Big Shots Die Young

by Richard Deming

  “So now this Davidson automatically moves into Byron Wade’s shoes?”

  “That’s my guess,” the little man said. “Ain’t anybody else around tough enough to move him out.”

  For a few moments I thought things over in silence. Finally I said, “Go get me some horn-rimmed spectacles with plain glass lenses. And a size seven Homburg and a gun.” I gave him a twenty-dollar bill. “Think that’ll cover it?”

  Jackie examined the bill dubiously. “More than cover the hat and gun. But where do I get horn-rimmed glasses?”

  “Jewelry store, costumer, theatrical supply house. Look around.”

  He went out muttering to himself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “It’s Your Funeral”

  About an hour later Jackie returned with the specified items plus materials for lunch and supper. The gun was an Italian army automatic, one of those pocket size peashooters so many G.I.’s brought back as souvenirs, and it was loaded.

  After lunch I sat in the easy chair reading detective magazines while my host lay on the bed and mused. In the middle of the afternoon he asked suddenly, “What you gonna do with that stuff?”

  “Wear it,” I said.

  He lapsed into silence again and presently fell asleep. At six he yawned, looked at the clock on his dresser and rose to prepare dinner.

  About an hour after dark I threw aside my tenth magazine and rose to peer in the dresser mirror. I put on the horn-rimmed glasses, noting with gratification they seemed to make my drooping eyelid less noticeable. The thick nose piece even seemed to make my nose look less bent. When I added the Homburg I concluded my general air was that of a graduate student at some university. Considering it was the first attempt I had ever made at disguise, I felt pretty proud of the effect. “How do I look?” I asked.

  The little man eyed me critically. “Like Manville Moon in glasses and a Homburg.”

  I stared at him coldly through my glasses. “For your information, the most effective disguise is a simple one. They won’t be looking for a guy wearing glasses.”

  “All right,” Jackie said reasonably. “It’s your funeral.”

  “What you mean?”

  “If I had a face like yours,” Jackie said, “I’d wear a false beard.”

  I glanced in the mirror again, this time with less confidence. Then I shrugged impatiently. I couldn’t stay holed up in Jackie’s room forever, and it was just a chance I had to take if I wanted to clear myself.

  Lifting my shoulder harness from the table, I tried the little automatic in its holster. The gun disappeared in it, grip and all. I dropped the harness back on the table and used my lower right vest pocket for a holster.

  “Going calling,” I told Jackie. “I’ll phone later to see if you got any dope on Tiny Tim.”

  I walked the six blocks to Washington Square, and had my confidence in my simple disguise restored when I passed a patrolman who didn’t even glance at me. At the square I caught a taxi and had it take me to the North Shore Club.

  The casino was built on a pimple of land formed by a hook in the river, and was surrounded by water on three sides. The front side was walled from river bank to river bank. A guard at the gate gave us a cursory check, then waved the taxi on by. I told the driver to wait.

  My check at the door to the gaming room was a little more thorough, but not much. It was customary at North Shore to frisk guests for weapons, but since several hundred people passed in and out of the casino each night, and many were socially prominent, the search was little more than a gesture unless the doorman recognized you as a potential gun-toter. I raised my arms, was patted under the shoulders and at the hips, and that was that.

  I had not checked my homburg, and carrying it in my hand I made direct for Byron Wade’s office. Halfway there, the door opened and Lieutenant Hannegan stepped out. He was followed by Warren Day and a lanky, stoop-shouldered man who was at least six feet five.

  Abruptly I turned right into a crowd around a roulette wheel. The procession passed within five feet of my back, continuing on toward the door. I was preparing to emit a sigh of relief when I grew conscious of a tall, well-formed woman at my side smiling at me impudently.

  “Good evening,” said Beth McCauley, apparently not even noticing my impenetrable disguise.

  “Sam with you?” I asked quickly.

  “No. I’m alone.”

  I led her to privacy between two potted palms. “Going to yell cop?”

  She shook her head. “Afraid I’m not very law abiding. You must love gambling to take such a brazen risk.”

  “It isn’t the games that brought me,” I said. “I’m looking for Byron Wade’s killer.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “I thought you were the little boy who pulled the trigger.”

  “So does everybody else. Including myself if I think about it too long. Did you happen to be around when the shooting took place?”

  “Not exactly. Just before and after.”

  I asked, “How do you mean?”

  “I was at Sam’s apartment about seven-thirty when someone phoned him concerning that Ned something-or-other who tried to kill you. He was gone about an hour and I waited at the apartment. When he came back he sent me home because he had a meeting at nine. When I got home, I discovered I’d forgotten my purse. I tried to phone Sam, but I couldn’t get him, so I took a taxi back and arrived about ten minutes after it happened. Does that help you any?”

  “Like a hole in the head,” I said. “Why should you want to help me anyway, after I made D’Arcy look so silly?”

  “Sam looked silly before he ever heard of you,” Beth said with a note of contempt in her voice.

  “I thought you were engaged.”

  “We are, but I don’t think it’s going to take. I get engaged to the dullest people. They start out charming and witty, and soon as I say yes, they turn dull. Are you dull?”

