Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 40, No. 4, April 1977

The Counterfeit Frame by T. A. Meeks

Ex-cop Pete Merrick took up true crime writing to, make a living. Then he discovered his new way of life had suddenly turned into a way of death...

Pete Merrick was standing at his fourth floor walk-up window staring morosely down toward the darkening street when the telephone brred into action. His leg muscles were knotted from a four-hour stint at the type-writer and he stamped the floor to relieve them as he moved toward the instrument.

“Yeah? Merrick here.”

“This the Pete Merrick that’s writing the stories?” a fuzzy voice inquired.

“Yes, it is. Take your handkerchief off the mouthpiece and let’s talk,” Merrick replied.

“You don’t need to know who I am,” the muffled words continued, “but I’ve got a message for you.”

“Lay it on me, then,” Merrick cut in impatiently.

“The big man has just put out a contract on you, so take care.” The line clicked dead and Merrick found himself holding the silent receiver at arm’s length, staring at it with an unconscious sort of fascination. Then he moved automatically to the battered old coffee pot oh the hot plate in the cubicle kitchen and began manufacturing a fresh supply of black liquid.

After a while sitting at his desk, a hand curled around a fresh mug of inky coffee, he studied the closing paragraphs of his story. He had done everything except name names in his three previous articles. It figured that Big Augie would take steps to silence him soon, and now it had come.

After his wife’s sudden death two years before and his resignation from the force, his friends at Headquarters, especially Sam Tolliver, had done everything possible to help Merrick pull out of his soul-searing depression. When Pete bought an old second hand typewriter and tried to write mystery stories with a policed background, Sam Tolliver had encouraged him to try and try again. When Pete’s money was almost exhausted, Sam had steered him into a part-time job at the police car pool yard.

Then the first break had come. Pete was approached by a local publisher who wanted a professional exposé dredged up out of the sordid sewage of the city underworld. There was no problem about an investigator’s license or, the permit to carry his old service .357 Magnum.

Now, with the last page of the final article in his typewriter, Pete Merrick had been put on notice of death. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. So to hell with it, he thought, flopping down on the old couch without undressing.

The following day, Merrick had an appointment with his publisher at ten. Awakening late, he made a dash for his shaving kit. A half hour later, jockeying his old sedan through the slushy streets, Pete found himself almost unconsciously screening through the swirling throng of pedestrians for a face, any face that might belong to a hit man, a hit man he had probably never seen before.

He eased the car to a halt at a traffic light, scanning the crowd along the curb. Suddenly, through a momentary break in the crush, he saw two faces, split-second glimpses, two men side by side, standing in a dingy little hole-in-the-wall shop doorway.

As a blaring horn prodded him forward, Pete catalogued one of the faces he had just seen as Johnny Conway, a technician who worked in the police lab. The man had been hired shortly before Pete resigned and the two were barely nodding acquaintances. The figure standing beside Conway in the doorway, however, was more puzzling. There was something vaguely familiar about the stooped shoulders, the shock of white hair, yet Merrick could not place him. But the doorway fronted a little cubbyhole gun shop. A small, weathered sign clutched against the brickwork by rusty nails proclaimed this fact.

Later, when Merrick reached the front door of his walk-up after the session with his publisher, he was in a foul mood.

The fellow was proving difficult about the final installment. He was insisting on more detail, was all but demanding a definite description of Big Augie, himself. Sam Tolliver was waiting at the foot of the long stairway.

“Thought you might be lying low, or have you heard yet?” Sam barked.

“Yeah, I heard,” Pete retorted.

As the two men plodded upward, Sam Tolliver outlined the rumors running up and down the grapevine.

“You’ve got to believe this contract is for real,” Tolliver cautioned as he opened the door and swept the room with a glance.

“Could be,” Merrick replied, attacking the empty coffee pot with a restrained ferocity, “and he does have a good reason to have me put away.”

After a while the old pot began to bubble with a muted ecstasy. Pete stared across the table and locked eyes with the detective. Both men broke into a mutual grin of understanding.

“You’ve been in spots before,” Tolliver observed.

“True,” Pete answered, beginning to pour fresh coffee.

As the two sat hunched over their mugs, sipping the fragrant brew and kicking the facts around, Merrick broached the subject of an informer in the Department.

“You hate like hell to even think about having a rat in your nest,” Tolliver said at last with a bitter edge in his voice.

“Sure,” Pete agreed, “but the evidence points that way.”

