Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 30, No. 2 — July 1947)

Death is a shadow, living with us, waiting to envelop us — a disembodied, intangible thing. But Death has his agents, professional and amateur. It was these Dr. Randolph feared — and why he hired Mortimer Jones. For murder loves company.

Chapter One Death Is Waiting

This Dr. Curtis Randolph was a nervous man. He wasn’t too tall, about my height, and he had a thin, unlined face with dark and probing blue eyes. He sat in my office, this hot summer afternoon, telling me his troubles, and chain-smoking cigarettes.

So far as I could tell, his troubles were mental, and I’m no psychiatrist.

He said: “You can understand, then, why I can’t take all this to the police. I’ve nothing definite. It’s as though a constant shadow travels with me, wherever I go.” He tried a self-deprecating smile. “I — have always had a rather irrational fear of death. That, no doubt, is what motivated my going into medicine.” He shook his head. “But the man with the scythe has never been such a constant companion as he has recently.”

The man with the scythe was rather hackneyed. I liked “the constant shadow” better. Because death is that, a shadow, living with us, waiting to envelop us, waiting for us to step in front of a truck, or go out without our rubbers. I thought of Mr. Saroyan’s tiger.

I said: “You’ve seen death enough, I guess, Doctor. You’ve no reason to think he’s closer now than he’s ever been?”

“Well—” Hesitation now in the smooth face, doubt, and the dark eyes covered my face thoughtfully. “Only this... this intuition.” He took in a lungful of air through his mouth. “As a medical man, as a scientist, Mr. Jones, I hesitate to speak of intuition. But my medical training hasn’t seemed to dull this sense I have, this superstition.”

I asked bluntly: “There’s nobody out to get you?”

Surprise in the smooth face now. Fear? I couldn’t be sure.

“I don’t quite — understand.”

“This death,” I said, “is an intangible thing. But he has agents, professional and amateur. Is there any one person you particularly fear, Doctor?”

He hesitated before he said no, and because he hesitated, I knew he was lying. He was a surgeon, one of the best in town and perhaps in the nation. He wouldn’t come way down to my grubby office on the wrong side of the tracks just on a hunch. There was nothing I could do about shadows, and I explained that.

He nodded. “Of course, of course— But I said, Mr. Jones, that I felt the presence of death.” He paused. “You spoke of agents, professional and amateur. I’m hiring you for that end, for the protection of your services from these, these — agents.” That mechanical smile again. “The boss, himself, I believe I can fight. I’ve been fighting him a long time.”

Outside, in the street, the kids were playing ball. Inside, in my office, it was quiet. I said: “What you really want, then, Doctor, is a bodyguard?”

He nodded. “Something like that.” He frowned. “Or perhaps, Mr. Jones, I want the knowledge that somebody else is always near, somebody friendly.”

“Twenty-five a day and expenses,” I said. “Rather expensive friendship.”

“Money doesn’t matter,” he said casually.

He paused, then went on. “You were highly recommended, Mr. Jones. This is, you understand, a job that will require a man of exceptional ethical standards. I was assured by Mr. Ziegler that you met those qualifications adequately.”

Ziegler was connected with a local insurance company for which I occasionally worked.

I didn’t like it. I didn’t like any part of it, but it was a job, a job for the trade I’d chosen, and there was no logical reason I could give for turning it down.

I said: “When did you want me to start?”

“Tonight,” he said. “About seven? I’ll be out of town until then. Shall I expect you at my apartment, at seven?”

I said he could, and he rose, and I accompanied him to the door. When he’d left, I went to the window; a compulsion neurosis of mine, this watching people leave the building.

His car, I saw, was a Cadillac coupe, a black, new one, and there was a kid sliding down the front right fender. That’s why I park a couple blocks away, because of the kids. My Duesenberg has long, sweeping fenders, being old.

The kid climbed off the fender as the doctor stepped into the Caddy. I didn’t see any shadow getting into the car with him, but in a car, the shadow’s always there. With thirty to forty thousand killed by cars every year, any motorist can tell you he’s not riding alone.

Well, he had this fear, this phobia, an exaggerated and irrational fear of death. There was a word for it, and I searched my mind. Thanatophobia — that was the word. All of us probably have it to some degree. But not like the doc, I hope.

I felt hungry, and it was nearly noon. I put what papers I had on my desk in my file and went out without locking the door. Down the steps, past the tobacco store, and I stood on the curb a moment, watching the kids. In this neighborhood, that was the only place they had to play.

After a while, I walked down the block to Mac’s.

Mac was talking to a customer, a fattish gent in a loud suit and an expensive panama hat. Mac said: “Mortimer Jones, shake hands with Ed Byerly.”

I shook hands with Ed Byerly, as directed. His hand was broad, but not soft.

“Used to know Ed,” Mac explained, “in the old days.” He winked. The old days, to Mac, meant Prohibition, when he’d really made money. To Ed, my boy said: “Mort, here, has an office over that cigar store.”

Byerly nodded. “Oh — a shamus, huh?”

I nodded, and decided to ignore him. “One beer,” I said to Mac, “and what have you got to eat?”

“Beans,” Mac said. “Good beans, with pork. Made ’em myself.”

“Some of those,” I told him, “with rye bread, with fresh coffee.” I took my glass of beer and went over to a corner.

I hoped, by this move, to discourage Ed Byerly. To no avail. He followed me right over, bringing his own beer along.

“Some life you must have,” he said, taking the chair opposite mine. “I mean, with those divorce cases and all. I’ll bet you’ve seen some sights, huh?” He smiled. “I mean — setting ’em up.”

“That work’s a little too raw for me,” I said. “That end of divorce and labor trouble I steer clear of.”

His broad face looked puzzled. “Yeah? What can a private eye do, besides that kind of work? I figured that’s all you guys did.”

“Not quite,” I said. “It’s all some of them do, I guess.”

He sipped his beer, and shook his head. “Beats me. What kind of work do you handle, then?” He made a wet ring on the table with the bottom of his been glass. “For instance, if it ain’t too personal, what kind of work you on, right now?”

How subtle, I thought. How deft. I waited until his eyes came up to meet mine. Then I asked: “Who you working for, Ed? Yourself? Or for pay?”

He knew what I meant, though he pretended he didn’t. “Why, I got a little racket of my own. I—”

I held up a hand. “Save it. You know what I’m talking about. Why’re you nosing into my business?”

His brown eyes glazed over. “Didn’t know I was.”

Mac brought by beans and bread then. Mac pretended he hadn’t heard the conversation. I said: “Nice friends you introduce me to. Got any more like him?”

Mac looked startled. Ed Byerly said: “Easy, gumshoe. If you’re looking for trouble—”

“Shut up,” I said. “Go some place else. If you’ve got some trouble, start unloading it. If you haven’t, beat it.”

There was one of those silences. Byerly was glaring at me, and Mac was making some inarticulate sound.

Byerly stood up, finally. He said: “You talk pretty rough for a little guy, Hawkshaw. I’ll be seeing you again.” He threw a half dollar on the table and stalked out.

I smiled at Mac. “I’m sorry I was rude to your friend. But it’s a hot day, and he was so damned crude. Where’d you get friends like that, Mac?”

Mac shook his head. “Look, Jonesy, you hadn’t oughta blow up the way you did. It ain’t like you. Ed’s a windbag and all that, but he’s no punk. He ran with the roughest boys in town, back during Prohibition. You shouldn’t take chances like that.”

The constant shadow, I thought. “You’re right,” I said. “I don’t usually let guys like him get me. But he was waiting here for me, wasn’t he? He was asking questions about me before I came in.”

Mac’s mouth was open. “How’d you know that?”

“Because when you told him my name, when you told him I had an office over the cigar store, he knew I was a detective. I haven’t much of a sign up there. You must have been talking about me.”

Mac wiped off the table top with a rag. “O.K. So we were. He didn’t know you were a friend of mine. He and I did some business back in the old days, and he figured I’d be the guy to pump, I suppose.”

“What’d he want to know?”

Mac straightened out a chair. “Oh, what it really amounted to, he wanted to know if you could be had. Bought, that is.”

“I see,” I said, though I didn’t. “And you, no doubt, told him of my unimpeachable standards.”

Mac went back to the bar. “Matter of fact,” he said, “I told him just about anybody could be bought, that it was mainly a matter of the right price.”

I stared at him, but he wasn’t looking my way. I said: “I’ll have my coffee, now.”

“Coming right up,” he answered.

