Masters Of Noir Vol Ii Part 9

A girl would go by on the other side of the street and the fellows would whisper, "Hey, Marty, that your girl?" And he'd say, "Sure," and they'd act surprised and say "Gosh, Marty, you ever-?" And he'd wink like he'd seen the fellows do and say, "Yeah, sure." Sometimes the woman would be the banker's wife or the girl that played the organ at the church but Marty'd say sure everytime. It didn't matter who it was, he'd say the same thing. The fellows always got a laugh out of that.

One of the worst things Marty could think to call a guy was a bootlegger. The fellows around the taxi stand used to tell him that George Burke, the lawyer, was going to have him put in jail. Marty'd go white every time you mentioned jail to him. He was goofy, but he liked his freedom more'n anybody you ever saw. So when the fellows'd rib him up about Burke he'd get scared stiff, then crazy mad. He'd go running past Burke's office fast's he could, yelling, "Burke's an old bootlegger! Burke's an old bootlegger! Yeah, Burke's an old darn bootlegger!" Burke was a little red-faced guy and he'd get hopping mad but he never did anything about it. He knew the people would think it was small potatoes for a big lawyer to pick on a half-wit. So he couldn't do anything. Anytime we wanted a boot we'd rib up Marty to go after Burke. You should've seen it.

The fellows all got a kick out of ribbing Marty, but they wouldn't stand for anybody picking on him. One time they told Marty the reporter for another paper was playing dirty tricks on the Post, the paper Marty sold. You'd thought Marty owned the Post the way he was willing to fight for it. He couldn't read, but he'd get sore as h.e.l.l if you told him the Post wasn't any good. The fellows kept telling Marty this fellow Danny McLeod was scooping the Post and things like that until Marty was hopping mad. One day Danny came walking down the street and one of the fellows said, "There's the dirty punk that's been scooping your paper, Marty. Why don't you sock him?" Marty's mouth got twisted worse than ever and he started biting his lips. When Danny got near him he all of a sudden ran out and hit him on the mouth. You could've knocked the fellows over with a feather. They didn't think Marty had guts enough to hit anybody.

Danny's lip was split right down the middle and blood ran down his chin onto his shirt. He doubled up his fists and acted like he was going to sock Marty back and the fellows came closer. Danny didn't sock Marty, though. He just turned and walked away. If he had started to hit Marty the fellows would have piled him. The fellows got a kick out of ribbing Marty but they wouldn't stand for anyone picking on him. They were as nice a bunch of guys as you'd ever find.

After that every time Danny would come by the pool hall the fellows would yell, "Better run, Danny, here comes Marty." Then they'd all laugh and Danny would walk faster. Pretty soon he got so he wouldn't come by the pool hall any more. Danny was all right but he couldn't take a little kidding.

It made Marty c.o.c.ky as h.e.l.l. He went around town bragging about how he licked Danny and every time anybody wanted a laugh they'd say, "Hey, Marty, what'd you do to Danny?" and Marty'd stick out his chest and say, "I beat him up. Yeah, I beat him up." It sure made Danny's life miserable for him and it gave the fellows a lot of laughs.

One of the best jokes the fellows pulled on Marty was about Marge, the red-headed girl who worked at the coffee joint next to the station. It was a lulu of a joke and we had more darn fun, only Marty spoiled it. You'd have never thought Marty would do a thing like that but it just goes to show you how screwy he was. The fellows started telling Marty that Marge was in love with him. At first he'd grin and say, "You can't kid me, me, you can't kid you can't kid me. me. You're jus' kiddin', 'ats all." But the fellows kept it up. "Of course, she likes you, Marty," they'd say. "She's goofy about you. She You're jus' kiddin', 'ats all." But the fellows kept it up. "Of course, she likes you, Marty," they'd say. "She's goofy about you. She told told us so." "Did she?" Marty'd ask. "Did she, hones'?" and he'd lick his lips and look across at the coffee joint. us so." "Did she?" Marty'd ask. "Did she, hones'?" and he'd lick his lips and look across at the coffee joint.

