Roy Carroll - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 4, April, 1953

“And so far this has been your own, solitary venture?”

“So far, but not for long.”

“Thanks,” he said. He flipped open his jacket. He wore a belt holster. A large forty-five, competently held, looked at me. I looked back at it. “It’s pleasant to know,” he said, “that no one else, so far, has come to these conclusions. Perhaps no one else will, without prompting from you. And I’ll do what I can, within reason of course, to prevent you from prompting.”

“Easy, pal,” I said. “Would you like me to go on, or would you like to finish off the prompter, promptly? I’d suggest you wait for Calvin and his drums. He does pretty good to screen off the sound of a shot.”

“Sure,” he said pleasantly. “Go ahead. I’m not really worried about screening shots this time. We had a talk and split up, and I doubled back and found you sneaking around here, and you got tough, and I used a gun for which I have a perfectly valid license. Mrs. Malamed will verify the fact that you’ve sneaked around before.”

“Who’s going to make the speeches, pal — you or me?”

“You. For the nonce.”

“Okay. The medal. Rather valuable. You gave it to Mrs. Malamed.”

“Why?”

“Token of affection. Like a fraternity pin, or Air Force wings. You two are — how do they say it? — thataway.”

“How do you know that?”

“We’ll come to it. Let’s finish one murder first. With Malamed dead, Mrs. Malamed inherits plenty, and she cashes a two hundred thousand dollar policy. Pretty good?”

“Good, indeed.”

“So you plan it carefully. Gloves and stuff. Darkness, wild lights, Calvin Cole’s drums. You’re even smart enough to plant the gun in your own coat pocket, just in case any latent fingerprints can be developed.”

“Pretty smart yourself.”

“It began to come clear to me,” I said, “when Frankie Hines told me he had a hunch about the killer. But he wouldn’t talk. Want to know why?”

“I’m dying to know why.”

“He said he had an investment to protect. Investment. Fifteen thousand dollars that Joe owed him. Now, who would he go to for the protection of this investment? Who, Mr. Morse?”

Silence. Silence, and a black gun, and pale steady eyes.

“One person,” I said. “Only one. Claire Malamed. Who else? Then he said he was going to make one last pitch for it tonight. And he added, quote: ‘If I don’t get it — stand by for a load of information.’ ” I rubbed the flat of my palm across my mouth. “What kind of information that he could use as a crowbar to pry loose fifteen G’s? Stack that up against a heavy gold medal that little Claire treasures in her jewel box. С. M. Claire Malamed. Also, Charles Morse. It figured. He was a nosey little guy. He knew about Claire’s extra-marital romance. He knew about Claire and you. So he came to her. He said for her to pay up — and he’d shut up.”

“Blackmail.” Charles Morse made his first impulsive, involuntary statement of the night. “If she paid him once — it would never end.”

“Of course. So you followed him back to his eatery, and you let him have it. Probably out of the same forty-five you’re holding now. You’re supposed to get rid of that, Mr. Morse.”

“Right now,” he said, “it’s safest with me. There are numbers and things to be filed off before disposing of it. Please remember, this was an emergency usage.”

I grinned, suddenly, and I thumbed my nose. “Got you, pal.”

“Got me? ”

“Sure. You can’t use the gun you’re holding no matter how much you want to. It’d tie you right up to Frankie’s murder. Work your way out of that one, book critic.”

I had thrown him a curve and it confused him. He wavered. For just one instant. I had inched my way near enough to take advantage of that one instant. After all, I’m in the business. I hit his gun hand with my left and I hit his jaw with my right. The left worked. The gun splattered to the floor. The right left him gaping, but he was still on his feet. I waved the left again, big in his face, and as he ducked, the right caught him, good this time, flush on the mouth. He went down, spluttering blood. I reached for the gun — and looked up to Mrs. Claire Malamed, mink coat and all, in the doorway.

“What...?” she said.

“Downstairs, lady. You and your beautiful boy friend.”

He got up, quivering. The blood was leaking down his chin. He fluttered a hand for a handkerchief.

“Nope,” I said. “No toiletries. Downstairs, the two of you.”

The Long-Malamed’s cocktail lounge buzzed when I herded them down the white marble stairs in front of Charles Morse’s ugly black forty-five.

Ernie Schmattola’s was seething with people. I was seated thigh-close to Irene Whitney and many teacups had come and gone at our table. Suddenly, she turned and kissed me square on the lips. A long, lingering kiss.

“The hell with Yale,” she said, “You win. Three cheers for you.” Louis Parker, across the table, cleared his throat.

“Getting back to this pistol.”

“Gimme,” I said. “I’m dying to see what’s so tough to trace.”

Louis handed the gleaming nickel-plated pearl-handled thirty-eight revolver to me. He said, “Every possible mark of identification has been filed off. You trace it.”

“I’m certain I can give you the name and address of the gun’s owner within a half hour,” I said.

“Bet?”

“Yes. A dinner at the Chambord for Irene — Miss Whitney — and myself, against my contribution of one thousand dollars to the P.A.L.”

“Done,” Parker said.

At this precise moment, Melvin Long came roaring down Schmattola’s aisle, riotously gay or riotously drunk.

“Mr. Chambers,” he called.

He stood over us, his grin so wide it lifted his ears. “I found it! Stuck away in the bureau drawer beneath my shirts.”

“Found what, Mel?” I asked.

“This.” He fumbled in his coat pocket and laid a twin to the nickel-plated job beside the other. There was silence for a long moment.

“And don’t worry, Mr. Chambers. Don’t worry about the fee. You certainly earned it.”

“The fee,” I said, “I’ve just lost, Mel.”

No fee. But could I kick? I felt the pressure of Irene’s thigh again, and I decided, why hell, no, I couldn’t kick.

Alf was no psychiatrist, but it was easy to figure out a guy who was always boasting about all the women in his life.

When Gil Bratcher, the photographer, first came on the night shift, he told Alt Sweeney, the reporter, “We’ll get along all right, Sweeney. fust don’t go around covering flophouse cuttings. I hate them scabby winos. And stay out of fag joints. I hate them swishes even worse than the bottle babies. They make me sick in the gut.” On each shift, from his first one four nights ago, he usurped the wheel of the radio car and clung to it with his huge, meaty hands until morning. “I’ll tell ’em where they can stuff it if they think I’ll stay on this damned night shift,” he said.

The city — lying beyond the car like a smoked-out cigar butt, stale and dead — was wholly without compassion. Only in tomorrow’s headlines would the crimes and accidents and domestic tragedies of the night assume color and depth and the breath of life.

As if in answer to some obscure problem he had been silently considering, Gil announced emphatically, “They ought to put all them pansies and winos on an island out in the Pacific somewhere, and then drop one of them hydrogen bombs on ’em. Blast their damned guts halfway across the ocean.”