Long Live the Dead

by Hugh B. Cave

  Even before he got the front door open, Mr. Buttons was violently assaulting the barrier from within. Mr. Buttons, a red-haired cocker spaniel, was two years old and uncontrollable. His adoration for Hanley was a form of St.Vitus’s dance.

  Tonight, after launching himself at Hanley’s legs, he retreated amid ominous growls of suspicion. Hanley grinned at him.

  “It’s the uniform you don’t like, is it?”

  Some weeks ago, Mr. Buttons had been severely kicked by a short-tempered mail carrier. Since then, the mere sight of a uniform had been sufficient to arouse his anger.

  Hanley was wearing part of a uniform. “This,” he said to Mr. Buttons, “is a motorman’s coat and nothing more, so don’t be losing my temper. I borrowed it from an old-timer at the Palace Bar. I had no yen to be walking home naked after losing my shirt in a poker game.”

  That settled, he spent the next hour setting the broken hip of the mutt he had brought home with him. Then he went to bed.

  Five minutes after he entered Police Headquarters the next morning, Pooch Hanley was summoned to the sanctum of Inspector John Murray. Murray greeted him coolly and said, “Sit down, Hanley,” and then said, “I hear you were at the Palace last night. That right?” “Yes, sir. I was checking on this White case.”

  The White case involved Mr. Louis Zapelli of the Corsair Club and Mr. Jake Doonan, proprietor of the Palace. It was a queer tangle. Paul White silent partner of Louis Zapelli, had been found dead in an alley, shot through the hip and the head. It was quite likely that Jake Doonan had done the shooting.

  It was likely because White and Doonan had hated each other intensely. White had claimed vehemently that the Palace Bar was an eye-sore and had threatened to put Doonan out of business. Doonan had sworn publicly to commit murder or mayhem if White came within reach.

  White was dead now, and good riddance of a politically-minded knave with underworld connections. But it was a crying shame that Jake Doonan, whom everybody liked, would probably pay the extreme penalty for doing the good deed.

  “So you were working on the White case,” said Inspector Murray.

  “I was, sir,” said Hanley. “Yesterday afternoon I spent four hours snooping around the Corsair Club, talking to the hired hands there, and then I dropped over to the Palace. I had a few beers and played some poker with the boys.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Don’t say it, Hanley. I know all the excuses. You apparently think more of your dogs than of your job.”

  Hanley sighed softly. “Now listen, Inspector,” he said.

  “On your way home from the Palace you assaulted a man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That, Hanley, was conduct unbecoming an officer.”

  “Well, sir, he—”

  “Kicked a dog. I know all about it. The District Attorney paid me a visit.”

  Hanley sat very still. “The District Attorney?”

  “The young man you assaulted,” said Murray curtly, “was the D.A.’s son. You, Hanley, are now without a job. You may appeal the suspension if you like, but I’d advise against it. When the D.A. has cooled down a bit, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Pooch Hanley’s face paled and he pushed himself erect.

  “It’s a good thing,” he said slowly,” the young squirt didn’t kick one of my dogs. I’d have killed him.”

  Without waiting for Murray’s reply, he slammed the door furiously behind him.

  An hour later, Pooch Hanley sat on a stool at the Palace Bar, despondently drinking beer. The beer wouldn’t help, he knew, but the business of drinking it would keep his mind off the fact that he had been suspended. Besides, it was soothingly quiet here at the Palace. Since Jake Doonan’s incarceration, customers had kept away. Doonan’s daughter was officially in charge. Her boy friend was tending bar.

  Molly Doonan was young. She had a slim, trim little figure, black hair and dark eyes. The eyes were circled now from lack of sleep, and when she put a hand on Hanley’s shoulder he stared and felt sorry for her.

  “Pooch, when are they going to let father go?”

  “It’s hard telling, Molly.”

  “But why are they holding him? They can’t prove anything, can they, Pooch?”

