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

She disappeared, and came back with a wrap. I decided to forego my hat and coat. I took her arm and we moved toward the door. Irene threw me a look that could kill at fifty paces, but I ducked. I pushed open the door, and the doorman opened a cab door for us. We went to Pete and Jerry’s Patch on Fifty-seventh where it was quiet and we could talk. We took a back table. I ordered scotch and water. She ordered a double stinger. She removed her wrap. Her off-the-shoulder dress was of black satin, cut deep. Her shoulders were smooth and dark and her arms were slender but round. She leaned toward me. Her breasts were almost completely exposed, full and smooth and dark, and heaving.

“What is it, Mr. Chambers? What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know. Yet. If you’ll forgive me, I’ll come right to the point.”

“Please do.”

“You know that I’m investigating Malamed’s murder.”

“So you told me.”

“Two things, Miss Benson. If you don’t want to answer, you can tell me to go fly a kite.”

The waiter brought the drinks. She drank hers quickly.

“Two things, Mr. Chambers?”

“First, I’ve been informed that Joe Malamed recently purchased a mink coat. For you. Second, I heard that Malamed and Melvin Long had an argument. About you. Want to talk about any of that?”

Again she drank of the stinger. “Yes.”

“Fine. Did you accept a mink coat from Malamed?”

“Yes.”

“His wife know about this?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Want to talk more about it?”

“Yes, I do.” She finished the drink, pushed the glass away. “I loved Joe Malamed.”

I wove an aimless design of wet circles on the table with the bottom of my glass.

She said, “I know what you’re thinking. I met Joe before he was married, in Miami. I went for him, hook, line and sinker. He went for me too. It was hot and heavy for a while, and then he met Claire. She came down as part of a chorus line, a cute kid from a rather good family. He made a big play for her. When I saw the way it was, I quit — I was working in his club at the time. I went to Havana, and then I took an engagement in Paris — Spivy’s. When I got back to New York, they were married, and he’d bought the Long-Malamed with Melvin.”

“And how was it between you, then, when you returned?”

“Bad as ever. Really just as bad.”

“Even though he was married?”

She cried peculiarly. Her eyes were shaped so that the inside corners pointed downward. The tears were wet straight lines down her nose. She was crying bitterly, but her face remained the same, as did her voice. Only the quickened movements of her dark naked bosom showed her agitation.

“I loved Joe Malamed. And he loved me. I’ve been around a long time, Mr. Chambers. Joe was a complex man. It is very possible that he was deeply in love with Claire too. She’s much younger than I am, and a far different type. I won’t even say I was jealous.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Maybe I’ve been around too long, but there’s one thing I’ve learned in life. You can’t have it all. Of anything. I loved Joe Malamed, and Joe loved me, and that was that, period.”

I gave her my handkerchief and she dabbed at her face.

I said, “Do you think Claire knew?”

“I don’t think so. I wouldn’t care if she did. But I don’t think so. Joe was too smart for that and, in a way, too kind.”

“Do you think she loved him?”

“I wouldn’t know. Really, I wasn’t interested.”

“But — I mean — the guy’s wife?”

“The moral aspects are beyond me. Claire Malamed was something away, outside. Joe Malamed was for me, and whatever he did, he did — I couldn’t cut Joe away from me any more than I could cut my head off. If you disapprove, I don’t give a damn. I’m giving you the facts, and I don’t care how you feel about them. I’m telling you because it might help. I’ve never been vengeful, but whoever killed Joe Malamed — I want that person dead. I’d do it myself.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad I’m working. I’m glad I can come in there and sing. I’d go crazy if I didn’t. Working and...” She looked at the empty cocktail glass.

I waved to the waiter for refills.

“And Melvin Long? His argument with Malamed?”

“Oh, that.”

“It might have some bearing, Miss Benson?”

“Do you think it could have been Melvin?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about the argument?”

The waiter brought the new drinks and took away the old glasses. Ruth Benson sipped, her black eyes shining over the rim of the glass.

“He’s in love with me.”

“Melvin?”

She sipped again, set the glass down. “Melvin. I could be his mother. I don’t mean in years — but I could be his mother. A sweet, spoiled kid.”

“Did Joe know?”

“He thought it was funny.”

“Then why the argument?”

“Melvin had told Joe that I had been at his apartment. That riled Joe, for a minute, and they had words. Joe forgot it, fast.”

“Joe threatened him. He was heard threatening him.”

“Maybe he did. He might have told him he’d knock his teeth in, something like that, but I bet he forgot it ten minutes later.”

“Did you know Frankie Hines?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that Joe owed Frankie fifteen thousand dollars?”

“Joe never welshed on a debt in his life.”

“He was in the process of welshing on Frankie.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Easy, Miss Benson. I happen to know that he owed Frankie the money, and that he was stalling on paying. And he could afford to pay.”

“Right, Mr. Chambers. Right on both counts.”

“Yet you say he never welshed a debt in his life.”

“Right, there, too.”

“Is that supposed to make sense?” I asked.

“You bet your life. Joe was down there, on a vacation, playing horses at Tropical. Joe was a big bettor, never threw it into the machines. He’d sit in the clubhouse and make last minute bets with a bookmaker. It would be too late to go into the machines to knock the price down. Many big bettors operate like that.”

“I know that they do.”

“He went for about sixty thousand dollars.”

“What’s! that got to do with Frankie Hines?”

“Frankie was touting him.”

“What does that mean?”

“Lots of big gamblers don’t know too much about horses. They get a guy they trust, who knows the game, and they depend on his advice.”

“I know that too.”

“Frankie recommended the bookmaker.”

“What’s that got to do with Frankie’s fifteen thousand?”

“Joe lost sixty thousand dollars. Then he borrowed fifteen from Frankie and he lost that too. That was enough. He had it. He came back north. Back here, a syndicate slob straightened him out, told him he’d been taken.”

“How?”

“Frankie’s bookmaker was a nobody, big flash, no protection, no organization. A shill. He and Frankie played footsie. They took Joe. Frankie gave Joe bum steers, Joe bet the bookmaker, and Frankie and the bookmaker split Joe’s losings.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Did you ever hear of Three-fingered Gray?”

“Yeah. Boss man in Miami.”

“He’s been sick. An old friend of Joe’s. He’s holed up in an estate in Orlando. Joe sent me down to Gray with the whole story. The bookmaker’s name — the shill — is Sylvan Dell. Gray hauled him in. The guy spilled his story. Gray was coming up here to see doctors. He was bringing Dell with him. They were due here this week. That’s why Joe was stalling Frankie Hines. He didn’t want to tip his hand until he could face him with this Sylvan Dell.”