The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction

1. Little Man with a Gun

You get up there, on top of the world, where I was, by working while other guys play. If you beat your brains out, and worry, and work, you wind up in my spot – standing in your own restaurant, watching the evening trade. There were eighteen restaurants in the chain, and I owned every one, free and clear.

Big-headed? I don’t think so. I was riding high, and I knew it. Also, it gave me a kick. That’s the point in making your pile while you’re young enough. You’re up there where nothing can touch you, and tomorrow’s the night to put a four-carat diamond on a girl. Girl by the name of Lola Grashin – a nice girl, with plenty of class.

She was the only thing I needed, the only thing I didn’t have.

I watched Pug Lester come in, and I was glad to see him. Pug Lester was a detective, and sometimes when he walked in I could see fear appear in the eyes of some men. To me Pug was just a customer whose weakness was fine food.

I said, “Good evening, Lieutenant. Much murder in town?”

“A little,” said Lester, “here and there. Most of it’s old and stale though, so I figured I might as well eat.” He nodded to the head waiter and eased himself into a booth.

“I read you picked up the fellow who killed the liquor-store owner.”

Pug Lester buttered a piece of melba and shoved it into his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “We got him. And like all of ’em, he started to scream he was framed.”

I said, “Do you think he was?”

Pug Lester snorted. “They almost never are.” He moved his arm to make room for the seafood cocktail, picked up a tiny fork and lunged at a shrimp. Then nodding his approval of the speared morsel, he gestured toward the seat. “Why don’t you sit down, Roney?”

I grinned. “Thanks, I’d like to. But I’ve got to crawl back in my office. Taxpayer like myself has to work like hell on his account books to keep you in two-inch steaks.”

“I eat a lot,” Pug Lester said comfortably, “but I figure I earn my keep.”

I nodded. “I’ll drop by the kitchen on my way and tell the chef to slaughter another cow. Anything you want tonight, Lieutenant. Did I tell you I bought a warehouse run of pineapple last week? And have you heard that today the dock workers went out on strike? I’ll make a killing.”

Pug Lester shook his head. “Boy, sometimes I think you’re too lucky. For your sake, I hope it holds.”

“It’ll hold,” I said. “Relax.”

He grunted, and I drifted to the rear of the place and went through the door marked “Private”.

The little man didn’t get up when I entered the office. He didn’t move at all, but sat there, blending in with the shadows to one side of my desk. When he spoke, his voice came out in a friendly snarl, as if he were trying to be diplomatic and didn’t quite know how.

“I looked around,” the small man said, “but I couldn’t find any booze.”

A rush. That was my first thought, I said, “Maybe you’d do better if you tried out in the bar.”

“That ain’t very friendly of you. Mr Roney – an’ friendly’s the way you should be.” He crossed his legs and leaned back in the leather chair. His thin mouth split in a grin. His eyes were in the shadows, and I wondered if the desk lamp was responsible for the illusion of pointed teeth.

“We’ll go on with friendship,” I told him, “after you tell me who you are.” The fact that this was my office, and that the man was sitting in my favorite chair – these things were annoying but bearable.

He said, “My name’s Sampson, fella. I work for a guy named McGuire.”

“I’ve heard of him,” I said carefully. “What do you want?”

“That’s easy,” said Sampson. “McGuire wants to rent a little space for you.”

I said, “He doesn’t have to rent it. He can walk in and take a table at any restaurant in the chain. That’s the way the restaurant business is. It’s open to all the public. You can’t keep anybody out.”

“That’s why the setup looks so good,” Sampson said. “People walk in and out all day. Nothing suspicious there. And you got a fair-sized chain: you’re makin’ plenty of money. The way McGuire’s got it figured, we get the nod from you, an’ then in the back of each and every eatery, we plant a bookie joint.”

I laughed, thinking of McGuire’s reputation. I said. “A bookie joint, and a shop for receiving stolen goods, and maybe a little dope mill to one side. We could get modernistic showcases for attractive displays of heroin and cocaine.”

The friendliness went out of Sampson’s snarl. He said, “McGuire don’t mess with dope.”

“That isn’t the way I heard it,” I said. “But that’s your business. Tell your boss the answer’s no.”

He got up. Standing, he was not quite so small as he had seemed slumped down in the chair. But he was thin, and shorter than I. He had a lean and pointed face. “That ain’t the answer I came for,” he said. “I brought you a business proposition, an’ before you even talk about it, you’re giving me a no.”

“McGuire and I can’t do business,” I said. “I don’t want any part of McGuire.”

“You want to remember,” the little man said, “you’re doin’ good now, doin’ fine. The way I hear it, you came up fast. Now you got a big chain of swell hash joints. But you always want to remember, you can go down the same way you came up.”

I smiled, but I wasn’t amused. I said, “I built Roney Restaurants with a little luck and one hell of a lot of hard work. When I go down, it’ll be my fault. It won’t be because I let some punk of McGuire’s tell me what to do.”

The little man came forward, rolling a little as he walked. His hands were at his sides. He said, “You shouldn’t done that, Roney. You shouldn’t call people punks.”

