A. Fair - The Bigger They Come

‘What?’

‘I can’t tell you over the phone. You must come.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in the telephone booth in the lobby of Sandra’s apartment house.’

‘Well, where will I meet you?’ I asked.

‘I’ll be right there.’

‘In the apartment, you mean?’

‘No — in the telephone booth. Something awful’s happened. Come quickly.’

I said, ‘Right away,’ hung up the telephone, and went up the stairs as fast as I could force my sore muscles into action. I passed Mrs. Smith wheezing down the steps. She said acidly, ‘There are people in the house, Mr. Lam, who are trying to get back to sleep.’

I got to my room, flung off my robe and pajamas, climbed into my clothes, and was tying my necktie as I dashed down the stairs to the street. I buttoned my vest on the way to the corner. It seemed an age before a late-cruising taxicab came prowling along close to the curb. I signaled him and gave him the address. In the cab, I asked, ‘What time is it, buddy?’

‘Half past two.’

My wrist watch hadn’t been good enough to pawn, but by setting it every day, I could approximate the time. Now it was on the dresser by the head of my bed. I looked through my pockets to make sure I had the certificate of appointment as a private detective which Bertha Cool had given me. I scooped the silver out of my pocket, and held it in the palm of my hand, counting it against the flicking figures which appeared on the illuminated dial of the taximeter. When the driver stopped at the address, there was five cents over. I handed him the whole collection of coins, said, ‘Thanks a lot, buddy,’ and made a dive for the door. I almost broke my arm. It was locked tight. The lobby was lighted, but there was no one at the little desk. I kicked against the door, hoping that Alma would hear me. She did after a while, and came out of the telephone booth and down the corridor.

I stared at her in surprise. She had on sheer silk pajamas, and some sort of filmy gown over them. She opened the door, and I said, ‘Alma, what’s happened?’

‘I’ve shot someone,’ she said, in a hoarse whisper.

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘No.’

‘Have you notified the police?’

‘No.’

‘All right, then,’ I said. ‘We notify the police right away.’

‘But Sandra wouldn’t want me to, and Bleatie says—’

‘To hell with Sandra and Bleatie both,’ I said. ‘Get in there and telephone the police.’

I piloted her back to the telephone booth.

‘Donald, don’t you think I’d better tell you what—’

‘If you’ve shot anyone,’ I said, ‘you get in touch with the police and tell them the whole story.’

She turned to me and said, ‘I’ll have to ask you for a nickel.’ I went through my pockets. There wasn’t a coin on me. I’d given my last cent to the cab driver. I tried the telephone. It simply, positively, wouldn’t work without the coin.

‘How did you telephone me?’ I asked.

She said, ‘A man came in. He was drunk. I told him a story about my husband locking me out, and asked him for a coin so I could telephone. He gave me a nickel.’

‘All right. Let’s go back up to the apartment.’

‘I can’t. I haven’t my keys. There’s a spring lock on the door.’

‘We’ll get the manager. Tell me, what happened?’

‘I went to sleep, and woke up and someone was in the room. He was bending over the bed with his hand right over my nose, ready to shut off my breathing. After that awful experience of last night, I was almost paralyzed with terror. But you’d impressed on my mind what I was to do. You remember you said it didn’t make any difference whether I hit him or not. So I jerked the gun out from under my pillow, and pulled the trigger. I’d slipped the safety catch off when I went to bed. I was never so frightened in my life. That gun made such an awful bang! I thought my eardrums would burst. I dropped the gun and screamed.’

‘Then what?’ I asked.

‘Then I grabbed a robe from the bed — I must have. I don’t remember doing it, but it was over my arm when I got out to the other room.’

‘You ran into the other room?’

‘Yes, and then into the hall.’

I said, ‘Well, he’s probably in there now then, unless he managed to get out through a window. There’s not one chance in ten that you hit him.’

‘Oh, but I did hit him,’ she said. ‘I heard an awful smack like a bullet would make when it hit someone — and he fell down.’

‘How do you know he fell down?’

‘I heard him.’

‘Did you hear him move after that?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I think I did. I heard something. I went completely screwy. I dashed out into the corridor and ran for the elevator just as hard as I could run. The door closed and clicked shut behind me. I stayed in the elevator for a minute, and then realized what a predicament I was in. Look, I haven’t even any slippers on.’

I looked down at her tinted toenails, and said, ‘Well, we’re going to have to get the manager. Don’t be frightened, Alma. It’s probably a burglar, someone who is looking for Morgan Birks’ records, or thought, perhaps, he had some money salted away. Where was Sandra all this time?’

‘She went out.’

‘Where was Bleatie?’

‘I don’t know. In bed, I guess, in the other room.’

‘And he didn’t hear the shot?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Look here, Alma,’ I said. ‘Do you suppose it could have been Bleatie who—’

‘What would he be doing in my room?’ she asked.

I couldn’t think of any answer I wanted to put in words, so I didn’t try to give one. I said, ‘We’ll find the manager, and—’ I broke off and crowded her back into the telephone booth as a big car pulled up in front of the apartment house. ‘Here comes someone now,’ I said. ‘I can mooch a coin and call police headquarters. I’d rather do that than notify the manager.’

‘I have some money in my purse if we can get the door of the apartment open,’ Alma Hunter said.

‘Well, we’ll see who this is and—’

I could see the vague, indistinct form of a driver at the wheel of the big car. A girl was between him and me, and she almost smothered him saying good night. He didn’t come around to open the car door for her or see her into the apartment. But as soon as she disentangled herself and opened the door of the car, he slid away from the curb and out into the night. I started toward the door and stopped. The woman was taking a latchkey from her purse. As she walked up to the door, I saw her face. It was Sandra Birks.

I walked back to the telephone booth and said, ‘Here comes Sandra now. You can go up with her. Tell me, Alma, how did it happen no one heard the shot?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you don’t think they did?’

‘No. At any rate, there hasn’t been anything done about it.’

Sandra Birks came in, walking with quick, determined little steps. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were starry. She seemed to be walking on air. I stepped out from behind the little counter which ran around the desk, and said, ‘Just a minute.’

She caught her breath when she saw me, and then shifted her eyes to stare at Alma in her robe, pajamas, and bare feet.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

‘If you’ve got a dime,’ I said, ‘we’ll call the police. Alma shot someone in your apartment.’

‘A burglar,’ Alma said, quickly.

‘The same one who—’ Sandra broke off to look at her throat.

Alma nodded. ‘I think so.’

‘Where did you get the gun?’

I started to say, ‘I gave it to her,’ but Alma said quickly, ‘It was one I had. I’d had it in Kansas City. I kept it in the bottom of my suitcase.’