Another customer came in after that, and Mac proceeded to get involved in a discussion of the merits of Bruce Woodcock and Billy Conn. I turned my thoughts to this morning’s business.

This would be a twenty-four hour job, undoubtedly, and I’d need some help. I thought of Jack Carmichael. Jack had had a lot of bad luck, since he’d opened his agency. Some mess over a woman, a woman with connections. But Jack was a good operative. Besides which, he was into me for a couple hundred. I’d get some of that back. The doc was paying me five a day over my standard rate, and he probably hadn’t meant a twenty-four hour day.

I decided to look up Jack. But first, I wanted to see Doc Enright. Doc was a friend of mine; he’d give me the low-down.

Doc’s office was over on Atwater near Vine. It was a big office with a lot of windows, but Doc’s name was on only one of them. That ethical he is.

He was busy, this warm day, but not too busy to see me. He’s a short, fat gent with an angelic smile. He’s a rough man in a poker game.

He said: “Some repugnant disease brings you here, no doubt. But you can rely on my discretion.”

“Don’t give me that quack-quack,” I said. “I’m here for information.”

“Free, no doubt.”

“I’ve been hired,” I went on, “by one of your colleagues. Relying on your self-asserted discretion, I will reveal his name. It’s Dr. Curtis Randolph.”

His face stiffened, and he studied me sharply. “Well?”

“Well, yourself. I wondered about him, that’s all.”

Doc studied his hands, rubbing them. Then he looked up again at me. “Maybe in the top five in America for surgery.” He paused a moment, his eyes thoughtful. “You relied on my discretion. I’m relying on yours now. How long Dr. Randolph will keep his license is controversial. He’s squashed two malpractice suits, but they were some time ago.”

“What’s his specialty?” I asked.

“It was plastic surgery, then. Some think it might still be his specialty, but not for the public, generally.”

“Criminals?” I said.

Doc Enright smiled that angelic smile of his. “Jonesy, I’ve already told you more than any respectable doctor should. I’ve told you this because I know you and have a deep respect for your standards and your work. I will see you again, and next time don’t bring any embarrassing questions with you.”

I left him and went out to the Dusy. When I started her, she chuckled, in that nasty, mechanical way she has when I’m perturbed. I ignored her.

I drove over to Jack Carmichael’s office, but nobody was there. There was a note on the door — Out for Lunch. I went down to the Dusy to wait.

Malpractice, Doc Enright had said. In plastic surgery, that could be horrible. That would be motive enough for murder. There was a chance the shadow had more than one agent gunning for Randolph.

There must have been a definite threat, to bring Dr. Randolph down to my office. If it was mental, if it was as nebulous as he would have me believe, he wouldn’t be taking a trip, today, without some protection. It was some human he feared, and dealing with criminals, it could be any one of a number of potential killers.

I always get the easy ones, I reflected. I always get the clean, simple cases.

A Chev club convertible was stopping at the curb behind me now. In my rear view mirror, I saw Jack Carmichael lean over to kiss the blonde behind the wheel.

Then he stepped from the car.

He saw me and came over as the Chev gunned off. He was waving at the blonde.

I said: “You do all right, don’t you?”

“This time, it’s different,” he told me. “With this one, it’s wedding bells. If I can rustle up a few honest dollars.” He was a tall, engaging sort of lad, dark and casual. He opened the door of the Dusy and slumped into the seat beside me. “You want something on account, no doubt, Jonesy.”

“Not quite,” I said. “I got a job that’s a little too much for one man. I thought we could make some kind of deal.”

“If it’s honest,” he said, “and doesn’t involve physical labor, you came to the right guy.” He shook his head. “This love is a wonderful thing, Jonesy, you know that? It’s got to be honest.”

“Would I be handling it if it weren’t?” I asked.

He grinned. “Well, probably not. Let’s have it.”

I told him what it was, omitting any reference to the information Dr. Enright had given me. I told him what I thought would be a fair division of the spoils, including that portion of his pay I wanted on account.

He nodded when I was through. “Fair enough,” he said. “And I’m not forgetting the two hundred, Jonesy. Or the good word you put in for me with the Chief when the boys down at headquarters were out for my scalp.”

It was Devine who’d been out for his scalp. And any time I can buck Devine, I do. We have a reciprocal agreement; he hates my guts and I hate his.

I said: “O.K., I’ll take the night shift, seven to seven. I can sleep days, even in this weather.” I thought a moment and added: “I’ll phone you after I see Dr. Randolph tonight. You’ll be at home?”

He nodded. “I’ll make it a point to be.”

I left him, and went back to the office. There, for lack of anything better to do, I drank a bottle of beer, and sat near the window, watching the kids play ball.

A little later, I turned on the radio and listened to the Yanks. But St. Louis had too much for them that day and I turned it off.

About five, I went over to Mac’s and had some beef stew. Mac was still a little miffed about the way I’d talked to his friend, but he greeted me pleasantly.

It was cool in the tavern, and Mac was talkative once I got him started on Joe Louis. It was after six before I noticed the time.

I had to hustle, then. I went home for a quick shave and shower (one room and bath — but I call it home). I wore a neat and cheap blue suit and a neat and not cheap white shirt. I wore a bow tie and white shoes. I thought I looked pretty efficient when I rang the bell to Dr. Curtis Randolph’s apartment that night.

Chapter Two Night Shift

It was a top floor apartment in a fairly new and impressive building on the exclusive upper-east side. These were all studio apartments on the top floor and the cream of the lot.

A short and amiable Filipino in a white jacket opened the door. “Mr Jones?”

I admitted it, and he opened the door wider, saying: “Doctor busy now. Follow me, please.”

We were in a hall and to our right was a mammoth living room, but he went the other way, toward a small office or den at the rear of the apartment. I could hear Dr. Randolph’s voice, and the woman’s, in the living room as we walked back.

I could still hear them when the Filipino had left me. But only the sound of the voices, not the words.

Then the voices grew louder, and I began to pick out a word or two. “Love” was one of them, and it was said scornfully, by the doctor. “Money” was another and it was said twice, neither time scornfully, by the woman. She had a pleasant, throaty voice, despite its angry pitch. Then I heard a door slam, a door could not see from this angle, but it sounded like the front door to me.

The doctor was suddenly standing in the doorway to the den. He was smiling. “Mr. Jones. I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Some rather unpleasant business—” He shook his head. “My wife has decided to come back and live with me. Shall we go into the living room now?”

I followed him down the hall. The living room had full length windows, towering windows. It had a large, soft Royal Sarouk on the floor and two low, long davenports that seemed to wall off one corner of the room. There was a massive coffee table between them. We sat on one of the davenports.

I told him about my arrangement with Jack Carmichael.

He nodded absently. “Of course. I never stopped to realize it couldn’t be handled adequately by one man.” He was chewing his lower lip. “My wife will occupy the room down the hall. The door to my room is right there.” He nodded Toward a door about eight feet away from where he sat. “I’ll be in there alone; you’ll need to be within sight of it at all times.”

I said: “I don’t imagine you get up before seven? I can have Mr. Carmichael come here?”

He nodded. “I rarely get up before ten, as a matter of fact. I have some work out of town, some nights, and—” He frowned. “Well, I’ll explain about that when the occasion arises. If you want, you can phone your assistant now.”

Jack answered the phone almost immediately, and I told him how it was. He promised to be there on the dot.

When I came back into the living room, the doctor was smoking one of those monogrammed cigarettes. He said: “I suppose you slept this afternoon?”

I shook my head. “But I’ll bet I will tomorrow. Don’t worry about my falling asleep, though, Doctor. I’ve done this before.”

He looked at me, and away. He put his cigarette out in a heavy, green glass ashtray and considered lighting another, looking at it for moments. Then he put it away and looked at me again. “You like Chopin?”

I didn’t know whether I did or not, but I didn’t lie. “I like any kind of music,” I said.

He went over to a Capehart and put on some records.

I didn’t know what to expect. What I got was a lot of brilliant piano. It was probably more artistic than Frankie Carle, but I can’t say I preferred it. We sat there listening, not saying very much. After about ten minutes, he shut it off and came back to the davenport. He said: “You must think I’m crazy.”

I shrugged. “You’re playing a hunch. I play them myself.”

He smiled a smile without meaning. “I’ve been thinking about what I told you this afternoon. I’ve been thinking about ‘the constant shadow.’ I’ve been thinking — a man’s conscience could be called that. All of us have to live with that, don’t we?”

“Most of us,” I admitted. “Though there seem to be some who’ve done pretty well without it.”

