Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 10, No. 48, November 1947

Put Him on a Spot by Arthur Somers Roche

It is surprising how many famous miters studied hard and, long to become doctors, lawyers, and engineers — only to give up their chosen professions, sometimes at the height of their careers, to follow their real hearts-desire. Arthur Somers Roche prepared for the bar, graduated from Boston University in 1904, practiced law for nearly two years — and in 1906 switched, never to turn back, from his vocation to his avocation. He started writing professionally as a newspaperman; in 1910 he challenged the magazine field; in 1917 he broke into “The Saturday Evening Post”; and by the time he died, in 1935, he was one of America’s most popular and successful slick-magazine writers. His special literary bent expressed itself in a long series of stories about “emotional life among the exceedingly rich” — thematic material which he derived from first-hand experience. During the fabulous boom days of the ’twenties Mr. Roche was a familiar figure at Palm Beach, on sleek ocean-going yachts, and in the aristocratic clubs of New York.

Occasionally Arthur Somers Roche indulged in a little literary slumming — he tried his hand at the detective story. And it is curious that these excursions, in which Mr. Roche revealed his conception of how the other half lived, usually found favor with the editors of slick magazines. For example, take the story we now bring to you: “Put Him on a Spot” is particularly interesting on two counts — one, the manner in which the tale is written, and two, the date it was first published in “Collier’s.” The date was July 6,1929. At that time the hardboiled detective story was just about coming into its own, exerting a powerful influence on all American crime writers. In the early ’twenties “Black Mask” had launched the tough, hard-bitten, shocking style of such pioneers as Carroll John Daly and Dashiell Hammett, and by 1929 (the year in which, if memory serves, THE MALTESE FALCON appeared serially in “Black Mask”) the new type of story and the new style of its telling had penetrated even into the fashionable haunts of slick writers. It is your Editor’s impression that in “Put Him on a Spot” Arthur Somers Roche was actually trying to write a hardboiled detective story — but according to such sweet and sentimental standards as would earn the approval of a slick-magazine editor! In other words, “Put Him on a Spot” is a deliberate attempt to wed the pulp story to the slick story, to mix sugary slickness with tart toughness. Can it be done? Read Mr. Roche’s “noble” experiment and judge for yourself. Note especially Mr. Roche’s “realistic” dialogue. Can a story be half hardboiled and half slick without in the end becoming neither fish, flesh nor fowl?

“I won’t touch it,” I said.

“Oh, you won’t touch it, eh?” said Murdock.

“You heard me,” I told him.

“Sure I heard you,” he said.

“Then that’s that,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s that.” He lighted another cigarette.

“I’ll be getting back to my job,” I told him.

“Good job?” he asked. “Sitting all day at a desk?”

“Better than sitting in the chair.”

“Aw, be yourself, Curtis,” he said. “Who mentioned the chair?”

“I mentioned the chair,” I said.

“You never used to think about the chair,” he said.

“I never did anything to make me think about it,” I said.

“What makes you think about it now?” he asked.

“Your talk,” I answered.

“Oh, my talk, eh?” He lighted another cigarette. I never noticed before how many cigarettes he smoked. “Why, you brought the subject up, didn’t you, Curtis? Grown kind of jumpy, haven’t you?”

“Grown straight, that’s all,” I said.

He threw his cigarette away.

“Kenney won’t like it so much when I tell him you’re putting on the high hat,” he said.

“He’d rather have me put on those headpieces they clamp on your dome up in the death-house,” I answered.

“Ever hear of any of Kenney’s lads taking that morning walk?” he inquired.

“I ain’t one of Kenney’s lads,” I said.

“But you were,” he said.

“But I ain’t,” I told him.

“What you making here — forty per?” he asked.

“Thirty — all clean,” I said.

“Yeah, you must be clean by Monday morning,” he sneered. “You can buy your girl a lot of pretties with what’s left from thirty bucks.”

“I haven’t got a girl,” I told him.

“You used to have one,” he said. “Seems to me I remember something about her. Nice li’l jane, from uptown somewhere. I was noticing her out the other night.”

“What’s a fighting word to put before liar, Murdock?” I asked.

“Meaning?” he said.

“You know what I mean,” I told him. “I want to call you the kind of a liar that would make you sore enough to go for your rod.”

“Meaning you want to bump me off, eh?” he asked.

