The New Black Mask Quarterly (No 2)

William Campbell Gault Dead-End for Delia

William Campbell Gault has written some twenty-five crime novels since 1952, several of which feature Brock Callahan or Joe Puma. A veteran of the old Black Mask, he has received an Edgar Allan Poe Award from the Mystery Writers of America and the 1984 Lifetime Achievement Award of the Private Eye Writers of America. “Dead-End for Delia” appeared in the November 1950 issue of Black Mask Detective. In the dedication copy of The Blue Hammer, Ross Macdonald wrote, “To Bill Gault, who knows that writing well is the best revenge.” Mr. Gault lives in Santa Barbara, California.

The only light in the alley came from the high, open windows of the faded dancehall bordering its east length. From these same windows the clean melody of a tenor sax cut through the murky air of the alley. There was nothing else around that was clean.

The warehouse running the west border of the alley was of grimy red brick, the alley itself littered with paper and trash, cans, and bottles. It was a dead-end alley, no longer used.

The beat officer was at its mouth, keeping the small crowd back, and now the police ambulance came from the west, its siren dying in a slow wail.

The beat officer said, “Better swing out and back in. Sergeant Kelley with you?”

“No. Why?” The driver was frowning.

“It’s his wife,” the beat officer said. “She really got worked over.”

“Dead?”

“Just died, two minutes ago. How she lived that long is a wonder.”

The driver shook his head, and swung out to back into the mouth of the alley.

From the west again, a red light swung back and forth, and the scream of a high speed siren pierced the night. The prowl car was making time. It cut over to the wrong side of the street and skidded for fifteen feet before stopping at the curb.

The man opposite the driver had the door open before the car came to rest, and he was approaching the beat patrolman while the driver killed the motor.

“Barnes? I’m Kelley. My wife—?”

“Dead, Sergeant. Two minutes ago.”

Sergeant Kelley was a tall man with a thin, lined face and dark brown eyes. He stood there a moment, saying nothing, thinking of Delia, only half-hearing the trumpet that was now taking a ride at Dreamland, the Home of Name Bands.

Delia, who was only twenty-three to his thirty-seven, Delia who loved to dance, Delia of the fair hair and sharp tongue — was now dead. And that was her dirge, that trumpet taking a ride.

He shook his head and felt the trembling start in his hands. He took a step toward the other end of the alley, and the patrolman put a hand on his arm.

“Sergeant, I wouldn’t. It’s nothing to see. Unless you’re a Homicide man, it’s nothing you’d — Sergeant, don’t.”

Sergeant Kelley shook off the hand and continued down the alley.

Dick Callender of Homicide was talking to the M.E. He turned at the sound of Kelley’s footsteps.

Dick said, “It’s nothing to see, Pat.”

Pat Kelley didn’t answer him. There was enough light from the dancehall for him to see the bloody face of his wife and the matted hair above it. He hadn’t seen her for four months.

Then he looked at Callender. “She say anything, Dick?”

“Just — Tell Pat I’m sorry. Tell Pat Lois will know. Make sense to you; the second sentence, I mean?”

“None,” Pat lied. The band was playing a waltz, now.

Callender said, “We’ll give it a lot of time. Homicide will shoot the works on this one.”

Pat looked at him and used his title, now. “I want a transfer. Lieutenant. To Homicide.” His voice was very quiet. “You can fix it.”

A piece of dirty newspaper fluttered by, stirred by the night breeze. The white-coated men were laying the stretcher alongside the body.

Callender said, “We’ve got a lot of good men in Homicide, Pat.” He didn’t say, And we want our suspects brought in alive.

But Pat could guess he was thinking it. He said, “She left me, four months ago. I’m not going to go crazy on it, but I’d like the transfer.”

“We’ll see, Pat.” The lieutenant put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on. I’ll ride back to headquarters with you.”

They went in the lieutenant’s wagon. About halfway there, Pat said, “It could have been one of those — pick-up deals, some mugg out of nowhere who’ll go back to where he came from.” Shame burned in him, but he had to get the words out.

Callender didn’t look at him. “I’ve got Adams and Prokowski checking the dancehall. They’re hard workers, good men.”

Pat said nothing.

Callender went on, quietly. “There must be some angle you’ve got on it. Your wife must have thought you knew this — this Lois, or she wouldn’t have mentioned it. She didn’t have enough words left to waste any of them on some trivial matter.”

“My wife knew a lot of people I didn’t,” Pat said. “My statement will include everything I know. Lieutenant. Have her sent to the Boone Mortuary on Seventh Street, will you? I’ll talk to her mother tonight.”

“She... was living with her mother, Pat?”

“No. I don’t know where she’s been living these past four months. But it wasn’t with her mother. I wish to God it had been, now.”

They made the rest of the trip in silence.

It was a little before midnight when Sergeant Pat Kelley, of the pawn shop and hotel detail, climbed the worn stairs of the four-story building on Vine. The place was quiet; these were working people and they got to bed early.

Mrs. Revolt lived on the third floor, in two rooms overlooking the littered back yard and the parking lot beyond. Pat knocked and waited.

There was the sound of a turning key, and then Mrs. Revolt opened the door. Her lined, weary face was composed, but her eyes quickened in sudden alarm at the sight of Pat.

“Pat, what is it?”

“I’d better come in,” he said. “It’s Delia, Mrs. Revolt. Something’s happened...”

She pulled her wrapper tightly around her, as though to stiffen her body against his words. “Come in, come in. But what—? Pat, she’s not... it’s not—”

He came into the dimly lighted room with the rumpled studio couch, the gate-leg table with the brass lamp, the worn wicker chairs, the faded, dull brown rug. In this room, Delia Revolt had grown from an infant to the beauty of the block. In this room, Papa Revolt had died, and Pat had courted the Revolt miracle.

“Sit down, Mrs. Revolt,” Pat said now.

She sat down in the wicker rocker. “She’s dead, I know. She’s dead. My Delia, oh Lord, she’s dead.” She rocked, then, back and forth, her eyes closed, her lips moving, no decipherable words coming out.

Pat sat on the wicker lounge. “She was found in an — she was found near the Dreamland dancehall. She’s dead. There’ll be detectives coming to see you; other detectives, Mrs. Revolt.”

Her eyes opened, and she stopped rocking. “Murdered — Delia? It wasn’t an accident? Murdered — Delia?”

He nodded. Her eyes closed again, and a strangled sound came from her tight throat, and she toppled sideways in the chair.

Pat got to her before she hit the floor. He put her on the studio couch, and was waiting with a glass of water when her eyes opened again.

Her voice was a whisper. “How did it happen?”

“She was hit with something blunt, concussion. Nobody knows anything else. But there’s something I wanted you to know.”

Fear in her eyes, now. She said nothing.

“Before she died, Delia mentioned a name. It was Lois. I told the officer in charge the name meant nothing to me. I told him I didn’t know any Lois.”

The frightened eyes moved around Pat’s face. “Why did you say that?”

“Because they’re going after this one. She’s a cop’s wife and they won’t be pulling any punches. This man in charge, Callender, can be awful rough. I’d rather talk to Lois, myself.”

“But why should they bother Lois?”

“Delia mentioned the name, before she died. They’re not going to overlook anything and they’re not going to be polite.”

“All right, Pat. I had a feeling, when you knocked, something had happened. I’ve had a feeling about Delia, for years. You can go now; I’ll be all right. I’ll want to be alone.”

She was under control, now, this woman who’d met many a tragedy, who’d just met her biggest one. The fortitude born of the countless minor tragedies was carrying her through this one.

Pat went from there to Sycamore. He was off duty, and driving his own car. On Sycamore, near Seventh, he parked in front of an old, red brick apartment building.

In the small lobby, he pressed the button next to the card which read: Miss Lois Weldon.

Her voice sounded metallic through the wall speaker. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Pat, Lois. Something has happened.”

He was at the door when it buzzed.

She was waiting in her lighted doorway when he got off the self-service elevator on the fourth floor. She was wearing a maroon flannel robe piped in white, and no make-up. Her dark, soft hair was piled high on her head.

Her voice was quiet. “What’s happened?”

“Delia’s been murdered.”

She flinched and put one hand on the door frame for support. “Pat, when... how—?”

“Tonight. In the alley next to the Dreamland ballroom. Slugged to death. She didn’t die right away. She mentioned your name before she died.”

“My name? Come in, Pat.” Her voice was shaky.

There wasn’t much that could be done about the apartment’s arrangement, but color and taste had done their best with its appearance. Pat sat on a love seat, near the pseudo-fireplace.

Lois stood. “Now, what did she say?”

Pat frowned. “She said, ‘Tell Pat I’m sorry. Tell Pat Lois will know.’ She told that to Lieutenant Callender of Homicide, before she died. He asked me who Lois was, and I told him I didn’t know.”

“Why?”

“I was trying to protect you. It might have been dumb. But they’re going to be rough in this case.”

She sat down in a chair close by, staring at him. “I saw Delia two days ago, Thursday afternoon. She told me then that she was sorry she’d left you. Could it have been that, Pat?”

“It could have been. Yes, that’s probably what she meant. What else did she tell you?”

“N-nothing. She was very vague. She’d — been drinking, Pat.”

“Drinking? That’s a new one for her. Was she working?”

“I didn’t get that impression. She didn’t tell me where she was living, either. Do you know?”

Pat shook his head, staring at the floor. The three of them had grown up in the same block on Vine, though they weren’t of an age. Delia had been twenty-three, and Lois was — let’s see, she was thirty and the fairly well paid secretary to a vice president of a text publishing firm. When Pat was twenty-two and freshly in uniform, he’d been Lois’ hero, who’d been fifteen. At thirty-three, in another kind of uniform, U.S. Army, he’d been Delia’s hero, and she’d been nineteen.

At the moment, he was an old man, and nobody’s hero.

Lois said, “I guess you need a drink.” She rose. “Don’t try to think tonight, Pat. It won’t be any good.”

“I was without her for four months,” he said, mostly to himself. “I got through that. I don’t know about this. I don’t seem to have any feelings at all. It’s like I’m dead.”

Her back was to him. “I know. That’s the way I felt four years ago.” She poured a stiff jolt of rye in the bottom of a tumbler.

“Four years ago?” He was only half listening.

“When you married her.” She had no expression on her face as she walked over to him. Her hand was steady, holding out the drink.

He looked up to meet her gaze. “Lois, what are you—?”

“I just wanted you to know,” she said, “and now. I’m glad you didn’t tell that officer you knew me. That’s a gesture I can hang on to. It will warm me, this winter.”

“Lois—” he protested.

“Drink your drink,” she said quietly. “Bottoms up.”

He stared at her, and at the glass. He lifted it high and drained it. He could feel its warmth, and then he started to tremble.

“You’re one of those black Irishmen,” Lois said softly, “who can go all to hell over something like this. And wind up in the gutter. Or examine yourself a little better and decide she was a girl headed for doom from the day of her birth and all you really loved was her beauty.”

“Stop talking, Lois. You’re all worked up. I’d kill anybody else who talked like that, but I know you loved her, too?”

“Who didn’t love her? She was the most beautiful thing alive. But she was a kid, and she’d never be anything else. Even now you can see that, can’t you?”

Pat stared at his empty glass, and rose.

“Thanks for the drink,” he said, and walked to the door. There he paused, faced her. “It was probably a silly gesture, covering you. There’ll be a million people who can tell them who Lois is. I’m sorry I got you up.”

“Pat,” she said, but he was through the door.

He caught a glimpse of her as he stepped into the elevator. She was like a statue, both hands on the door frame, watching him wordlessly...

The Chief called him in, next morning. He was a big man and a blunt one. He said, “Callender tells me you want a transfer to Homicide for the time being.”

Pat nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“How is it you didn’t tell Callender about this Lois Weldon last night? A half dozen people have told him about her since.”

“I wasn’t thinking last night, sir.”

The Chief nodded. “You’re too close to it, Sergeant. For anybody else, that would be withholding evidence. I’m overlooking it. But I’m denying your request for a temporary transfer to Homicide.”

Pat stared at him, saying nothing.

The Chief stared back at him. “You’ll want a few days leave.”

“Maybe more.” He omitted the “sir.”

The Chief frowned and looked at his desk top. His eyes came up, again. “I don’t like to hammer at you at a time like this. But why more? Were you planning to work on this outside of the department?”

Pat nodded.

“If I gave you a direct order not to that would be insubordination, Sergeant.”

Pat said nothing.

The Chief said, “Those are my orders.”

Pat took out his wallet and unpinned the badge. He laid it on the Chief’s desk. “This isn’t easy, sir, after fifteen years.” He stood up, momentarily realizing what a damn fool speech that had been.

“You’re being dramatic,” the Chief said evenly. “The thing that makes a good officer is impartiality. Last night you tried to cover a friend. In your present mood, you might go gunning on a half-baked lead and do a lot of damage. This department isn’t run that way. But it’s your decision, Sergeant.” He picked up the badge.

Pat started for the door, and the Chief’s voice stopped him. “It would be smart to stay out of Lieutenant Callender’s way.”

Pat went out without answering. He stood there, in the main hall of Headquarters, feeling like a stranger for the first time in fifteen years. It was then he remembered Lois saying, You’re one of those black Irishmen who can go all to hell...

He wasn’t that complicated, whether she knew it or not. His wife had been killed and it was a personal business with him. His job for fifteen years had been to protect the soft from violence and fraud and chicanery, and this time it was closer to home. Only a fool would expect him to continue checking pawn shops; he hadn’t thought the Chief was a fool. But then, it wasn’t the Chief’s wife.

Detective Prokowski came along the hall and stopped at the sight of Pat.

Pat asked, “What did you find out at Dreamland last night, Steve?”

Prokowski licked his lower lip, frowning.

“Orders, Steve?” Pat asked quietly. “From the lieutenant?”

Prokowski didn’t answer that. “Did your transfer go through?”

“No. I’ve left the force. Don’t you want to talk about Dreamland? I won’t remind you how long we’ve known each other.”

“Keep your voice down,” Prokowski said. “I’ll see you at Irv’s, at one-thirty.”

“Sure. Thanks, Steve.”

Irv’s wasn’t a cops’ hangout. Prokowski was a Middle Westerner, originally, and a perfectionist regarding the proper temperature of draught beer. Irv had it at the proper temperature.

It was a hot day, for fall, and the beer was cool enough to sweat the glass without being cold enough to chill the stomach. Pat drank a couple of glasses, waiting for Steve.

Steve came in at a quarter to two and Irv had a glass waiting for him by the time he reached the bar.

He was a big man, Steve Prokowski, and sweating like a college crew man right now. “Nothing,” he said wearily. “Lots of guys danced with her. Nothing there. Shoe clerks and CPA’s and punk kids. There was a guy they called Helgy. That name mean anything to you, Pat?”

Pat lied with a shake of the head. “This Helgy something special?”

“Danced with her a lot. Took her home. Brought her a couple of times. The way it is, I guess, if you really like to dance there’s only one place to do it where you’ve got the room and the right music. That’s a place like Dreamland.”

“I mean you can’t catalogue a guy because he goes to a public dancehall any more than you can catalogue people because you saw them in Grand Central Station. All kinds of people like to dance. This Helgy drove a smooth car, a convertible. That’s nightclub stuff, right? But he liked to dance, and the story is, he really could.”

Steve finished his beer and Irv brought another. Steve said casually, “Now, what do you know, Pat?”

“I’m out of a job. I don’t know anything beyond that. The Chief acted on Callender’s recommendation, I suppose?”

“I don’t know. The lieutenant doesn’t always confide in me. What can you do alone, Pat?”

“It wasn’t my idea to work alone.” Pat climbed off his stool and put a dollar on the bar. “Out of that, Irv, all of them.” He put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming in.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for the beer. I still work for the department, remember, Pat.”

“I didn’t forget it for a minute.”

He could feel Steve’s eyes on him in the minor as he walked out.

Once at breakfast, Delia had been reading the paper and she’d said, “Well, imagine that!”

“I’ll try,” he’d said. “Imagine what?”

“This boy I used to dance with at Dreamland, this Joe Helgeson. He’s a composer, it says here. He likes to dance, and always has, and he knows very little about music, but he’s composed. And he must be rich. Helgy, we always called him.”

“You should have married him,” Pat told her, “so you could have your breakfast in bed.”

“There’s always time,” she told him. “But right now I’m happy with you.”

After that, Pat had been conscious of the name. He saw it on sheet music, and it disturbed him. He heard Delia talk to friends about the composer she knew, Helgy, as though that was her world.

He swung his coupe away from the curb and headed toward the Drive. He knew the building, Delia had pointed it out to him once.

It was about eleven stories high with terrace apartments overlooking the bay. Helgy had one of the terrace apartments.

There was a clerk in the quiet lobby, too, and his glance said Pat should have used the service entrance.

Pat said, “Would you phone Mr. Helgeson and tell him Delia Kelley’s husband would like very much to talk to him?”

The clerk studied him for a moment before picking up the phone.

He looked surprised when he said, “Mr. Helgeson will see you, sir.”

The elevator went up quickly and quietly, and Pat stepped out onto the lush, sculptured carpeting of the top floor. There was a man waiting for him there, a thin man with blond hair in a crew cut, and alert blue eyes.

“Sergeant Kelley?”

Pat nodded.

“I’ve — been reading the papers. It’s — I really don’t know what to say. Sergeant.”

“I don’t either,” Pat said, “except to ask you what you might know about it.”

They were walking along the hall, now. They came to the entry hall of the apartment, and Helgeson closed the door behind them. There he faced Pat honestly.

“I’ve seen her a few times. Sergeant, since she... she left you. There was nothing, well, nothing wrong about it.”

“That part doesn’t matter,” Pat said. “I’m not looking for the men who flirted with her. I’m looking for the man who killed her.”

They went into a low, long living room with a beamed ceiling, with floor-length windows facing on the terrace. Helgeson sat in a chair near the huge, bleached mahogany piano.

“I can’t help you with that,” he said. “I danced with her, at Dreamland. I don’t know what attraction the place had for me, except it was the only magic I knew as a kid. I never probed myself for any reasons. She was — a wonderful dancer. I didn’t think of her beyond that. That sounds phony, I know, but—” His voice died.

“I’m surprised the Homicide section hasn’t sent a man to see you, or have they? You said you’d been reading about it.”

“Homicide? No. Why should they?”

“You’re pretty well known, and they have your nickname.”

“I’m not known down there, not generally. Not as the composer. I’m just another punk, just Helgy, down there. A rather aging punk.” He stared at Pat. “But if you know, they know.”

Pat shook his head. “I’ve left the force. I asked to be assigned to this case and was refused.”

“Oh,” Helgeson rubbed his forehead frowningly. “She told me, when she phoned to break a date yesterday, that she was going back to you. I thought—”

“Yesterday?” Pat interrupted. “She told you that, yesterday?”

Helgeson nodded, studying Pat quietly.

Pat could see the pulse in his wrist and he had a passing moment of giddiness. “Where was she living?”

“The Empire Court, over on Hudson.”

“Working, was she?”

“I don’t think so. She never mentioned it, if she was. She was kind of reticent about all that.”

Pat looked at Helgeson levelly. “Was she — living alone?”

Helgeson took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I never went in, over there. She was always ready when I called for her.” He seemed pale and his voice was unsteady.

Pat felt resentment moving through him, but he couldn’t hate them all. Everybody had loved Delia.

He said quietly, “There’s nothing you know? She must have mentioned some names, or what she was doing. What the hell did you talk about?”

“We didn’t talk much. We danced, that’s all. Sergeant, believe me, if I could help I would.” His voice was ragged. “If you knew how much I — wanted to help.” He shook his head. “There isn’t anything I know, not a damned thing.”

“All right. I can believe that. If there’s anything you hear or happen to remember, anything at all, phone me.” He gave him the number.

He went from there to the Empire Court, on Hudson. It was a fairly modern, U-shaped building of gray stone, set back on a deep lot. There was a department car among the cars at the curb.

The name in the lobby read: Delia Revolt. Pat pressed the button and the door buzzed.

It was on the second floor and he walked up. There were some technical men dusting for prints, and there was Lieutenant Callender, his back to the doorway, standing in the middle of the living room.

He turned and saw Pat. His face showed nothing.

“Anything?” Pat asked him.

“Look, Pat, for the love of—”

“You look,” Pat said. “She was my wife. You got a wife. Lieutenant?”

“I’m married to my second, now.” He shook his big head and ran a hand through his hair. “The Chief said you’d resigned.”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve been a cop for fifteen years. You’re acting like a rookie.”

“I’ve only been a husband for four years. Lieutenant. I’m not getting in your way.”

“We’ll probably get a million prints, all but the right ones. We found a dressing robe we’re checking, and some pajamas.” The lieutenant’s eyes looked away. “I’ll talk to the Chief, Pat. I’ll see that you get your job back.”

“I don’t want it back — yet. Thanks, anyway. Lieutenant.” He kept seeing Delia in the room and somebody else, some formless, faceless somebody, and the giddiness came again and he knew he wouldn’t have the stomach to look in any of the other rooms.

He turned his back on the lieutenant and went down the steps to the lobby and out into the hot, bright day. They were right about it, of course. A cop shouldn’t be on a family case any more than a surgeon should. Emotion was no asset in this business.

