Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

Beauty in His Brain by Dana Burnet

He stood before me, the creature who had chosen to take away my loved one’s mate. Now at last it was my turn...

A previously published story is not necessarily a permanently preserved story, available to anyone. Too often, in fact, it is just the opposite. So transitory is magazine publication alone — usually thirty days on sale — that far too many outstanding tales are overlooked and forgotten before they have their deserved chance at fame and recognition. Her, in this new de-department, you will read some of the most unusual stories ever written. “Beauty in His Brain,” by Dana Burnet, is no exception. Mr. Burnet’s stories have always been noted for their unusual and starkly dramatic climaxes. This one is ranked among his best. When you are fortunate enough to see a story called “Department of Lost Stories,” remember that it is a work which in the judgment of a discriminating editorial board is too outstanding to be forgotten. The present short story is no exception. Read it. You’ll not forget it for a while!

THE EDITORS

It was after dark of a chill winter evening. Lawyer Gail Morton was alone in his office, which was lighted only by his desk lamp and the faint reddish glow of a coal fire in an old-fashioned grate.

Sitting hunched over his desk, his chin in his big hands, Gail stared at a newspaper clipping, about four inches square, which lay under the lamp before him. The clipping revealed the blurred photograph of a woman whose faded prettiness had survived even the newsman’s cruel camera. The caption with the picture read: Mrs. George Pendexter. Whose Husband Was Killed in Local Cigar-Store Holdup.

As he studied the picture, Gail’s long, lean body drooped. His massive bony face looked haggard in the light. It was a face stamped with a Lincolnesque ugliness. This suggestion of a resemblance to the Great Emancipator had helped Gail enormously in his legal career. He was known as an honest man and the most successful lawyer in the large sprawling industrial town of Wakingham, Massachusetts.

Suddenly he straightened up and pulled his watch from his pocket. It was five minutes to seven. He put the clipping into his top desk drawer. He got up and walked to a closet beyond the fireplace. From the closet he took his overcoat and his black fedora hat. He put them on. He drew on his yellow pigskin gloves and buttoned them methodically. Then, instead of leaving the office, he went back to his desk and sat down — to wait.

In a few minutes he heard footsteps in the outer office. Immediately the door of his private office opened and a man stepped quickly, with a catlike movement, into the room.

The man was short and squat; swarthy. His eyes were black and cold, yet curiously glittering; the eyes of a wary animal — or of a gangster.

“I’m Johnny Bracco,” he said in a taut, guttural voice.

Gail Morton nodded.

“Sit down, Bracco. I didn’t know whether to expect you or not.”

“You says seven o’clock, alone here in your office, and I—”

“Yes. But I wasn’t sure you’d show up.” Morton indicated his hat and coat. “As you see, I was ready to go home. But you’re right on time.”

“And you’re alone, Mr. Morton?” The man’s eyes were bright with suspicion. The lawyer met his gaze frankly, calmly.

“Certainly. You may search the place if you want to.”

Bracco sighed and sat down in a chair on the other side of the desk, facing Morton.

“No,” he said. “I gotta trust somebody, and you’re supposed to be a straight guy. That’ll help me a lot, see? That’s why I sent word to you I wanted you for my mouthpiece, see?” The dark man paused, and again the gleam of suspicion appeared in his eyes.

“But what I wanna know is why you was willin’ to talk turkey with me this time, when you wouldn’t never take no business off me before? You’re the smartest lawyer in this town. I and my mob could of used you all durin’ the prohibition racket, but you al’ays turned me down cold. What’s changed you, Mr. Morton?”

“I’ll answer your question in a moment,” said Morton. “First, let’s consider the facts. From what I’ve read in the papers, you have been arrested for complicity in the Pendexter case. You are now out on bail. Is that correct?”

“Yeah! But they ain’t got a thing on me. They didn’t have no right to pinch me. I could sue them damn dicks for false arrest. I—”

“You probably could,” interrupted Morton. “Legally, no man can be arrested on an officer’s suspicion. But practically it’s done every day. The chances are you’ll go to trial, Bracco. Public opinion will demand it. The whole town is worked up over that Pendexter murder.”