"I bet if you bought her some candy she'd fall hard for you," one of the fellows told him one day. "You think so?" Marty asked, all excited. "Sure," the fellow said. "Try it and see." So by G.o.d Marty did try it. Marge came walking by on her way to work one night and Marty popped out of the pool hall and stuck a bar of five-cent candy in her hand. "Here," he said, and started giggling. When he giggled his lips got all s...o...b..ry and he looked like he was blowing soap bubbles. The bar of candy was all squeezed up and dirty like Marty'd hung onto it in his pocket all afternoon. Gosh, the fellows roared. "Oh, Marge," they said, "who's your boy friend?" Marge's face got red's a beet. "It isn't funny," she said. "He means well. Thanks, Marty," she said, and walked away fast.

And maybe you think the fellows didn't razz Marge after that! "Hey, Marge," they'd yell, "how's your boy friend?" She'd flush and walk faster and it was always good for a laugh. Marty started hanging around the coffee joint when Marge was working and the owner had to kick him out almost every night. Sometimes he'd give her a bar of candy and sometimes it'd be some flowers he'd swiped out of somebody's yard. She'd take 'em so's not to hurt his feelings but the fellows would play like she really was in love with him. Whenever they saw her they'd ask when was she getting married and things like that. Boy, did it burn her up!

Marty got so he thought Marge really was his girl. "Who's your girl, Marty?" the fellows would ask, and Marty would grin sly as the d.i.c.kens and say, "Aw, you you know, know, you you know," and he'd giggle and bubbles would come on his mouth. Then the fellows would say, "Hey, Marty, we saw you out with another jane last night. What's the idea? Trying to ditch Marge?" Marty'd get all excited and beg 'em not to tell Marge that. Gosh, it was funny how serious he took the thing. "What do you and Marge do when you go out?" the fellows would ask, and Marty'd grin, know," and he'd giggle and bubbles would come on his mouth. Then the fellows would say, "Hey, Marty, we saw you out with another jane last night. What's the idea? Trying to ditch Marge?" Marty'd get all excited and beg 'em not to tell Marge that. Gosh, it was funny how serious he took the thing. "What do you and Marge do when you go out?" the fellows would ask, and Marty'd grin, "You "You know," he'd say, and then he'd lick his lips and look across the street where she worked. know," he'd say, and then he'd lick his lips and look across the street where she worked.

It was the darnedest, funniest thing you ever saw, until Marty spoiled it. You never can tell what a goofy guy'll do and Marty was like the rest of 'em.

One night the fellows were hanging around the taxi stand in front of the pool hall when they heard a woman screaming like she'd been murdered or something. Before they could figure out where it was coming from, Marge came running into the light out of the alley. Her dress was torn and her face was b.l.o.o.d.y like it'd been scratched. Her hair was down over her shoulders and she looked like she'd seen a ghost or something. Her eyes were bugged out and she didn't seem to see. She just screamed and screamed. Finally Ironsides found out what it was all about and the fellows all ran down the alley. She stood alone on the corner and kept on screaming. It was awful.

The fellows found Marty hiding behind a garbage can, crying. "I didn't mean to do it," he said. "Don't let them put me in jail." When they got him in jail and started asking him questions he acted like a kid that's been caught stealing candy or something. "I won't do it again," he said. He'd wipe his eyes with his fists and spread dirt all over his face. "Did she tell on me?" he'd ask.

Of course they had to send Marty to the nut house at Stockton. They were afraid he'd bust loose again. He bawled like a kid for three days after they told him what they were going to do, until they took him away. What worried him was he'd be cooped up and wouldn't get to go up and down the streets selling papers. The deputy that took him to Stockton said he didn't fight. He just bawled like a kid.

What made the fellows sore about the whole thing was the way Marge acted when she got out of the hospital. You know how women are. You never know what makes 'em click. Marge was that way. She got the notion the fellows were to blame. That's a hot one, isn't it? How could the fellows been to blame when they weren't anywhere near when it happened? It made them mad the way she started treating 'em. When they went into the coffee joint she treated 'em like dogs, wouldn't kid with them or anything. Never so much as a smile or a pleasant word. The fellows started staying away from the place, so the owner canned Marge. You couldn't blame him.