“Meaning that if you mention her I will bump you off,” I said.

“Well, all right, Curtis, if you feel that way about it. But she was out with the Digger only night before last.”

He had his rod in his hand as he spoke, and I didn’t have any rod. But it wasn’t that that stopped me. What stopped me was that I knew he told the truth.

My Susie! Out with the Digger! Why, she didn’t even know him!

“Murdock, put away your rod. I ain’t going to kill you,” I said.

He knew me. He’d taken one big chance in the hope that he’d make me believe him. Kenney must need me a lot.

“I thought you’d see it our way, Curtis,” he said. “Well, what about it?”

“What about what?” I asked.

I wanted him to go away. I wanted to go away myself. My Susie out with the Digger! And me working for thirty bucks a week because she didn’t want me crooked. Me never seeing her! Me dropping right out of her life, never letting her know where I am or anything. Me spending half the night looking at her photograph while the Digger was looking at her real self.

I wanted to cry, that’s what I wanted to do.

“You know Mallasson,” he said.

“You want me to take him for a ride, eh?” I asked.

“We’ll put him on a spot,” he said.

“Go to hell,” I said.

I got up from the one-armed lunchroom where he’d found me, and started to go.

He grabbed my arm.

“If I take that back to Kenney, he won’t take it,” he said.

“Well, what the hell’s he going to do about it?” I asked.

“That’s what I want to talk to you about, Curtis,” he said.

“Listen,” I said. “I’m off all that. I’m getting me thirty bucks a week and liking it, see?”

“You used to tip a waiter more than that,” he said.

“Them birds are overpaid,” I said.

I broke loose from him, walked to the cashier and slipped her sixty cents. Sixty cents! It woulda’ made me laugh if it didn’t come nearer making me cry.

A sixty-cent lunch when I used to pay that for my melon.

I stopped outside the store of Murgatroyd & Williamson. What the hell! Eight in the morning until five at night. Put a packing-case on; take a packing-case off. Smoke two cigarettes at lunch because the package must last until night. A bum dinner and a bum movie. A rotten room in a cheap lodging-house... And my Susie out with the Digger!

Women! Look you right plumb in the eye and talk teary. No, I couldn’t love a man that had a racket. No, I wouldn’t want the things that kind of money pays for.

Well, what sort of money did she think the Digger spent? God, if she wouldn’t stand for a racketeer, what made her go for the Digger? I was outside the law, but the Digger was outside everything.

And sweet my Susie was and all of that, but she knew her way around. Show me a girl nowadays that doesn’t. Clean and straight and all that, but she knew what it was all about. And one look at the Digger would tell her everything about him.

And she was out with him only the other night! Couldn’t go out with me because my dough wasn’t made square. Gave me the air because I did a little of this and a little of that; because I played the races, and ran a little hooch, and did a little fixing of the right people once in a while. Me out in the cold and the Digger in where it was nice and warm.

I tried to laugh that one off and couldn’t raise a chuckle. One o’clock struck. If I wasn’t inside that big double door before the note died away a big fat stiff would bawl me out. He’d dock me fifty cents. Fifty cents. I used to give it to a newsboy for a late edition, and now it meant breakfast. Fifty cents!

“Well, what about it?”

I turned and there was Murdock at my elbow. I just stared at him and didn’t see him. All I could see was my Susie, and she was close to the Digger, looking up at him... God, she had the bluest eyes...

“I never killed anyone,” I said.

“That’s the point,” said Murdock.

“And I don’t know Mallasson,” I said.

“Kenney thought of that one, too,” he said. He lighted another cigarette. “It’s like this, Curtis—”

“They dock me fifty cents every five minutes I’m late,” I interrupted.

He peeled a bill off a big roll. It was a grand. He handed it to me.

“Take the whole afternoon off,” he said.

A thousand berries! I used to bet that much that I’d make my point, and now I couldn’t even shoot craps for dimes.

“That’s big money for an afternoon’s talk,” I said.

“There’s nine more waiting for you the minute Mallasson is croaked.”

“Why pick on me?” I asked.

I could see Susie! She liked life. What nice girl doesn’t? The theaters, the night clubs... And the Digger could spend, too. He didn’t mind paying any price for what he wanted. Six months of sticking around the house and she’d had plenty. And I’d ’a’ bet my life that I’d ’a’ quit before she would have.

“You read the papers, don’t you?” I heard Murdock’s voice from ’way, ’way off.