He nodded, only half hearing me, I thought. He was about to say something, when the Filipino returned.

No white jacket now, but a form fitting, sleek burgundy jacket, well-creased white flannels. The amiable grin was on his face. I thought, he looks just like any other dance hall Romeo now.

“O.K. I go now, Doctor? Big dance tonight. Contest.”

“O.K., Juan,” the doctor said. “Give ’em hell. I want to see you bring home another cup.”

The Filipino nodded. “I bet I win. I got Rosa, tonight.” He stopped at the archway. “Juan maybe late. Goodnight.” He left.

Dr. Randolph shook his head. “How he stays as chubby as he does is a mystery to me. Working all day and dancing all night. The nights he’s free, at any rate.”

I said: “Which would indicate a clean conscience — or none.”

He turned his gaze on me fully. “I suppose you’ve done some investigating about me, this afternoon?”

“I check all my clients,” I said.

“You heard that I was sued for malpractice — twice?”

I nodded.

His eyes closed, and he rubbed his forehead nervously with the heel of his hand. His voice was hoarse. “I — botched a couple of jobs. I was young and confident beyond my — my ability at the time. I—” His voice broke. “Oh, Lord. It was horrible, horrible—” His whole body seemed to shudder.

This was no act, I was sure.

He sat erectly now, and seemed to have control of himself. But his eyes were straight ahead into the gathering shadows at the far end of the room. “My moral code isn’t at the church level, I’m afraid. But one thing I can’t condone, in myself or others is a lack of surgical skill. Particularly in my... my previous specialty.”

“You’ve given it up, now?” I asked.

“Not — completely.”

“Well,” I said, “I guess all of us have a skeleton or two in the closet. I’ve been told about your skill, Dr. Randolph. You’ve that to be proud of.”

He nodded. “It’s all I take any pride in.” He seemed to shake himself of his memories. “You play gin rummy?”

We played gin rummy. It’s a silly game, and an unpredictable one to my mind, but it does kill time. It killed three hours, at which time I was a little over nine dollars ahead. At our stakes, that was a lot. But the doctor’s mind wasn’t on the game. Your mind has to be a long, long way off to make any mistakes at gin rummy.

After that, the doctor went to bed.

I turned off all the lights but the large table lamp near one of the davenports. Then I went over to the window, the tallest, center window. Far below, I could see the traffic of the drive. To the west, north and south the lights of the city spread. I was in the shadows, here. At the other end of the room, the table lamp illumined the davenport and Dr. Randolph’s bedroom door. It was a strange arrangement, I thought, a bedroom leading off the living room, with no hall. Or perhaps not strange, just uncommon.

The windows were open, but there was no sound from the traffic below, no city noises reaching this high. I went back to the davenport, and sat facing the door. I read what there was to read in the evening paper.

I was going through the want-ads (Miscellaneous for Sale), when I heard the key in the front door, the sound of the door opening, and a light, feminine tread along the carpeted hallway.

She stood in the archway a moment later. Blue-black hair and dark eyes, the hair up, the eyes gravely considering me. About twenty-five. I’d say, with a slim, arrogant figure, high breasted, fairly long legged. A fine morsel in the arch-way.

She smiled, a friendly smile. “You’re the detective...?”

I rose. “That’s right. And you’re Mrs. Randolph?”

The smile again, and there was some bitterness in it now, I thought. “For the time being. It’s nothing I’d care to make a career of. Aren’t you drinking?”

I must have looked startled, for she chuckled. “I thought all private detectives drank,” she said, “all the time. And talked out of the corners of their mouths. I thought they were all big hulks.”

I’m not short, but then again I’m not tall. I’d like to be tall. I said: “I drink as often and as heavily as most, I guess. This didn’t seem to be the proper time nor place.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Sit right there. I’ll get us something. Curtis doesn’t use it. He should, poor dear, but his hands, you know, his marvelous, steady hands—” She went back into the hallway.

When she came back, she had discarded her wrap. The dress she wore was some pale shade of blue. A filmy material, and cut low, with a bare midriff. She was tanned in all the places I could see. She went over to a cabinet at the shadowed end of the room and brought back some bottles. One of them was a squat, pinched bottle of Scotch.

She held it high. “This all right?”

It tastes like liquid smoke to me, but I nodded agreeably.

“Ice,” she said. “I’ll need some ice. Is Juan back in the kitchen?”

I said he’d gone out — to dance.

“Well, would you run back, then? I can’t seem to master those trays at all.”

“After seven o’clock,” I answered. “I can’t move away from that door until then.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I’ll be right here.” Her smooth forehead wrinkled. “Or am I under suspicion, too?” The chuckle again. “The sinister female, huh? Sending the poor gullible detective back to the kitchen while she slips into her husband’s bedroom, gun clutched firmly in hand—”

I lighted a cigarette, and yawned, covering my mouth politely.

“All right” she said, “all right—” She went out, through the archway. She moved with just a suggestion of a swagger. It was entirely possible she’d had quite a few drinks already, tonight. Though the aroma from one is about the same as that from many. There was the sound of water running, and the clank of the closing refrigerator door.

Then she was back with a silver bowl of ice cubes.

“Will you mix them? You’ll be sure, that way, that they’re not drugged, and it’s a man’s job, anyway, you know.”

I mixed them, Scotch and seltzer. She didn’t use much seltzer, I was told. When she came to sit on the davenport, I caught another odor, her perfume. I stared at my drink. There is a lot of goat in me; there is also in me a decent regard for my trade. The two could come into conflict any moment now, I thought.

“Well,” she said, “to success.” She lifted her glass high.

We drank. I tried to think of something to say, but nothing came, nothing bright, at any rate.

“No bumps, no grinds,” she said.

I stared at her doubtfully.

She laughed quietly. “I was thinking aloud. I was remembering a sign in the old Bijou. They were very strict at the old Bijou.”

“That’s a burlesque term, isn’t it?” I asked.

She nodded. “And the Bijou was a burlesque house, one of the best. That’s where Curtis first saw me. Three years ago.”

She was getting into that alcoholic-confidential mood, I saw. She must have been three-quarters gone when she got home.

“And you gave up your career for marriage,” I said.

She looked at me suspiciously. “I suppose you think that’s cute. I suppose you don’t know about all the entertainers who’ve come up from the burlesque stage.”

“Gypsy Rose Lee, I’ve heard of,” I admitted. “But you’re doing all right, now. You’ve come pretty far, from what I can see.”

She said scornfully: “Married to that?” Her dark head inclined toward the bedroom door. “I like my men with a little life. If he wasn’t rolling in the long green, I’d have left him. I’ll leave him yet, when I get a better deal, when I get the kind of settlement I want.” She considered me gravely. “Am I boring you?”

“You’re embarrassing me,” I answered. “And you’ll be embarrassed, yourself, in the morning when you remember this conversation.”

“You think I’m drunk?”

“A little.”

Her full lower lip rubbed her upper lip now. “Maybe I am.” She was staring into the darkness at the other end of the room. She rose, finally, and put her empty glass on the coffee table. “I like you, Philo,” she said softly, “but I won’t bother you, tonight.” Her hand ruffled my hair.

Then she was gone, through the archway.

She bothered me all right, but only mentally the rest of the evening. I’d brought a pocket-sized edition of Saroyan along to kill time, but even he had nothing for me this night. I began to get sleepy around four, but I fought it off.

Jack Carmichael was on time, and I told him to phone me at home if anything happened I should know.

That was the routine for a week, and nothing happened. On Tuesday night made some house calls with him, but I didn’t go in. I stayed in the car.

Jack told me that most of his time was spent in the doctor’s outer office with his receptionist. The receptionist admitted to the inner office only those patients she knew. Any doubtful arrivals were checked with the doctor before admittance to the inner office.

Twice, Jack had accompanied the doctor to some small, lodge-like building in the country. Where it was, however, Jack couldn’t say. “I had to sit in that damned rear deck, with the lid down, both ways,” he told me. “Something mighty fishy cooking up there, Jonesy.”

I could guess what it was, but I didn’t tell Jack that.

On Friday, Mac told me that Ed Byerly had been around again, and asking for me. Mac said: “I don’t see much of you, Jonesy. You find a better spot?”

“That wouldn’t be hard,” I said, “but the truth is, I’m working all night and sleeping days.”

“Huh,” Mac said, “a night watchman. I figured you’d have to find honest work one of these days.”

I didn’t see Mrs. Randolph much that week. She came in late, usually, and she’d go right back to her bedroom, after a few words of greeting.

