Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 18, No. 5, May 1973

I Kid You Not by Edward Wellen

Not all of a policeman’s shooting, it appears, is done with a firearm.

“A good cop,” said Kavanah, the retired cop, “is a good shakedown artist.”

“I know just what you mean,” I said. “I never yet turned down a pair of tickets to a policeman’s ball — even though I don’t dance.”

“Nah,” Kavanah said, “you don’t know just what I mean.”

“Just what do you mean, then?”

Well, take one time I was covering a squeal. Say, why do civilians call cops pigs when it’s all civilian squeals? Never mind. Well, this particular squeal came from this guy who was in town for a convention. He said that on the way back to his hotel — and when he could see its sign only a block or so away — he had the hackie let him off at some bar. When he finally left the joint and got back to his hotel, he found three hundred bucks missing from his wallet.

He said he had been drinking in a booth with a girl he picked up there — or she picked him up, since she seemed to be a regular — and that she must’ve rolled him for the three yards because she got up and said she was going to the little girls’ room and never came back. He got tired of waiting and left. He said he couldn’t remember the name of the bar, but it should be easy to spot because it was only a block or two from his hotel.

Well, the convention hall is north of the hotel, so I and the guy set out that way on foot. Now, it may sound screwy to you if you know how civilized my town was, but for three blocks north of the guy’s hotel there wasn’t a bar on either side of the street. We’ve got a few oases since, but back then it was an absolute desert. I get dry thinking about it, so I’ll have another beer on you... That’s better.

Now, I could’ve dropped the case right there. If it had been some other cop and he let go of it, I wouldn’t’ve blamed him for thinking the guy had been telling a lie straight from the start. It looked like the guy had lost his money playing cards or something and was trying to make out that somebody had rolled him for it so he could put in an insurance claim — only he hadn’t bothered to check the facts so he could keep his story straight.

I didn’t feel like going back to the hot station house for the balance of my tour, and the bar would have air-conditioning — if I could find the bar — so I stuck with the case. Besides, I had a hot flash — and none of your cracks about was I going through change of life.

See, it came to me that the hackie taking the guy from the convention hall to the hotel had really taken him by driving the long way around to run up the meter; regulation for strangers.

So now I turned around and walked the guy south of the hotel and, sure enough, we hit the place.

“Now I remember the name,” the guy said.

Sure, now that the sign was staring him in the face, he knew the name — MacCabe’s Bar & Grill.

We went in and sat down at one end of the bar and the barkeep came over. He spoke just to me, like he didn’t see, or didn’t want to see, the guy with me.

I flashed my tin. “What I’ll have,” I said, “is some information.”

“What kind?” he said, real smart. “We may be all out of the brand you want.”

“You’re MacCabe?” I said.

“Do I look like I’m six foot under?” he said, and before I could say yes, he did have a moldy look, he said, “MacCabe’s the owner that was. Aside from the goodwill, signs come too high to change. I’m Mulligan.”

“Okay, Mulligan,” I said, “this man was in here earlier and sat with a redhead with jade earrings. What does she call herself and where does she live?”

Mulligan shook his head. “I told you we might be all out,” he said. “I don’t remember faces. I see too many of them.” Then he worked himself up to put me on the defensive. “You trying to say I’m running a clip joint? All I do is serve drinks and keep the customers quiet. As long as they keep quiet they can be purple-headed with jade ears.”

I let him go on about how he kept his nose out of his customers’ business and then I said, “I didn’t say anything about clip joints. You’re the one who put the tag on yourself. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Mulligan. I’m going now, but I’ll be back. I give you fair warning that I’ll be leaning on you, until you come across with the dame’s name and address. I’ll be looking for you to violate the law, and then you’ll either tell me the name and address or I’ll have the state liquor board yank your license and somebody else will take over the sign. Just the sign — there won’t be any goodwill.”

Mulligan smiled and said, “Come around any time, Officer. I know how to keep my nose clean.”

I got the complainant out of there and told him I’d let him know how it turned out, and started him back to his hotel. Then I called in with what I had and the lieutenant said that kind of thing was bad for the convention business, but since my tour was over to knock off and go home — but that kind of thing was bad for the convention business.

My wife’s mother and brother were visiting us and I wasn’t in any hurry to get home, so I took the hint. I put in a call to the house to say I was still on a case. My brother-in-law answered and said he was answering because my wife was giving her mother a hair rinse to make her — my wife — look younger.

He sounded so bored hanging around listening to girl talk that I had to laugh at him, and he got sore. I told him what he could do and hung up.

Well, I stopped in at a lunch counter and had a sandwich and a coffee and a bicarb and then I went back to MacCabe’s Bar & Grill.

Mulligan saw me, winked at his other customers, and gave me the big hello, but I didn’t go over to him. I looked around. I spotted this young fellow sitting by himself, nursing a rye on the rocks. I walked over to him and showed him my badge and asked him how old he was. Mulligan started to laugh, but he got a worried look when the kid went all red and said he was old enough for a lot of things.

“Come on, kid,” I said, “let me see your draft card or your driver’s license or something.”

The kid bluffed a bit longer, making believe he was looking for his papers, then hung his head and said he’d be eighteen in a month.

“Well, Mulligan,” I said, “you better use your bar rag because it looks like you ran out of handkerchiefs to keep your nose clean.”

I got out my pencil and pad and took down the kid’s name and then went over to where Mulligan had his license hanging and began to write. Mulligan stared at the kid.

“Kid,” he said, “you must’ve had a hard life. I figured you for twenty-five at the least.” Then he turned to me and said, “Jeez, Officer, look at the kid for yourself. Don’t he look over twenty-one to you? That’s why I never ask him to let me see proof.”

I just kept busy writing and Mulligan let himself out from behind the bar and came around to where his mouth could reach my ear.

“Now, wait a minute, Officer,” he said. “Does that still go, what you said before? Will you lay off if I tell you the dame’s name and address? No more badgering me?”

It was good to see Mulligan in a stew, so I let him simmer a minute before I answered.

“I’ve upped the ante since then,” I said. “Now, besides telling me the dame’s name and address, you got to clip the claws of the harpies in your joint from here on out.”

He looked like he had just got religion. “That I will, Officer, that I will,” and he whispered the dame’s name and address.

I turned to the kid and told him he’d better beat it. I didn’t like the look in Mulligan’s eye when it fell on the kid. Then, so Mulligan couldn’t call the dame and warn her, I phoned the station house right from the bar and asked the lieutenant to send a cop to pick her up. I waited until I got a call back that they had picked her up, and had found three yards in brand-new bills they could trace, before I wished Mulligan the balance of the evening and left.

The kid was hanging around outside, just beyond the light from the bar, and I walked over to him.

“Okay, Tommy,” I said, “you did fine. Now let’s head home But maybe we better stop off on the way and do something about your breath or your mother and sister will be on me for debauching you.”

“The hell with that,” the kid said. “Let’s stop off at a bar and do something about your breath.”

We did.

“Kavanah,” I said, “you shock me.”

Kavanah smiled. “Didn’t expect the young fellow to be my brother-in-law, did you?”

“Well, no. But that isn’t what shocks me.”

“Just what shocks you, then?”

“Do you mean to tell me Kavanah,” I said, “that right after shaking down one barkeep for serving a minor, you went with that same minor to another bar?”

“What minor? Tommy was all of twenty-five, like Mulliga thought, but he was the best I could do on short notice. How about another beer?”