Джонатан Крейг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 12, December, 1953

The girl was blubbering now, just the way Zach had. “Yes. Yes, he... that’s what. That’s... Mac, I just work here. I just take orders. You don’t know, Mac. You don’t know. I swear... I just... your wife is okay. I didn’t harm her.”

“Who’s she with?”

“Zach’s sister. She... she runs the rooming house.”

“Where? What’s the address?”

She gave it to me, and I went to Hobbs’ phone and dialed the state police, and then tried to explain the whole thing. I told them everything that had happened, and I also told them the local police were probably in on the coverup, and that they had Hobbs’ truck with the dead girl in it.

I hung up and waited then, and a trooper’s car reached the office in seven minutes flat. They’d already radioed to have Anne picked up at the rooming house. Hobbs wasn’t talking to anyone when they came in. He was still huddled against the wall like a broken egg.

We drove back to the city that night.

Anne was silent for a long time. She kept smoking cigarettes, peering through the windshield until dawn spread across the sky in a pale grey wash.

“Was it bad?” I asked her.

“No,” she said.

“Then why... I mean...”

“I keep thinking of you,” she said. “With all those naked women running around.”

I took one hand off the wheel and hugged her close to me, and she buried her head in my shoulder.

“Did... did you look?” she asked.

“Sure,” I told her.

“You... you did?”

“Yes, but not very hard.”

She snuggled closer to me, and I added in explanation, “They didn’t have any redheads.”

The man in the Oriental costume was going to talk to Jordan. He reached Jordan’s door — but he never got inside.

It started with a Hindu dancer and a lawyer. When they met, the Hindu dancer’s heartbeat stopped permanently and the lawyer’s temporarily. I did not know the Hindu dancer at all, but I knew the lawyer well enough. He’s me, Scott Jordan.

The event was a memorable one. It led to a small brunette and a large swindle. Both were beauties. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It was Thursday morning, 2:30 a.m., when I came awake sharply and irritably at the insistent ringing of my doorbell. I muttered thickly into the pillow and tried to ignore it, but the bell kept going, so I got up and shuffled blindly into the foyer. A summons at that hour usually means trouble. Still, I couldn’t help myself. In some ways a lawyer is like a doctor. Sickness and crime work on a twenty-four hour shift right around the clock.

I opened the door and there he was, brightly festooned in the costume of an Oriental potentate, with a jeweled turban wrapped around his head. At first I didn’t see him. He was on his knees, bent over, his forehead touching the floor in an attitude of prayer.

I knew if I touched him he would topple sideways. I knew it because the knife sticking out of his back had been planted in exactly the right spot. But he toppled anyway, listing to port slowly and then rolling over with a soft thud.

I stood in the doorway, impaled, heartbeat suspended.

His lips were frozen in a twisted grimace, and lidless eyes stared upward in a kind of perpetual astonishment. He was young, about twenty-five, his face darkly smeared with theatrical makeup. I didn’t know the fellow from a hitching post.

Good-bye rest. No more sleep for me tonight. I could, of course, haul him down the corridor and deposit him in front of somebody else’s door. But I’m in the business. I know better. Transporting a homicide victim carries stiff penalties, and besides, this chap had been scratched out on his way to see me and I wanted to know the reason why.

I sighed with resignation and headed for the telephone.

I can recall the next two hours as a montage of frenetic activity. City employees came, performed their chores with calculated efficiency and departed. Homicide detectives of all shapes and sizes kept firing questions at me, but through it all I maintained complete innocence. The corpse was finally removed and at last I stood alone with Lieutenant John Nola.

The lieutenant was a neat, dark, sober, slender man, with brooding eyes and a searching brain, tough but human, and absolutely incorruptible. He was studying me carefully. “Hope you’re not trying to promote something, counselor,” he said.

I gave him an aggrieved look. “Haven’t I always been on the level with you, John?”

“Up to a point, yes. But I’d hate to think you were pulling a fast one now.”

If he ever did it would be curtains. Five years of friendship would go out the window. He lit one of his thin, dappled cigars and inhaled thoughtfully. I knew that he had established the victim’s identity and asked him about it.

He said, “The boy’s name was Eddie Lang. Made his living as a Hindu dancer in night clubs and television spots. Current booking at The Kismet, 52nd Street. According to the M.E. he was ambushed as he stepped out of the elevator and barely made it to your door.” Nola searched for an ash tray. His habits were meticulous. “Know many people in show business?” he asked me offhandedly.

“A few. Eddie Lang wasn’t one of them. Why?”

“Because he was on his way to see you. Probably recommended. We’d like to know what he wanted.”

I shrugged helplessly. “Have you checked his living quarters?”

“The boys are there now.”

“How about the knife?”

“Not even fingerprints. You saw the type. Cutlery stores all over the city sell them in sets.” He rubbed his forehead. “Eddie Lang knew something and that knowledge killed him. Somebody had to put him in cold storage before he could talk.”

He stopped as the telephone rang and got the handset to his ear. He grunted into the mouthpiece and gave a nod of satisfaction.

“Hold her there,” he said crisply. “I’ll be right down.” He hung up and regained his feet. His eyes met mine. “Gladys Monroe — ever hear the name?”

I thought and shook my head. “Who is she?”

“Eddie Lang’s dancing partner. Sergeant Wienick just picked her up at the Hotel Buxton. She’s down at Headquarters now. Like to sit in?” The idea appealed to me, but I shook my head. “Got a case on the calendar tomorrow morning at ten. I won’t be able to think straight if I don’t get some sleep. Suppose I contact you later?”

He nodded and left.

I saw no profit in a safari to Headquarters at this hour. I didn’t even have a client, but the city was paying Nola. I went back to bed, but I didn’t get any sleep. The event was too recent, the memory too fresh. I couldn’t relax. How insensitive would a man have to be to accept the fact of homicide at his doorstep with equanimity? So I sat up and smoked and rummaged through my memory. Eddie Lang rang no bell.

Dawn was a soiled gray smudge when I wandered swollen-eyed into the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee that was blacker than sin and thick enough to walk on. When the pot was empty I got dressed and went down and headed, without conscious volition, to the Buxton.

It was an ancient hotel, clinging to its air of reserve and quiet respectability. The lobby was deserted. I sat down at a writing desk and scribbled Gladys Monroe across an envelope. I took it over to the desk and handed it to the clerk. He glanced at the name and shoved the envelope into Box 520.

I was on my way to the elevator before he turned around. The operator was half asleep and manipulated the contraption by instinct. I debarked on the fifth floor, found the girl’s door, and knocked.