Richard Deming: Tweak the Devil’s Nose

One after the other I tuned in all the local stations, then listened to what the nearest stations in Illinois had to say. The contrast was edifying.

Our local stations quoted all the carefully correct statements made by our city and state officials, such as how shocked and grieved they were that a visiting dignitary should have been murdered this side of the river, and the people of Illinois could rest assured no stone would be left unturned in the effort to bring the assassin to speedy justice. At the same time the local announcers managed to imply the shooting must have been the work of gangsters from across the river. A European visitor listening to the broadcasts might have gotten the impression Walter Lancaster’s was the first murder ever occurring in our state.

On the other hand the stations in Illinois delicately suggested Lancaster might still be alive had he stayed in the civilized state which elected him, where police were on duty to prevent the shooting of important citizens. Without being in the least discourteous, and in fact while professing the utmost confidence in the efficiency of our local police, they managed to get across the impression that anyone who entered our barbaric territory unarmed was virtually committing suicide.

California and Florida are not the only two states where interstate competition flourishes.

Shortly after one I grew tired of listening and was reaching for the radio switch just as another bulletin began. At the moment I was tuned to a local station, and my hand was already on the switch when the announcer’s words froze it there.

“We have just received the first official statement from Inspector Warren Day of the Homicide Department,” the disk jockey who ran the Dawn Patrol said. “Inspector Day has personally assumed charge of investigating the murder of Walter Lancaster, which occurred earlier this past evening. According to the inspector, a witness has been located who saw the assassin’s face just as the shot was fired. The name of the witness is being withheld. Earlier reports indicated three persons saw the shooting: the doorman at El Patio Club, a taxi driver who was holding the door of his cab for Mr. Lancaster to enter when the shot was fired, and a customer who was just entering the club. The inspector states that none of these is the key witness, however, and that a fourth person who was standing in darkness at the corner of the building is the one who saw the killer’s face. An arrest is expected within twenty-four hours.”

Switching off the radio, I phoned Fausta at her apartment on the second floor of El Patio Club. The club closes at one, and she was already in bed, but not yet asleep.

“After I left, you actually wrote out and signed that statement about seeing the killer, didn’t you?” I said.

“Of course,” she told me cheerfully. “I could not see you go to jail, Manny.”

“For cripes’ sake, Fausta. You know Warren Day didn’t believe you, don’t you?”

I could almost see her shrug. “But he let you go free.”

“You hear the radio bulletin just now?”

“No.”

“Day released your statement. Withholding your name, of course. But if they ever catch the killer and call you to testify in court, you’ll be in a sweet spot. They put you in jail for perjury.”

Over the phone I could hear a kittenlike yawn. “I will lie so nobody catches me, Manny. Do not worry so.”

“It isn’t the lie that worries me so much,” I told her. “It’s Day making so much of it when he knows as well as I do it’s a lie. Knowing how the inspector’s mind works, I smell the beginning of a killer trap with you as the bait.”

She was silent for a minute. “You mean the killer might try to silence me because he thinks I could recognize his face?” Obviously this possibility had not previously occurred to her.

“What would you do if you had just committed a murder and then heard over the radio a witness could identify you?”

“Pooh!” she said. “You’re just trying to scare me. If the inspector withheld my name, how would the killer know who to look for?”

“He wouldn’t, unless Day deliberately lets it leak out who his witness is. Does Mouldy still sleep downstairs off the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him to keep his gun handy. I’ll be around to see you sometime tomorrow.”

After I hung up and climbed into bed, it was another hour before I was able to get to sleep.

The next noon I had just sat up in bed and was contemplatively scratching the small of my back with the toe of my right foot when the door buzzer rang. Aside from contortionists, there are few people who can do this, but it is relatively simple when your right leg is detachable just below the knee.

An artificial leg, even a light one constructed of cork and aluminum instead of wood and steel, inclines toward cumbersomeness when used as a back-scratcher. But when you have just decided to get up, have managed to summon enough energy to throw off the covers and sit erect, but not quite enough to get out of bed entirely, and an itch develops in the small of your back, you cannot be choosy. It was awkward, but it felt good.

The door buzzer accomplished what would have required at least another five minutes of mental struggle to accomplish had it not sounded: it got me up.

Swinging my good left foot to the floor, I hopped to the bedroom door, shouted, “It’ll take me five minutes!” and hopped back to the edge of the bed again. I used the five minutes to strap on my leg, throw a handful of water in my face and dress to the extent of shoes, trousers and a colored T-shirt.

When I finally opened the door, I said to the man I found standing in the hall, “Sorry to keep you waiting. I sleep late on Tuesdays.”

I also sleep late on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, but felt it unnecessary to mention this.

The man probably weighed two thirty, and not an ounce of it was fat. He had a granite jaw and slow, sleepy eyes, and stood so straight he nearly leaned backward. The way he kept both hands in his pockets while he looked me over startled me for a moment, for my first thought was that he was training a concealed gun on me. But his pockets obviously contained nothing but hands. Apparently he was merely more comfortable that way.

He looked me over without saying anything for so long a time, I might have thought he was stunned with admiration had I been vain about my appearance. But years back, before I learned to fight just as dirty as the next guy, I once attacked a set of brass knuckles with my face, with the result I have a permanently bent nose and one eyelid which droops lower than the other. My face has never caused anyone to faint, but with my hair uncombed and my jaws unshaved, as they were now, I could make a sensitive woman scream if I put my mind to it.

When he had examined me in silence for what I considered a sufficient length of time unless he wanted to buy a ticket, I asked, “How did you ring the bell with your hands in your pockets? Use your nose?”

“You’re Mr. Manville Moon?” he asked, ignoring my wit.

I said I was.

“I’m Laurence Davis.”

If his name was supposed to mean something to me, I missed the cue. A few more moments of silence ensued, and I began to suspect he was going to sleep.

I said, “I could sublease you that spot, but I would have to charge high rent to compensate for the inconvenience of having to use the back door. It would be hard to get in and out the front way with you standing there all the time.”

“You’re a very funny man, Mr. Moon,” he said, slowly moving toward me with his hands still in his pockets.

There was nothing belligerent in his movement, but there was an air of inexorability about it. He had decided he wanted to come in, and the fact that he had to walk over me unless I moved didn’t deter him any. I stepped aside to avoid collision; he went past me with a kind of lazy ponderousness and took my personal easy chair. When he sat down, his hands came out of his pockets, he took off his hat and held it in his lap.