Inside Job Read online

  Inside Job

  A Smashing Detective Story

  Raoul Whitfield

  Introduction

  RAOUL (FAUCCONIER) WHITFIELD, (1896–1945) was one of the pioneers of Black Mask Magazine. Whitfield was good friends with Dashiell Hammett and, as the more experienced author, he was Hammett’s early writing mentor.

  Although Whitfield was born in New York City to a distinguished, socially connected family, he grew up in the Philippines where he led a comfortable life as the son of a Territorial Government official. Whitfield also traveled through China and Japan, and his experiences in Asia served his writing well, particularly in his Jo Gar stories for Black Mask, which take place in a fully realized Manila filled with intrigue between the two great wars.

  During World War I Whitfield served with the U.S Army Air Corps in France as a pilot. When he returned to America after the war, he moved to Pittsburgh to study the steel business. But even though Whitfield was related to Andrew Carnegie with good connections in the steel industry, he was drawn to writing and became a newspaper reporter for the Pittsburgh Post instead. Pittsburgh became a city that he often depicted in his crime fiction

  His flying experiences provided inspiration for his first pulp stories, which he wrote while still a reporter. Many of his early stories are about the adventures of Scotty, a daring bi-plane pilot, and are among the first aviation stories written for the new aviation pulps at the beginning of the 1920s.

  Whitfield’s first story for Black Mask in the March 1926 issue was about Scotty, his first series hero for Black Mask. But Whitfield’s most popular series character was Jo Gar, the little Island Detective of Manila who always outsmarted the local police.

  Raoul Whitfield was so popular with Joseph Shaw, the formative Black Mask editor (1926-1936) that Whitfield often had two stories published in each issue, a feat few authors ever achieved once! Ramon DeColta was the exotic pseudonym Whitfield invented for the author of the very popular Jo Gar stories.

  Jo Gar is one of the first Asian detectives in American literature, and the most realistic and fully rounded portrait of an Asian hero in the pulps. Under the DeColta name, twenty-four Jo Gar stories appeared in Black Mask between February 1930 and July 1933.

  Black Mask Press and Mysterious Press will publish the long out of print collection, The Jo Gar Casebook, as an affordable e-book.

  Raoul Whitfield was one of the most popular writers Black Mask ever produced. He wrote nearly ninety stories for the magazine under his own name and as Ramon DeColta. In the eight years between his first appearance in March 1926 and February 1934, his last appearance, he wrote five mystery novels: Green Ice (1930), Death in a Bowl (1931), and The Virgin Kills (1932), all under his own name; and Five (1931) and Killer’s Carnival (1932) as Temple Field. His story “Man Killer” (Black Mask, April 1932) was filmed as Private Detective 62 by Paramount in 1933; Michael Curtiz directed and William Powell starred in the comic crime story.

  “Inside Job” appeared in the February 1932 issue of Black Mask Magazine. The story was filmed in flashbacks as the 1947 Monogram film noir thriller High Tide; John Reinhardt directed and Lee Tracy starred.

  Of the many stories Raoul Whitfield wrote for Black Mask Magazine under his own name, Joseph T. Shaw chose to collect “Inside Job” to represent the best of Whitfield’s work for his iconic anthology, The Hard-Boiled Omnibus (1946). This legendary work is the first book collection of detective stories from Black Mask Magazine. Black Mask Press and Mysterious Press will publish an expanded version of the long out of print Hard-Boiled Omnibus, which will include all the stories which Joseph Shaw was unable to acquire for his ideal edition.

  Raoul Whitfield’s writing career was cut short when he became seriously ill in 1935, probably with tuberculosis; he never fully recovered and died ten years later in a military hospital in California at the age of forty-seven. Raoul F. Whitfield is buried at Arlington National Cemetery in Arlington, VA.

  Keith Alan Deutsch

  Murder strikes the editorial offices of a major newspaper in this complex masterpiece of big city crime and corruption.

  FRESNEY STOOD BESIDE THE coat-rack, pulling off his gray gloves. His eyes were on the half-moon shaped desk and his chair at the center of the inner curve, on the platform a foot above the floor. He took off his gloves slowly, stuffed them in a pocket of his tightly buttoned trench coat. His gold-headed cane he removed from an arm, hung it over the second hook of the rack. Phillips, the real estate editor, passed him and grinned with his long face.

