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  CONTENTS

  THE PICKPOCKET by MICKEY SPILLANE

  I DON'T FOOL AROUND by LAWRENCE BLOCK

  MAN WITH A SHIV by RICHARD WORMSER

  THE FLOATER by JONATHAN CRAIG

  SWAMP SEARCH by HARRY WHITTINGTON

  FACE OF EVIL by DAVID ALEXANDER

  TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF by WILLIAM CAMPBELL GAULT

  THE FAST LINE by ART CROCKETT

  CRIME OF PASSION by RICHARD S. PRATHER

  LUST SONG by STUART FRIEDMAN

  NOIR MASTER SERIES

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  MASTERS OF NOIR: VOLUME 4

  Published by

  Wonder Publishing Group Books, a division of Wonder Audiobooks LLC

  Northville, MI 48167

  Compilation (C)2010 Wonder Publishing Group, a division of Wonder Audiobooks LLC

  ISBN: 978-1-61013-052-3

  All rights reserved

  First Publications

  THE PICKPOCKET by MICKEY SPILLANE first appeared in Manhunt, December 1954.

  I DON'T FOOL AROUND by LAWRENCE BLOCK first appeared in Trapped Detective Story Magazine, February 1961.

  MAN WITH A SHIV by RICHARD WORMSER first appeared in Manhunt, December 1956.

  THE FLOATER by JONATHAN CRAIG first appeared in Manhunt, January 1955.

  SWAMP SEARCH by HARRY WHITTINGTON first appeared in Murder, July 1957.

  FACE OF EVIL by DAVID ALEXANDER first appeared in Manhunt, January 1957.

  TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF by WILLIAM CAMPBELL GAULT first appeared in Murder, July 1957.

  THE FAST LINE by ART CROCKETT first appeared in Manhunt, December 1956.

  CRIME OF PASSION by RICHARD S. PRATHER first appeared in Manhunt, December 1954.

  LUST SONG by STUART FRIEDMAN first appeared in Manhunt, December 1956.

  THE PICKPOCKET by MICKEY SPILLANE

  Willie came into the bar smiling. He couldn't understand why he did it, but he did it anyway. Ever since the day he had married Sally and had stopped in for a bottle of beer to bring home for his wedding supper, he had come in smiling. Sally, he thought, three years with Sally, and now there was little Bill and a brother or maybe a sister on the way.

  The bartender waved, and Willie said, “Hello, Barney.” A beer came up and he pushed a quarter out, looking at himself in the big mirror behind the wall. He wasn't very big, and he was far from good-looking. Just an ordinary guy, a little on the small side. He was respectable now. A real law-abiding citizen. Meeting Sally had done that.

  He remembered the day three winters ago when he'd tried to lift a wallet from a guy's pocket. Hunger and cold had made his hand shake and the guy had collared him. He was almost glad to be run into the station house where it was warm. But the guy must have known that, too, and refused to press any charges. So he got kicked out in the cold again. That was where Sally had found him.

  He remembered the taxi, and Sally and the driver half-carrying him into her tiny apartment. The smell of the hot soup did more to revive him than anything else. She didn't ask any questions, but he told her nevertheless. He was a pickpocket. A skinny little mug who had lived by his hands ever since he was a kid. She'd told him, right away, that it didn't matter.

  He had eaten her food and slept on her couch for a week before he got smart. Then he did something he had never done before in his life. He got a job. It wasn't much at first, just sweeping up in a loft where they made radio parts. Slowly he found out he had hands that could do better things than push a broom. The boss found it out, too, when he discovered Willie assembling sections in half the time that it took a skilled mechanic to do it. They gave the broom to someone else.

  Only then did he ask Sally to marry him. She gave up her job at the department store and they settled down to a regular married life. The funny part was that he liked it.