I was tired. I had been through a long, hard day. Sure I liked the work. But managing a chain of restaurants isn’t something to soothe the nerves, nor was the harsh voice of Sampson doing anything to help. The man came forward, and when he was close enough, I reached with my left hand and grabbed his coat lapels.

Sampson said, “Let’s go, or I’ll—”

My right hand caught him across the mouth. Then, as he pawed frantically to reach his shoulder holster, I backed him against the wall near the door, belting him each time he opened his mouth.

When he clamped his mouth tightly and no longer cursed or talked, I stopped slapping him and reached in and took the gun.

Stepping back, I withdrew the clip, and ejected the shell from the chamber. Then I held out the gun to Sampson, “Next time,” I said, “bring two. You can see one isn’t enough.”

He said nothing. He just stood there, looking at me. There was something about his eyes; it seemed as if a film had come over them. He watched me through a thin, gray veil.

I tossed the gun, and Sampson caught it. He slipped it inside his coat, and although it was no longer loaded, he kept his hand on the butt. It seemed to give him strength.

“When you check with your boss,” I said, “don’t forget the answer’s no.”

Sampson nodded, and then the flood of words came out. “I’ll tell him, tough boy. But there’s one mistake you made. With me, before, it was business. Either way you took it, it wasn’t anything to me. Before, it was just business. But you made it personal now.” He smiled, and a little trickle of blood came from his split lip and ran down his narrow chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand, and turned, and went out the door.

I chuckled, watching him go. The day was gone when a punk like that could hurt me or my restaurants. I had built a secure business, with a good reputation. It never occurred to me that the matter was serious enough to report to the police.

That was Saturday night, and nothing happened Sunday, except that my housekeeper came about noon with the news that she was quitting. No, it was nothing about the job. She liked keeping house for me, but her sister was sick, the one in New Orleans, and she had to go there for a while.

I phoned a cab for the woman, and watched her go with no particular regret. She hadn’t been with me long, and her management of me and my household affairs was nothing that couldn’t be duplicated by merely phoning an employment agency the first thing Monday morning.

As it turned out, I didn’t even have to do that. My problem was solved when the doorbell rang late Sunday afternoon. I got up and went to the door.

The girl said, “Good afternoon. I’m looking for Mr Roney.”

I said, “How do you do? Won’t you come in?” I tried to place her – waitress, hostess, entertainer. She could be any of these. She went ahead of me into the living room, a slim girl, yet padded nicely. I could tell it wasn’t the suit. She sat when I offered a chair, but when I offered a drink, she said, “Before I get too comfortable, perhaps I’d better tell you – I came about the job.”

“Job?” I said. I had a personnel man who took care of hiring the restaurant help. Furthermore, there was nothing about this girl that made you think of a person who wanted a job.

“I knew Mrs Ferguson slightly,” the girl said. “She told me she was leaving, and suggested you might be hiring another housekeeper.”

I opened my mouth slightly and stared at her.

She smiled, “It’s not as silly as it sounds, Mr Roney. Incidentally, my name’s Elaine Watkins.”

There was, I supposed, no reason why a housekeeper had to be old and homely. On the other hand . . . I said, “Miss Watkins, have you ever been a housekeeper before? Do you know what housekeepers make?”

“Mrs Ferguson said you paid two hundred. I’m sure that would be all right with me, if you think I’d be satisfactory.”

“Have you tried keeping house before?”

“No . . . I’m afraid if it’s references you want, I won’t be able to give them. I’ve been a model up until now.”

I leaned back in my chair. “And you’d give that up to keep house?”

“Why not?” She was laughing at me.

“Doesn’t it pay more? Don’t you find it’s more interesting work?”

She turned brisk now. “Mr Roney, have you any idea what a model makes?”

“None at all,” I said.

“A few hundred in the entire country make a real living. But for every one of these there are a hundred who are lucky if they get enough to eat. I’ve been at it for more than a year now. I’ve averaged about twenty a week.”

I smiled. “I’m beginning to see your point.”

She got up and loosened her jacket. I said, “Well, I suppose there’s no reason why a man’s housekeeper has to be hideous, though I’m sure you’ll be something of a shock to the girl I’m going to marry, and to the wives of some of my friends.”

“I’ll do my hair plain,” Elaine Watkins said. “I’ll put it up in a bun.”

I said, “Whatever you like, Miss Watkins. I’ll show you to your room.”

2. Spare Corpse

That evening, after I’d showered, I found a change of clothing laid out for me, though I had not told Miss Watkins I was going out. Downstairs, there were ice cubes ready on the bar, and beside them a bottle of my favorite Scotch. When I asked about the clothing, Elaine Watkins smiled.

“I checked your date book,” she said, “the one near the telephone. It said ‘dinner with Lola,’ so I assumed you’d need some clothes.”

“And the Scotch?” I asked.

“You have three cases on hand,” she said dryly. “Either you’re very fond of it, or else you’d like to use it up.”

I said, “Genius, Miss Watkins. Pure genius . . . Look, I won’t be home until late. Why don’t you take the night off?”

“Tomorrow, perhaps,” she said carelessly. “Tonight I’ve too much to do.”

I said goodbye and went out, savoring the pleasant warmth of the Scotch, and congratulating myself on having hired this girl who, unless I was very wrong, would run my house like a charm.

