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

“Yeah?”

“You’re one of the suspects, Mr. Hines.”

“Not me, fella. They gave me that paraffin job down there, and I came out clean.”

“So did everyone else. Which sets you all up as suspects again.”

He contemplated that. “You know,” he said. “You got something there.” Then he smiled. “Only with me” — shrug — “no motive.”

“There’s a question about that.”

“Is there?”

“Did you tell the police, Mr. Hines, about your argument with Mr. Malamed?”

“Now look here—”

“Did you tell them that you threatened him?”

“Now look, fella—”

“I didn’t either, Mr. Hines.”

He sat back, a little man with shrewd eyes, and a sun-baked wrinkled face. “Why?” he said. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because, I’m not put together that way. I don’t put a man on the spot, unless the spot fits. I don’t know, yet, about you.”

“Thanks. You’re a right guy.”

“Do we talk, Mr. Hines?”

“You bet your saddle boots we do, Mr. ... Mr. ... what did you say your name was.”

“Peter Chambers.”

“You bet your boots we do, Pete. You ask the questions, pal.”

“What was the argument about?”

He brought out cigarettes, offered one to me, and we smoked. “Two months ago,” he said, “down in Florida, he went for a bundle on the hayburners. He didn’t want to wire to New York for more cabbage — didn’t want his wife to know he got cleaned. I lent him fifteen G’s.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars? Just like that?”

“Oh, I took his I.O.U. and there was a nice little piece of change for a bonus. Now, when I come back up north and present my marker, he keeps stalling me.”

“Maybe he couldn’t afford to pay?”

“He could afford it, all right.”

“How would you know?”

“There’s a lot of things I know, Mr. Chambers. I know that night club was a paying proposition. I know he lived high, wide and handsome. I know he carried two hundred thousand dollars worth of insurance for that young wife of his. And I know, only last week, he bought a five thousand dollar mink coat.”

“For his wife?”

“His wife is got a mink coat. No. For that doll, the singer, Ruth What-ever-her-name-is. I ain’t good at names, Mr. ... Mr. ...”

“Quite a guy, Mr. Joe Malamed.”

“And his partner didn’t like no part of that.”

“Melvin Long?”

“Yeah, Melvin. You want to know why?”

“I do.”

“Because that Melvin’s crazy about that chick. You know her, Ruthie?”

“No, I don’t. By the way, did you attend Long’s cocktail party a few days ago?”

“Bet your saddle boots I did. What a shindig. Why?”

“Just asking. You know a hell of a lot about these people, don’t you?”

“Know a hell of a lot more, but right now I ain’t talking. I got a fifteen-thousand-dollar investment to protect. I’m going to make one last pitch for it tonight. If I don’t get it — stand by for a load of information that’ll have your ears buzzing. Where you going to be later on?”

“Tell you in a minute.” I looked at my watch. “Hold it, huh?”

I got up and went to the phone books hanging from a hook near the booth. I checked Charles Morse’s number, and I called him. I explained the situation and asked him if I could come over for a chat. He was very cordial, informed me that he would be at home, working, for the remainder of the afternoon, and that I would be welcome at any time. I thanked him, hung up and went out to Frankie.

I said, “I’ll be on the town for maybe an hour or two. After that, home until midnight. That okay?”

“Fine. What’s the phone number?”

I wrote out my phone number and gave it to him.

“Fine,” he said, “fine. I got a hunch if I spill my information, you’re going to have your killer,

Mr. ... Mr. ...”

“Chambers.” I took back the sheet and wrote my name over the number. “Just so you don’t forget,” I said.

“You’re going to have your killer, or you’re going to come pretty close. That’s my hunch, Peter.”

“I hope you’re right. What’s wrong with right now for the information?”

“Got an investment to protect.”

“It’s up to you, Frankie.”

“It’s always up to Frankie.”

I left him working up a new head of steam about the coffee for the counterman.

Fifteen East Nineteenth Street is near enough to Two Forty Centre Street, which is Police Headquarters. Louis Parker operated out of Headquarters so I dropped in on him first and found him desk high in paper work.

“Don’t ask me how goes it,” he said, “because the answer is the same. It stinks.”

“Nothing new?”

“I told you ballistics proved up the murder gun, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t, but I assumed as much.”

“You got anything for me, Pete?”

“Not yet. Not anything new.”

Parker scrubbed at his head. He looked down at a sheet in front of him. “What have we got? We got it narrowed down to one table. What have we got there?”

“Claire Malamed, Charles Morse, Ruth Benson, Frank Hines, Melvin Long. Whodunit, Professor?”

He scrubbed harder. “Search me. The wife? Why should she? She’s sitting pretty, married to a very rich man. The book critic? Why should he? Plus he wouldn’t plant the murder gun in his own pocket. The singer? Why should she? What would she have to gain? The ex-jockey? Don’t figure, he was an old friend. The partner? Why should he? Plus he’s supposed to have a phobia about guns. He says. What a mess, huh?”

“What about the gun?”

“No prints except what supposed to be on it. The rest, just smudges.”

“You told me that too, Louis. I mean have you traced it yet?”

He wrinkled his eyes at me. “You keep bothering me with that one question. Why?”

“Just asking, Louis.”

“Just asking — why?”

“Well, a gun ought to be easy to trace.”

“Ought it to be?” His hand slammed down on the desk. “Well, this one ain’t. Nothing is easy in this miserable case.”

“Good bye, Lieutenant. You’re in no humor for casual chit-chat.”

Charles Morse’s studio was warm and book-lined and thick-rugged. Charles Morse worked his cigarette through an ivory holder. He was lavish with his whiskey and that is always good by me.

“I’ve found the Long-Malamed a nice spot, Mr. Chambers,” he said. “Strange as it may seem, a book critic works hard, and needs relaxation like anybody else.”

“Yes. I presume so.” I sipped excellent scotch.

“A good many of us are frustrated writers. And I’m one of those. Our creative abilities just don’t measure up to our critical tastes.” He deposited ash in a tray. “So — under the yoke of my permanent frustration — I’m a pretty good customer at drinking bars, and I’ve been an excellent customer of the Long-Malamed ever since it opened. Which brings me to the reply to your question. Yes, I know most of the people at the club fairly well.”

“Was there — well, any disharmony — that you know of?”

“No — not really.” His brows came together in thought and he flipped a fingernail at his mustache. He was a handsome man. “There was a bit of a controversy about a week ago, between Mr. Long and Mr. Malamed. The bartender, Tobias, was present at the time, and I was rather, well, an interested observer. Both men were drinking, and I wouldn’t want to give it undue importance. But there was some sort of dispute.”

“How did it wind up?”

“Mr. Malamed threatened Mr. Long, and Mr. Long laughed it off.”

“ Malamed threatened Long? Now there’s a switch.”