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

But, still, he had Ella Hamilton as an alibi witness... Maybe, he’d get in touch with her. Damn it, I had no right to keep information like this from the police.

I fretted, and the rhyme ran through my mind, and the day grew warmer and more humid. This indecision is one hell of a state.

I decided, finally, to go out and park near the address Ella Hamilton had given me.

It was a lower-middle-class section of town, west of the river. I parked the Dusy about two blocks away, and walked over. I was in luck.

For, right opposite the rooming house in which she lived there was a small branch library. This library had a large, plate glass window on the street side, and I could see the reading tables behind it. I went in and read some Hemingway.

Of course, I wasn’t reading it too closely. I was playing private detective and feeling exceptionally cunning. Any moment, Byerly should have come along and sneaked up those steps to the front door. Or Juan, or Alex Randolph, or any other little, fat man who might be involved in the death of Dr. Curtis Randolph.

Nobody like that came along. There was a laundryman who went up the steps and came down again, carrying a bundle of laundry. There was a fat woman who went up, carrying a bag of groceries. She didn’t come down again, and I could deduce that she probably had enough groceries to last for some time. I might not see her again for days. There was a thin, shabby gent with a briefcase who looked like a collector to me. I’m familiar with the breed.

But there was nobody who looked sinister or suspicious or even little and fat. I went up the steps, finally, myself.

Ella Hamilton’s room was on the second floor, in front, and she was home. The room was shabby, but clean. Most all rooming house rooms are shabby, I think. But she kept this one scrupulously clean.

I tried a winning smile, and said: “I’ve been worried about you. I’ve been watching the front door.”

“About me?” She looked puzzled. “Am I in danger?”

“If Byerly isn’t the murderer,” I explained, “and the real murderer knows you’re Byerly’s alibi, it would be to his interest to — visit you, wouldn’t it?”

She looked frightened. “I never thought of that.”

“Frankly,” I went on, “I’ve been expecting Byerly. But he probably doesn’t know where you live. I’d prefer it if nobody knew where you lived. You’ve a car?”

She nodded.

There was only one person I could think of who’d have room. Doc Enright lived with a maiden aunt in a mammoth house on this side of town. He’d have room, and the maiden aunt was the hospitable sort.

I phoned Doc from the pay phone in the hall downstairs and told him what I wanted.

It was all right with him. “Some babe of yours?” he asked.

I didn’t answer that, but went up again and explained it all to Ella Hamilton. It didn’t take her long to pack. I gave her the address and told her I’d meet her over there, in front of the house.

Nobody followed her, so far as I could tell. Nobody but me, that is.

Doc phoned his aunt by the time we got there, and she was a marvel. She even made me feel at home, and I wasn’t staying. I said “so long” to Ella Hamilton and drove over to Mac’s. All the way over that silly rhyme went running through my head.

Mac was mopping out the joint. He had his shirt off, but he was still wringing wet. “What a life,” he said. “If you want beer, you’ll have to draw one yourself.”

I went behind the bar and drew a tall, cool glass of beer. There was a slip of paper on the bar with a phone number on it, and I picked it up, idly.

“Oh, that’s right,” Mac said. “Some babe in a Chev convertible left that number for Jack to call. ‘If he isn’t dead,’ she said. Now, what could she have meant by that?”

If he isn’t dead ... “I don’t know what she could mean,” I told Mac. “What’d she look like?”

“Like just another blonde to me,” Mac said. “Not anything you’d ignore in a crowd, understand, or leave your wife for. Just a blonde, just another dame.”

Mac’s cynical.

“Jack can’t be dead,” I said. “He’s being careful. He promised he’d be careful.”

“Lots of formerly careful guys are dead,” Mac said, and then he was staring at me. “Hey, Jonesy, you think—”

But I was already putting a nickel in Mac’s phone.

A man answered, and I said: “I’m looking for a blonde with a Chev coupe.”

“I’m looking for one with a Lincoln, myself,” he answered. “You’re easy to please.”

“This is important,” I told him. “I don’t know her name, but she left this number to be called, and I have to get in touch with her. It’s a matter of life and death, maybe.”

He said: “Our hat check girl here’s a blonde, and she’s got a Chev convertible. She just started day before yesterday. That the one you mean?”

“Probably,” I said. “Could I talk to her?”

“She doesn’t come on until five.”

“You got her home address?”

“Sure thing. But I don’t know you, buddy. And I’m not handing out something like that over the phone.”

“If you’ll tell me the name of the place,” I said, “I’ll come down and prove to you that it’s all right.”

He told me the name of the place, and I went over. With some, the buzzer works, and with some it doesn’t. I flashed it, just on the off chance, and it worked.

“Oh,” he said, “a detective,” and gave me the address.

It was a small, four apartment building on Ellsworth, near Hubbard. The blonde was home, and Mac was right. She was just another blonde. She told me what she meant by “if he isn’t dead.” That he would be within twelve hours, she had no way of knowing, then. And neither did I.

I spent the afternoon looking for Jack, and not finding him. I inquired at the residence of Alex Randolph and learned that the boss had gone out of town for the day, wasn’t expected home until late tonight, and nobody at the house knew where he had gone. He was just “out of town.”

Jack, I hoped, was out of town with him.

I went back to the office, but it was hot up there. I sat there for almost an hour, despite the heat, wondering if I’d get a phone call. I didn’t, and the heat grew worse. From the north, I heard the rumble of thunder. We could use some rain.

I went to the window and saw the kids below. It didn’t look much like rain, but you couldn’t be sure. I hoped it would rain. I went over to Mac’s.

I had a cheese sandwich and another beer and some words with Mac, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was feeling sick. One thing I could do, I could work, but where would I start?

I went over to the tall apartment building, finally. There was a switchboard in the lobby. There was an operator here, who kept a record of all outgoing calls, because outgoing calls cost the tenants five cents a piece, and if the tenant complained, why, there was the number and here was the day you called it.

There was the number, on a couple of days.

They’re so smooth, and then they overlook something as simple as this. They’re so clever, and then they do the dumbest, damnedest things.

In a murder, it’s best not to be smooth. In a murder, it’s best to be as impromptu as you can. It’s the careful planning that trips you up.

And all the time that silly rhyme was running through my head.

I went home and took a shower. I tried to take a nap, but that was impossible. If Alex Randolph wouldn’t be be home until late, there wasn’t much I could do. At eight o’clock, I was on Doc Enright’s front porch.

“Come in,” he said. “Come in, as the spider said. I hope you brought some money or your checkbook.”