“It wasn’t no murder, Mr. Morton! Honest it wasn’t—”

“How do you know?” snapped Gail Morton suddenly.

“I... well, I read the papers too, see? And I seen where this guy Pendexter was found dead behind his counter with a gun in his hand. So nacherly we — I mean the other guy would of had to shoot in self-defense and—”

“Baloney, Bracco!” Gail Morton laughed briefly. “You certainly need a lawyer. You’ve practically admitted to me that you or your thugs killed that cigar-store clerk—”

“I never—”

“Don’t lie to me, you rat!”

Involuntarily the gangster’s right hand jerked toward his left shoulder, then fell limply to the desk.

“All right,” Bracco said. “All right. I’ll take that from you, on account I need you, see?”

“Then tell me the truth,” Morton said sternly. “Or get out of my office. Jump your bail bond, and run away. That’ll be as good as a confession. Then, when they catch you, you won’t need a lawyer. You’ll need a priest.”

“Now wait, Mr. Morton. Don’t get sore. I’ll tell you the truth, see? Only first I wanna know why you’re takin’ this case. Are you my mouthpiece or ain’t you — and why?”

Morton’s homely face was an imperturbable mask.

“This Pendexter case,” he said, “interests me. According to the newspapers, an innocent man was shot down in cold blood. There was no evidence of robbery, nor any other reason for the killing. From a legal standpoint the complete absence of motive interests me, Bracco. It fascinates me.”

“Oh, yeah, Mr. Morton?” Once more the glittering black eyes darted suspicion. “So you’re takin’ the case because you’re interested, huh? Just because you’re interested!”

The worried skepticism in that harsh voice struck a note of warning in Gail Morton’s brain. His expression changed; softened.

“Maybe you don’t know it, Bracco,” he said almost lightly, “but there has been a depression in the legal profession too.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I get you, Mr. Morton.”

“I take it you’d be willing to pay me well for my services?”

“Sure! There’ll be five grand in it for you anyways — just as a retainin’ fee.”

“Five thousand dollars! That’s a lot of money, Bracco.”

“I’m in a lot of trouble,” growled the gangster.

Gail spoke slowly: “A man will do things for money that he wouldn’t do for any other reason. You understand that, don’t you, Bracco?”

The gangster grinned with relief, showing his ragged tobacco-stained teeth. He was on his own ground now.

“Sure! It’s the best reason in the world for doin’ anything, ain’t it? Money! Why, sure, smart guy. I un’erstan’ that, all right.”

“Then let’s have your story,” said Gail Morton. He shoved a box of cigars across the desk. “Smoke?”

“Much obliged,” grunted Bracco. He stripped off a pair of expensive fur-lined gloves, put them in his pocket, and lighted a cigar. “You want the truth, huh?”

“Yes,” said Morton.

“Maybe I’m trustin’ you with my life, see?”

“You can trust me or not, as you choose. There’s no danger to you, because there are no witnesses to our conversation. Besides which, no lawyer who expected to continue in practice would betray a client’s confidence. But make up your own mind, Bracco.”

The gangster removed the cigar from his mouth; wet his thick lips with his tongue.

“Well, it was like this,” he said huskily. “One night a coupla weeks ago me and a guy named Sailor Red — he’s one of my mob — we went into this cigar store about nine P.M. to buy a package of cigarettes.”

“Just to buy cigarettes, eh?”

“That’s right, Mr. Morton. That’s straight. We didn’t have no other idea in our heads. Then when we got in the store, this guy Sailor Red he sees there ain’t nobody in the place but the clerk. So, before I can figure his move, he pulls out his heatin’ iron and tells the clerk to hand over his cash. Well, the clerk — this fella Pendexter that got killed — he says he’ll have to open the cash register. So he turns around to do it, and Red looks at me and winks. But right at that second I see the clerk reach for his pocket, so I flash my rod and let him have it in the back. It all happens in a coupla seconds.”

“I see. What then?”

“Why, then we just walked outa the store and went home.”

