The Fabulous Clipjoint by Fredric Brown (the reader ebook TXT) đ
- Author: Fredric Brown
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Maybe he was reaching for a cigarette; I didnât know. Heâd hardly have been reaching for a gun, out here in the open, even if there was nobody within half a block. But I didnât wait to find out. Maybe I was just looking for an excuse.
I grabbed him by the shoulder and whirled him around, and I had hold of his right wrist from behind, twisting it. He made a noise that was half-cursing, half-squawking, and something hit the concrete with a metallic clink.
I let go of his wrist and got the back of the collar of his coat. I jerked to keep him from stooping down, and as our shadows got out of the way, I could see the thing on the sidewalk was a set of brass knucks.
He gave a hell of a hard lunge to get away and the cloth of the coat tore in my hands. It ripped all the way down the back, and the right side of what was left of it fell down from his shoulder, and a notebook and a billfold fell out of the inside pocket.
He was backed up against the building now, and he looked undecided. He wanted to take me apart, I could tell, but without those brass knucks, he knew he couldnât do it. And that torn coat was in his way.
He stood there, panting, ready if I came for him, not daring to try to pick up the things that had fallen from his coat, not willing to run away without them.
I gave the knucks a kick that sent them halfway across the street, and then took a step back. I said, âOkay, pick up your marbles and scram. Open your yap and Iâll knock your teeth out.â
His eyes said plenty, but his mouth didnât dare to. He came forward to get the stuff, and I looked down at it, and said, âWait a minute,â and reached down and picked up the billfold before he did.
It was Popâs wallet.
It was tooled leather, a nice one, and almost new. But there was a diagonal scratch across the polished leather. That scratch had been from the sharp corner of a hard-metal linotype slug. The wallet had happened to be lying on Popâs stand at the lino, and heâd let some slugs slide off a galley onto it. Iâd been there.
I heard a car swinging in to the curb, and Bobby took a look past me and started running. I started after him, shoving the wallet into my pocket. A voice yelled, âHeyââ The car started up again.
I caught him as he was trying to cut through a vacant lot, and was beating the hell out of him when the car and the squad coppers got there, and one of them got each of us. One caught my coat from in back, pulled me away from Bobby Reinhart, and slammed me alongside the face with the flat of his hand.
âBreak it up, punks,â he said. âDown to the station for you.â
I wanted to kick out backward, but that wouldnât do any good.
I gulped air as we were headed for the squad car, until I had enough of my mind back to talk, and then I started to talk fast.
âThis isnât just a fight,â I said. âThis is part of a murder case. Bassett of Homicide is in a tavern two blocks east of here. Take us there; Bassettâll want this guy.â
The copper that had me was running his hands over the outside of my pockets. He said, âTell it down at the station.â
The other one said, âThereâs a Homicide dick named Bassett. What case is it, kid?â
âMy father,â I said. âWallace Hunter. Killed in an alley off Franklin Street last week.â
He said, âThere was a guy killed there.â He looked at the copper that had me, and shrugged. He said, âWe can look there. Two blocks. If it is a homicide caseââ
We got in the car, and they didnât take any chances on us. They collared us again when they marched us into the tavern. It made quite a parade.
Bassett and Uncle Am were still in the booth. They looked up, and neither of them showed any surprise.
The copper who knew Bassett beat me to the punch. He said, âWe found these punks fighting. This one said youâd be interested. Are you?â
Bassett said, âI could be. You can let go of him, anyway. What is it, Ed?â
I took the wallet out of my pocket and tossed it on the table of the booth.. I said, âPopâs wallet. This son of a bitch had it.â
Bassett picked up the wallet and opened it. There were a few bills in it. One five and several singles. He looked at the identification card under the celluloid and then looked up at Bobby. âWhereâd you get it, Reinhart?â His voice was very mild and calm.
âGardie Hunter. She gave it to me.â
I heard Uncle Am let out a long breath that heâd been holding. He didnât look up at me. He kept his eyes on the wallet in Bassettâs hand.
Bassett asked, âWhen was this?â
âLast night. Sure it had been her old manâs. She said so.â
Bassett folded the wallet back shut and put it carefully into his pocket. He took out a cigarette and lighted it.
Then he nodded to the squad-car men. He said, âThanks a lot, boys. Look, Iâd sort of like to keep track of Bobby here till I can check that story. Will you take him and book him on disorderly?â
âOkay.â
âWhoâs on the desk tonight?â
âNorwald.â
Bassett nodded. âI know him. Tell him Iâll probably phone in pretty soon and tell him he can let Reinhart go.â He took out the wallet again and handed Bobby the bills and identification from it. He said, âI guess we wonât need these, son. The walletâs evidence, for a while.â
Bobby looked around at me when they were taking him to the door.
I said, âAny time. Any place.â
They took him out.