The pleasant feeling that everything was going well stayed with me all through dinner with Lola Grashin. We were lingering over coffee and cigarettes at Mauri Malcolm’s club, and I was just where I wanted to be. I didn’t want to own the world. Just a small piece of the town was enough.

I looked at the girl I was going to marry. Wide gray eyes, soft now, but they could shine with swift intelligence. The kind of a figure meant for display, but Lola had too much class to display it conspicuously.

I touched the ring in my pocket and said, “Darling, I’ve something for you – a little thing to celebrate the fact that the dock-workers went out on strike today.”

She looked puzzled. “Are you interested in the longshoreman’s union?”

“No,” I said, laughing. “But I’m the foresighted lad who bought enough pineapple to last for six months.”

“That’s good?” Lola asked.

“It’s perfect. Either the competition quits serving pineapple, or else they buy it from me. Either way, I’m sitting pretty.”

She said, “You always are.” She said it thoughtfully, but I wasn’t paying much attention. My mind was moving ahead, deciding what to say.

There was no point in trying for a fancy phrase. I said simply, “I want to marry you, Lola.”

For a moment, I thought she hadn’t heard. She was looking the other way. I said, “Lola—”

“I heard you, Dick.” Her voice was sad. “And I suppose I love you. But that doesn’t change anything.”

I said, “What—”

“Let me finish, Dick. I’m afraid I couldn’t live with a person who was always, unfailingly, right. Of course I know how hard you’ve worked to get where you are today. And I think it’s admirable, truly. I’ve thought about it often. And it isn’t that you’re conceited. It’s merely that you’re so damned smug.”

“The pineapple?” I said, grinning.

“As much as anything,” she answered. “You managed to link your proposal with a boast about how you cornered the market.”

I looked at her hands. They were gripping her purse, and now she picked up her gloves. I said, “But, Lola – I don’t make many mistakes. Not now. Sure, I made plenty as a kid. But I’ve learned—”

She stood up, and I stopped talking.

“Phone me,” she said quietly, “when a couple of tarnished spots show up on the golden boy.” She moved away from the table, and I stood there, watching her go. I knew better than to follow. She wasn’t a girl to run because she wanted to be pursued.

When she had gone, I sat thinking. At first I was stunned. I had known Lola long enough to realize that the thing between us was more than a passing emotion. Then, as I thought about it, I realized that our feeling for each other was certainly mutual. And if she felt as strongly as I did, why then, she would change her mind.

Feeling more cheerful, I chalked up her conduct as a feminine whim. The waiter brought another drink, and I sat alone at the table, looking around the club.

Across the room I could see Mauri Malcolm, the club owner. He was chatting lightly with the patrons and at the same time trying to estimate the evening’s take.

The thought of Mauri’s expenses made me quite cheerful again. Inwardly, I congratulated myself. I had expanded with more restaurants instead of doing what most restaurant owners did. Malcolm could have the headaches that went with this smart supper club.

I scanned the room. Two thirds of the tables were filled, but I knew that wasn’t enough. I had seen the fixed smile nightclub owners get just before their baby folds. Mauri Malcolm was wearing it now.

I got back the feeling I’d had earlier. I was Dick Roney, thirty-six. No debts. A large bank balance, and the loveliest girl in the world who would change her mind as soon as . . .

I saw the other girl. Mauri Malcolm was bending over her table with the special smile he reserved for beautiful women.

I pushed back my chair, got up and circled the dance floor. The girl in organdy did not look in my direction. She was leaving the room. I caught up with her in the heavily carpeted hall. Here, close up, she looked even more like Elaine Watkins, and so I said, “Miss Watkins!” in a loud tone, and waited for her to turn.

She did, but it was obvious from her cool stare that she’d turned because of my voice, and not because of the name. She looked through me with an expression that said she didn’t know me and didn’t care to. Then she went into the powder room, and the door swung shut in my face.

I went back to my table, trying to seem poised and at ease. But I imagine I had the hang-dog look of a heel who had just made an unsuccessful pass at another man’s wife.

Shortly after that, I paid the check and ambled out of the club. The Century bar was down the street, and I picked up two more drinks there.

But somehow, I couldn’t relax. It wasn’t my night to be out on the town. Something – my anxiety about my housekeeper – was urging me to go home.

I went, driving with unconscious haste. At the house, I put the car away, and entered very quietly. Just inside, I paused and listened, then walked toward the housekeeper’s room.

Elaine Watkins was in bed. I saw that by the light of the street lamp that shone through the open window. The covers were well down from her shoulders, and the filmy, shadowy fabric of her nightgown was rising and falling as she breathed. The tempo was regular, almost hypnotic. It was, I realized, high time I got out of there.

Moving quietly down the hall, I turned the thing over in my mind. Either the girl had come in early, or she had not gone out at all. There was, of course, no reason why my housekeeper should not spend her evenings at Mauri Malcolm’s club. I knew Malcolm slightly. We had been business rivals before Malcolm sold a group of three restaurants to plunge more heavily on the nightclub.

Malcolm was as honest as any businessman, and there was no reason why the girl shouldn’t know him. There was also no reason, as far as I was concerned, why a model should not accept expensive clothing – if that was the life she wanted. But models who wanted that life did not take jobs as housekeepers. Not for two hundred a month.

