The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction

PALE HANDS I LOATHED William Campbell Gault

We were doing all right, Norah and I. We’d been married three years, but the honeymoon wasn’t over. With us, the honeymoon should last forever, we figured at the time.

I was a police reporter for the Star, and on that beat you meet a lot of people, none of them likely to bolster your faith in human nature. It was Norah who did that for me. It was Norah I turned to every night for a renewal of the faith, as they say. Besides all that, she could cook. Not many like her, none like her. None I’ve met, at any rate.

We had a small home, out in Shore Hills, and a small nest egg in the First National, and a small heir in the rear bedroom named John Baldwin Shea, Jr. We had about everything we wanted except a new car, and cars just weren’t available.

Maybe we were beginning to get smug. Maybe we had too much.

This June Drexel angle was routine enough, at first. She was a witness in the Peckham divorce mess, and I happened to run across her in the DA’s office. I’d taken her out, quite a few times, in high school. The way she acted, in the DA’s office, it looked to the others, I’ll bet, as though I’d never stopped taking her out.

“Johnny dear,” she asked, “have you come to rescue me?”

I blushed, and stammered, “Hello, June,” and tried to ignore the laugh I was getting from the other reporters.

The DA looked at me sharply. He was trying to get some dope on Peckham from June; the divorce to him was only incidental.

June sighed, and said, “Johnny and I were such good friends.”

The DA said, “I won’t be needing you any more, Miss Drexel.” And to the reporters, “That’s all, boys.”

We started to file out, when he called, “Would you mind waiting a moment, Shea?”

I closed the door and came back. I was probably still blushing. He had a smile on his broad face. “That’s where the Star gets its copy on Peckham, is it?” he asked.

We’d been running a campaign on municipal building graft, and Peckham’s name had been mentioned frequently. “Hell, no,” I said. “I haven’t seen that babe since high school. If I never see her again, it’s OK with me.”

He was smirking now. “Let’s not be modest, Johnny. You’re not a bad-looking guy, you know. You’re right in there, pitching, aren’t you?”

I shook my head. I was beginning to get hot. “I’m happily married. That’s the way I intend to stay. She was just trying to embarrass me, and through me, the Star. She’s no dummy.”

“No,” he said, “she isn’t.” He was looking thoughtful. He tilted his head to one side, studying me, and tried to look chummy. “The Star and I usually get along all right. We’ve worked together before, you know.”

I nodded.

“Mr Cavanaugh would want you to work with me, Johnny.”

Mr Robert Justice Cavanaugh was the owner of the Star. He was a big man, a very big man in this town. I said flatly, “You’d better talk to him, then.”

He nodded, and he wasn’t smirking or trying to be chummy any more. He said quietly, “That’s exactly what I intend to do. That’s all, Johnny.”

He didn’t frighten me. Cavanaugh would back me. He was just desperate and frustrated and annoyed and was taking it out on the first stooge who happened along. He didn’t frighten me – much.

I left the quiet room behind, and went out into the clatter of the outer office. A flash bulb went off in my face.

Bitsy Donworth, photographer for the Courier, said, “Nice shot. Could we have a statement, dear?”

The, Courier was a tabloid, the kind of paper that would play up something like this. Any relation to the truth in the Courier was purely coincidental.

I thought of Norah. “Don’t make the mistake of printing that picture, Bitsy. You’ll be asking for trouble.”

“The Courier,” Bitsy replied, “thrives on trouble.”

“But you don’t,” I said. “You’re too small. This would be personal trouble, Bitsy.” I realized I was making a damned fool of myself, but I was past caring.

Jug Elder, who handles the courts for the Courier, said, “Run along, dear. You don’t want any trouble with us.”

Jug goes about two hundred pounds. I figured about half of it was fat. I should have run along, as he said. But I walked over to him, and slapped his face. My name is Shea.

He drew his big right hand back, and I let him have it, right on the button.

I could feel the shock traveling up my arm, and I could see him go crashing backward into a desk. I saw the flash bulb go off again, and then the red went flashing through my brain, and I was moving in.

The next thing I knew, a couple of reporters from the Journal were holding my arms. Jug was getting up slowly, rubbing his chin. Bitsy was on his way out. The DA stood in his doorway, asking, “What the hell’s going on out here?”

