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

That’s the way it looked, but there were so many angles, so damned many angles... And there was always Devine in the background, itching for my scalp.

Why couldn’t I get Stone-eyes off somewhere, and work him over a little? He was the small type I could handle, if he didn’t have the .22. But I was no longer with the department — I would need to use considerable finesse, instead of force.

And this Rodney Carlton, the poet with the nine iron? Who loved Miss Harlin desperately, but hadn’t seen her for a month. He struck me as being a trifle on the phony side. But I could be wrong — I’d been wrong before, on lots of people.

I decided to go to Mac’s first, to see if he had anything edible. There was a faint hollowness in my stomach. I upped the Dusy’s pace a bit, and let my mind wander where it would while I kept my eyes on the road.

I can be wrong, all right. I’d been wrong about Mac. There was a crudely penciled sign in the glass of his locked front door. Gone for the day it read. Out where the grass was green, where the wind swept the hills, my Mac would be now. Sans apron, sans dialogue, sans frown, out where it might already be raining.

For there was thunder in the north.

There was dampness in the air, here on my poor street. There was that quiet that precedes a storm sometimes. And there was a Chrysler Highlander sedan parked at the curb in front of my office.

The girl behind the wheel got out when she saw me, and stood waiting. She was wearing something simple in a printed blue, some draped material that did her proud.

“Good morning, Hawkshaw,” she said.

“Hello, Judy.” I feasted my eyes a while. “Won’t you step into my parlor?”

“Let’s sit in the car and watch the storm come up,” she suggested.

She climbed back in, and I followed her. “Every send you again?” I asked.

“Mmmmm. He didn’t disapprove.” She looked at me and smiled. “I think you did me some good, last night.”

The first drop of rain hit the windshield, and there were others, on the metal top. “The kiss?” I asked. “Or the dancing, or the brightness of my conversation? Or just my generally seedy appearance? That could be good for your ego, in a comparative way.”

“Just you. Just Mortimer Jones, that easy, gallant, good guy.”

“Enough,” I said, looking into the dark blue, the knowing eyes. “I’m blushing. I’m no ladies’ man.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” she said. “I’m no lady. But for a while, last night, I could have been. You treated me like a lady, Jonesy. It’s kind of early to tell, but you might even have cured me. Wouldn’t that be fine, wonderful?”

I said: “It could be temporary. Nobody’s ever confused me with Tyrone Power.”

Her laugh, a low musical chuckle from her lovely throat “No, your charm isn’t that tangible. Don’t be frightened, Philo. It’s not only you. There must be lots of other wonderful guys like you.”

I said stiffly: “I don’t remember coming off a production line.”

“Jonesy!” Her hand found mine. “I didn’t mean that. I meant, there must be other tolerant, gentle, decent men who’d find me attractive. I’m not hopeless, am I?”

“You could do all right,” I assured her, “in any league. If you really think this stupid infatuation of yours with Curly is finished, you could do all right.”

“It could be,” she whispered. “I’m hoping it is. Will you hold your thumbs for me, Jonesy?”

“I will,” I promised. And then the thought hit me. “Do you know Miss Townsbury? The nice little old lady who runs that place for alcoholics?”

“Know her!” Her laugh was short and sharp. “I was up there for treatment. Why do you think—” And she stopped. She stared at me. “Never mind,” she said. “I’m no stool pigeon, whatever else I’ve been.”

I said: “How would you like to take a drive with me out to a poet’s house?”

“Is he interesting?” she asked. “Is he handsome?”

“He’s handsome,” I said. “I think he might prove interesting.”

We drove out in the Chrysler, slowly, over the wet streets, the wipers working diligently to sweep the torrents of water flooding the windshield.

There was a riot car parked in front of the cottage. There was the meat wagon, and a department coupe, and a cop standing up on the porch, out of the wet. The Chrysler braked to a halt, and I got out. I told Judy: “I’m going in there. If I’m not out in three minutes, you’d better take off. That’ll mean I’m right in the middle of it.”

She looked at me wonderingly.

“Something,” I said, “must have happened to the poet.”

I closed the car door, and ran.

The man in uniform, on the small porch, stopped me. I told him who I was, and that I wanted to see officer in charge.

I got in, finally. Harvey was there, but not Devine. Adams was there and an assistant M.E. Rodney Carlton was there.

There was a small but bloody hole in the side of his neck.

The assistant M.E. thought it had nicked the jugular, and he had died within a very few minutes.

Harvey nodded. “He was alive when I got here.” Then he saw me. “Well,” he said. “You’re in this, too, aren’t you?”

“I was going by,” I lied. “I saw the wagon out front.”