Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 11, No. 51, February 1948

She was tall and blonde, and against another background — that of a glittering night club, for instance — you might have said that she was beautiful. But the patch of sunlight that filtered in over the roofs of adjoining tenements was not merciful. It showed that she was no longer young, and that she was hard.

The heavy-set man in the faded red club chair stretched his legs comfortably, and in doing so, flipped back his coat so that she could see the police badge on his vest. His words were friendly enough, but his manner was unyielding. He said, again, “It doesn’t matter to me if you play or not, Rita. But what’s the percentage in not stringin’ along with me?”

She said sharply: “I’m not ratting on Eddie — and that’s final.”

“But you know where he is.”

“That’s your idea.”

“Sure, it’s my idea. You were his gal friend, weren’t you?”

“Suppose I was, that don’t prove anything.”

“I never said it did. I’m only asking where it gets you. I’m asking why you stick to a guy you’ll never see again. Eddie’s got a murder rap hanging over him. He may tie up with some dame somewhere, sometime — but it’ll never be you. You’re out of the picture from now on — because you’ll be watched, which makes you bad medicine for him. Besides, it don’t seem reasonable you’d still be crazy about a guy that bumped somebody off — for dough.”

“He said he didn’t do it.”

Steve Mason said flatly, “He did it, all right. I saw the shooting myself. That’s why I’m so anxious to pick him up.”

She said, “I don’t wonder. You drift along in time to see a man murdered and a satchel of money grabbed. But the guy gets away. Smart dick you are.”

Steve nodded placidly. “Have your fun, Rita. I’ve learned to take it. The boys been ribbing me plenty down at headquarters. The chief has been giving me hell. I’ve got everything it takes to convict Eddie — except Eddie. I want that lad — plenty. I’d be sitting pretty if I could nab him. Which is half the reason I’m talking turkey to you. The other half is the dough. I could use five thousand dollars. And from what I see here” — his hard eyes swept the room — “you could use the same amount.”

She seated herself and leaned forward. The gray-green eyes were hard and calculating. She said, “I ain’t having any — but I’m curious. What’s your idea?”

“You can get in touch with him... no, never mind denying it. Call it a guess if you want, but let it ride that way for a minute. So you do. You tell him you got to see him; you tell him it’s safe. He comes to see you and I pick him up.”

“And then?”

“My own testimony would convict him. I seen him do that shooting. And the chances are a hundred to one he’d have the gun on him.”

She gave a short, derisive laugh. “How’d you figure that one out?”

“Easy. Eddie’d come to see you, but he’d come heeled. And I’m playing the hunch that he’s still got the gun he used on that messenger. If I’m wrong, we’ve still got him hooked. If I’m right, a ballistics test will clinch it. I get the ten thousand reward and give you half.”

She said, “I’d feel pretty lousy doing something like that.”

His eyes bored into her. “If I was you — I’d do it.” He rose and shrugged into his coat. “I’ll be drifting, Rita. If five thousand cold cash don’t mean anything to you...”

“But it does!” she broke out suddenly. “I’ve scrimped and suffered and half-starved for so long. Damn it, you’ve got no right putting me on the spot this way. You got the cards all stacked against me.”

“Uh-huh,” he agreed mildly. “I’m trying to deal myself the winning hand. Only I’m cutting you in. So for the last time: Is it Yes or No?”

She walked to the window and looked down on the shabby vista of family washing, garbage barrels, unkempt housewives, and ill-clad, noisy children. She hated the whole thing. No decent clothes. None of the things a girl wants — especially a girl who was created to look pretty and to have fun. Suddenly she said:

“I’m playing it your way. What do I do now?”

Steve Mason was too smart to show his elation. His voice remained calm and unemotional. He said: “Get in touch with Eddie. Tell him you got to see him — here.”

With Eddie’s arms around her, this way, she could look straight into his eyes. Just the same height, they were, which made him kind of short for a man. Short and slender. You couldn’t feel his arms around you and see those eyes of his and believe he’d ever killed anybody. You couldn’t believe anything about Eddie that wasn’t all right.

Steve Mason knew what she was thinking. He knew women could go blah all of a sudden: change their minds and do crazy things. So he stepped out of the kitchenette and grabbed Eddie. He said, “Jig’s up, kid — so take it easy.”

Eddie backed away. He put his hands up defensively, and Steve Mason acted. He said, “No, you don’t...” and he swung. His list caught Eddie high on the forehead and Eddie went down. Hard.

Steve was on top of him, there on the floor. Eddie couldn’t do anything about it, but he tried. They wrestled around, and Rita screamed, and then something clicked and when Steve got up, there were cuffs on Eddie.

“Get tough with me,” grunted Steve. “I’ll show you....”

There was a banging on the door and Rita opened it. Three men barged in, and Steve said, “Hello, boys. What gives?”

The other three plainclothesmen looked at him and said that was just exactly what they wanted to know.

“This is Eddie Gregor,” Steve explained. “He’s the guy I saw bump off that messenger a couple months hack.”

Detective-Sergeant Wallen said yes, he guessed it was — and all the time Eddie was trembling and Rita was standing there tense and rigid.

Wallen said, “You sure this is the guy, Steve?”

“Positive. I saw him do the shooting and run away. I been laying for him.” He even smiled a little. “Why don’t you search him?”

They searched him. Wallen himself found the gun. He held it in the palm of his hand and showed it to the others.

“That’ll be the clincher,” exulted Steve Mason. “I’m betting that’s the gun that killed the messenger.”

Wallen nodded. “I think you got something there, Steve.” He shook his head slowly. “There’s only one hitch. We got this gun off Eddie, but it don’t belong there.”

“How about talking some sense,” suggested Steve.

“All right. Try to answer this one. Me and the boys brought Eddie right to this door. We frisked him. He didn’t have any gun on him. Now we find one. What does that mean to you?”

Steve Mason felt cold inside. He said, in a voice that was not too assured, “What is this: a gag?”

“No-o. I wouldn’t call it that. But since we’re all sure that a test will prove that this gun killed the messenger, we got to ask where it came from. Eddie didn’t have it when he came in here and—”

Rita said, “That’s why Mason slugged Eddie and jumped him. He planted the gun when they were wrestling around on the floor.”

“Nice figuring,” said Detective-Sergeant Wallen. “In fact, you’ve played a neat game all ’round, Rita. We know that Steve saw the shooting because he said he did. That plants him at the scene. Now we’ve tied him up with the gun — and cleared Eddie at the same time... And you and Eddie — you’ve got a neat slice of coin coming.”

They took the cuffs off Eddie and he put his arms around Rita. Sergeant Wallen said: “Look, Rita — you played’ it straight across the board and you won. But what made you so sure Steve Mason would try to plant the gun on Eddie?”

Her eyes flicked to Steve Mason. “He just the same as told me so,” she explained, “when he wanted to bet that Eddie would have the gun with him. I’ve had a tough time, Sergeant, but right along I’ve managed to think straight when it concerned Eddie. The trouble with Steve is that he knows a lot of things... but he’s awful dumb about a woman in love.”