Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

40 Detectives Later by Henry Slesar

“Hold it!” I levelled the .32. “Don’t draw!” He didn’t listen to me. He had the revolver out.

I wasn’t flattered when Munro Dean walked into my office. I’d been hearing about Dean since ’49, when I was still a hotel dick for the Statler chain. He’d taken his case to every private investigator east of Chicago. Half of them had turned him down. The others had strung him along for a few days of expense money, and then sent him off with a shrug and a promise to “keep the file active.”

I kept him waiting outside for a couple of minutes, while I worried a hangnail on my thumb. Then I invited him in.

He walked like it was a struggle, and there wasn’t enough flesh on his frame to excite a starving buzzard. The skin was molded to his face so that you had a pretty good idea of what kind of a skull his head would make. It wasn’t easy to look Munro Dean in the eyes.

“Have a seat,” I said, with professional briskness. “Seems to me I’ve heard your name before, Mr. Dean.”

“Probably,” he answered. “Were you ever with the police, Mr. Tyree?”

“Not exactly. But I’ve got a lot of friends on the force. It was something about your wife, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It happened in 1948, October. In Rahway, New Jersey. A man — killed her. A slim, dark man, with bushy black hair. I came home from work and saw him running out the back door. The police never caught him.”

“I see. And you’re still interested in finding this man.”

He laughed abruptly, but without a change of expression. “Interested? Yes, I’m interested. I’ve been looking for him since it happened. You know that, Mr. Tyree. All you — people know that.”

“Mm.” I drew up a pad and poised a pencil over it. “Well, suppose we go into some detail. Have the police—”

“They’ve closed their books on the case. But I haven’t, Mr. Tyree. I’ve never given up. I’ve had at least forty private detectives looking for him. None have helped. Some of them — his face clouded — have taken advantage of me.”

It was time to clear things up.

“Look, Mr. Dean. Guys like me are in the business for money. Only some of us take the long view. Some of us figure that a real unhappy client is a bad advertisement. If I don’t think I can help you, I’ll hand you your hat.”

I was talking too loud, and I knew it. But Munro Dean was like some gaunt symbol of failure, a patsy for the Fates. You either rubbed your hands gleefully and picked his pocket, or you got sore and shouted at him.

“You can help me,” he said finally.

“What makes you so sure? Nobody else could.”

“But you can. Because I’ve found the man.”

I dropped the pencil. “Well. So what can I do now, Mr. Dean? Why not call in the police?”

“Because they’d pay no attention. Too much time has passed. They’ve lost interest.”

“Nuts.”

“It’s true. I can’t really prove this is the man. For one thing, he’s changed. He’s lost his hair. He’s fatter. He’s older. But he’s the man.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I am.” His eyes, two burned-out lumps of coal, suddenly glowed. “That face is engraved, here.” He tapped his forehead. “It’s funny, you know that? All those experts, all those years. Nobody could find him. And just by chance, I see him at a lunch counter—”

“It happens,” I said curtly. “Don’t forget, Mr. Dean, your description wasn’t much help. Maybe you’re the only one who could have spotted this man.”

“Perhaps. But now I need help, Mr. Tyree.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to act as go-between for this man and myself. I want you to arrange a little meeting.”

“What for?”

“What do you suppose?”

I stood up. “Look, pal. The last time I set up a target was at Fort Dix. I’m not interested in that kind of work.”

“Please. I just want to talk to this man. I want to make sure.”

“It could be dangerous, you know. If he is your wife’s killer, and if he knows you are—”

“That’s where you can help. Arrange the meeting, but don’t let him find out my name.”

I took my seat again and sighed. It was an offbeat assignment, but the only one that had crossed my battered desk in two weeks. Beggars don’t get many choices, and the rent on my cubicle of a LaSalle Street office was looming like the National Debt.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s have the story.”

The lunch counter wasn’t what I’d expected. I cruised by it in a cab around eleven-thirty the next day, looking for the kind of a grease-pit you’d expect to find on the corner of a city street. But this was a new-style hash joint, with concealed lighting and Muzak and waitresses with black-chiffon blouses.

I strolled in around five of noon and slipped into a booth. According to Munro Dean, my pigeon fed himself regularly at twelve-fifteen in this modernistic eatery. That gave me a chance to get well into a meal by the time he arrived.

The food wasn’t any great improvement on Joe’s Place. I chewed on the leathery fringe of a fried egg, and kept my eyes on the doorway.

At twelve-fifteen, a burly gent with a pink scalp and red face sauntered in, holding a tabloid under his arm. His complexion looked like a bad case of soil erosion, and his beady eyes were shrewd and old. This was my boy.

I watched him hunt up a seat at the counter, and tried to place him in my mental rogue’s gallery. Nothing clicked.