One of the Journal reporters said, “Jug fell down, didn’t you, Jug? You all right, now?”

All the stenos, the cops, the help in the outer office were watching us. It had happened so quickly that none of the girls had had a chance to scream.

“I’m all right,” Jug said. He didn’t look at me. I’ll bet he didn’t even want to look at himself.

There was a murmur of voices from the spectators. The DA took one swift glance around the room, and then his door closed.

I went out with one of the Journal reporters. He said, “The Courier’ll print that picture. They’ll make some kind of a lousy story out of the whole thing.” He swore.

“They’ll probably print both pictures, now,” I said. “I wonder, you think there might be a libel angle—”

He shook his head. “Not the way they’ll write it. Avoiding libel suits is a business they understand. They’ve made an art out of that.”

He left me, there on the sidewalk, and I walked down to the coupé. I was thinking about June. I was remembering her hands, her pale, fluttering hands, always moving, always reaching. They’d repelled me, back in high school, repelled me and fascinated me. I remember, I could never take my eyes off them.

She had jet-black hair, this June Drexel, and her pale complexion was almost sickly in its whitness. But she’d done a lot with that contrast, that and the dark-blue eyes. That and the reaching, grasping hands.

As though she couldn’t get enough of whatever it was she wanted. A high-school kid wouldn’t know what it was. I wasn’t sure, even now, and high school was ten years behind me. There’d been a war and a wedding and a birth in my life since then.

To hell with her, I thought. To hell with her and her hands.

I drove back to the office. I went up to the city room and hammered out a couple of routine stories from the department.

Our local political man, Tom Alexander, was working at the machine next to mine. I asked him, “You think this Peckham was playing house with that Drexel dame? You think his wife’s got a case?”

He smiled cynically. “The Star thinks so, slave. The Star would like to nail Peckham any way they can.”

“But why?” I said. “Peckham’s no bigger than some of the other grafters in this burg. Why him?”

He shrugged. “Ours not to reason why, Johnny.” He lighted a cigarette and considered his next paragraph. Then he looked over at me. “Is this a professional or a personal interest?”

“Why should it be personal?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He pulled at an ear. “Your tone of voice, I guess.” He frowned, and went back to work.

To hell with June Drexel, I thought again. And to hell with the Courier. Just for good measure, I threw in the DA.

I went over to pick up Sammy Berg and we went out to lunch. I told him what had happened.

He shook his head sadly. “You know Cavanaugh, Johnny. Dignity, all the time; ethics, every minute. He’ll blow his stack.”

He didn’t, really. The early-afternoon edition of the Courier came off the press, and there was yours truly, in both poses. There was a story you could read any way your mind happened to run, though it would prove most interesting to a low mind.

I remember thinking, I hope Norah doesn’t see this, just before I got the summons from R.J.

I was nervous. I won’t say I was frightened, not at first, but the palms of my hands were wet, and I wanted a cigarette. In R.J.’s office, nobody smokes.

His desk is on a dais, sort of, and he’s looking down at you, even if you’re standing, which you usually are, in his office. I was standing now. It was very quiet in the room. He had the Courier spread out on his huge desk.

He’s a distinguished-looking gent, tall and beautifully tailored, and not quite fifty. He was looking more than a little troubled at the moment.

he looked down at me gravely. “Mr Shea, you . .. ah . . . appear to know this June Drexel rather well.”

“I knew her in high school,” I told him. “I haven’s seen her much since.”

“Much? How much, Mr Shea?”

I was still nervous, but the Shea temper was climbing, too. I could feel my neck get warm. I said, “I’ve seen her around from time to time, and said hello. In public places, you understand. It’s nothing like the Courier tried to suggest.”

His face was still very grave. That’s why I couldn’t understand his smile, just then. It was a small, cold smile. “And that’s all?”

“That’s all.”

He seemed to be trying to read my mind. He stared at me quietly for a moment. Then, “Do you think she’s Peckham’s girl?”

“I don’t know,” I told him. “She isn’t working, and she isn’t married. She must be somebody’s girl.”

He ignored that. He said, “I’ve a complaint from the district attorney, on you, too. I got it at lunch, at the club.”