“Lay it on the line,” I told him.

“The whole town’s jake that Mallasson is out to get Kenney. Him just promoted to Chief of Detectives and out to make a record. The papers hollering that Kenney can’t be touched by anybody, that he owns the police and the D. A. and all. Well, Mallasson is out to get Kenney.”

“Well, he can’t do it, can he?” I asked. “What’s Kenney sweating about?”

“Well, he’s sweating,” said Murdock.

I sort of whistled.

“This Mallasson must be quite a man,” I said, “if he’s got Kenney sweating. What’s he got on Kenney?”

Murdock’s teeth showed. “What do you care what he’s got on him?”

“Not a dime,” I told him. “But I’d like to know what Kenney thinks he’s got on me.”

“Ten grand’s a lot of dough,” he said.

“I’ve lost it on one race,” I told him.

“That was last year,” he said. “This is another June, Curtis.”

“I told you to lay it on the line,” I said.

Another June. Just a year ago I’m out at Belmont. I have my Susie with me. She’s wearing one of them blue hats with a tiny yellow flower on the left side, and she’s standing on tiptoe, in a pair of shoes so small that I could use them for cuff-links. I have five grand on the Heenan entry and I don’t even watch the race.

“All right, here it is,” he said. “Mallasson’s gotta be put on the spot.”

“You said that before,” I told him.

“I’m saying it again,” he said. “Do you want to hear the rest of it?”

I took a look at the big open doorway. Inside there were hundreds of packing-cases. Lift ’em off; put ’em on. Now that was a swell racket for Tom Curtis, wasn’t it? I looked down at the grand in my mitt.

“Shoot the piece,” I said.

“If Mallasson’s bumped, the District Attorney will be using a fine-tooth comb on Kenney,” said Murdock.

“Go on,” I said.

“Suppose I gave that big stiff of a copper the works? Suppose the Digger did? Suppose any one of the lads did it. We couldn’t get an alibi air-tight enough.”

“Why doesn’t Kenney import a couple of lads from Chi or Philly?” I asked.

“You ain’t read the papers very careful, have you?” he said. “And you ain’t been around for six months. I tell you, Curtis, Mallasson’s got this town all sewed up. He’s got even Kenney so he’s afraid to move. Kenney’d be tied up with any gangsters from Chi or Philly like prohibition is with graft. It’s got to be an outsider.”

“Like me, eh?” I sneered.

“Yes, like you,” he said.

“Just in a friendly way I walk up and put a couple of bullets into the copper, eh?” I said.

“You’ve got it,” he said. “We plant him, Curtis. He’s waiting right on the spot where we put him. All alone. You go by. Wham! He gets it. We got your alibi.”

“I thought you just said alibis weren’t so hot these days,” I said.

“For you they’re O.K. You ain’t got a record. You’re working at a regular job. You never were out in the open with Kenney. Why the hell should anyone suspect you’d settle Mallasson?”

“You asked it; you answer it,” I said.

“Well, no one would.”

“Well, no one will,” I said. “Because I won’t go for it. I’m no killer.”

“You said that before,” he reminded me. “And that makes it still better. Every killer in town will be rounded up within twenty-four hours after we put Mallasson on a spot. Who’ll think of you?”

“Kenney must be in a hell of a state,” I said.

“Well, all right. You said it. Let it go at that. Are you on?”

I stuffed the grand right in his mitt.

“Got fifty cents?” I asked.

“Why, sure,” he said, bewildered like.

He handed me half a dollar.

“Much obliged,” I said. “It’s only fair you should pay for my being docked.”

With that I started for the door of Murgatroyd & Williamson. I was ten feet from him before he got over his surprise. Then he called to me.

“Well,” I said.

“About the Digger,” he said. “And Susie Turner,” he said. “Why don’t you give her a ring?”

I walked through the big double doors.

“You’re late, Curtis,” said the foreman. “That’ll cost you just one buck.”

I handed him a five-dollar bill.

“Keep the change, feller,” I said.

“You’re fired,” he yelled.

I left him picking himself up. Fired, was I? Well, wasn’t that too bad?

And my Susie was out with the Digger, was she? Theater seats at eighteen a brace; cover charge at a night club for two; taxis; and, well, orchids and...

