Black Cat Weekly #5

MR. BIG NOSE, by Martin Suto-1

MR. BIG NOSE, by Martin Suto

INTRODUCTION

Manhunt was a crime fiction magazine published between January 1953 and April-May 1967. Most issues were digest-sized, though collectors prize the few larger-format issues from 1957-58, which are generally harder to find. It was originally titled Manhunt Detective Story Monthly, but that was soon shortened to simply Manhunt, the name with which mystery readers are most familiar today. It ran for a total of 114 issues.

It was harder-edged than its competitors Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, dealing more with noir, hardboiled, and crime tales than traditional mysteries. Its closest competitor was probably Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, though MSMM generally featured lower-quality work. If you look at the names published in all these magazines, you will find a lot of overlap. But the edgier writers always went to Manhunt first: names like Cornell Woorich, Frank Kane, Mickey Spillane, Richard S. Prather, Evan Hunter, and so many more could be found in its pages, alongside newer writers like Richard Deming, Fletcher Flora, Talmage Powell, and Lawrence Block—all of whom would go onto make names for themselves in later years.

* * * *

Martin Suto, according to the Fictionmags index, published just three stories in the mystery genre—two in Manhunt (1959 and 1961) and one in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine (1962). There is no bibliographical data available on him in the mystery genre. No published novels. After 1962, he just vanishes.

“Mr. Big Nose,” a powerful crime story, was his second tale, and it showed a lot of talent. I wish he had written more.

—John Betancourt

*

FOR DAYS they hoarded bread. Everytime they came back from the prison mess there were more crumbs for Ventura to use on the head. Slowly it began to take shape, and the first thing that resembled Norman was the nose. It was long and thin, needle-like. Ventura was the artist. He had a great sense of proportion but Norman thought he carried it too far.

Norman would get sick hearing Ventura’s froggy laugh.

“That’s quite a nose,” Ventura would say, “I think it’s what’s gonna get you outta here.”

Norman lay on his bunk sweating. His heart would hammer. He couldn’t take it. One of these days he’d blow his top and slide a shiv into Ventura’s sick hide. But the thought of escape calmed him down a bit. Later he’d even laugh it off.

Ventura dragged himself around like a spent buffalo. And at night he’d work awhile on the head while Norman kept watch to head off any surprise inspections.

“What’s the matter?” Norman hissed one night. Ventura had tumbled back in his bunk, suppressing a moan. With all his needling he wanted Norman to escape. Norman knew that and the fear that Ventura might not finish the head stabbed him once, twice through the heart.

“Same thing,” Ventura muttered, pressing his stomach in agony against the hard mattress. Norman swung lightly in the space between them and put his face close to Ventura’s thick corded neck. The odor from Ventura’s armpits was strong and pungent. The artist rolled up on his side and rubbed his belly. He screwed up his thick features grotesquely, and jabbed a finger at the cell grating.

“Never mind me,” he hissed back. “Get over there!”

Norman pretended to thumb through an old magazine while he sat in the chair and seesawed back and forth. Across the way was a blank wall he’d been looking at the past five years. Directly below was another tier of cells. There were three tiers. He and Ventura were on the top tier. All he really had to do was listen for the watch, the heavy tread, the same sound that was part of his unending routine. He could tell Walters’ feet if the watch was walking down a crowded theater aisle. The thought of a theater brought the outside before his mind and he began to sweat. Behind him Ventura was muttering. “What is it now?” he half snarled without looking up from his magazine.

“We need more bread,” Ventura whispered hoarsely.

“I’ll bring you a loaf tomorrow,” he said gratingly.

“You little anteater,” said Ventura, “I got a good mind to change the shape of this nose before it’s too late.”

Rage exploded within him, blood pounded against his temples. He swayed before Ventura like a thin, venomous snake.

“Why don’t you?” he thrust his face close to Ventura’s.

Ventura grinned and swiftly hid the different features in the mattress of his bunk and swept the floor around him with his broad fingers.

“Calm down, kid.” He sat on the edge of his bunk. “What’s the sense of me tryin’ with this in my guts?”

Abruptly Norman retreated. “I give up,” he said. “If I don’t get out of here soon I’ll go out of my mind.”

Ventura winked sagely, and tapped his veined temple.

“You’ll get out, kid, but you gotta keep your head.” He came close and put a hairy hand on the other’s knee. A change had come over his dark, rocklike face. Fiercely, he whispered. “You stick to your plan, Norm, and if you do I’ll guarantee the rest. If there’s no real slip up you’ll be out next week. And I got somebody for you to visit.”

“Who’m I going to visit?” Norman got up and paced nervously back and forth.

“If you make it to this address, I promise you this guy’ll take you outta the country. This is one time you can’t afford to laugh, kid, because I’m on the level.” He sank to his knees and pounded the floor with his knotted fist. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be in your shoes, kid!” His voice shook.

He didn’t see the contempt in the other’s eyes.

“What’s this guy’s name?” His pale skinny hands fiddled with a cigarette. He wondered what really made him want to spit on this big ape of a guy who was half dead and still going out of his way to help him.

Ventura squeezed his stomach hard with both hands.