I said nothing.

“He seems to think you know more about this than you’re telling, too.”

I shook my head. “I don’t.”

He had a letter opened in his hands which he kept sliding back and forth from one hand to the other. “You know, of course, that the Star put Gargan in office?”

Gargan was the DA. I nodded.

“You know that we are working with him and for him, all the time?”

I nodded again.

“Yet, you create a minor riot in his office. You lose your temper and strike a fellow worker. You embarrass not only this paper, but the district attorney.” He seemed to be working himself into a temper. “I hope you realize the gravity of all this. Mr Shea.”

“I lost my temper,” I said. “I wasn’t in my right mind. That Drexel dame brings out the worst in me.”

“Oh,” he said, and was silent a moment. “You haven’t seen her since high school, but she brings out the worst in you. Would you mind telling me, Mr Shea, just how long ago you went to high school?”

“Ten years ago,” I replied.

“I see.” He put the letter opener down on his desk. He was fumbling with a tiny jet elephant he wears on his watch chain, now. “Ten years ago.” He studied me. “You’re an extremely competent employee, Mr Shea, but still subject to discipline. Do you think a month’s leave of absence would be adequate punishment?”

I stared at him. Finally, I said, “I didn’t expect any punishment. I didn’t figure I had it coming.”

He smiled. “That would be for me to decide.”

I was trembling now. I said, “Whether I work here, or for some other paper would be for me to decide. I wouldn’t work for a paper that doesn’t back up its reporters.” I turned, and walked out.

I expected him to call me back, but he didn’t. Some of my anger held, but not enough to prevent me from realizing I’d been a fool for the second time that day.

Tom Alexander was still working on his column when I went back to clean up my desk. He watched me quietly for a full minute, then asked, “Leave of absence, huh? The Cavanaugh curse.”

“I quit,” I told him.

“Sure,” he said. “Of course. I’ll see you in a month. That’s what I bet it would be. Did I win?”

“That’s what he tried to nail me with,” I admitted. “But I wouldn’t take it. I tell you I quit.”

He swiveled around in his chair. “Johnny, don’t be a sap. There isn’t another paper in town’ll hire you. Cavanaugh’ll see to that.”

“Not even the Courier?”

“You wouldn’t work for them, Johnny. Nobody with any self-respect would work for them.”

I didn’t answer him. I went over to see if Sammy Berg was still in the office, but he wasn’t. I left, without saying anything to Foley, the city editor. He’d find out, soon enough.

I didn’t go home. I didn’t want Norah to find out I’d lost my job, not yet. I still had hopes. Foley would go to bat for me; the whole city room would go to bat for me. I hoped.

I went over to Mac’s and had a drink. A couple of the boys were in there, and we gabbed for a while, and then they had to go to work. Mac’s is a hell of a place when there aren’t any customers around. I went to a movie.

It was a lousy show. They’d spent a couple of million on it, and it was full of names, and it had been promoted right up to the budget limit. It was still a lousy show. I could produce a better one myself.

I left, in the middle of it. I walked along Fourth Street, dreaming about that, about the big names Norah and I would be entertaining in our beach home. Norah was just giving me hell, because she’d caught me kissing one of moviedom’s biggest stars, when I heard her voice.

I came back to this world, and there she stood. My Norah, my lovely, red-headed parcel of honey and fire. She stood there, on the sidewalk, with a copy of the Courier under her arm.

“John Badlwin Shea,” she said.

I looked at the Courier, and into her blue eyes. “You don’t believe any of that do you, honey?”

“Is it true, Johnny?”

I shook my head.

“Then I don’t believe it.”

I kissed her, right there on Fourth Street.

She said, “You’re so impulsive. Did you have to hit that reporter?”

I nodded.

She sighed. “As soon as I saw this paper, while I was out shopping, I went down to the Star. Tommy Alexander told me you’d quit. You didn’t have to quit, Johnny.”

“I guess I didn’t,” I admitted.

“And now you’re going back to see Mr Cavanaugh, aren’t you? You’re going to apologize for losing your temper.”

“Like hell,” I said.

“You’ve got seniority there, Johnny, and they pay better than the other papers. You’re not going to forget all that.”

