Masters Of Noir Vol Iii Part 2

They had eighteen thousand dollars, they couldn't spend a nickel. Davy Wyatt spread the money on the kitchen table, in neat piles, according to their various denominations, and just sat there, looking. After awhile this got on Phil Pennick's nerves.

"Cut it out, kid," the older man said. "You're just eatin' your heart out."

"Don't I know it."

Davy sighed, and swept the bills hack into the neat leather briefcase. He tossed it carelessly onto his bunk, and joined it there a minute later, lying down with his fingers locked behind his head.

"I'm goin' out," Phil said suddenly.

"Where to?"

"Pick tip some sandwiches, maybe a newspaper. Take a little walk."

The kid's face paled. "Think it's a good idea?"

"You got a better one? Listen, we can rot in this crummy joint." Phil looked around the one-room flat that had been their prison for two days, and made a noise that didn't nearly show his full disgust. Then he grabbed for his jacket and put it on.

"It's your neck," the kid said. "Don't blame me if you get picked up. With that dame playin' footsie with the cops-"

"Shut up! If they get me, they'll have your neck in the chopper ten minutes later. So don't wish me any bad luck, pal."

Davy sat up quickly. "Hey, no kidding. Think you ought to take the chance?"

The older man smiled. The smile did nothing for the grim set of his features, merely shifted the frozen blankness, which was the result of three prison terms. He put a soft fedora on his gray head and adjusted it carefully.

"We took our chance already," he said as he opened the door. "And as far as the dame goes-you leave that up to me."

He hoisted the .38 out of his shoulder holster, checked the cartridges, and slipped it back. The gesture was so casual, so relaxed, that the kid realized once again that he was working with a pro.

Davy swallowed hard, and said, "Sure, Phil. I'll leave it up to you."

The street was full of children. Phil Pennick liked children, especially around a hideout. They discouraged rash action by the police. He walked along like a man out to get the morning paper, or a pack of cigarettes, or to shoot a game of pool. n.o.body looked at him twice, even though his clothes were a shade better than anybody else's in that slum area.

Davy's last words were stuck in his thoughts. "I'll leave it up to you ... " "I'll leave it up to you ... " It was easy enough to rea.s.sure the kid that the old pro would work them out of trouble. Only this time, the old pro wasn't so sure. It was easy enough to rea.s.sure the kid that the old pro would work them out of trouble. Only this time, the old pro wasn't so sure.

They had planned a pretty sound caper. Something simple, without elaborate preparations. It involved one small bank messenger, from a little colonial-style bank in Brooklyn, the kind of messenger who never seemed to tote more than a few grand around. Only they had been doubly surprised. The bank messenger had turned out to be a sc.r.a.pper, and the loot had turned out to be bigger than they had ever dreamed. Now they had the money, and the little bonded errand boy had two bullets in his chest. Was he dead or alive? Phil didn't know, and hardly cared. One more arrest and conviction, and he was as good as dead anyway. He wasn't made to be a lifer; he'd rather be a corpse.

But they had the money. That was the important thing. In twenty years of trying, Phil Pennick had never come up with the big one. It would have been a truly great triumph, if the cops hadn't found their witness. They hadn't seen the woman until it was too late. She was standing in a doorway of the side street where they had made their play. She was a honey blonde, with a figure out of 52nd Street, and a pair of sharp eyes. Her face didn't change a bit when Phil spotted her. She just looked back, coldly, and watched the bank messenger sink to the sidewalk with his hands trying to back the blood. Then she had slammed the front door behind her.

The kid had wanted to go in after her, but Phil said no. The shots had been loud, and he wasn't going to take any more chances. They had rushed into the waiting auto, and headed for the pre-arranged hideout.

Phil stopped by a newsstand. He bought some cigarettes, a couple of candy bars, and the Journal. He was reading the headlines as he walked into the tiny delicatessen adjoining. The holdup story was boxed at the bottom of the page. It didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. The honey blonde had talked all right. And she was ready to identify the two men who had shot and killed the bank's errand boy. Shot and killed ... Shot and killed ... Phil shook his head. The poor slob, he thought. Phil shook his head. The poor slob, he thought.