  The cops never gave up, though. As regularly as clockwork they came around. A real friendly visit, understand? But they came around. The first of the month Detective Coggins would walk in right after supper, talk a while, looking at him with those cynical, cold blue eyes, then leave. That part worried Willie—not for himself, but for little Bill. It wouldn't be long now before he'd be in school, and the other kids ... they'd take it out on him. Your old man was a crook ... a pickpocket ... yeah, then why do the coppers come around all the time? Willie drained his beer quickly. Sally was waiting supper for him.

  He had almost reached the door when he heard the shots. The black sedan shot past as he stepped outside and for one awful instant he saw a face. Black eyebrows ... the sneer ... the scar on the cheek. The face of a guy he had known three years ago. And the guy had seen him, too. In his mind, Willie ran. He ran faster than he had ever run in his life—but his legs didn't run. They carried him homeward as the self-respecting should walk: but his mind ran.

  Three years wasn't so long after all.

  As soon as he came in Sally knew something was wrong. She said, “What happened?” Willie couldn't answer. “Your job ... “ she said hesitantly. Willie shook his head.

  It was the hurt look that made his lips move. “Somebody got shot up the street,” he told her. “I don't know who it was, but I know who did it."

  "Did anyone else ... “

  "No, just me. I think I was the only one."

  He could tell Sally was almost afraid to ask the next question. Finally, she said: “Did they see you?"

  "Yes. He knows me."

  "Oh, Willie!” Her voice was muffled with despair. They stood in silence, not knowing what to say, not daring to say anything. But both had the same thoughts. Run. Get out of town. Somebody was dead and it wouldn't hurt to kill a couple more to cover the first.

  Sally said: “ ... The cops. Should we ... “

  "I don't dare. They wouldn't believe me. My word wouldn't be any good anyway."

  It came then, the sharp rap on the door. Willie leaped to his feet and ran, reaching for the key in the lock. He was a second too late. The door was tried and pushed open. The guy that came in was big. He filled the door from jamb to jamb with the bulk of his body. He grabbed Willie by the shirt and held him tight in his huge hands.

  "Hello, shrimp,” he said.

  Willie punched him. It was as hard as he could hit, but it didn't do a bit of good. The guy snarled: “Cut it out before I break your skinny neck!” Behind him he closed the door softly. Sally stood with the back of her hand to her mouth, tense, motionless.

  With a rough shove the big guy sent Willie staggering into the table, his thick lips curling into a tight sneer. “Didn't expect somebody so soon, did you, Willie? Too bad you're not smart. Marty doesn't waste any time. Not with dopes that see too much. You know, Marty's a lucky guy. The only one that spots the shooting turns out to be a punk he can put the finger on right away. Anybody else would be down at headquarters picking out his picture right now."

  His hand went inside his coat and came out with a .45 automatic. “I always said Marty was lucky."

  The big guy didn't level the gun. He just swung it until it covered Willie's stomach. Sally drew in her breath to scream quickly, just once, before she died.

  But before the scream came Willie gave a l
ittle laugh and said: “You won't shoot me with that gun, Buster."

  Time stood still. Willie laughed again. “I slipped out the magazine when you grabbed me.” The big guy cursed. His finger curled under the butt and felt the empty space there. Willie was very calm now. “And I don't think you've got a shell in the chamber, either."

  The big guy took one step, reaching for Willie, a vicious curse on his lips; then the sugar bowl left Sally's hand and took him on the forehead. He went down.

  Willie didn't hesitate this time. He picked up the phone and called the station house. He asked for Detective Coggins. In three minutes the cop with the cold blue eyes was there, listening to Willie's story. The big guy went out with cuffs on. Willie said: “Coggins ... “

  "Yes?"

  "When the trial comes up ... you can count on me to testify. They won't scare me off."

  The detective smiled, and for the first time the ice left those cold blue eyes. “I know you will, Willie.” He paused. “And Willie ... about those visits of mine ... I'd like to come up and see you. I think we could be good friends. But I'd like to have you ask me first."

