picked him up and lugged him across the sidewalk onto the grass beyond, feeling the shoulder holster under his hands. He'd made no mistake. He dumped his burden and with silent ruthlessness stripped the wildly threshing man, tearing off handfuls of clothes. The belt snapped. The holster snapped. Johnny tore off the shoes and socks.

The naked man came up on his knees making gobbling noises. He was barely audible as he scuttled sideways to escape the unseen demon attacking him. He bounded to his feet and started to run. Johnny was able to fetch him one solid swat of the holster harness from behind before he sprinted across the lawns and disappeared between the houses.

Johnny made a little pile of the shredded clothing, making sure he had it all. He added belt, harness, shoes, and socks to it, bundled it all up and carried it across the street. He let himself in with his key. He was surprised to see Valerie Peterson, swathed shapelessly in a man's bathrobe, standing in the hall in the dim night-light.

“There's someone watching the house from across the street,” she said in a low tone. “I've been waiting up to tell-”

“You mean there was,” Johnny said. “Put on a light so I can get a look at this stuff.” She looked at the bundle under his arm. “Not out here. Somebody else might be watchin'.”

“Come out into the kitchen. The shades are drawn.” Johnny followed on her heels and pushed aside a plate of crackers and cheese to dump his booty on the oilcloth-covered table. He didn't have far to look. In the wallet in the ragged trousers he found a badge clipped to a photograph. He showed it to Mrs. Peterson.

“Will Tolliver,” she said grimly. “One of Jack Riley's hot young sparks. You're up to your ears now, man. What happened? I didn't hear a sound.”

“I got to his throat first.”

Her eyes gradually absorbed the totality of the strips of clothing on the table. She picked up a shoe. “My God, didn't you leave him anything?”

“Buck naked,” Johnny said. “He won't be back for a while. There's somethin' psychological about it, no clothes an' unable to communicate. It does somethin' to a man. The carabinieri in Italy are specialists at it. 'Course they add a couple of refinements. Before they turn their man loose after thumbin' his vocal chords they set up an obstacle course.

You'd be surprised how a man can tear himself up runnin' a quarter mile in the dark. An' the ever-lovin' carabinieri 'd rather do it to a woman.”

Despite the bulky bathrobe Valerie Peterson shivered. “I won't ask you how you know,” she said dryly. She looked at him eyeing the crackers and cheese. “Would you like a beer?”