“Honey,” I said, “you let me worry about that.”

Her lips set primly, and she said no more about it. “Well, we’d better be getting home. Mrs Orlow is with Junior, but I told her I’d be back in two hours. Let’s go home and talk this over.”

“There’s nothing to talk over,” I told her.

Neither of us said anything more as we walked to where the coupé was parked. Norah was beginning to get that look.

Silence, on the drive home. Silence, as we walked up the flagstones to the door, while Mrs Orlow explained that Junior had been just fine, and slept like a little lamb, and wasn’t he just that, a little lamb, though? While she looked at me curiously, probably wondering how much of the Courier account was true.

Things the public reads in the Courier, they forget the next day. But things your friends might read about you in the Courier they never forget. They might not believe them, but neither will they forget them.

When Mrs Orlow had gone, Norah said, “I’ve never known you to be this stubborn, Johnny.” She paused. “But I guess there are quite a few things about you I didn’t know.”

“If you’re talking about June Drexel,” I said, “that’s ten years old.”

“But you went with her then, didn’t you? And yet, you’ve never once mentioned her name.”

“I’ve gone with lots of girls,” I answered. “I’ve forgotten most of them. I don’t know all the boys you went with.”

“You’ve forgotten most of them,” she repeated. “But you didn’t forget her.”

“She’s about as easy to forget as a toothache,” I explained. “She’s a very unusual girl.”

“I’m sure she is.” She hesitated, about to say more. But at that moment, Junior awoke, and started to cry. She hurried into his room.

This, I thought, would be a good time to take the screens down. This would be a good time to get out of the house. I changed my clothes quickly, and went outside.

I was trying to pry the too-tight screen off the sun-room window when Norah came out with Junior. She put him in the carriage, and told me, “I have to finish my shopping. We’ll be back in a half-hour.”

That last sentence was just by way of letting me know that our discussion wasn’t over. “I’ll be waiting,” I said. “I’m not going any place.”

She sniffed.

She and Junior were just turning the corner, when this Caddy pulled up behind my car at the curb. It was a black sedan, long and low. I went around to the side of the house, to get the kitchen screens.

I could still see the Caddy, and I could see the smallish, thin gent who got out of it. He didn’t look like a banker to me. He came up the walk, and I came around to the front of the house, to wait for him.

He was wearing an expensive topcoat, and a fine hat. He was wearing a dead expression on his thin face. His eyes were brown stones.

“You John Shea?” he asked.

I admitted it with a nod.

“I’m from the Courier,” he said. “I’ve got some questions for you.”

“I haven’t got any answers,” I told him. “Does the Courier furnish all their reporters with Cadillacs?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’m no reporter. But if you think the Courier isn’t backing me, you could call ’em.”

I took a shot in the dark. “You’re from Peckham, aren’t you? He owns a piece of the Courier, huh?”

He studied me. I looked out to the Caddy, and saw there was another man there, behind the wheel. I looked back at him.

“All right,” he said, “I’m from Peckham. He’s wondering about you and Miss Drexel. The boss isn’t one to wonder long.”

A silence. I didn’t know what other instructions the little man had received from his boss, but I was sure he’d carry them out, no matter what they were. I said carefully, “I knew Miss Drexel when I was seventeen years old. I took her out, then. I haven’t taken her out at all, in the past ten years, and have seen her only a few times since, always in public places. You can tell your boss he needn’t worry about me.”

The little man considered me thoughtfully. “He’s not worried about you. But he’ll want to talk to you. He’ll make it worth your while.”

“I haven’t anything to tell him,” I said. “I haven’t anything he’d buy.”

“He’ll decide that,” the man said. “Let’s let him decide that.”

“OK,” I said, “but I can’t go now.”

“Sure. We’ll pick you up tonight. About eight all right?”

“Eight’s all right,” I agreed. “But don’t come here. My wife would worry. I’ll meet you somewhere.”

“You name it.”

“The filling station, two blocks down, the Gargoyle station on Burnham and Diversey. I’ll drive down there and park the car.”

He nodded. “At eight. We’ll be there.” He turned and went back to the Caddy and the car pulled away.

