FLOPHOUSE COURT, by Hapsburg Liebe

Originally published in Ten Detective Aces, September 1933.

A sort of father confessor to human wreckage off the Big Muddy, was “Sir Henry” Morgan, proprietor of a combination flop-house and soup kitchen—he called it a hotel—in New Orleans’ most squalid river-front section. He slept and fed the derelicts when they came to him penniless and hungry, knowing that they’d pay him sometime. His having fallen farther and harder than any of them made him sympathetic. He’d been a great aristocrat in his day. He was still pompous. Hence his nickname, “Sir Henry.”

Tonight there was a dick in the house, a squat fellow in the guise of a river-underworld thug, who called himself Frazier. He sat off in a corner of the dimly lighted, unswept lobby and watched the black front doorway with the eyes of a hawk. Unshaven, hard-bitten men came and went; Frazier did not notice them, the man he wanted was not there, as yet. The tall, gray Morgan, sitting back of the ramshackle desk, knew very well that the fellow was a dick. Morgan always knew.

Presently a stranger drifted in, came as soundlessly as a shadow, by way of the rear. He was young, slim, in dark clothing. A pair of very blue eyes burned under the lowdown rim of his soft hat. Leaning across the desk, he breathed shakily: “Are you Mr. Morgan?”

“I most assuredly am, seh. What can I do for you?”

Before the newcomer could answer, another human form approached the desk as soundlessly as a shadow. This was a shawled and slippered hag. The network of lines in her face half concealed a hideous disfigurement of ancient scars. She peered hard at the newcomer’s features, then muttered: “It ain’t him, no, it ain’t him,” and vanished.

“Poor old Moll,” said Morgan, with much feeling. “Well, seh, what can I do for you?”

The young man with the burning blue eyes glanced uneasily at two passing tatterdemalions, and announced: “I want to see you—private.”

For a few seconds of time Morgan watched the disguised officer in the dim corner. Frazier did not look around. Morgan pointed slyly toward the barnlike and now dark room that served as a dining-room. They went in.

“Well, seh?”

The youthful voice was low and strained: “I’m from Memphis, and my name’s George Boland, though mos’ly they called me ‘Little Tennessee’ because I’d come off o’ the Little Tennessee River. I was p’izen bad, but I wasn’t any crook—jus’ buck-wild, y’know. When I tried to straighten up, it was too late. I’d been ’cused o’ a lot o’ things I didn’t do. Then I went to Jim Anderson for advice. Jim runs a little store dost to the water. Said he knowed you, Mr. Morgan. Right?”

“That is correct. Anderson is one of my very good friends. And then, seh?”

“Well,” continued the other, “Jim su’gested for me to come to you here in N’Awleens, and he gimme a note to interdooce me to you, and loant me twenty dollars. The note said you’d mebbe loand me another twenty, so I could go to Central America and begin life all over. I snook on the old Covington Belle to work my way down the river hustlin’ freight; wanted to save my money, y’see, for the long trip. Well, they was a pickpocket aboard. Now listen dost, Mr. Morgan:

“This crook was about my age and size, and awful slick and fast. That night I couldn’t sleep, and got up to walk the deck, and I seen him dip into a old man passenger’s pocket. Only the three o’ us was on that part o’ the deck then. Well, the passenger jerked a big gun, but the crook grabbed it, and then he pushed the old man overboard deliberate to keep him from talkin’—and you know what that means?”

“I do, seh. The paddle blades of the wheel mangled and killed the poor fellow, of course. Horrible!”

George Boland, Little Tennessee, went on:

“Like a fool, I jumped the crook, gun and all. He lammed me acrost the head with the gun-barrel, nearly knockin’ me out, went through my pockets, and pushed me overboard too! But when I hits water I comes to myself, and swims to beat all. I swam to shore, and caught a freight train at the closest town, and—here I am, half starved to death. The pickpocket got the note I was bringin’ to you from Jim Anderson, as well as my twenty dollars. Has he showed up here?”

“No,” Sir Henry said. “Come this way, if you please, seh.”

* * * *

He piloted Boland to the patchwork lean-to kitchen, sat Boland down to a great bowl of soup and a plate of buns.

“When you’ve finished eating, go upstairs and find yourself a bed. I will see you later. Goodnight!”

He went back to the lobby.

Frazier, the dick, still sat watching the front entrance like a hawk. This annoyed Morgan a good deal now. He noted then that old Moll the hag had just come in again and was looking closely at the dick.

“It ain’t him,” she moaned.

“What do you mean?” blurted Frazier. “Are you cracked?”

