Masters of Noir: Volume Two Page 5

  "Well, we were both agreed that the killer was the head man of the jewel ring. He had to be someone who could show up in the club every night. Right?"

  Herlehy nodded for him to continue.

  "As you said, your night club squad would have noticed anyone who showed up every night. But nobody would notice a columnist—it's part of his job to be there."

  Herlehy considered it, nodded. “Pretty neat. But why Morton? Why not half a dozen other newspapermen?"

  "The way he lived. It's common gossip that the Dispatch pays off in glory instead of dollars. Yet, Morton wore the best clothes, drove the most expensive cars. Only a guy with a piece of a juicy racket can live like that."

  Herlehy rubbed the side of his jaw with the tips of his fingers. “Why all the killing?"

  "Mona figured on getting out and using the jewels to take care of herself. Morton didn't know she'd given me the jewels until after he'd killed her and found they weren't at her place. He called Charles to search my place. Then he realized he had placed himself in Charles’ power, so he killed him. Murder is like getting olives out of a bottle. After the first one, they come easy."

  Herlehy held up his hand, cut him off. “Why did he come back to the apartment that night? We wouldn't even have known he knew Varden."

  Liddell grinned. “One of his master touches. Remember your boys turned up a witness who described Morton as knocking on Varden's door. We took for granted it was the time he met us there. That's what he wanted us to think. Actually, it was the first time he was there—the time he killed Mona."

  Herlehy looked down to where the columnist was moaning his way back to consciousness. He nodded for one of his men to put the cuffs on Morton.

  Liddell grinned. “Buying it?"

  The inspector nodded. “It was a long shot, but it paid off. Between checking his accounts and what Eastman can tell us we'll make it stick."

  Liddell wiped the perspiration off his forehead with his sleeve. “Where can a man get a drink around here? And how soon?"

  Herlehy winked at one of his plainclothesmen. “Take Morton in and book him. I'm going to buy Liddell a drink."

  Liddell stared at him. “A policeman buying a drink? That's the second most immoral thing I've heard all day."

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  NECKTIE PARTY by ROBERT TURNER

  There was a quiet, restrained atmosphere about the place that you could feel the moment you walked into it. It looked pretty much like any other Times Square side street cocktail lounge and restaurant. There was the bar and leather-cushioned booths and a dining room in the back. The lighting was subdued without being gloomy. But there was this feel, this air about the place that somehow seemed inviolable, so that cruising drunks, going from bar to bar to look for conversation or excitement or a pickup, walked in here and sensed the atmosphere and turned around and walked right out again. Or perhaps had one drink and used the Men's Room and then left.

  The owner prided himself that in twenty years in the business there'd never been any violence in his place. Some close calls, but never any real action. This was because of the owner's infallible judgment of character. He knew the kind of people he wanted as customers almost on first sight and everything was done to encourage them; extra service, drinks on the house, credit, check-cashing, almost unctuous hospitality. The owner also knew the kind he didn't want. Everything politely possible was done to discourage them. His was a place for gentlemen and ladies, a place to drink, even to get quietly and genteelly drunk if you cared, to have a good meal after a few drinks and to relax.

  He was a short, stocky, shiningly bald man, the owner, with a round, seriously intelligent face. He spoke precise English and was unusually well read and was an almost preciously agile conversationalist. With the favored customers, that is. With the others he was gentle but firm. That was the secret of running his kind of a place. When he listened to the other owners discuss the various troubles they had in their places and what to do about them, he couldn't help smiling a little smugly.

  It was so easy. If you had any perceptiveness at all, you could spot by a customer's reactions when he first came in, while he was taking his first drink, by every little action and reaction, whether or not he had already taken too much, if he was hostile, inclined to boisterousness. You studied these things and it became very easy. The owner had trained his bartenders and waiters to do likewise, although, of course, they were never as good at it as he was because it didn't matter as much to them.

