Extortion

By Hartley Howard

Glenn Bowman, the toughest and most cynical private investigator in New York, lands himself up to the chin in trouble by witnessing the disposal of a gravely injured man. Bowman plays it straight, calls the police, and finds he is caught between two fires. The law takes a mean view of private operators in general and Bowman in particular; the Opposition, running a large-scale extortion racket, realise that he knows too much. “Either they get you,” says the man who hires him, “or they go out of business. You know which they'll choose.”

With Extortion, first published in 1960, Hartley Howard and Glenn Bowman add another outstanding thriller to their long list of successes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Jan 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781448211142

Hartley Howard

Leo Ognall (1908-1979), who wrote several novels under the pseudonyms Harry Carmichael and Hartley Howard, was born in Montreal and worked as a journalist before starting his fiction career. He wrote over ninety novels before his death in 1979.Harry Carmichael's primary series, written from 1952-1978, The Piper and Quinn series included characters such as John Piper (an insurance assessor) and Quinn, a crime reporter.His other works include: The Glenn Bowman series, 1951-1979; The Philip Scott series, 1964-1967.

Book preview

CHAPTER I

When I awoke the moon was still bright but the sky to the east was growing pale. In the grey dawning I put on my shoes and fixed my tie and used Marie’s comb to make myself presentable.

She was sleeping soundly, her shining hair spread out on the pillow in a dark halo, her arms and shoulders glowing like a pearl in the moonlight. Come breakfast-time I knew she might not want to be reminded of me … and blabber-mouth down the hallway would be more important the morning after than the night before. The mirror said I didn’t look much of a romantic heart throb, anyway. No woman treasures memories of a guy’s unshaven chin among her souvenirs.

Marie stirred and murmured something in her sleep as I opened the bedroom door to leave. She looked very sweet and I felt a bit of a louse. Marie was no tramp. She liked me in a big way. If she hadn’t liked me this would never have happened, all I had to do was say the word and we’d make it nice and legal.

A guy gets crazy thoughts when he wakes up after a thick night with a head like a ball of cotton-wool. Right then I almost convinced myself that it might not be a bad idea to let Marie make an honest man of me—almost. I prefer the kind of romance where they live happily ever after—by not getting married.

So I tiptoed out and collected my coat and hat and closed the outer door without a sound. Everything was quiet in the hallway. Everything was quiet everywhere as I went downstairs and crossed the lobby to the street door.

The chill dawn tasted like a mouthwash. My bones felt raw and my head repented that last bourbon. It always did. Some day I’ll take just one drink too many and they’ll put me to bed with a shovel.

Right then, while I stood in the doorway of Marie’s apartment house, I told myself that all I needed was a needle shower and a shave and some hot strong java. After that I could forget Marie.

Last night had been her business and mine. I hoped she felt better about it than I did. At a quarter off six in the morning I guess my conscience suffers from a sour liver.

Just about that time, I saw the grey sedan. It was rolling slowly along the street like the driver wasn’t sure of the address he was looking for. He seemed to hesitate once or twice and then he pulled into the kerb about a hundred and fifty yards from where I was sheltering in the entrance to the apartment house.

I could see the guy behind the wheel sitting there with the motor turning over quietly as if he didn’t quite know what to do next. So far as I could tell he was alone in the car.

Maybe I got the kind of mind that can’t keep its nose out of other people’s business … but several things didn’t add up right. So I kept well back out of sight and took a cautious peek to see what was coming off.

A couple of minutes later this square-built guy got out, cast an optic both ways along the street, and then stooped back inside the car again. Next thing, he brought out a limp party who acted like his arms and legs were stuffed with straw.

The horizontal character didn’t make a move when his pal laid him on the sidewalk. Judging by appearances he was coming home with the milk, but the bottle he’d been hitting had been no milk bottle.

The square guy didn’t waste much time. When he’d taken another gander along the street he hoisted his partner by the armpits and dragged him across the sidewalk into a doorway. All the time the motor of his car was still running. It was only a little murmuring sound in the early morning stillness.

Seconds later he came out of that doorway P.D.Q., ducked in behind the wheel, and slammed the car door. Then the motor raced and he lit out like he was going places in a hurry. The guy in the doorway went on lying where he’d been dumped, only his feet sticking out.

I began to get the idea that he had peculiar friends. What with this and that my wits were kind of sluggish, but several things about this brief incident said it wasn’t strictly kosher.

Escorting a guy home when he’s had a skinful is one thing: tossing him into a doorway at six a.m. is another. Especially when it happens to be the doorway of a cigar store. I was half asleep and fuzzy with a hangover but nobody needed to tell me that the character who’d just been unloaded from the grey sedan didn’t live at the address where his pal had delivered him.

