by Otto Penzler
Hurley looked at Welch and Kline. “That right?”
“Check.”
“Me, too.” Kline rubbed his jaw. “That guy packs a cannon in his kick.”
Glinting amusement surfaced the dark violence in McFee’s eyes. Hurley put a cigarette in his mouth, jiggled it angrily. Reddening, he said, “You heard these boys, McFee?”
“Sure!” McFee answered. “Gimme a drink, some’dy.”
As Cruikshank handed McFee the glass a faint irritability stirred his cynical indolence. “Sure that’s all, McFee?”
“That’s all right now,” McFee answered deliberately.
But Hurley had a couple of kicks left. To Metz he said vehemently, “I want the how of this Gaiety business.”
“Some’dy phoned the Shawl,” Metz replied cautiously. “Who was it, Art?”
“I dunno.”
Metz waved his hand. “That’s how it is, Pete. Tough, though. Damon was a nice kid. And Melrose is going to be damn good and sore.”
Hurley suddenly became enraged. “You got your gall sitting there telling me—” He became inarticulate, his face a network of purple veins. “By God! This town—”
Metz asked quietly, “What you want to know, Pete?”
Hurley took out a handkerchief, wiped the palm of his hands, put it away. He said huskily, “I wanna know where you boys were between eleven and one.”
“I’ll tell you,” Metz said confidingly. “We were having a little supper in Sam Melrose’s rooms at the Shawl. Art, Monty, Tony, Max Beck, Fred Pope and me. Mabel Leclair put on a shimmy number. She left the Gaiety around eleven. One o’clock, Tony pulled out. He had a date. Art and Monty and me came here.” Metz added lazily, “Anything else, Pete?”
Hurley’s throat sounded dry as he said, “And that Leclair queen didn’t hand Ranee Damon five grand for the Shelldon file; and—”
“Why, Pete!”
“—You birds didn’t walk Damon away with a hole in his chest—”
Metz asked Welch and Kline seriously. “Either you boys got Damon in your pockets?” And then, “Who’s been giving you the run-around, Pete?”
Hurley glared at McFee. The latter said nothing. McFee’s eyes were hot and violent, but he smiled with his lips and Hurley pulled his own eyes back into his head.
“And you ain’t heard Tony Starke bust his neck in a smash on Hawthorne?”
“Gosh, no! How’d it happen?”
Hurley flared out disgustedly, “Mercy Hospital. He’ll live.”
Metz stood up. “We better go buy Tony a bouquet.” He put on his hat. He buttoned his waistcoat. Art Kline got into his coat and shook down his trousers. Monty Welch carefully smoothed down his hair. Metz smiled. “Well, I’ll be seeing you, McFee. We had a hot party.”
As they reached the door Hurley said sourly, “The vice detail raids the Shawl tonight. Slat-tery and his boys. Midnight.”
“Saturday’s a swell date to knock over a road-house doing our business—”
“We got to make a play, ain’t we? The Mayor’s coming.”
“Ohhh,” said Metz. “Hizoner. Well!”
They went away.
9
Roy Cruikshank wrapped his evangelical hands around glassware and poured himself a drink. He set his hat on the back of his pink head. “Those lads were giving you the works, McFee?”
The latter jeered, “And why didn’t I tell Hurley about it?” He flexed his shoulder muscles, began to walk the floor. “Why didn’t I tell him those pansies tailed Mayo and me in that sedan to Hawthorne Street? Roy, I told Hurley plenty before I left the Gaiety.”
Hurley blew up. “I mighta called the wagon, sure. And Morry Lasker’d have had ‘em bailed out before I’d booked ‘em at the desk. If it had come to court—which ain’t likely—Metz and his lads’d have brought a sockful of alibis, and Lasker’d have given McFee the haw-haw for his tag-in-the-dark yarn. ‘Y’honor-gen’lemen-the-jury, the witness admits the only light in the theater was that of an electric torch. How could he positively have identified my clients—’ “ Hurley jiggled his cigarette. “The papers’d pan the cops and the D. A. for not making it stick. And me out airing my pants.”
The Tribune man crooned, “Now he’s getting sore.”