Entering the library, I switched on the light and headed for the sideboard. Mixing a drink, I thought of Lola. I’d phone her early tomorrow and straighten everything out.

I turned, sipping from the tall glass, enjoying it and the soft play of light on the polished wood. The lighting was subdued, and that too added something to my feeling of quiet peace. This was the place to come back to, the house for a man who had everything. Here, in my own home, even the shadows were warm and friendly.

Except for the new shadow. It was one I had never noticed before. There was, in fact, no reason why it should be there behind the wing-backed chair.

I moved. The shadow did not. I took a long, deep pull on my drink and held the glass in my hand, as I knelt to inspect the body.

Then I stood up and switched on a floor lamp. The man on the floor was Mauri Malcolm. He had been shot in the head.

I listened, and there were no sounds. All through the house there was still the same silence that had, only a moment before, given a feeling of peace.

Then, very loud in the stillness, a phone dial whirred in another room. Walking softly, I followed the sound.

I went through the hall to my bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. Shoving gently, I opened it.

My housekeeper was sitting on my bed. She was wearing the same transparent nightgown I had seen when I came in. Over it she had donned an equally transparent wrapper.

“Yes!” she was saying. “It was Mr Roney! I was asleep and they awoke me up with their quarreling. Then I looked in and saw Mr Roney fire the gun, and—”

“Wait a minute!” I yelled. I crossed the room and snatched the phone from her hand. “Hello. Who am I talking to?”

“Sergeant Pound, Police. Who are you?”

“I’m Dick Roney. And I don’t know what ails this woman, but I certainly haven’t killed anybody.”

The sergeant said in a tired voice, “But somebody has been shot?”

“Yes, a man by the name of Malcolm. I just found him on the floor.”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t move him. We’ll be there right away.”

I put down the phone. The girl had moved to the other side of the room, and she was standing with her back to the dresser, watching me without fear.

I said, “I ought to slap you silly. What kind of a tale is that you just spouted into the phone?” I took a forward step.

She said, “Keep away, Mr Roney. If it wasn’t you, it looked like you.”

My mind spun back over the evening. Not anything I could think of helped me to add things up. “There are some things I’d like to know,” I said, “before the police get here. For example, what were you doing at Malcolm’s club earlier this evening? I seen you talking to him, and then I find him on my floor.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been out of the house.”

“We’ll skip the question of why a girl like you wanted to keep house for me. We’ll let that go for a moment. But tell me this: If you saw me murder a man, what made you stick around to use the phone? Why didn’t you run outside?”

“Why should I? I’m not afraid of you.”

I snorted. “You ought to be. If you’re framing me for one murder, you ought to know the price is the same for two.” I held my eyes on hers, and watched some trace of fear move like a small shadow over her face.

Someone said from the doorway, “A bargain, too.”

I spun to face the voice. I saw the gun, and the man behind it, the little man I’d met in my office. The man McGuire had sent. I glimpsed the quick show of pointed teeth, saw the flash of the gun, heard its sharp explosion.

It was a second before I realized that the bullet had been for the girl.

She went down with a throaty sigh, crumpling with soft grace. Filmy cloth fanned out around her as she lay motionless on the floor.

I waited for the slug to crash into my body, found myself wanting to close my eyes. I kept them open. The little man wiped the gun with his handkerchief, then tossed it on the floor.

I was calculating the distance, ready to try a quick dive for the weapon, when the man called Sampson drew another gun.

“Leave it there,” he said. The second gun looked enormous in his small hand.

“You use a different gun for each killing?” I asked. “It must run to a lot of expense.”

The little man ignored the crack. He was grinning, looking as happy as a man could look with so tiny and wizened a face. “You look good,” he said suddenly. “You look wonderful – all tacked up in a three-sided frame.”

“You’re crazy,” I said. “You think the police will buy this story?”

“They’ll buy it,” he said. “Only I won’t be here to tell it. They’ll get it straight from you.”

“You know what I’ll tell them, don’t you?” I moved slightly toward him, stopped when he jerked the gun.

“Keep back,” he said. “I don’t really want to shoot you before you have time to enjoy the frame. I’d rather have you fry for murder. That way you have plenty of time to remember who you slapped.”

“I should have slapped you harder,” I said. “How could the police think I killed these people? What motive would I have?”

“You knocked off the dame,” said Sampson, “because she saw you murder Malcolm. She said so on the phone.”

“And Malcolm?”

The little man shrugged easily. “You were business competitors,” he said. “You know how these things go.”

I glanced at the clock. The police ought to be arriving now. If I could keep Sampson here, keep him talking . . . I said. “All right. You’re sore at me because I kicked you out of my office. But Malcolm – what did you have against him?”

“He was another wise lad who didn’t want to do business. But, in a way, he got off easy, on account of – he had sense enough not to slap anybody around, like you did.”

I thought of Malcolm, dead in the library, Malcolm who had gotten off easy. I swung my eyes to the crumpled girl. “What about her?” I asked.

“What about her?” Sampson lifted his shoulders. “She was just a greedy gertie. She wasn’t nobody’s doll.” Sirens wailed in the distance. Sampson cocked an attentive ear. “Be seein’ you,” he said, “If you think it’ll do you any good, you can mention me and McGuire.” He backed out the door and was gone.