Bassett stood up. He said to Uncle Am, âWell, it was a nice try.â
Uncle Am said, âYou know it doesnât mean anything. About that wallet.â
Bassett shrugged.
He turned to me. âKid, âfraid you canât sleep home tonight. You can bunk with your uncle, canât you?â
âWhy?â I asked.
âWeâll have to do something we should have done right away. Search the place. For the insurance policy, and anything else we might find.â
Uncle Am nodded. âHe can stay with me.â
Bassett went out. Uncle Am sat there and didnât say anything.
I said, âI guess I went off kind of half-cocked. I threw a monkey wrench in things.â
He turned and looked at me. He said, âYou look like hell. Go wash your face and straighten yourself out. I think youâre going to have a mouse, too.â
I said, âYou ought to see the other guy.â
That got a snort out of him, and I knew it was going to be all right with him. I went back to the washroom and cleaned up.
He asked, âHow do you feel?â
âAbout that high,â I said.
âI mean physically. Can you stay up all night?â
âIf I can get up, I can stay up.â
He said, âWeâve been piddling along. Weâve been kidding ourselves weâve been investigating. Weâve been babes in the woods. Weâd better start chopping down some trees.â
âSwell,â I said. âWhatâs Bassett going to doâarrest Mom?â
âHeâs going to take her in for questioning. Gardie, too, now that wallet business came up. I had him talked out of it; he was going to give us another few days to crack Kaufman.â
âHeâll let them go when heâs questioned them?â
âI donât know, kid. I donât know. If he finds that policy, maybe he wonât. We got two kicks in the teeth tonightâthat insurance receipt and the wallet. They both point the wrong way, but try to tell that to Bassett.â
I had the red rubber ball in my hand again, playing with it. He reached over and took it from me and started squeezing it. Each time, it went almost flat. He had tremendously strong hands.
He said, âI wish weâd never found this stuff. ItâOh, hell, I canât explain. I just wish Wally hadnât kept it.â
I said, âI think I know what you mean.â
âHe must have been a hell of a mess, Ed. I hadnât seen him in ten years. My God, what can happen to a guy in ten yearsââ
âListen, Uncle Am,â I said, âis there any way he could have done it himself? Hit himself withâsay, with one of the bottles? Orâthis sounds screwy except that he used, you said, to juggle Indian clubsâthrown it up high and stood under it when it came down? I know it sounds crazy, butââ
âIt doesnât, kid, except for one thing you donât know: Wally couldnât have killed himself. He had aâwell, not exactly a phobia, but maybe you could call it a psychic block. He couldnât have killed himself. It wasnât fear of deathâhe might have wanted to die. I remember once when he did.â
I said, âI donât see how you can be sure. Maybe he didnât want to badly enough, then.â
He said, âIt was on our trip through Mexico, south of Chihuahua. He was bitten by a Cugulla adder. We were alone, on a lonely road across wild country, not much more than a trail. We didnât have any first-aid stuff, and it wouldnât have mattered if we had. There isnât any antidote for a Cugulla bite. You die within two hours, and itâs one of the worst and most painful deaths there is. Itâs unadulterated hell.
âHis leg started swelling and hurting like hell right away. He had the only gun between us, and weâwell, we said so long, and he tried to shoot himself. He simply couldnâtâhis reflexes wouldnât work. He begged me to do it. IâI donât know; I might have if it had got much worse, but we heard someone coming. It was a mestizo, riding an ancient burro.
âHe said the snake wasnât a Cugullaâweâd shot it and it was lying there in the road. It was a local species that looked almost exactly like a Cugulla. And it was poisonous all right, but nothing like the real McCoy. We got Wally tied on the burro and packed him three miles to a medico in the next village, and we saved him, or the medico did.â
I said, âButââ
âWe had to stay there a month. That doc was a swell guy. I worked for him to help pay for us staying there while Wally was getting better, but evenings I read his booksâmostly the ones on psychology and psychiatry. He had a flock of âem, in English and Spanish.
âThatâs where I picked up a good start on what I know about stuff like that, and Iâve read a lot sinceâbesides the practical angles you get working a mitt-camp. But, kid, we sort of psychoanalyzed Wally and he had it. There are people who couldnât kill themselvesâitâs a physical and mental impossibility, no matter what. Itâs not too common, but itâs not too rare either. Itâs an anti-suicide psychosis. And itâs not something that would wear off or change as he got older.â
I asked, âThatâs straight; youâre not kidding me?â
âNot on any of it, kid.â
He squeezed the rubber ball some more.
He said, âKid, when we go in, you lean against the inside of the door. Donât say anything at all.â
âGo in where?â
âKaufmanâs room. He isnât married; he lives in a rooming house on LaSalle Street, a little north of Oak. He walks home. Iâve been there and I know
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