“Whatdayou want for two hundred bucks a month? If I can crack the Melrose drag, fine. If I pull a dud I lose my badge. Lookit Frank Ward. Chased Melrose doing seventy and give him a ticket. Frank lost his job—and five kids.” Hurley jerked his hat over his eyes, stood up. “The Chief said to me, ‘Hurley, you’re a good copper. But don’t get too good.’ I ain’t going to.”
Hurley slammed the entrance door.
Putting a cigarette in the middle of his pink face, Roy Cruikshank said, “Hurley isn’t a bad guy.” He laughed from his belly up. “Tonight the vice detail raids Melrose’s Spanish Shawl. The Mayor goes along. Metz has rolled up the bar and there’s checkers in the gambling room. Hizoner drinks his lemonade and makes his little speech, entitled, Everything’s Rosy in Our Town. Some’dy ought to give us a new deal.”
McFee went into the bathroom. He swabbed his face with hot water, took a shower. He rubbed his shoulders with linament, got into clean pajamas, a bathrobe. He had a mouse under his left eye. His lips were bruised and broken. The hot violence still glinted on the surface of his eyes.
In the kitchen McFee prepared coffee, ham and eggs and flap-jacks; set the food on a tray with mess-gear. Cruikshank had righted the card table. He was dealing himself poker hands. “Boy!” said Cruikshank. They ate without talk, McFee believing in food first. Cruikshank was careless with his eggs. His neckties said so.
After they had cleaned up the tray, Cruikshank began to fool abstractedly with the cards. McFee suggested they cut for nickels. Cruikshank thought it a good idea until McFee had won around five dollars; then he muttered sourly, “I guess I’ve paid for my breakfast.”
McFee said abruptly, “Who’s the Trib backing for district attorney?”
“The Trib—” Cruikshank cut a ten-spade to McFee’s heart-queen. “What you got on those girls, damn your hide—” He shoved across a chip. “The Trib—oh, yeah. Why, Jim Hughes, I guess. Jim’s a good egg, and he’d give the county a break.”
“Jim isn’t bad,” McFee admitted, “but Luke Addams is better; Luke knows the political set-up. Jim’d have to learn too much.”
“Well, it don’t matter who the Trib backs. Melrose has written the ticket—Dietrich. The Mayor endorses Dietrich and it’s count ‘em and weep.”
McFee stacked chips. “Dietrich elected’ll throw the county Melrose.” He looked at Cruikshank, eyes cold. “That’ll give him the county, City Hall and police machines. Larrabee is soft, but he’s got church backing and while he’s D.A. he’s never been more than half Melrose’s man.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“I’ll tell you.” McFee spoke harshly. “If Melrose’s heels had kept their hands off me this morning, I’d have kept mine in my pants pocket. But they didn’t.” His words made a bitter, drumming sound. “So I’m out to give Melrose a ride.”
“On what?”
“The Damon murder.”
“You think he or his heels killed Damon?”
McFee said softly, “Can I make it look that way, you mean?”
“You got the City Hall hook-up to beat.”
McFee shuffled the cards. “Littner might buy a ticket,” he muttered. “Littner ought to be chief.” He added thoughtfully. “Littner’s going to be Chief.” And then, “Roy, could you swing the Trib to Luke Addams, if you wanted to?”
“Mebbe.” Cruikshank rubbed his plump hands on his fat thighs. “But I don’t guess I want to. Jim Hughes—”
“Swell!” said McFee. “Roy, you owe me five- ten. I’ll cut you for it against Luke Addams for D.A. Five-ten isn’t high for a district attorney.”
Cruikshank grinned. “Cut ‘em first.”
McFee turned up a four-diamond.
“If I don’t beat that—” Cruiksha
nk exulted.
But his cut was a trey-heart.
“McFee, you lucky stiff, I got a hunch you’re going to slam this across.”
McFee said, “You owe me five-ten, Roy.” He poured a couple of drinks. “To Luke Addams, the next D.A.”
Cruikshank went away.
At his telephone McFee dialed Dresden 5216. He said, “Hello, Luke … McFee. Pin this in your hat: You are to be District Attorney …” Luke Addams laughed. So did McFee.
Then he hung up and went to bed.