  “Nasty weather,” he said.

  Fresney’s face was turned towards the large, black-lettered sign that hung on a wall of the editorial room.

  “Is it?” he said in a cold voice.

  The sign on the wall spelled Accuracy and was very old and dirty. Fresney’s thin, long lips curved slightly in a smile. He removed his coat, took off a gray soft hat and hung it over the hook that held his stick. At one end of the room the automatic telegraph machines were making a clatter. Two or three typewriters were working. At a glance Fresney saw that seven or eight of the dozen reporters on the staff had arrived; it was five minutes of two.

  He took a pack of cigarettes from a pocket of the trench coat, walked swiftly around to his chair. It was a swivel-chair; rather battered looking. Cleve Collins, his assistant, looked up from some copy. He sat across from the city editor, on the outer curve of the half moon. There were two chairs on each side of his—copyreaders’ places. Collins said:

  “Vapor said he wanted you as soon as you came in, Hugh.”

  The managing editor’s name was Clinton Vaupaugh; he was called “Vapor” around the city rooms. Fresney nodded and sat down. He put a cigarette in his mouth, lighted a match by scratching a thumbnail across the phosphorous, and held the flame against paper and tobacco. His small, dark eyes looked at words on a yellow sheet of newspaper as he shook the match out. The words were: “You’re a good slave driver and a lousy city editor. I resign. Hennessy.”

  Fresney lifted the paper the words were typed on as though it was something dirty. He used the tips of a thumb and forefinger and let the yellow stuff fall to the platform beside him. On another scrap of newspaper he read: “Dyke has sweet alibi and smashed head. Reedy sore—says sheet didn’t use his picture. Better give him break. In for the bulldog. Jake.”

  Fresney flipped the scrap across to Cleve Collins, who was watching him closely.

  “Run Dan Reedy’s face on Page 2—mark it ‘must’,” he instructed. “Give him a good boost.”

  Collins blinked. “Reedy—what for?” he asked. “What did he do?”

  The city editor’s eyes smiled a little. “He grabbed Jap Dyke, along with two or three other plainclothes boys,” he replied grimly. “But we’ll forget the others for the moment.”

  The assistant city editor grunted. He made notes on paper. Fresney said:

  “He’s feeling hurt and making it tough for Jake. We’ll use some oil.”

  Collins swore very softly. Then he said:

  “Vapor wants to see you when you get here, Hugh.”

  The city editor nodded. “Hennessy’s quit; he didn’t like it because I told him to go after the Ware woman hard and tell her the police would be out if she didn’t talk. I think Hennessy drew a week ahead, yesterday. If he did—send Burney after the money. If Hennessy won’t pay up we’ll have him pinched.”

  The assistant city editor widened his blue eyes. He was thirty-two, ten years younger than Fresney. He had a pale, thin face and his body was long and thin.

  “And what’ll the police do, after they pinch Hennessy?” he asked dryly.

  Fresney’s eyes were hard. “They’ll do what I tell ’em to do,” he replied.

  Collins whistled very softly. Fresney loo
ked at him sharply, then looked down at another slip of newspaper on which was scrawled: “Cresser gets hanged tonight. C. C.” The city editor looked at Collins and said slowly: “He put up a good fight, Cleve. Send Daly over to cover it—there’s a pass around here somewhere.”

  Collins nodded. “Yeah. Cresser put up a good fight,” he agreed. “Damn’ little money—a wife—and with the sheet yelping for his neck—”

  Fresney spoke coldly and softly: “Shut up, Cleve.”

  Collins narrowed his eyes. “The wife was in to see you about fifteen minutes ago, Hugh,” he said quietly.

  Fresney said: “You shut up, Cleve.”

  Collins paid no attention to him. “I told her you were out of the city,” he said.

  Fresney’s lips got very tight, and his eyes very small. Before he could speak Collins said:

  “But she didn’t believe me.”

  The city editor reached deep down in a hip pocket, twisting in his chair. He got the Colt loose, opened a drawer of the desk and slipped it inside. Cleve Collins looked down at the copy before him.

