No Pockets in a Shroud

by Richard Deming

  No Pockets in a Shroud

  A Smashing Detective Story

  Richard Deming

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  INTRODUCTION

  Richard Deming (1915-1983) came late to pulp magazine writing but early to paperback novels. He was one of the first masters of the paperback tie-in based on a popular television series: he wrote more than twenty original paperback novels for shows like Dragnet, Mod Squad, Charlie’s Angels, and Starsky and Hutch. He wrote under his own name, and also as Nick Morino, Emily Moor, Max Franklin, Halsey Clark, Richard Hale Curtis, and, as Ellery Queen, he wrote ten novels that feature Manhattan police captain Tim Corrigan. When the pulp magazine era came to an end in the late 1940s and early 1950s, he turned to the new digest magazines such as Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine, and Manhunt. He produced about two hundred stories for the pulp and the digest magazine markets, and more than sixty original paperback novels under his own name. Deming’s stories were the basis of scripts for many television shows, including Alfred Hitchcock Presents, M Squad, Suspicion, The Alfred Hitchcock Hour, Ford Television Theater, Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer, and Gruen Guild Theater. Deming also wrote a few television scripts, including “A Shot in the Arm” (based on the first Manville Moon Black Mask tale) for Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer.

  Richard Deming was born in Des Moines, Iowa, and received his B.A. from Washington State University, St. Louis, and his M.A. from the University of Iowa. He served as a captain in the Army during WWII, and then spent five years with the American Red Cross before he became a full-time free-lance writer in 1950. Deming’s first series character, Manville Moon, stands out from the other private detectives of the early 1950s because he has an artificial leg. It is a grim contraption of cork, steel, aluminum, and leather where his right leg used to be, courtesy of his stint working for Uncle Sam during WWII. Part of Moon’s appeal stems from the fact that he’s literally “walking wounded” but still a well-adjusted, competent fellow with a wise-guy sense of humor and more than competency in the martial arts. Moon has a face that a woman once referred to as “a battered Saint Bernard,” and keeps his office in his living room or in a Mexican restaurant, but none of these traits dim the interest of Fausta Moreni, the lovely proprietor of the El Patio Café, nor of Moon’s many clients. Deming wrote four Manny Moon novels: The Gallows in My Garden (1952), Tweak the Devil’s Nose (1953), Whistle Past the Graveyard (1954) and Juvenile Delinquent (1958). All of the six stories Deming wrote for Black Mask are about Manville Moon. Deming also wrote a series of police procedurals about Matt Rudd, a vice cop in the Southern California city of St. Cecilia: Vice Cop (1961), Anything but Saintly (1963), and Death of a Pusher (1964).

  “No Pockets in a Shroud” was published in the January 1949 issue of Black Mask Magazine.

  Keith Alan Deutsch

  CHAPTER ONE

  Too Many Clients

  Manville Moon knew he was on the spot when he picked up two rival gambling czars for clients.

  “YOU HAVE AN EXAGGERATED idea of my talents,” I said. “I’m not a hired gunman.” Louis Bagnell allowed his face to smile, but his eyes neglected to join the effort. His smile was a gambler’s smile, which was appropriate since he controlled most of the gambling in the city—and had controlled all of it before a Chicago immigrant named Byron Wade began to muscle in. For ten years no one had opened a bookshop in town without Bagnell’s personal OK … Until Wade came along. But suddenly six new shops sprang up, and the rumor was Wade hadn’t asked permission. Up to now Bagnell’s E4 Patio had been the only casino in town too, but tomorrow was the grand opening of Byron Wade’s North Shore Club, and the engraved invitations issued to a carefully selected clientele were rumored to intimate everything from slot machines to roulette would be available. It didn’t require a Master’s Degree to figure out a gang war was in the offing.

  Louie said: “You’ve hired out as a bodyguard before.”

  “Sure. But you don’t need a bodyguard. You’ve got two now.” I glanced over at Vance Caramand, who leaned his back against my apartment door. “What’s the matter with Vance?”

  Bagnell said: “Vance is all right, except he’s a moron.” He spoke impersonally, as though the bodyguard were not there. “Greene has even less brains. I need someone smart.”

  We sat in my apartment living room, where most of my business is discussed, when I have any to discuss. Since my sole advertising medium is a card beneath my doorbell reading: “Manville Moon, Confidential Investigations,” and my business suffers from lengthy and frequent lapses between cases, office space would be superfluous.

  I uncorked the rye bottle for a second time and looked at Bagnell questioningly. When he shook his head, I looked at Vance Caramand.

  Bagnell said quickly: “None for him either. He’s stupid enough sober.”

  Dribbling a little rye into my own glass, I slopped water on top of it. I said: “You don’t want a bodyguard. You want an extra gun to meet Byron Wade’s mob when war breaks. I’ll stay an innocent bystander.”

  His face lost all expression, which suited it better than the false smile. He asked: “Is talk about me and Wade going around?”