It seemed what Marty did to her and losing her job and all kind of made her screwy herself. Before she left town she met one of the fellows on the street and he told her he was sorry about her losing her job. "If you'd treated the fellows decent," he said, "the boss would of kept you." Well, sir, she scratched his face something awful, and he had to slap her good to make her quit. He wasn't the kind of fellow that hits women, but women haven't got a right to scratch a fellow's face when he hasn't done anything. Old Ironsides, the cop, agreed with the fellow. He told Marge to get out of town or he'd run her out.

The fellows sometimes say how funny it seems without Marty going up and down the streets yelling "Whoa! Whoa!" They sure used to get a kick out of him.

FLOWERS TO THE FAIR by CRAIG RICE

At exactly 8:13 A.M. Mr. Petty arrived. He hung his hat in the locker, just as he had hung it every working day of his life for the last thirty years. He went over to the water cooler where he wet his dry, tense throat with a small sip of water. Then he shuffled down the hall to the door marked: George V. Benson, General Manager.

Mr. Petty waited till his wrist watch showed precisely 8:15. Then he opened the door, walked in, closing it carefully behind him.

Mr. Benson looked up at the little bookkeeper.

"Always prompt, aren't you, Petty?"

Mr. Petty gulped. "Yes, sir. You said 8:15, sir."

"So, here you are. At exactly 8:15. Now, if you weren't the fool you are, Petty, you would have come at 7:15. You would have gone straight to the safe and opened it-you know the combination-and you would have helped yourself, not to a measly three thousand dollars, but to two hundred thousand two hundred thousand dollars." dollars."

The little bookkeeper's eyes opened wide in innocent astonishment. "I couldn't have done a thing like that," he stammered. "Why-that would be stealing."

"That's right," Mr. Benson said. "That would have been stealing. So what do you do instead? You pilfer the petty cash, you make false entries on your books, you kite checks, a few measly bucks at a time-for how many months? And when you're three thousand dollars in the hole and you know the auditors are due in Monday morning, you come to me with a hard luck story. What was it, horses?"

"No, sir," Mr. Petty said. "That would be gambling!" He paused and looked down at the floor. "Women," he said meekly.

"Women!"

"Yes sir," Mr. Petty said. "Women. It's in my horoscope. I'm a Taurus."

"That figures," Benson said. "Now tell me one thing more, Petty. How do you expect to pay this money back?

Mr. Petty looked puzzled. He squirmed uneasily in his chair. "That's what I was expecting you to tell me. You promised to help me, Mr. Benson."

Benson said, "Of course, I'll help you. Everybody knows George Benson has never failed to help a faithful employee out of a jam." He sat back in his chair and folded his arms silently for a minute while Mr. Petty fidgeted with his hands, as if he had just found he had one too many.

"Tell you what I'll do, Petty," Benson said. "n.o.body knows about this, n.o.body except you-and me. I'll lend you the money, that's what I'll do. Just sign this-" he handed a typewritten sheet of paper across the desk- "and you can pay me back ten dollars every week out of your paycheck." He handed his pen across to the little bookkeeper. "Just a brief statement of the facts. Sort of a confession, you know, just to make it legal."

Mr. Petty took the pen. His hand shook as he started to write, and paused. "The money," he said falteringly. "Shouldn't I-get the money first?"

Mr. Benson's face took on an expression of injured dignity. "I'm surprised at you, Petty," he said. "Do you expect me to go around every day with thousands of dollars in my wallet?" He looked at his watch. "The bank closes at one today. And Monday is a bank holiday. Before I take the plane to Pittsburgh this afternoon I'll leave three thousand dollars in an envelope for you. You'll find it in the safe, in the petty cash box."

"But I've got things to do first," Mr. Petty said. "I've got to go back over the books. There are things to straighten out before the auditors get here."

