Ellery Queen’s Anthology. Volume 1, 1960

George Harmon Coxe Invited Witness

From a strictly realistic viewpoint (and we do not mean the hard-boiled school), “Invited Witness” is one of the toughest tales George Harmon Coxe ever strait jacketed into less than 3,000 words.

“Speak your piece, Charlie, and quit stallin’.” Jack Wolfe leaned back in his chair and rolled a cigarette.

“I know what you want. I read that Sob Sister story in The Record. I’m a killer, eh? And you’re being big-hearted — gonna give me a chance to tell my side of the story maybe.”

Wolfe stuck the finished cigarette in one corner of his mouth, lighted it, and turned to face me.

For a moment or so I studied that thin, gray-eyed face with its pointed chin and almost lipless mouth. Then I could feel the flush that swept over my face. I dropped my eyes and picked at the brim of my dark hat.

I wasn’t prepared for a direct attack. I had hoped to get around to the subject in a more diplomatic manner. Now he had me where I couldn’t sidestep — not and get away with it.

“Something like that,” I mumbled. “This Varelli was a family man and—”

“Yeah. He was. Had a wife and two kids. He drove a Packard and they were starving. All they got was a monthly beating. And Varelli had only killed two men. The last one was a bank messenger — was shot four times. Four times, Charlie, and the kid never had a gun. Think it over. I suppose it would have been better if I’d let Varelli make it three. But then I wouldn’t be here to give you your story, would I, Charlie?”

Wolfe’s voice was bantering but there was no smile on his face.

I didn’t answer right away, couldn’t think of anything to say. Jack Wolfe was Special Investigator for the District Attorney and he had the reputation of getting things done. He had all kinds of authority to back him up. He was practically independent as an operative, responsible only to the D.A. Yet he could call on the police if he needed help.

This Varelli had been a rat, a murderer — anyone could tell you that. And Wolfe had done a good job in knocking him off. But he had, nevertheless, the unsavory reputation of a killer. Most people left the “e” off his name — labeled him The Wolf, and public sentiment was against him.

And when this dame down at The Record had run wild on the Varelli story, the chief sent me down to see what I could get from Wolfe for The Courier. I looked up at him again. The half-smoked cigarette drooped from his mouth and there was a mocking twinkle in his eyes.

“Well,” he said. “What about it?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I replied. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t’ve plugged Varelli. All I know is that you’re quicker’n hell on the draw. The witnesses who saw it said you both yanked out your guns at the same time, but that you fired an instant before he did.”

Wolfe laughed. “I’m quick on the draw — but we both drew at the same time. Then I can’t be so quick, eh?”

“Well—” I stammered. “I don’t know, I wasn’t here. That’s what I heard.”

Wolfe sat upright with a jerky movement, tossed the cigarette away and pulled his coat sleeve up. Rolling up his shirt sleeve above the elbow, he showed me his arm. A yellowish scar showed on one side of the muscle, a larger scar on the other side.

“There’s one,” he snapped. “I got another one in my side. I didn’t get ’em in Europe either. I got ’em right here in Boston. And I got both of ’em because I drew first — and didn’t shoot.”

He rolled down his sleeve. “Quick on the draw! That’s a lot of bunk. It’s got nothin’ to do with it. There’s plenty of guys in the grave that drew first.”

“Well, then,” I pressed, “what’s the answer?”

“The answer’s a state of mind.” He waited a moment for his words to sink in. “When you go after a man you’ve got to know whether he’s gonna shoot or not. And if he is going to shoot, you’ve got to be first — if you want to live.

“I’ve seen a cop with his gun drawn stop a guy who still had his rod in his pocket. Yet the cop was the one that got plugged. Why? Because he didn’t think the other guy would shoot — while the guy himself knew he would.

“After this second nick I got, I made up my mind I wanted to live a while. Understand, I don’t draw unless I have to. But when I draw on a killer now, I figure on shootin’.

“This Varelli thug is an example. He was a killer. I knew it, everybody knew it. I went in after him. Neither of us had a gun in our hand. When he went for his, I knew he meant business.”

Wolfe pulled out the makings and started another cigarette.

“Doesn’t make a very good story, does it, Charlie?”

“Well—” I hedged, “I guess it does, but I never thought of it that way before.”

