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

“I understand,” I said. “Fully.”

I sat back and drank scotch. She had stopped crying. She returned my handkerchief. The waiter came up and I paid the check. She had some stinger left, and she killed that. I had no scotch.

I said, “Just one little bit more, please.”

“Sure.”

“You said that Melvin had told Joe you were at his apartment. Was that true?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Do you want to tell me about that?”

“Of course. The kid was beginning to give me a hard time, pawing around. I had to set him straight, but it was tough to do, working in the club. One night, last week, we had a few drinks together, and he asked me to come over to his place. I accepted, because I wanted to flatten that out once and for all. He’s got a beautiful place, way up, overlooking the park. We had a few more drinks up there, and then he started making with the pitch out on the terrace. I stopped him, and I told him off.”

“How’d he take it?”

“Not too good. He was practically feeling no pain at the time. He got crazy-eyed, you know, all melodramatic. All of a sudden, he runs inside and comes back with a gun. Now he’s going to kill himself, finish it off. You know these kids when they’ve got one too many in them. I talked him down, easy-like, and finally, I took the gun away from him. I never handled one of them in my life. I’m moving away from him, holding it, when all of a sudden, I must have touched something wrong. It went off.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“I thought so for a moment.”

“Why?”

“He dropped. I thought I’d shot him. I bent over him, and he was out, cold. I looked for blood, something, but he wasn’t hurt. He’d just plain fainted, and me with that thing in my hand. I ran inside, put the gun in a drawer somewhere, under some things, and I brought out water. Nothing helped. I almost drowned him. He stayed out. Then I tried brandy. Finally — I must have poured a ton of brandy down his throat — he came to.”

“He’s got a phobia about guns.”

“You’re telling me.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get back. Is there anything else? Anything at all?”

“Nothing,” I said. And then, without looking at her, scrunching up from the table, I said, “I’m sorry about Joe, real sorry, Miss Benson.”

The Long-Malamed was still crowded. Ruth Benson went directly to the back room. Irene Whitney made a face at me, but there was something extra-special in the face. Could be my excursion with Ruth Benson was going to do me more good with Irene than with the murder of Joe Malamed.

I pushed through to Tobias. I said, “Where’s Morse?”

“Got a seat inside.”

“Mrs. Malamed?”

“Still downtown.”

“Melvin?”

“Here I am,” Melvin said, touching my shoulder.

“Can we go upstairs, you and I, where we can talk?”

“Sure.”

“Just a minute.” I leaned over to Tobias. “When you get a chance, and you get a free waiter, tell Morse I’m upstairs with Melvin, to come up and join us.”

“Okay, Mr. Chambers.”

Melvin took me upstairs to the room that had been Joe Malamed’s. It was an all-male room, with a fireplace, and heavy oak furniture.

“Melvin,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me there was trouble between you and Joe Malamed?”

“It wouldn’t have helped. In finding your murderer.”

“Wouldn’t it? And why didn’t you tell me about Ruth Benson?”

“Now, look, Mr. Chambers—”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Melvin? You hired me. You must have figured me for a pretty smart guy. You must have figured I’d find out. Why didn’t you tell me, Melvin?”

“Because it was none of your business, that’s why.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“If I thought it would be of any help, I’d have told you. I don’t believe in washing dirty linen in public.” His face got creased up and his fidgety fingers came out shaking. “Look, Mr. Chambers, I didn’t kill Joe Malamed.”

From the doorway, Charles Morse said: “They want you downstairs, Mr. Long.”

Melvin’s hands dropped to his sides, and he looked toward me. “Is it all right?”

“Sure, Melvin.”

His head swivelled from me to Morse to me, and then he turned and walked out quickly.

Morse dropped into an easy chair near the door. “I heard, Mr. Chambers.”

“Heard what?”

“His denial. Didn’t you accuse him of murder?”

“Nope,” I said. “I’m accusing you.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I’m accusing you. Of the murder of Joe Malamed.”

He squinted at me a moment, and smiled. He had his ivory holder out. He dropped it back in his pocket and stood up.

“Is this some new method of questioning?”

“Nope. It’s a statement of fact.”

“I murdered Joe Malamed?”

“That’s right.”

“You’d better tell me what’s on your mind, Chambers,” he said, quietly.

I wondered whether he was wearing a gun, but it was too late now for wonder. “One group,” I said, “at one table, could have killed Joe Malamed. Someone of that group. You know that?”

“Very well. I also know that unless you can prove beyond a reasonable doubt which one at that table did so, legally, there’s no case.”

“I’ll proceed to do so.”

“You have my rapt attention, Mr. Chambers.”

I moved close, close enough in case of action. “At the table, we have Ruth Benson, Frankie Hines, Melvin Long, Claire Malamed, and you.”

“So far, so good.”

“We’ll first eliminate Ruth Benson.”

“Why?”

“Because she was wholly, completely and irrevocably in love with Joe Malamed. She’d have rather killed herself than him. Agreed?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“We’ll eliminate, next, Frankie Hines.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s dead, killed by the same one that killed Malamed.”

“I can’t accept that, or — shall we say — I accept it with reservations.”

“Next we eliminate Melvin Long. Because he has a phobia about guns. His statements to that effect have been positively corroborated by one whose paramount interest is the death of the killer. Whom does that leave, Mr. Morse?”

The smile was still there.

“According to you — Claire Malamed and myself.”

“Very good, Mr. Morse. You have an orderly mind.”

Then I made my first move to obliterate his smile. I dipped into my pocket and brought up the gold medal I had rescued from Claire Malamed’s treasure chest. It worked. The smile went away and never came back. A vein in his temple began to dance.

I held up the gold medal. It glinted in the light.

“The police,” I said, “have been busy working on routine. Sooner or later, it will come to them. Whoever killed Joe Malamed had to be an expert marksman. One shot, remember, from the inner room. One little bullet, and wham — Joe Malamed was dead, a bullet through his temple. So... our quarry is an expert marksman.”

“What do you have in your hand?”

“A medal for marksmanship. Target Club Competition. Awarded to С. M. This was found in Claire Malamed’s jewel box.”

He was beginning to squirm. “Even if true, that would involve Claire Malamed, not me.”

“Uh uh,” I said. “Claire Malamed knows nothing about guns. She tried to pop me with an automatic, and didn’t even know enough to spring the safety catch. Your initials are С. М., Mr. Morse. You won this medal. It won’t take much investigation to prove that. You’re our marksman, pal. There isn’t another one at that table that could shoot a gun that expertly. The cops will come to it soon enough, and then you’re it, Mr. Morse, you’re double it.”