Mr. James (Red) Binney was just preparing to close his little establishment for a few hours, when it entered. Mr. Binney stood petrified. Its nose seemed to be spread all over its face. It had a great lump in the middle of its forehead. Where it should have had two eyes, it had two huge purple mounds, although there was a small slit in the right one through which it could probably see. Only after a full minute did Mr. Binney recognize it as Johnny Dolan.
“Well, for the luvva tripe!” Mr. Binney breathed. “An’ so that is what happens when a guy stops one o’ them streamlined trains wit’ his pan, is it?”
“Lissen, Red, an’ kindly lay offen the wisecracks,” Johnny Dolan said with some difficulty, on account of it is quite hard to talk when your neck has been broken and you have to breathe through what is left of your mouth. “Gimme this, now, Seven-X bottle an’ a large glass an’—”
He stopped suddenly, peering through the slit above his right eye. A chinless, smiling youth had just shuffled in and was waving a hand, but the hand was hardly in the air before Johnny Dolan hurtled across the place and landed on top of him. He squealed and collapsed with a crash and Johnny Dolan, astride his chest, went to work on his teeth, removing several — on his eyes, closing both of them — on his nose, flattening it like his own. He was about to pound the flesh off the cheekbones when Mr. Binney hauled him away. The chinless youth lay peacefully still.
“Lissen, Dolan, have you gone completely nuts?” Mr. Binney puffed. “That is Pinhead McGovern, which never hurt a fly in his life!”
“Okay! I am no fly!” Johnny Dolan panted. “So what? So who is it nicks me for thirty cents for this storology book which says what is gonna happen between ten an’ three? So I am tellin’ you who it is! Pinhead McGovern!”
Million Dollar Knockout
by K. Krausse
A million dollars was invested in that fight, and the champ was all set — except for a little matter of murder!
Chapter I
Murder Picture — with Frame
The little ivory ball went ’round and ’round. Like the music. Only it came out nowhere. Instead it went in. It took a sudden dive and plopped into a pocket of the spinning wheel.
A sad-eyed croupier with a dead pan droned: “Eight on the black,” and raked the board clean. With a deft flick of two fingers he sent the pill rolling again, adding: “Make your bets, please,” and the ball bounced and skittered in its fathomless course.
One of the half dozen players grouped before the roulette table was a man in his early thirties. Tall, broad-shouldered, he wore formal clothes that seemed poured on him. His features were too angular to be called handsome. But he had the kind of a face that drew attention and held it. His jet black hair, combed straight back, had a slight wave that caught the light and cast off a bluish sheen. Under finely-arched brows dark gray eyes danced as if he found life vastly amusing. A carefully tended black mustache topped thin lips that never quite lost their smile.
He was jiggling a few chips in his hand. These he placed on red “21,” and touched a snap lighter to a cigarette. The ivory ball stopped its dervish dance. A doll-faced blonde dressed in an anatomy — revealing gown let out a thrilled, “Ee-e-k!” and clapped her hands. Her fingers had too many rings; her wrists, too many bracelets. A pompous — looking oldster beside her beamed. Some half hundred patrons of the Hi-De-Hi Club glanced up from their various games of chance and smiled.
The coupier said tonelessly: “Double O on the green.” He paid off the blonde’s winnings, and started the ball on its dizzy journey once more. The black-haired man was standing before the board with his hands in his pockets. He said to him: “Another stack, Mr. Faughan?”
Jetson Faughan made a grimace of mock disgust. “No. That’ll be all for tonight.”
As he turned to leave, a soft voice at his elbow said: “If you’re finished trying to outguess that little white ball, I’d like a word with you. In my office.”
Jetson Faughan’s gaze met a pair of deep-socketed, expressionless eyes. Their owner was a lean, slightly gray man attired in faultless tails. The long dimples creased his face.
Faughan dropped his cigarette into a sand-filled urn.
“Hello, Crowley,” he greeted. “How long’ve you been watching me?”
Mark Crowley, proprietor of the Hi-De-Hi Club, led the way across the crowded gambling room past a broad staircase. He piloted Faughan into a dainty elevator paneled in black onyx.
“Fifteen minutes. Why?”
Faughan grinned sardonically. “If you wanted to talk to me why didn’t you give me a rumble sooner? I’d’ve saved five grand.”
“And be out that much? Be your age. As it is, I think I’ll break about even.” Crowley closed the elevator door, shutting out the low buzz in the gambling room. He pressed a switch.
Delicately-arched brows went up. “Which spells you’re thinking of hiring my services. Or am I wrong?”
“Are you ever wrong?” Crowley’s words were slightly sarcastic.
“Only in yielding occasionally to a weakness for roulette,” Faughan chuckled. “Who’re you thinking of hiring? Jetson Faughan, attorney-at-law — or The Black Faun Detective Agency?”
“You’re going to need both your vocation and your avocation to crack this case. It’s murder.”
“Murder?” Faughan rolled the word on his tongue. “How nice! Which makes you wrong, Crowley. You hoped to break even? I doubt it very much.”
The elevator rose to the floor above. Sliding doors opened, and the two men stepped into a lavishly outfitted office. Painted murals decked the walls. Heavy, red leather chairs; a massive, hand-carved desk perched on a rich oriental rug. Crowley did everything on an elaborate scale.
The room was not empty. Two men occupied two of the chairs. One was a small, chubby man with the yellow complexion of an anemic. He was plucking nervously at his nether lip and staring vacuously at the second man. The latter sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Faughan gave Hal Fencher, Crowley’s manager, a brief nod of greeting.
The second man raised his head, disclosing a youthful face. While coarse-featured it gave the impression of being clean-cut, honest. Now it was harried, strained. The eyes, childlike under low-hanging brows, seemed hunted.
Faughan’s forehead staffed. “Hello, Champ,” he said. “What’re you doing in town tonight? Thought you weren’t leaving your training camp in Singac until morning. Or did you want to be sure you’d be on time for your scrap tomorrow night?”
Eugene Pendell lumbered to his feet, face working. Erect, he showed the powerful physique that had made him the deadliest fighting machine of all time. Inches taller than Faughan, he was built in proportion. His muscles rippled under his clothes with each move like live things. He shot a look of mute appeal at Mark Crowley.
The gambler seated himself behind his desk, pushed a humidor of cigars toward Faughan.
He growled: “Pendell would’ve saved himself a lot of grief if he’d stayed the hell in Singac tonight. He’s in a jam. The rap is murder. The cops aren’t on his trail — yet. Your job is to keep him out of the can. Or clean his skirts. Before tomorrow night.”
Ignoring Crowley’s cigars, Faughan fired a cigarette. He flicked somber gray eyes at Pendell’s worried face, stared obliquely at the gambler’s wooden one.
“Uh-uh,” he murmured. “Count me out. I feel sorry for the Champ. But I don’t make a practice of whitewashing crime. Least of all murder. You know that, Crowley. If Pendell killed anyone, he’ll have to take his medicine. Or hire another lawyer.”