“Then let it lay. I’ll give you a ring in a couple days — if I’m lucky. If you want, I’ll let you see for yourself.”

Wolfe kept his word and three days later I got the call. It was in the evening and I was down at his office about nine o’clock.

He was sitting indolently in his chair, one of his half-consumed, smoke-stained cigarettes in the corner of his mouth. It was a funny habit, that rolling his own. It must’ve been a hangover from his army days. I never saw him smoke anything else.

I waited for him to speak. I didn’t know just what he was going to do or what he had in mind. He’d said he was going to let me see for myself. And without knowing how or why, there was a definite tingle to my skin and the palms of my hands were damp.

“All set, Charlie?” he said, finally.

“Sure. What’re we gonna do?”

“We’re goin’ after Shulz.”

I whistled and made no attempt to disguise my feelings. Shulz was the one they had been looking for on the baby killings. The fellow had a record a mile long but with surprisingly few convictions. He’d been up for murder twice and both times he had beaten the rap. And two weeks ago, in gunning out a rival, he had killed a little girl and crippled a boy.

I hadn’t said anything to the chief about Wolfe’s offer, but now I thought I’d better phone in. To tell the truth, I wasn’t so sure I was coming back.

“Is it all right to call in and tell ’em what I’m on?” I asked. “I’d like to have ’em get all the stuff out of the files and the morgue, so they’ll be ready for it. Will it break by eleven?”

Wolfe looked at me with that poker face of his and his lips barely moved.

“It’ll break by eleven. But I don’t think you’d better call in. You may change your mind about it before you get through. And — we might not be successful.”

I knew what he meant by that last, so I sat back and watched him open the drawer of his desk and take out a long-barreled, light automatic. I was plenty surprised and I guess I showed it when I spoke.

“You’re not going after Shulz with that, are you? Looks like a .22.”

“It is.” Wolfe fondled the gun, slipped out the clip. “And this isn’t always what I use, Charlie.”

He put the clip back in the .22, pulled back the slide to throw a bullet in the chamber, and laid it on the desk. Then taking a larger gun — a revolver — from the drawer, he inspected this also.

“This is the old stand-by. A .38 special. But sometimes I have use for the .22. It all depends on the job and what I’ve got to do.”

He slipped this in his shoulder holster and picked up the .22 again.

“It’s a funny thing, Charlie. They’ve got me down for a killer. A hardboiled murderer. Well, I’ve been on this job five years and I’ve killed just three men in that time — including Varelli. Not so many, is it, when you think of what I’ve been up against.”

“But,” I sputtered. “It seems like—”

“Nope.” Wolfe interrupted and forestalled the thought I was about to express. “I’ve shot plenty, Charlie. That’s what you’re thinking of. I’ve shot plenty — wounded ’em enough so we could take ’em. But that doesn’t make such a good story, does it?”

I kept still and he continued. “That’s what the .22 is for. With the .38 I can generally put a quick shot in a three-inch circle at ordinary range. With the .22 I can make that a one-inch circle. It’s almost as good as a rifle, Charlie. And sometimes it comes in handy.”

Wolfe stood up and slipped the .22 in his coat pocket. “I guess we’re set. And just remember, this is no picnic. You know Shulz’s reputation. If he should get me, it might be sort of tough on you. I’ll try to take care of you, but it’s not too late to back out and I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

I looked at the sharp-featured face, sized up the slim, wiry build. There was competence in every line of him.

“It’s O.K. with me,” I said.

We left the taxi at Columbus Avenue. “How do you know you’ll find him?” I asked.

“I’ll find him. That’s what stoolies are for. He won’t be in when we get there but we’ll stick around till he comes.

“The house is almost down to the next block. I’ll go down alone. You watch me. See where I go. Then follow me in about five minutes. I’ll wait down in the hall for you.”

Five minutes later I followed Wolfe down the depressing canyon of three and four storied, dirty brick apartment houses. There was a sordid atmosphere of decay about the neighborhood that quickened my footsteps. I was glad when I reached the house into which Wolfe had turned.

The door was unlocked and Wolfe was waiting inside.

I followed him up two flights of narrow, dimly lighted stairs and down a corridor to an entrance on the left. He tried the knob, then fished out a ring of keys. An instant later he pushed open the door and stepped inside. I followed and stood out of the way until he had closed the door.

