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

So I got a little more from Hooko. By four o’clock in the afternoon I’d made a few more enemies, and one gunsel had spit through his teeth at me, and maybe he’d do it again, but he sure wouldn’t do it through teeth. I’d been a real rip-roaring wildcat, all right, and a lot of the things I did I wouldn’t have done on an ordinary day, but this was no ordinary day — and I’d got what I wanted, even more than I’d expected.

And one thing was sure: There was a new rumble in the back rooms and bars and hangouts now, the grapevine was twitching and hoodlums and hipsters were bending ears all over town. The question now wouldn’t be: What’s Scott going to do about it, but Who’s gonna get killed? The canaries would feel a little better, and keep on singing, but I wondered what Cannon and Tinkle and Artie would be thinking now. Because they’d be on the grapevine too; they’d know I was throwing a lot of weight around, leaning on them, even though they wouldn’t know for sure what I’d learned or what I was going to do next. But Cannon would know by now that I figured on killing him.

I’d found out for damn sure what I’d already been sure of, that Cannon and Tinkle and Artie were the boys who’d been pulling the ten-to-two jobs — and most important of all I learned there was a job set up for tonight. If the job went through, there’d be four of us in on it; if it didn’t, I’d try another way. From bits and pieces I’d made my plan. From Hooko I found out, among a lot of unimportant things, that Artie Payne was called the “Professor” because he had such a valuable think-pot, and because he’d been librarian at Folsom for three years; from Slip I learned the Professor had worked in the Westinghouse labs from the time he was twenty-six till he was thirty-four, and he’d naturally learned a lot about lighting, all kinds of lighting and lights. I already knew Tinkle, the Cowboy, had been a locksmith. And I figured, from personal experience, that Cannon could break a man’s neck with one blow of his big fist if he hit him squarely with his three-hundred pounds behind it. It was adding up, fitting together.

At two-thirty in the afternoon I put in a third phone call to Lois. I’d called her a second time at one, but there hadn’t been any answer then either. So I hadn’t seen or talked to her since that sad moment when she’d said, “Why, Cannon. What—” and I’d heard Cannon grunt as he started to swing. But I’d done a lot of wondering. I’d just about rejected any idea that she was “in” with Cannon on any of his capers — it was hardly likely she’d have showed me the hot rocks he’d handed her if she were — but whether she’d known the stones were stolen or not I didn’t know. I kind of leaned toward the idea that what she’d told me last night was true: that she hadn’t known and hadn’t wanted to know; the implication being that the snake-eyed hoop was a damned handsome chunk of sparkles, and she hoped it was clean. And the word I’d got from the boys around town was that Lois was simply a solid tomato, on the up and up, whom Cannon was hot for. I liked it that way, because I’d begun getting somewhat steamed up about Lois myself — and I was more than a little worried about her. I thought again about how I’d felt starting for the morgue last night.

Then she answered the phone. “Lois? Uh, Shell Scott here.”

“Oh... hello, Shell.”

“You all right?”

“Yes. How about you? I saw the papers.”

“That was a frame. I’m O.K., a little stooped over, but on my feet. What happened to you after I — after I left?”

Her story was that she’d gawked at Cannon while he dumped me into my Cad, then tried to slap his eyeballs out, at least so she said, then they’d had a word battle during which she’d called him all kinds of names. After a minute or two of this, they’d finally gone back into her apartment — were there when I’d banged on the door, Cannon ready to clobber her if she’d peeped — and after my departure the fireworks continued.

She went on, “It lasted about an hour, but when he left, I told him not to come back.”

“I called you last night but your line was busy. What—”

“Even after Cannon left, he phoned me a couple times. He was so persistent, I took the phone off its hook and went to bed.”

I was quiet for a minute, then, “Honey, I guess you haven’t changed your opinion of me. Or, have you?”

“When I found out you were a detective I wondered if you wanted to take me out because you... let’s say, just couldn’t resist me, or if you had a detective’s reason. So naturally I was a little disappointed last night. But then I realized you were right; I knew the kind of man Cannon was, but I took the things he gave me anyway. I feel better now, though; as long as I thought he might have bought those things for me I could enjoy them. But when I knew he probably stole them, naturally I gave them back.”

“You what?”

“I gave them back to him. Last night.”

“You what?”

“Well... he suggested it, and I was afraid not to. And I didn’t want them any more, anyway.”

I ground my teeth together. Right now’ I wasn’t nearly as interested in the jewelry itself as I was in getting the guys who had lifted it, but I should at least have wrapped up that bracelet last night. I was even starting to wonder what could have made me so stupid as to leave the thing loose, when I remembered it was Cannon who’d made me so stupid. It was just another reason to hate him, and maybe before long it wouldn’t make any difference.

I said, “Honey, listen. You shooed Cannon out last night, but do you think he’d jump at the chance to come back? If he has any sense he would.”

“This might sound egotistical, but I’m sure he would. He was practically on his knees when he left. But—”

“What would you say if I asked you to get in touch with him, tell him you’re sorry, that you’d like to see him tonight?”

It took her a while to answer that one, but she said, “All right, Shell. You’re a very strange and thorough detective, aren’t you?”

The same tone was in her voice now that had been there when I’d asked her last night to wear the bracelet. I started to explain everything, then made myself shut up. It wouldn’t be any good that way. And I wondered for a moment if she could possibly be conning me. I said, “You’ll do it then?”

“When am I supposed to see him and where are we going?”

“Never mind where you’re going. But you want to see him around ten.”

“All right. Goodbye.”

“Hey, I called earlier this morning but couldn’t get you. What—”

“Believe it or not, I was buying some rhinestones.”

She hung up. I hung up. By four-fifteen I’d finished all the checking in town I was going to do. It was quite a trio I’d been checking on: The Professor was the brain, the Cowboy was the Houdini, and the Cannon was the muscle and boss. From Hooko, who had long known Cannon well, I’d learned that he should have been called No-Cannon Cannon, because he never carried a gun; Artie and Cowboy Tinkle always kept their arms warm with heaters. I had talked to a man named Sylvester Johnson, who lived next door to the attorney who’d been killed, beaten and shot during a burglary. Sylvester’s story, condensed: “Yes, sir, that night we were sitting out back by the barbecue pit, drinking beer. No, we didn’t see or hear anything till Mr. Drake came home. He parked his car and went inside. About a minute after he turned on the lights we heard a shot. Called the police. No, didn’t see anybody leave. Glad to help.”

I’d checked the dates of all nine reported robberies — and Diane’s — against weather-bureau records. They’d all been pulled off on moonless or overcast nights. All between, roughly, ten and two. If people were going to be out, they’d be gone by ten; and often they were home shortly after the bars closed. A heavy fog was predicted for tonight.