  “That drawer sticks,” he reminded quietly. “You ought to have it fixed, Hugh.”

  Hugh Fresney swung his chair and stood up. He smiled down at his assistant.

  “It wouldn’t do you any good if I did get the works,” he said grimly. “Running this sheet takes guts.”

  He looked beyond his assistant towards the groups of reporters. The Dispatch was a morning paper and was making a fight to beat the circulation of the Press. Fresney was driving his men hard, and he knew that he wasn’t exactly popular. The fact didn’t bother him.

  He said to Cleve Collins: “Take on another man in Hennessy’s place—and no college stuff. And there’s a fellow getting in in a few hours to see me. His name is Slade. If I’m not here when he comes in—have him wait.”

  Collins nodded and said without smiling: “Vapor wants to see you as soon as you get here, Hugh.” The city editor grinned. “Why didn’t you say so before?” he said. “There’s no damn’ system around this place.”

  He walked along a side of the large room towards an office door marked: Managing Editor. Inside the door was a small anteroom. A very good-looking girl, with red hair and blue eyes, sat back of a small desk. She frowned when she saw Fresney. The city editor smiled at her; but she didn’t smile back. Fresney said:

  “How about dinner tonight—late, at my place?” The girl’s expression changed just a little. “C. V. is inside,” she said coldly.

  Fresney chuckled. “Lovely lady,” he said mockingly. “Just another of the mob that would like to see me lying on my back in an alley, with my eyes open.”

  He went through another door, closed it behind him and stood looking down at the gray-haired figure of Clinton Vaupaugh. The managing editor was heavy, smooth-faced, handsome. He was a big man with full lips and soft gray eyes.

  “It’s got to stop, Hugh,” he said very slowly. Suddenly he banged a fist on the desk behind which he sat; frowned with his whole face. “I tell you—it’s got to stop!”

  The city editor smiled with his long lips, but his eyes were cold.

  “Who’s whining now?” he asked with faint amusement in his voice.

  Vaupaugh said grimly: “The Press had an editorial yesterday—you saw it? It doesn’t name this sheet, but it does everything but name it. It says we’re distorting the news. It claims we influenced the jury in the Cresser verdict; we hit at women—we’re ruthless, lying—”

  Fresney took a cigarette from the pack and lighted it.

  “The circulation department reports a daily city gain of twelve thousand in ten days,” he replied easily. “Where do you think we got that sale? It isn’t new readers. It’s right out of the Press’ pocket—we stole those readers away from them. They know it. Of course we’re scum—the whole lot of us.”

  Vaupaugh took a handkerchief from a pocket, and there was an odor of perfume. He wiped his lips.

  “It’s got to stop,” he repeated. “You’ve got to tone down, Hugh.”

  Fresney smiled sardonically. “I haven’t started yet,” he breathed.

  Vaupaugh stood up and shook a finger across the desk. He was breathing heavily and his face was pale.

  “You got Cresser hanged—and you’re going after Jap Dyke the same way. You know who the man back of Edith Ware is? Bernard Kyle—one of our biggest advertisers. He called me up this morning. Lay off the Ware case—and lay off quick.”

  Fresney yawned. “We can tone down a bit,” he said. “Kyle, eh? About to walk out on her, I suppose. Afraid of his wife—she just got back from Europe. And the Ware brat makes a bum attempt at suicide.”

  Vaupaugh spoke in a shaken tone. “It isn’t a matter of toning down—we’re dropping the Ware suicide attempt. Dropping it, you understand?”

  Fresney closed his small eyes, then opened them just a little.

  “What’s wrong, Clint?” he asked very quietly.

  Vaupaugh seated himself and said in a half whisper:

  “My life’s been threatened—I had a phone call two hours ago. It sounded like business.”

  The city editor made a snapping sound with fingers of his left hand.

  “So that’s it,” he breathed. “First time your life has been threatened, Clint?”

  There was irony in his words. Vaupaugh looked at him coldly.

  “It’s the first time there’s ever been any real reason for the threats,” he replied. “Drop the Ware woman suicide stuff. Tone down a lot on Jap Dyke—”

  Fresney straightened and stared at the managing editor.

