Тэлмидж Пауэлл: Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 1, January, 1957

“Sure, Phil,” the kid said.

Phil had a hard time getting a taxi. When he did, he gave the driver the Manhattan address of a garment house on lower Seventh Avenue.

There was a girl behind the frosted glass cage on the fifth floor, and she was pretty snippy.

“I want to see Marty Hirsch,” Phil said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hirsch is in conference—”

“Don’t give me that conference junk. Just pick up your little phone and tell him a good friend from Brooklyn Heights is here. He’ll know who it is.”

The girl’s nose tilted up, but she made the call.

The man who hurried out to see Phil was short and paunchy. He was in shirtsleeves, and his sunset-colored tie was hanging loosely around his neck.

“Er, hello,” he said nervously, looking towards the switchboard. “Look, Phil, suppose we can talk in the hallway? I got a customer inside.”

“What’s the matter, Marty? Ashamed of your friends?”

“Please, Phil!”

In the hallway, the garment man said: “Look, I told you never to come here.” He wiped sweat from his face. “It doesn’t look good, for both of us. We should do all our business by phone.”

“You don’t understand,” Phil said. “I ain’t got nothin’ hot for you to buy. I’m out of that business, Marty.”

“Oh? So what is it then?”

“I just want a little favor, Marty. For an old pal.”

The small eyes narrowed. “What kind of favor?”

“You got a big uniform department. Right?”

“Yeah. So what? Army and Navy stuff. Things like that. So what do you want?”

“A uniform,” Phil said easily. “That’s all. A cop uniform. Only it’s gotta be good.”

“Now look, Phil—”

“Don’t give me a hard time, Marty. We got too long a friendship. I want to play a joke on a friend of mine. You can fix me up with something, can’t you?”

The garment man frowned. “I’ll tell you what. I got here some stock models. Only they’re not so new, and they ain’t got no badges. And no gun, you understand.”

“Don’t worry about that. I got the potsy. Will this uniform pass? I mean, if another cop saw it?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. It’ll pass. I’m telling you.”

“Swell. Then trot it out, Marty.” The man looked doubtful, so Phil added: “For the sake of a friend, huh?”

Phil walked out into the street with the large flat box under his arm, feeling that he was getting somewhere. Then he waved a cab up to the curb, and gave him the cross streets where Davy Wyatt had killed the bank messenger.

It was chancey, but worth it. He didn’t know whether the blonde was cooling her high heels in a police station, or just knee-deep in cops guarding her at her own apartment house.

He knew the answer the minute he stepped out of the cab. There was a police car parked at the opposite curb, and two uniformed patrolmen were gabbing near the front entrance of the blonde’s residence.

He looked up and down the street until he found what he was looking for. There was a small restaurant with a red-striped awning. He walked up to it briskly, and saw it was called: ANGIE’S. He glanced at the menu pasted to the window, then pushed the door open.

He surveyed the room, and it looked good. The men’s john was in a hallway out of the main dining room, and there was a side exit that would come in handy when he made the switch in clothing.

There weren’t many customers. Phil took a table near the hall, and placed his package on the opposite chair. A bored waiter took his order. After being served, Phil chewed patiently on a dish of tired spaghetti. Then he paid his check and went into the john.

He changed swiftly, in a booth. Then he put the clothes he’d taken off inside the box and tied the string tight. He pinned the badge to his shirt, and dropped the .38 into the police holster.

Leaving by the side door, he dropped the box into one of the trash cans near the exit.

Then he crossed the street nonchalantly, headed straight for the apartment house.

“Hi,” he said, to the two cops out front. “You guys seen Weber?” Weber was a precinct lieutenant that Phil knew only too well.

“Weber? Hell, no. Was he supposed to be here?”

“I thought so. I’m from the Fourth Precinct. We got a call from him awhile ago. We picked up somebody last night, on a B and E; might be one of the guys you’re looking for.”

“Search me,” one of the cops said. “What do you want us to do about it?”

Phil swore. “I don’t know what to do myself. Sendin’ me on a wild goose chase. He was supposed to be here by now.”

“Can’t help you, pal.” The other cop yawned widely.

“Dame in her apartment?” Phil asked casually.

“Yeah,” the second cop answered. “Lying down.” He snickered. “I wouldn’t mind sharing the bunk.”

“Maybe I better talk to her. I got the guy’s picture. Maybe she can tell me something.”

“I donno.” The first cop scratched his cheek. “We ain’t heard nothing about that.”

“What the hell,” the second one said. He turned to Phil. “She’s in Four E.”

“Okay,” Phil said. He started into the house. “If Weber shows up, you tell him I’m upstairs. Right?”

“Right.”

He shut the door behind him, stood there long enough to let out a relieved sigh. Then he stepped into the automatic elevator, punched the button marked Four.

On the fourth floor, he rapped gently on the door marked E.

“Yeah?” The woman’s voice sounded tired, but not scared. “Who is it?”

“Police,” Phil said crisply. “Got a picture for you lady.”

“What kind of a picture?” Her voice was close to the doorframe.

“Guy we picked up last night. Maybe the one we’re lookin’ for.”

He could hear the chain being lifted; the door was opened. Close up, the blonde wasn’t as young or as lush as he had imagined. She was wearing a faded housecoat of some shiny material, clutching it around her waist without too much concern for the white flesh that was still revealed.

Phil stepped inside and took off his cap. “This won’t take long, lady.” He closed the door.

She turned her back on him and walked into the room. He unbuttoned the holster without hurry, and lifted the gun out. When she turned around, the gun was pointed dead center. She opened her mouth, but not a sound came out.

“One word and I shoot,” Phil said evenly. He backed her against a sofa, and shot a look towards the other room. “What’s in there?”

“Bedroom,” she said.

“Move.”

She cooperated nicely. She stretched out on the bed at his command — and smiled coyly. She must have figured he wanted something else besides her death. Then he picked up a pillow and shoved it into her stomach;

“Hold that,” he said.

She held it. Then he shoved the gun up against it and squeezed the trigger. She looked surprised and angry and deceived, and then she was dead.

The sound had been well muffled, but Phil wanted to be sure. He went to the window that faced the street and looked down. The two cops were still out front, chewing the fat complacently. He smiled, slipped the gun into the holster, and went out.

The cops looked at him without too much interest.

“Well?” the first one said.

“Dames,” Phil grinned. “Says she knows from nothing. Weber’s gonna be awfully disappointed.” He waved his hand. “I’m goin’ back to the precinct. So long, guys.”

They said, “So long,” and resumed their gabbing.

Phil rounded the corner. There was a cab at the hack stand. He climbed into the back.

“What’s up, officer?” the hackie grinned. “Lost your prowl car?”

“Don’t be a wise guy.” He gave him the address and settled back into a contented silence, thinking about the money.