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

“Because he was a threat. He was potentially dangerous, the only witness that could identify the man who cleaned out your box. You were out on parole, Max. You had learned the box was empty. You were about to investigate. You had started the ball rolling. The heat was on. Kevin Graham was weak. That’s why he fell for their scheme in the first place. He was the kind of man who melted under pressure. They knew that. They couldn’t afford to wait. He had to be eliminated without delay. And so it was done last night. He was killed in front of his new house, the house he bought with your money, Max.”

“Then you know who did it,” Hadley said.

“Sure,” I said.

Hadley moistened his lips. “Who?”

I pointed my finger at him. “You.”

Max didn’t say a word. His eyes were frozen, divided between us.

Hadley exhumed a thin, stilted smile. “What are you trying to say, Jordan?”

“I’m not trying to say anything. I’m saying it. It was you, Hadley. You cooked up the whole scheme, engineered it and executed it.”

He shot a quick glance at Max, who sat, muscles tensed, like a leopard coiled up to spring. Hadley laughed once, without humor. “A very fanciful conclusion, Jordan.”

“Is it?” I said. “You gave yourself away last night when Max brought me up to his room. ‘I found him,’ Max said. ‘You were right.’ Right about what, Hadley? That I was out with Lucille? Sure. You told Max where to wait. But how did you know?”

Bull’s-eye! A muscle twitched in his jaw and his eyes narrowed.

“Because you wrote the script and produced the show. You told Lucille to call me. You told her to invite me into the lobby. You wanted Max to think I had double-crossed him, that I’d stolen his securities and was waltzing around with his wife. You knew Max had a gun. You knew he had a temper. Anything might happen. If I’d caught a bullet, it would have been perfect. Max would get the chair and all your problems would be over. If not, what the hell, there were other ways.”

Hadley appealed to Max. “The man is out of his mind.”

Nothing came out of Max. Not a sound. His face was carved in wood. His eyes were a pair of knives aimed at the lawyer.

Hadley’s smile went lopsided. “How about the key?” he said. “Nobody can get into a safe deposit box without a special key.”

“I was waiting for you to ask that,” I said. “How about it, Max? Did you ever give Hadley a power of attorney to open that box?”

Nothing moved in Max’s face. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like all that pressure building up inside of him. But I couldn’t stop now.

“Because if you did,” I said, “then you must have given him a key too, and he could easily have had a duplicate made. And if you didn’t, then he probably got Lucille to sneak the key away and do it for him.”

Max dredged up one word. “Lucille?”

“Sure,” I said. “They’ve been seeing a lot of each other. I can prove it. He visits her all the time. The doorman can identify him. I wouldn’t be surprised if they put the finger on you two years ago, just to get you out of the way.”

White lumps were contracted on each side of Max’s jaw. But still he didn’t move. A runaway muscle kept twitching at his lips.

I said to Hadley, “You specialize in corporations and contracts. What the hell do you know about criminal law? You think they can’t locate a witness who saw your car in Newark? You think a microscope won’t show evidence of a collision on your bumper?”

Circumstantial evidence. Every bit of it. Nothing solid. But it was enough for Max. Suddenly, he was out of his chair in a savage lunge across Hadley’s desk. Hadley had been expecting it and he was almost ready, but not quite. His hand flashed out of his desk, holding a gun. He had time enough to pull the trigger, but not enough to take aim. The report was sharp and flat and then Max was on top of him. One mighty swipe knocked Hadley sideways out of his chair. The gun flew out of his hand and clattered to the floor.

For all his bulk Max had the agility of an animal. He kept on going right over the top of the desk, his hands reaching for Hadley’s throat. I stood up and walked around for a look.

Max’s powerful fingers had cut the flow of oxygen at Hadley’s windpipe. Dark blood congested the lawyer’s face. Gurgling sounds filtered through clenched teeth.

“All right, Max,” I said. “That’s enough. Let the law take care of him.”

Max was deaf. He didn’t even hear me.

I saw Hadley’s face change color, a cyanotic blue taking over.

“Max,” I said sharply. “Cut it out. You want to wind up in the Ossining broiler?”

He went right on squeezing the life out of Hadley.

“Max,” I said desperately.

Nothing could stop him. I reached out and yanked down one of Hadley’s beautiful green drapes and wrapped it around his onyx desk set. I picked out a spot just behind Max’s ear and swung. He didn’t even grunt. He just relaxed his grip and rolled over.

Both men were out.

I used Hadley’s telephone. I made one call to the New York police and one to the Newark police.

There was blood on Max’s left side where Hadley’s bullet had scooped a groove along his ribs. I patted Max’s pockets and found his gun. I took it and hid it behind one of the filing cabinets. It would save him from being slapped with a parole violation.

Max might be sore about my clouting him over the head. But he’d get over it.

And he’d get over Lucille too.

The telephone rang and Miss Turner awoke with a start. From the next room she could hear the outraged whimpering of her mother, a chronic invalid and a light sleeper. It was precisely 2:30 A.M.

The bell didn’t stop ringing and Miss Turner got herself focussed. She snatched up her frayed chambray robe, flipped on the hallway switch enroute, and hurried, splayfooted, down the stairs. Her hand shook on the receiver.

“Is this Phoebe?” It was a man’s voice, low and peculiar.

“Why, yes. Yes. What is it?”

There was a slight pause, then, in an amused manner, the voice declared: “You’re a piece of what goes floating down the river.” The voice didn’t leave anything to doubt. It gave the four-letter synonym.

Miss Turner stiffened. “What? What did you say?”

“I said you’re a piece of — nothing. How can you call yourself a human being? Why don’t you go drown yourself in a sewer?” The voice became sly, horrible. “How about it? Would you like me to come over and visit with you a while? You know. Real cozy?”

Miss Turner was slight, around forty, with pinched cheeks, and eyes chronically tired from working all her life in an insurance office. Completely shoaled by duties and unalluring, someone to feel sorry for. Certainly not anyone who’d receive this type of call.

Now she was fully awake and began to shriek, but she thought in time to lower her voice and avoid alarming her mother. “Who are you? What is this? Are you crazy or something?”

“Me?” the voice purred.

“Yes, you.”

“Oh, no, I'm not crazy or something.” The voice was illiterate, untrained, with a bit of a cigarette rasp around the edges, but well handled. Absolutely controlled, purposeful.

Miss Turner trembled, but suddenly felt tremendous relief as a new thought came to her. She could almost laugh. “You obviously have the wrong number.”

“Wrong number?” The voice went on purring. “This is Bedford 3-5573, isn't it?”

A film came over Miss Turner’s eyes. She couldn’t speak.