I jumped toward the gun on the floor, stopped myself when it was inches from my hand. If McGuire and this little hood had set out to frame me, it wouldn’t be a clumsy job. For one thing, Sampson had wiped the butt of the gun. If it was the same gun he’d brought to my office, then my fingerprints could still be on the barrel, McGuire and Sampson would be able to account for all of their movements this night. They would have the best alibis money could buy. And as my mind slipped desperately from point to point, I knew McGuire would have covered them, too.

The sound of sirens ceased. That meant the police were nearing the house. I looked once more at the girl on the floor, the girl who was nobody’s doll. With a little corner of my mind, I wondered what kind of a life she had wanted, what her ambitions had been. I moved quickly to the window, climbed through, and dropped into the garden at the rear of the house.

From somewhere across the lawn, someone said, “All right, Roney. Stick around.”

I hesitated, conscious that the upper half of my body was silhouetted neatly against the lighted window at my back. I stood frozen for just an instant. Then I dove over the hedge.

I went through it, feeling the tearing grip of the branches, and behind me I heard the light, quick thud of feet running on damp sod.

“Roney! You damn fool – hold it! Don’t make me plug you, boy!” Pug Lester’s exasperated plea turned into a string of curses as he crashed into the hedge.

Racing along the dark lane that flanked the rear of the garden, I was thankful for that hedge. I was also grateful to Lester, for I was aware that he could easily have shot me as I stood at the window, again as I ran across the lawn. I owed Lester a hearty thank you which I meant to deliver some time. Some time, but not just now.

3. The Slaughter Syndicate

The night went by in a series of terrifyingly close encounters – with prowl cars and policemen, individuals who came out of shadowy corners, asking me for matches. I walked until dawn. There wasn’t any place I dared go, and walking helped me think.

I didn’t like my thoughts. Walking lonely and afraid, I had time to remember what Lola had said about my smugness. I was a boy with a stranglehold on the world. Nothing could ever go wrong. She hadn’t wanted to marry a guy whose life ran on well-oiled wheels. I wondered, with some bitterness, if she’d like me better now that I faced two murder raps.

Then honesty forced me to admit it. I wouldn’t be walking alone right now if I hadn’t felt so secure. Any fool, after the first interview with the little gunman, would have gone to the police.

These were the things I was thinking as I slunk along the dismal streets.

In the morning, I bought a shave in a neighborhood barber shop. It made me feel better, but as I walked out into the sunlight, I still had not decided what to do.

I called police headquarters from a public phone and asked for Pug Lester.

The lieutenant said, “Lester speaking,” mechanically, as if he had many things on his mind.

“This is Roney, Lieutenant.”

“Ah!” said Pug Lester. “Where are you now?”

“In town. But I’m thinking of leaving. I phoned to tell you I’m sorry about last night.”

“No trouble at all,” Lester said grimly. “I need the exercise. May I suggest that you get the hell down here as fast as you can?”

“I’ll be in,” I said vaguely, “sooner or later. But I’ve got a few things to do.”

There was a silence. That would be Pug Lester’s hand clamping tight on the mouthpiece while he detailed someone in the office to trace the call.

I said sharply, “Don’t send anyone after me, Pug. I won’t be here when they come.”

There was a pause. “What else can I do?” Lester said. “Why don’t you come in? Isn’t that why you called?”

“No,” I said slowly. “I was hoping that you’d found out who killed those people. I had no reason to, you know.”

“Look,” Pug Lester said. “The dame said she saw you kill Malcolm. She said that over the phone.”

“But why should I kill Malcolm? I knew him only slightly.”

“That isn’t what the letters say.”

“What letters?” I asked blankly

“Correspondence between you and Malcolm. We found a couple of his letters in your files – a couple of yours in his. If you kids were fond of each other, you were certainly talking tough.”

“But I never . . .” Then I realized the futility of denial. “Are you sure they’re genuine?”

Pug said, “Me? I’m sure of nothing. The boys in the lab are still working, but they seem to like the signatures well enough.”

I stared out through the glass door of the phone booth. The air seemed suddenly stifling. I was holding the phone like a man in a trance.

Pug Lester said sharply. “Roney! You still there? Don’t hang up on me, Roney! I want to talk to you!”

The urgency in the lieutenant’s voice brought me to my senses. I realized suddenly how long we had been talking. Lester would certainly have the call traced, and the police would arrive at any moment. Indeed, they might well be here right now. I hung up the phone and drifted out of the booth.

The ancient druggist eyed me without particular interest as I moved out into the street. At the corner I caught a streetcar, but I had no feeling of safety until, after a mile on the trolley, I changed to a cross-town bus.

The ride seemed to clear my head, and I found myself able to think. McGuire and Sampson had fitted me with a frame, which, if not perfect, was at least good enough to cause the public to hold and try me for murder. True, it might not stand up under careful investigation, but I disliked the idea of taking up residence in a death cell on the off chance that Pug Lester or some other enterprising detective would come along and kick me out.

Having rejected the services of the police, I felt the loneliness pressing in upon me. In a few short hours, I, Dick Roney, had become a furtive, frightened thing who dared not pause for rest.

