Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION2
CHAPTER ONE3
CHAPTER TWO11
CHAPTER THREE23
CHAPTER FOUR32
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
“Big Shots Die Young” was originally published in Black Mask, July 1949. Copyright © 1949, renewed 1977 by Richard Deming. All rights reserved.
Published by Wildside Press LLC
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
CHAPTER ONE
Gun Insurance
I had just finished showering and was strapping on the cork and aluminum contrivance I use for a right leg when the doorbell rang. I kept right on dressing before answering the door. Possibly I should always answer my door with a gun in my hand on the off chance some old acquaintance with a grudge is calling.
But in the eight years I have held a private license, so many people have developed grudges against me I long ago decided holding my nerves chronically alert might keep me out of hospitals, but would end me up in a sanitarium. As a result I was caught flat-footed by the revolver muzzle poked in my face.
The oversized gentleman attached to the safe end of the gun was a stranger. Thick features and ears that folded inward like wilting roses indicated he had spent some time in the ring. I was conscious that someone stood behind him, but his huge body blocked the view.
“Come in,” I said politely, stepping back.
He followed me through the door, circling warily to the far side of the room without letting the gun muzzle waver from its bead on my nose. A slight wisp of a man trailed him.
I had no trouble recognizing Tiny Tim Bullock. A year ago I had tossed him on a train aimed south after pointedly describing what I would do to him if he ever showed his face in town again.
Passing behind his huge companion, Tim dropped his hat on the couch and sat next to it. Close set, button eyes peered at me from a pock-marked face and his narrow lips drew back in an impudent grin, disclosing sharp, even teeth.
“Getting brave, aren’t you, Tiny?” I said.
He glanced sidewise at the man with the gun, said sharply, “Watch him close, Ned,” and turned back to me. “The gun is insurance, Mr. Moon.” He stressed the mister carefully. “I’d rather make this friendly. Okay to call Ned off?”
“Suit yourself.”
“What happens if I do?”
I looked at him without expression. “I’ll roll you in a ball and stuff you down your ape man’s throat.”
Ned growled, “Let me belt this punk once for luck, boss.”
Ignoring him, Tiny asked, “Why hold a grudge so long? I never hurt you.”
“I don’t like murderers,” I said shortly.
“I never killed anybody.”
“Not with a gun,” I admitted. “But in my book causing a girl’s suicide is the same as murder, only yellower.”
He moved thin shoulders in a gesture of resignation. “I didn’t come here to argue. I got a proposition. Can’t blame me for playing safe, can you?”
I said, “I could blame you for breathing.”
“This is big. Millions. You can at least listen.”
I looked over at the gunman, whose pistol was pointed so accurately I was able to see clear down the barrel. “I can hardly avoid it,” I said.
“You did a nice job on the Bagnell case.”
He referred to the recent killing of Louis Bagnell, a local gambling czar, by the wife of a rival gambler named Byron Wade. The police had assumed it a gang killing and were concentrating on Wade as the logical suspect when the solution fell in my lap. It had been mostly luck, but the papers played it up as a marvelous bit of deduction.
I said, “Thanks,” without any thanks in my tone.
“I did all right in New Orleans,” Tiny said. “Got the horse games sewed up, and run two casinos with no competition. Now I’m ready to expand.”
I waited without saying anything.
“With Louie Bagnell out of the way, this town is ripe. He never liked brains working for him, and there’s nobody to step in his shoes. I own an organization big enough to take over the town, and you’re tough enough and smart enough to keep the organization in line. You run things here, I’ll go back to New Orleans, and we split the take from both towns.”
Before answering I mixed myself a drink and lit a cigar, without offering either to my guests. Then I leaned back in an easy chair and asked, “Why so generous?”
“It’s not generous. The take here should be twice New Orleans. My gambling houses do all right, but they don’t go nuts over the ponies down there, like they do here.”
I thought over his proposition, not really considering it, but curious to hear the rest.
“The town’s not exactly without competition,” I said finally. “Ever hear of Byron Wade?”
Tiny Tim nodded his thin head contemptuously. “I know about that guy being here. He’s only a false alarm. Spit at him and he’ll run. Why you think he moved here from Chicago?” He answered himself. “Got crowded out by a tougher guy.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “But he’ll fight. He was ready to fight Bagnell before his wife saved him the trouble. And what about the local police? Think they’ll sit still for a gang war?”
“I got a fix in.”
“Nuts,” I said. “Somebody’s kidding you along. First time some mug gets killed, you bump into the Homicide Department, and there isn’t enough money in the world to fix Inspector Warren Day.”
“Don’t worry about Day,” Tiny said. “You take on the proposition and I’ll take care of the fixes.”
I downed the rest of my drink, laid my cigar on an ash tray and stood up. “Not interested.”
Tiny Tim’s button eyes narrowed slightly. “Better think it over. It’s worth plenty.”
“I have. Call off your trained ape and scram.”
Tim’s head moved back and forth sidewise in slow motion. “You don’t get the point at all, Moon.” The “Mr.” was deliberately dropped. He looked at the big gunman and nodded slightly.