Reckon it was no skin off my sit-upon but I got a long nose. I earn my living through being curious—if you can call it living.

So, soon’s the grey sedan turned the next corner, I came out of my hidyhole and made with the feet along the sidewalk. Lying on the stone floor of a doorway at six a.m. of a chilly morning wasn’t going to do that guy’s rheumatism any good. I liked to think he’d have done the same for me if our positions had been reversed … heaven forbid it should ever happen.

Standing up, he must’ve been not a bad-looking guy. He had brown hair and a well-shaped mouth and a good strong jaw line. His eyes were shut. Through his open mouth he was breathing noisily like his tonsils were too big for his throat.

Lying there with his shoulders propped in an angle of the doorway and his head lolling to one side, he had all the appearance of a lush who’d been on a jag and was sleeping it off. But he didn’t smell like a lush.

And he wasn’t dressed like one, either. His clothes had cost good money, his linen was immaculate, and he was wearing a gold wrist-watch that must’ve set him back all of three hundred bucks.

I squatted down beside him and took a sniff at his breath. He’d had a drink, maybe two or three drinks, but not a lot. Yet he was out cold and I didn’t fancy the way he was breathing.

When I pushed open one of his eyelids I liked the state of his pupils even less. He wasn’t just sleeping off a jag. Everything pointed to the conclusion that somebody’d put him to sleep.

I didn’t need to look very far after that to locate the cause of the trouble. There was a sticky patch on the left side of his head and blood had trickled down behind his ear into his collar.

It began to look as if his friends were even more peculiar than I’d at first thought. And one thing I knew for sure: he should’ve been lying in a hospital bed instead of in the doorway of a cigar store in Greenwich Village. Another thing was …

Right then I got a helluva shock. Behind me somebody said, And whadaya think you’re doing?

I hadn’t heard a darn sound, but now I had one hundred and eighty pounds of tough-looking copper breathing down my neck. In the grey dawnlight his eyes were calling me a liar before I opened my mouth.

When I tried to stand up, he stuck a police positive under my nose and he said, Easy, now, easy. Put your hands above your head and turn round and face the store window … and don’t make me do anything you’d be sorry for.

Marie had been right. I was the kind of guy who did as he was told. I climbed to my feet very carefully, faced the window of the cigar store, and stood quite still while he frisked me with a coarse, expert hand.

When he was satisfied I wasn’t toting a bazooka down the leg of my pants, he grunted, O.K. You can turn round and put your hands down.… Now, what gives with this guy here on the floor?

I said, He’s been slugged. You better get him to hospital. I reckon he’s in a pretty bad way.

The patrolman said, Yeah? He put his gun back in its holster and left the flap unbuttoned. All the time he kept his eyes fixed on my face—bleak, questioning eyes that were busy taking me from together and counting the pieces.

Then he said, You slug him? The tone he used made it sound like it wasn’t a question. The look on his hard face told me it made no difference what answer he got.

He was like that when I found him, I said. Some character dumped him out of a car and then beat it.

You don’t say? He chewed his tongue and went on studying me like I was something in a glass jar. In a flat voice, he said, I didn’t see no car.

Nobody’s saying you did. He’d gone by the time you got here. And don’t you think you might can the questions until after this poor gink’s had some medical attention?

With no change of tone, the patrolman said, I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’d be wise to button your lip.

About then the guy on the floor groaned, mumbled something, and slid a little lower. In the growing light of the new day his face was the colour of Camembert.

If he kicks off, I said, you’re going to have a load of trouble on your hands. He’s badly concussed and I’d say he’s got a fractured skull. The sooner a doctor sees him the better.

The patrolman nodded like he agreed with me. Without moving, he said, Why d’you do it? Quarrel over some dame?

No, we didn’t have a quarrel over some dame. I’d never seen the guy in my life until five minutes ago when some bozo driving a grey sedan rolled up and lugged him into this doorway.

If he was a stranger like you say, what were you doing when I arrived?

I thought he was a drunk, some boiled owl who’d been ditched by one of his pals, and I was trying to help him when I discovered that somebody’d given him a crack on the side of the head. He’s been bleeding quite a lot.

You say you were trying to help him … eh?

That’s right.

Didn’t look that way to me. I’d say—he stepped back a pace and shook his head—I’d say you were going through his pockets.

You’re crazy with the heat, I said. I never touched his pockets. All I did was feel his head to see how badly he was hurt.

Sure you did. You got blood on your fingers. What’s his name?

I said, Are you deaf as well as dumb? I’ve already told you the first time I ever saw the guy was five minutes ago.

The patrolman didn’t like that. With his big chin stuck out, he said, Don’t get fresh, bud. I don’t care a good gawddam how many times you told me. For my money, you’re a liar.

You’d lose your money, I said.

