Crack Detective Stories November 1948 by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Pulp
Publisher: Crack Detective
Published: 1948-11-03T05:00:00+00:00

WHEN I WENT in the front hallway, I could hear the mumble of voices in the cellar. I went ‘back through the house and down the stairs. All the lights were on, and the thick curtains were pulled across the windows. The first thing I saw was Joyce, face down on the floor, moaning and twisting.

I stopped dead on the stairs. There were two strangers with Brock. Billy’s gun was heavy in my left hand jacket pocket, I lifted my hand quickly.

“Don’t try it!” a flat voice said.

The voice came from behind me. It was the sort of voice you listen to. I didn’t move a muscle, or turn. A hand snaked the weight out of my left hand pocket, reached around, patted the front of my jacket, slipped inside and pulled out my automatic. The spring made an empty click. “Now go down the rest of the way, and back over against that wall. Keep your arms spread and our palms flat against the wall.”

After I turned, I saw him. He had crisp white hair, and a soft narrow face. His eyes were like deep holes in soft dough. His hair gave him the look of age, but his face was oddly unlined.

Brock sat by one of the card tables. He smiled and said, “Brian, meet Whitey. He’s…sort of a troubleshooter.”

I forced a smile, “Trouble isn’t my name.”

He ignored me. The other two men were staring at me. One was of the Billy-Oley breed, young, sneering, hard on the outside, soft in the middle. The other was tall, hefty, florid—looking like a bank executive, or a construction equipment salesman.

In a cheery, deep voice, the big man said, “You must be Brian Gage. Brock has told us about you. I’m Mark Fletcher.”

The name meant something to me. I had heard it several times. From Brock. The big gun of the syndicate. The man in control; Mr. Fix with the authorities.

“Hello, Mr. Fletcher.”

Whitey stood and merely looked at me. He was the reverse of the Billy-Oley type. Soft on the outside, and diamond hard under the skin. He had a perpetual look of sadness, quiet grief.

Joyce sat up. Her face was puffed with tears. She looked at Brock and said, “You shouldn’t a let him….”

“She doesn’t know a thing,” Whitey said softly.

“Get up and go home, girl,” Fletcher said, “Forget this little….unpleasantness. I’ll authorize a small bonus for you, say two hundred and fifty?”

The look of naked greed dimmed the hurt and pain on Joyce’s face. “Gosh!” she said.

“Run along now,” Fletcher said in a fatherly manner.

Joyce gave me a quick look of contempt and stumped up the stairs. Seconds later I heard the distant slam of the front door.

I stood with my hands flat against the concrete wall. I thought of all the men I had seen in the police lineup. They let the silence add up.

“You had to get smart,” Brock said wearily. “And I thought you were okay.”

“Smart?” I asked. “How?”

Whitey took two slow steps toward me. Fletcher

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