“In here?” Ned asked.
“Take him in the bathroom,” Tim said, “and muffle it in a towel.”
I felt the hair rise along the back of my neck. “Hey, wait a minute! I got a funny feeling I understand what you’re talking about.”
Tiny Tim’s eyes drooped half-closed in his pock-marked face. “I don’t like it either, Moon. But you’d never sit back and let me move into town. When I first began to think about organizing things here, I decided you’d either have to be my partner or get eliminated before I started to organize.”
“Let’s talk some more,” I suggested.
Tiny shook his head. “You had your chance.”
Ned said, “Get going, punk,” and gestured toward the bathroom with his gun muzzle.
I stared at the big man without moving until his eyes began to narrow and his trigger finger tightened ever so slightly. Abruptly I turned and he followed on my heels, the pistol nearly touching my neck.
As I strode into the bathroom, my fingers curled around the edge of the door and I slammed it viciously in his face, crashing my back against it to increase the impetus.
One shot thundered in my ear, followed immediately by a squeal of pain. The gun clattered to the floor and I turned my head to see that his arm was caught in the crack halfway between the wrist and elbow.
Bracing my feet, I leaned back harder, at the same time reaching out my right hand and gripping the protruding wrist. Slowly I forced it away, throwing the full leverage of my shoulder behind the job. The arm’s sudden collapse
threw me off balance. Recovering, I jerked the door wide and threw a left hook into his face. Scooping up the gun, I jumped over his body, took one more jump and landed in the front room.
Crossing to the windows, I pulled aside the curtains and peered out. A half block distant Tiny Tim Bullock was running rapidly up the street.
Stepping over the unconscious Ned once more, I went into the bedroom and phoned Police Headquarters, keeping a careful eye on the figure in the hall while I phoned. I asked for the chief of Homicide, not that what I had to report was any concern of Homicide’s, but I had known Inspector Warren Day longer than anyone else on the force.
“You’re up early,” Day growled in greeting. The inspector’s sense of humor inclines toward heaviness. It was seven o’clock in the evening.
I said, “I couldn’t sleep, what with would-be-killers prowling through my flat.”
“Would-be what?”
“Killers. Murderers. Gunmen.”
He waited for me to go on, and when I didn’t, asked inanely, “How many?”
“I should have used the singular,” I said. “Only one. Or, at most, one and a half. Our old pal Tiny Tim Bullock called with a pal named Ned, who just tried to knock me off.”
“Hmm,” said the inspector. “What crossed him up?” He sounded disappointed.
“One of his arms came loose.”
“And Tiny Tim?”
“Got away,” I said regretfully.
The inspector was silent for a minute. “If we pick him up, will you press charges?”
“No. But I’ll take him off your hands.”
“No thanks,” Day said dryly. “We’re supposed to prevent homicide, not abet it. Why’s Tim after you, anyway?”
I gave him a brief sketch of what had occurred. “If Tiny Tim got the idea Bagnell’s death left the town ripe, other unlovable characters will get it. You’ve got the makings of a dozen-sided gang war staring you in the face. If I were a wide-awake police inspector, I’d post some men at the railway station, bus depot, and airport to nudge unwelcome immigrants back out of town as fast as they arrive.”
Day thought this over for a minute. “Yeah,” he said musingly. “Might be smart at that.” Then he growled, “First good idea you ever had,” and hung up.
Someone rang the apartment bell. Laying Ned’s revolver on my dresser, I slipped my own P-38 from the top drawer and went back into the hall. As I stooped over Ned to make sure he would stay safely unconscious for a while, my new caller forsook the buzzer button and began beating on the door. I went over, jerked open the door and let him look into my gun muzzle.
He nearly fell over backward, and I lowered the gun when I saw it was the apartment manager.
Staring fascinatedly at the gun in my hand, he wet his lips and ran fingers through thinning gray hair. He didn’t say anything.
I broke the ice. “Yes, Mr. Murdoch?”
He wet his lips twice before speaking. “Is someone—ah—that is, did someone—ah—hurt himself, Mr. Moon?”
I turned on a surprised expression. “Hurt himself?”
“There was a—ah—that is we heard—ah—we thought we heard a scream.”
“Oh, that,” I said. “Hurt myself shaving.”
He eyed my face fishily, his confidence beginning to return. “We—ah—heard a shot too.” Pointedly he looked at my gun.
I said, “I shoot off my whiskers.”
A low but distinct groan came from the hall.
“Goodbye, Mr. Murdoch,” I said. “Nice of you to drop in.”
I shut the door in his face and went to check up on my guest.
About two hours after City Hospital interns had carried out Ned under police escort, my phone rang. It was Sam D’Arcy, the district attorney.
He said, “About this Hassenwaffer, Manny. Want to prefer charges?”
“Who or what is a Hassenwaffer?” I asked.
“Name of the fellow who assaulted you. Ned Hassenwaffer.”
“Oh. Not particularly.”
“Afraid you wouldn’t,” Sam said. “More of you private fellows depended on the law instead of making your own rules, you’d get more cooperation from the police.”