  No, they couldn’t prove anything. Doonan was merely being held on suspicion. The hell of it was, Paul White had left the Corsair Club that night and come here, via the alley, to lay down the law to Molly’s father. That, at least, was Zapelli’s story. White had talked it over with Zapelli at the club and then barged out. Zapelli, having a mess of trouble with a new floor show, had thought no more of it until informed that White’s body had been found in the alley, midway between the Corsair and the Palace.

  Jake Doonan had an alibi, of course. Half a dozen customers were willing to swear that he hadn’t left the Palace between ten and midnight. The Medical Examiner placed the time of White’s death at about eleven. But Doonan had sworn to lay White among the daisies, and it looked bad, because even without leaving the Palace, he could have stood in the back doorway and fired the fatal shots.

  “Now listen, Molly,” Hanley said softly, holding the girl’s slim wrist. “You and I both know Jake didn’t do it. Jake had a temper and might have gone to work on White with his fists if given the opportunity, but he’d never have used a gun. The police took this place apart looking for the gun that killed White, and didn’t find it. So, they’ve got nothing on Jake.”

  “Then why are they holding him?”

  “I guess they’ve just got to hold someone, Molly.”

  Tears gleamed in her eyes as she sat on the stool next to him. “Pooch, you’ve got to help us. You’ve got to. I—I’m scared.”

  “I guess I’m out of it, Molly. I’m fired.”

  “You were fired! You?”

  “Well, suspended. An hour ago.” He reached for a beer glass, made rings on the bar. “Of course, if you want me to work on the case, I can be hired as a private dick. It won’t cost you anything… .”

  She was silent a moment, staring at him. “Won’t that get you in trouble with the department?”

  “Might. I’ll risk it.”

  “Then you’re hired, Pooch.”

  “That,” Hanley said, pushing the beer glass away,” makes me feel a whole lot better. Thanks, Molly.”

  Two days later, Pooch Hanley hiked into the newsroom of the Herald and pulled a chair up to the desk of City Editor Bill Howard. “In the past,” he said gently, “I’ve done you favors, Bill. Now it’s your turn.”

  Howard, editing copy, looked up, said, “Shoot, Pooch,” and went right on penciling.

  “It’s about that White murder.”

  Howard dropped the pencil, pulled up his head and stared. He looked surprised.“Yeah? I would like the lowdown on that!”

  He was a short, pudgy man with big hands and almost no nose. A story was meat and drink to him, and the smell of one made him ravenous.

  “I want a front page story,” Hanley said. “Something like this: Detective working on White killing suspended for striking District Attorney’s son. Retained privately by daughter of suspected slayer, is ready now to present sensational evidence to convict real murderer. That sort of stuff, Bill. Big type.”

  “And then what?”

  “When it breaks, I’ll save it for you.”

  “Why not give it to me now?”

  “There’s nothing to give,” Pooch admitted. “I want the man who killed White, Bill. I can’t go to him because I don’t know him. So he’s got to come to me.”

  “And you think a story like that will bring him?”

  “It might.”

  “It might send you to the morgue,” Howard said calmly. “But I’ll run it. As you said, I owe you the favor.”

  Pooch Hanley said, “Thanks.”

  “What about that second bullet?” Howard demanded. “Did they find it yet?”

  “No.”

  “There’s something queer i
n that, Bill. The guy was shot twice, once through the left hip, once through the head. The bullet in the head killed him, and they dug it out of his skull. But that other bullet went right through and is still missing. It wasn’t in that alley. That fatal slug was from a thirty-eight, and they haven’t found the gun yet. You any idea where the gun might be?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’ll run the story, Pooch, and if it sends you to the morgue—”

  “You can put my picture on page one,” Hanley said quietly.

  The story, emblazoned with a three-column portrait of the D.A.’s son, was a good one. It had news value because the D.A. himself was in the midst of a buzz-saw political scrap, and because people were still wondering who had murdered Paul White and what the police proposed to do about it. The papers were on the street at 3 P.M. At five, Pooch Hanley walked into the D.A.’s office, closed the door behind him and said politely: “Well, well, this is a surprise.”

  The D.A. and the D.A.’s son were waiting for him. They were a strange pair. Kenneth Innman, the District Attorney, was big enough to be startling, had thin gray hair showing streaks of pink scalp, and owned a championship belt for heavyweight wrestling in amateur ranks. Strong as a horse, he was well over fifty and showed no signs of flabbiness.