  A grin covered Willie's face. “Sure! Come up ... anytime at all! Let's say next Saturday night. Bring the missus!"

  The detective waved and left. As he closed the door Willie could imagine the chant of young voices. They were saying:

  "Yeah ... and you better not get funny with Bill because his pop is friends with that cop. Sure, they're all the time playing cards and ... “

  Willie laughed. “Sometimes,” he said, “I'm almost glad that I had some experience. Finally came in handy!"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  I DON'T FOOL AROUND by LAWRENCE BLOCK

  Fischer pulled up at a curb and we got out of the car in a hurry, heading for the black Chevy with the people standing around it. The precinct cop made room for us and we went on through. As far as I was concerned, this was just a formality. I knew who was dead and I knew who had killed him. Taking a good long look at the corpse wasn't going to change that.

  The punk slumped over the wheel with holes in his head had lived longer than we had expected. He was a hood named Johnny Blue, a strongarm-weakbrain who crossed some of the wrong people. He'd been due for a hit for weeks, according to the rumbles that filtered through to Manhattan West. Now he'd been hit, and hard.

  One slug in the side of the face. Another in the neck. Three more in the back of the head.

  "Who is he?” Fischer asked. I told him.

  "A messy way to do it,” the kid went on. “Any of those shots would have killed him. Why shoot him up like that?"

  My college cop. My new partner, my cross to bear ever since some genius switched Danny Taggert to Vice. My Little Boy Lost, who wanted murder to be a nice clean affair, with one bullet lodged in the heart and, if you please, as little blood as possible.

  I said, “The killer didn't want to take chances."

  "Chances? But—"

  I was very tired. “This wasn't a tavern brawl,” I told him. “This wasn't one guy hitting another guy over the head with a bar stool. This was a pro killing."

  "It doesn't look so professional to me. A mess."

  "That's because you don't know what to look for.” I turned away, sick of the corpse and the killer, sick of Fischer, sick of West 46th Street at three in the morning. Sick of murder.

  "It's a pro killing,” I said again. “In a car, on a quiet street, in the middle of the night. Five bullets, any one of which would have caused death. That's a trademark."

  "Why?"

  "Because hired killers don't fool around,” I said. “Let's get out of here."

  The coffee was bitter but it was black and it was hot. I sipped it as I read through the file again. I knew everything in the file by heart. I read it automatically, then shoved it over to Fischer.

  "Name,” I said, “Frank Calder. First arrest at age 14, 1948, grand theft auto. Suspended. Arrested three months later, GTA again, six months in Elmira. Three years later he was picked up for assault with a deadly weapon. A knife. The victim refused to press charges and we dropped them."

  I sipped some more of the coffee. “That was eight years ago. Since then he's been picked up fifteen times. Same charge each time. Suspicion of homicide."

  "Innocent?"

  "Guilty, of course. Fifteen times that we know about. Probably a dozen more that we don't know about. Fourteen times we let him go. Once we thought we had a case."

  "What happened?"

  "Grand jury disagreed with us. Indictment quashed."

  Fischer nodded. “And you think he may have killed Blue?"

  "No."

  "Then why are we—"

  "I don't think he might have killed Blue,” I said. “I know damn well he killed Blue. Calder does most of his work in the Kitchen. A Hell's Kitchen boy from the start, grew up on 39th Street west of Ninth. Gun used was a .38. Calder always uses a .38. Likes to shoot people in cars."

  "Still, you can't be sure that—"

  "I can be sure,” I cut in. I wished that Vice would send Danny back to me. Fischer was impossible. “Calder works for Nino Popo a lot of the time. Popo had a thing against Blue. Quit sounding like a public defender, will you? This was one of Calder's. Period."

  "We pick him up now?"

  "No."

  "But you just said—"

  "I know what I said. I know damn well what I said and I don't need a parrot to toss it back at me."