“I get cooperation from the police.”
He was silent for a minute. Then he said abruptly, “Want to talk to you about this anyway. Busy tonight?”
“Not very.”
“Then drop over to my place about nine-thirty.”
“Where is your place?”
“Cornwall Arms. Apartment 313.”
Glancing at my watch, I saw it was five after nine. “All right. Nine-thirty.” Ordinarily I don’t carry a gun unless I’m on a case, but with Tiny Tim in town I felt the rule merited an exception. Strapping on my shoulder harness, I slipped the P-38 into its holster and pulled my suit coat over it.
As I left my flat, I met the building manager in the hall.
“Evening, Mr. Murdoch,” I said. “There was doctors and—ah—police in your apartment, Mr. Moon,” he said reproachfully. His eyes were bright with curiosity.
“Yes, I noticed.”
I gave him a bright smile and went down the stairs. He was still watching me thoughtfully when I let the outer door ease closed behind me. My car was at the curb.
Only two days before the government had given me a special-built car in exchange for the leg I donated to the cause of making Europe safe. I was still a little rusty at driving, and I took twenty minutes to make the fifteen minute trip to the Cornwall Arms, where I was to meet the district attorney.
The Cornwall had its own parking lot behind the building, and you got to it by driving down a dead-end alley alongside the apartment house. Then you had to walk back up the alley to the street in order to enter the building. Attached to the rear of the building at the point you entered the parking lot was a huge ashpit.
The night was dark and starless, and none of the first floor back apartments had lights in their windows. I started to feel my way toward the alley, and was within ten feet of the ashpit before I detected the figure crouched next to it at the alley edge. I started to move toward it.
At the same moment I caught a glint of metal and fell flat on my face. There was a mild popping sound, a streak of flame, and a bullet whizzed high over my head.
Even as I instinctively rolled sidewise, swept out my pistol and fired in return, I was conscious of surprise at my assailant’s poor marksmanship at such close range.
My one shot jerked the crouched figure backward as though it had been slammed in the chest by an anvil, rolled over once and lay still. The silence was smothering.
CHAPTER TWO
Deadly Disguise
For nearly a minute I lay very still, waiting to see if he had friends. Then, just as I got to my feet and cautiously stepped into the alley, a spotlight suddenly threw its glare over me from the street. I made a back jump, felt my false leg buckle and landed heavily on my right side behind the ashpit.
“This is the law!” announced a voice from the now brilliantly lighted alley.
“Hannegan?” I inquired, recognizing the voice.
For a moment there was silence. Then from the other side of the ashpit Lieutenant Hannegan’s voice said, “Who’s that?”
“Manny Moon. Bring a light. My leg slipped loose.”
I sheathed my pistol just as a hand flash beamed into my eyes. I readjusted the strap that had slipped and stood up. By shielding my face against the glare I could make out both Lieutenant Hannegan and Inspector Warren Day examining me silently.
“You can point that light somewhere else now,” I suggested to Hannegan. The beam did not move.
“Let’s have your gun, Moon,” Inspector Day said.
I peered past the glare at him and for the first time realized he held a revolver in his hand and it was pointed at my head.
“Let’s have your gun,” he repeated.
“Listen, Inspector. That guy in the alley potted at me and I potted back. Where’s the crime?”
“Let’s have your gun!”
“Forward march,” Day said.
I moved out into the glare of the spotlight and discovered it was attached to a squad car parked at the alley’s mouth. The man lying spread-eagled in the middle of the alley was Byron Wade.
I muttered, “Looks like I did Tiny Tim a favor,” and glanced around for Wade’s gun. There was nothing but bare cement, not even anything it could have fallen behind.
“He must be lying on it,” I said.
“On what?” Hannegan asked.
“His gun. I told you he shot at me first.”
Warren Day pushed his hat back on a skinny bald head and pointed a thin, white-tipped nose at me. “We were parked in front of the building, Moon. There was only one shot.”
“He had a silencer. I tell you he’s lying on the gun.”
A uniformed policeman, apparently the squad car’s chauffeur, stood next to the car watching us interestedly.
Day barked at him, “Get to a phone and call headquarters. I want a camera crew, a medical examiner and the ice wagon.”
While we stood around waiting for them to arrive, the side door of the apartment house opened and Sam D’Arcy stepped out into the brightly lighted alley. The district attorney was a powerfully built man with heavy shoulders, a chin like a section of curb stone and neither stomach nor hips. Without saying anything he walked over to examine Byron Wade, then threw a questioning look at the inspector.
“Moon was shooting at shadows,” Day said shortly.
I said, “Self defense, Sam. He fired first.”
D’Arcy asked, “What with?”
“He had a gun with a silencer,” I said. “He’s lying on it.”
The side door opened again and a curious tenant peered out. Hannegan roared, “Get back in there!” The man jerked back and the door eased shut automatically. The incident drew the police chauffeur’s attention to a crowd beginning to form at the alley mouth, and he moved toward it shouting, “Move along before I run you in!”
Big Shots Die Young Page 1