There wasn’t anything I’d be able to tell Peckham, but I wanted to make that clear. If I’d been single, I’d have told them all to go to hell. If it weren’t for Norah and Junior, the cops would be meeting the little man this evening in front of the Gargoyle station.

I still considered calling them into it, but decided against it. Peckham, I’d heard, was a reasonable man. Unless opposed.

When Norah came back, I told her, “Foley wants to see me at his house tonight. He just phoned. Maybe I’ll be going back to work for the Star.”

She looked relieved. “Be sensible, now, Johnny. Don’t let your temper get the best of you.”

“I won’t,” I promised, quickly.

Junior looked at me, and sadly shook his head.

“Nuts to you,” I said.

“Blaa-a,” he said, and made a face.

“Two of a kind,” Norah said. “He certainly gets his disposition from your side of the family.” She came over to kiss me.

There was a faint breeze, a chill breeze, coming in from the north. Most of the trees lining Diversey were bare; what few leaves were left were dry and gray. This was the pause between fall and winter, when you can expect anything in the way of weather.

I drove slowly along Diversey, planning my words for Roger Peckham, wondering if I hadn’t made a mistake. At the corner of Diversey and Burnham, the Caddy was waiting.

There was a man behind the wheel, and the small man sitting next to him. I walked over, as the smaller man got out. He stood on the curb, waiting for me. He said, “We can’t take you. We’ve got other business. But here’s the address.” He handed me a card. “He’s waiting there.”

I took the card, and went back to the coupe. The Caddy pulled away, making time through the gears, gunning.

The card read: Kensington Towers – Tower Apartment A.

Kensington Towers was a tall, showy place overlooking the bay. Tower Apartment A meant he had one of the roof apartments, complete with open porch and a view.

The clerk told me Mr Peckham was expecting me, and indicated one of the elevators.

I went up, and up and up, the floors going by too swiftly to count, the numbers seeming to merge, almost. At the top floor, we came gently to rest.

“To your right, sir,” the operator said. “Tower Apartment A.”

This looked more like an entrance hall than a corridor. I turned to the right, toward A.

The door was open when I got there, and a tall, broad man in dinner clothes stood framed in the doorway. He had gray eyes, and black hair sprinkled with gray. He must have been well past forty, but he had a vigorous, alert air about him.

“John Shea?” he asked. He was smiling.

“And you’re Roger Peckham.”

We shook hands, and he gestured me in. “My man is out tonight,” he said. “But I guess I can still mix a drink.”

I guessed he could, too. He’d started out as a bartender. This land of opportunity—

It was a beautifully designed apartment, and any person with taste could have done a lot with it. All he’d done was spend too much money for heavy, carved tables and chairs, dismal drapes, and some Oriental rugs that didn’t fit at all.

He mixed a pair of drinks, and handed me one. He indicated a huge leather chair, and I sat in that.

He sat down, and said nothing.

I said, “Your torpedo seems to think I can tell you something about June Drexel.”

“Torpedo?” he said, and then chuckled. “Oh, you mean Mike.” He shook his head. “He’s quite a boy, isn’t he? He sees too many movies.”

I said nothing.

“Mike’s my attorney,” he went on. “When I was a small operator, Mike was a small lawyer, very broke. Since I’ve made a few dollars, Mike’s tended to put on airs. But he’s a good boy. He’s no torpedo; he doesn’t know one end of a gun from another.” He chuckled again. “This whole affair has been over-dramatized, hasn’t it?”

I continued to say nothing; I’d been trained to listen.

“When I saw your picture in the Courier, this afternoon, I decided I had to see you. Since then, I’ve changed my mind.” He paused. “My wife and I have had a reconciliation.”

There didn’t seem to be anything for me to say, as yet.

He lifted his glass high. “Your health.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad everybody’s happy.”

He smiled. “And now, for other business. How would you like to work for the Courier?”

“I wouldn’t,” I said. “No offense, you understand. I just wouldn’t want to.”

He shrugged. “I’m changing it. It’s changing with me. It’s going to be a respectable, family newspaper.” He sipped his whisky. “I could make you a really attractive offer. You could tell the snobbish Mr Cavanaugh to go to hell.”

“I already have,” I said.