"I've thought of that too," Benson replied. "You've got keys to the plant. Tomorrow is Sunday. Come down and let yourself in. Emil, the night watchman, knows you. Tell him you're working overtime on the books. Get the entries straightened out, put the money back where it belongs, and when the auditors arrive on Monday everything'll be okay. I'll take that paper now."

Mr. Petty scrawled his name on the dotted line and handed the paper back to Benson. "Thank you," he said, rising to go. "I'll never forget what you've done for me." He swallowed hard. "You've saved my life. How can I ever repay you?"

"You will," Benson a.s.sured the little bookkeeper. "Don't worry, you will."

On warm Sat.u.r.day afternoons it was John J. Malone's custom to take his ease, with suitable refreshments, at Joe the Angel's City Hall Bar, but on this torrid Sat.u.r.day afternoon he was still in the office, attending to some urgent business. Maggie, his secretary, was a.s.sisting with the technical details.

"I distinctly remember replenishing the Emergency file," Malone was saying. "Right there in back of Bills Payable."

"I looked," Maggie said firmly. "I looked, and it isn't there. Are you sure you didn't drink it up one night this week when you were alone in the office? And speaking of bills payable-"

The door opened in the outer office and Maggie went to attend to it.

"If it's the building agent after the rent tell him the police are dragging the Drainage Ca.n.a.l for my remains," Malone called after her.

A minute later Maggie was back. "It's a Mr. Algernon Petty," she reported. "He says it's important."

"Didn't you tell him I was busy on an important case?" Malone said, in a voice that he knew, by actual test, carried practically out into the hall. Then, under his breath to Maggie, "You'd better call up right away and tell them to send over a quart of the usual."

"Not so fast," Maggie said. "If you ask me, Mr. Petty looks more like a fast touch than a fat retainer," and, opening the door, she showed in the little bookkeeper.

What met the legal eye was a very frightened and nervous Mr. Petty. He patted the chair before sitting down in it, as if he expected it to be wired for an execution.

"You'll have to excuse me," he began haltingly. "You see, Mr. Malone, I've never had anything to do with the law before. Of course I expect to pay-" He fished a tired ten-dollar bill out of his wallet, stole a speculative glance at Malone out of the corner of his eye, and decided to add another ten. "I know your professional services come high," he explained, "but mine is a serious case, I'm afraid."

"What do you expect me to do, Mr. Petty?" Malone asked. "Arrange a settlement for you with Gloria Vanderbilt?"

The little bookkeeper looked puzzled. "But I don't even know Gloria Vanderbilt. No, it's Carmelita. Of course I never really promised to marry Carmelita, but, well, you know how women are."

Malone said, "I see. Something in the nature of a breach of promise."

"Something like that," Mr. Petty said. "And I thought you might see her for me and-well, lawyers know how to handle such things."

"And how much would you be prepared to go to avoid embarra.s.sment, Mr. Petty? Say a cool million or so?"

"Oh no, nothing like that," Mr. Petty replied quickly. "You see, Carmelita loves me."

"In that case," Malone said, "let's say half a million."

"No, no, Mr. Malone, you don't understand. It isn't money."

"Not money?"

"No, it's just that I can't marry Carmelita. You see, I'm already married. Thirty years this coming Wednesday, and I promised my wife-"

"I see," Malone said, "and you want me to convey your regrets to the lady." He was beginning to feel sorry for the little man. "In that case," he continued, "it would be appropriate to offer something, don't you think-by way of heart balm."

"That's what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Malone. I promised to fly with Carmelita to Monte Carlo-her mother lives in Monte Carlo, you know-but that was before Mr. Benson offered to help me out so I could put the money back in the safe-"

Malone sat up. "What "What money back in money back in what what safe?" safe?"

"Why the three thousand dollars I embezzled, Mr. Malone. Mr. Benson was very nice about it-he's our general manager. Before he flies to Pittsburgh this afternoon he is leaving the money in the safe for me, and I'll pay it back to him out of my salary. And tomorrow night I'm going over the books to set everything straight for the auditors on Monday morning. But it's Carmelita I'm worried about. At first I thought I'd borrow a little more of the company money, just enough for the trip, and send the money back when I got a job. I understand they handle a lot of money in Monte Carlo and they might be able to use a man who's good at figures."

