Black Mask (Vol. 29, No. 3 — January 1947)

I remembered, then. A punk who’d held up a grocery store on the west side. I’d been on the force, then, in my first year. I’d nailed him at his rooming house.

“Sure,” I said, “I’d forgotten your name. It was a long time ago.”

“Where was it?” he asked me.

“In a rooming house, on Vine. It was about that business on 12th and Vine, that grocery.”

“I’ll be damned,” he said. “You—” He used some naughty words. “How I used to hate your guts. And I’d forgotten...”

I said nothing. Stone-eyes said nothing. We both waited.

“That was the only time.” His voice was reminiscent. “The only time I was ever nailed.” He studied me like a specimen in biology class. “What do you know about Miss Harlin?”

“Nothing,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”

There was some sound from Stone-eyes, and Every’s face seemed to freeze. He asked quietly: “Who you working for, chum? The city?”

I shook my head. “I’m a private operative.”

His laugh was nasty. “That’s a hell of a word for a shamus. Plumbers are sanitary engineers, and drummers are sales engineers. And you’re a private operative. I asked who you were working for, laddy.”

“My name is Jones,” I said. “You can call me Mr. Jones. Who I’m working for would be my business. I’m looking for Miss Flame Harlin. I thought you might have something I could use.” I turned to go.

“Just a minute, Mr. Jones.” It was Stone-eyes’ voice. It was gentle and quiet.

I turned to face him. He had a gun in his hand, a small gun. A Colt Bankers’ Special, the kind that handles a .22 caliber long rifle cartridge.

It was a silly little gun, a toy, and I might have laughed. Only Moose Lundgren had been killed with a .22.

“Mr. Every wasn’t finished talking to you, Mr. Jones.”

Val Every nodded his head toward one of the overstuffed chairs. “Sit down — Jones.”

I went over and sat down, trying to look more casual than I felt. I hadn’t brought a gun in with me. My .38 was locked in the glove compartment of the Dusy. It had been parked there for some time, and I wondered if there was a parking limit. The damnedest things went through my mind.

Val Every rubbed his hands together and then studied the palms. He expelled his breath, and looked at me. “Miss Harlin worked for me. I took a personal interest in her career, you understand. Lot of people getting mixed up in this lately.”

He stopped and I waited.

“Including the cops,” he went on. “They were just up at my place. Two of them. One named Devine. I forget the big guy’s name. I’ll have to fumigate the place, now. I haven’t had any trouble with the law for a long time. You tell them about me?”

“I told them what Lundgren had told me. I don’t want any trouble with the law, either. I usually tell them all I can.”

“Once a cop, always a cop,” Every said.

I made no comment.

“You’re pretty solid with the boys downtown, aren’t you, Jones?”

“We get along. I know most of them, the ones that matter, anyway.”

“You and the Chief, huh?”

I said nothing.

“O.K.,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble with the law, not right now. And I don’t want any trouble with you, not tonight. But stay out of my business, Jones. Keep your nose clean.”

“I’ll continue to look for Miss Harlin,” I told him. “So long as my client wants me to. When she tells me to quit, I’ll—”

“She?” Every said quickly. “You said ‘she.’ It’s a woman?”

Quiet, again. Every looked over at Stone-eyes, and back at me.

I cursed myself silently. I said: “No. I didn’t say ‘she’.”

He was smiling. “Never mind. That’s all for now, Jones.” He tamed to Stone-eyes. “When you go out, tell Judy I want to see her.”

Stone-eyes walked with me to the door. I stopped, while he opened it. I said: “That Lundgren was killed with a twenty-two. You’d better have a good story, when the time comes.”

“Wait,” Every said.

I turned and waited. He had risen, and was walking towards me. Stone-eyes closed the door quietly. The gun was again in his hand.

Every came close enough to breathe in my face. “Lundgren was killed with a twenty-two? How’d you know?”

“I found him. I was with the cops all day.”

Every looked at his boy. There was no expression in the gray eyes that looked back at him. “You know where I was, boss. You were with me, all the time.”

“Not all the time.”

“This guy’s a cop, boss. This is what he wants. They’d rather lie than eat.”

“If you guys can read,” I said, “it’ll be in tonight’s late edition. Or whatever they call the sheet that’s on the stands now. If you want me to hang around, I’d just as soon do it in the bar. That’s good rye out there.”

“A comedian,” Stone-eyes said. “We’ll tell you where to wait, gumshoe.”

Every said: “Wait out in the bar.”

Left them and went out into the bar. There was a bulky, well-fed-looking man sitting on a bar stool, drinking a beer. I didn’t need to see his face to tell it was Glen Harvey. His suits are even cheaper than mine, and fit worse.

He grinned when he saw me. “Have a drink on the taxpayers,” he said. “This all goes on the swindle sheet.”