  The bartender, this night, was new. He was a relief man the union had sent up when the regular night man called in sick. The owner watched him work, from his place by the cash register at the end of the bar, and was quite pleased. The bartender was medium height, clean cut but not so handsome that the men customers would resent him or the women start trouble by flirting with him. He had the right combination of friendliness and reserve and he knew his job. He seemed to be a smart, a good man. The owner was quite pleased.

  The real test came, though, when, toward the end of the dinner hour, the door burst open and a man in an old Army field jacket came in. He was clean-shaven but he somehow looked rumpled and dirty. His hair was long and it stuck up in sprouts all over his head as though he'd just got out of bed. It was medium brown hair, except for a perfectly square patch of white on one side. He had a thin, ferret-like face, with a lot of blackheads in it. His eyes were kind of strange; not staring, exactly, but too intense, sort of fixed in their gaze and on nothing in particular. He took a seat at the bar between two groups of regular customers. The conversation at the bar, which had been rather spirited in a controlled sort of way, died down when this man sat at the bar. Everybody watched the drumming of his fingers. He didn't look at anybody. He looked down at the bar.

  The owner smiled a little. It would be interesting to see how the bartender handled this one. It was obvious that he was not their kind of customer. He wondered how long it would take the bartender to get rid of him.

  The bartender stopped in front of the man in the field jacket and said: “Yes, sir?"

  The customer, without looking up from the bar, said, a little thickly: “Bar whiskey and water.” He pulled a crumpled dollar bill from his pocket and wadded it onto the bar.

  The drink was poured and the customer took it straight, washing it down with the water. He looked up, then, toward the bartender, but the bartender had walked away to the other end of the bar and was talking there with a regular customer. The man in the field jacket kept staring at him and drumming his fingers on the bar. Twice the bartender turned and saw the customer staring at him but politely, smilingly ignored him, even though it was obvious that the man wanted another drink. The owner smiled. The bartender was doing fine.

  The first few seconds that the customer banged his glass on the bar for attention, the bartender continued to ignore him. Then he turned slowly and walked toward him. With his eyebrows arched disapprovingly, the bartender said softly: “You don't have to do that. You're disturbing the other customers."

  "Oh, I am?” The customer's voice was too loud. There was a strange tightness, an almost clenched sound to it. His fixed gaze now centered straight onto the bartender's eyes. “You've been ignoring me. What the hell am I, a bum or something, I can't get served? This is a high class gardam place or something?"

  The bartender pursed his lips. “Please, sir! I'm afraid I can't serve you any more. You've had enough."

  "Enough?” The customer said. “What do you mean, enough? I'm not drunk. You pour me another drink. You hear me?"

  The owner frowned. He couldn't have this. This loud fellow was disturbing his regular people. He watched the bartender and the raucous customer while their eyes locked for a moment and he saw something he didn't understand. The bartender flinched as though he'd been struck. He seemed to go pale. Too abruptly, he turned away from the customer and, with an agitated quickness, walked toward the owner at the end of the bar.

  He glanced back nervously and saw th
e customer still sitting there, drumming his fingers on the bar and staring fixedly into the backbar mirror. The bartender said: “What do you want me to do? If you ask me, I think we'd better give him another one, pacify—"

  The whole bar was silent now. All the regular customers were pointedly avoiding the man in the Army field jacket. The silence was almost chilling. The owner said:

  "Don't be absurd. Give in to him and you'll have him sitting here the rest of the night, maybe getting more pugnacious after another drink. Don't do anything. Just let him sit there. He'll get bored. Ignore him. He'll leave after awhile. I've been through this thousands of times. If he doesn't, I'll talk to him and get rid of him."

  The bartender licked his lips. He was sweating a little over the bridge of his nose. He said: “This man isn't any ordinary drunk, sir. I don't think we ought to fool with him, antagonize him."

  "What do you mean?” The owner was nettled at his judgement being questioned.

  "There's something wrong with him. He's ready to flip. Believe me. I know this kind. I worked at a State Hospital for a year and a half. I've seen lots of ‘em like that and I'm tellin’ you, this one is just about to go."

