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

“Is that the first time you saw the gun, son?”

“No, no.” He turned to look me full in the face. “Perry sent it home a long time ago. Before he was killed, even. One of his buddies brought it to us.”

“Uh-huh. Go on, son.”

“Well, then we found the bullets in the box. I...”

“You didn’t know the bullets were there before this?”

“No.” Again, Jeffrey stared at me. “No, we just found them today.”

“Did you know where the gun was?”

“Well... yes.”

“You said you found it, though. You didn’t mean that, did you, son?”

“Well, I knew it was in the attic someplace because that’s where Mom put it. I didn’t know just where until I found it today.”

“Oh, I see. Go on, please.” Ed looked at me curiously, and then returned his interest to the boy.

“We found the bullets, and I took one from one of the magazines, just to fool around. I stuck it into the gun and then all at once the gun went off and... and... Ronnie... Ronnie...”

The kid turned his face away, then threw himself onto the pillow.

“I didn’t mean to do it. Honest, honest. The gun just went off. I didn’t know it would go off. It just did. I loved my brother. I loved my brother. Now there’s just me and Mom, just the two of us. I didn’t want it to happen. I didn’t!”

“Sure, son,” I said. I walked to the bed and sat down beside him. “You liked your brother a lot. I know. I have a brother, too.”

Ed gave me another curious look, but I continued to pat the kid’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “I did like him. I liked Perry, too, and he was killed. And now... now this. Now there’s just me and Mom. They’re all gone. Dad, and Perry, and... and... Ronnie. Now we’re all alone.” He started bawling again. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t wanted to play with that old gun...”

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “Accidents happen. They happen all the time. No one could possibly blame you for it.”

His tears ebbed slowly, and he finally sat up again. “You know it’s not my fault, don’t you?” he asked solemnly.

“Yes,” I said. “We know.”

He tried to smile, but failed. “It was just an accident,” he repeated.

“Sure,” I said. I picked myself off the bed and said, “Let’s go, Ed. Nothing more for us here.”

At the door, I turned to look at Jeffrey once more. He seemed immensely relieved, and he smiled when I winked at him. The smile was still on his mouth and in his eyes when we left him.

It was cold in the Merc, even with the heater going.

We drove in silence for a long time, and finally Ed asked, “All right, what was all that business about?”

“What business?”

“First of all, that brother routine. You know damn well you’re a lousy, spoiled only child.”

“Sure,” I said. “I wanted to hear the kid tell me how much he loved all his brothers.”

“That’s another thing. Why the hell did you cross-examine the kid? Jesus, he had enough trouble without your...”

“I was just wondering about a few things,” I said. “That’s all.”

“What kind of things?”

“Well, the clipping about the little boy who accidentally killed that girl, for one. Now why do you suppose any kid would save a clipping like that?”

“Hell,” Ed said, “you know how kids are. It probably caught his fancy, that’s all.”

“Probably. Maybe the Luger magazines caught his fancy, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“The kid said he found those magazines for the first time today. He said he took a cartridge from one of the clips and stuck it into the gun. Tell me how he managed to handle a dust-covered magazine without smearing any of the dust?”

“Why, he...” Ed hesitated.

“He didn’t, that’s the answer. He took that bullet from the clip a long time ago, Ed. Long enough ago for the box and the magazine to acquire a new coat of dust. This was no spur-of-the-minute job. No, sir, not at all.”

“Hey,” Ed said suddenly. “What the hell are you trying to say? You mean the kid did this on purpose? You mean he actually killed his brother? Murdered him?”

“Just him and Mom now, Ed. Just the two of them. No more Dad, no more big brother, and now no more little brother.” I shook my head, and stared at my own breath as it clouded the windshield.

“But just take it to a judge,” I added. “Just take the whole fantastic thing to a judge and see how fast he kicks you out of court.”

Ed glanced at me quickly, and then turned his eyes back to the road.

“We’ll have to watch that kid,” I said, “maybe get him psychiatric care. I hate to think what would happen if he suddenly builds up a dislike for his mother.”

I didn’t say anything after that, but it was a cold ride back to the station.

Damned cold.

A glittering stone and a beautiful blonde — and Hagen wanted them both; wanted them badly enough to kill for them.

Thick sticky heat came gushing from the Indian Ocean, closed in on Ceylon, and it seemed to Clayton that he was the sole target. He sat at the bar of a joint called Kroner’s on the Colombo waterfront, and tried vainly to cool himself with gin and ice. It was Saturday night and the place was mobbed, and most of them needed baths. Clayton told himself if he didn’t get out soon, he’d suffocate. But he knew he couldn’t walk out. If he walked out, he’d be killed.

It was a weird paradox. A man who feared violent death would never come near Kroner’s, let alone sit at the bar with his back to the tables. The place was a hangout for agents who dealt in violence, a magnet for thugs and muggers and professional murderers. They’d tackle any job for money or its equivalent in opium, and because they had nothing to lose they were afraid of nothing. Except one element. The element was Kroner.

And Kroner was Clayton’s friend, the only friend he had. That was why he felt safe here. Two days ago he’d managed to sneak in from the interior of Ceylon, had told Kroner about the blue treasure, the huge sapphire he’d found in the earth. Kroner had smiled and said he ah ready knew about it. This kind of news traveled fast in Colombo.

Kroner hadn’t asked to see the sapphire. He wasn’t interested in sapphires. He placed a premium on friendship, he always said, and his prime concern was the welfare of his friends. Built short and wide and completely bald, the fifty-year-old Dutchman was a quiet-spoken man whose sentimental nature was a soft veneer. Under it, there were rock-hard muscles and the ferocity of a water-buffalo.

He’d given Clayton a room upstairs, and promised to make arrangements for passage on the next available boat out of Colombo. Until that was accomplished, he emphasized, Clayton must stay here and not worry and not do anything foolish.

Clayton wondered if he could handle the latter item. In the course of his life he’d made countless impulsive moves, some of them absurdly foolish. Now, at twenty-nine, his appetite for danger was tempered with a grim hunger to stay alive.

He was a medium-sized man, built like a fast welterweight, the build nicely balanced for power and agility. A long time back he’d boxed professionally, and his face showed it. But despite the marks, it was a face that women liked to look at. They didn’t seem to mind the broken nose and the scar tissue above the eyes. And Alma used to put her lips against the scars, and when she did it, she purred. He was remembering the sound of it, the way she purred. His mouth hardened with bitter memory.