Ed Lacy - Strip For Violence

Two middle-aged men, Ralph Brody and George Shelton, who worked in the safe deposit vault of a bank a block from Will's house, were killed in an attempted hold-up. As they were leaving the bank on this rainy afternoon, they had been shot and killed. Their assailant, who was described as a “tall, swarthy man wearing a brown trench coat,” had been frightened away by a citizen who witnessed the whole thing and emptied his gun—in vain—at the fleeing thug. No reason for the attempted hold-up was known, since the bank men only had a few dollars of personal cash on them, and there were hints in the news story about a “crazed killer on the loose.”

The joker in the deck was... the sterling citizen who did his duty by shooting at the gunman was Big Ed Franklin!

3

Brother, the pieces to one part of this puzzle began to fit so tight it made my head hurt! Bobo asked, “So what does all this add up to? Remember thinking at the time, why hold up a couple of guys only making fifty a week.”

“See who the great hero was?”

Bobo pointed to a later edition, “Sure, they even got the 'Cat's' picture here. Still, so what?”

“I'm a guy who doesn't believe in too many coincidences, like Franklin merely happening to be driving by at the time the...”

Shirley, who was reading the same story in another paper, said, “But it says here Mr. Franklin had a safe deposit vault in the bank, got there after the bank closed. That's how he happened to be in his car, witnessed the killings.”

“Sure, Franklin is such a simple joker, doesn't even know banks close at 3 p.m., that's why he gets there at 4 p.m.!”

“Still can't buy it,” Bobo said. “Why would a big apple like the 'Cat' get himself mixed up in a couple of killings?”

He had me stumped there—Franklin was way past the stage where he did his own strong-arm stuff. But things fitted so tightly I knew I had to be right. I said, “Haven't got the whole picture yet, but it's coming into focus. Shirley cut out all stories dealing with the murders.”

I read through the next few days' papers but the case faded quickly. No trace was ever found of the “killer in a brown trench coat.” But a wild idea was flying around inside my head.... I dialed Saltz, had an uneasy moment while waiting for him to answer. If he'd found Louise's body... Saltz might be checking fingerprints by now and...

Saltz grunted, “Lieut. Saltz, speaking.”

“This is Hal Darling.”

“The little eye. What's up, Sherlock?”

For once I was glad to hear his corny humor. “Nothing. Called to learn if you had anything new.”

“We're still digging, expect the break any day.”

I wanted to laugh into the phone: Saltz must have thought he was talking to the press. “Look, Lieutenant, has there been a diamond cutter, or anybody in the diamond business, reported missing in the last three or four months?”

“What the hell has that got to...?”

“Case I'm on. Missing husband, think he worked in the diamond trade under a false name. Thought you might be able to give me a hand.”

“I got enough cases to work on without helping you. For a little guy you got more nerve than...”

“Okay, don't go up in the air,” I said, thinking it didn't make much difference if I located the diamond cutter or not—he would certainly be dead by now—if my brainstorm was correct.

“I'll boot your little can up in the air! Up to my neck in work and you pester me with looking for call-girls, for diamond cutters—what the hell you think this is, a quiz program?”

“Sorry,” I said. “By the by, happened to pick up an old paper on the subway—those two bank men who were shot about a month ago—wasn't it rather odd that 'Cat' Franklin was mixed up in it, the only witness?”

“What are you, mother's little helper today?” Saltz growled.

“I'm merely trying to learn how to be a detective,” I said sweetly, not laying the sarcasm on too heavy.

“You're nuts and I'm even crazier to bother talking to you! I was in on that bank case. Franklin had a permit for the gun. We made a thorough ballistics check of his cannon, wasn't the same one that killed the bank men.”

“Was it the same caliber?”

“Yes, but the ballistic markings were entirely different What you driving at?”

“Just wondering.”

“Stick to guarding dance halls and stop wasting my time!” Saltz said, hanging up.

4

I read the news stories again. Both men had been shot with one bullet apiece, clean through the heart. No matter what anybody says, a pistol isn't a very accurate weapon, especially for a punk firing during the heat of a stick-up on a rainy day. I read through a couple more editions till I came upon another item I was looking for—Franklin had emptied his gun at the “killer.” The fantastic idea was still pounding at the door of my brain, and crazy or not, it fitted in with everything else. I glanced at Shirley. “Take the day off. I got talk for Bobo.”

A hurt look swiftly crossed her brown face, then turned to anger.

“Look, Shirley,” I added, “it isn't that I don't trust you. Only there's a reward for what I know—a bullet or a slit throat. Don't want you collecting that kind of payoff, so less you know...”

“But I got off early yesterday. And only worked an hour or so today and...”

“Tell you what, come back about three. Meantime, go to the Paramount and...”

“I don't like movies, too stupid these days.”

I grinned. “Shirley, will you please blow.”

She hesitated, finally got her hat and left. I locked the door, told Bobo, “Don't you go blabbing what I'm going to tell you. Wouldn't tell you except I have to try this on somebody for size.”

“Did I ever have a big mouth, Hal?”

“Here's something you didn't know, that rock we had, it was a sliver off an industrial diamond about a half inch long, worth ten grand. It...”

“A diamond?”

“Yeah. Diamonds that have flaws, poor color, are used in industry for drills, polishing, stuff like that. This was made special.... I think it was a diamond bullet!”

5

Bobo looked at the cold stub of a cigar he was chewing, said, “Hal, I know what I'm smoking, so it must be you. You puffing tea? A diamond bullet!”

“Listen to this—all of it—before you sound off. Our client, the postman, is sitting in his living-room, five stories up and no roofs around him, when this slug comes tear-assing through the window and metal blinds, breaks apart on a copper vase. What else but a gun would send a diamond slug, or any slug, that high and with that amount of force?

“Now, Willie don't know what it is, takes it to a jeweler on his mail route, learns it's an industrial diamond, worth ten grand. He wants that dough but isn't sure the stone is his, wants to play it safe. He hires us with a bunko story, to find out who owns the rock, whether he can sell it. Assuming it is a diamond bullet, why should anybody spend at least ten thousand bucks having such a bullet made?”

“That's why it don't make sense,” Bobo said. “In cowboy stories I read about silver slugs, but never a diamond bullet. If a guy wants to wear it on a chain, wouldn't spend...”

“Wear it? This guy used it for shooting! I think I have the answer, though it may sound wild as hell. You know what ballistics is—same as fingerprinting for bullets. The nose of a bullet is made of lead and the gun barrel has grooves to keep the slug spinning straight. As the bullet comes out of the barrel, these grooves cut into the lead, leave markings that...”

“I know that, but...?”

“Willya listen? Being harder than lead, the steel grooves of the pistol barrel cut the bullet slug. Now, suppose a guy makes a diamond nose for a bullet, the diamond being harder than steel will work in reverse— instead of the grooves cutting the bullet, the bullet will cut the grooves!”