  The owner raised on tiptoe and looked over the bartender's shoulder. The customer was just sitting there, drumming his fingers and looking down at them.

  "I think you're being melodramatic,” the owner said. “But even if you're not, all the more reason to get rid of him."

  Abruptly, the bartender said: “Excuse me. I've got to go to the john.” He pushed past the owner.

  Up at the middle of the bar, the customer started banging his empty glass on the bar. The owner sighed. He walked up there, his round, intelligent face quietly composed. He put his hands flat on the bar in front of the customer, who didn't look up but stopped banging his glass.

  "Sir,” the owner said, very softly. “We appreciate your patronage and we'd love to have you come back some other time but right now we feel you've had your share. You look like a nice intelligent fellow. Surely you can understand my position. We're just not allowed by law to serve anyone who has passed a certain point. Please be a nice chap and go home now and come back and see us some other time."

  The customer looked up at the owner. His dirty gray eyes fastened on the owner's and the owner saw what the bartender had meant, but that odd glassiness, he knew, was because this man had taken too much to drink. He was really plastered, even though he could still sit and probably walk straight. It wasn't an unfamiliar type of drunkenness.

  A rather vacant smile formed on the customer's peaked face, showing small, crooked, carious teeth. “Is that the way it is?"

  The owner smiled back, nodding. He told himself this was the way to do it. Gentle but firm. It always worked. He wished the bartender was here to watch him in action. He felt the admiring glances of his regular people and could almost feel the easing up of tension in the place.

  "Or is it just that you don't like my looks?” The customer said. One hand, small, thin-fingered and dirty, gestured toward himself. The other one clenched the water glass so hard his knuckles showed white and the owner feared for a moment he might break the glass.

  "Don't be absurd, sir,” the owner said, gently and firmly. “A customer is a customer to us. And there's nothing wrong with the way you look."

  "I see,” the customer said. His hand loosened from around the glass. “In that case, I believe I'll have something to eat. There's no law against serving me food, is there? Let me see a menu.” He still spoke thickly but it wasn't the usual drunken kind of thickness, the owner observed. It was more as though his tongue was suddenly too big for his mouth.

  The owner thought fast. He had to settle this once and for all. He had to get rid of this fellow, this drunken or crazy or whatever-he-was bum. The drinking question was apparently over. But he couldn't have this one in his clean, quiet dining room, to disgust his regular dinner clientele. This wasn't any one-arm joint.

  "I'm sorry, sir,” the owner said. “We have a strict rule that gentlemen must wear a tie to be seated at a table here. A very strict rule. We couldn't possibly make an exception."

  The customer looked startled. He put his hand to the neck of the dirty T-shirt he wore under the field jacket. He looked along the bar and then craned to look back in the dining room. The owner smiled. He had checked and made sure that everyone in the place was wearing a tie before he spoke. The customer's eyes came back to his. They looked full of laughter, an almost childish, secret laughter.

  "God damn,” he said. “Have to have a tie to eat here, huh? I'm too drunk to be served liquor and I can't eat because I got no tie."

  The owner shrugged his soft shoulders. “I'm sorry, sir. That's the way it is. You understand, of course.” He moved away, indicating that the conversation was obviously over. The man would leave now. The owner glanced in the backbar mirror and saw the customer, shaking his head, dazedly, slide off the stool and stand up. The owner told himself that it was so easy if you knew how. There was no need to have any trouble with the bums, the misfits, the lowlifes. You were just firm but gentle and that was it. Who was the owner of the place, anyhow? Who decided these things? In quietness and gentleness, there was strength.

  The owner decided that the bartender wasn't such a good man after all. There was no reason why he couldn't have handled the same thing in the same way. He could have if he hadn't let the man frighten him. You couldn't let these people frighten you, bluff you.

  Abruptly, the owner realized that the customer in the field jacket hadn't left yet. He was standing behind the stool he'd vacated. He was looking at another man, a fat, prosperous-looking man with flowing white hair and horn-rimmed glasses, who had just entered and sat down at one of the booths. The fat man, who was one of the owner's regular people, had been for years, was looking at the menu and giving his order to the waiter who had instantly glided up to the booth.