He spread his bulk on a stool, clipped out an order to the hard blonde in the black blouse, and fanned out the newspaper. All through his meal, he never took his eyes from the page. I thought of taking the direct approach, but decided that he was too suspicious a type. Instead, I waited until he was through and followed him outside.

We took a bus together, the pigeon and I. Throughout the ride I kept thinking up approaches and rejecting them just as fast. This was no easy trick, cozying up to a knowing character like this one. I had to play it by ear, until the method of operation made itself plain.

The bus swung into Michigan Boulevard, and the guy started for the doors. I didn’t take any chances; he looked like he’d been tailed before. I got off one stop before he did, and followed the bus on foot until he hopped off.

When I saw his destination, the method I needed was clear. It was one of those glass-fronted record shops — not a fancy LP joint, but a dusty storehouse piled high with ancient 78’s. My pigeon had hidden depths. He was a record collector, and this was one language I knew.

I waited a few minutes before entering the shop. Then I browsed around a stack of discs until I found something interesting.

“Pardon me,” I said as I walked up to him. “Can you tell me the price of this?”

“Huh? Oh, you got me wrong, Mac. I’m a customer myself.”

I laughed. “Sorry,” I said, and started to turn away. Then I performed a double-take and oggled the record in his hand. “Hey — old Whiteman band, huh? Think Bix is on it?”

“I dunno.” He looked at me curiously. “I was wonderin’ the same thing.”

“Had some good luck with Bix lately,” I said. “Found some of his old Goldkette stuff in a store on State Street. Found an old Fletcher Henderson on Vocalion, too—”

“Yeah? No kidding?”

I had him hooked. His mouth became unhinged, giving me a lovely view of a lot of bad teeth. And there was interest on his face. “You must use radar, pal,” he said. “I get nothin’ but the junk.”

“Just a matter of luck,” I said smugly. Then I frowned, unhappily. “Trouble is, I gotta dump my collection. I’m leaving town the end of the month, and I’ll be on the road a lot. Can’t lug all those records with me. Think a joint like this would give me any kind of a price?”

His eyes bugged. “Hell,” he said. “They’d only give you peanuts, Mac. You ought to sell to a private collector.”

“Sounds great. Only who?”

A smile spread across his ugly map, and I had that numb, contented feeling you get when you know a problem is solved.

In another ten minutes, we were splitting a bottle of beer in the tavern across the street and talking labels. He was calling me Bill and I was calling him Otto. By the time we broke up, we had an appointment all set up in the Hotel Bayshore for eight-thirty that night. Only Otto was in for a different kind of serenade from the one he expected...

Back at the office, I put in a call to the Bayshore and spoke to Munro Dean. I told him the good news, but he cut me short, asking me to drop over. I growled about it, but remembered who was paying the bills.

I found him in shirtsleeves in Room 305, keeping company with a bottle of bourbon.

“It’s all set, huh?” he said, squeezing his hands around the glass. “He’s coming, right?”

“He’s coming. To look at some records.” I explained the details of the ruse, but Dean didn’t seem interested. He kept staring into the glass, his lips white.

“It’s been so long,” he whispered. “So many years...”

“And so many dollars,” I said. “This search of yours hasn’t been cheap, Mr. Dean.”

“No,” he answered hollowly. “It’s cost thousands. Hiring all those men...”

I headed for the door. “Well, if you need anything else—”

“I do!”

“What?”

He put his glass on the floor and went to the red-leather suitcase on the bed. He fumbled at the straps, and his hands were shaking as he snapped open the locks. But they were steady when they came out with the V-shaped parcel in brown paper. Even before he got the wraps all the way off, I knew it was a .32 automatic.

“Good idea,” I said approvingly. “You’ll need the protection, Mr. Dean.”

“No.” He came towards me. “This is for you.”

“What?”

“Take it. I... I don’t know anything about guns. They frighten me.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

He looked at the floor. “I want you to do it for me. I thought I could do it myself, but I can’t. After all these years — I can’t.”

He shoved the weapon at me, but I wouldn’t touch it.

“Look, Mr. Dean,” I said. “You better let the cops handle our friend Otto. If you can prove he’s your wife’s murderer—”

“Don’t lecture me!” he said hoarsely. “I’m offering you a deal. This man killed the most important thing in my life. I’ll give you three thousand dollars to avenge me!”

That stopped me cold. “Three grand?”

“Yes! And there won’t be any risk. Not when the story comes out. It’ll be self-defense. After all, I hired you to protect me. And when this man threatens my life... Don’t you see!”

“Yeah. I see all right. Only I can’t buy it, Mr. Dean. Not even at your price.”

He snatched the gun back angrily. “All right! If that’s the way you want it.”

“And I’d think twice about doing it yourself, Mr. Dean. The law’s pretty definite about murder — no matter what the reason.”

He took a wallet from the jacket draped over a chair and slowly counted out my fee.

“Here you are, Mr. Tyree. Thank you.”

I opened the door. “You sure that’s all?”

“Positive.” I closed the door.

I got back to the office around five-thirty and typed out a report on the case, leaving out my speculations about what might happen in Room 305 at the Bayshore that night. I figured that part was none of my business.

I dropped the folder into the file and frowned at the skimpy number of reports in the cabinet. I wasn’t getting rich at this business, and I began to wonder if hotel sleuthing wasn’t such a bad dodge after all.

I dropped into the chair behind my desk and chewed thoughtfully on the hangnail. Behind me, the sun was making a last splash, and the blood-red color reflected in my window started me thinking about Dean and his long hunt for the killer of his wife. I supposed that I should feel sorry for Dean. But for some reason, I was feeling sympathy for the heavy-set bald guy named Otto who would be knocking on the door of Dean’s hotel room in a couple of hours. It had been a crummy way to earn my rent money, setting him up for ambush. No matter how good the cause, I felt like some kind of pimp.

Around seven o’clock, I dropped into the chop-house down the street. Nothing on the menu stirred my appetite, so I ordered a couple of coffees and sipped them in silence for an hour.

Then I went for a walk. I didn’t think about my destination, until I got within viewing distance of the cheap neon sign that said HOTEL BAYSHORE, TRANSIENTS.

I set up a minor stake-out across the street, suddenly hoping that the pigeon wouldn’t show.

But he did. At twenty-five past eight, the burly gent with the fondness for old jazz records came striding down the street. He headed straight for the hotel doorway.

I smoked another cigarette while I tried to make up my mind. Then I dropped the butt to the street, stomped on it and headed for the Bayshore.

I took the elevator to the third floor, strolled down the empty hallway to Room 305. It was awfully quiet behind the door. I put my ear to it, listening for sounds.

For another minute — nothing.

Then — bam!

Without thinking, I hit that door like a fullback. It crashed open, and somebody yelled. At the same time, a lamp spun crazily off an end table, the shade rolling at my feet, the naked bulb setting up a glare in the small room that fell revealingly on the frightened face of Munro Dean.

He was crouching against the wall, still in shirtsleeves, with the .32 in his white-knuckled hand. He was blubbering, and his eyes were on the burly man on the carpet. Otto wasn’t dead, but he was flopping like a fish, and muttering a hoarse monologue of foul words. His hand was trying to get inside his jacket, and there wasn’t any doubt about what he was after.

Munro’s arm straightened out again, and I yelled at him not to shoot. He wasn’t listening, so I made a flying leap over the wounded man and batted the gun out of Munro’s hand. That broke him up; he slipped down against the wall and covered his face with both hands. I got the gun in time to cover the man on the floor.

“Outa the way!” he shrieked, his revolver half out of his jacket. “I’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch—”

“Hold it!” I leveled the .32. “Don’t draw!”

He didn’t listen to me. He had the revolver out. Behind me, Dean was making noises like a sick calf.

“You’re not hurt bad, pal,” I said to Otto. “Looks like a leg wound. Don’t make things any worse.”

“Get outa the way!”

Instinct told me to shoot now and avoid trouble, but I couldn’t do it. The next thing I knew, Dean was on my back, clutching me like a log in a rough sea, blubbering at me to protect him. The revolver barked, and chewed out a splinter in the wall behind us. Dean grabbed for the .32 in my hand, yelling for me to fire. I tried to shake him off, but he was obsessed. In the struggle, he got spun around and Otto’s next bullet caught him. I didn’t mean to set Dean up that way, but I caught a look in his eyes, when he went to the floor, that was accusing.

I had no choice now. I squeezed the trigger and saw blood spurt from the burly gent’s wounded hand. He moaned as the gun dropped from his hand, then he fell forward on the carpet his face contorted with pain.

I looked at Dean. The bullet had caught him in the abdomen, and there was no doubt that he was through. I went over to Otto.

“Can you talk?” I asked him.

He nodded his head.

“You know this guy?” I said. “You recognize him?”

“Yeah. Rahway, 1948...”

“You killed his wife, didn’t you?”

He strained to look at me. “Who the hell are you?”

“Nobody,” I said. “Just a hired hand.”

The burly guy chuckled, even though he was bleeding.

“What’s so funny?” I said.

“Him,” Otto said. “Always keepin’ his hands clean. Always hirin’ somebody to do the work...” He grimaced with pain.

“What are you talking about?”

“He hired me to do it. Hired me to kill his wife. Then he hired guys all over the country to find me, knock me off, so I’d never talk.”

I stared down at the burly man. Finally, I looked over at Munro Dean. There was still a flicker of life in him, and he was holding the wound with both hands. He was staring at his hands watching the blood spilling between his fingers. His hands weren’t so clean now.