In the delicatessen, he bought four roast beef sandwiches and a half dozen cans of cold beer. Then he walked back to the apartment, thinking hard.

As soon as he came in, the kid grabbed for the newspaper. He found the story and read it avidly. When he looked up, his round young face was frightened.

"What'll we do, Phil? This dame can hang us!"

"Take it easy." He opened a beer.

"Are you kidding? Listen, one of the first things the cops'll do is go looking for you. I mean-let's face it, Phil-this is your kind of caper."

The older man frowned. "So what?"

"So what? So they'll parade you in front of this dame, and she'll scream b.l.o.o.d.y murder. Then what happens to me?"

Phil took his gun out and began cleaning it. "I'll stop her," he promised.

"How? They probably got a million cops surrounding her. They won't take any chances. h.e.l.l no. So how can you stop her?"

"I got a plan," Phil said. "You're just going to have to trust me, kid. Okay ?"

"Yeah, but-"

"I said trust me. Don't forget, Davy." He looked at his partner hard. "This wouldn't have happened at all-if you didn't have a jerky trigger finger."

They ate the sandwiches, drank the beer, and then the older man went to the leather brief case and opened it. He lifted out a thin packet of bills and put it into his wallet.

"Hey," Davy said.

"Don't get in an uproar. I'm goin' to need a few bucks, for what I've got in mind. Until I come back, I'll trust you to take care of the rest." Phil put on his jacket again. "Don't get wild ideas, kid. Remember, you don't leave the room until I get back. And if we have any visitors-watch that itchy finger."

"Sure, Phil," the kid said.

Phil had a hard time getting a taxi. When he did, he gave the driver the Manhattan address of a garment house on lower Seventh Avenue.

There was a girl behind the frosted gla.s.s cage on the fifth floor, and she was pretty snippy.

"I want to see Marty Hirsch," Phil said.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hirsch is in conference-"

"Don't give me that conference junk. Just pick up your little phone and tell him a good friend from Brooklyn Heights is here. He'll know who it is."

The girl's nose tilted up, but she made the call.

The man who hurried out to see Phil was short and paunchy. He was in shirtsleeves, and his sunset-colored tie was hanging loosely around his neck.

"Er, h.e.l.lo," he said nervously, looking towards the switchboard. "Look, Phil, suppose we can talk in the hallway? I got a customer inside."

"What's the matter, Marty? Ashamed of your friends?"

"Please, Phil!"

In the hallway, the garment man said: "Look, I told you never to come here." He wiped sweat from his face. "It doesn't look good, for both of us. We should do all our business by phone."

"You don't understand," Phil said. "I ain't got nothin' hot for you to buy. I'm out of that business, Marty."

"Oh? So what is it then?"

"I just want a little favor, Marty. For an old pal."

The small eyes narrowed. "What kind of favor?"

"You got a big uniform department. Right?"

"Yeah. So what? Army and Navy stuff. Things like that. So what do you want?"

"A uniform," Phil said easily. "That's all. A cop uniform. Only it's gotta be good."

"Now look, Phil-"

"Don't give me a hard time, Marty. We got too long a friendship. I want to play a joke on a friend of mine. You can fix me up with something, can't you?"

The garment man frowned. "I'll tell you what. I got here some stock models. Only they're not so new, and they ain't got no badges. And no gun, you understand."

"Don't worry about that. I got the potsy. Will this uniform pa.s.s? I mean, if another cop saw it?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. It'll pa.s.s. I'm telling you."

"Swell. Then trot it out, Marty." The man looked doubtful, so Phil added: "For the sake of a friend, huh?"

Phil walked out into the street with the large flat box under his arm, feeling that he was getting somewhere. Then he waved a cab up to the curb, and gave him the cross streets where Davy Wyatt had killed the bank messenger.