The doctor’s brother, a short, squat man named Alex, I had the doubtful pleasure of meeting Saturday night. He was some sort of promoter, I learned. He and the doctor spent Saturday night over a chessboard. They were both very good. Their openings I could follow, and their end game. The moves in between were too subtle to follow at the time, though I could enjoy them, after I saw what they led to. Either one of them could have given me his queen and beaten me.

The doctor was the master, here.

Mrs. Randolph came in while they were playing. I mentally compared her body to the doctor’s brain, and thought, it’s the old, old story. Of Human Bondage, I thought. But said nothing.

There was some three-sided dialogue, yours truly not participating, and then Mrs. Randolph retired, as the phrase goes.

Only she retired to the doctor’s bedroom.

I glanced at him, and he must have been anticipating the glance. He made no gesture and said nothing — but I knew, when he looked at me, that it was all right.

Alex left, after a while, and Juan came in, wanting to know if there was anything the doctor wanted. He shook his head. “But you could mix a drink for Mr. Jones, here. Your preference, Mr. Jones?”

Rye, I told him, with seltzer.

Juan brought it, and the doctor told him he could go to bed now.

When we were alone, he sighed. He said: “That shadow’s been a lot less constant these last few days. Nerves, I suppose, and I’m getting over it. I should have gone to a diagnostician in the first place, instead of a detective.” Then he added: “Not that I haven’t enjoyed your company, Mr. Jones.”

He couldn’t know at the time, of course, that he would be dead within thirty-six hours.

I said: “This sounds like a termination of contract talk.”

He smiled. “Not at all. I’ll want you for another week, at least. I feel better — but not that much better.” He rose. “Good-night, Mr. Jones. If you’d care to play the phonograph, it won’t bother us, if you keep it low.”

I told him I’d brought something to read, and he left me. When his bedroom door closed, I walked over to the tall windows. The heat had persisted through the week, but it was fairly cool up here, with an almost constant breeze coming in.

I stood there a long time, trying to analyze the why and what of his words tonight. I arrived at no conclusion.

Sunday night was a dead night. Mrs. Randolph wasn’t there. The doctor wanted to know if I played chess, and I told him I did. But it didn’t take him many moves to discover how badly I played. We listened to some music, Goodman this time, and he turned in early.

Monday noon, I got the phone call from Jack. He was at the doctor’s office, and would I get to hell over there right away?

The constant shadow, it seemed, had finally caught up with Dr. Curtis Randolph.

Chapter Three Caught by a Shadow

I got to hell over there right away. I made the Dusy talk, on the way over, jumping two red lights and otherwise ignoring the law.

The office was lousy with officials. Glen Harvey was there, and the M.E., Doc Waters, and Glen’s boss — the chief of Homicide, Devine.

Devine’s thin, nasty face looked nastier than usual. He said: “I’ll want you and Carmichael both down at Chief’s office when we’re through here.”

“Check,” I said.

Jack was pale and nervous, his face wet with perspiration. He said: “That guy’s really been giving me a work-out.”

“That’s the only routine he knows,” I said. I looked over to the chair in which Dr. Curtis Randolph was slumped. His eyes were open, his shirt soaked with blood. There was the handle of a knife protruding from his throat.

Devine was talking to Doc Waters. I motioned to Jack, and we went out into the hall. He told me how it was.

The receptionist had gone to lunch, but the doctor was still in his office. “This little fat guy came in,” Jack said, “and wanted to see the doctor. Well, he was a friendly little gent, and I couldn’t figure him for any harm, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I asked him his name, and he said: ‘Just tell the doctor his conscience is here. He’ll understand.’ I went in and told the doctor that.”

Glen Harvey was in the hallway now, and looking at us suspiciously, but Glen’s all right. He went away.

Jack said: “The doctor sort of smiled, and said, ‘Is he a little fat man?’ and I said he was. The doctor said to send him in. I sent him in.” Jack took a deep breath, and wiped his face with a damp handkerchief. “Well, the girl came back later, and was surprised to see me still there. She wanted to know if the doctor hadn’t gone to lunch. I said he hadn’t, that he’d had a visitor who’d left only a few minutes ago, and he was probably washing his hands. He did that a lot. The girl went in.” Jack shook his head. “You could hear her scream all the way down to the city hall, I’ll bet.”

Jack’s eyes were haunted. “I phoned the police, and then you. I’ll bet the Chief will pick up my license, now.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I promised him. “I’d have done the same thing in your position. You exercised all the caution that seemed reasonable.”

Glen Harvey and Devine came out into the hallway. Glen said: “Shall I take the coach back?”

“You’ll go with them,” Devine said, “in Jones’ car. I wouldn’t ride with vermin like that.”

Jack was white now. He took a step toward Devine, but I stepped in between them. I said: “Easy, Jack. We’ll play this smart.”

“That’s right,” Devine said, “like you guarded the doctor.”

“You’ll keep your license,” I said to Jack, “and I’ll probably wind up with Devine’s job.”

There was one hell of a silence. When I turned to face Devine, I almost winced. He looked ready for murder, right then. He knew, you see, that I wasn’t talking complete nonsense. He knew the Chief wanted me for the job.

Harvey said: “Well, let’s go.” He looked uncomfortable.

Devine said: “Let’s.” And to me: “You’re not much of a man, are you?”

“Only when I’m treated like one,” I answered. “There’s nobody else at the department who ever brings out the rat in me like you do.”

He had no more to say, at least, nothing audible.

Jack and I and Glen Harvey went down the steps and out into the glare of the day. The Dusy’s motor-murmur had a bit of a smirk in it, I thought.

Through the early afternoon traffic in silence, all the way down to the station. There, we went right in to the Chief’s office.

The Chief’s a big, fairly windy and competent man. He looked at us all sadly as we entered. “Mort,” he said, and shook his head. When he turned to Jack, his eyes were hard. “Let’s have it.”

Jack told him just the way it was.

When he’d finished, the Chief said to Glen: “Take him to a steno and get it all down and signed. Mr. Jones will stay here with me.”

It was quiet in the room after the others had left. The Chief, I noticed, was getting grayer every day. He was looking out the window, a habit of his. Then he swiveled around to face me.

“You could start at the beginning, Mort.”

I gave it to him straight, right from the time Dr. Randolph had come to my office. I told him everything excepting what Doc Enright had told me.

The Chief’s eyes were thoughtful. “It sounds kosher enough. Only hiring an incompetent like Jack Carmichael could almost be called criminal negligence.”

“Jack’s a good operative,” I argued. “You know he is. It’s just because he left the department they don’t like him around here. I’m going to need him, if I work on this, Chief.”

“Work on this? Why should you? Your client’s dead. There’s no money in it for you, now.”

“Call it my professional pride,” I said.

Devine stuck his head in the doorway, and the Chief beckoned him in. The Chief said: “Jones tells me he’s going to help you with this, Devine.”

Devine colored. “I can get along without that.”

The Chief smiled. “I’m sure we can.”

“O.K.,” I said. “If that’s an order.”

Devine snorted. The Chief frowned, and said doubtfully: “It’s no order. You can work on anything you want to that doesn’t conflict with our department work.” He paused. “I know you hate the word, and I guess I’ve used it enough with you, Mort, but cooperation is what we want and expect from—”

The voice went on, and on. I didn’t show my boredom; I’ve a lot of respect for the Chief.

When he’d finished, I was looking properly humble.

Devine said: “We’ve got a lead on this, Chief. There’s a guy been bothering the doc, and he’s got a record as long as your arm.”

“His physical description fit?” the Chief asked.

Devine nodded.

The Chief said: “All right, Jones. We’ll leave things as they are for the time being. But keep in touch with us.”

Which was my dismissal, and I took it. Devine didn’t start talking again until I was out of the room and the door was closed. It’s a heavy door; I could hear nothing.

I went down the hall to Devine’s office, and Glen Harvey was there, as I’d hoped he’d be. He grinned at me. “Some day, that Devine is going to scalp you. Some day you’re going to needle him once too often.”

“He should keep out of my hair,” I said. Then: “I hear you boys have a lead on this one already. Fast work.”

“You hear the damnedest things,” he said, and his eyes were blank.

“I’m going to work on this, Glen,” I said. “I’m not going to get in anybody’s way, but I’ve got to know about this one.”

He shook his head. “I’m not saying a word. Excepting that I like to eat. I like to eat every day. Nothing personal, Jonesy.”

“O.K.,” I said, “nothing personal.” It would be, I thought, in poor taste to tell him of the time I got him in the papers, picture and all. I did not want to be guilty of that.