  The customer stood there, slight, medium height, hunching his narrow shoulders continually under the field jacket, both hands thrust into his pockets, and kept looking at the fat man. He watched the waiter take the fat man's order and move away. The owner wondered what was bothering the customer now, what was keeping him from leaving. And then he saw.

  The prosperous-looking fat man was wearing an expensive sport jacket and slacks and a sport shirt but no tie. He suddenly became aware of the customer in the field jacket staring at him. He glowered back at him, indignantly, reddening around his puffy jowls a little.

  The customer walked over to the fat man. He pointed at him and turned to the owner. “Where's his tie?” he demanded. His voice was raggedly shrill now. It stopped every other sound in the place.

  He turned back to the fat man and moved right up next to the booth. He said in the same keening voice, right into the fat man's now apoplectic face: “You've got to wear a tie to eat here, mister. They told me that. I can't eat here without no tie. You can't, either. A bare neck like you and I got ain't no good, you understand?” His voice rose until it hurt the eardrums. He mimicked the owner: “I'm sure you understand."

  He drew a sobbing breath. “You got to have something around your neck. They said so. You got to.” He giggled. “I'll give you something. I'll give you a necktie."

  He pulled one hand from his pocket and it held a straight razor. He flicked it open. He reached down and caught the fat man's long white hair in his other hand and yanked his head back. “A Goddamn necktie you got to have to eat here.” He slashed the razor across the fleshy folds of the fat man's throat. The fat man's big head looked as though it was going to fall off his shoulders but it didn't. The blood came out of him like a red waterfall and went all over the table and as he staggered up out of the booth and before he fell it went across the floor, halfway to the bar.

  The customer with the razor jumped back out of the way of the blood. He wheeled as the screams of people at the bar shook the place, as they turned over bar stools, lurched, bleating, toward the door. He grabbed a woman and
swiped the long straight blade across her bare arm as she raised it to protect her face. Her wrist and hand hung loosely for a moment from the rest of her arm before she fainted.

  The owner stood staring in stupefaction at the customer. He told himself that this couldn't be. This didn't happen in his place. And then he saw the customer coming toward him with the razor uplifted. The owner wanted to move, to run. He couldn't. He wanted to raise his arms to protect himself but they were too heavy. They wouldn't move. He watched the customer, rabid-eyed, his face twisted grotesquely, rushing toward him and knew that he was going to die but couldn't seem to understand it. Absurdly, he found himself wondering what had gone wrong, how could this have happened.

  Then he saw the bartender pick up a bar stool and run up behind the customer and bring the stool down onto the back of his head. The customer's knees went out from under him but instead of falling, he half turned around. He saw the bartender with the stool raised and arcing toward him again. The customer said: “I got to have a necktie, too.” He stroked the glistening red blade across his own throat and looked down, smiling hideously at all the new blood before the stool hit him the second time and he went down.

  The owner stood there for a long time, looking around, while the customers who hadn't reached the door before it was all over, tried to help the others who had fainted or gotten knocked down. Nobody was doing anything about the woman with the severed arm.

  "Get a mop!” the owner screamed at the bartender. “Don't just stand here.” He made a deep sucking breath. He said: “My place! My God, my place, look at my poor place!"

  He leaned his elbows on the bar by the cash register and put his face into his hands and firmly but gently began to cry.

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  THE PURPLE COLLAR by JONATHAN CRAIG

  There'd been a stab-and-assault in the Eighteenth's bailiwick the night before, and all leaves and days off had been cancelled until we caught the guy. My partner, Ben Muller, and I had been scheduled for relief at eight A.M., but at a quarter past four that afternoon we were still checking out leads. It's all in the day's work, of course, but there are some crimes you just naturally take more interest in than others; and when the stab-and-assault victim happens to be only nine years old, you don't mind the extra hours and loss of sleep at all.