  "But—"

  "Shut up.” I finished the coffee. “I told you Calder was a pro. You know what that means? You understand what that record says? He's a hired killer. You pay him and he shoots people. That's how he makes his living. A good living. He dresses in three-hundred-dollar suits. He wears gold cuff links. He lives in a penthouse overlooking Central Park. The west side of the park—he's not a millionaire. But he does well in his job."

  I paused for breath. I just wanted to get home and go to bed. I was tired. “I told you about pros,” I said. “They don't fool around. They don't leave loopholes. It's their business and they know it. They don't crack under pressure. If we pick up Calder he'll be out in no time at all. No witnesses. A cast-iron alibi. No holes at all."

  "So what do we do?"

  "We go home,” I said. “We go home and take hot showers and go to bed. Tomorrow we pick him up."

  I left him there to wonder what I was talking about. I went home and took a hot shower and fell asleep the minute I hit the bed.

  Homicide is rugged. There are good things about it—we don't take bribes, we stay clean. There are also bad things.

  Because there are only three types of murder, and of the three there is only one that we solve. There is the amateur killing with a motive, the husband who strangles his wife, the tavern brawl, the grudge murder. There you have your suspect at the start and you look around for the proof. And find it, no matter how clever a job they do of burying it. That is the kind that gets solved.

  There is also the silly killing. The bum beaten to death on the Bowery. The hustler with a knife in her belly. The fag killed in his own apartment by a casual conquest. The mugging victim with a crushed skull. These we don't solve. Not without a break.

  And there is the professional murder. And those we never solve.

  I met Fischer at five in the afternoon. He was carrying a folded copy of an afternoon tabloid. The headline ran GANGLAND SLAYING IN HELL'S KITCHEN. I could have guessed it word for word. I took the paper from him and gave the story a quick run-through. It was about the same as the morning papers had it.

  It didn't say we had nothing to work with. It didn't say we had anything to work with. It said that Johnny Blue had been found in a parked car with holes in him, and that he was dead. Then there were a few paragraphs trying to turn the career of a fourth-rater into something notorious, and then there was some nonsense to the effect that the cops were keeping mum.

  Mum?

  "We're on Calder,” I told him. “No other assignment un
til we nail him. Got that?"

  "Sure."

  "I wanted it that way. I want to get Calder. I want to get him good."

  "I thought you said it was impossible."

  "It is."

  "Then—"

  "You talk too much,” I said. I waited for him to get mad but he didn't. He was hurt—it showed in his face, in the way he wouldn't look at me. But he wouldn't get mad. And this made me like him that much less. He never got mad at anything. He didn't know how to hate.

  I don't like college cops. I don't like people who are up to their ears in understanding and sympathy and sweetness and sunshine. I don't like people who don't know how to hate.

  Maybe it's just the way a person is. If I were Calder I would hate cops. I'm a cop. I hate Calder. I hate him because he breaks laws and shoots people. I hate him because he gets away with it. I hated Johnny Blue. He used to get away with things too. Now he was dead and Calder had killed him and I hated Calder.

  I was going to get him.

  "Look it over again,” I said, sliding Calder's file over to Fischer again. “Skip the record. Look at the picture."

  Dark black hair. A flat face, not too bad-looking. Hard eyes, a long nose, a little scar on the chin. I don't know how he got the scar. Maybe he cut himself shaving.

  "You said we pick him up today. Were you kidding?"

  "I don't kid. I was serious."

  "They found evidence?"

  "No."

  He looked at me. He was afraid to open his mouth. Gutless.

  "We worry him a little. Don't bother your head about it. Go get the car and meet me out front. And wear a gun."

  He didn't say anything, just went off for the car. I checked my gun, then stuck it back in the holster. I picked up Calder's file, and took a good long look at it. I let the face burn into my brain. I stood there for a minute or two and hated.

  Then I went out to the car where Fischer was waiting.

  The building was fancy. A uniformed doorman stood at attention out in front. I had to show him my shield before he let us inside. He was there to keep out undesirables. Unless they lived in the penthouse.