Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

“Are you all right?” she said.

He was about to lose consciousness. He nodded, shook his head, nodded again.

“Who was the dead man on my boat?” he asked.

“John Meadows, my secretary,” she said. “He let them believe they were looking for a man. I’m—”

There were footsteps on the stairs.

The aquarium cashier burst into view.

“There they are!” she shouted. “They came in without paying!”

A patrolman was on the stairs behind her.

“There’s another one outside,” David said. “A man in a black Cadillac. He murdered the Sun City reporter.”

“Get the guy in the black Caddy,” the patrolman yelled down to his partner. He turned to David. “All right,” he said gruffly. “What the hell’s going on here? Who’s that guy downstairs with his arm in a sling? And who the hell are you, lady?”

“Leslie Grew,” David said, and then he relaxed in her arms and hoped she’d still be there when he came to again.

This story first appeared in 1952, in a magazine called Verdict. It was one of the several short short stories I wrote under the Hunt Collins pseudonym. It was probably first submitted to Manhunt, and when rejected there — shame on you, Scott! — went to Verdict, one of the many detective magazines trying to imitate Manhunt’s spectacular success. (I still think Scott was editing each and every one of them.)

Whereas I later wrote several novels under the Richard Marsten pseudonym, Hunt Collins wrote only one, the book that first attracted the attention of Herb Alexander (remember?) and started the whole 87th Precinct saga. Cut Me In was about a murder in a literary agency. (Guess where I got the background for it.) The title referred to the venal practice of taking commissions, and the book was an Innocent Bystander story, like the one that follows.

He had witnessed a murder, and the sight had sunken into the brown pits that were his eyes. It had tightened the thin line of his mouth and given him a tic over his left cheekbone.

He sat now with his hat in his hands, his fingers nervously exploring the narrow brim. He was a thin man with a mustache that completely dominated the confined planes of his face.

He was dressed neatly, his trousers carefully raised in a crease-protecting lift that revealed taut socks and the brass clasp of one garter.

“That him?” I asked.

“That’s him,” Magruder said.

“And he saw the mugging?”

“He says he saw it. He won’t talk to anyone but the Chief.”

“None of us underlings will do, huh?”

Magruder shrugged. He’d been on the force for a long time now, and he was used to just about every type of taxpayer. I looked over to where the thin man sat on the bench against the wall.

“Well,” I said, “let me see what I can get out of him.”

Magruder cocked an eyebrow and asked, “You think maybe the old man would like to see him personally?”

“Maybe. If he’s got something. If not, we’d be wasting his time. And especially on this case, I don’t think...”

“Yeah,” Magruder agreed.

I left Magruder and walked over to the little man. He looked up when I approached him, and then blinked.

“Mr. Struthers?” I said. “I’m Detective-Sergeant Cappeli. My partner tells me you have some information about the...”

“You’re not the Chief, are you?”

“No,” I said, “but I’m working very closely with him on this case.”

“I won’t talk to anyone but the Chief,” he said. His eyes met mine for an instant, and then turned away. He was not being stubborn, I decided. I hadn’t seen stubbornness in his eyes. I’d seen fear.

“Why, Mr. Struthers?”

“Why? Why what? Why won’t I tell my story to anyone else? Because I won’t, that’s why.”

“Mr. Struthers, withholding information is a serious crime. It makes you an accessory after the fact. We’d hate to have to...”

“I’m not withholding anything. Get the Chief and I’ll tell you everything I saw. That’s all, get the Chief.”

I waited for a moment before trying again. “Are you familiar with the case at all, sir?”

Struthers considered his answer. “Just what I read in the papers. And what I saw.”

“You know that it was the Chiefs wife who was mugged? That the mugger was after her purse and killed her without getting it?”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Can you see then why we don’t want to bring the Chief into this until it’s absolutely necessary? So far, we’ve had ten people confessing to the crime, and eight people who claim to have seen the mugging and murder.”

“I did see it,” Struthers protested.

“I’m not saying you didn’t, sir. But I’d like to be sure before I bring the Chief in on it.”

“I just don’t want any slipups,” Struthers said. “I... I don’t want him coming after me next.”

“We’ll offer you every possible protection, sir. The Chief, as you can well imagine, has a strong personal interest in this case. He’ll certainly see that no harm comes to you.”

Struthers looked around him suspiciously. “Well, do we have to talk here?”

“No, sir, you can come into my office.”

He deliberated for another moment, and then said, “All right” He stood up abruptly, his fingers still roaming the hat brim.

I led him to the corridor, winking over my shoulder at Magruder as we went out When we got to my office, I offered him a chair and a cigarette. He took the seat, but declined the smoke.

“Now then, what did you see?”

“I saw the mugger, the man who killed her.” Struthers lowered his voice. “But he saw me, too. That’s why I want to make absolutely certain that... that I won’t get into any trouble over this.”

“You won’t, sir. I can assure you. Where did you see the killing?”

“On Third and Elm. Right near the old paint factory. I was on my way home from the movies.”

“What did you see?”

“Well, the woman, Mrs. Anderson — I didn’t know it was her at the time, of course — was standing on a corner waiting for the bus. I was walking down toward her. I walk that way often, especially coming home from the show. It was a nice night and...”

“What happened?”

“Well, it was dark, and I was walking pretty quiet, I guess. I wear gummies — gum sole shoes. The mugger came out of the shadows and grabbed Mrs. Anderson around the throat, from behind her. She threw up her arm, and her purse opened and everything inside fell on the sidewalk. Then the mugger lifted his hand and brought it down, and she screamed, and he yelled, ‘Quiet, you witch!’ Then he lifted his hand again and brought it down again, all the time yelling, ‘Here, you witch, here, here,’ while he was stabbing her. He must have lifted the knife at least a dozen times.”

“And you saw him? You saw his face?”

“Yes. She dropped to the ground, and he came running up the street toward me. I tried to get against the building, but I was too late. We stood face-to-face, and for a minute I thought he was going to kill me, too. But he gave a kind of a moan and ran up the street.”

“Why didn’t you come to the police at once?”

“I... I guess I was scared. Mister, I still am. You’ve got to promise me I won’t get into any trouble. I’m a married man, and I got two kids. I can’t afford to...”

“Could you pick him out of a lineup? We’ve already rounded up a lot of men, some with records as muggers. Could you pick the killer?”

“Yes. But not if he can see me. If he sees me, it’s all off. I won’t go through with it if he can see me.”