Anthony Boucher - Ed McBain’s Mystery Book, No. 1, 1960

“How will they catch him?”

“Part of it could depend on how soon they identify the body. There were no papers on him, no clue yet to who he was. Once they figure out who had a motive to kill him, the field might narrow down. Right now it’s wide open.”

“Maybe he’ll even get away with it.”

I snarled silently, glaring ahead. “Not if I... have anything... to say about it.” I was remembering what he had interrupted back there on the beach. Of all times for an ape to start sailing bodies around. And that slug in my camera had not only ruined the shots of him, but of Robbie. “I will... tear him... limb from limb,” I growled. “I will beat one half of him to death... with the other half of him.”

She purred softly, snuggled closer, and hugged my arm.

I discovered I was halfway into the left lane, driving along with a sappy smile on my face. I pulled over where I belonged. Once again I had been remembering Robbie standing on the beach, blue sea behind her — just before that other body went flying through the air. I’d gotten one look, but only one, and oh, so brief, of her standing there, pink pants in her hand. Maybe in the space of a few seconds then I had been subjected to so many sensational sensations and brain-twisting sights that it had blown a neuronic fuse in my nervous system — but something new had indeed been added.

Robbie was — and for that one super-stimulating half-second there on the sun-warmed beach had been — so absolutely stunning that now it was as though a small perfect replica of her had been heated to a white-hot sizzle and used to brand my brain. It stayed up there, about the fourth convolution over, glowing and letting off pretty sparks. It was a new experience in many ways. I could merely close my eyes and see us up there, sparking. Or, rather, see her up there. I shook my head, trying to organize my striking thoughts. But they remained disorganized.

Robbie didn’t speak again until we were on North Rossmore in Hollywood, almost to the Spartan Apartment Hotel, where I live. And where we were going. Then she said: “I was just thinking about that man, Shell. You don’t know what he looks like. But I wonder if he got a good look at you?”

I hadn’t carefully considered that angle. I pulled over to the curb, parked across the street from the Spartan. “That’s a good question,” I said.

I took the keys from the ignition, opened the car door, and stepped into the dimly-lighted street. “A disturbing question, Robbie. Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer.”

I started around to open the door on her side — and blam-blam, two quick shots, one after the other. The first one got me. It spun me to my left, banged me against the car, knocked me off balance. I fell awkwardly, turning, thudded down on my right shoulder, and rolled onto my back.

I came up again fast, yanking the .38 from under my coat, bent forward in a crouch. I didn’t even know where the shots had come from. But then I heard the slap of fast-pounding feet, a short silence, then the roar of a car’s engine, the scrape of tires sliding on asphalt.

I jumped toward the Cad, then remembered I’d had the keys in my hand. I’d dropped them, they were somewhere here in the street. I found them, but by then the guy was at least a mile away.

I swore softly, then felt over my chest and arm, near where that slug had smacked me. I didn’t know how badly I’d been hit; you seldom do for a while. But then I found the spot. The bullet had passed between my holstered gun and side, gouging out a cubic inch or two of skin and flesh. Nothing serious. My holster had taken most of the blow; that had really been what spun me around. My gun seemed all right, but the holster was ruined. Fine; that was better than me being ruined.

Robbie’s head appeared in the window on my side.

“She-ell,” she said shakily.

“It’s okay, honey. Everything’s all right. Except that sonofa — he got away.” I paused, hauled in a couple of deep breaths. “Incidentally, Robbie. That question you just asked me. Now I can answer it.”

“What... what’ll we do?”

“We’ll go up to my apartment, and have a tall, cool, potent drink.”

We did. I unlocked the door of my apartment, pointed out the tanks of tropical fish for Robbie, ignored Amelia — Robbie would inevitably lamp that yard-square nude painting I found in a pawnshop, and cherish — and showed her where the booze and ice were in the kitchenette.

“Fix us something exciting,” I said, then went into the bathroom, peeled off my coat and shirt.

The slug had chewed me up a bit, and the wound was beginning to feel unpleasant, but it wasn’t bad. Just bloody. There was quite a lot of blood.

I dunked a washrag in warm water, and right then Robbie said from behind me: “Try this.”

I turned around. She had two tall glasses in her hands. Then her eyes dropped to the side of my chest and her mouth stretched wide as if she were going to scream, though no sound came out.

Finally she said: “You’re bleeding! Shell, you’re bleeding!”

“Don’t get excited. It’s nothing to—”

“But you’re shot! You’re in pain!”

“It’s... only a little shooting pain.”

“I’ll call an ambulance.”

“Robbie, dammit. I’ve got healed scars on me more dangerous than this. Really, relax.” Her face was pale and she looked weak. I said, “Robbie, we’ll get it all fixed. But it isn’t bad — it’s just all the blood.” I grinned. “My blood, you see, is so red—”

“Are you really all right?”

“Yes. I’m just so red-blooded—”

“Come in and sit down.”

She wouldn’t let me get the conversation headed in the right direction at all. I mopped some of the blood off, clamped a towel under my arm, and went into the front room with her. She insisted we call a doctor — which I had fully intended to do anyway — so after phoning the police I called the room two doors from my own, where Dr. Paul Anson lives. Paul is a good M.D., with a very sharp eye for the ladies, and is also a very good friend of mine. He said he’d be over in a minute.

When he knocked I yelled for him to come on in and he stepped inside, pushed the door shut with his medical bag. Then he walked toward the chocolate-brown divan on which Robbie and I were sitting, and he did not see me at all. His eyes landed on Robbie and opened wide, then went back to normal, except that they had a sly little squint to them, which squint I had seen before.

Very tall, ruggedly good-looking, fired with purpose, he strode straight across the room to Robbie and said in his best bedside manner, “Well, what seems to be wrong with us, my dear?”

“I,” I said, “am what’s wrong with us.”

He looked at me and grinned. “Ah, well. What is it this time? Shot again, hit on the head, busted eardrum—”

“Your tender solicitude gags me, Doctor. Dedicated Paul Anson, swooning on the altar of humanity. ‘I swear on the holy scalpel of Hopocraxopy—’ ”

“Hippocrates?”

“You know what I mean. I’m shot. I’m bleeding to death. I feel faint, I’m getting dippy!”

“You sure are. Let’s take a look.” He examined the sliced area of my chest and side, going “Hmm,” and “Ahh,” and then said: “I think a large Band-Aid will do it. But I’ll give you an expensive shot.”

He expertly cleaned and bandaged what he referred to as my mortal wound, stuck a needle into me, keeping up a running fire of sophisticated chatter and worldly commentary — looking at Robbie all the time; he didn’t say another word to me — then had a drink with us. Just before he left — I had to tell him to get the hell out, of course — he tugged his eyes from Robbie, leaned close to my ear, and said: “You rotter, you despoiler — wait till you get my bill.”