  His son, Russell, had been kicked out of Harvard two years ago for doing more sousing than studying. He’d had affairs with torch singers, been refused admission to a nudist colony, warbled smutty tunes in a night club, and invented a cocktail containing three ounces of absinthe for a base.

  Both men stared as Hanley sank into a chair. The D.A. did the talking.

  “I suppose you rather expected this, Hanley.”

  “Being sent for by you?” Hanley murmured. “To tell you the truth, no, I didn’t.”

  “You went to a lot of trouble getting my son’s picture in the Herald.”

  Hanley glanced at the son and thought it too bad that the younger Innman could not do some picture-posing right now. Decked out in a khaki and blue uniform, with many buttons, he looked like an anemic monkey on parade. There was to be a political display this evening, and Russell was attired for the occasion. Hanley recalled vaguely that the fellow played in some sort of band.

  “Well, yes, I did go to some trouble about that picture,” he admitted. “But not to make you dance.”

  “I’m not dancing, Hanley,” the D.A. said coldly. “I merely think, Hanley, it’s bad for everyone concerned when a former police detective, like you, becomes vindictive against the department. You were a good detective. One of the best. And we—well, we can’t have you making faces at us, Hanley. It gives the newspapers too much lurid frontpage copy. You see?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, I think the entire thing was a misunderstanding in the first place, Hanley. Your suspension, I mean. When I talked to Murray about you, I didn’t expect him to be so drastic. Now, I’d like to make amends.”

  Hanley was silent, anticipating what was coming. It was simple, of course. The D.A. was ear-deep in politics and at this particular time could not stand too much of the wrong sort of publicity. His son’s picture in the paper, with talk of

  drunkenness and late hours at night clubs… . “You’d like your job back, Hanley?” “On what terms?” “That you drop the newspaper campaign, of course, and, if

  I may suggest it, that you more or less forget the White case.” Hanley grew an inch. A scowl pulled his thick brows together. “Forget the White case? Why?”

  “The case has petered out. Jake Doonan is still being held but will undoubtedly be released for lack of evidence. White’s dead. You can’t bring him back to life, and the public seems to think it’s a good idea that he was murdered. So, why clean out the sewer when the taxpayers care nothing about it?”

  “Someone,” Hanley said slowly, “murdered that guy.” “Of course, of course.” “My job is—or was—to bring murderers to justice.” “You talk,” said Russell Innman, “like a boy scout reciting

  his lessons.” Hanley ignored that. He centered his gaze on the D.A. “So,” Hanley said, “if I agree to lay off the White case, I

  get my job back. If not, what?” “Why be so concerned over Paul White? I’ve told you,

  Hanley, that Jake Doonan will be released. Isn’t that enough?” “That doesn’t answer my question.” “You insist on an answer?” “I want to know where I’m at.” The D.A. shrugged his big shoulders, glanced wearily at

  his son. “It’s my way, Hanley, or not at all. I’m sorry.” Pooch Hanley said, “Well, it’s not mine.”

  At nine o’clock that evening Hanley rang the bell of a Back Bay apartment, climbed a flight of stairs, and was greeted by a genial, bald-headed man wearing a bathrobe. The man was Medical Examiner Andrew Edson. “It’s like this, Mr. Edson,” he said. “I’m working on this case and think I’ve got something. But I want to be sure of the fundamentals.”

  Edson had examined the body of Paul White at Headquarters, shortly after it had been brought in. “You know, of course,” he said, “that the body was discovered by some chap who was on his way home from a theater and used the alley as a short cut. He notified the police.

  “Well, he’d been shot twice. One bullet passed through the left hip and was not found. The other lodged in his brain, killing him. He died in agony, Hanley. The body was found face down, on cobblestones. The toes of White’s shoes were practically worn through; and most of his fingernails were broken. He’d clawed up a lot of dirt, and one hand was wedged so hard between the cobblestones it had to be pried loose. Evidently the first shot—the one through the hip dropped him, and he writhed about for some time before being put out of his misery. The second bullet killed him instantly.”