He didn’t seem to hear me. He was gazing at the floor. His voice was quiet. “That June,” he said. “What is it she’s got? Besides those damned hands of hers—”

I thought of the hands. I thought, fetishism? But they were as repelling as they were fascinating. “I don’t know what she’s got,” I said, “but enough men seem to be attracted to her.”

He looked at me gravely, and his voice was sad and quiet. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he told me. “It’s an attraction I’m afraid she’ll always have for me.”

I looked at my empty glass. He nodded toward the decanter on a low table. I filled the glass again, and siphoned in some water.

He said, “I love my wife. She loves me. I should leave this town, but I can’t. I’ll have to stay. And with June here—” He seemed to shudder. “Damn her!” he said.

I felt for him, but only a little. It didn’t prevent me from saying, “I’d hate to be in your shoes when you tell her she’ll have to work for a living.”

He stared at me in surprise. It was honest surprise, I felt sure. He said, “I never supported her. I never contributed a dime to her support.”

I was trying to figure that one out when the phone rang.

Peckham went to answer it. When he came back, he looked suspicious. “It’s for you. It sounds like her, like June—”

“It’s probably my wife,” I said quickly.

It was June. “Johnny dear,” she said, “would you like a story?”

Peckham was listening, I knew. I said, “I’ll be home soon.”

A silence. Then, “I see. Well, before you go home, drop in here, and I’ll give you a story that will blow this town apart. Would that get you your job back?”

“Drop in where?” I asked.

The line went dead.

Peckham was standing in the middle of his living room when I turned around. “My wife’s worried,” I said.

His face was cold and set. “That was June, wasn’t it?”

I said nothing.

“I told her I was seeing you, tonight. I told her, this afternoon, that I was through. Your wife doesn’t know you’re here.”

“It was June,” I admitted.

No emotion on his face, the eyes cold and bleak. “Well,” he said, “good night. And good luck.”

He didn’t go to the door with me.

Standing in the entrance hall, waiting for the elevator, I debated the wisdom of going to see June Drexel. I thought of Norah, and forced myself to stop thinking of her. One sentence ran through my mind, around and around. Would that get you your job back?

In the lobby drugstore, I looked up the address of June Drexel.

I was coming through the lobby again, when I saw this woman at the desk. The clerk was saying to her, “I’m not sure Mr Peckham is in, Mrs Peckham.”

The woman was a blonde, tall and poised. She said, “He’s in. Ring and you’ll see. From now on, he’ll always be in to me.”

I went out into the chill of the night. The coupé coughed a little, as I kicked it into life. I headed it down the drive, along the bay. Home? Or to the story? What did I want with a story? I wasn’t a reporter, not tonight.

The coupé hummed along the drive to Iona. I turned up Iona, and followed it to Brady. I took Brady down to Astor, and turned again. On Astor and Knapp, a small apartment building. I sat in the coupé, and lighted a cigarette.

I took two puffs, and put the cigarette out. I left the car and went into the apartment building. Four names on the mail boxes of the lower hall and one of them was June Drexel’s.

The downstairs door had no lock; there was no buzzer. I went through it, and up the stairs. I started to think about those damned hands of hers, the pale hands.

Her name on the door, up here, and I pressed the bell button.

I could hear it ringing, inside, but nothing happened. I remembered how the line had gone dead. I trembled, for some reason. I tried the knob; the door was unlocked.

The door opened a crack, and I could see a light on, in there. I pushed it open a little more, and saw June Drexel.

She was sprawled awkwardly on the floor of her living room. I pushed the door open all the way, and went in.

There was a hole in her forehead, a small hole. One table lamp sent a dim light through the room, and the radio played softly. I thought a .22. It wouldn’t make much noise. I knew, now, why the line had gone dead. That speech of hers had been overheard, had meant to be overheard.

My eyes went to her hands, her now-quiet, pale hands. I saw something on the floor, about a foot beyond one outstretched hand, and I bent to pick it up.

I shouldn’t have touched anything, of course. I should have gone immediately to the phone. I looked at what I’d picked up, and a pattern began forming, a pattern I couldn’t believe. But the pieces came in, fitting themselves, making the picture.

I was still standing there when I heard the sirens, outside. Somebody else had phoned, evidently.

I reached over and put this thing I’d found in my shoe.