Give her a ring, Murdock said. Telephone, eh? Yeah, what could you say to a doll over the telephone? I couldn’t say the things I wanted her to hear. She’d cut me off. But if I backed her against a wall she’d listen. I’d make her listen. Oh, God, if I had to get the double-cross why couldn’t I get it from a man? Why did I have to get it from Susie?

I walked from the store to my room. I climbed three flights of stairs and tossed myself on a bed.

They’d be off at Belmont in a couple of minutes. I could see the grandstand with the bookies underneath. One year ago, and a nod from me and I’d have a grand on some baby’s nose. And the racketeers would give me the nod, and there’d be a date for the evening...

But gambling wasn’t exactly honorable. And running hooch was immoral.

Yes, sir, she’d rather cook her own meals and do her own laundry than live off dishonest money.

So she says good-bye to me. And I... well, wouldn’t I be a sucker to make a lot of promises that I didn’t know I could keep? So I drop right out of her life. In a year or two I’ll be making good; I’ll come back to her... And she couldn’t stand it for six months. Out with the Digger!

But why did Murdock tell me that? Then I got it. He wanted to show me what a sap I was to play it straight on account of a girl. Well, he was right, damn him.

But Kenney must be in a considerable jam. To bring up my girl’s name, to send for me... Well, a lot I cared for Kenney. He could burn twice a day and I should worry.

I got up from the bed, straightened my tie and started uptown. One talk with Susie — so help me, she’d never forget it — and then — well, I didn’t look that far ahead. There are some things you don’t want to look beyond.

I rang the bell, and her mother let me in. She stared like I was a ghost.

“Where’s Susie?” she cried. “What have you done with her?”

I gave her back her stare.

“I haven’t seen Susie for six months,” I said.

With that she keeled right over backward, and I’m twenty minutes bringing her out of the faint, and an hour longer getting her story.

Susie, two nights ago, got a phone message, and she thought it was from me. She went out to meet me. And she never came back.

“And you,” said Mrs. Turner, “a decent lad if I ever met one, so I thought — well, my Susie and Tom Curtis they went off and got married, and maybe the telegram got missent or something. A mother can’t think the worst so she hopes for the best. But Susie loved you—”

“She did?” I said.

“Why else would she send you away?” asked the mother. “Sure, a girl can’t be asking every lad if the money he spends for theater tickets is honest come by, can she? And she had faith. When she didn’t hear from you, she’d say to me that you were off somewhere, living straight and decent — oh, my God, Tom, can’t you bring back my Susie?”

“I’ll bring back your Susie,” I said to her.

So that was why Murdock had said to telephone my girl. He gave me the hint that she was out with the Digger. He didn’t know that Susie had told her mother she’d gone out to meet me. I’d think she’d decided to do the best she could, and then I’d be ripe to quit the sucker game of holding down a job...

I went to Kenney.

“I’m not a killer,” I said.

“Go on,” he said.

“The Digger’s got my girl,” I said.

“Get another girl,” he advised.

“She didn’t go willingly with the Digger,” I said.

“They all say that,” he said.

“She hasn’t said it. I’m saying it.”

“Get on with it,” he said.

“Give me my girl or I’ll kill you, me that isn’t a killer,” I said.

“If I don’t have Mallasson nailed to a tree within twenty-four hours I’ll fry,” he said. “Now shoot. Bullet or burn, it’s fifty-fifty with me.”

I looked him over. He hadn’t got to be the king of all the racketeers by quitting in a pinch. There wasn’t any yellow in him. He wouldn’t scare.

He’d picked me for the Mallasson job, and if I wanted my Susie back...

“I never did any killing, Kenney, but if I do one I’d as soon do two,” I said to him. “And I don’t mean the Digger, Kenney. I mean you. If my Susie ain’t right as rain—”

“If she ain’t, Curtis,” he said, “I’ll hand you the gun to give it to me with. But — I got to get Mallasson.”

“Shoot it,” I said.

“He gets a message. An old pal of mine is sore and will give up everything. But Mallasson’s got to come alone. Furthermore, Mallasson’s got to give his word that he won’t tell any one who he’s going to meet. One thing about that copper — his word is good.”

“It’s good,” I said.

“Well, you meet him. You give it to him. You walk to where you live and take a smoke. Then you go call upon your girl. She’ll be there.”

“And the Digger?” I asked.

“Not the weight of his finger on her. My life for that,” said Kenney.

“Your life for that,” said I.