Tolliver checked his watch and swore, heading for the door. Then, as the detective paused, Pete described his brief glimpse of the two faces he had seen.

“I’m certain one of them was Conway of the lab but I can’t place the old white-haired one. I’ve seen that face somewhere, though.”

“Buddy, you’ve seen a lot of faces, everywhere,” Tolliver flung over his shoulder. “Be careful,” he added by way of farewell.

The week that followed was sheer frustration for Pete Merrick. Then, Saturday night, about nine, the break came. Old Punchy, one of Pete’s most dependable stoolies, called and set up a meeting at the corner of Sixth and Water Street. He had a hot tip. With only minutes to spare before rendezvous time, Pete slid through the thinning herd of humanity and approached the appointed corner.

A car nearby backfired with a sharp report. As Pete’s head jerked sideways with an involuntary reflex, his glance raked a figure with snow-white hair passing quickly in the crowd. Pete stifled an impulse to turn and follow but then the elusive impression that had been bugging him clicked into place. Damn it all, one of the man’s ears was longer than the other. He kept churning this strange face through his mind’s eye as he waited impatiently for Punchy but the stoolie failed to appear.

At 9:30 sharp Pete Merrick muttered a string of variegated oaths and started walking swiftly back down Sixth toward his parking spot. As he crossed the mouth of the first alley cutting off the lighted street the report of a heavy caliber shot lanced out of the darkness. Pete threw himself sideways in a dive toward a nearby doorway. Then he grinned sheepishly and replaced his half-drawn gun in its holster.

You damned idiot, he reminded himself, you never hear the one that gets you. It was undoubtedly a big gun, he thought, as he continued on his way. His wrist watch showed 9:31 and he filed the fact away in his mind as routine, wondering if Punchy’s call had been a trap.

Two days later, the sky caved in on Pete Merrick. Sam Tolliver’s mighty pounding on the door jolted him awake from a catnap. The detective entered and began to pace the floor with savage, pent-up energy. Abruptly turning he stabbed a forefinger into the air like a switch-blade knife. “Man, they have got you shot down, but good.” The detective’s words.

The detective’s words lashed out at him like a striking snake.

“What the hell for?” Pete demanded.

Sam Tolliver slumped in the easy chair. “The young D. A. has you hooked for the murder of Danny Deaver in that alley,” he stated.

“He’s what?” Pete’s voice was raspy and the short hairs on his neck began to crawl.

“The Captain just clued me in,” Sam began. “Look, Pete, some dude heard a shot and called in and they found Danny slumped against a couple of garbage cans; you must have seen the papers. The slug had bored through Danny and one can, and was lodged in the second one. The slug was a .357, Pete.”

Merrick stood still, frowning. “Yeah, go on,” he said, his voice tight and controlled.

“Well,” Sam continued, “they have a witness that places you on the corner a half block away at about nine thirty. The way the D. A. sees it, you had a motive, you were at the scene and your gun is the right caliber. He figures that you must have known Deaver was one of Augie’s hit men and this would be your motive. The Captain asked me to bring in your .357, Pete, to fire a test round.” The detective glanced up at the other’s tense face, then looked away in embarrassment.

“You’ve already got a slug fired from my Magnum,” Pete broke in. “Remember when that new Police Commissioner got that weirdo idea about having everybody on the force fire a test slug and file it in the lab with a little I.D. card?”

“Sure, we still have it but the D.A. wants a new slug fired from your gun by our Ballistics boys. Sorry, Pete.”

“Don’t let it bug you, buddy, it’s not your fault.” Pete Merrick stalked, stiff-legged, to the night table and returned with his service revolver, holding it out butt-first toward the detective.

Tolliver came to his feet and moved toward the door. “I’ll keep you posted, fellow, if I can, and when they test-fire this gun the D.A. will really look stupid.”

Pete managed a crooked smile. “Thanks for everything, Sam, but I didn’t gun that hood down. I never even saw him.”

“I believe you,” Sam Tolliver flung over his shoulder, “but somebody has gone to a lot of trouble to finger you.”

The day following Tolliver’s visit, Pete was sitting at the typewriter trying to phrase the last few paragraphs when a sharp rapping at the door brought him out of his chair.

“Pete Merrick? It’s Jimmy Dranow here! Open up,” The voice cut through the door like a buzz saw. Pete checked through the peephole and then opened the door to the Homicide detective.

“Come on in, Jimmy,” he said, giving his visitor a half-grin of welcome.

“Pete Merrick, you’re under arrest on suspicion of murder and anything you say...” The man’s voice trailed off as Pete raised an impatient hand.

“I know my rights, Jimmy. Save your breath, but what about the test slug?”

“They matched, Pete. The murder slug was fired from your gun. Let’s go.” The detective’s eyes roved over the room. “Get your topcoat. I’m double-parked down there.”

“They couldn’t match,” Pete ground out, “because I didn’t shoot that hood.” He walked slowly to the closet and took down his windbreaker, feeling in the pocket for an extra pack of cigarets.

“You want to argue with Ballistics?” Dranow barked. “Then you can do it in the Captain’s office. Let’s move.”

As they left the apartment, the detective threw a hard glance at Pete. “You wouldn’t do anything crazy like trying a break, would you?”

“Hell, no,” Pete answered curtly. “Why should I? I’m not guilty of anything.”

The trip to Headquarters was made in silence. Sam Tolliver and the Captain were waiting, fidgeting and uneasy.

“Would you like to make a statement, Pete?” The Captain spoke the old familiar question softly, almost pleadingly.

“Yes,” Pete responded, under-scoring each word, “I didn’t shoot him, but I can’t explain the slug matching my gun.”

“Take him down and book him,” the Captain commanded Dranow. “Suspicion of murder.”

It took the combined efforts and resources of Sam Tolliver and Pete’s publisher to convince Friendly Frankovitch, a wary bail bondsman who had known Merrick for several years, that he should post the necessary bond. But by noon the following day Pete was temporarily a free man and as Sam drove him back to his apartment they half-heartedly attacked the problem which appeared to have no solution. Ballistics simply did not make mistakes — still, Pete was calling their expert a liar.

Sam braked to a halt at a red light and Pete’s half-closed eyes, raking the street with little interest, suddenly riveted on a shop front: “Look, Sam,” he ordered, “there’s the little gun shop where I saw Conway and the old white-haired man together. And did I tell you I saw him again near the corner where Punchy stood me up the night of the murder?”

“No, you didn’t,” Sam began to move on a green light, then he faced his passenger with excitement beginning to build up in his eyes, “but now I know who your old mystery man is. The old white-haired dude who runs that hole-in-the-wall is an ex-con, Whitey De Jong, has a record long as a police blotter.

“He’s an odd looking old guy with one long ear and he has spent more time in than out — forgery, tampering with gun serial numbers, counterfeiting, you name it and he’s done it if it’s illegal. I’ve heard he’s one of the top three phony money engravers in the country. They say his plates will turn out the queer green that make the ‘T’ boys see red.”

“My old white-hair has one big ear all right but how come he’s out now and running a gun shop?” Pete broke in.

“Well, I think he’s on parole and gun repair is the only legal trade he knows. They go to any lengths to get an ex-con earning a living outside the walls.”

“Sam, something is bothering me about this old fellow and seeing Conway at his shop just doesn’t make sense. Gould Conway be ripping off guns from the old storage room down at the lab and selling them to Whitey De Jong?”

“Could be,” the detective replied cautiously. “Anything’s possible and I’ve heard Conway likes the ponies.”

Without another word passing between them Sam wheeled the car into a cross street and began to drive back toward the gun shop of Whitey De Jong.

As the two entered the dingy little shop and leaned against a sway-backed counter, the hunched old man with a jeweler’s loupe jutting crazily over one eye socket, looked up and squinted. He had been peering into the inner mechanism of a tiny automatic handgun and, as he turned toward the counter, a nervous tic began to twitch a corner of his mouth.

Sam Tolliver engaged the gunsmith in a round of small talk while Pete’s eyes swept over every visible object in the room. A work bench flanked by several racks of tools occupied the cramped space behind the counter while an assortment of hand-guns hung suspended from a peg board on the side wall.

A door at the end of the counter revealed a small inner room meagerly curtained by an old, tattered blanket. Through a slit in this covering Pete could barely distinguish a cot piled with jumbled clothing and assorted bedding. Hanging on the wall behind the cot was a series of what appeared to be photo blowups of some sort.

As Tolliver continued their conversation Whitey grew progressively more tense and edgy. When Pete nudged the detective and suggested they leave, Tolliver half-turned toward the door, his eyes roving across the gun display on the wall. A revolver near the top attracted his attention and he swung back toward the gunsmith. “There’s a nice weapon, Whitey,” he nodded toward the rack.

“Let’s see the .357 Mag up there, just for a minute.”

“What do you want to see it for?” Whitey blurted, as he passed the gun to Tolliver. “You’ve already got a .357.”

The detective took the gun and, turning it over and over several times, examined the serial number and sniffed the cylinder noisily. “Whitey, you shouldn’t put a gun for sale without cleaning it up first. This gun has been fired since it was cleaned last.”

“It couldn’t have,” the man gasped “I cleaned it up good after I traded for it and it hasn’t been out of the shop since.”

“If you say so,” Tolliver answered mildly, returning the gun into a hand that shook. The two men turned to leave and the ex-con’s voice stopped them at the door.

“Don’t try to hang anything on me now, fellows, please. I’ve been clean ever since my last stretch. I can’t go back, it would kill me.” The words faded out on a note of utter hopelessness.

“We’ll see you around,” Tolliver flung at the Old man and closed the door gently.

“You couldn’t really smell anything on the gun, could you?” Pete asked as they approached their car.

“No, just fishing,” Tolliver replied, “but something bugs me about Old Whitey and I can’t say what.”

As the car pulled to a halt before Merrick’s door/ Tolliver placed a firm hand on the other’s shoulder and spoke rapidly and with vehemence. “Pete, somebody has a frame around you big enough to hold the Mona Lisa and I’m certain that the tag on it reads, ‘With best wishes from Big Augie.’ ”

“Thanks for your confidence,” Pete replied as he slammed the door.

“I can’t explain any of it, but I’m trying.” The detective essayed a grin as he slipped the car into gear. “Go up there and lock your door and get some sleep.”

Merrick raised a hand in salute and then turned toward those hateful four flights of stairs and the bitter loneliness of an empty apartment. A thought wormed into his mind, unbidden, as he trudged upward. What would Anne say if she were still alive? Would she believe his story?

Merrick entered the cold apartment and headed for the stagnant coffee pot and prepared for a long night of pacing the floor. A gray dawn was seeping under the window shade before he finally flopped down on the couch, pulled up a blanket and surrendered to utter exhaustion.

But a grim smile crinkled at the corners of his mouth as he closed his eyes. He had the thing whipped at last. He knew exactly how it could have been done. All he lacked was proof, any shred of proof. He must wait on Sam Tolliver to produce that.

The next three days crawled by on leaden feet, minute by minute, tedious hour by hour. When Tolliver finally arrived about dusk of the third day, Pete could read both excitement and satisfaction in his old friend’s face. The detective straddled a chair and grinned up at Pete.

“Well, buddy, a helluva lot’s happened since I dropped you off the other day but the Captain kept me mum.” Sam held out a hand for a coffee mug. “Before I begin I’d like to hear your version of the caper. You must have one.”

“Yeah, I have,” Pete answered thoughtfully, “and this is the way it figures.” He slid into a chair across the table from the detective. “Big Augie had to get me off his back but if he had me gunned down suspicion would point directly to him, so he doped out a scheme that would put me behind bars instead.” Pete caused to light a cigarette.

“So far, so good,” Sam prompted, “go on.”

“Well, the mob spread the word that I was to be hit. Then Punchy lured me to the right spot with that phone call. He’s been known to work for Augie before and I’ll bet my last dollar that Punchy is the D.A.’s witness that puts me at the murder scene at nine thirty P.M.”

“True, Punchy is your pigeon,” Sam grunted.

“As to Dan Deaver,” Pete continued, “somebody shot this slob with a .357 Mag at some other location after forcing him to stand up against two garbage cans. Then they brought the body along with the two cans and set them up in the alley in the proper position to make it look like he was shot on the spot. After they got the props all set up they fired a shot into the air from a heavy gun and split.”

When Pete rose to refill their mugs, the detective spoke and his tone was quizzical. “You’ve overlooked the main sticker, Pete. How did the slug with your gun markings get into the trash barrel?”

“Sam, there’s only one possible way I can figure it. The slug Homicide dug out of the barrel was the one that was on file in the police lab. Somebody lifted this sample from the lab and probably substituted another in its place. Then this person gave the genuine slug from my gun to Augie’s people and when they shot Deaver they retrieved the bullet that killed him from the garbage and substituted my slug in its place.”

“And who do you think switched slugs in the lab?” Sam asked.

“My bet would be on Conway.”

“And you would be right.” Sam Tolliver now took the floor and began to unfold his bizarre story with obvious relish. He fired a cigaret and squinted through the curling smoke.

“Big Augie dreamed up this scenario for the reasons you just mentioned. His cast included Conway, who had been betting the ponies and couldn’t pay — Old Whitey, the gunsmith and engraver, whom he threatened to frame back into stir — and, of course, Punchy who needs his supply of horse to keep going. But the main star was Dan Deaver and he played his part for keeps.”

“Yeah, I knew Punchy had been a mainliner for years,” Pete interjected, “and I figured he made that first call to me about the hit contract.”

Tolliver ignored the interruption. “But you had no way of knowing the real Dick Tracy angle of this setup, Pete, and you’re not going to believe it.

“After I dropped you off the other night, I began to dig deeper into this Whitey and Conway hookup and it worried me. I didn’t realize how near Whitey was to cracking wide open but just on a hunch I dropped back to his shop about eleven P.M. and routed him out of bed. Well, I took a shot in the dark and told him Conway had been singing loud and clear, naming names and dates, the works.

“The old man came unglued and began to spill the whole bucket of worms. I took him down town and for the vague suggestion of a ‘maybe so’ suspended sentence he wrapped up all the loose ends for us.”

Tolliver fell silent, savoring the suspense building up toward the flash point in his friend.

“But the slug, damn it, Sam, the slug,” Merrick’s eyes were like live coals as he leaned across the table. “Did they discover the phony bullet Conway planted in the lab as a substitute for mine?”

The detective held up a hand. “Pete, remember that Big Augie was playing these poor bastards like puppets on strings, and he gave all the orders. First, Conway and Whitey met Denver in one of Augie’s warehouses, lined him up in front of the garbage cans and shot him once with a .357 mag, the same gun we spotted in the gun shop.

“Then they dug out the spent slug and substituted the bullet they had in their possession. They hauled the two cans and the body to the alley location as you have already doped out. Conway waited in the van while Whitey cased the corner where you were supposed to show. The whole operation hinged on exact timing. Whitey didn’t intend for you to spot him but he had no way of knowing you recognized him, anyway.

“After you arrived they placed everything in proper position. When they had the props all set up, Conway drove off in the van and Whitey fired a shot in the air as he saw you cross the alley entrance and then high-tailed it for his shop, where he cleaned the Mag and hung it on the rack.”

“And the bullet from my gun?” Pete begged as Sam paused.

“Pete, recall when you spotted Conway and Whitey at the door of the gun shop? Well, Conway was picking up your lab specimen slug from Whitey to return it to its proper place in the police lab. He had stolen your bullet with your .357 markings on it and left it with Whitey who is probably the most expert engraver the counterfeiting fraternity has ever produced. Whitey took your slug and engraved the ballistic markings on an unfired bullet, turned out an exact duplicate which even fooled our Ballistics experts.”

“He did what?” Pete croaked in absolute incredulity. “That’s impossible, it’s never been done before.”

“Probably true,” Sam shot back, “but any craftsman who can duplicate the intricate shadings on a fifty-dollar bill as expertly as Whitey can do most anything with metal. Just think about it. Visualize the delicate tools Whitey uses and how good he is with them.”

Pete Merrick uncoiled from his chair and began circling the room like a caged animal. “He must have been using blowups like we glimpsed in the back room and working under high magnification.” His voice was tense with excitement. “But what went wrong, Sam?”

“Just one of those little accidents that usually trip up the best of criminal schemes. If you hadn’t just happened to spot Whitey’s face and funny ears from an old mug shot you once, saw, we would have never been alerted about the old engraver.

“Incidentally, we have Whitey and Punchy but Conway has disappeared into thin air, gone, evaporated. His wife claims he hasn’t been home for two days. Augie probably took him out of circulation for keeps.” The detective rose and began fumbling with his top coat.

“Thanks for everything, Sam,” Merrick said simply, thrusting out a hand.

“It was almost a pleasure, old buddy,” the other grinned. “When you drop around to the Captain’s office to pick up your Mag get him to show you the three slugs. He’s keeping them in his desk for curiosities. Ballistics swears all three came from your gun but we know only two of them did.” Sam moved toward the door.

“Well, what do you know?” Pete Merrick had followed the detective and the two stood smiling for a moment, probing each other’s face. “I turned up in a genuine counterfeit frame made by an expert engraver but it will furnish me with a picture for Part Five of my crime series and another paycheck from my publisher.”

“Be seeing you,” Sam Tolliver slipped out into the hall with a wave of the hand.

Pete Merrick stalked to his typewriter and grinned down at the machine. “Let’s go baby.”