Jay Carroll - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 4, August 1957 (British Edition)

I was shocked by her outburst. “What on earth do you mean?”

“He’s hardly touched me for months. He’s been like a stranger.” She shivered, in spite of the warm room. “I’m frightened, Cory. I don’t want you to find out any more. I want you to tear up that pawn ticket and forget about the whole thing.”

“You know I can’t do that. Look — you’ve had a rough time for the past few hours, and now the shock’s beginning to wear off. You’re starting to feel again. That’s good, even if it is hard on you.”

“I know — I’m sorry for the — outburst.” She sighed and brushed the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand. “I loved Ralph, and I just can’t believe it’s ended this way. It started out so good.”

She went to the little black lacquered cellarette in the corner of the room and extracted a bottle of brandy and two glasses. “I think I’ll have that drink now. I don’t like to drink alone.”

The brandy helped. Her eyes lost their haunted look, and her lips even curved in a faint, slow smile. I was seeing her now as a beautiful and desirable woman, instead of as the wife of a friend. Her feminine ego had taken a terrific beating, from what she had told me. So, I kissed her again. She was warm and alive in my arms.

“I’m glad you came here, Cory,” she whispered. “You’ve made me feel almost human again.”

I picked up my hat and topcoat. The rain-drenched street and the diamond bracelet didn’t seem nearly as important as the revelation left behind me in Muriel’s apartment. But I had work to do.

“I’ll call you to-night,” I said from the doorway. “You go to bed and get some sleep...”

The inquest was at 3.30. If I hurried, I thought, I’d probably be able to make it. Although I had known who Anthony Lorio was for a long time, I had never had the dubious pleasure of meeting him.

He had obviously been treated as a special guest of the City Police Department. The Oxford-grey flannel suit looked like Brooks Brothers to me, and the white shirt was fresh and immaculate. He carried a black topcoat, draped expensively over his arm, and a black homburg. A diamond the size of my little finger nail glittered on his freshly manicured left hand.

The only incongruous note to the whole sartorical picture was the white bandage which was pasted on the right side of his elegantly barbered black hair, and the long blue bruise which extended down from his temple under his right eye. He was about forty, and his slim, well-muscled figure indicated a rowing machine, a good masseur and, maybe, a little weight-lifting on the side.

It was open and shut. Lorio gave most of the testimony, telling how he had come into his apartment and flicked the light switch, to have nothing happen until the two men jumped him in the hallway. One had wielded the blackjack, but not until after Lorio had pulled his gun and fired three shots into the darkened room. When he came to, he had staggered to the phone and called the police. Then, while he was waiting, he found out the light bulbs had all been unscrewed from the lamps in the living room, dining room and hall.

“Was the room absolutely dark, Mr. Lorio?” The Coroner asked unctuously.

“There was a dim night light still on in the hall,” Lorio answered in clipped syllables that bore only the slightest trace of alien accent. “It’s one of those little lights that plug into the wallsocket. I keep it on all the time at night. They had evidently left it on, so as to be able to see what they were doing, but it wasn’t bright enough to distinguish much more than general objects.’”

Mrs. Lorio had been out of town, visiting friends, so no one else was in the apartment, the gambler continued. She had returned that morning, however. The only other people in the building had been two porters, who were cleaning in the club, and they hadn’t heard the disturbance.

“Did you get to see enough of the man who got away to be able to describe him?” the Coroner asked.

“No. Both men were only dim shapes. It wasn’t until after I got the lights on that I knew I had hit one of them.

“Kingston was lying on the floor in the living room, just inside the door,” Lorio said. “His Detective Special was still in his hand. There was no sign of the blackjack, so evidently the man who got away had taken it.”

“Where was the money?”

“In the inside pocket of my jacket. The second man evidently got scared when he found out Kingston had been hit. So he beat it without searching me.”

The testimony concluded with the information that Kingston had been shot three times in the chest with bullets identified as coming from Lorio’s .32 Baretta — that he had been facing Lorio, about six feet from him, when he was shot, and that his own gun was drawn but not fired.

The verdict was in, almost before the jurors went out. It was obvious their collective minds were already made up. It was justifiable homicide, with a recommendation that Lorio be released immediately, and no charges made.

I didn’t particularly want to see Ralph Kingston, but, after the inquest was over, I forced myself to withdraw the sheet and look at him. It wasn’t that I minded looking on death. I had seen a lot of it, too damn much on beachheads up and down Italy during the war. I had seen the horror of it and the finality of it, I had smelled the putrefaction of it, until a dead man was just another object to be got out of the way.

But Ralph Kingston was a man I had known for ten years. I knew that he had liked his steaks cooked rare, preferred cognac to straight bonded bourbon, knew the kind of women he liked. I knew how he had dreamed of a day when he could have a little ranch in the lush, fertile bayou country, and raise purebred cattle and a few racehorses. Ralph wasn’t a violent man — he was a good cop, who did his job well, but his heart wasn’t in it.

He could have been asleep. His blond hair was crisp and curly, slightly disarranged as it always was. His lean face was smooth and unlined, and I noticed, for the first time, that he had incredibly long eyelashes for a man. But there was no evidence of that last violent struggle before death blotted out everything it had taken 33 years of living to build. There was no hint of what had precipitated his final headlong flight to oblivion.

There was only one thing I knew for certain. If Ralph had been framed, I was going to clear him. It was my duty as his friend to leave his name clean, if he was innocent. That was the least I could do.

I knew where I had to start. Why would a man like Lorio want to frame Kingston? If there was a frame, it had to start with Lorio. I could only think of two reasons. One would be something in connection with Ralph’s business as a cop — the other might have something to do with Ralph’s indifference to his beautiful and loving wife for the past few months.

I caught a cab and rode through the grey dusk to the Times-Picayune building. I might find what I wanted to know in the City Directory, and, if not, some checking of the newspaper files should produce results. I found it in the City Directory — Mrs. Lorio’s first name was Anita.

I went on up to the editorial offices and located a friend of mine named Tommy Drake, who wrote a gossip column. Tommy knew the ins and outs of the city’s night life like nobody else in town. I was sure he’d know a lot about the Lorios.

It was too early for him to begin his evening rounds, and I found Tommy with his feet propped up on his desk and his hat pulled down over his eyes. He was snoring gently. The rest of the place was practically deserted.

I flipped the brim of his hat so that it fell down over his face. He jumped as if he had been shot. Then, when he saw me, he grinned, yawned and rubbed his hand over his blond, slightly bald head.