  “That second bullet entered the back of his head and lodged in his brain?”

  “Right.”

  “And this happened about eleven o’clock, did it?”

  “About eleven, Hanley.”

  Rain was drizzling out of a midnight sky when Hanley got home. Pushing his key into the lock, he wondered why the house was so silent and why Mr. Buttons was not throwing fits against the door.

  The door creaked shut behind him, and the only light in the room was the red end of Hanley’s cigarette. Mr. Buttons was evidently asleep and that was queer because Mr. Buttons usually heard his master’s footsteps and came to offer vociferous welcome.

  In the darkness of an adjoining room something moved. Pooch Hanley stiffened on the balls of his feet, with one hand outthrust toward a light switch.

  It happened abruptly.The floor creaked, and a gun belched flame and thunder. A slug tore through space and buried itself in Hanley’s arm. Hanley slewed backward, staggered against the wall and dropped.

  He was reaching for his own gun even then, and it was in his fist, ready for business, before he slapped the floor. He didn’t use it, didn’t have to. No second blast came from the killer’s weapon.

  Instead, heavy shoes rapped out a tattoo across the floor in the other room, and a door shattered shut as a man fled.

  Hanley squirmed to his knees and swayed erect, his left arm hanging limp. Blood seeped out of it and warmed his shoulder. While he stood there, drops of blood made soft whispering sound on the carpet. The house was eerily quiet.

  Without touching the light switch, Hanley walked into the adjoining room and opened the door leading to the kitchen. The door on the far side of the kitchen, leading to the back porch and the back yard, was open. He closed it.

  “So now,” he said softly. “I’m a candidate for the morgue. Maybe the guy thinks he killed me.”

  He waited five minutes before showing a light. Five minutes would give the fellow time to cover a lot of distance, and it might be a good idea to let him go right on thinking Pooch Hanley was dead. Seeing a light, he might return to finish the job.

  In the bathroom, Hanley examined his shoulder, cleaned the wound and bandaged it. The bullet had gone through flesh. He found it imbedded in the living-ro
om wall, dug it out with his door key, and pocketed it.

  Then, making a tour of inspection, he found Mr. Buttons.

  The dog was dead. Blood and matted hair on the floor indicated that he’d been slain near the front door. Red saliva covered his mouth, and a gray film dimmed the big brown eyes. Near-by lay a metal ash-stand with which Mr. Buttons had been viciously clubbed.

  Hanley placed Mr. Buttons on a chair and stared down at him. Hanley was trembling, his face was white and stiff, and his eyes smouldered. His hands curled convulsively.

  “Dead,” he whispered.

  It was like losing an arm or a leg. The pain was not the same sort, but was equally unbearable. It began in the region of his lungs and crawled through him, reaching every nerve-end.

  Mr. Buttons—dead! But Mr. Buttons had never in his short span of life done harm to anyone. He’d been a cheerful, affectionate ball of fluff, bouncing around and spilling sunshine. Now he was dead, and he had died the hard way, in torment.

  “I guess,” Hanley muttered, “you tried to keep the guy out. I guess that’s what happened.”

  He sat and thought about it, and the thoughts were ugly, twisting his face and hands. About ten minutes passed before the real meat of the thing exploded in his laboring brain. Then he telescoped out of his chair, strode across the room and picked up the ash-stand.

  The fingerprints on that ash-stand were good ones. He caught them with powder, lifted them on celluloid and transferred them to a stiff sheet of white paper. With the paper safely cached in his wallet, he hurried out of the house and drove downtown to Headquarters.

  Half an hour later he parked his car in front of the Corsair Club. It was close to eleven o’clock then, and the Corsair’s early floor show was in full swing. A dozen scantily clad girls danced on the rectangle of gleaming floor, and the band brewed music. Hanley, feeling queerly undressed in streetclothes, followed a roundabout route to Louis Zapelli’s office.

  The door was closed, locked. A waiter, passing, indifferently, listened to Hanley’s question and supposed Zapelli was upstairs.