I set out to find McGuire. It took longer than you’d think. It meant making discreet inquiries in several bookmaking establishments. It meant watching men’s eyes drift far off the moment I mentioned the name.

Finally, as I was leaving a south-side bar, a heavy-set man stepped out from the wall of the building. He looked so much like a detective, I was tempted to run. But the man was blocking the way. Neither of us said anything while the man thoughtfully brought out a match and bit off the end.

Then he said, “Understand you’re looking for McGuire?”

I said, “I was.” Then I remembered that the man had not been in the bar. “How did you know?” I added.

“We heard.” He moved toward a car at the curb. Opening one door for me, he circled lazily and climbed in under the wheel. “Let’s go,” he said.

I hesitated, then I realized that McGuire was my one wild chance. I climbed in and slammed the door. The car went forward in a sighing rush.

McGuire’s place ran to spacious, quiet reception rooms. The furniture in the offices ran into heavy dough. The receptionist looked like something in a social register, and McGuire looked like the most successful member of the bar association.

He didn’t rise when I came in, but a slight smile furnished the illusion of pleasantness, and a curt nod dismissed my escort. The heavy-set man nodded briskly and backed out through the door.

I stood easily on the soft, thick pile of the carpet, and when I saw Sampson watching from a corner of the room, I said, “Well! My little friend.”

Sampson let it pass. McGuire’s gray eyes rested on me thoughtfully. When he spoke, his deep, cultured voice went well with his surroundings. His face was handsome, almost noble. An international banker would have been proud to own his suit.

“Forgive me,” McGuire said, “if I seem to stare at you. When I heard you were trying to find me, I knew I was going to meet an unusual man.”

“That’s damned nice of you,” I said. “But I’m afraid you’ll find I’m a pretty standard guy, or I was until yesterday.”

“No,” McGuire corrected. “The average man would not have come here.”

“Would’ve had more sense,” said Sampson.

“Can’t you keep him quiet?” I asked.

“If you prefer. However, there is some truth in what he says.” McGuire stood up. “I’m afraid my schedule is pretty crowded. You’re here – now, what do you want?”

“A chair,” I said. I chose one fairly close to the desk, sat down with my legs sprawled out. “Tired,” I explained. “I’ve been walking.” I hoped they wouldn’t notice how nervous I was if I pretended to own the joint.

Sampson said, “You might as well walk while you can.”

I looked appealingly at McGuire. “He’s talking again,” I complained. “And every time he opens his mouth, one of us loses money.”

McGuire sat down. “Would it take you very long,” he asked, “to tell up why you came?”

“I would have come when you first invited me,” I said, “if you’d sent anyone but this little clown.”

Sampson sprang up and moved to the desk “How about it, Mac?” he said. “How’s if I slap this loud-mouth around, then feed him to the cops?”

“You see what I mean?” I said mildly. “The boy has too much bounce.”

McGuire wasn’t looking at Sampson. He said. “Let’s get on with it, Roney.”

“All right. Put it this way. What do you hope to gain by having me take the rap for two murders?”

“Let’s assume,” said McGuire, “that I know what you’re talking about – which I don’t. Then the answer is, I gain nothing.”

“And you call yourself a businessman?”

“I am a businessman,” said McGuire. “I sent a man to you with a proposition which you refused. I have no further interest in you or your affairs.”

“Here’s a proposition for you,” I said.

“Go on.”

“Call off your dogs, and get what you wanted in the first place – a branch office for your syndicate in each of my restaurants.”

McGuire looked at me, cool and amused. “It’s likely I’ll get that anyway,” he said. “Not from you, but from your successor.”

I let my eyes move from one to the other – McGuire, suave and superior; Sampson’s pinched face full of hatred, but with something in it of smugness. That, I guessed, would be about as close to a happy expression as the little hood could manage. In Sampson’s mind, this meeting probably came under the heading of watching the sucker squirm.

I said, “You know who my successor is?”

McGuire shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I manage to do business with most people.”

“With the Paramount Insurance Company? If I’m out of the picture, management of the chain reverts to a holding company owned by them.”

Something flickered in McGuire’s eyes, but his face remained bland and smooth.

“You’re big, McGuire,” I said, “but I doubt if you’re big enough to tamper with Paramount Insurance. With their own investigators and the political pressure they could bring to bear, the outfit would run you silly.”

Sampson said, “You heard enough of this, boss.”

“Gag him,” I said impatiently. “Listen, McGuire. There may be some people you don’t need, but I’m not one of them.”

“This is all very interesting,” said McGuire, “and sounds in spots rather unfortunate. But what do you suggest?”

I smiled. “Are we talking openly?” I asked. “Can we assume we all know I’m in a frame?”

“Let’s assume that for the moment,” said McGuire.

Sampson jeered, “How do you like the fit?”

McGuire said, “What’s your suggestion, Roney?”

I grinned. “Enlarge the frame. It ought to fit someone else – in fact, I have a pigeon in mind.”

Narrowing his eyes, McGuire said, “Let us look at this thing for a moment. Yesterday you were too honest to want a syndicate branch in your restaurants. Today you are perfectly willing to frame a man for murder. Isn’t this something of a change?”

I said, “Not as much as you might think. As your stooge here has said, I came up fast. A man in a hurry almost always resorts to – let us say – expedients. Also,” I forced a smile, “I’d be something of a fool if I were not slightly swayed by the pressure you’ve applied.”

“Anything else?” McGuire said tonelessly. I could tell nothing from his voice.

“Money,” I said. “I have always been open to suggestions that would help me make more. Only” – I pointed to Sampson – “I did resent your sending this jerk with a business proposition.”

Sampson said desperately, “McGuire, don’t let this guy—”

“The purpose of this organization,” McGuire said coldly, “is to make money. All other considerations are secondary. Try to remember that – as long as you are working for me.”

Sampson returned to his chair.

“As I said,” I began, “I have a man in mind a man who will have no alibi. He was home alone when Malcolm and the girl were killed.”

McGuire said, “His motive?”

I thought of the girl crumpled pathetically on the floor of my bedroom. I put the thought out of my mind. “Love,” I said. “And revenge. The girl was his, and when he found her at my house with Malcolm, he blew his top and killed them both.”

Sampson snorted. “He’d have to be a dope to fit that picture.”

“He is,” I answered quietly. “He’s a slob.”

McGuire said, “Sampson’s right. If your man has any brains, he can wriggle out.”

“He hasn’t any,” I said. “But why don’t you look him over? I can arrange a meeting tonight.”

McGuire said nothing for a moment. His eyes seem to turn inward, inspecting possible gain and loss. When he looked at me again, it was obvious he had made up his mind.

“What time,” he said, “and where?”

“Ten tonight,” I said. “His apartment’s Number 7, at 210 West Nautilus. I’ll see that he’s there.” I got up, and my shaking legs reluctantly held my weight. Not until then did I know how much I’d been afraid. “See you then,” I said.

“Roney.”

“Yeah.”

“Before you go – remember. Don’t play it too smart. Compared to some ways I know, the chair can be an easy way to die.”

“I believe you.” I said soberly. I glanced at Sampson.

The little man said softly, “I almost hope something does go wrong, so I can get one more crack at you.”

I let it go. I said, “Thanks for your time, McGuire. I think you’ll find it’s worth it.”

“I hope so,” McGuire answered. His cold gray eyes bored into mine. “I get very upset, Roney, when it turns out I’ve made a mistake. What’s this fellow’s name?”

“Lester,” I said. “George Lester.” I watched the two of them. Neither did a take. I got out of there in a hurry and headed for a phone.

4. Date with Death

Pug Lester’s voice came coldly over the wire. Outside the booth I could see the waitress behind the counter, methodically chewing her gum. Lester was saying, “What about it, bright boy? When are you coming in?”

“I’d rather meet you,” I said.

“All right,” he said shortly. “Say where.”

“Your apartment. Ten o’clock tonight.”

“My apartment,” he repeated. “Why there? We’ve got some business, boy – remember? This won’t be a social call.”

I said, “Pug, I’m going to ask for the biggest favor you ever did any man.”

“Go on,” Pug Lester said.

“I want you to remove anything from your apartment that would indicate you’re a cop. Pictures. Pistol trophies. All that kind of stuff.”

“And then?” Pug said without warmth.

“At ten, I come in with some friends. You play dumb. You’re not a cop. You sell – coffee. Sure. Coffee’s good enough.” I stopped talking. The waitress in the coffee shop was craning her neck for a better view, idly trying for a better view of something out on the street.

I said sharply. “Pug, you still there?”

“Yeah,” he said, “but, I dunno—”

The waitress nodded lazily, and then Sampson came into view. He had seen me, and he was grinning as he headed for the phone booth.

I said, “Pug! I can’t talk any more!”

There was a long silence. I held the receiver against my ear while Sampson came right up to the booth and pressed his face against the glass. Then Pug Lester’s voice said, “Okay, Roney. See you at ten.”

I said, “Fine,” and hung up the phone.

“What’s fine?” Sampson said, as I opened the door.

I said, “My girl still loves me. What are you doing here?”

“Trailing you,” he said promptly. “You left so fast I had trouble picking you up.”

“You might have had more trouble,” I told him. “Sometimes, after I talk to my girl, I take off like a jet plane.”

Sampson patted his shoulder holster. “Why don’t you try it?” he said softly.

There was no point in bickering with the little gunman. I said, “Look, Sampson. I’ve got to keep off the streets. Haven’t you got a place to stay? You could save wear and tear on your feet, and I could phone McGuire.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Come on.”

He took me to a fancy apartment that looked like a chorus girl’s dream. We stayed there all through the afternoon and evening. At 9:45, McGuire’s chauffeur rang and said McGuire was waiting downstairs in his car. We didn’t keep him waiting. We went down right away.

Pug Lester’s apartment was on the second floor of an old house that had submitted to remodeling. Pug Lester let us in, and, when I inspected the living room, I saw nothing that would indicate a police officer lived in the place. There were several light patches on the walls where pictures had been removed, and I was grateful to the detective for attending to this detail.

Pug closed the door behind us, and went back to the chair. His fat cheeks almost hid his eyes as he sat there, looking up. “Scuse me,” he said, “if I seem to sit down. I had a busy day.”

Sampson said nothing; he remained standing to one side of the apartment door, wary and unconvinced.

McGuire went to Pug Lester, and stood, eyeing the fat man critically. “He looks stupid enough,” he said finally.

Pug Lester said lazily, “You boys playin’ some kind of a joke?”

“A little one,” said McGuire. “You can play too. Know where you were last night?”

“Right here,” Pug Lester said, “mostly.”

“Anyone with you?”

“Nope, I was all alone.” Pug Lester sighed heavily, and his eyes opened wide enough for me to see the impatience in their depths.

Suddenly, I knew it would not go off as planned. Pug Lester, with me there before him, was not going to wait through a lot of what to him was aimless talk. In that same moment I realized that my position had not changed. McGuire and Sampson could walk out. The detective would have no reason to hold them. That would leave me where I began – with a ticket for the chair.

For a second time that day, I cursed myself for a chump. If I had given Lester some idea of what I was doing, my chances would have been better. Right now my chances were zero. I knew Pug wasn’t going to wait.

Into the silence, I said. “What about it? Think he’ll do?”

McGuire swung his head impatiently. “We’ll see,” he said. “Let’s not hurry.”

Pug Lester said, “Do for what?”

“You had a girl,” I said, talking desperately, “who sometimes called herself Elaine Watkins. It was a secret thing – nobody knew. And the reason you killed her and Malcolm was jealousy – an old reason, but always good. Malcolm was taking your girl away, and you, a coffee salesman, couldn’t compete with him.” I glanced at McGuire. The gambling czar was frowning at my awkward pitch. I looked back at Pug Lester.

The detective’s chins were pleated on his neck. His mouth was open slightly. He said, “What’re you tryin’ to do, Roney? Cop an insanity plea?”

Nothing moved in the room. I grinned tautly, thinking of McGuire’s bewilderment. It was not easy to frame pigeons who talk about copping a plea.

Then McGuire said, “Sampson!”

The little gunman seemed to flick a hand at his lapel, and then the gun was in his hand. He swung it slowly, saying nothing, letting his lips draw back from his teeth.

“That wasn’t smart of you,” McGuire said softly. “It wasn’t bright of either of you. In fact, if I were asked to say what had caused your death, I should have to say stupidity.”

Pug Lester said placidly, “You mean you’re going to kill him and me too?” His small nod included me.

McGuire inclined his head. “I’m afraid Sampson will insist.”

“Just askin’,” Pug Lester said.

I thought, but I couldn’t be sure, that one of Lester’s plump hands brought the gun up from under the cushion. It was a large gun, a 45. It made a hellish roar in the room, and it blew out a section of Sampson’s head.

The slender little hood made no noise as he fell forward on the worn carpet.

McGuire lunged at me. I spun away to avoid being used as a shield. As I whirled, I clipped McGuire on the side of the head.

The man stepped back nimbly. He was far from soft, I observed – probably kept in condition by handball and boxing at his club. I moved toward him, carrying my hands low, swinging precisely. McGuire gave ground slowly, dodging and weaving. Then, abruptly, he landed a straight left that snapped my head back, followed it with a right cross that drove me to the floor.

Falling, with the pink mist in front of my eyes, I could see Pug Lester still sitting in the chair. The mist was still there, but some of it went away when I bounced on the carpet. Digging my nails into the short pile, I hauled myself to my feet.

McGuire came in again, and I had to shake my head to get his image clearly. Then I saw the smooth pink face, red now, and fiercely contorted. One of McGuire’s fists lashed along my cheek.

I took a deep and shuddering breath. Then, with both arms pumping, I began a slow walk forward. McGuire’s blows were landing freely, but I didn’t feel them now. The pink haze was all around me, and in the middle of it a face danced and bobbed, a face that sometimes blended with the haze, but was redder, and could therefore be seen.

The face went away. I stood swaying waiting for the haze to dissolve.

It was clearing, and from somewhere off to my left, Pug Lester was speaking to me.

“I figured you’d want to do that,” Pug Lester said. “I figured you had it coming.”

I shook my head, and then I could see the floor. McGuire was lying there, and as I watched him groggily, he rolled over and staggered to his feet.

I brought my hands up, but I knew they wouldn’t be any good against the heavy ashtray clutched in McGuire’s hand.

McGuire was drawing back for a swing when Pug Lester’s gun barrel caught him and sent him down for the count.

“Let me,” Pug Lester said. “I get paid, you know – and I like to earn my keep.”

I heard myself say, “Thanks, Lieutenant,” and my voice seemed far away. I found myself thinking of Pug’s lonely life, and of the girl who had been a greedy gertie, the one who’d been nobody’s doll. She might have made a wife for Pug if things had been some other way.

Pug said, “Hey, boy. You all right?”

I said, “I wonder if she could cook?”

“Golden boy,” Pug said, “you look mottled. You’re all washed up for the day.”

I shook my head and the haze dissolved. “Where’s your phone?” I asked Pug. He pointed, and stood by while I dialed Lola Grashin’s number. “Gotta tell a girl a story,” I said. “Back me up, and I’ll buy you a steak.”

His mouth had begun to water by the time Lola said hello.