![]() “I’ve got a lot of time. And I’m sticking with you.” She smiled wanly. “You’d better not print anything you’ve seen tonight! Russo’s mob doesn’t like reporters. Anyway, I’m in a hurry!” “That’s okay with me,” I told her. “Will you keep out of this? Haven’t you seen enough? Do you want to be laid out on a slab beside that other man back in the alley?” I caught her arm. “I’m a newspaperman, sister. Give!” Her eyes widened. Automatically I followed.Ī couple of blocks up, she halted in a vestibule and confronted me. She said, “You’d better scram fast, mister!” She caught up her skirt again and started to run north up Second Avenue, sticking closely to the shadows. The only sound was the faint sobbing of violin strings, the occasional pulse of a drum, and the wail of a saxophone from the Little Albania’s shuttered windows. The street itself had become morgue‐ quiet. My forehead had an uncomfortable clammy feeling as I peered out again and saw the little pool of blood and the man’s hat near the curbstone. As a newspaper man, I’d seen my share of violent death, but this was giving me the jitters. The girl and I remained flattened in the doorway-even when unseen hands caught the ankles of the fallen man, and we heard the gruesome sound of his body being dragged over the rough cobblestones back into the darkness. There was the report of a gun that was like a sharp cough, and the crouching figure tumbled in a heap, legs in the alley, head and outflung arms on the sidewalk of the avenue. Out of the alley came a flash of orange flame. There was a black shape creeping around the corner of the building to the street. This time they were made by a man, a man who was trying to move soundlessly. Then there were other footsteps coming up the unlighted alley. Squeezed in beside her and followed suit in trying to keep out of sight. I didn’t know what it was all about, but she hadn’t been fooling when she spoke. “Let me alone! Look out! For God’s sake!” She darted suddenly to the side and tried to compress herself into a doorway. I studied her in the winking lights of the Little Albania, Louis Russo’s third‐rate night club. I said, “What’s the hurry? Something scare you?” Her breasts were heaving from her running, and she fairly panted when she spoke. She reached the mouth of the alley and I stepped suddenly in front of her, blocking her way. I stood stock still, just around the corner of the building where she’d come out on the avenue. Her black dress had been ripped to her waist, and the remnants of a pink silk slip barely held together at one shoulder. Her skirt was bunched in her hand above her knees to facilitate her speed, and white flesh gleamed in the dim light. She came like a miracle of beauty out of that dingy cul‐de‐sac of warehouses and manufacturing lofts. Then from up a side alley I heard the clicking heels of a running girl. Deep in thought, I’d wandered all the way to Second Avenue and Second Street. That part of town was, curiously, almost deserted. It was nearly two o’clock when I looked at my watch, wondering if I shouldn’t be turning back and thinking again about going to bed. THERE WASN’T ANY particular reason for my being way down on the East Side. It was a warm Spring night, and I was taking a walk, not paying much attention where my feet strayed. This is what passed for titillation in April 1941, when “The Girl Who Knew Too Much” was first published. “The Girl Who Knew Too Much” is one of the better stories to be found behind the garish covers of the Spicy books, which does not make it Shakespeare, or Chandler, either, since the magazine paid much less than its contemporaries. While Black Mask and Dime Detective were paying two cents a word, and lesser periodicals half that, Spicy paid only a half cent a word‐the bottom of the barrel for writers struggling to pay the rent. As is true of most of the stories in Spicy, we meet our heroine with her dress ripped down to her waist. Because of the racy covers and interior illustrations, plus the content of the stories, public pressure caused the publisher, now Trojan Publishing Co., to change titles to Speed Detective, Speed Mystery, etc., and reduce the provocative nature of its contents. But don’t get your expectations too high. What was racy, spicy, snappy, and saucy in the 1930s will seem rather tepid today. Published by Culture House (perhaps named ironically), the minor empire included Spicy Detective, which was issued from April 1934 to December 1942 Spicy Adventure (July 1934‐December 1942) Spicy Mystery (July 1934‐December 1942) Spicy Western (November 1936‐December 1942) and Spicy Movie Tales (one issue only in October 1935). The Girl Who Knew Too Much Randolph Barr NOT TOO SURPRISINGLY, the author of this rather formulaic story is unknown, as Randolph Barr was a house name, used by many of the hacks willing to work for one of the Spicy publications.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |