Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

Stiff Competition by Frank Sisk

It’s common knowledge among entrepreneurs that one hand washes the other. Some enterprising business men even join hands, merge, to better serve their customers.

A man wearing an old tweed cap and a sleeveless cardigan slowly ascended the six stone steps that led from the basement apartment of the brownstone house. Under the streetlight he stopped a moment to examine what he held in his hands. He shook his head and blinked his eyes as if trying to dispel the effects of alcohol. His right hand held a crumpled five-dollar bill; his left, a car key. He stuffed the bill into the pocket of his denim pants and, mumbling to himself, walked none too steadily toward a green Volkswagen parked at the curb.

Harral Street was muffled in that twilight quietness which often follows a hot day in the city. Through open windows floated the faint jangle of radio music intermixing with dramatic inflections of television dialogue. From the nearest corner, where Harral joined Columbus Avenue, came the hum of traffic and occasionally the strident sound of a horn.

The man in the cardigan opened the door on the curb side of the Volkswagen without using the key and then slid clumsily over to the driver’s seat. It took him nearly a minute to find the ignition lock and insert the key. It took him another minute to find the light switch. All the while he muttered to himself.

When he finally got the headlights on and the motor going he noticed randomly, with his foot lifting to the clutch, that the car door toward the curb was still open. A weary hiss of disgust escaped his lips and he started to lean across the seat. His outreaching hand was still two feet from the handle when a report like the crack of a bullwhip snapped at the quiet night.

At the same instant a spasm seemed to seize the reaching man’s body, twisting it backward and sidewise. A gasp popped softly from between his lips and his right hand at last encountered the handle of the open door, clutching it convulsively. For several seconds he remained in this half-reclining position, his bloodshot eyes wide open in dumb contemplation.

A buxom woman appeared hesitantly part way up the basement steps of the brownstone.

The man in the Volkswagen didn’t see her but now he was trying to speak or shout. All he managed was a dry whisper.

“...a backfire or somepin,” the buxom woman was saying to somebody invisible behind and below her. “Hey, but that’s kind of funny. The wagon’s still here and...”

The man in the car, using the door as a crutch, was getting out. It required a great effort to pull himself erect. The tweed cap sat askew on his bony head and beads of sweat were forming on his pale brow. The left side of the gray cardigan, near the waist, was stained a mottled brown.

The woman on the basement steps saw him. She grasped the front of the wraparound dress she was wearing and started up, saying to somebody still invisible, “Why, the bum hasn’t even left yet. In his condition he couldn’t drive a baby carriage.”

The man, appearing to concentrate on nothing but himself, released the car door and staggered three steps forward before going down on both knees. Then, his breathing a low whistle, he began to creep laboriously along the sidewalk, eyes closed.

“Jeez!” said the woman, a bit surprised.

Captain Thomas McFate had dined alone and poorly that night in a restaurant which had recently changed management for the worse. The breaded veal cutlet was lodged so solidly at midriff that he decided to shake it down with a brisk walk. When he arrived at a pharmacy at the corner of Columbus Avenue and Harral Street, however, he considered the advisability of seeking direct aid in the form of these explosive stomachics regularly advertised on television.

Just as he was about to enter the pharmacy, a familiar siren arrested his attention. A police cruiser took the corner leaning to one side and burning up rubber.

McFate stepped to the corner of the building as another different-sounding siren wailed down Columbus Avenue. He spotted the revolving domelight first amidst the slow divergence of traffic, then the white ambulance nosed free and took the turn at Harral Street with cushioned grace.

McFate’s eyes followed it down the block. The locus of trouble was obviously under a streetlight where a small foreign car was parked. A dozen people moved there in silhouette. McFate, forgetting the veal cutlet, started in that direction.

Lieutenant Bergeron was first to notice him. “You sure got the message fast, Skipper.”

McFate said, “I didn’t get any message. Just out for a walk. What happened?”

“Some wino’s been shot.”

“Dead?”

“No, not yet.”

“Who shot him?”

“Well, sir, we just got here. We haven’t begun to question anybody.”

“Let’s start,” said McFate. “With the ambulance doctor.”

When McFate addressed him the young police surgeon looked up from where he was squatting beside a man prone on the pavement and said, “Hello, Captain. The bullet seems to have just missed the descending colon.”

“Meaning what?”

“He’ll live.”

“Who is he, Doc?”

“I haven’t had time to check out his wallet, Captain,” the young surgeon said derisively. “If he has one.”

“His name’s Tippy Welinski,” said a buxom woman wearing a gingham dress of the wraparound style. “I thought he was drunk, so help me.”

“He’s not sober,” said the surgeon. “Let’s get him on a stretcher, boys.”

McFate turned his attention to the woman. “And just who are you, ma’am?”

“Alma Barth. The landlady here. I own this house.” She swept an arm in the direction of the brown-stone behind her.

“You’ve had a few drinks yourself, haven’t you, Alma?”

“Mrs. Barth to you, flatfoot,” the woman replied, indignant.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Barth. Let’s begin again. I’m Captain McFate of the Homicide Division.”

“My taxes pay your wages,” said Mrs. Barth.

“I’m trying to earn my wages, ma’am. By asking a couple of questions. You and Tippy Welinski had been drinking together, is that it?”

Mrs. Barth fluffed her red-tinted hair with red-nailed fingers. “I was drinking with Martin Mulcahy if that’s what you wanna know. The newspaper man. Martin Mulcahy, you’ve no doubt heard of him. Works for the Evening Express.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said McFate patiently.

“Well, Martin’s one of my tenants,” said Mrs. Barth. “Lives in the basement apartment. Known him for years and years and always a gentleman. But on a Saturday night like tonight we often take a little drink together. Tippy Welinski was there tonight, for some reason or other, but it’s the first time I ever laid eyes on him. A bum is all. A towel boy at a Turkish bath, Martin called him. Hell, Captain, I was drinking with Martin Mulcahy of the Evening Express, not with Welinski. That’s his little car there.” She pointed to the Volkswagen. “Ain’t it the cutest?”

“Whose car?”

“Martin’s.”

“And where’s Martin at the moment, ma’am?”

“Yeah, how about that? Where’s Martin at the moment? Now that y’ask, I don’t know. When he came out and saw Tippy flat on his face on the sidewalk, he took off like a bat outa hell.”

“You mean he ran away?”

“Well, walked would be more like it. Martin ain’t a kid no more. And he was a little loaded himself.”

“Which way did he go?”

“Toward Blandish Avenue. No liquor stores up there either.”

“No liquor stores?”

“Well, that’s what our next move was supposed to be,” said Mrs. Barth as if the logic were self-evident. “To get another bottle of rye. That’s what Tippy was supposed to be doing when he got shot. Martin gave him the dough and the car keys.”

McFate’s hard face remained expressionless as ever but a note of interest crept into his voice. “Was Welinski in that car when he was shot?”

“I guess so. I saw him getting out of it just before he fell down. So help me, I thought he was drunk.”

“You say you were in Mulcahy’s apartment?”

“No harm in that, is there?”

“Stow your moral dignity for a minute, Mrs. Barth, and tell me why you left the apartment and came out to the street.”

“I heard what I thought was a backfire. The windows were open and the door. And I wanted a breath of fresh air anyway. The men were smoking a lot.”

“And you came out for the air and saw Welinski getting out of the car?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re sure he wasn’t trying to get in?”

“Of course I’m sure. When I first come up the steps I thought the car was empty. The door was open but I couldn’t see anyone inside. Then Welinski must’ve sat up or somepin because all of a sudden he’s coming out and falling down.”

McFate called to Bergeron who was standing near the Volkswagen.

“Aye, Skipper?”

“Check that buggy for evidence of where a bullet might have entered. Windshield, windows. Was the right door open when you arrived?”

“It was. But he was shot in the left side, Skipper.” Bergeron began to circle the car with a flashlight in hand. “All glass intact. Both windows are rolled down about three quarters. No holes in the body that I can see.” He opened the left door and shone the light inside. A few seconds later he gave a whistle of surprise.

McFate came over.

“Take a look at that, Skipper. Ingenious rig if I ever hope to see one.”

McFate, sighting along the flashlight beam, saw a 32-caliber revolver taped neatly to the underside of the steering column. Its muzzle was so pointed that it would cover the driver’s lower rib cage exactly where it counted. Fastened to the trigger was a black cord, probably nylon, which ran like a rein through three guides made of paper clips and fastened by tape at equal intervals along the steering column. The end of the cord, neatly tied to the black clutch pedal, was practically invisible, even in the beam of the flashlight.

“Be damned,” said McFate to himself.

“A quick way to kill yourself,” said Bergeron. “Just step on the clutch and bang.”

“Yeah,” said McFate. “Welinski was lucky to be somewhat off range when the gun went off. Otherwise he’d have got it good. Must have been reaching for something to the right.”

“The open door,” said Bergeron. “Trying to close it.”

“That’s it,” said McFate. “We better get the fingerprint men down here immediately.” He left Bergeron and sauntered back to Mrs. Barth with a question. “Got any idea how long ago Mulcahy parked his car there, ma’am?”

“You ain’t gonna give him a ticket, are you?”

“I don’t think so,” said McFate grimly.

“Well, okay then. Since about two o’clock this morning.”

“You mean it’s been parked at this spot for approximately nineteen hours?”

“I’d swear to it.”

McFate almost smiled. “He must know the cop on the beat.”

“He does and don’t doubt it,” said Mrs. Barth proudly.

Sunday morning arrived hot and humid. McFate, after a few hours of dyspeptic sleep, was making breakfast at his desk of bromo seltzer chased by black coffee.

Tippy Welinski was still alive, according to the hospital report, although he had lost a lot of blood and booze. Martin Mulcahy was still missing from his usual haunts. The fingerprint boys found nothing in the car except a few smears on the steering wheel, the dash board and the exterior and interior right door handles, all of which probably could be attributed to Welinski. But—

And it was a fine big “but” at that: the revolver had been loaded with two bullets — the one which was fired and a second in the chamber next to it as insurance against a dud. And a partial thumb and forefinger print had been found on this second one.

McFate looked questioningly at Lieutenant Bergeron, who was detailing all this information.

“We’re doublechecking with the F.B.I., Skipper, but our boys are sure the prints belong to a guy named Arthur Iacobucci.”

McFate’s eyebrows arched just perceptibly.

“He’s before my time,” Bergeron continued, “but maybe you remember him?”

“I remember him,” said McFate. “He’s been missing and presumed dead for the last eight years.”

“That’s what our I. D. boys said. A stoolie, wasn’t he?”

“In a way.”

“Testified in a murder trial against his own brother, they tell me.”

“That’s about it,” said McFate. “Did they tell you who the brother killed?”

“No.”

“Well, Fred Iacobucci killed Arthur’s wife. What the papers call a love triangle, with Fred getting the short side and not liking it. Anyway, he happened to strangle the girl in front of her husband and it kind of took the brotherly love out of the picture.”

“Lousy.”

“It got lousier. Fred was pretty high up in the Combination and word went out to rub Arthur. One day about eight years ago he walked into the Oriental Bathing Parlors and hasn’t been seen since. Until now I figured he was dead and down under.”

“What happened to his brother Fred?”

“The hot seat.”

“Oh, and another thing before I forget it. Martin Mulcahy phoned in yesterday afternoon.”

“Who forgot it up to now?”

“Well, the duty sergeant didn’t take the call seriously until he read his Sunday paper an hour ago. Then he remembered that Mulcahy called the desk about three yesterday and wanted to talk with you about a personal matter. You were at a meeting with the Super at the time and besides Mulcahy sounded drunk. So the desk sergeant — Jack Gillis if you want to know his name — said he’d have you call back. But Mulcahy wouldn’t leave a number. Said he’d be in touch with you later.”

“A towel boy at a Turkish bath,” said McFate musingly.

“What’s that again, Skipper?”

“That’s the way Mulcahy described Tippy Welinski. According to Alma Barth. A towel boy at a Turkish bath. Just to satisfy my curiosity, Bergeron, find out whether Welinski is employed by the Oriental Bathing Parlors.”

“You think he might be this missing—?”

“Hell no. I’ve known Welinski from a distance for a dozen years. He’s a third-rate boxer you could flatten with a feather. But it would be interesting if he happened to work at the Oriental. No more than interesting maybe.”

“I see what you mean.”

“Also get me a mug shot with full description of the not so late Arthur Iacobucci.”

“Will do, Skipper,” said Bergeron, leaving the cluttered office.

Wondering whether he really disapproved of the terminological hangover from Bergeron’s days in the Marine Corps, McFate lifted a flap-eared telephone directory from the file drawer in his desk and looked up Alma Barth’s number. When he found it he used his private phone.

The landlady, sounding much sobered, answered immediately.

“The Barth residence, Mrs. Alma Sturges Barth speaking.”

“You must have been waiting for my call,” said McFate.

The gracious voice grew grim. “And just who might you be, weisenheimer?”

“Right back in character, quick as a wink. Well, Mrs. Barth, this is Captain McFate again. You may recall having a chat with me last night.”

The landlady made an effort to return to graciousness. “I sure do, Captain. I guess I was kind of rude. If so, don’t blame me. Blame the situation.”

“I’ll do that. Have you heard from Mulcahy yet?”

“Not a peep, sir. I been sitting here expecting a call any minute.”

“What makes you expect a call?”

“Well, it ain’t — isn’t — like Martin to run off without a word. As soon as the booze wears off he always comes back or at least gives me a buzz.”

“Where does he generally go to wear the booze off?”

“He likes a good snooze in a Turkish bath.”

“Did he ever favor the Oriental Bathing Parlors?”

“Not that I know of. He was always promising to take me along on Ladies Day, but we ain’t made it yet.”

Making a note to have every Turkish (and Finnish) bath in the city checked out, McFate said, “Well, as soon as you hear from him, ma’am, call here. His life is in danger, and I’m not just talking.”

On the way to the Municipal Emergency Hospital, McFate had an idea. The Sunday emptiness of the streets gave it to him. He pulled the unmarked cruiser to an outdoor phone booth near a closed gas station and dialed the number of A. B. C. Damroth, executive director of the Tillary Foundation, honorary doctor of science and septuagenarian widower, who answered the ring himself.

“Has your cook anything special planned for lunch, Doc?” asked McFate.

“Why, good morning, Captain,” said Damroth with delight. “So nice to hear from you. I regret to say that Mrs. Simco is off on a holiday.”

“You plan to eat out then?”

“Well, what I actually planned to do was to ring your apartment and suggest that we join forces at my Club. They feature an excellent crabmeat mornay on Sunday. But after reading the newspaper, I must assume you are busy on the self-actuated shooting which took place last night in the West End.”

“You get up early, don’t you?”

“Habit, Captain.”

“Since you’re up then maybe you’ll do me a favor.”

Damroth said with his innate courtesy, “You need but ask, my dear friend.”

“Well, Doc, a little later I want to have free access to the desk of Martin Mulcahy in the city room of the Evening Express. He’s the paper’s obituary editor.”

“Who nearly made his own page last night, I gather. Yes, that can be arranged. I’ll call the editor immediately.”

“Would you like to come along, Doc?” The question was a teaser.

“I insist upon it, Captain.”

“Then I’ll pick you up.”

They had Tippy Welinski in Ward D with the terminal cases. Sitting in an undertaker’s chair in the corridor, McFate studied the police photograph of Arthur Iacobucci and the terse descriptive paragraph under it. The hair was black and bushy; eyebrows the same; eyes large and limpid brown; nose large and Roman; mouth small and rather pouty; chin somewhat receding with a faint cleft; ears—

It was the thing about the left ear which fascinated McFate now as it had fascinated him eight years ago. Behind the lobe, tattooed in tiny blue letters, was the word Due — meaning Two in Italian.

Fred Iacobucci’s left ear lobe had borne the word Uno. Papa Iacobucci, long dead in another country, had numbered his sons as well as named them.

The floor nurse materialized in front of McFate. “Doctor Wallace says you may see Welinski for ten minutes.”

Getting to his feet and rolling the police flyer into a tube, McFate asked, “Is Tippy considered terminal?”

“He’ll live,” the nurse said. “Bed five.”

McFate found the bed fast enough but hardly recognized the occupant. The sunken face wan against the bony structure of the head was not made easier to identify by the white plastic hose running from the nose. It also occurred to McFate that the last time he had seen Welinski lying down was in a prize ring.

“I know you can’t talk with that tube down your throat, Tippy,” McFate said, remaining at the foot of the bed. “But the doctors say you can see and think. Now I want to ask you a few questions and all you have to do is to move your head to the side if the answer is no and forward if the answer is yes. To start with, you know who I am, don’t you, Tippy?”

The time-worn head on the pillow moved slightly in acknowledgment.

“You work at the Oriental Bathing Parlors, don’t you?”

Again the acquiescing movement.

“You’ve worked there, off and on, for five years. Right?”

Affirmative.

McFate unrolled the police flyer and walked to the side of the bed. With his thumb over Iacobucci’s name, which he was sure Welinski would never associate with the pronunciation, he asked, “Ever see this guy around?”

The diluted blue eyes said nothing. After several seconds the head turned negatively.

“This shot was taken more than eight years ago, Tippy. The guy may be gray now or bald.”

Welinski continued to look dull.

“Never saw him around the Oriental?”

Negative.

“Ever hear the name Yakaboochee?” He bore down on the phonetics.

The blue eyes in the tired sockets glimmered faintly.

“Arthur Yakaboochee. Five foot six, a little on the stocky side. Ever hear of him or see him, Tippy?”

The eyes seemed on the verge of saying something.

McFate leaned in, “You have heard the name?”

Yes.

“Recently?”

Yes.

“Yesterday?”

Yes.

“From Martin Mulcahy?”

Yes.

McFate tapped the flyer with his forefinger. “This is a picture of Arthur Yakaboochee. You sure you don’t recognize him?”

Welinski took another look and then shook out a slow No.

As McFate drove along the deserted streets the police radio talked to him. The survey of Turkish and Finnish baths was completed. It had not uncovered Martin Mulcahy, although it had confirmed the fact that he was a frequent patron of such establishments.

“Particularly the Oriental,” added Bergeron. “Oh, and the investigating officer reported a kind of funny occurrence there.”

“Funny like how?”

“Well, let’s see if I can make out this handwriting, Skipper. Oh yeah. The manager there was telling the officer that Mulcahy had been in the night before last when another guy came up and contradicted him. Said the manager had Mulcahy mixed up with somebody else. That Mulcahy hadn’t been around in weeks. And right away the manager changed his story.”

“That is funny,” said McFate. “Does the investigating officer give any names?”

“Sure. The manager’s name is Whipple and the other guy’s name is Jackson, described as assistant manager.”

“Some assistant.”

“Aye, sir. Well, where do we go next?”

“Cover all the public parks and gardens. It’s nice weather. Men like Mulcahy often sleep it off outdoors.”

Damroth’s protracted figure, draped in a white linen suit and made to appear even longer by a high-crowned Panama hat, lolled against a bamboo cane on the wide sidewalk outside the Camelot Arms.

“Impatient?” asked McFate.

“Not at all,” said Damroth, folding his frame into the front seat. “Enjoying the air. A pleasure one appreciates as one grows older.”

“How would some hot humid air suit you?”

“Not a bit. But where do we go for it, Captain?”

“To a Turkish bath.”

“Intriguing though unseasonable. I thought you were determined to ransack the Evening Express.”

“It’s on the agenda,” said McFate. “But first let me fill you in.”

Damroth lit a cigarillo and listened. When the summary was finished he said, “You seem to think that Mulcahy has discovered something that jeopardizes his life. Is that it?”

“To put it mildly.”

“But the only thing he appears to have discovered, as far as you know, is that a man named Arthur Iacobucci is alive?”

“Right.”

“And yet it isn’t a crime for Iacobucci to be alive? I mean he’s not wanted by the police for anything, is he?”

“No. Not until today.”

“So presumably Mulcahy would have nothing to gain or Iacobucci nothing to lose if the police were to learn about what may be called a resurrection?”

“Go on, Doc, you’re doing fine.”

“Hence, on that basis at least, Iacobucci would have no reason to kill Mulcahy.”

McFate nodded.

Damroth tapped ash out the window. “But it was not only the police who presumed Arthur Iacobucci to be dead, was it? It was a view also held by what you choose to call the Combination. In fact, the Combination arranged his death as a matter of business. Now if it were brought to their attention that the business transaction had somehow miscarried, Iacobucci would again be marked for death. Am I right?”

“Probably?”

“Is Mulcahy the sort of man who would hold this over Iacobucci’s head for money?”

“Blackmail? No, I don’t think so. Martin Mulcahy’s a rumpot now, but I’d guess he still has the moral concepts of a good reporter. Ten years ago he was the best all-around legman the Evening Express had. Then his wife was killed in an automobile accident and he took to the bottle. Downhill ever since. But the paper never fired him. Just tucked him away in the obituary section. I don’t figure him for blackmail, Doc.”

Damroth pondered over the cigarillo. “If your assessment of Mulcahy is reliable, Captain, it leaves us with a portentous conclusion. Don’t you agree?”

“I won’t know until I hear it, Doc?”

Damroth smiled. “Simply this: more than the fact that Iacobucci is alive. He must have discovered who kept him alive.”

“That’s it,” said McFate, slapping the steering wheel.

“If what I read about criminal organizations is true, the only man who could have kept Iacobucci alive was the man assigned to kill him. Or am I being melodramatic, Captain?”

“Nope.”

“This leads us then to another conclusion. Whoever kept Iacobucci alive must have had a very big reason. Whatever the reason, it gave him the power of life and death over his supposed victim from then on. You see that, don’t you?”

“Clear as glass.”

“Therefore, when Mulcahy hypothetically dug up the corpse he was exposing not only Iacobucci to the Combination but also the man who had hoodwinked it for eight years. And that man obviously ordered Iacobucci to kill Mulcahy.”

“Poor old Tippy Welinski,” said McFate.

“He served a blind purpose, didn’t he?”

“And he’ll never know,” said McFate.

The Oriental Bathing Parlors occupied the entire second floor of a four-story building of red brick. The first floor, split by a tiled lobby, contained a pool hall to the right and a hock shop to the left; and the third and fourth floors, according to the directory beside the self-service elevator, were inhabited by bill collectors, blueprinters, mimeographers, second mortgagors, and a chiropodist. The address was 177 Market Street.

“Quiet as a tomb,” said Damroth, entering the elevator.

“I bet it bustles on weekdays,” said McFate.

The open-cage elevator transported them with an agonizing moan to the second floor. They stepped out into a foyer with red linoleum on the floor and dusty pictures of prize fighters and race horses on the plywood walls. A glass-topped counter stood near the only door, offering an assortment of cigars, cigarettes, chewing gum and playing cards. A long-jawed man, chewing rhythmically, sat behind the counter with the Sunday paper in his lap, but he didn’t seem to be reading it.

He said, still chewing, “How’s tricks?”

“You tell us,” said McFate.

“Bath?”

“No. We’re nice and clean. Are you the manager here?”

“That’s me. Massage maybe?”

“Whipple?”

“Right. Homer Whipple. Or sun lamp? Nice tan in no time.”

“We’re looking for a man named Jackson,” said McFate.

“He’s somewhere around. Can I give him a name?”

“The police.”

“This is our day.” Without breaking his chewing stride, Whipple flicked a switch on a battered intercom on a shelf behind him. “Calling Mistah Jackson on one-two.” Nothing. “Mistah Jackson on one-two, please.” Nothing. “One-two for Mistah Jackson.”

“Maybe he stepped out,” said McFate.

“I didn’t see him.”

“Is this the only exit?”

“Pretty much. Except the fire escape.”

With a nod of invitation to Damroth, McFate went to the only door and opened it. It let on a locker room. Two fat men, attired in florid shorts and gartered socks, were palavering over a pint of whisky. McFate passed them with a cursory look and headed for a pair of swinging doors which proved to be the entrance to a small gym, now unoccupied. To the left was a glazed glass door lettered in black: Massage & Sun Tables. Straight ahead was an open archway with a red arrow pointing downward from the keystone and flanked on either side with the words Steam & Shower.

Damroth remained in the center of the gym while McFate tried the Sun Room first. Then together they went through the archway.

It didn’t take them long to find Jackson. He was squatting fully dressed in one of the shower stalls. The brown eyes gazed stonily from the flaccid gace. The plump hands were hugging something to the chest as if in a childish effort of concealment; they fell away at McFate’s touch to disclose the brown haft of an ice pick.

“No wonder Welinski didn’t recognize him from the mug shot,” said McFate. “White hair, white eyebrows, double chin, fifty pounds heavier.”

“This then is Iacobucci?” asked Damroth.

“I’d say so, but let’s make sure.” McFate turned the squatting corpse’s head a trifle to get a look at the left ear lobe. “Pancake makeup,” he said, holding his right hand out to catch a slow drip from the shower. Then, with thumb and forefinger moist, he rubbed the lobe fastidiously. “Here it comes, Doc. A blue tattoo. D, U, E.”

Fingers tapping the glass-topped counter, McFate fixed the gum-chewing Whipple with a bleak eye. “How long has Iacobucci worked here?”

“That his real name, Cap.?”

“Yeah. Now answer the question.”

“He was here when I came, Cap.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A year thereabouts.”

“Who hired you?”

“Mistah Jackson or whoever.”

“He called himself assistant manager, didn’t he?”

“Yessir.”

“And you’re supposed to be the manager, aren’t you?”

“That’s so.”

“Are you trying to tell me, Whipple, that the assistant manager hires the managers around this plague spot?”

“That’s a fact, Cap.”

“Are you silly enough to think that makes sense?”

“Titles don’t mean nothing here, Cap. A slob wants a massage and he’ll get it from me or Jackson if Tippy ain’t around.”

“And he ain’t around today, is he, Whipple?”

“That’s for sure, Cap.”

“Who really owns this place anyway?”

“A corporation.”

“I bet you don’t even know the name of it.”

“You’d win, Cap.”

“What’s the signature on your paycheck?”

“They pay by cash.”

“Who hands you the cash then?”

“Mistah Jackson does. Or did.”

Damroth, who had been wandering through the far reaches of the establishment, now appeared in the doorway from the gym. McFate greeted the smiling old man with a shoulder shrug.

“No progress, my friend?”

“Circular only. Whipple swears nobody but us has gone in or out that door since that last time he saw Iacobucci walk through it alive. And that was about twenty minutes before we arrived.”

“If true, it narrows the suspects rather severely.”

“Nobody on the premises except the two stout boys in their underpants and the Negro errand boy. And I’m convinced they’re as clean as you can get in a place like this.”

With a glint in his eyes Damroth said, “That leaves us nobody but Mister Whipple.”

The gum got a sudden rest. “Now that ain’t a bit likely, gents. Not one little bit.”

“Why not?” said Damroth. “Maybe you wanted to be assistant manager.”

“Nosirree, Cap. I’m content with my lot. A plain man.”

“Just Plain Homer Whipple,” said McFate wearily. “Well, if nobody has gone through this door since Iacobucci walked through it alive, who do you think shivved him in the shower? The stylish stouts remedying a Sunday hangover?”

“No, they’re regulars.”

“The colored kid then? Asleep like the end of the world on a rub-down table.”

“No, Cap. He’s too lazy to tie up his own shoes.”

“That leaves you, Whipple. Unless there’s another way to get into this trap.”

Whipple scratched his long jaw. “The fire escape maybe.”

“Maybe. We’ll take a look.”

“I’ve already examined the fire escape, Captain,” said Damroth cheerfully.

“I might have known.”

“It’s the spring-ladder type from this floor to the ground, requiring the human body as a counterweight to lower it. A most minute examination of the rust increment at the articulating joints convinces me it hasn’t been raised or lowered in many months.”

“You heard what the Doctor said,” McFate said solemnly.

An hour later, after placing the Oriental Bathing Parlors investigation temporarily in the hands of Lieutenant Bergeron, McFate and Damroth went to the Sunday stillness of the usually booming Evening Express. They were welcomed to the deserted city room by a young man with a crew cut and a tattersall vest incongruously divided at brow level by an eyeshade. His name, he said, was Tony Waterford, federal beat, now doing lobster trick; Mr. Simmons, the editor, had called to say the visitors should be granted all courtesies. This way, gentlemen, to the square cool desk of Martin Mulcahy, which is in the same state of munificent misarrangement as he left it.

McFate coughed slight thanks and extracted the telephone from an open desk drawer overflowing with crumpled copy paper, half-squeezed and topless tubes of glue, pencil stubs and the like.

“Dial nine for outside,” said Tony Waterford, then left.

McFate called his office while Damroth, setting aside his cane and hat, sat down in Mulcahy’s perilous swivel chair and began to stare speculatively at the reams of confusion that literally blotted out the desk blotter.

“...no sign of him in any of the parks yet?” McFate was saying to the phone. “Well, keep looking everywhere. Alleys. Back lots. And another thing, I want you to send a cruiser to the home of Dinny Shannon. Yes, the old guy who does all the clerking for the City Clerk. He’ll be taking a ride to City Hall. He doesn’t know it yet, but I’ll call him now.”

In ten seconds McFate was talking to Shannon. “Dinny, I know you’re dying to get away from the old lady before she puts you to mowing the lawn. Now here’s what I’d like you to do...”

When McFate finally hung up, Damroth said, “I see you believe in the seven-day week, Captain.”

“That’s the number of days it has, Doc. Now what have you found here?”

Damroth applied his pince-nez. “Nothing very tidy.”

“Well, whatever makes Mulcahy a danger to somebody must be here. My men found nothing in his apartment except dirty socks.”

Damroth opened a desk drawer. “I suppose we might start with this.” He set three fat folders on the desk.

Just five minutes later he smacked his dry lips with satisfaction. “Did you know that Mulcahy was a collector of cremation certificates, Captain? Or, rather, photostats of such certificates?”

“News to me. News to him, too, I suppose. After all, he was an obituary editor. And what in hell is a cremation certificate, Doc?”

“Counterpart of a burial certificate. It authorizes a licensed undertaker to cremate a body.”

“I’m listening.”

“Mulcahy has fourteen such photostats in this folder. The first is dated eight years ago and the last just two weeks ago. Each photostat, as you can see, is attached to several newspaper clippings. The clippings in each case are dated within a day or two after the issuance date of the corresponding certificate. Shall I take them in order, Captain?”

McFate sat on the edge of the desk. “Why, yes.”

“The certificate dated eight years ago, October sixth, authorizes the Memorial Mortuary of one eleven Essex Avenue to cremate the remains of David Dunkle. The attached clippings, dated two days later, report that Arthur Iacobucci, key witness in the murder trial of his brother, has been reported missing from his usual haunts. The police are quoted as fearing the man has been kidnapped and probably killed, gangland style. Your predecessor, Captain, told the press that Iacobucci was last seen by a business associate entering the Oriental Bathing Parlors from which he failed to emerge an hour later to keep an important business engagement. The description of Iacobucci is detailed, even to the lobe tattoo on the left ear. Mulcahy has circled this with a red pencil.”

“Be damned,” murmured McFate.

“The remaining thirteen clippings and photostats convey information along the same lines. A certificate is issued, a man vanishes. Shall I read you the most recent?”

McFate nodded grimly. “I suppose it concerns Jackie Whistler, the so-called numbers king.”

“Precisely how he is described in the headline of this clipping twelve days ago. Number Up For Numbers King, Wife Tells Cops. The gist of the story is that Whistler left his home after dinner one night to go bowling with some friends. He never came back. A few days earlier a cremation certificate was issued for the disposal of the remains of Paul B. Taunton.”

“Are you implying Whistler and Taunton arc the same man?”

“Not at all, my friend. In each of these cases I am sure the certificate was issued on a bona fide corpse. Paul B. Taunton died. A doctor so certified. His wife or a relative perhaps requested that the body be cremated. Using the death certificate, Memorial Mortuary applied for—”

“Just a second, Doc. Is Memorial Mortuary the applicant in each of these cases?”

“Exactly. They have their own crematorium on the premises. Quite convenient.”

“Let me see if I follow you, Doc. A body is scheduled for legal cremation by Memorial Mortuary. Shortly thereafter an unwanted man — from the point of view of persons unknown — disappears. We assume he has been murdered but we never find the body because — I don’t believe it, Doc.”

Damroth suddenly smiled. “A wonderful thought has just occurred to me, Captain.”

“You have some beauts.”

“If you were the Numbers King and went bowling with some friends at night, where would you go afterward?”

“Home.”

“No. You are sweaty and a little lame in the legs and shoulders. So are your friends. They suggest an hour in a Turkish bath. Would you go along with the suggestion?”

McFate’s eyes brightened. “To the Oriental?”

“One seventy-seven Market Street,” added Damroth.

McFate smote the desk with the palm of his hand. “Of course, of course, Doc. Market runs parallel to Essex Avenue, back to back. What was that address again?”

“One eleven. And that map on the wall over there seems to show the city in great detail.”

They went to the map and rapidly traced Market Street to the point occupied by the Oriental Bathing Parlors and so indicated by the microscopic numeral “177”. Directly opposite and a half inch away was the numeral “111” on Essex Avenue. The Oriental Bathing Parlors and the Memorial Mortuary practically rubbed spines.

“A pretty setup,” said McFate softly.

“Ideal for the purpose,” said Damroth. “You shed your clothes and all identification in the Oriental, enter a steam room where you are dispatched without interference, and then transported to the Mortuary probably via a catwalk that slides from one of its second-story windows to that fire escape.”

“I guess we can stop looking for Jackie Whistler.”

“If you do find him, Captain, you may have to sort him out.”

“Meaning what?”

“It’s my opinion that the Numbers King is now mingling in an urn with the ashes of Paul B. Taunton.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Convince me, Doc.”

“I’ll try. Have you ever attended a cremation, my friend?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, generally speaking, this is the procedure. Just before the casket is sealed, the family and the official witness leave the chapel or whatever the mourning room may be called and go to the crematorium. A few minutes later the closed casket follows and is popped into the oven. In certain specific instances I believe that casket contained two bodies instead of the one authorized by the cremation certificate.”

“And this is what Mulcahy found out?”

“He seems to have been putting it together. Which proves your good opinion of him. When he was young and sober he must have been an excellent reporter.”

McFate became aware that his name was being called by Tony Waterford. “There’s a call for you, Captain. You can take it on Mulcahy’s desk.”

Dinny Shannon was on the line.

“You got the dope?” McFate asked.

“To be sure,” said Dinny. “The Oriental Bathing Parlors and the building it occupies are owned by a corporation named Marble Monuments. Here’s the list of officers and stockholders.”

McFate scribbled the names on a sheet of yellow paper, then he said, “Don’t go away yet, Dinny. One more thing. I want the same stuff on Memorial Mortuary.”

“Just a minute.” Just a minute elapsed. “You’re a fine boy for coincidences, Tom. Marble Monuments also owns Memorial Mortuary. And one of the stockholders is asterisked here in the records — let’s see — yes, as the managing director of Memorial.”

“What’s his name, Dinny?”

“Ronald Padgett. I’ve seen his name in the funeral news.”

“So have I,” said McFate. “Thanks, Dinny. I’ll go your bail someday.” A moment later he hung up and turned to Damroth. “It’s a Combination deal all right, Doc. This list of officers and stockholders contains the names of some of the shadiest characters in the state. Two of them have been arrested a dozen times but never convicted.”

“I heard you mention the name Ronald Padgett and now I connect it somehow with death notices in the newspapers.”

“It’s the only name on the list not connected in my mind with crime. Until now. He’s the front man for the Big Scum in their undertaking business.”

Tony Waterford called across to them, “Another call, Captain.”

This time it was a desk sergeant at headquarters. “We’ve just found Martin Mulcahy for you, sir.”

“Where the devil was he?”

“Here in the drunk tank under the name of Hiram Johnson. He just woke up and identified himself.”

“How does he look?”

“Like the butt end of a hairy night, Captain.”

“Sober though?”

“Painfully.”

“Give him some of that tired coffee you keep around, with a slug of brandy. You’ll find a bottle in my desk drawer. Then hold on to him. We’ll be right along.”

With Martin Mulcahy valiantly trying to control the shakes in the backseat, McFate drove the unmarked cruiser in the direction of Essex Avenue. Damroth, enjoying his second cigarillo of the day, was verbally exploring the obituary editor’s somewhat muddled recollections.

“You say you got an inkling as to Jackson’s true identity the night you passed out in a steam room?”

“That is correct, Doctor. Do you have another of those little things you’re smoking?”

“Certainly. Here you are.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I was crocked when I went into the place. As usual. The steam got to me and I blanked out. Tippy Welinski found me or I might have died. That’s two I owe the poor bastard. Anyway, he got Jackson or Iacobucci to help lug me out. When I came to, Iacobucci was holding ammonia under my nose and listening for a heart beat.”

“And that’s when you noticed the tattoo on his ear?”

“That is correct, Doctor. The makeup must have come off it in the steam room. D, U, E — it’s the first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes.”

“It rang a bell?”

“Dimly. Very dimly. I was in a daze.”

“How long ago was this, Martin?”

“About two months. But that tattoo kept wriggling around in my thoughts, like a drunken memory, without giving me any clue. Sometimes I thought it was something I’d imagined. Until the night Jackie Whistler disappeared.”

Damroth cast a triumphant look at McFate. “Don’t tell me Whistler was in the Oriental that night?”

“I’m telling you just the same. I saw him and then I didn’t see him. He came in with a couple of other guys just as I was about to leave. I was dressed and dry and thirsty. They went by me in the locker room wearing nothing but towels. I smoked a cigarette and took a drink from a bottle in my locker. The last drink in the bottle. I was still thirsty. Then I remembered seeing Whistler going to the steam rooms. I’m a bum, Doctor.”

“You mean, Martin, that you decided to borrow a few dollars from Whistler?”

“Mooch is the word. Well, I went through the gym to the steam rooms. There are four of them. I looked through the window in each one. They were all empty. Then I looked in the massage room, and nobody was there either, except Tippy and the colored kid. Well, hell, I thought I might have had an hallucination until I read the papers the next afternoon. Whistler was missing.”

“That’s where the chain reaction started?” asked Damroth delightedly.

“More like a slow-motion movie,” said Mulcahy. “It took me a day at least before I remembered somebody else, long ago, was last seen at the Oriental. And it was another day before I remembered that the other missing man was Arthur Iacobucci. I pulled the morgue file and found out about the tattoo on the ear. Holy God, was I scared! I went out and got loaded.”

“How,” asked Damroth, “did you connect the Memorial Mortuary with the Oriental?”

“Half-soused logic, I guess. Next time I was up for a steaming, I concluded that Whistler and his friends couldn’t have gone out the front door voluntarily in the nude. Hence they must have gone out the back door involuntarily. I looked out that door. Nothing but a fire escape and another building within jumping distance. I took a look at the front of that building next morning. Again I got loaded.”

“Understandable,” said Damroth. “After that, though, you did some exceptional research. How far had you progressed before Iacobucci tried to kill you?”

“You said you’d seen my file. That’s about it. Cremation seemed to be a pretty good way of disposing of evidence. I dug into the vital statistics records. There are only about twenty cremations a year in this city. I began to match the dates up with the dates of missing persons. I couldn’t believe what I seemed to be discovering. The clincher could be Jackson. If Jack-son were really Iacobucci — wow! I had a worldwide wire story to make a real reporter of me again.”

“How did Iacobucci get on to you?”

“My own stupidity. Friday night I licked up too much sauce and went to the Oriental to sleep it off. In that state I believe I asked Jack-son if he ever had heard of Arthur Iacobucci.”

“What did he say?”

“I guess he said no. I don’t remember. Next thing I know, I am being driven home in my Volkswagen at two in the morning by Tippy Welinski. Since then conditions have been vague.”

“Here we are,” said McFate, hugging the curb. “Memorial Mortuary. You’re going to have your big story yet, Marty.”

“I could use it, Tom. Want me to come along with you?”

“No, Marty. Sit in the car and take it easy.”

“I’ll bring my cane,” chuckled Damroth, “in case of trouble.”

The elaborately scrolled door was opened by a palefaced young man in a black suit and a gray tie. He tipped slightly in a bow. “Come in, please.” He lisped.

McFate and Damroth entered a heavily carpeted hallway.

“May I be of thervice, thirs?”

“We’d like to see Mr. Padgett,” said McFate.

“Whom shall I thay ith calling?”

“Captain Thomas McFate.”

“Are you a military officer, thir?”

“I’m a cop, sonny. Now get cracking.”

The young man pirouetted and pranced to a room at the far end of the hallway.

“This Padgett must be very brave or very stupid,” said Damroth.

“Why, Doc?”

“Well, obviously he disobeyed the Combination’s orders when he failed to kill Iacobucci eight years ago.”

“Hell,” said McFate, “he’s just a greedy gambler like the rest of them. You’ll see. He had a key spot to fill at the Oriental. He had to fill it with a man he could trust. What better man than a guy whose life he’d spared. And look at the profit. Anyone else in such a critical job would have had to be paid plenty. With a bonus for each kill. Iacobucci would work for peanuts and like it. You’ll see, Doc.”

“I must disagree with you this once, my friend.”

“Tell me why, Doc.”

“The risks were too great to be justified by Padgett for a comparatively merger monetary advantage. From now on his life isn’t worth a plugged nickel.”

“He gambled and he lost, that’s all.”

Just then a sound like a muffled pistol shot came from the rear of the mortuary. A second later the palefaced lisper sprang into the hallway with a squeal and ran toward McFate and Damroth. But they were already moving forward.

“He shot himthelf. Right in the head. Dreadful.”

It was true. Padgett, lying on a purple carpet beside a highly polished black desk, heaved a final rattling breath as the two men entered the room. For nearly a minute they stood silently staring down at the ghastly hole at the left temple and even as they watched, some of the skin in that area appeared to crack and drift away with a streak of blood.

Adjusting his pince-nez, Damroth stooped over. “He’s wearing pancake makeup, Captain.”

“He’s what?”

“Lend me a piece of facial tissue from that box on his desk.”

McFate complied.

Damroth quite daintily turned the dead head to one side and tweaked the ear lobe several times with the tissue. Then on one knee he took a close look.

“Anything?” asked McFate, somewhat tense for him.

Damroth nodded and stood up, “Signor Iacobucci had at least three sons, Captain.”