by B C Bell
“Then you’re the first one I’d suspect.”
After a half-hour of bludgeoning each other with wit, the two agreed on one thing—the lack of blood. Meaning, Stinky had already been dead when somebody had blown his brains out.
Mac was starving, but he’d have to make do with a candy bar from the store. He normally stopped at a diner for breakfast, but he was already running late. Bundles of morning newspapers greeted him on the sidewalk in front of the shop.
The banner headline devouring the top half of The Sun read “Confession to Murder.” Which would have been a typical headline for Mac to ignore, except for one thing—beneath it was a picture of Strother Cornbluth? Standing in the picture next to Cornbluth was a man in a suit, a Lieutenant Derek Martin of the Chicago Police Department. He was waving a piece of paper around; probably the boy racketeer-turned-murderer’s confession.
Just glancing at the picture, Mac noticed the Cornbluth kid was leaning backward, trying to stay away from this Lieutenant Martin. He could see the fear in Strother’s eyes, staring at the cop. Mac was about to cut the twine off the bundle and read the story when he heard a voice.
“Hey, mister, you’re late.” It was the tall, young man The Bagman had asked to call the fire engine the day before. He was wearing the same straw boater he’d had on yesterday and glancing at his watch. “Not that I’m complaining, but I got an appointment across town at nine.”
Mac looked up at him blankly, said, “Oh.” He picked up the bundle and remembered The Bagman had promised this guy ten bucks—but Mac wasn’t supposed to know about that. After opening the door he said, “Man, you must really need a smoke, waiting for the store to open and everything.”
“No, not really. It’s just that—you know that bank robbery yesterday? That Bagman guy said if I called the Fire Department somebody at this store would pay me ten dollars.”
“Ten dollars!” Mac’s voice boomed. “Ten dollars?” He slapped the counter with a rolled up newspaper. “Look around the store buddy. I’d have to sell half my stock.”
The man pulled the boater off his head like he was about to get in a fight and didn’t want to break it. “So he lied? You don’t even know the guy, do you?”
“Listen, Buddy. Nobody knows who that guy is. Anybody could just put a bag over their head and—”
“That’s OK. I understand. You wouldn’t happen to bank at First Chicago over there, would you?”
“Matter of fact, I do.”
“Well, I was wondering, see.” His fingers spun the hat around in his hands. “Since I kind of helped catch those robbers, if you think about it, I helped save your money. And I have to be downtown in less than an hour, I got a shot at a job, and I need cab fare.”
Mac pretended to grumble as he made his way back to the cash register. He’d never intended not to pay his messenger. He just didn’t want any connections drawn between him and The Bagman. He hit the cash register. It jingled and the drawer popped open. Suddenly, one of his eyebrows rose, and he looked up at the boyish-man.
“What kind of job you looking for?”
The man hesitated. “Well, I’m an artist, really—but my appointment’s for a warehouse job.”
“You sound like a pretty good salesman. Ever think about working in a cigar store?” Mac cut the twine off one of the bundles, and slid some newspapers into their rack.
“Truth is, I’d take anything, mister. But the warehouse is offering ten dollars a week.”
“I’ll give you twenty. Five day work week, but you’ll have to work Saturday.”
“I’ll take it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Richie. Richie Cobb.” He held out his hand, and they shook on it.
Before he had a chance to retrieve his palm, Mac had dropped the store keys into it.
“I’ll be back before five. Treat yourself to a cigar if you want.” He walked to the door and stopped after he opened it, looked back. “And if anything’s missing when I come back, I will hunt you down and make you wish I’d killed you.”
Richie’s smile tugged straight, and his eyebrows lowered, even though he knew Mac was kidding—sort of.
Mac headed for the trolley thinking, Tough guy, eh. This might work.
The tough guy was still standing in the middle of the cigar store, staring at the keys in his hand, worrying about what would happen if he took a candy bar instead of a cigar.
***
A few years back, during the Capone era, a reporter dropped by The Cook County Jail to interview a couple of felons. A secretary had informed him the two prisoners were not “available” at the moment—they had “an appointment downtown” and would “return after dinner.” That Strother Cornbluth had been neglected such generous bond measures, was just another sign that Stinky Everett was no Al Capone. Heck, even Capone wasn’t Capone anymore.
So it was with childlike excitement that Strother jumped off the edge off his metal bed when the guard told him “Your lawyer is here.” Cornbluth had already spoken to the seemingly useless public defender, but he certainly wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity to get out of an eight-by-ten cell.
Entering the visitor’s room, Cornbluth’s forehead furled with confusion. He didn’t see his attorney. The guard pointed to a brawny looking man whose reddish handlebar mustache seemed only a little less bushy than his eyebrows. Cornbluth sat down, anyway.
“May I ask who you are, sir?”
“You don’t know me, but I saw you the day before you got arrested. You were working a protection racket for Stinky Everett. You didn’t kill him. Why’d you confess?”
“How do you know I didn’t kill him?” Cornbluth snarled. “You think I couldn’t do it?”
“No, I think you’re too smart to do it. I also think you worked for Stinky because he talked you into it. So tell me, how’d you kill him?”
“It’s all in my statement. I shot him in the back of the head,” Cornbluth muttered, his face almost falling to the tabletop to rest in his hands.
“Then your statement’s a lie, Strother, because a bullet in the head ain’t what killed him.”
“Who are you?”
“Somebody that wants to keep you from frying in the chair. I know you didn’t do it,” he said, as if he were placing a bet with himself. “That detective… Martin? The right hand man to our no-reform sheriff—he took a telephone book to your head, didn’t he?”
“No. Listen mister, you better just go. You can’t beat city hall, even I know that.”
“Show me your hands.”
“What?”
“Just show me the palms of your hands.”
Cornbluth spread his fingers and put the palms of his hands up against the wire meshed glass that separated the two men. The guard two stalls away ran over and levered him back in his chair with a billy club. But he was too late; the man with handlebar had seen burn marks running across the palm of Cornbluth’s hand; exactly like the ones on Stinky Everett’s.
Cornbluth spread his fingers and put the palms of his hands up against the wire meshed glass that separated the two men.
“Did he tell you if you didn’t confess he’d kill you?”
Cornbluth’s head spun back-and-forth as if he were afraid someone was listening. “Not just me,” he whispered. “I can handle it, it’s my parents…” His voice trailed off.
“So you don’t mind dying, if it’s for your folks.” He smiled beneath the mustache. “Welcome to the rackets, Cornbluth. I may be able to help.”
“Who are y—” But the brawny man was already walking away with his briefcase.
***
Mac almost threw his nose away in the parking lot, but stopped when he remembered this was the second time he’d stocked up on the same face at the same theater supply. Then he rem
embered he’d used the same disguise to rob the 43rd precinct police of a small armory a few weeks ago. Never mind that he’d signed the visitor’s log today as Lamont Cranston; it might be time to get a new disguise. He stepped into the souped-up Packard he’d taken off Crankshaft’s lot, and put the nose and facial hair into a handkerchief. As he hit the street, he couldn’t resist throwing it on the sidewalk, hoping all along some kid would find it and think somebody had blown their nose off.
He took the first left from the jail and headed for Cook County Hospital. Since he was in the area, he needed to talk to the one guy that could answer his questions.
One of the Cook County Coroner’s newer doctors, Dexter Hayden was one of their best. In fact, he had helped The Bagman catch a murderer—and actually been nice about it. Mac hadn’t even had to threaten him. The biggest problem was getting into the autopsy room to see Dexter. It was off limits except for doctors. Mac tried entering through the Emergency Room first, but they wouldn’t let him in unless he was a patient. So he was forced to go into the building his least favorite way. The front door.
Upon entering, Mac was immediately confronted by a man behind a curved marble counter who asked “May I help you?”
“Oh, hi there. I’m here to visit Mr. Smith.” Mac hadn’t expected the questions, but surely there had to be a Mr. Smith in the hospital. There had to be.
“And what’s his first name?”
“Strother.” Mac bit his lip even as he was speaking. Cornbluth’s name had just popped out, the first thing on his mind.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the clerk said, thumbing through the log. “There’s not a Strother Smith listed at the moment.”
“Did I say Strother, I meant to say Joe. He hates being called Strother. In fact when he’s not using his middle name, he uses a nickname.”
“And what is that?”
Mac knew if he missed this one, he only had one more chance. “Joe.”
“Ah, here we are. A Mister Joe Smith, room 234. Upstairs and to the left.”
Mac nodded and strode toward the stairs. So there actually was a Joe Smith. Sounded like the kind of guy that could use a nickname.
When the man at the desk turned back around, Mr. Smith’s visitor weaved from his path toward the stairway and around the corner. He strolled into of one of the labs, and before the door was back in place, he was exiting with a clipboard and a lab coat on. You could get anywhere with a clipboard and the right story. The lab coat on the other hand was a little too tight, but he found a dollar in the pocket and took that as a good sign. After that, nobody seemed to notice the big doctor as he blithely strolled to the back of the hospital where the dead men go.
Dexter Hayden was one of those people that loved his work. Which under any other circumstance would have been normal, except Dexter’s job was cutting up dead people. A hard worker, the young doctor was only one Cook County Coroner, but he did the work of two. Hours seemed to just slide by for Doctor Hayden when he performed an autopsy, as if the rest of the world had simply disappeared.
When the young coroner returned to work after a late lunch, he didn’t notice the extra hat hanging on the coat rack. He still had work on his mind, or at least bodies. One sat on a gurney, beneath the sheets, next to the wall—instead of in a drawer where it belonged. Somebody must’ve just rolled it in. And since the Cook County Coroner only handled high profile cases, he knew he better get to it. Dexter looked at his watch and pulled the gurney next to the autopsy table.
Picking up a scalpel, he turned and pulled the sheet off the body.
It sat up.
“How ya doing, Dex?” The faceless body asked.
Doctor Hayden jumped back four feet, holding the scalpel out to defend himself. Then he saw The Bagman.
“Holy cats! You almost scared the life out of me,” Dexter spoke between gasps.
“Guess you’d fit right in down here then, huh?”