I went out, and down to the Dusy. Jack Carmichael was sitting in the Dusy, smoking a cigarette and staring into space.

When he saw me, he said: “They showed me a million pictures in there, Jonesy, and some of them were pretty close. But I wasn’t sure about any of them. I think, even in a picture, I’d be sure of that little, fat mug.”

“I’m going to stay with this,” I said, “at my own expense.”

Jack said quietly: “The way I botched this, you probably won’t want me around. But I’ve nothing else to do, Jonesy. I’d like to stay with it, too.”

“I’d be grateful for the help,” I told him. “I can’t see a guy staying in town when he knows you got his picture in your brain. Unless he plans—” I paused. “You be careful, Jack. You keep your self armed.”

“From here in,” he promised, “all the time.” Then: “And thanks.”

I wasn’t tired, now. I should have been, with only four hours’ sleep, but I kept seeing that knife handle protruding from the doctor’s throat. There’s something about a knife...

The air was sultry and depressing, but it would be cool at Mac’s, and so would the beer.

There were a couple of customers in the place, and one of them was the proprietor of the tobacco store under my office. He was reading Mac’s paper, and so was Mac. It was a new edition.

They both looked up when we entered. Mac said: “Tough luck, Jonesy.”

The murder was all over the front page.

“It happens to the best of us,” I said. “Two beers.”

Mac drew them, and brought them over. I asked: “Ed Byerly been in to ask about me lately?”

He shook his head. “You think maybe, Jonesy, he—”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “What have you got to eat?”

He had chili, and so did we. It was good chili; Mac would make somebody a good wife. We had rye rolls. Jack had another beer, and I had some coffee despite the heat.

When we were finished, I said: “I’m going up to see the widow. You find out what you can about this Byerly. Still got that jalopy of yours?”

He nodded, “Runs like a new car.”

I gave him a twenty, and he left.

I went up to the office to check the mail. There wasn’t much, mostly ads and a few bills. The phone rang, and it was Doc Enright. He said: “I’ve been reading the paper.”

“Didn’t know you could read,” I said.

“They probably had you down at headquarters grilling you.”

“I was down there.”

“Jonesy — you didn’t tell them anything I was foolish enough to tell you?”

“I didn’t. You didn’t tell me anything that Dr. Randolph didn’t tell me himself, the first night I saw him. You can put your ethics right back in mothballs.”

“All right, Sherlock. I suppose we’ll get the whole juicy story tomorrow night?”

Tomorrow night was poker night. I said: “You’ll get all the papers will tell you. I’ve got ethics, too.”

“Huh,” he said. “A man who’ll check and raise. Ethics, huh.” He hung up.

I decided not to call Mrs. Randolph first. There was a chance she wouldn’t be home, but it wasn’t much of a trip, anyway. The Dusy made it in eight minutes.

Juan opened the door. I said: “It’s rather important, Juan, that I see Mrs. Randolph. Will you tell her that?”

He nodded and went toward the living room, leaving the door ajar. I heard the murmur of voices, and then he was back.

“Mrs. Randolph see you.” He nodded toward the living room.

She was sitting on one of the big davenports, smoking. There was a half emptied glass of liquor in front of her, and the familiar shape of the Scotch bottle next to that. She was wearing a dressing gown. What was under it, I couldn’t know. I would guess it was nothing.

“Philo,” she said. “It’s been a bad day, hasn’t it? I suppose you’re here for your check?” The dark eyes were mocking.

“I’m here,” I said, “for what information I can get. This must have been a blow to you, Mrs. Randolph.”

She stared at me levelly. “Nothing I can’t bear up under. Don’t let that little incident the other night give you any ideas, Philo. I was his wife, you know.”

“I thought perhaps—” I said, and stopped.

She smiled and shook her head. “Drink?”

“If you’ve got some rye.”

She inclined her head in the general direction of the cabinet at the far end of the room. “Would you mind getting it yourself?”

I went over and got a bottle of rye. I brought it back and mixed a drink. It was excellent rye.

She sipped her drink, and asked: “What kind of information were you looking for?”

“About his enemies, if any. About anyone who would have reason to be an enemy or who might benefit from his death.”

“You could take the phone book,” she said, “and pick every other name. He was a man with an unusually high quota of enemies. I guess I’d benefit the most from his death. Have you thought of that, Philo?”

“I’ve thought of it,” I admitted. “And the name is Jones, Mortimer Jones. You wouldn’t want me to call you Cleopatra, would you?”

That chuckle of hers and the dark eyes merry. “O.K., Mortimer.” She considered me. She reached over to set her glass down, and I modestly averted my eyes. It took some will power. She said quietly: “How would you like a drive this afternoon?”

I knew what she meant. I said: “I’d like it.”

She rose. “O.K. I’ll be dressed in a jiffy. I’ve already had my shower.” She walked over to the archway, and turned. “But I’ll be damned if I’ll wear black in this heat.”

Even in burlesque, I reflected, they had to have their exit lines.

It was hot. I was hot, and I thought it must have been the chili and the coffee, for it was far cooler up here than it had been outside. I smoked a cigarette and finished my drink. I didn’t mix another.

She didn’t wear black. She wore white, a revealing type of material. No stockings, white shoes, a white flower in her blue-black hair. She was something to see.

I said: “Won’t you be needed this afternoon?”

“Alex is taking care of everything,” she explained. “I don’t know what I’d do without dear Alex.”

Alex, I remembered, was the doctor’s brother and chess opponent.

We went down in the elevator, and out into the humid day. I opened the door of the Dusy for her.

“Lordy, lordy,” she said. “What in the world is this?”

“It’s a Duesenberg,” I said proudly. “It’s an orphan, but still the finest car in the world.”

“You must be doing all right,” she said, and got in.

It was, I told her, my only extravagance.

“Besides women, of course. A car like this would be wasted, if you weren’t on the prowl.”

“A car like this,” I told her, “makes women unnecessary.”

She looked at me doubtfully, but said nothing.

It was a nice drive, up along the river to Brown Deer and out the Brown Deer road to a gravel road that led north. She directed me all the way. The gravel road was narrow and winding, flanked by some second growth stuff that wasn’t used for farming nor grazing, so far as I could tell.

After about a mile of this, we came to another, even narrower road, and she indicated that I should take it. There was a gate here, and I got out and opened it.

I drove through, and stopped. But she said: “Never mind closing it. There’s nobody here, and we’ll be coming right back.”

We came, finally, to a low, white building about the size of a five room cottage. But it was no dwelling, I felt sure. It looked too utilitarian. The windows were evenly spaced, the door was directly in the center of the end nearest us.

The door wasn’t locked, and we went in.

Three small rooms, just cubicles, with a single bed in each, white, hospital beds. A small laboratory with a big sink, the walls lined with shelves, the shelves lined with bottles. A minute bathroom.

And the biggest room — the operating room.

We stood there, and my glance covered the operating table, the light above it, the white equipment.

“Here’s where he made his money,” she said. “He did some fine work, but he might have slipped from time to time. With these kind of people, it’s best not to slip. Murder isn’t always outside their line of work.”

“He had an assistant here? He must have had at least one.”

“If he did, I never met him — or her. If he did, he — or she — is probably in Paducah by now.” She shook her head. “I’ve seen some of his better work. Your own brother wouldn’t know you, when he got through.” She shook her head again. “Let’s get out of here.”

We went out and got into the car. I asked: “You’ve told the police about this place?”

“Not yet. They didn’t spend much time with me.”

I set the speedometer on the Dusy. I wanted to give the Chief directions as accurate as possible.

We didn’t talk much on the way back. When I stopped in front of the apartment, she said: “Come on up. I’ll give you a check for what Curtis owed you. I don’t want you to lose that.”

I went up with her, and she wrote out the check.

She was standing close to me as she handed me the check, and she was smiling.

I was looking down into those blue eyes, and I must have swayed towards her. I’m only human.

“Why don’t you kiss me?” she asked mockingly. “You want to.”

I kissed her. The pressure of her firm, round body was constant and demanding. I hated my business, at the moment.

I pulled away finally. I said: “Won’t expect a bonus for that.” I took the check and got the hell out.

But I heard her say, before I closed the door: “Are you still satisfied with just the car?”

Chapter Four Murder Makes the News

The Dusy murmured to me as I drove back to the office, but it L wasn’t anything I could understand.

From the office, I phoned the Chief and told him about the hidden hospital, giving him the mileage I’d copied off the Dusy’s speedometer.