I smoked a pack of cigarettes while he made his plans. What the hell? Why be economical about a butt any more?

“Your alibi’s planted,” Kenney finally said. “There’s three good lads up in your room playing penny ante and you’re with them. Mallasson’s given his word he’ll not tell a soul you’re to meet him.”

“Oh,” I said, “you gave him my name?”

“Sure I did,” said Kenney. “He knows you used to be one of the mob. He knows you’ve gone straight—”

“If he should tell his men that he went to meet me—” I began.

“He gave his word,” said Kenney.

“Then he’ll keep it,” I said.

“Here’s a rod,” said Kenney. “Monument and Lincoln, right by the statue. You walk up to him. You shake hands and let him have it. Seven-twenty exact. The nearest cop will be three blocks away.”

“My Susie—”

He cut me short.

“She’ll be home before Mallasson hits the curb. So long.”

I go out on the street, I look at my watch. I’ve got fifteen minutes to walk ten blocks. A minute and a half to a block. My Susie! In the Digger’s hands. And the Digger backed by Kenney. And Kenney never showed mercy to man, woman, or beast. What was a girl to Kenney? If the Digger wanted her... And wasn’t my Susie just the girl the Digger would want? The Digger, the rottenest, foulest... What was Mallasson? Just another copper. And what did I care for coppers? What was the life of the best copper that ever lived compared to a hair on my Susie’s head?

Fifteen minutes. There’s Mallasson.

“You, Curtis. Spill it,” he said.

I look at him. Just as easy. My Susie back at home. My Susie loving me, belonging to me. I hitch my left shoulder forward; easier to get my rod out. I’ll jam it against his belly, let him have it...

Goddlemighty, am I crazy? Would my Susie let me kill an innocent man to save her from — to save her from even the Digger? God knew she wouldn’t, and I knew she wouldn’t.

“You’re on a spot, Mallasson,” I said to him. “Kenney’s got my girl — it was her or you, and I thought it was you—”

“Get it out,” he yells. His own gun is in his hand.

I turned. A machine was careening down the street. They’re shooting from it. Mallasson’s down. I’m kneeling over him, letting them have it, letting them have it...

We’re in the same room at the hospital, Mallasson and I. He’s all bandaged and so am I. He sends everyone out of the room.

“Thought you wasn’t coming to, Curtis,” he said.

I let out a groan. “I wish I hadn’t,” I said. “My girl—”

“You got the idea, didn’t you?” he asked. “You were to croak me, and the gang was to settle you, and the District Attorney would think it was a private killing that you planned, and Kenney’s mob might be blamed for you, but they wouldn’t be blamed for me—”

“My girl,” I said.

“One of us couldn’t have stood them off. Both of us did. We got them all, Curtis. Nice hunting.”

“Susie,” I said.

“You with a gun in your hand; me with bullets from your gun in me. No tie-up between you and Kenney. What could be sweeter for Kenney? But we got Kenney. Your word to me gave me him.”

“To hell with Kenney. I want my girl — the Digger—”

He rang the bell and a nurse comes in.

Mallasson grins at her.

“Fetch the lady,” he said.

It’s Susie, and she’s by the bed, her arms around me. God, but she hurt my shoulder, right where the bullet got me, and I wish it would always hurt like that, hurt from her arms around me...

“My lights didn’t go out, Curtis,” said Mallasson. “I got them all. Kenney, the Digger — and the lady. Kenney told where the lady was. My men found her, locked in a room in an uptown hotel, with the Digger standing guard outside. You’d told me that Kenney had your girl, and my men — they weren’t gentle with Kenney. They made him come through. They weren’t gentle with the Digger, either, if that helps. But the girl had come to no harm — just scared—”

I hardly heard him. Susie was moaning.

“Tom... Tom, why did you go away?”

“He wanted to go straight, I guess,” said Mallasson. “Wanted to quit the racket. Wanted to get a decent job.”

“I was fired today,” I said.

“The Magrath people want a good man to handle their race-track protection,” said Mallasson. “They got to keep the crooks off the tracks. Twelve grand a year and I can name the lad to get the job. But he has to be a married man.”

I looked at Susie and she blushed.

“That’s me, Mallasson,” I said.

“Fine,” he said. “Say,” he said, “I think one of them damn’ bullets hurt my ear. I wouldn’t be able to hear you kids if you kissed each other.”