Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 6, June, 1953

So long as men are motivated by glands and hormones, Lucille Gilian would never have to stand in a bread line. Not for a long time, anyway.

I didn’t touch her because one, she was already married, even though she and her husband were estranged, and two, she was a prospective client.

At midnight I drove her home. It was a tall apartment on Gracic Square. Light from a street lamp reflected in her eyes as she turned toward me. “Nightcap, Scott? One for the road?”

“Some other time,” I said. “How about a rain check?”

“All right.” She sounded disappointed. “But it's settled. You’ll handle my case.”

“We’ll talk about it,” I said.

She pouted. “Aren’t you going to take me to the elevator?”

“Sure.” I got out, went around, and opened the door for her. She linked her arm familiarly inside mine while I convoyed her into the lobby. I pushed the button. As I did so, I noticed a man standing in the shadows, but didn’t give it much thought.

In a low voice, half whisper, Lucille said, “Good night, Scott.”

She had moved around and was standing in front of me, very close. Her chin was tilted, her eyelids at half mast, her lips slightly parted, full and shining. It was an invitation no gentleman of breeding with red blood flowing in his veins is likely to reject. I had a little breeding and plenty of red blood and besides, I didn't want to hurt her feelings. So I reached out and gathered her in and performed on schedule.

My idea was to kiss her once, perfunctorily, and let go. Her idea was something else. She was a good technician and she took hold of me, her body up close, her mouth hungry and searching. My resolutions dissolved and I started to respond.

So the guy came out of the shadows and dropped his paw on my shoulder. His fingers dug in like the jaws of a steam shovel. A Mack truck couldn’t have spun me around with more ease. His left hand stayed on my shoulder while his right hand made an enormous fist.

A meteor swam out of nowhere and exploded in my face.

There was a roaring in my ears. My brain seemed to be sloshing around as if it were loosely anchored inside my skull. Pain knifed all the way down from the side of my chin to the heels of my feet. My knees buckled and only the hand on my shoulder kept me perpendicular. I heard his voice from a distance.

“You dirty, conniving little shyster! I ought to ram the two of you down each other’s throats.”

Lucille was crouching back against the elevator door, her knuckles plugged into her mouth, muffling a cry.

My eyes cleared and I saw him towering over me. Max Gilian, Lucille’s husband, one day out of prison on parole. A big man, Max, heavy-jawed and barrel-chested, his mouth cast in cement, unsmiling and unpleasant, bitter and grim. There was a kind of savagery in his baleful eyes. He was under a full head of steam, as if the pressure inside was too much to contain.

“Let go, Max,” I said. “It’s my fault. I made a pass. Lucille had nothing to do with it.”

The elevator door slid soundlessly open. Lucille cowered back into it, her fingers pawing frantically at the buttons. The door closed and the cab shot upward. Max released my shoulder.

I knew what ailed him, I thought. Their estrangement had left him emotionally crippled. It’s not easy being locked behind bars with memories of a woman like Lucille. A lesser man might have cracked.

But I was wrong.

“The hell with her!” he said. “It’s you I’m after.”

The gun was small, swallowed up in his huge fist. He produced it with a swift economy of motion. It prodded me ungently in the ribs.

“Outside,” he said. “Into your car. Let’s go, Jordan.”

I obeyed. You don’t argue with a loaded gun. He sat beside me in the Buick, teeth clenched, lips flat and white.

“Where to?” I asked.

“My place.” His tone was brief and curt. He didn’t feel like talking.

I said, “If they catch you with that gun, Max, you’ll go back up the river to finish your sentence. Put it away. Or better still, throw it away.”

“Shut up,” he said. “And drive. I may have to use the gun.”

I drove to the Belmore. Max had taken a suite on the fifth floor. The gun was back in his pocket when we crossed the lobby. I was thinking better now and I had a pretty good idea what was eating him. He opened the door and nudged me inside.

The light was burning and he had company. A man was seated on the sofa, smoking a long thin Havana cigar. Apparently he’d been waiting for us to get back.

Paul Hadley, attorney and counselor-at-law. An expert at probing contractual loopholes and interlocking corporations, with a good brain that knew how to get down to essentials. A slender man, dapper and impeccable, with a high scholarly forehead, intelligent eyes, a precise mouth, and the confident air of a man who knew what he wanted out of life and had the ability to get it.

I knew Hadley professionally. He was Max’s lawyer. He had handled all of Max’s problems, except when they nailed Max two years ago as one of the big wheels behind the bookmaking parlors. Then Hadley had called me in. He’d never had much experience in the criminal courts and he figured I’d be able to do more for Max than he could.

I tried. Every man is entitled to his day in court. I fought hard enough. I used every legal stratagem provided by the law and some that weren’t, to no avail. Max was guilty and they had the evidence to prove it and the jury shipped him over.

That was that.

Now he was out on parole.

“I found him,” Max said. “You were right.”

Hadley looked at me and shook his head.

Max reached out suddenly and grabbed hold of my lapels. He twisted them into a knot and lifted me six inches off the floor. I weigh a hundred and eighty pounds, and I’m six feet tall, yet my toes were actually dangling in the air.

Max’s growl became words. The words grated harshly. “Where are they, Jordan? Where did you hide them?”

“Cut it out, Max. What are you talking about?”

He loosened his grip and I landed heavily on the floor. The slip of paper he took out of his pocket was a telephone message from the hotel on a standard form. He read aloud:

“The box was empty. Jordan .”

His eyes burned at me. “I had two hundred grand in that box. Negotiable securities, bonds and stocks. What the hell do you mean, empty.”

I said, “Take it easy, Max. Slow down before you split a seam. And listen to me before you go off half-cocked. I tried to reach you on the phone, but you were out. That’s why I left the message.”

“It’s a lie—”

“No, it isn’t, Max. Let me state it simply. You’re out on parole. You’re not allowed to leave the state. You have a safe deposit box in Newark. You gave me a power of attorney to open the box and bring you the contents. You did that because Hadley here was tied up and couldn’t get away. And also because you trusted me. I’m a lawyer, Max. I wouldn’t violate that trust, not if—”

“So all lawyers are honest,” he said, bitterly.

“I never said that. This lawyer is, though. Your box was empty when I opened it, Max. Cleaned out. But not by me. Hell, if I had pulled a caper like that, I wouldn’t be here telling you about it. I’d be in Mexico somewhere, probably in Acapulco, soaking up the sun. Look at me, Max. Do I look like a pinhead? Do you honestly think I went south with your securities?”

His eyes kept burning at me through horizontal slits. He was considering possibilities. If he ever concluded with certainty that I had actually double-crossed him, payments on my insurance policy were going to fall due at once.

He was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head violently. “Two hundred grand. Down the drain.” He wheeled suddenly and faced Hadley. “What do you make of it, Paul?”