“Yes, she’s cracked,” quickly said Morgan, at the desk. He ordered sharply: “You, seh, come here!”

The dick frowned, did not move. A nondescript man rose from a soapbox in deeper shadows, walked to Frazier and glared down at him.

“Sir Henry wants you, didn’t you hear? Must I paste yo’ face to the back o’ yo’ neck? Or will you go see what Sir Henry wants?”

Frazier leaped erect, bristling. But he remembered, and smiled. “Oh, all right. My error.”

As he bent over the desk, Morgan said: “A new one on the force, aren’t you?” There was no answer. Morgan continued: “The older officers know very well that I never fail to tip them off when a criminal comes here. I beg leave to suggest that you return to headquarters and await word from me. Well, seh?”

* * * *

Frazier was not pleased at having had his disguise thus penetrated. But had he been a man of small caliber he would hardly have been a member of the force.

“None of us doubt that you’re on the square and level, Sir Henry,” he said in undertones. “You see, being a new one, as you guessed, I wanted to show a real willingness to work. I’ll stick an hour or so longer, then I’ll turn in.”

“Do you mind telling me, seh, just whom you are expecting to find here?” very pompously inquired old Morgan.

“Why, no-o-o.” Frazier looked to make sure no one listened. “A slim young fellow named George Boland, and nicknamed Little Tennessee. He’s wanted pretty badly. Memphis police couldn’t get anything on him, so it’s up to us. Shipped out for New Orleans on the old Covington Belle and turned up missing. Also missing was a rich old Kentuckian named Carnes. The conclusion is that Boland robbed Carnes, killing him in the process, and gave the body to the convenient river. We thought, Sir Henry, that Boland would surely drop in here.”

“I see,” thoughtfully said Morgan. “I see.”

Suddenly Frazier whispered:

“Look, colonel. Know that fellow?”

Just entering the lobby was a slender young man who wore flashy new clothing, carried a cheap new suitcase, and walked with a devil-may-care swagger. He had a pair of bad pale-blue eyes in his head. The shawled and slippered old Moll trailed him in. She tripped spryly to his side, and peered hard at him.

“La, la, la,” she creaked. “Too young. But he’s a rat, Sir Henry. A yellow rat. You mark my word!”

Her scarred and lined, unbeauteous face upset the swaggering newcomer more than that which she had said. She disappeared like a spirit. The newcomer put his suitcase down at the desk, and inquired uneasily of old Morgan: “Who in hell was that?”

“River show girl, forty years ago,” quietly explained Sir Henry. “Some drunken brute deliberately broke the bottom of a champagne bottle and threw the bottle at her with an aim that proved damnably correct, and she’s still looking for him. Cracked, yes, of course. You wish accommodations, seh?”

“I got a note o’ interduction here from your friend, Jim Anderson,” the newcomer said, voice unsteady.

Since the flashily dressed one was still more or less upset, he wasn’t so cautious as he would have been otherwise. Apparently he hadn’t even seen the nearby Frazier. He passed the crumpled note across the desk. Morgan’s nimble wits were working fast and hard. He gave the dick a look that registered well.

Sir Henry read Jim Anderson’s bold scrawl almost at a glance. He switched his gaze back to the man who had become aware of Frazier’s presence and was staring at Frazier in rising suspicion. Sir Henry spoke in tones that were as cold as glacial ice:

“I wish you knew, seh, how it feels to be chopped and mangled by a river stern-wheeler’s paddle blades, the paddle blades of the old Covington Belle, for instance—Mr. Boland—”

The man turned white. His right hand went into his right coatpocket. The dick flashed a badge from under his left lapel, and in that same split second drew his revolver.

“Get ’em up, Boland—quick!” he barked.

The killer fired through his coatpocket. The reports of the two guns were as one report. But Frazier had side-stepped swiftly as he pulled trigger, and the other hadn’t.

Frazier spoke coolly.

“One crook less on the Big Muddy. In self-defense, too, so I’ve no regrets—am not sorry a bit that I didn’t go back to headquarters to wait, as you suggested, Sir Henry. Really, I don’t believe you could have handled this any better yourself.”

Morgan’s wise old eyes twinkled.

“Why, no I’m sure I couldn’t have handled it any better. And I congratulate you, seh.” Sir Henry had known that the killer would come. The killer thought Boland was dead, and the note had meant money.

Sir Henry resolved to see that poor Moll DuBarry had a new dress, at least, for her unwitting aid. Frazier hurried out to the dark street, to phone headquarters.

And George Boland, listening on the dark stairs, smiled.