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

He smiled. “I didn’t think it had any bearing on the case.”

“Do you know what the argument was about?”

“It concerned a young lady. Ruth Benson. Do you know her? The young lady who sings.”

“Yeah, Ruth Benson. Now what was the argument about, Mr. Morse?”

“I really don’t know.”

“I see.” I set down the glass, uncrossed my legs, got up and we shook hands. “Thanks for your help, sir.”

“Not at all, Mr. Chambers. I wasn’t of any help really, I know that. But if there’s anything I can do, at any time — please don’t hesitate. I’m at the Long-Malamed practically every night.”

“Thanks. Thanks, again.”

I went home. I called my office for messages but my secretary was gone for the day. I thought about the fact that I was certainly giving Joe Malamed my exclusive interest. But then I had accepted a one grand fee to discover exactly who had knocked off Joe Malamed. I shrugged and took a bath.

I lay long and smoked many cigarettes, littering the bathroom floor. Then I got out, rubbed down, cleaned up the bathroom floor and shaved. I went to the bedroom and set the clock for eleven, and at eleven it woke me. I yawned, went to shave, realized I had already shaved, went to the kitchen and raided the refrigerator. I cleaned up the dishes and dressed. I wore a formal navy blue suit because come what may on the Malamed thing, there was going to be a prize. I had a date with Miss Whitney come closing time.

I was at the door, going out, when the phone rang. I bulled back like a wrestler who suddenly discovers he’s not in a fix. I caught the phone at its last ring.

“Hello,” I said. “Hello.”

“Hey. I thought you wasn’t home.”

“Who’s this?”

“Frankie Hines.”

“I’m glad you called.”

“You’re going to be gladder. Look, I’m in my joint, the Horseshoe. They ain’t nobody here, no counterman, no kitchen help, no nobody. I’m alone, and I’m waiting for you. I want to talk with you.”

“Fine. I’ll be right there.”

“The faster the better. I been pushed around plenty, and I’m ready now for some pushing around on my own. I’ll show—”

There were four shots.

I heard them as clearly as though I were there.

Then I heard a grunt that turned to a gasp, the sliding of a body along the phone booth wall, a thump, and the awful lonely knocking of a phone receiver, swinging, unheld.

I hung up and dialed Headquarters right away.

When I got to the Horseshoe, it was teeming with cops, prowl cars askew at the curb, and a crowd already collected. I shoved through, got sass from a young cop, returned the sass but softly, explained who I was, and he ushered me in to Louis Parker, hat on back of his head, busy with details.

“You again?” Louis said without enthusiasm.

The young cop saluted. “He said he knows you, Lieutenant.”

“Okay, okay,” Louis said impatiently.

“Yes, sir,” said the cop, saluting again, but not quite as smartly. He turned and went back into the street.

“This is a new wrinkle,” Louis said. “I can’t get called into a case without running into you.”

“I called you, Louis.”

“How’s that?”

“I called you.”

“ You called me?” He was suddenly interested. His hat moved forward on his head. “How come?”

“I was talking to Hines when the shooting started.”

“You mean you were here?”

“On the phone.”

“How come?”

“He called me. At home.”

“What about?”

“Something,” I said, “about collecting fifteen thousand dollars that Joe Malamed owed him.”

“We found an I.O.U. in his wallet for that amount. From Malamed, to him. You mean he was going to retain you to try to collect?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“What time was it?”

“About five to twelve. How’d he get it, Louis?”

“A forty-five. Three bullets.”

“Trace the gun yet, Louis?”

“We just got here, for God’s sake. Furthermore, there ain’t no gun. Nobody kindly left a gun.”

“I don’t mean this gun. I mean the one that got Joe Malamed?”

He came very close to me. The hat went back on his head. He said very quietly: “What the hell is this extraordinary interest in our tracing that gun?”

“Just asking, Lieutenant.”

“I don’t believe you. What’s that gun got to do with you?”

“Nothing, Louis.”

“Something’s tickling you about that gun, Pete. You want to tell me?”

“Nothing’s tickling, Louis.”

“Okay. Anything else you want to tell me? About this one here. This Frankie Hines.”

“There’s nothing else I know.”

His face tightened. “I doubt that.” Then he said: “Okay. Blow. I don’t need you around here. I got work.”

“Louis...” I said, aggrieved.

“Blow.”

I blew. I walked across town and up to the Long-Malamed. The bar was loaded three deep. I gave my hat and coat to Irene and she returned a small wolf-whistle.

“Handsome tonight! All dressed up in the blue serge, and all.”

“Special for you, beautiful.”

“Well, thanks.”

“How’s Yale?”

“Called me twice today. How many times did you call?”

“Who gave you nylons?”

She grinned, and the way she grinned, it’s the sweetest thing that can happen to any face. “I’m wearing them.”

I looked down and I loved it. Nylons are nylons, but nylons on Irene are the way that the guy that invented nylons dreamed that nylons should look, and he’d have to be a pretty good dreamer at that.

Customers with coats interrupted my reverie.

“See you,” I said.

I called for my drink to Tobias, and it was handed to me in a relay of three bar-flies. The third was Charles Morse. “Nothing like a murder to stimulate business,” he said. “Is there?”

“Nope.” I took my drink. “What are you doing out here?”

“Can’t get in back there. They’re capacity.”

I could hear Ruth Benson singing in the inner room.

“She almost finished?” I asked.

He listened. “Yes. This is her last song.” He smiled. Sadly. “I know the routines here pretty well.” He raised his glass. “Skoal.” We both drank.

“Melvin Long here?” I asked.

“He’s somewhere in the rear.”

“And Mrs. Malamed?”

“She was called downtown. Further police questioning. Those details never end.”

“Lieutenant Parker?”

He shook his head. “This time it’s the D.A.’s office.”

“I want to talk with her myself, though, between you and me, I don’t think she loves me overly. I want to talk with you some more too, and with Ruth Benson, and Melvin Long” — I looked about — “but this is no place to talk.”

“Here she is now.”

Ruth Benson came through to the cocktail lounge. She was tall and very dark, with a rich warm skin, an oval face, black up-tilted eyes, and black hair worn in a braid like a crown over her head.

“Excuse me,” I said. I went to her. “Miss Benson?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Peter Chambers. I’m a private detective.”

“So?”

“I’ve been retained on that Joe Malamed thing. Can I talk with you?”

“Of course.”

“Can you get out for a few minutes?”

“I don’t understand.”

“If we could go somewhere where it’s a little quieter...”

“Oh. Yes. If you wish.”

She had a flat monotonous controlled voice. You couldn’t tell what she was thinking from the way she talked. You couldn’t tell from her expression either. Make-up covered her face like a tarpaulin over a rainy infield. Her cheeks were smooth, powdered brown, her full lips were dark red with a purple cast, her eyelashes were long and heavy, and there was a shining dark cream over the lids. There were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She said, “Excuse me. I’ll be with you in a moment.”