As I was hanging up, I heard the feet on the stairs. A few seconds later, Alex Randolph’s squat figure was framed in my open doorway. I rose.

He looked sad, as he would. He also looked angry and determined. He said: “They’ve been giving me the run-around down at headquarters. They don’t like me too much down there, I guess.”

“Nothing personal, I hope,” I said.

“Nothing but a couple of promotions of mine they couldn’t solve. They hate you down there, when you’re too smart for them.”

I said nothing. I indicated the chair on the retail side of my desk.

He sat down, and said: “I want to hire you. I want you to find out who killed my brother.”

“I’m working on it,” I said.

“That’s good. There’s nothing they’ll ever discover down there. They get anything tougher than a parking ticket, they start running around in circles.”

Which wasn’t true and I knew it. I said: “Did you know an Ed Byerly?”

He hesitated. “Sure. I mean, I know who he is and who his sister is. You think...?”

“Could be,” I said. “Why did you mention his sister?”

“Because that’s why Curt was paying Ed. This sister was a beauty, at one time, you understand? And she had this automobile accident. It left a scar or two on her cheek. They weren’t too bad, but Curt talked her into an operation. He was younger, then.” Alex Randolph shook his head. “God, what a mess he made of that.”

“And that’s why he was paying Ed Byerly?”

Alex frowned. “Not — quite. Ed got nosey. He found out some other things about Curt. He was trying to find out more, lately. I think that’s why Curt hired you.” He stared at me. “Say, that Byerly answers the description all right, doesn’t he?”

So do you, I thought, but didn’t say. I nodded.

“Stick with it,” he said. He rose, and laid a couple of bills on the desk. They were hundred dollar bills. “If you need more, let me know.”

I told him my rates.

“Never mind that. I got three more like that for you if you crack this.” He expelled his breath. “Byerly, that son of a—”

“We’re not sure it is Byerly,” I warned him.

“Who else?” he asked. “Can’t understand why I didn’t figure him right away.” He left.

Who else, I thought. Well, yes, who else...

I went over to Mac’s. I left a note on my door for Jack, telling him I was there. I stood on the curb in the sun for a minute or two, watching the kids, and then walked down to Mac’s.

It was cool in there, and the beer was exactly right. Mac was explaining to a customer about the artistry of Tommy Loughran. “You notice any marks on him?” Mac asked his listener.

The customer said, no, he never had.

“An artist, that’s why,” Mac said. “Like a shadow he was, in the ring, moving so easy and quiet and nice—”

Like a shadow, the constant shadow, I thought, and sipped my beer. A kid came in with some papers and put them on the bar. The door swung listlessly behind him.

There was a picture, I could see, on the front page of the paper. I moved closer. It was a picture of Ed Byerly. It was, the story with the picture stated, a man whom the police were looking for, right now. I remembered this morning, in the Chiefs office, and the lead Devine had. This was the lead.

“Friend of yours in the news, Mac,” I said.

He picked up the paper and read a moment. “Jonesy, my gosh, it’s—”

“You and your friends,” I said.

He was pale. “Jonesy, you gave ’em this. If Ed thinks I told you—”

“He’ll come and get you with a knife,” I finished for him. “No, I didn’t give it to them, Mac. They’ve got their own sources of information.”

Jack came in at that moment. I showed him the paper. He nodded. “I’ve already seen it.” He looked sick. “And I saw his sister, this afternoon, Jonesy. I was over at her house. Lord—”

“I heard about her,” I said. “What did you learn?”

“He hasn’t been home since this morning. He told her, when he left, that he was taking a little trip in the country. If it’s true, Jonesy, he couldn’t have—”

“If it’s true,” I said. “Did you see the picture?”

“Sure. I picked it out as one of the possibilities, down at the station this morning. But it’s only a possibility. I’d be sure, I think, if I saw the picture of the real killer.”

“As I remember Byerly,” I said, “this isn’t too good a likeness. It’s probably an old picture.”

Mac was listening in. and he nodded. “That’s the way Ed used to look, though. He seemed to put on a lot of wrinkles, lately.”

My lack of sleep was getting to me now. I said: “I think we’ll give this business a rest tonight. I’ve had enough for one day.”

Jack said: “If you won’t want me, I think I’ll give the blonde a ring. I’d like to look at something that’ll take that picture of Mary Byerly out of my mind.”

“I won’t need you.” I said. “I’ll see you in the morning. And Jack, remember to be careful. You’re the number one witness — don’t forget that.”

He promised he would, and left. I worried about him. I knew what an easy, fearless sort of gent he was, and how lightly he valued his life.

Mac said: “I wouldn’t want to be him. That guy could very easy be victim number two, from witness number one.”

“In our business, you never know,” I said. And, because I was tired and not too sharp: “We live with the constant shadow.”

Mac was staring at me when I walked out.

In the room I call home, I pulled the bed out of the wall. I took a shower first and listened to the radio a while, but Morpheus kept calling. I hit the hay early.

In the only dream I remember, I was in a sort of circus procession made up of baby elephants with smiling faces. All of them cast big elephant shadows, and I couldn’t figure out quite why.

The sun was high when I woke. It was still damp out, but the sun was there, working. I put some coffee on to boil before taking another shower.

Down at the office, I opened all the windows wide to get what breeze I could. When I turned, after opening the last one, I saw the girl standing in the doorway.

A tall, dark and serious girl, dressed plainly. A handsome girl, despite the plainness of her dress and hair-do. She said: “You’re Mr. Jones?”

I nodded, and indicated the customer’s chair.

She took it, and said: “My name is Ella Hamilton. I worked for Doctor Randolph.” She paused. “I read about Mr. Byerly in the paper.”

I said: “You’re not Dr. Randolph’s receptionist, are you?”

She shook her head. “I worked for him at that place up in the country. I was his nurse up there, and general assistant.”

I could only stare at her. She hadn’t looked, to me, like a girl who’d stray outside the law.

Some of my disbelief must have shown, for she said: “Would you come over here, please?”

It could have been a trap, but her hands were empty, her purse on my desk. I came over to stand close to her.

Her hands were above her head now, and then she pulled the hair above her ears high. “See,” she said.

I could see the fine, hair-like scars there. “I see,” I said.

Her smile was dim. “I owed Dr. Randolph a lot. I’m just trying to justify myself, I suppose, but before Dr. Randolph did that, I never appeared in public without a veil. Do you believe, now, that I worked for the doctor up there?”

“I believe you.”

“Yesterday, around noon,” she went on, “this Mr. Byerly drove into the yard up there. I didn’t know what to do. I was frightened, but he seemed harmless enough. He told me he’d been looking for that place for a long time. He seemed to be — gloating. He looked everything over and asked if I was expecting the doctor.”

“Around noon?” I interrupted. “That’s right. He didn’t leave until one o’clock.”

I said: “But then, he couldn’t have—”

She nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I couldn’t go to the police. You can understand that?”

I admitted I could.

“But I saw his picture in the paper, and they seemed so sure he was the man. I couldn’t just stand by, knowing what I did.”

I asked: “Where were you yesterday afternoon, when I was up there?”

“As soon as Mr. Byerly left, I left. I wanted to warn the doctor. When I got to town, I learned what had happened. I couldn’t go back to the hospital after that.” Her voice shook. “It’s not a nice thing to say, I know, but in a way, I’m glad he’s dead. I’m free of that, now.”

I said quietly: “A time will come, probably, when you’ll have to tell all this to the police, when you’ll have to sign a statement to all this.”

She nodded. “I suppose so. But—” She shrugged.

I said: “I’ll try to make a deal for you.”

She reached for her purse, but I shook my head. “There’ll be no charge for that. If I accepted money for that, Yd be making the deal, not you. Can you understand ethics as involved as that?”

The dim smile again. “I think I can. I’ve had some personal experience with involved, with twisted ethics. There was this gratitude, this loyalty, you see, on one side, and still—”

“I understand,” I said. “It might take some talking to make the police understand, however. But I might manage it.”

She gave me her address and telephone number.

Then I asked: “Dr. Randolph was a strange man, wasn’t he? Had he ever displayed any thanatophobia before?”

She looked at me blankly.

“Irrational fear of death,” I explained.

“Oh, yes. He was quite morbid about it. He hated death and feared it. He talked of it, often. You aren’t the first detective he’d hired.”

After she’d left, I contemplated calling headquarters. But I decided against it. If they found Byerly, he might have some good information. If they continued to look for Byerly, the real murderer would feel safe, and might — just might — make a mistake.