"I see," Malone said. He wasn't sure just yet what he could could say. say.

"But I couldn't do that now. Not with the auditors coming on Monday. And not after the way Mr. Benson treated me when I told him about the three thousand dollars. But I still want to do what's right by Carmelita. So I thought, if you could see her for me and -give her this."

Mr. Petty took a large plain envelope from his pocket and handed it across the desk to Malone.

Malone said, "Would you mind telling me what's in it? I just want to be sure I'm not acting as accessory before-or after-a case of grand theft."

"Oh it's nothing like that," Mr. Petty said, "Just something-personal. Carmelita will understand."

And with this Mr. Petty rose and left, with such alacrity that it was not till he was gone that Malone realized he had neglected to leave Carmelita's address or even her full name.

The headline in the Monday morning Examiner Examiner was broad and black, but the story was brief. was broad and black, but the story was brief.

Algernon Petty, bookkeeper for the Pittsburgh Products Company, was found shot to death last night in a spectacular payroll robbery at the company's Chicago plant, 3545 Clybourne avenue. Emil Dockstedter, the night.w.a.tchman on duty, reported the shooting to police who hurried to the scene. They found Petty in a pool of blood in front of the open safe. Officials said cash in the amount of $200,000 was missing from the safe. According to watchman Dockstedter, the money was delivered to the plant early Sat.u.r.day to meet this morning's monthly payroll, today being a bank holiday. George V. Benson, general manager, was reported flying back from Pittsburgh today, having left Sat.u.r.day for a home office conference.

Dockstedter said that shortly after 10 P.M. he heard a shot fired and hurrying to the office found Petty dead on the floor. He fired after the fleeing bandit's getaway car from the office window, but was unable to stop it, or make out the license number of the car. Chief of Detectives Daniel Von Flanagan promptly ordered an all-out alarm for the fleeing bandits.

The victim had been in the employ of the company for 30 years. He is survived by his widow, Mrs. Sophia Petty, 2437 N. Damen Ave. Five years ago last Friday, Mrs. Petty was quoted as saying, Mr. Petty was awarded the company's 25-year medal for honest and faithful service.

Malone tossed the paper on his desk and sat down glumly, staring out of the window while he slowly removed the cellophane from his cigar and lit it.

Maggie read the story and looked across at Malone. He was still staring out the window, lost in thought.

"I know what you're thinking," Maggie said. "You feel you should have done something about it. But what could could you have done? Anyway, it's too late now. As for Carmelita, Mrs. Sophia Petty wouldn't thank you for dragging you have done? Anyway, it's too late now. As for Carmelita, Mrs. Sophia Petty wouldn't thank you for dragging her her into the case. What was it she told Petty, that her mother lived in Monte Carlo? into the case. What was it she told Petty, that her mother lived in Monte Carlo? n.o.body's n.o.body's mother ever lived in Monte Carlo. Besides, how do you know she wasn't in cahoots with the bandits? It wouldn't surprise me if she was off to Monte Carlo all right-right now-with her share of the loot tucked away in her little overnight bag." mother ever lived in Monte Carlo. Besides, how do you know she wasn't in cahoots with the bandits? It wouldn't surprise me if she was off to Monte Carlo all right-right now-with her share of the loot tucked away in her little overnight bag."

Malone took out the envelope the little bookkeeper had left with him. "I suppose, as Mr. Petty's lawyer, I have the right to open this now," he said. He tore open the envelope and emptied the contents on the desk. It was an airplane ticket to Monte Carlo. One person. One way. Made out to Carmelita Maquire, 1428 N. Jensen St., Chicago, Illinois.

It was a six-flat tenement in the near north side slum district. A knock on the first door down the hall brought out an old Polish woman who told him in broken English that the Bednarskys in the third floor rear kept a boarder, a girl. Mrs. Bednarsky, after a few minutes of cautious evasion, admitted that her boarder's name was Maguire, that she worked behind the quick-lunch counter on the corner.