It was chancey, but worth it. He didn't know whether the blonde was cooling her high heels in a police station, or just knee-deep in cops guarding her at her own apartment house.

He knew the answer the minute he stepped out of the cab. There was a police car parked at the opposite curb, and two uniformed patrolmen were gabbing near the front entrance of the blonde's residence.

He looked up and down the street until he found what he was looking for. There was a small restaurant with a red-striped awning. He walked up to it briskly, and saw it was called: ANGIE'S. He glanced at the menu pasted to the window, then pushed the door open.

He surveyed the room, and it looked good. The men's john was in a hallway out of the main dining room, and there was a side exit that would come in handy when he made the switch in clothing.

There weren't many customers. Phil took a table near the hall, and placed his package on the opposite chair. A bored waiter took his order. After being served, Phil chewed patiently on a dish of tired spaghetti. Then he paid his check and went into the john.

He changed swiftly, in a booth. Then he put the clothes he'd taken off inside the box and tied the string tight. He pinned the badge to his shirt, and dropped the .38 into the police holster.

Leaving by the side door, he dropped the box into one of the trash cans near the exit.

Then he crossed the street nonchalantly, headed straight for the apartment house.

"Hi," he said, to the two cops out front. "You guys seen Weber?" Weber was a precinct lieutenant that Phil knew only too well.

"Weber? h.e.l.l, no. Was he supposed to be here?"

"I thought so. I'm from the Fourth Precinct. We got a call from him awhile ago. We picked up somebody last night, on a B and E; might be one of the guys you're looking for."

"Search me," one of the cops said. "What do you want us to do about it?"

Phil swore. "I don't know what to do myself. Sendin' me on a wild goose chase. He was supposed to be here by now."

"Can't help you, pal." The other cop yawned widely.

"Dame in her apartment?" Phil asked casually.

"Yeah," the second cop answered. "Lying down." He snickered. "I wouldn't mind sharing the bunk."

"Maybe I better talk to her. I got the guy's picture. Maybe she can tell me something."

"I donno." The first cop scratched his cheek. "We ain't heard nothing about that."

"What the h.e.l.l," the second one said. He turned to Phil. "She's in Four E."

"Okay," Phil said. He started into the house. "If Weber shows up, you tell him I'm upstairs. Right ?"

"Right."

He shut the door behind him, stood there long enough to let out a relieved sigh. Then he stepped into the automatic elevator, punched the b.u.t.ton marked Four.

On the fourth floor, he rapped gently on the door marked E. "Yeah?" The woman's voice sounded tired, but not scared. "Who is it?"

"Police," Phil said crisply. "Got a picture for you lady."

"What kind of a picture?" Her voice was close to the doorframe.

"Guy we picked up last night. Maybe the one we're lookin' for."

He could hear the chain being lifted; the door was opened. Close up, the blonde wasn't as young or as lush as he had imagined. She was wearing a faded housecoat of some shiny material, clutching it around her waist without too much concern for the white flesh that was still revealed.

Phil stepped inside and took off his cap. "This won't take long, lady." He closed the door.

She turned her back on him and walked into the room. He unb.u.t.toned the holster without hurry, and lifted the gun out. When she turned around, the gun was pointed dead center. She opened her mouth, but not a sound came out.

"One word and I shoot," Phil said evenly. He backed her against a sofa, and shot a look towards the other room. "What's in there?"

"Bedroom," she said.

"Move."

She cooperated nicely. She stretched out on the bed at his command-and smiled coyly. She must have figured he wanted something else besides her death. Then he picked up a pillow and shoved it into her stomach.

"Hold that," he said.

She held it. Then he shoved the gun up against it and squeezed the trigger. She looked surprised and angry and deceived, and then she was dead.

The sound had been well m.u.f.fled, but Phil wanted to be sure. He went to the window that faced the street and looked down. The two cops were still out front, chewing the fat complacently. He smiled, slipped the gun into the holster, and went out.

The cops looked at him without too much interest.