I phoned Jack Carmichael, and told him: “I want you to stick with Alex Randolph all day, Jack. At least, until midnight. I want to know every place he goes in that time. I’ll get it from you tomorrow.”

He said: “I can probably pick him up at the house, this time of the day.”

“Right. If you need me, and I’m not at the office, leave the message with Mac. That blonde give you a rough time last night?”

“Ah, Chief,” he said, “it’s not that late. And she’s a lady.”

“O.K.,” I said. “It’s still early enough to get in a full day’s work. And be very, very careful. You’re a valuable man right now.”

I hung up, feeling like a tough employer. Well, Byerly had finally found what he wanted, what he’d probably been looking for for a long time. That’s why he hung around the doctor, to get something with more financial potentialities than the doctor’s conscience and a threatened malpractice suit. He’d found it — too late.

I thought of Ella Hamilton, and hoped I’d be able to do something for her. The longer I delayed telling the police what she’d told me, the less I could do for her. Withholding information from the law isn’t the brightest thing in the world to do.

Doc Enright phoned and wanted to know, would I be at the game tonight? I said I thought I would. Unless something came up.

He asked: “What’s new on the Dr. Randolph business, Jonesy?”

“Just some rumors,” I kidded him. “I hear half the medicos in town are going to be mixed up in that mess, before it’s finished.”

There was a silence. Then: “You’re kidding, Jonesy.”

“No more than usual,” I told him. “Bring a lot of money, tonight. I’ve revenge due me, and I mean to get it.”

“Huh,” he said, and hung up.

It was right after that the silly rhyme began running through my mind. Nothing that made sense, but it sounded like it was trying to. The pattern was forming.

I wondered about Byerly, where he was now. If he wasn’t guilty of murder, he was guilty of blackmail, and the police would have the story on that by now. He had reason enough to hide.

But, still, he had Ella Hamilton as an alibi witness... Maybe, he’d get in touch with her. Damn it, I had no right to keep information like this from the police.

I fretted, and the rhyme ran through my mind, and the day grew warmer and more humid. This indecision is one hell of a state.

I decided, finally, to go out and park near the address Ella Hamilton had given me.

It was a lower-middle-class section of town, west of the river. I parked the Dusy about two blocks away, and walked over. I was in luck.

For, right opposite the rooming house in which she lived there was a small branch library. This library had a large, plate glass window on the street side, and I could see the reading tables behind it. I went in and read some Hemingway.

Of course, I wasn’t reading it too closely. I was playing private detective and feeling exceptionally cunning. Any moment, Byerly should have come along and sneaked up those steps to the front door. Or Juan, or Alex Randolph, or any other little, fat man who might be involved in the death of Dr. Curtis Randolph.

Nobody like that came along. There was a laundryman who went up the steps and came down again, carrying a bundle of laundry. There was a fat woman who went up, carrying a bag of groceries. She didn’t come down again, and I could deduce that she probably had enough groceries to last for some time. I might not see her again for days. There was a thin, shabby gent with a briefcase who looked like a collector to me. I’m familiar with the breed.

But there was nobody who looked sinister or suspicious or even little and fat. I went up the steps, finally, myself.

Ella Hamilton’s room was on the second floor, in front, and she was home. The room was shabby, but clean. Most all rooming house rooms are shabby, I think. But she kept this one scrupulously clean.

I tried a winning smile, and said: “I’ve been worried about you. I’ve been watching the front door.”

“About me?” She looked puzzled. “Am I in danger?”

“If Byerly isn’t the murderer,” I explained, “and the real murderer knows you’re Byerly’s alibi, it would be to his interest to — visit you, wouldn’t it?”

She looked frightened. “I never thought of that.”

“Frankly,” I went on, “I’ve been expecting Byerly. But he probably doesn’t know where you live. I’d prefer it if nobody knew where you lived. You’ve a car?”

She nodded.

There was only one person I could think of who’d have room. Doc Enright lived with a maiden aunt in a mammoth house on this side of town. He’d have room, and the maiden aunt was the hospitable sort.

I phoned Doc from the pay phone in the hall downstairs and told him what I wanted.

It was all right with him. “Some babe of yours?” he asked.

I didn’t answer that, but went up again and explained it all to Ella Hamilton. It didn’t take her long to pack. I gave her the address and told her I’d meet her over there, in front of the house.

Nobody followed her, so far as I could tell. Nobody but me, that is.

Doc phoned his aunt by the time we got there, and she was a marvel. She even made me feel at home, and I wasn’t staying. I said “so long” to Ella Hamilton and drove over to Mac’s. All the way over that silly rhyme went running through my head.

Mac was mopping out the joint. He had his shirt off, but he was still wringing wet. “What a life,” he said. “If you want beer, you’ll have to draw one yourself.”

I went behind the bar and drew a tall, cool glass of beer. There was a slip of paper on the bar with a phone number on it, and I picked it up, idly.

“Oh, that’s right,” Mac said. “Some babe in a Chev convertible left that number for Jack to call. ‘If he isn’t dead,’ she said. Now, what could she have meant by that?”

Chapter Five A Very Nasty Racket

If he isn’t dead... “I don’t know what she could mean,” I told Mac. “What’d she look like?”

“Like just another blonde to me,” Mac said. “Not anything you’d ignore in a crowd, understand, or leave your wife for. Just a blonde, just another dame.”

Mac’s cynical.

“Jack can’t be dead,” I said. “He’s being careful. He promised he’d be careful.”

“Lots of formerly careful guys are dead,” Mac said, and then he was staring at me. “Hey, Jonesy, you think—”

But I was already putting a nickel in Mac’s phone.

A man answered, and I said: “I’m looking for a blonde with a Chev coupe.”

“I’m looking for one with a Lincoln, myself,” he answered. “You’re easy to please.”

“This is important,” I told him. “I don’t know her name, but she left this number to be called, and I have to get in touch with her. It’s a matter of life and death, maybe.”

He said: “Our hat check girl here’s a blonde, and she’s got a Chev convertible. She just started day before yesterday. That the one you mean?”

“Probably,” I said. “Could I talk to her?”

“She doesn’t come on until five.”

“You got her home address?”

“Sure thing. But I don’t know you, buddy. And I’m not handing out something like that over the phone.”

“If you’ll tell me the name of the place,” I said, “I’ll come down and prove to you that it’s all right.”

He told me the name of the place, and I went over. With some, the buzzer works, and with some it doesn’t. I flashed it, just on the off chance, and it worked.

“Oh,” he said, “a detective,” and gave me the address.

It was a small, four apartment building on Ellsworth, near Hubbard. The blonde was home, and Mac was right. She was just another blonde. She told me what she meant by “if he isn’t dead.” That he would be within twelve hours, she had no way of knowing, then. And neither did I.

I spent the afternoon looking for Jack, and not finding him. I inquired at the residence of Alex Randolph and learned that the boss had gone out of town for the day, wasn’t expected home until late tonight, and nobody at the house knew where he had gone. He was just “out of town.”

Jack, I hoped, was out of town with him.

I went back to the office, but it was hot up there. I sat there for almost an hour, despite the heat, wondering if I’d get a phone call. I didn’t, and the heat grew worse. From the north, I heard the rumble of thunder. We could use some rain.

I went to the window and saw the kids below. It didn’t look much like rain, but you couldn’t be sure. I hoped it would rain. I went over to Mac’s.

I had a cheese sandwich and another beer and some words with Mac, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was feeling sick. One thing I could do, I could work, but where would I start?

I went over to the tall apartment building, finally. There was a switchboard in the lobby. There was an operator here, who kept a record of all outgoing calls, because outgoing calls cost the tenants five cents a piece, and if the tenant complained, why, there was the number and here was the day you called it.

There was the number, on a couple of days.

They’re so smooth, and then they overlook something as simple as this. They’re so clever, and then they do the dumbest, damnedest things.

In a murder, it’s best not to be smooth. In a murder, it’s best to be as impromptu as you can. It’s the careful planning that trips you up.

And all the time that silly rhyme was running through my head.

I went home and took a shower. I tried to take a nap, but that was impossible. If Alex Randolph wouldn’t be be home until late, there wasn’t much I could do. At eight o’clock, I was on Doc Enright’s front porch.

“Come in,” he said. “Come in, as the spider said. I hope you brought some money or your checkbook.”

“Both,” I told him. “How’s Ella?”

“Ella’s fine. She and Aunt Aggie went to a movie. That was all right, wasn’t it?”