“And nobody saw you go out? Nobody heard the shot?”

Bracco shrugged his bulging shoulders.

“Plenty of people musta saw us — after we got outside. The street was crowded. But nobody paid any attention to us and if anybody heard the shot they musta thought it was a car back-firin’. It was more’n an hour before a cop found the body behind the counter.”

“The newspapers were right, then,” said Morton evenly, without emotion. “It was cold-blooded murder. But, as I’ve already pointed out, the lack of a motive is in your favor. What about this accomplice of yours, this Sailor Red?”

Bracco’s lips twisted in an evil grimace.

“He got his in a crap game, in some joint down by the railroad yards, a week ago.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Your handiwork, Bracco?”

“Naw. I don’t even know who stuck the knife in his ribs. I wouldn’t depend on a knife, myself.”

“I believe you,” said Morton, and added thoughtfully: “That simplifies matters. But why should the police suspect you of the Pendexter killing?”

The gangster’s voice was a snarl: “I’m suspected of everything that goes screwy in this town. If a millionaire gets snatched or a kid gets lost walkin’ home from school, some flat-foot from headquarters starts tailin’ me. I’m sick of it, see? I can’t stand no more of it—”

“You think the police have no real evidence against you?”

“Naw! But what’s a cop care about evidence if he’s got a piece of rubber hose in his hand? I’m out on bail now, but that won’t keep the dicks from crackin’ down on me, see? That’s where you come in, Mr. Morton. You gotta get me outa town, or sumpin, till I gotta go to court. I can’t stand no third-degree stuff—”

“Steady, Bracco,” Morton said sharply. “Keep your shirt on. I can protect you from the police easily enough — if I decide to defend you at all.”

Bracco half rose from his chair.

“What?” he gasped. “What’d you say? You mean you ain’t sure you’ll take the case, after I come here—”

“It all depends—”

“—here and told you I killed a guy? Why, damn you—”

“Sit down,” Morton said, so quietly that the other, after a moment, sank back into the chair. “Now. I’ve already told you that your confession is safe with me. Even if I wanted to betray you, no court would take my unsupported testimony as evidence.”

“Then what’s the idea, huh?”

“It’s this,” Morton said, and paused long enough to create in Bracco a tension of acute interest. “Before I decide finally whether or not to become your lawyer, I want to make absolutely sure of two things.”

“What are they?”

“I want to be sure of your nerve, and of your confidence in me.”

“I got plenty of nerve,” blustered Bracco.

The lawyer looked at him. “Yes; you’ve got the nerve to shoot a helpless man in the back. But have you got the kind of nerve you’ll need on the witness stand — with a jury watching every move you make and every expression on your face? I can build a defense for you, Bracco. I can coach you in the lies you’ll have to tell. But have you got the guts to follow where I lead you? Above all, will you — at all times and without reservation — really trust me? Trust me with your life?”

A muscle twitched in the gangster’s dark face.

“Say! Would I be sittin’ here in your office if I didn’t trust you?”

“You’ve got to prove it to me,” Morton said in his quiet voice. “I can’t afford to take the slightest chance of losing my reputation in this community. It’s my life as well as yours. You’ve got to prove your confidence in me.”

“Prove it — how?”

Gail stretched a long arm across the desk.

“Give me your gun.”

“I ain’t— How do you know—”

“Hand it over, Bracco.”

The killer reached under his left armpit and drew out a thirty-eight caliber revolver, which he placed in Gail Morton’s hands.

“What’s the game?” asked Bracco, scowling.

Morton didn’t answer. Now he had the revolver out of sight under the desk. He was doing something with it. The mysterious movement of his hands under the desk sent muscular ripples up his arms and into his drooping shoulders. Finally he thrust his left hand into his overcoat pocket. With his right hand he pushed the cocked revolver back across the desk toward Bracco.

“I want you,” he said, “to put the muzzle of this gun against your temple and pull the trigger.”

“You want — what?”

“You heard me, didn’t you?”

“Say, lissen, you! What’s the gag? D’you think I’m nuts?”