Maybe… If you don’t know his name, what’s yours?

There was a smart answer to that one but I reckoned he wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it. I said, My name’s Bowman—Glenn Bowman.

That better be on the level. Where d’you live?

Eleven-sixteen Cleveland.

Whadaya do for a living—when you’re not rolling a lush for his wad?

I’m a private operator.

He glanced down briefly at the guy on the floor and then he gave me a grin that had as much humour in it as a dose of toothache. This a sample of the way you operate? In the same tone, he added, Let’s see your licence.

I showed it to him. He ran a fast eye over it, stuck it in his pocket, and jerked his head at me. He said, Let’s go. You can keep me company while I put in a call.

What about this guy? Are you going to leave him lying here like this?

Why not? He won’t run away. With another empty grin, he added, And neither will you. Get going.

Our footsteps sounded loud as we walked along the deserted street, the patrolman just a couple of paces behind me. From the direction of the main drag I could hear the rumble of early morning traffic.

The light was growing brighter as the sun came up. It wasn’t so cold now, but I still had a chill ache in my bones that made me think I must be getting old.

What I looked like was anybody’s guess. I knew I had a stubbly chin, my hair resembled the stuffing hanging out of a bust sofa, my clothes needed a press. If the patrolman took me for a small-time crook, who was I to beaf?

On the corner of Vandam and Hudson there was a police call-station. He fished out a key, unlocked the box and talked into the phone. Never for a second did he take his eyes off me. I got the idea he was sorry I hadn’t tried to make a break for it.

When he’d hung up, he said, Now we’ll go back and look after your sick friend while we wait for the ambulance.

We went back to the cigar store. On the way, he said, If your story’s true and you live on Cleveland, what’re you doing in Greenwich Village at this hour of the morning?

I was going home, I said.

Going home from where?

Some friends of mine live around here. I’ve been visiting with them.

Until six a.m.?

That’s right.

What kind of joint do your friends run? A brothel? He thought that rated him a helluva comic.

Every man to his own taste, I said. Don’t judge me by your standards.

He rode the crack with no change of expression. He said, If I was you I’d can the funny stuff until Lieutenant Deutsch gets here. He just loves to meet up with a gink like you.

The guy with the busted skull hadn’t moved when we got back. His breathing was slower and noisier and his colour was even worse. Judging by the state of his collar his head was bleeding again.

Between us, the patrolman and I laid him out flat and made him as comfortable as we could. Not many minutes later I heard the thin, distant wail of a prowl car.

CHAPTER II

Lieutenant Deutsch was tall and lean, with big hands and feet and a slight stoop to his shoulders. He looked tough and flexible like he was made of polythene.

A guy with a note-book shared the poky little office with us. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up to expose his hairy arms and his shirt was stained with damp patches of sweat. Somebody should’ve told him he’d worn his socks too long.

After I’d gone over my story twice, Deutsch said, I’ve heard of you, Bowman, and what I’ve heard hasn’t been all good.

He had the face of an intelligent sheep—except for the eyes. They were as sharp and predatory as the eyes of a wolf.

I said, You can’t believe everything you hear.

In this case—he pulled at his ear and took plenty of time—I think I can. I got my information from a reliable source. Maybe you don’t know it, but there are a lot of guys in this town who hate your guts.

Too bad, I said. But you know what they say, Lieutenant. Success breeds enemies.

His eyes travelled from my face down to my shoes and back up again, making a note of my unshaven chin, yesterday’s collar, and crumpled pants. Without any inflexion, he said, If you’re a success, I’m Liberace.

I said, How’s Momma these days?

The character with the note-book sucked the cap of his ballpoint and stared at Deutsch with an air of anticipation. Deutsch said reflectively, I once knew a guy who had so much gall it kept dribbling out of his big mouth. We had to slap him around quite a lot before we managed to knock some sense into his thick head. He co-operated after that.

Those were the days, I said. Seems almost a pity that you coppers don’t get away with it now. You must’ve had to find yourself a new hobby.

He said, There’s no law that says a deadbeat like you can’t trip over his big feet on the stairs when he’s being taken down below for questioning. After all, an accident can happen to anyone.

Including me, I told him. I’ve had mine. I was with two buddies of yours at the time—two of the nicest S.O.B.s you could ever hope would go drop dead. Since then I’ve always been kind of careful who’s with me when I’m going up or down stairs.

Deutsch nodded and showed all his teeth in a sheep’s grin. He said, Let’s try the nice way again. How did you come to be where you were when you saw this grey sedan?

I’ve told you. I’d been visiting with friends and I was on my way home.

Friends—or friend?

I didn’t count. It’s supposed to be unlucky.

Sure enough unlucky for the guy who got his head beat in. Was he at this party, too?

Who says it was a party?

"What else could it