D. Champion - Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 30, No. 2 — July 1947)

The druggist shook his head.

“Does it look like the guy who was in here a year ago?”

The druggist looked anxiously. “Some, but that fellow had a mustache — a little, hair-line one.”

Burke jammed the cigar in his mouth. Taking out a pencil, he quickly sketched a mustache on the photo. “Is that him?” The druggist studied the altered picture. “No.” “Sure?” “Yes.”

Impatiently, Burke put the photograph away. “You better show downtown at ten in the morning. We got some suspects for you to look at.”

The druggist nodded wearily. Burke stood there for a second, eyeing me, “What happened to you?” he asked, indicating my jaw with his cigar. I rubbed the sore spot and a speck of dried blood came off on my hand. I didn’t say anything and Burke, growling, asked the question again. He had a low boiling point. Well, so did I. I started a smart answer, but the druggist’s eyes stopped me.

“I was in an argument,” I said.

“Looks like you tost it,” Burke snorted.

I glanced at the druggist. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

Burke stood in the doorway. To the druggist, he said: “You be there at ten A.M.” To me, he said: “Better be careful about getting into arguments.” He left. The druggist was relieved but I was burning.

“Look.” I said, “I came in here for some tobacco.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, smiling. “It’s on the house.”

I slapped my money on the counter. “The hell it is. Who do you think I am — Burke?”

“Oh, no, I...”

I pushed the tobacco in my pocket and walked out. The druggist knew damn well I wasn’t Burke, And he also knew damn well that the photograph Burke showed him wasn’t of any guy who had been in there a year ago or five months ago. It was a perfect likeness of a guy who had been there ten minutes ago — Broken Nose.