  “No,” he said in a hard voice. “Dyke’s our circulation builder—just now. A tough racketeer-gambler who went a bit too far. Mixed up with some city officials. We can’t drop Jap—”

  Vaupaugh was suddenly very calm. “Drop Jap Dyke,” he said tonelessly. “I’ve changed my mind. It isn’t just a tone down—drop him! Or else—”

  Hugh Fresney waited a few seconds and then repeated questioningly: “Or else?”

  Vaupaugh wiped his full lips again. “Or else quit the sheet,” he said steadily.

  Fresney looked at the managing editor a long time with his small eyes. Then he said:

  “Like hell, Clint.”

  He turned abruptly and went into the anteroom. The red-haired girl bent her head over some papers and Fresney said grimly:

  “How about that late dinner?”

  She didn’t answer him. He went into the big editorial room and towards his desk. As he neared it he saw Tim Slade standing close to Collins. He reached his desk, scribbled: “82 Goorley Street at six—ask for Creese—he’ll take you to back room where I feed.” He looked at Slade’s lean face and said nastily:

  “That’s where he lives—you’re a dirty louse to hound him. This is the last tip I’ll give you. Take it and get the hell out of here!”

  He folded the paper on which he had scribbled, tossed it across the desk. Tim Slade’s eyes flickered, and when Collins handed him the slip of paper he said grimly:

  “He owes me the fifty—and if he’s got anything worth that much—he’ll pay up.”

  He went along a row between desks, and Cleve Collins said:

  “Did Vapor want anything special?”

  Fresney nodded. “The sheet’s getting virtuous again,” he stated with grim amusement. “We’re dropping the Ware stuff—and we’re dropping Jap Dyke.”

  Cleve Collins blinked at him, then whistled. Fresney said:

  “We’ll play up the church convention and feature any women’s club meetings. And remember the kiddies, Cleve—remember the kiddies. Nothing like the kiddies to build circulation.”

  Collins smiled grimly. Fresney called up two reporters and gave them assignments. Collins seemed to be thinking hard. After a little while he looked across at Fresney and said softly:

  “It’s a little late to start playing up the kiddies, isn’t it, Hugh?”

  Hugh Fresney looked at him narrowly. “It’s not too late fo
r you, Clint,” he said very quietly. “But it’s awful damn’ late for Vapor and me!”

  Tim Slade had a lean, sun-browned face, brown eyes and hair, good features. He was almost six feet tall and there was a power in his shoulders and arms that wasn’t noticeable at a glance. His movements were very quick, though they had the appearance of being slow through grace. He kept brown eyes on Fresney. Fresney said:

  “Clinton Vaupaugh is yellow. He’s greedy, too. Two months ago he inherited the paper—his father died. I talked him into putting guts into it, and going after circulation. He didn’t care about the guts part, not having any himself. But a gain in circulation—that got him. He told me to go to it. I went to it. Pittsburgh hasn’t had a fighting sheet in years. For a month and a half I’ve been tearing things loose. Pounding away at old crimes and going after the new ones. A quarter of the staff has quit or been fired. We’ve got three suits against us. Hell’s about ready to pop.”

  Tim Slade smiled and nodded. “Sure,” he agreed. “And what’s that got to do with me coming on from Cleveland?”

  Fresney tapped his cane against the wooden floor of the back room at 82 Goorley Street.

  “I didn’t know it when I sent for you—but Vaupaugh’s life has been threatened. I had a phone call at the flat, two days ago. From a booth in a local department store. A woman’s voice. She said I’d get it this week; there was nothing I could do about it—and she was just telling me so I could fix up a few things.”

  Slade frowned. “Any chance of it just being a bluff?” he asked.

  Fresney shook his head. “Not a nickel’s worth,” he replied. “I made a couple of mistakes.”

  Slade said: “Well?”

  Fresney frowned at his half-empty beer glass. Then he looked at Slade with his little eyes almost closed. He nodded his head as though in self-agreement.

  “I fired a reporter named Hallam, a week ago. Vaupaugh’s secretary is a red-headed girl named Dana Jones. She and Hallam were hot for each other. Hallam didn’t like my talking to him about it, the way I did. He swung at me, and I knocked him cold. Then I fired him. He can’t get another job and he left town yesterday. He hates my insides, and so does the girl.”