The coroner threw the knife in Mac’s direction, not trying to hit him, but letting him know he meant business. “Don’t! Ever! Do! That! Man, I almost stabbed you…” He was still shaking, running his fingers through his hair, but the words had force. Probably because the scalpel had stuck in the wall like part of a carnival act.
“Sorry about that, Doc. It’s just I never know who’s going to come walking in that door. Seemed best to kind of wait out of view.”
“I’ve got an idea, why don’t you just call first! I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
“No can do, Doc. I got too many adoring fans out there… ‘Course they all want to put a bullet in my head.”
“Yeah, I can understand that. I saw in the papers how you took out a mob boss and blew up a bar since the last time I saw you. Take a tip from the Lone Ranger. Ride into town, then be smart enough to ride out. You’ll live longer.”
“Look, Doc. I know you love the Lone Ranger and all, but the last time I tried to ride a horse, it threw me on my head.”
Dexter nodded, as if that explained everything. “So what do you want, Ranger? I got bodies piling up in my ‘in box.’”
“Question: Two men, one dead, one near dead. Both of ‘em had two thin lines on the palms of their hand, almost like a burn mark. There was some blistering, too. I’m thinking electrocution, but you’re the expert. Is it possible?”
“Ah, the thin black line. Seen a couple of those, but our kind city fathers keep pulling ‘em out of here before I can determine the cause of death—they’ve been telling me the cases aren’t that important and then farming them out to friendly morticians. You say you have one dead, and one alive. Any difference in the burn marks?”
“Well, the dead guy’s burn didn’t look as bad as the one that’s still alive. But the corpse had a hole in his leg.”
“Exit wound. That’s what happens with electric shock victims. All that energy has to go somewhere. What about the other guy?”
“Still alive. As far as I know there’s no exit wound, but I’m not sure.”
“Then he probably got hit by a lower voltage. High voltage boils your inside, not your outside. Then you get the exit wound.”
“So, what, they’re hooking ‘em up to car batteries, or blowing the fusebox?”
“Probably not.” Dexter picked up a clean scalpel, and began walking toward the wall where corpses sat in drawers like folders in a file cabinet. “My guess would be two different batteries, or maybe some sort of generator where you could adjust the power flow.”
“One of those huge balls of wire and iron at the power stations?”
“Nah, More likely a small hand cranked job, kind of like you use to start a car…”
The Bagman stood silent for a moment. Then he walked over to the wall and yanked out the scalpel Dexter had thrown.
“Thanks, Kimosabe,” he said, handing it back to the doctor. “See ya at the silver mine.” And with his last Lone Ranger reference he grabbed his fedora off the coat rack.
“Hiyo,” Dexter said, eyeing his clipboard and walking toward the wall stocked with bodies.
The young doctor pulled open the drawer, and Mac left, before he had to look at the body—still thinking Dexter was a lot tougher than he looked. Somehow the Doctor Hayden had figured out how to live with death, and keep his sense of humor. People are so weird, Mac thought, putting his mask in his pocket as he faced the wall so no one could see, never once reflecting on the fact that he was the one sneaking into autopsy rooms and wearing disguises.
Hopping back in Crankshaft’s Packard, Mac sped to the north side. He parked in front of a Rexall Drug on Clark, changed two dollars for a roll of nickels, and headed for the phone booth in back of the store. He closed the door, the tiny light and the metal fan in the ceiling came on.
When he pulled the phone book open on the shelf, there were about twenty numbers for the last name Ma
rtin. He adjusted the mouthpiece, and hoped he didn’t run out of nickels.
“Hello, is Lieutenant Martin there? This is Detective—” he put his hand over his mouth and mumbled a name “—from the precinct house.”
The phone booth’s tiny fan whirred, and a tiny voice buzzed from the earpiece.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I must’ve dialed a wrong number,” Mac said. “Really? Your name’s Martin, too? Well, what a coincidence.”
He hung up and repeated the process thirteen times before he finally said, “Do you know what time he’ll be in…? No, there’s no need to take a message, I’ll probably run into him at the precinct house. Thanks.”
He picked up a pack of smokes and a Dime Mystery Magazine he hadn’t ordered for the store, paying for it with twenty-five cents from the roll of nickels. Judging from the weirdoes menacing the scantily clad dame on the cover, it was no mystery who the bad guys in the magazine were. Mac felt the same way about Lieutenant Martin.
Back in the Packard, he steered his way toward the Lieter Building on State, and briskly strode into Sears & Roebuck, where he bought four summer coats on clearance. They looked awful, like they’d been left in the sun too long, but Mac didn’t care about that. This was about function, not form.
After that he went to sporting goods. Ten minutes later, he’d pulled the Packard up to Sears’ loading dock, and three employees loaded the back seat with wire cages. He dropped the four jackets off at a specialty tailor down the block, and promised the owner fifty bucks if he could finish the job in two hours.
Then Mac swung by the cigar store, so he could relieve his new employee, Richie Cobb. He slipped the kid another buck, told him to come back in the morning and closed the store ten minutes after the help had gone. The change in the register cashed out right, and nothing had exploded. Mac figured he might have a new employee.