He sat in the car for minutes, trying to get back to reality, trying to forget that cozy apartment and the lieutenant’s words. The brightness of the day seemed to put a sharp outline on things, to give them a sense of unreality, like a lighted stage setting.

He heard last night’s trumpet again, and started the motor.

The alley was bright, now, but no cleaner. The voices of the freight handlers on the street side of the warehouse were drowned by the racket of the huge trucks bumping past. He walked to the alley’s dead end and saw, for the first time, the door that led from the dancehall, a fire exit.

It was open, now, and he could see some men in there, sprinkling the floor with some granulated stuff. There was the sound of a huge rotary brush polisher, but it was outside his line of vision.

He went in through the open door, along a wide hall that flanked the west edge of the bandstand. The men looked at him curiously as he stood there, imagining what it must have been like last night. He could almost hear the music and see the dim lights and the crowded floor.

Along this edge the floor was raised and there were seats up here, for the speculative males, looking over the field, discussing the old favorites and the new finds, wondering what happened to this transient queen and that one. Some had married and not retired.

One of the workers called over, “Looking for the boss, mister?”

“That’s right.”

“Won’t be in this afternoon. The joint’s been full of cops and he went out to get some fresh air.”

“Okay.” Pat turned and went out.

It was nearly five low. He turned the car in a U-turn and headed for Borden. He parked on a lot near Borden and Sixth, and walked the two blocks to Curtes-Husted, Publishers.

Lois was busily typing when he opened the door to the outer office. She looked up at his entrance, and her face seemed to come alive, suddenly.

“Pat!” She got up and came over to the railing.

“I was pretty rough, last night. I thought a drink and dinner might take us back to where we were. Part way, anyway.”

“It will, it will Oh, Pat, if you knew what last night—” She put a hand on his on top of the railing.

The door to Pat’s right opened, and a man stood there. He had a masculine, virile face and iron-gray hair. He said, “You can go any time, Lois. I guess Mr. Curtes won’t be back.”

“Thank you, Mr. Husted,” she said. “I’ll be going in a minute.”

He smiled, and closed the door.

“My boss, the VP,” she whispered. “Isn’t he handsome?”

“I suppose.” Pat could feel her hand trembling.

She said quietly, “You’re better, aren’t you? You’re coming out of it.”

“I’m better,” he said. “This whole case is one blind alley.”

“Delia knew a lot of men — of people I’ll be with you in a minute.”

They went to the Lamp Post, an unpretentious restaurant nearby.

They had a martini each, and Lois told him, “Their spare ribs are the best in town.”

He ordered the spare ribs.

She seemed animated. She said, “It’s going to be all right. It’s going to take some time, and then you’re going to be really happy, Pat. I’m going to see that you’re happy.”

He ordered another pair of drinks, and they finished those before the ribs came. They went from the Lamp Post to a spot on the west side, and Pat tried very hard to get drunk. But it didn’t work; the alcohol didn’t touch him.

They went back to Lois’ place. He sat with her in the car in front of her apartment.

“Come on up,” she said. “I’ll make some coffee.”

He shook his head. “I know Husted was paying for that apartment Delia was living in. I’ve known it for two months, Lois. And you did, too, didn’t you?”

Her silence was his answer.

“You probably thought Husted killed her, and yet you’ve told the police nothing. Delia probably told you yesterday or the day before that she was coming back to me. But you didn’t tell me that. Was it yesterday you saw her?”

“The day before. I didn’t want her to come back, Pat. And I didn’t tell you about my boss because he’s got a family, because he’s a fundamentally decent man.”

“You didn’t want her to come back. Because of me?” Pat’s voice was hoarse. “You poor damned fool, you don’t know me, do you? No matter what she was, Lois, I’ll be married to her the rest of my life. But you were the one who could have told me she was coming back. You could have saved her life.”

“Pat—”

“Get out, Lois. Get out — quick!”

She scrambled out.

The liquor was getting to him a little now. He finished the note, there on his dinette cable, and then went to unlock the front door. Then he called headquarters, gave them the message, and went to pick up the note. He read:

He waited then, 38 in hand. He waited until he heard the wail of the siren, and a little longer. He waited until he heard the tires screeching outside.

Then he put the muzzle of his .38 to the soft roof of his mouth, and pulled the trigger.