Carmelita Maguire, it turned out, was a brown-eyed blonde in her middle twenties, with a face that might have been copied out of a court painting of a Spanish princess, and traces of an Irish brogue in her speech. There were Maquires on his mother's side back in Ireland, Malone told her, and after that the going was easy. Evidently she hadn't read the morning papers, and Malone bided his time as he chatted with the girl over the ham and eggs she had set before him on the counter.

She did not remember her father, she confided. Her mother once told her she was a Spanish croupier in the games at Monte Carlo. He vanished one day and was never heard from again. "Mother still lives in Monaco," she told Malone. "I've always dreamed of going back some day."

With as much tact as he could manage, Malone broke the news to her and turned over the envelope Mr. Petty had left with him. After the first shock she sobbed quietly for a while, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of her ap.r.o.n. Then, "He was like a father to me," she said. "Yes, I knew he was married. He never deceived me about anything. He was a gentleman, he was. I always called him Mr. Petty. When we went places, weekends, he always took separate rooms, with adjoining bath, like nice people do. I don't know why I'm telling you all this, except that you were his friend. He went to you in his trouble. He didn't do anything wrong, did he, Mr. Malone? The police-they won't be coming to me, me, will they, asking me questions about-well, you know-?" will they, asking me questions about-well, you know-?"

Malone patted her hand gently. It was a soft, well-groomed hand for a girl who slung hash in a quick lunch joint. He could easily imagine her dressed in the latest Paris fashion, the center of attention as she swept into the Monte Carlo casino.

"Maybe not, if you answer my questions first," Malone told the girl.

From her answers Malone learned that she had met Mr. Petty about a year ago when she waited on him at a lunch room near the plant where she was working at the time. He had given her presents from time to time, inexpensive things, and money from time to time, which she said she had sent to her mother in Monaco. Apparently she knew nothing of his embezzlements. He had never introduced her to his friends. She said she had seen him last about two weeks ago and the account of her movements over the weekend sounded spontaneous and unforced. Unless, he reminded himself, unless it should turn out that this vision of slightly tarnished innocence was serving him up something new in Irish blarney-with Spanish sauce. No, he decided. It was just one of those simple, unbelievable things that could happen only to the Mr. Pettys of this world. And simple young things like Carmelita Maguire, who go along trustingly with anything that comes along, only to be sideswiped by fate, like an unsuspecting pedestrian in the middle of Sat.u.r.day night traffic.

"It's true, every word of it," Malone told Maggie when he got back to the office. "Even to the mother in Monte Carlo. Just the same I advised her not to leave for Monte Carlo just yet. If the police get wind of this they will want to question her, and it won't look so good if she's left the country in such a hurry."

The telephone rang and Maggie answered it. "It's Von Flanagan," she said.

Malone said, "Tell him I'm in conference."

Maggie relayed the message and handed the phone to Malone saying, "Tell him yourself. This is no fit language for a lady's ears."

Malone took the receiver and held it twelve inches from his ear till the bellowing stopped. "Malone, Malone, are you there?" the voice resumed, in more moderate volume.

"Yes, I'm here," Malone replied. "Where are you, in Indo China? I can't hear you very well."

"You can hear me all right," the Chief of Homicide replied. "What I want to know is, what have you got to do with this payroll robbery and murder? We found your name and address on the victim's body."

Malone said, "Maybe he was planning to give me as a character witness to St. Peter at the pearly gates."

"That must be it," Von Flanagan came back, in a voice that had more edge and less volume to it. "Because right here in his little book-entry made last Sat.u.r.day-John J. Malone, retainer, twenty dollars. Are you going in for cut rates now?"

"Got to meet the amateur compet.i.tion," Malone said. "Anyway, it looks as if my client has met with foul play. I suppose you know by this time who his a.s.sailants are."

"Don't give me that, Malone. What I want to know is, what was Algernon Petty doing in your office the day before he was murdered?"

Malone said, "He wasn't consulting me about getting himself murdered, if that's what you're thinking. The man you should be questioning is George V. Benson."

"What's he got to do with it?"