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

“Shut up for a minute,” the little lawyer said absently. “Who would want to cripple your sales force? You have any competition in this little con game of yours?”

Gunderson colored. “It’s not a con game. But I do have a competitor.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Tru-Val Subscriptions,” Gunderson said.

Malone sighed. “That’s a strange name for a man,” he remarked. “What do they call him for short? Troovie?”

“That’s the company name, Malone. The man’s name is Harold Cowperthwaite.”

Malone looked around vacantly. He could understand the murder of door-to-door salesmen, especially if such murder were performed by dissident customers. But he didn’t want to understand, not now. He didn’t want the case at all.

“Malone? Here’s a check. Twenty-five hundred dollars. I’ll have another check for twenty-five hundred for you when you clear this up. Plus expenses, of course. Will that be sufficient?”

Malone took the check and found a place for it in his wallet. He nodded pleasantly at Gunderson and watched the man leave the City Hall Bar, walking with a firm stride, arms swinging, chest out. Then he looked around until he found Joe the Angel again and pointed to his empty glass. It was, he decided, time to begin piling up expenses for Gunderson.

Harold Cowperthwaite was not helpful. He looked as sickly as Gunderson looked vigorous, and was just about as much fun to be with. Malone decided that he disliked them both equally.

“—incredible accusation!” Cowperthwaite had just finished shouting. “A couple of his doorbell punchers keel over and he blames me for it! Blames me for everything! Ought to sue him for libel! Serve him right!”

Malone sighed, wishing the little man wouldn’t talk exclusively in exclamation points. “Then you didn’t kill them,” he suggested.

“Kill them!” boomed Cowperthwaite. “Course I didn’t kill them! I wanted to kill anybody I’d kill Gunderson! Know what I think, Malone?”

Malone was totally unprepared for the question mark. “Hmmm,” he said. “What do you think?”

“Think he killed ’em himself!” Cowperthwaite shouted. “Throw suspicion on me! Make trouble for me! People bothering me all the time!”

“Oh,” said Malone. “No, he couldn’t have done that.”

“No?”

“Of course not,” Malone said. “He’s my client.”

Cowperthwaite’s words followed the lawyer out of the door marked Tru-Val Subscriptions. Malone managed to close the door before the man reached the exclamation point. It was, he decided, a day for small triumphs.

“The way I see it,” von Flanagan said, “we wait until he kills another one. Then maybe he leaves a clue.”

“He?” Malone said, lost. “Who he?”

“The killer,” the big cop said. “The bird who killed Littleton and the others without leaving a trace. Pretty soon he’ll find another magazine salesman and kill him. Maybe we get lucky and catch him in the act. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“For everybody but the magazine salesman,” Malone agreed. “You don’t seem to be taking much of an interest in this one. Something wrong?”

“Plenty,” von Flanagan said. “For one thing, it’s an impossible one to solve. For another, I don’t want to solve it.”

“Why not?”

Von Flanagan shook his head wearily. “Malone,” he said, “have you ever had a run-in with a magazine salesman? Have you ever had one of those little monsters stick his foot in your door and tell you how much you needed his rotten magazines? Have you, Malone?”

Malone nodded.

“They should kill every last one of them,” von Flanagan said. “I mean it, Malone. Anybody kills a magazine salesman he deserves a medal.”

Malone sighed. “The case,” he reminded von Flanagan. “Let’s talk about the case. Tell me all about it. Everything.”

“There’s not much to tell,” von Flanagan said, relaxing into a chair. “This Littleton is thirty-three years old, has a wife and two kids. One is a boy and the other—”

“—is a girl,” Malone guessed.

“You know the story? Then why bother me?”

“I’m sorry,” Malone said, sorry. “Please go on.”

“He’s a hustler,” said von Flanagan. “Holds down two jobs at once. Works real hard. Sells magazines evenings for this Gunderson character and works nine to five in a garage. Hasn’t got any money, though. He’s had a tough run of luck lately. Doctor bills, things going wrong with the kids, you know. But he’s not in debt either. A good, steady guy. A guy you might like if he wasn’t a magazine salesman.”

“The crime,” Malone said gently.

“Murder,” von Flanagan said. “Not by the wife, either. I thought of that, Malone. I didn’t want to because she’s such a sweet little woman. A doll. But she was upstairs with the kids at the time. The kids said so. They wouldn’t lie. Too young to lie.”

Malone lit a cigar. “He was shot by somebody inside the house?”

Von Flanagan nodded. “At close range,” he said. “It almost looked as though the killer wanted to make it look like suicide. But he didn’t try very hard. No powder burns, for one thing, and the gun was lying near Littleton’s left hand. And he was right-handed. We checked.”

“Clever of you,” the lawyer said. “So it was murder, and not by the wife. How about the other salesmen? Tallmer and Prince and Kirkenberger?”

“Kirschmeyer,” von Flanagan corrected. “That’s the funny part of it. Tallmer was a typical hit-and-run. Prince and Kirschmeyer look more like accidents than most accidents. But with them all coming together like this—”

“I know,” Malone said gloomily. “Did Littleton have any insurance?”

“Insurance?” von Flanagan looked lost. “Oh,” he said. “Littleton, insurance. Yeah. A big policy. But that’s out, Malone. The wife is the only beneficiary and she’s clear. So that’s out.”

“Thanks,” Malone said. “So am I.”

“So are you what?”

“Out,” Malone said. “For a drink.”

With two double ryes under his belt and a pair of beer chasers keeping them company, Malone felt in condition to use the phone. He called Charlie Stein, a useful little man who served as Dun and Bradstreet for a world far removed from Wall Street, running credit checks for gamblers and similarly unsavory elements.

“Take your time on this one,” he told Stein. “Nothing urgent. I want to find out if there’s anything around on a man named Henry Littleton. And,” he added sadly, “there probably isn’t.”

“You’re wrong,” Stein said. “There is.”

Malone came back to life. “Go on,” he said. “Talk to me.”

“Henry Littleton,” Stein said. “He’s into Max Hook for seventy-five grand. That all you want to know?”

“That’s impossible,” Malone said. “I mean—”

“Impossible but true.”

“Oh,” Malone said. “Well, you better cross him off, Charlie. Somebody shot him in the head.”

Malone hung up quickly, then lifted the receiver again and put through a call to Max Hook. The gambler picked up the phone almost at once. “Malone, Max,” Malone said cheerfully. “You didn’t order a hit for a guy named Henry Littleton, did you?”

“Littleton? That’s the fink who owes me seventy-five grand. Seventy-five grand he owes me and a nickel at a time he pays me. That guy.” There was a pause. Then, with the air of someone just now hearing what Malone said in the first place, Hook said: “You saying somebody chilled him?”

“This morning. It wasn’t you, was it?”

“Of course not,” Hook said. “Why kill somebody who owes me money? That doesn’t make sense, Malone.”

“I didn’t think it did,” Malone said pleasantly. “Just checking, Max.” He put the receiver on the hook and made his way back to the bar.