The place seemed pitch black. And as I waited there in the darkness for him to speak, I was conscious that I was holding my breath, that the blood was thumping at my eardrums. It seemed as though we stood there for five minutes before he said:

“Just stand there a minute.”

He snapped on a flashlight. A handkerchief was over the lens and the diffused light which came from the bulb cast an eerie glow over the room. I could see that it was garishly furnished, could make out a davenport, a table, some chairs.

Then the light went out. I could hear Wolfe fumbling with something in the room, heard him grunt.

“It won’t be long now,” he said. “I guess the best place for you to stand is right in that doorway. If things don’t work out, you can beat it back there to the kitchen. Now we’d better keep still.”

He snapped on the light again until I took up my station in the hall doorway, then he switched it off again. But I wanted to ask one more question and I did.

“How come you’re after this guy alone? You know he’s goin’ to be here. Why not let the cops in on it?”

“Yeah. That’s just it. If they knew about it, there’d be fifty cops around this place. They’d be so thick Shulz couldn’t miss. This way is safer. Now shut up.”

I don’t know how much later it was, probably not more than ten minutes, when I heard the footsteps in the outside corridor. And if I was nervous before, I was tensed all over now. Maybe I was scared; I know I wasn’t happy about it. I wished then that I’d found out if there was a back door.

Then a key clicked in the lock and I tried to put my thoughts together. Would Wolfe shoot Shulz down in the doorway? Would he give him a chance?

I watched the door swing slowly open. A narrow strip of yellow from the lighted hall crept across the floor, picked out the pattern in the rug, played tricks with the table and chair in its path. I glanced quickly toward the wall opposite the door to see if Wolfe could be seen. I couldn’t pick him out.

Then I watched the tall, thick-set figure, silhouetted in the doorway; saw him step into the room and raise one hand along the wall.

A switch clicked. Nothing happened. I stiffened as the fellow by the door spat out a curse. That was what Wolfe had been fumbling with. He had unscrewed the light bulbs.

Then a conical beam of light shot out from a point directly opposite the door. Wolfe’s flashlight. I couldn’t see what was behind it. I shrank back in my doorway and looked at Shulz.

For a second or two he stood there as though transfixed. His fleshy, heavily jowled face looked ghastly white in the artificial light. His eyes seemed to recede under the puffy lids and a tongue licked out to wet his lips.

“Stick ’em up, Shulz!” Wolfe barked the command. Then it happened.

This was what I had come to see and here it was. My eyes were glued on that puffy face of Shulz. I saw it coming, that thing Wolfe had spoken about, that action of the brain that meant death.

His hand darted inside his coat and I knew what to expect when the gun came out. I wanted to yell at Wolfe, wanted him to shoot while he had time.

Shulz’s automatic whipped into view and the instant it was free of his clothing a streak of flame stabbed the darkness and a roar shattered the quiet of the room.

The time between the first shot and the second couldn’t have been more than a watch tick. But it was long enough for a weakness of fear to sweep over me with the realization that Wolfe must have been hit. But the conical sweep of the flashlight still held steady.

Then the second shot roared and by that time I couldn’t have run if I’d wanted to. Then two jets of flame shot out from a spot about four feet from the flashlight. Two sharp, distinct cracks sounded, like a person slapping a mosquito on his hand.

Shulz’s face twitched. His mouth dropped open and the automatic slid from a hand that showed red on the back. One knee sagged and he braced himself on the other leg to keep from falling.

Wolfe, the .22 in his right fist, stepped into the flashlight’s rays, reached up and turned one of the light bulbs. The resulting glow showed the flashlight resting on the back of an overstuffed chair. Wolfe moved over to Shulz, who hadn’t said a word, and picked up the fallen automatic.

Backing toward a wall phone he said, “Now you see where the .22 comes in, Charlie. The one in the forearm crippled his gun hand, the one in the knee makes him stick around. I didn’t have to kill this guy because, for once, we got a case he can’t beat.”

He reached up for the receiver. “Of course, this may not give you the story you want. This wasn’t a regular shooting contest. I tricked him with the flash, turned it on and stepped to one side. Maybe that don’t count. But maybe you can see what would’ve happened to some conscientious cop standing there with a flashlight — maybe you can see how a real killer works.

“And if this ain’t just what you want, Charlie, let it lay. There may be a time when I can take you out with a .38 instead of the .22.”