  “Like a butter knife,” I said. “Try Warren Day. He’s a bachelor.”

  “I think I’ll try you first, if they don’t hang you.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said. “But let me work myself out of one jam at a time. I have to see a man now, but I’ll phone you if I stay out of jail.”

  I moved away toward the door I had originally been headed for and casually strolled through it. I pushed it almost closed behind me and crossed to the desk. Running my fingers along its under side, I found an alarm buzzer and jerked loose a wire. On the floor beneath the desk I located a foot alarm and gave it similar treatment. Then I took an easy chair against one wall, drew my little automatic and dropped my hat over it.

  Nearly ten minutes passed before I had a caller. Then the tall man who had left the office with Day and Hannegan came in. He stopped with his hand on the knob and examined me without expression.

  “You Rex Davidson?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Like to interview you about your employer’s death.”

  His expression turned suspicious. “You a reporter?”

  I raised my brows. “What else would I be?”

  “I have no statement for the press,” he said shortly. “Get out!” He held the door wide.

  I put on my hat and let him see what it had been concealing. His eyes spread to half again their normal size and he pushed the door closed slowly.

  “Have a chair,” I invited.

  Without a word he crossed to the desk, seated himself and let his hands fall palm down on top, with one thumb out of sight under the edge.

  “I disconnected it,” I said.

  He shifted his feet slightly.

  “I disconnected that too.”

  No surprise appeared on his thin face. He simply leaned back in his chair and accepted the situation.

  He said, “You’re an efficient hold-up man.”

  “I’m not a hold
-up man at all,” I told him. “This is just what I said it was. An interview.”

  I let him digest that a minute, then said, “Tell me what Day and Hannegan wanted.”

  “Why?”

  “To keep holes out of your head.”

  He spread his eyes again. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “The guy somebody framed for Wade’s killing.”

  “Manville Moon?”

  “Mister Moon.”

  His tongue flicked over narrow lips. “All right. Mister Moon. Why so formal?”

  “My friends call me Manny. Mugs call me Mister because I hate their guts. You’re a professional strong arm organizer, and in my book that’s a mug.”

  He licked his lips again. “Glad to have our relationship straight, Mr. Moon. What do you want?”

  I said, “I want information. We’ll start with why Day and Hannegan were here.”

  “Just a routine call,” Davidson said. “Apparently they are looking for a man named Tim Bullock and were under the impression I might be able to give them a lead.”

  “And could you?”

  “No. I’ve heard of him, but we’ve never met and I have no idea where he is. I got the impression Inspector Day’s real quarry was you, and he somehow believed finding Bullock would put him on your trail.”

  I asked ironically, “Of course you didn’t know Tiny Tim was gunning for your boss?”

  “I’d heard it rumored,” he admitted “After you killed Wade it hardly seemed important.”

  “Except that now you’re in Wade’s shoes and are Tim’s next logical target.”

  The tall man shook his head. “I think you misunderstand my relationship with Wade. I was strictly a hired hand on a straight salary. My job ended when he did and I have no intention of wearing his shoes.”

  “Oh sure,” I said. “You’re going to step right out of a million dollar business.”

  “Exactly. I’ve been in this game long enough to know big shots always die young. Bagnell and Wade have already taken the count over this setup, and a half dozen more big shots will get knocked off before the situation settles down. I work on straight salary. Always. Why should I stick out my neck when I can make a steady two thousand a week anywhere in the country?”

  I thought this over slowly. “You mean you’re leaving town?”

  He nodded. “Tomorrow. I’ll show you the telegram.” He reached for a desk drawer, then raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  Lifting a telegram from the drawer, he shot it across the desk at me. It was from N.Y. City and it read: TERMS O.K. EXPECT YOU SUNDAY. LEO.

  “Strong arm job?” I asked.

  “I don’t like the term ‘strong arm’. I organize protection for my clients. And I always play the ‘in’ side. When an—ah—businessman’s position becomes precarious because of competition or the threat of competition, he sends for me. I never work for the side doing the crowding. Over the years I’ve built enough of a reputation so that often all the business man has to do to discourage competition is let it be known he’s engaged me for a few weeks.”

  I thought him over some more, begrudgingly admitting to myself he sounded smarter than the average mug.

  “When you leave, who’s next in line to Wade?”

  “Nobody. If there were, I’d stick and help him organize. But it’ll be a mad scramble among morons and a lot of people will get killed. I don’t want any part of it.”

  I glanced down at my little gun, said, “Guess I don’t really need this,” and put it away. “Aside from Tim Bullock, who wanted Wade dead?”

  “No one. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time looking for a frame. There’s no doubt in my mind that you killed him.”

  I said ruefully, “Not much in mine either, except that his gun disappeared. You happen to know if he carried a gun last night?”

  “I’m almost sure he didn’t. He never did normally, and I hardly think he’d break the rule for a meeting with the district attorney. Matter of fact we were here in the office together when Mr. D’Arcy phoned about eight-fifteen, and Wade left immediately since it’s a half-hour drive into town. I know he didn’t put a gun in his pocket before he left, so unless he was carrying one before the call came, he left unarmed.”