McFee got up around twelve and stood under the shower. His eye was bad, his lips were puffy, but he felt better. As he dressed, the telephone rang.
Irene Mayo was calling.
McFee said, “Oh, pretty good … a couple of the boys dropped in. Nothing much …” And then, “How about some lunch, sister? … Cato’s. Half an hour … Right.”
McFee stopped at his office, in the Strauss Building and looked over the mail his secretary had laid on his desk. Out of a white envelope— five-and-ten stock—fell a triangular shaped scrap of drug store paper. On it, in crude characters, was printed:
Sam Melrose got the Shelldonfile, you bet.
He’s going to work on it.
MR. INSIDE.
McFee stared at the note. “Well,” he said finally, and went out.
At Cato’s Irene Mayo waited in the booth McFee usually occupied. She wore a green felt beret, a string of pearls and a knitted green silk suit with white cuffs. Her eyes were smudgy, feverish in her taut face. She smiled, with a slow, subtle curving of her red lips.
McFee said, “Pretty nice.”
“Not very nice,” she answered. “Does your eye hurt?”
McFee grinned. “You ought to see the other lad … I suppose you had callers?”
She nodded. “Captain Littner and Mr. Hurley. They stayed about an hour, but I couldn’t tell them anything they didn’t know.”
The red-headed girl ordered a roast. McFee said he was on a diet and took turtle soup, planked steak with mushrooms and apple pie. They talked a while. The girl presently fetched an envelope out of her vanity bag.
“That came this morning,” she said.
The envelope was a replica of the one McFee had received. He took a swallow of coffee and shook a scrap of drug store paper out of the envelope. The crude printing on it was familiar.
You tell McFee Melrose got the Shelldon file
at the Spanish Shawl.
MR. INSIDE.
The girl flared out, “Of course he’s got it. And that means he had Ranee shot. McFee—” She laid a cold hand on his, her eyes hot. “—I could kill Melrose—myself. It’s in me to do it. Ranee meant everything to me—I can’t tell you—”
McFee said, “The Governor’s lady.”
She turned white. She whipped up her fork as if she was going to throw it at him. After a long moment she said coldly, “You mean I didn’t love him—that I was just politically ambitious—”
“Oh, you loved him, sister.”
“McFee, you are horrid.” Tears started in her eyes. “But I don’t care what you think. He’d have got there. I could have made him. He had appeal—the public—”
“What about the Leclair woman?” McFee asked.
Irene Mayo answered stonily, “She didn’t count,” and made patterns on the table cloth with her fork. “I loved him, but—I shouldn’t have minded his blonde—much. A man is a man. Only the other thing really mattered—” The red-headed girl lifted her eyes to McFee’s. “I am exposing myself, McFee. I did want to be—the Governor’s lady. You’ll think me mercenary. I don’t care. I’d rather be that than dishonest. But Sam Melrose had to—” Her eyelids fell over the hate behind them, as she asked, “Who do you suppose ‘Mr. Inside’ is?”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Nothing makes sense.”
“What does he mean by that sentence in your note, ‘He’s going to work on it?’ “
“I been thinking about that,” McFee said. “If Melrose has that Shelldon file he could do one of two things with it: Burn it, or work it over. By work it over, I mean change, substitute, lose in part, cut out, then send the file back with its kick gone. But we still got a good one to answer—” McFee stirred his coffee. “If Melrose has the file, what’s he been chasing you and me all over the lot for?” He added after a moment. “The vice detail raids the Shawl tonight, by the way.”
This appeared to interest Irene Mayo tremendously, but she stared at McFee silently while he wiped mushroom gravy off his lips and buttered a biscuit. “You said the Shelldon scandal wasn’t big enough, in itself, to pull Melrose down, didn’t you?”
McFee nodded. “You know what happened, don’t you? Mike Shelldon was a big shot poker hound. Some’dy bumped him off in one of Melrose’s joints—Melrose, maybe—but there isn’t enough, if y’ask me.”
“Wouldn’t there be enough if it was definitely linked with the murder of Ranee?”
“Yes.”
