Richard Deming: No Pockets in a Shroud

I let my hand reappear slowly, keeping my eyes on Danny’s face. For the first time I noticed his eye pupils were enormously dilated.

“Can you do that without a sniff of coke?” I asked.

Danny’s yellow eyes were cold. “Sit down, Moon.”

“I like ‘Mister’ in front of ‘Moon’,” I said. “And I keep track. I can’t argue with your pea-shooter, but you can’t keep it out forever, either. The first time is free, but from here on every time you drop ‘Mister’, it’s another lump on your head.”

Byron Wade said: “Now, gentlemen, let’s not have any trouble. I want you two to get along. Call him ‘Mister’, Danny.”

Danny said: “Sit down, Mister Moon.”

I sat down.

Wade said: “I’d like to keep this on a friendly basis, Mr. Moon. Can I tell Danny to put up his gun?”

“If you want,” I said shortly.

“And if I do?”

“Ill blow his head off.”

Wade pursed his lips. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. I’m willing to apologize for that remark about Bagnell. I want to talk to you.”

“All right,” I said, seeing no point in holding a grudge. “But you can talk all night and I won’t change my mind. You and Bagnell shoot all the holes in each other you want, and I’ll read about it in the papers.”

Wade said, “Put it away, Danny,” and when the little gunman obeyed, turned back to me. “I’ll accept your word that you’re not with Bagnell, and won’t try to urge you on my side. But you wouldn’t have any objection to making an investigation for me, would you?”

“Depends on the investigation.”

Wade glanced sidewise at his companion. “Don’t you have to go to the bathroom, Danny?”

Danny’s yellow eyes turned resentful, but the resentment seemed directed at me, and not Wade. He obediently rose from his chair.

I said: “Turn left in the hall.”

When he heard the door close, Wade said: “Danny’s all right, but the less people know your business, the better off you are. What I want you to do is solve a murder, in case it happens.”

“In case it happens?”

“Yeah. To me.”

Unsuccessfully I thought this over for a moment. “Go over that once more. Slowly.”

He spread his hands impatiently. “I said it plain enough. If I die, you investigate. I’ll pay you now, and if nothing happens, you’re that much ahead. But you have to promise to investigate if I die.”

“That should be easy,” I said. “If you die soon, it will be a bullet from Bagnell’s mob.”

His lips tried to curl, but pouted instead. “I can take care of bullets. I mean if my death seems natural, I want it investigated.”

I asked: “What’s going to happen to you?”

He frowned slightly. “Nothing, I hope. Don’t ask me questions. Just take the job or leave it.”

I finished my drink, set down the glass and said: “My fees are high.”

“Consider a thousand?”

I considered a thousand for a fraction of a second and nodded. Without further comment he wrote out a check, watched me fold it into my wallet and then called: “Danny!”

Danny slipped back into the living room, swept an incurious glance over both of us and returned to his seat.

I heared a church clock strike eight, and suddenly remembered I hadn’t eaten.

“Hate to rush you along,” I told Wade, “but I’m overdue for dinner.”

He said quickly: “Danny and I haven’t eaten either. Like chop suey?”

“Sure. But if you think we’re eating in public together, think again. Enough people dislike me, without giving Bagnell ideas.”

“I had the Silver Goose in mind,” Wade said. He looked at me expectantly, and I got the crazy impression that he was actually eager for me to dine with him, and was afraid I’d get away.

I said: “I don’t care what you have in mind. I’m eating alone.”

“Tell you what,” he suggested. “The Silver Goose delivers. I’ll stand the dinner if you phone and have it sent over.”

I didn’t particularly like the idea, but clients who hand out a thousand dollars for nothing deserve some consideration. I went into the bedroom, phoned the Silver Goose and ordered three chop suey dinners complete.

In about a half hour a boy delivered the stuff, and we ate in the kitchen. For dinner Danny deigned to remove his-hat.

In the middle of his second helping Wade suddenly stopped eating, pushed back his chair and stared at me rigidly. I glanced sidewise at him, started to raise another forkful of chop suey, then laid it down when I noticed his set expression.

“What’s on your mind now?” I asked.

His lips narrowed and his eyes half closed. I started to get mad, then noticed the fine beads of sweat on his brow and realized his fixed expression was not anger, but pain. Almost as I realized it he relaxed, rose from his chair and went over to the sink for a glass of water.

“Dyspepsia,” he explained. “Catches me every time I eat too much.”

Returning to the table, he thrust aside his plate and began to favor us with an appetizing account of his symptoms. He was proud of his dyspepsia. The phone rang and I was literally saved by the bell.

I went into the bedroom, choked off the phone in the middle of its second blast and said: “Moon.”

The voice on the other end was like an artillery salvo. “Warren Day. Where the devil you been?”

The greeting was typical. Inspector Warren Day was chief of Homicide and we had a long-standing half-friend, half-enemy relationship.

“Why?” I asked.

“I had every dive in town cheeked. Never heard of you being home after sundown.”

I waited while he grumbled some more about my being home where no one would think to look for me. Finally he got to the point. “I’m out at El Patio. They say here Louie Bagnell was at your place this afternoon.”

“Who says?”

“One of his stooges. Vance Caramand. What about it?”

“Why not ask Louie?”

“He’s too dead to answer. Think I’d waste time talking to you if anyone smart was alive? I want to see you. Get on out here to El Patio.”

I said, “Send a squad car,” hung up and waited by the phone until it rang again.

“Yeah?” I said.

Inspector Day’s voice hissed. “Listen, Moon, I said get out here. Now get!”

I said, “Send a squad car,” and hung up.

Back in the kitchen Wade asked: “Did I hear you say something about sending a squad car?”

“Yep.”

“What’s up?”

I looked him over contemplatively. “I’m beginning to wonder. Come on out front, both of you. We’ll leave the dishes.”

They followed me into the living room, accepted a cigar each when I offered them, and retrieved their previous chairs.

When he was settled Wade repeated: “What’s up?”

“Don’t you know?”

He shook his head puzzledly. “How would I know?”

“That’s what I’m wondering about.” I checked my wrist watch. “It’s nine-fifteen now. You got here about seven-thirty, didn’t you?”

“About then.”

“Makes a nice alibi, doesn’t it?”

“Alibi? For what?”

Instead of answering, I puffed on my cigar, leaned back and looked at the ceiling. Two minutes of silence ensued.

“We really ought to be going,” Wade said tentatively.

“Stick around.”

He let another minute or two pass. “When you say, ‘Stick around’, are you asking us or telling us?” His tone was curious rather than belligerent, as though he really wanted to know.

“Telling you.”

Danny set his cigar on an ash tray and looked from his boss to me and back again.