“Listen. Inside of a week they’ll have me in the infirmary. I’m done. I know it. A guy named Legget owes me a favor. I mean a big favor. I can’t use it myself but I sure as hell can use it for you. I got word to him as soon as we started the plan. You see, kid, you gotta think ahead.”

“Sure,” Norman said, his knees trembling. “What’s this guy’s name and how do I know he won’t change his mind if and when I get there?”

Ventura rose to his feet, his face dark as midnight. He grabbed the kid by the throat. “Are you listenin’? I said the guy’s name is Legget, Neil Legget, and you better not doubt his word or mine, get me?”

If it wasn’t for getting out, thought Norman, he would kill this big baboon.

Ventura was shaking. He sat down and put his head in his hands. “I don’t know why I bother with ’im,” he was saying. Norman thought of the bust of himself that was taking shape out of bread. The blood rushed through his veins suddenly until he felt lightheaded. I’ll kill anybody who gets in my way in here, he thought, and when I’m outside there. The idea of being free made him choke with emotion.

Ventura looked up.

“Im sorry,” said Norman. “I’m nerved up just thinkin’ about it.”

Ventura rolled over on his bunk.

“We’ll need more bread for tomorrow,” he said heavily.

It was lights out then and Norman lay down. He adjusted the headset of his radio and tuned in on some rock ’n roll. The music carried him into the city and he fancied that Ventura had finished modeling the head out of bread and that he had made good his escape in the laundry truck. By the time Walters and the other screws had discovered that the nose sticking up out of the bed cover was made of bread he was miles from Detroit and on his way to rendezvous with Neil Legget whoever he was.

On the day Norman was to hide in the laundry truck the driver reported sick. That meant no delivery in town for the dry wash that day. Norman went back to his cell that night with water in his veins. He stood by his bunk, sweat on his forehead, shaking inwardly. Ventura lay on his bunk, his eyes bright with pain. He was smoking one cigarette after another.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be all right tomorrow. Smitty’ll be back in the morning. He just didn’t feel like drivin’ today, I guess.”

Norman glared at the artist. He had been primed for the escape, and now that the moment was passed he felt numbness in his spine as if he needed help in walking across the cell or lighting the cigarette.

Ventura groaned. “You gotta expect these things, kid. Nothin’ ever runs smooth when it’s important. It’s like they say about love.”

Norman smiled and put his hands together as if throttling a human throat.

“This is for Smitty,” he said throatily.

“This job,” murmured Ventura dreamily, “this is the best thing I’ve done in years. Bread’ll do it, kid. A little flour, a dash of water and a couple of wires. It’s my last official act.” His voice boomed louder.

“Shut up!” Norman whispered savagely. He sat on the edge of his bunk, fear, hatred and rage making his heart beat faster until he thought he’d faint. The muscles of his left thumb and left big toe throbbed painfully. It was like a warning. He drew deep breaths to calm himself.

He wanted to fly at Ventura with his scrawny arms and shoulders, to scream, to rant and rave. He was going to escape if it killed him. And when he did he was going to find a gun and use it on anybody who got in his way. He was going to use his head instead of his emotions. He was going to think before he leaped. He was going to be calculating, that’s what.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll give it another try tomorrow. You sure you’re ready with old needlenose?”

Surprised, Ventura gave him a long grin.

“You’ll make it, kid,” he said. “If I was a bettin’ man I’d put all my roll on you.”

Norman lay back and folded his arms behind his head. In fifteen minutes they’d march out to mess and then the long night. He knew he wouldn’t sleep a wink. He’d listen to the night sounds, Ventura’s snores and groans, and an occasional yelp that cut across the cell block like an animal in distress. He’d sweat and shiver, be confident, shake with fear, all in their turn but he knew that in the morning he’d put the special laundry bag in place and in the early afternoon he’d sneak inside the truck. If he got by the first gate he most likely would make it. If he did and Ventura’s art work passed the test he’d be in Detroit and out of it before the alarm. And that was all he’d need to get to Mort Kane’s place in Buffalo.

Before he realized what was happening it was morning. He had slept like a baby. His heart leaped in his throat at the sounds of morning. The thunderous stir and shuffle of many feet, the clanging of steel as the switch went down and the mile long grating swung up. Ventura was hanging over his bunk with his mouth slack. Fear swept through Norman like ice water. If Ventura had died during the night he was finished. Stunned he stood over the thick bulk of the artist. Ventura groaned. Norman gripped him by the shoulder. Ventura opened a bloodshot eye and swung to his feet. Sleepily, he brushed the kid’s head with his paw. “Use your head,” he muttered. Then he grinned. “You got two heads, kid. Two heads are better than one.”

Smitty was back on the job. The others were ribbing him about dogging it the day before. Smitty was cursing the medical profession but it was the usual gripe. Smitty was a trusty with a good record. Norman avoided everybody as much as possible as he usually did on the theory that the less conspicuous he was the less apt he was to be noticed. In the late morning when the men were getting hungry he put his specially made sack in the deepest part of the truck. The sack was a double one with padding between that bulged out here and there like an ordinary filled sack. The only difference was that Norman could fit into it. Once inside he could draw the ropes down, tie a knot, and let the draw ropes out again. And with a knife ready to slit the bag in a hurry, all he had to do was lie still and keep his fingers crossed.