Sergeant Hutson, of homicide, was the first man to come through the door. He looked at me. “Johnny, for God’s sakes—” He looked at June Drexel, on the floor.

“I didn’t do it,” I told him.

“You phoned?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t phone. The murderer probably phoned, when he saw me come here. He knew I was coming.”

“We’ll have to run you in, Johnny,” he said.

I nodded. “Sure.” I kept my eyes from her hands. I tried to feel sorry that she was dead; one should mourn the dead.

It was a narrow cell, smelling of disinfectant, of dampness, of former occupants.

It was quiet, except for the deep breathing of other cell occupants, except for the occasional sound of voices from the lighted front room.

I sat on the hard cot, my head in my hands, thinking it all out, and worrying about Norah. Sergeant Hutson came along the corridor, to stand in front of my cell. “You want us to phone anybody else, Shea?”

“No,” I said. “I want to talk to him, first.” I looked up. “How about prints?”

“Plenty of ’em. The damnedest thing about prints, though. They’re no good unless you got somebody to tie ’em to. Or unless they’re prints on file someplace. What the hell good are they without that? We can’t check ’em against the whole city.”

“I’l give you somebody,” I told him.

“I hope so,” he said, and paused. “For your sake, Shea, I hope so.” He went back along the corridor.

He isn’t calling me “Johnny” any more, I thought. I’m on the other side of the fence now.

I thought about Norah, and June Drexel, about Peckham and his wife, about Peckham’s attorney, who saw too many movies, about Tom Alexander and Sammy Berg, about Bitsy Donworth – and about Peckham’s offer. In the adjoining cell, somebody began to snore.

Then there were feet along the corridor, and I stood up. The turnkey and Robert Justice Cavanaugh.

His voice was firm and reassuring. “Don’t you worry, Johnnny. The Star will back you. I’ll back you, all the way. It’s Peckham’s work; you can be sure, and—”

“Peckham,” I broke in. “You were certainly jealous of him, weren’t you? Until you got tired of her. Until you wanted to get rid of her.”

I could see him stiffen, as the turnkey went away. He said, “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Murder,” I told him. “This afternoon you worried more about what I knew about June than you did about the trouble in the DA’s office. That should have been a lead. You were always after Peckham. That’s another. When June phoned me tonight, she knew I’d lost my job. How? How many people knew that? Not Peckham. You did. It all ties up. Peckham wasn’t supporting her. You were.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Johnny,” he said. His voice was low. This afternoon, in his office, he’d called me “Mr Shea”. He was on my side of the fence, now.

“It took a gimmick,” I went on, “to show me the way. You must have dropped it; the catch must have broken.”

I reached down into my shoe, where the police hadn’t searched, and brought out the tiny jet elephant he always wore on his watch chain.

A silence, while he stared at it in the dim light. Then he made one more try. “It doesn’t prove anything, Johnny. It will only create a nasty scandal. They won’t get me. I’ve too much influence. But it will hurt the paper, hurt me.”

“They’ve got enough proof,” I said. “All they want is somebody to fit it.”

His voice was even quieter. “They don’t know why I’m down here.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “Unless June told others what she was going to tell me. It wouldn’t be so much of a scandal if you hadn’t always been so noble, such a campaigner. But murder’s a scandal, for anyone.”

The man in the next cell rolled over, and mumbled in his sleep.

Cavanaugh said, “Editor, Johnny. For more money than you’ll ever need. A job for life, Johnny.”

A job for life, with the biggest paper in town. Why not? What had June Drexel ever meant to me, except trouble? I thought of Norah and Junior. I said, “You can go to hell. That’s where you’re going eventually, anyway.”

Amateurs shouldn’t commit murder. He hadn’t even got rid of the gun. They didn’t need his confession, to burn him. Once they had the pointing finger, they tied evidence to him like ornaments to a Christmas tree. His old pal, Gargan, the DA, couldn’t handle it, so an assistant DA took over and did a fine, clean job.

The Courier has changed plenty, just as Peckham promised me. It’s a clean, family paper, and getting to be the biggest in town. We call ’em as we see ’em, and I’m proud to be city editor of a sheet like that. Norah is proud of me, too, and even Junior gives me a little, grudging respect from time to time.