Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 2, February, 1953

“To my transparent cavalier,” she said, raising her glass.

We drank to her transparent cavalier before I asked, “Who’s he?”

“You,” she told me. “I can see right through you. It wasn’t my lovely green eyes that brought you here tonight. You’ve got some ulterior motive, and you’ve drowned your scruples against married women because of it.”

I managed to look wounded.

Setting down her glass, she removed mine from my hand and set it on the table also. “Whatever you’re after, friend, you’re going to pay for it.” Putting a hand to either side of my face, she jerked my head around until my bent nose was aimed at her straight one.

I bent to kiss her, and Immediately had an armful of squirming wildcat. Her tongue explored my mouth with greedy expertness, suddenly drew away and small but uncomfortably sharp teeth gripped my ear.

“Hey!” I said.

Her hand fumbled with the buttons across her bosom and I heard the familiar popping of snaps.

Calmly, I drew her head to my shoulder and pulled shut the gaping uniform with a clenched hand.

“It’s not that I don’t like the view,” I explained. “But it distracts me. If I’m going to pay for information, let’s have the information first.”

The white uniform, inadequately held together at the waist by my hand, still exposed the full roundness of her breasts, her naked thighs and about half of one hip. I felt myself sweating and looked at the ceiling.

“Were you in the house when the machine gunner got Frank the other night?” I asked.

“Just coming home,” she said into my shoulder. “I’d been to the symphony while Frank and Charlie were at a stag. That’s one.”

“One what?”

“One payment you owe me.”

“Oh. None of the servants even got out of bed when it happened, did they?”

She shook her head. “They slept right through. Two.”

“Stop counting out loud, dammit. You arrived just as the shooting took place?”

“Just after. I heard the shots as I turned in the driveway gate. Was that four or five?”

“Three,” I said. “You think I’m a marathon champion? So you were present when your husband patched Frank up?”

“Oh yes. Four. Charlie put the car up for me, and then we took Frank into the infirmary together...” She stopped abruptly.

“Go on,” I said softly. “Your husband put the car up for you, leaving his brother lying there full of machine gun bullets. He must be a miraculous diagnostician to have been able to decide in the dark the wounds weren’t serious enough to require immediate treatment.”

I could feel her body stiffen. “I can’t make the sharp turn into the garage,” she mumbled against my neck. “He...” She hesitated and ended weakly, “He always puts the car up for me, and I guess with the excitement and all, he just did it automatically.”

“Wouldn’t it be automatic for a doctor to take care of a wounded patient?” I asked dryly.

Jerking my hand loose from her uniform, she wound her arms about my neck. “Don’t ask me any more questions,” she said.

The little frosted light over the door flicked on.

“Damn!” she said, and jumped up.

Rapidly buttoning and snapping herself, she hurried from the room.

She was gone ten minutes. When she came back we dropped the subject of Frank Durant’s shooting while I paid off like a gentleman. I was still evading her questions about why I was asking my questions when I left...

I had parked my car across the street, which in the darkness put it beyond the range of vision of the guard on the gate. I was pulling away from the curb before I discovered I had a passenger.

“Just keep both hands on the wheel and turn left at the next corner,” he said.

Glancing in the mirror, I could dimly make out the silhouette of Buttons Sharkey, Durant’s lieutenant, and the metallic glint of a pistol pointed at my back. I kept my hands on the wheel and turned left at the corner.

Two blocks from the river Buttons had me turn left again, and then into the open entrance of what seemed to be an empty warehouse. I stopped with my front bumper resting against the far wall.

Backing out first, Buttons covered me while I got out. Relieving me of my P-38, he ordered me to close the truck door by which we had entered, and while I was complying he flicked a switch which turned on a dim overhead light.

Glancing around the huge room we were in, I saw the walls were lined with slot machines, most of which seemed to lack handles or in some other respect require repairs.

“This must be Little Joe Tecca’s warehouse,” I remarked. “Haven’t you got a quiet place of your own to pull your killings, Buttons?”

“This is good enough,” Buttons said, and was raising his gun when a door across the room opened and Little Joe Tecca suddenly appeared. Through the open door I could see the room he emerged from was a small office.

Tecca halted in astonishment, his eyes moving from me to the gun in Buttons’ hand. “Hey, what’s going on here?”

“Moon is leaving us,” Buttons said quickly. “He sold out to the syndicate. I brought him over so you could help me get rid of the body.”

“He brought me here because he thought you weren’t within miles,” I told Tecca, then stopped talking when I saw the murderous light in Buttons’ eyes. Another word and I realized he would press the trigger and explain to Little Joe afterward.

Little Joe’s wizened face suddenly darkened with suspicion. “Let him talk, Buttons. Who told you he sold out to the syndicate?”

Buttons’ gun moved slightly to include the little man in the coverage. The question stumped him, for he had too little brains to ad lib, and apparently his instructions had failed to cover what to say if he got caught in the act of rubbing me out. He just stood there and looked at Tecca stubbornly.

Little Joe’s eyes suddenly blazed with anger. “Point that thing away from me, stupid! You didn’t expect to find me here. You brought him here to bump him and leave the body for me to explain. Start talking.”

Buttons aimed the pistol directly at Little Joe. “Now take it easy, Tecca. I don’t want to shoot you.”

With the gun momentarily pointed in another direction, I decided to take a chance. “Buttons is the machine gunner who killed Max Gruder and your boss, Joe.”

Why the little man believed me I don’t know. Coming cold, the statement sounded preposterous even to me. But Little Joe believed it instantly.

Buttons missed the expression of maniacal fury which suddenly contorted Little Joe’s face, for he was swinging his gun to silence me once and for all. I dropped flat just as it boomed, and the bullet whistled so close over my head it warmed my scalp.

He never had a chance for a second shot. Like an echo came the flat report of a small caliber automatic. Buttons’ normally stupid expression grew even more stupid. He turned his head to look at Little Joe reproachfully, suddenly buckled at the knees and pitched forward on his face.

I got to my feet and dusted myself off with unnecessary thoroughness. When I thought I could manage to speak without a quake in my voice, I said, “Thanks, Joe. Now let’s go pick up Hub Topping and a couple of cops, and I’ll take you all over to the Durants’ to explain what a bunch of suckers we’ve all been.”

The group which arrived at the Durant mansion at one thirty in the morning was equally representative of both sides of the law. Day and Hannegan represented its guardians, Tecca and Hub Topping its infringers, and I, as a normal champion of law and order but temporary overseer of local gangland, could be regarded as a compromise between both.

I got both Ann and her husband out of bed and headed the whole group toward the infirmary. But when we got there, Ann put her back to the door.