“You just said the vice detail was going to raid the Shawl tonight. McFee—” She laid her hand on his. “—if Melrose has that file at the Shawl, and it should be found there— by the police—before witnesses—newspaper men—”
“Swell!” said McFee. “Some’dy’d have to do something then. But it isn’t going to be, sister—”
“You don’t know—” Her words came feverishly. “I’m not the sort of woman to sit down and wait. / can’t! I’ve got to do something myself. McFee, take me out to the Shawl tonight. It’s Saturday—there’ll be a crowd—”
“If Sam has that file out there, you don’t suppose it’s lying around loose—”
“Of course I don’t. But we might get a break. Things do break sometimes—unexpectedly. He knows what a gun is for, doesn’t he?” she said, a little wildly. “He threatened us—we can threaten him—and if the police and some newspaper men are there—” She stared at McFee. She was very pale. She held her napkin in a ball between her clasped hands. “Not afraid, are you?”
McFee had finished his apple pie, sugared his second coffee.
“Got a hunch?”
“Yes.”
“Well—” His eyes were amused. “Wrap yourself around that food and I’ll give you a bell tonight.”
“McFee, you are a darling!”
“That’s better than being Governor,” he said.
After he had taken Irene Mayo to her car, McFee walked back along Third, turned down Carter. Some people were staring vacantly at the Gaiety Theater. A sign in the lobby said; HOUSE CLOSED TODAY. Across the exit alley hung a theater ladder. A cop on guard said, “Hello, McFee.”
“Dirty job,” McFee replied. He noticed that Maggie O’Day’s hole-in-the-wall was shuttered. “That’s funny,” he muttered. “What happened to O’Day?”
“Search me,” the cop said. “I been around Second and Carter twenty years and I never seen that old girl shut up before.”
Rolling a match in his ear, McFee went down Second. He walked seven blocks and turned west on Finch, a street of ramshackle detached houses. Finch had been red light once; now it was colored. McFee stopped in front of a tall house with a crazy porch and a triangular wooden block at the curb. A pickaninny thumbed his nose at McFee.
McFee went along a broken cement walk to a drab side door. Two sloping boards with grooves in them led from the broken walk up to the door sill. McFee knocked. No one came. He was about to knock again when he sniffed the air. His eyes ran down the door. Folded newspaper showed between door bottom and sill. A keyhole was blocked. Moving fast, McFee pinched out his cigarette, picked up a piece of cement and shattered the window with it. He rammed the door with his shoulder. Lock and bolt gave and he fell into the room. A wave of combustible gas forced him back into the open, gagging.
A fat colored woman with a red handkerchief on her hair came up, running. She screamed.
McFee said, “Shut up. Go telephone the coppers.” The harsh fury in his tones spun her around, goggle-eyed.
Maggie O’Day lay in the middle of the floor. She lay on her side. Close against her was the wheel chair she had rolled herself home in for twenty years or more. But the last time she had come home she had come on her crutches.
Ranee Damon’s body was in the chair.
A rug tucked him into it. The five grand was still in his left hand. His right hung over the side of the chair, clutched in one of Maggie O’Day’s weather-beaten bony ones.
McFee bent over the woman. He felt at her heart, lifted an eyelid. “Tough,” he muttered. He went to the door and filled his lungs.
There were some rag rugs, a day bed, a couple of rocking chairs with antimacassars, a table, some framed pictures; near the gasplate was a wall cabinet. A door that led into the wall had been made tight with newspapers. Sheets of newspaper littered the floor.
A photograph of a large, fleshy, pallid man, still in his thirties, but already gross with high living, lay on the table. It was faded, had been taken perhaps thirty years before. The print had been torn in three, then carefully pieced together with adhesive tape.
McFee muttered, “The late Senator Gay-lord.” He chewed a knuckle, stared at the photograph, then looked at Damon and the woman. He said moodily, “Poor old girl!”
A bruise discolored Maggie O’Day’s left temple. One of her crutches lay on the floor, behind the wheel chair. McFee saw something else then. He saw a red smear some two inches long on a sheet of newspaper on the floor in front of the wheel chair. He picked up the sheet, his eyes fixed and cold.
The smear was crimson grease paint.
McFee inspected Damon’s shoes, the old woman’s shoes. Neither pair was daubed with grease paint.