  “In certain quarters.”

  “For instance?”

  “Among the lower element,” I said. I grinned at him. “Among your crowd.”

  He rose, recovered his hat from my sofa and stood looking down at me. “Did I understand you to say you’re net in this on either side?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  He studied my face as he would an opposing player in a poker game. “May I count on that?”

  I looked up at him coldly. “I said it, didn’t I?”

  “I know,” he said equably. “I’m not questioning your word. But you’d make a difference in my planning.”

  “Why?”

  His lip corners lifted in a wintry smile. “You scare people. Some of my boys might walk out if they thought they were up against you.”

  I said: “I’m neutral. Don’t bother to duck when we meet.”

  He motioned to Vance Caramand and they departed together. It was exactly three P. M.

  ONCE, during the shambles in France, I hesitated for part of a second in deciding whether to go head first or feet first into a hole. Finally I chose head first, with the result that instead of having a detachable head, my right leg is detachable below the knee.

  At seven-thirty P. M., fresh out of a shower, I was strapping the cork, aluminum and leather leg substitute in place when the doorbell rang. Pulling a robe over nothing, I clanked to the door on one: metal and one flesh foot.

  The heavy-jowled man standing in the hall wheezed from the exertion of his half-flight climb. His tailored clothes, carefully cut to disguise a pot belly, failed in their mission.

  A meagerly built, narrow-featured youth of about twenty rested his back against the wall next to the apartment facing mine. He had the coldest, most expressionless face I have ever seen, and his extreme youth only accentuated its cruelty. Yellow eyes measured me scientifically, as though picking the exact spot to place a bullet, if necessary.

  “Mr. Moon?” the heavy man asked when he had regained his breath.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Byron Wade.”

  He handed me a fat, damp palm and gave me a fishy squeeze. When I salvaged my hand, I rubbed it dry against the nap of my robe.

  I said, “Come in,” and stepped aside to let him pass.

>   He walked past me into the living room, and his youthful companion removed his back from the wall and followed. Wade made no offer to introduce him.

  The boy took a chair facing the door, kept on his hat and sat with both hands in his pockets. His suit coat was tight at the waist, his knuckles showed through the cloth, and there was obviously nothing in the pockets but hands. Somehow this made me feel better.

  Closing the door, I walked around Wade toward the bedroom, stepping off the rug onto the wooden floor with my right foot en route. The metallic clank brought Wade’s startled eyes to my feet, but the boy kept his fixed on my face. Ordinarily it takes some concrete danger such as a fist or a bullet coming my way to start adrenalin pumping through my veins, but this kid had “Handle with care” signs all over him. He gave me the creeps.

  I said: “I’ll be with you soon as I dress. There’s rye and mixings on the table. Help yourselves.”

  “Thanks,” said Wade. “May I mix you one?”

  “Yeah. I take water.”

  Ten minutes later, fully dressed, I sank into an easy chair next to Byron Wade and tried the drink he had mixed for me.

  Wade started, “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Moon,” which caused me to choke on my drink.

  I leaned forward, fished for a handkerchief, and Wade, his mouth already open to deliver the second sentence of his pat speech, stopped short.

  “What’s the matter?”

  I wiped my eyes. “Drink went down the wrong way.”

  “Oh!” He paused, reassembled his thoughts and repeated, “I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get right to the point. I want to hire you as a bodyguard.”

  I glanced over at the kid, who still sat with his hat on looking vicious. “What’s Junior?”

  The kid tightened his lips and fixed unwinking yellow eyes on my face.

  Wade said: “Danny? He’s sort of a bodyguard. I need two.”

  I drained the rest of my drink. “I know you’re a busy man too, Mr. Wade, so I won’t waste time for either of us. No sale.”

  He jerked up his eyebrows and waited, as though expecting elaboration. When nothing happened, he frowned slightly and bugged out his eyes at me. I studied him in return, noting the red-veined puffiness about his eyes and nose and the blunt, pouty expression, like a small boy playing tough guy.

  “You’re already working?” he asked finally.

  “No.”

  He waited again for explanations, until it was obvious none was coming. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple. Nothing personal. I just don’t like gang wars.”

  Wade’s fat-encased eyes narrowed and his tongue flicked across his lips. “What’s that mean?”

  I said: “You don’t want a bodyguard. You want an extra gun for the war brewing. I’ll sit this one out.”

  Wade’s eyes turned nasty and the veins in his fat cheeks disappeared as his whole face reddened. “So Bagnell got to you!”

  I said, “Nobody gets to me, Mister. Go peddle your apples elsewhere,” and got out of my chair to open the door.

  Danny’s body did not change position, but his right hand did. One moment it was jammed into his coat pocket, and the next it was under his armpit and out again. I’m supposed to be fast, but I wasn’t expecting the movement and it caught me off guard. My fingers barely touched the P-.38 under my arm when I was looking into the tiny bore of a Woodsman Colt.

  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 o
f 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.”