“Listen yourself, Bracco. I’ve taken all the cartridges out of that gun. It’s empty.”

“How do I know it’s empty?”

Morton thrust his huge torso halfway across the desk. His ugly face gleamed like marble in the lamplight.

“You don’t know, Bracco! That’s just the point. You’ve got to take my word for it. Before I accept your case you’ve got to prove to me that you’re willing to trust me with your life!”

The gangster’s swarthy skin turned swiftly to parchment; his black eyes stared wildly out of a mottled, repulsive, yellowish face.

“What the hell!” he shrieked faintly. “What the hell!”

“Do what I say!” roared Gail Morton in a voice whose thunders had shaken many a courtroom. “Do what I say — or walk out of this office straight to the electric chair!”

Bracco made a sound — an inarticulate animal sound, deep in his throat. Then, as if hypnotized, he slowly raised the revolver (it seemed a great weight in his hand) and placed the muzzle against his right temple. His eyes grew enormous as they stared into Morton’s.

“O.K., smart guy! I’m trustin’ you, see? I’m trustin’ y—”

The shot shattered with crazy echoes the silence of the room. Bracco’s body leaped convulsively off the chair, struck the floor with a soft crashing sound, and lay still.

Gail Morton acted quickly then. In an instant he was bending over the gangster’s crumpled form. Bracco was dead. Picking up the revolver that lay on the floor nearby, Morton took from his pocket the five cartridges that he had removed from it and, breaking the gun, replaced them in the chamber. The empty shell of the sixth cartridge, which he had not removed, remained where it was.

Carefully replacing the revolver on the floor, near the dead man’s outstretched hand, Morton rose and went to the clothes closet near the fireplace. He took off his hat and overcoat and hung them in the closet. He removed his yellow pigskin gloves and stuffed them into his overcoat.

He strode back to his desk and phoned police headquarters. Then he sat down, lighted a cigar, and waited.

In a remarkably short time two patrolmen, a coroner’s assistant, and a detective sergeant arrived at his office. Morton met them at the door. They all knew lawyer Morton.

“Evenin’, sir,” said the sergeant. “What’s happened?”

Gail pointed to the corpse on his carpet. He said quickly, “That is — or was — Johnny Bracco, sergeant.”

“Bracco! You mean Bracco the gangster?”

“Yes. He came here tonight to try to engage me as his attorney. He confessed to the Pendexter killing and—”

“Johnny confessed he done the Pendexter job?”

“Yes. He wanted me to defend him. He felt that he was in grave danger.”

“He was right,” said the police officer grimly. “But — go on, Mr. Morton. What’s the pay-off on this story?”

“It’s very simple, sergeant. Bracco was desperate — frightened out of his wits and yellow to the backbone. When I refused to have anything to do with the case, he went all to pieces.”

“I ordered him to leave my office. Suddenly he pulled out his gun and shot himself. Temporary insanity, I suppose.”

“That tough gangster killed himself?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll be a son of a gun,” said the sergeant softly. He looked at Gail Morton. “Knowing Johnny, it’s a wonder he didn’t shoot you.”

“He lacked the nerve, sergeant. You see, I didn’t turn my back to him, I kept looking him straight in the eye.”

The sergeant nodded understandingly. “Yeah,” he said, and added with dispassionate final judgment: “The rat!”...

Once more alone in his office Gail Morton went to his desk and took from its top drawer the newspaper clipping that he had concealed there before Bracco came in. He walked to the fireplace; stood looking down at the picture of the woman whose faded prettiness still aroused repercussions of beauty in his brain.

Mechanically he murmured to himself the bleak words printed above it: “Mrs. George Pendexter, Whose Husband Was Killed—”

Gail Morton’s ugly face took on a light other than that from the glowing grate.

“You’d have done better to have married me, my dear,” he said aloud. “But you loved Pendexter, and that was that. At least I’ve avenged his death this night.

“A small service, but eminently satisfactory. Adroit, too. Very adroit, if I may say so. Good-by, my only dear, and may the Lord of all our twisted fates be kind to you.”

Gail Morton threw the clipping into the fire.