I said it was all right, and we went down to the basement, to the rumpus room.

The boys were all there, all of them a lot wealthier than yours truly, but all of them played this quarter limit game as though it meant milk for their starving children.

I played it, that night, as though I didn’t care if I won or lost. So naturally, I won. Doc was about the only guy who bucked me successfully that night, and on the really big pots I beat him out. I was nearly fifty bucks ahead when Aunt Aggie came down and told me I was wanted upstairs.

Glen Harvey was waiting for me up there. “We found Ed Byerly,” he said. “We’ve been looking all over town for you and Jack. I had a hunch you might be here. I remembered your Tuesday nights.”

“Where’d you find Byerly?” I asked.

“In a vacant lot. His face was bloody, as though he’d had a battle with someone, but we got him cleaned up now. He was strangled, Jonesy.”

“He’s—”

“Dead,” Glen finished. “Jack here? We want him down at the morgue to identify Byerly as the killer, if he is.”

From below, I heard the voices of the boys. “Byerly isn’t the killer,” I said. “I’ll go with you now, and we’ll wait for Jack. He should be back in town pretty soon.”

“What the hell’s he doing out of town?” Glen asked. “The Chief won’t like that.”

“He’s chasing a wild goose,” I said. “Let’s go.”

It’s an ill wind, I thought. This is the first time in months I’ve been able to leave here, money ahead.

We took the department car. Glen said: “There’s one bloody thumbprint on Byerly’s collar, but it doesn’t check with anything in the files.”

I said nothing. The thunder was really rumbling now, in the north, and there was a damp breeze blowing in the sedan window. Clouds overhead blanketed the moon and stars completely. It was a depressing, miserable night, a night to match my mood.

Glen said: “Devine’s got the screaming meemies. He thinks you guys are hiding out on purpose.”

I told him what I thought of Devine. I said: “This is a nasty racket we’re all in, Glen.”

“It’s a living,” he said.

We didn’t go over to Jack’s rooming house to wait. We parked near Alex Randolph’s big home, and turned off the lights.

Glen said: “I’m not the only one working overtime. The Chief’s waiting down at headquarters, too, Jonesy.”

“And Devine, no doubt?”

“And Devine.” He peered through the gloom. “Is that a filling station open up there?”

“It looks like it,” I said.

“I’d better run up and call in, tell them what we’re doing. You wait here.” He left the car.

I waited, while the thunder grew worse, while the wind rose. Then, as the first drops of rain spattered against the windshield, Glen was back. “They’ll be waiting down there,” he said.

We didn’t wait long, though it seemed long. The rain was falling steadily when a huge sedan rolled up the street and turned in at the Randolph home.

About twenty second later, another pair of headlights came down the street. Glen looked at me for confirmation.

They were old, dim lights, and Jack’s car was a jalopy. I took a chance. “That’s Jack,” I said.

Glen stepped out into the center of the road. I wasn’t far behind him.

The jalopy ground to a halt, and Jack’s head came out the side window. “What the hell’s cooking?” he wanted to know.

“Murder,” I said.

Glen was over at the car now. “Ed Byerly’s been killed. They want you down to identify him.”

“O.K.,” Jack said, “let’s go. But don’t stand out there in the rain like that.”

“You’d better come in the department car,” Glen said. “This heap of yours doesn’t look like it’d make it.”

“Hmmm,” Jack said. “That showcase of Randolph’s couldn’t lose me. And he was really logging.”

On the way down, I asked Jack: “What’d you find out about Alex Randolph?”

“After thirteen hours of constant supervision by this trained and skilled operative,” Jack said, “it was learned that Alex Randolph, brother of the deceased, owns a fox farm.”

“And that’s all?”

“That’s all. Foxes, hundred of foxes, and I’ll bet he’ll take a beating, the way furs have been dropping, lately. But that’s all I learned.”

I said nothing more. I hadn’t anything fitting to say.

Glen said: “You guys sure love to play cop, don’t you? And without pay. It beats me.”

“With pay,” I said. But without reward, I thought. Money isn’t enough to pay me for this, tonight.

Lightning split the sky, and the rain was really lashing the windows now.

Jack said: “I really should phone the blonde. She worries about me.”

“Women,” Glen said. “You can have ’em all.”

“I’ll take ’em,” Jack said. “How about you, Jonesy?”

“Some of them are all right, I guess,” I said.

We were in front of the station, now. The morgue was in the basement, the cool, dim morgue.

We went in, hurrying to get out of the rain, but I didn’t want to hurry. We went down the worn, stone steps, and past Doc Waters, who was bending over one of the slabs. Doc Waters worked late, too, it seemed.

Then we came to a slab, and Glen pulled the sheet down, and Jack stared. We waited.

Finally, Jack said: “That’s different than the picture all right. That’s him, for sure.”

He wasn’t there again, today, I thought, Oh gee, I wish he’d go away. The silly, silly rhyme.

Glen said: “We’ll go up to the Chief’s office.”

We went up slowly, thinking our separate and various thoughts. Mine weren’t pleasant.

Devine was in the Chief’s office, and so was the Chief. The Chief said: “Well...?”

“That’s the man,” Jack said.

Devine smirked, and the Chief nodded. “All right, we’ll have a statement prepared in a moment. If you gentlemen will sit down?”

We sat down. I said: “Never mind the statement.”

They were all staring at me. I thought of the rhyme. “He’s the little man who wasn’t there. I know that. Byerly was miles away from Dr. Randolph’s office when the doctor was killed.”

Devine snorted. The Chief said: “You sure of that, Mort?”

I could feel Jack’s eyes on me. “I’m sure of it. There were lots of little, fat men involved in this case. None of them were there.”

Jack said: “Are you crazy, Jonesy?”

“I went to see your girl today, Jack,” I said. “She thought you might be dead. She hasn’t seen you for a week.”

He started to say something, and stopped.

“Some girl must have been seeing you,” I went on. “You couldn’t go a week without some babe, could you.”

He was looking at the floor.

“I checked Mrs. Randolph’s outgoing calls,” I said. “Quite a few of them were to you, Jack. That thumbprint on Byerly’s collar is probably yours. Did he threaten you?”

He nodded, his eyes still directed toward the floor.

“What the hell—” Glen Harvey said.

“Dr. Randolph had these spells,” I said. “There wasn’t any danger to his life, really, but he thought there was. That was a nice set-up for a guy needing an angle. Lots of previous suspects., In the week we guarded the doctor, Jack met his wife. That would be a mutual attraction. Jack’s got all he’ll ever need, where women are concerned. And Mrs. Randolph will have all the money Jack will ever need, once the doctor is dead. Love at first sight, to use the polite phrasing. But Jack made a mistake.”

I went on, hating myself. “Jack remembered a phrase Byerly had used, one time when he came to milk the doctor. That’s the words he put in the non-existent fat man’s mouth — ‘Just tell the doctor his conscience is here.’ When Byerly saw that in the paper, he thought Jack was trying to frame him; he could guess that Jack was the killer, himself. Byerly had an alibi, but he couldn’t find her. When did he come to see you, Jack?”

His voice was just a whisper. “Last night. He knew about Jean and me, too. He’d been watching the doctor pretty close, and he saw Jean and me, together.”

Jean was Mrs. Randolph.

It got through to Devine, finally. “You mean, there never was a little fat man? Jack did the knife work, when the girl was out to lunch?”

“That’s right. And later, Jack and Jean would probably get married. Is that the way it was, Jack?”

He nodded.

“You didn’t want to identify Byerly as the killer,” I said, “not until you knew he was dead. You couldn’t afford to.”

“Women,” Jack said, and shook his head. “If I hadn’t neglected the blonde.” He made a gesture with his hand, and suddenly there was a gun in it, a .38.

I’d told him to arm himself, I remembered. I thought, there are a lot of guns between here and the front door. He can’t get through all of them.

Then I knew he wasn’t going to try.

For the barrel of his gun was moving toward his own mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Devine pull his own gun, and my hand smashed up, to, knock off Devine’s aim.

There was a hell of a racket, as both guns went off. Devine’s tore plaster from the ceiling. Jack’s blew out a good section of the top of his head.

“That was a hell of a thing to do,” Devine told me.

“If he was going to die,” I said, “I didn’t want a guy like you killing him.”

I hoped he’d make something of that, but he didn’t. The thumbprint on Byerly’s collar later proved to be that of an intern who had handled him.

The poker game was still going on when Glen drove me back to the Dusy. But I didn’t want any more poker, not tonight. I drove right home. It had stopped raining.