  I rose and moved toward the door. “You haven’t been much help. Do I have to tie you up?”

  He said coolly, “You know very well you don’t.”

  I took off my hat and opened the office door. I said, “You’re still a mug in my book.”

  When I pulled the door shut again from the outside, he was still leaning back in his chair watching me, no anger in his expression, no relief, nothing. I had a vague feeling that I had come out second best in the encounter, that he had been unafraid of my gun and answered questions simply because they made no difference to him.

  I sensed he was both intelligent and ruthless and knew exactly what he wanted from life. And I disliked him more than I usually disliked mugs, because there was no excuse for his being one. I wondered what his income would have been if he had turned his organizing talents into legitimate channels.

  On my way out I glanced around for Beth McCauley, but was unable to single her out from the crowd. My taxi was waiting where I had left it, and I had the driver run me back to town. At the first drug store we saw I had him stop while I used the phone. I rang Jackie Morgan’s number and got the same female who had answered my first call.

  “Jackie Morgan,” I said.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “O’Malley.”

  She said, “I’ll see if he lives here.” Apparently it was a stock routine.

  In a few moments Jackie’s dramatically cautious whisper said, “Yes?”

  “Manny Moon. Any news?”

  “Yeah. Tim’s living in style. Staying at the Jefferson under the name George Brenner.”

  “Thanks, Jackie,” I said. “Leave the alley door open, will you?”

  He said, “Check.”

  At the Jefferson Hotel, whose rates limit its guests to millionaires and salesmen with expense accounts, the desk clerk told me George Brenner stayed in room 1217. I started across the lobby toward the elevators, but stopped halfway when one opened and a slight wisp of a man got out. He moved across the lobby at right angles to me and entered the Jefferson Cocktail Lounge. I followed as far as the door and saw him take a seat at the bar.

  The Jefferson Hotel has a room devoted entirely to public phones. It has two entrances, one from the cocktail lounge and one from the lobby. I entered it by the door from the lobby, checked the number on the dial plate of the phone nearest the lounge entrance and then shut myself in the booth farthest away. Dropping a nickel, I dialed the number of the other phone.

  It rang for several minutes before I saw a bartender come through the door and angrily jerk the phone from its hook. “Jefferson Lounge!” he bawled.

  I asked, “Will you see if George Brenner is at the bar?”

  “This ain’t the bar phone,” he said. “This is a booth phone. The bar phone is Grand 2158.”

  I said reasonably. “But if I ring that number, you’ll only have to answer again. Be a good guy and see if he’s there.”

  “All right,” he grumbled.

  Through the glass door of my booth I saw him reenter the lounge, and in a moment Tiny Tim appeared with a puzzled frown on his face. I hung up my own phone, waited until he entered the booth and then walked over and stood behind him.

  “Are you nuts or something to call me here?” he demanded of the dead phone. “Hello—hello, hello!”

  “Hello, Tiny,” I said.

  His back stiffened. Slowly he hung up the receiver. Apparently he recognized my voice, for without turning around he said, “I was getting ready to leave town tomorrow. Honest Mr. Moon. I got plane reservations and eve
rything.”

  “Turn around,” I said.

  He turned carefully, backed against the phone and held his hands palm up in mute demonstration of their emptiness. His frog eyes distended in a gray-splotched face and his lips worked. He showed no surprise at my wearing spectacles.

  “Honest, Mr. Moon,” he said. “Let me go and I swear I’ll leave town and never come back.”

  I said, “Let’s go up to your room and talk.”

  He tried to push himself even farther into the booth. “You’re going to take me up there and kill me,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Don’t be a damned fool,” I said, and reached in one hand for his shirt front.

  He watched the approaching hand as though it were a snake. Just before it touched him, his own hand darted toward his armpit. But before he touched the gun butt, I smashed the stiff edge of my palm alongside his neck.

  Tiny Tim’s mouth drooped open, his feet began to slide forward, and only my fist entangled in his shirt front prevented him from falling to the floor of the phone booth.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Legitimate Murder

  A woman came in from the lobby, passed without glancing at us and entered a booth. I frowned down at Tiny Tim perplexedly. Then I hoisted his hundred and five pounds into my arms and, carrying him like a baby, I entered the lobby and started toward the elevators with an easy assurance I didn’t feel.

  Halfway across a woman reading a magazine peered up at us and raised her eyebrows. Three quarters of the way across the bell captain quickly stepped over from his desk.

  “What’s the matter, sir?”

  “Drunk,” I said laconically. “I’ll put him to bed.”

  The bell captain faded away and I made the elevator without further interruption.

  With the boredom of hours of duty behind him, the elevator operator briefly surveyed my burden and asked simply, “Dead?”

  “Drunk,” I said. “Twelfth floor.”

  In front of room 1217 I extracted the room key from Tim’s coat pocket and opened the door. Dumping him on the nearer of twin beds, I removed a .32 automatic from under his arm and a narrow-bladed knife from a wrist sheath up his sleeve. I dropped them both on top of the dresser. Then I settled in one of the two comfortable leather chairs, lit a cigar and waited for Tim to come around.