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

His real name was Preston P. Shelton, but everybody called him “Shellie.” He was just out of the Army, where he had distinguished himself with a .45 Army Automatic, blasting no less than eight little brown brothers with as many slugs. He was a sleek twenty-five, smart as a fox and Cary Grentish. And, he was strictly swell guy.

I couldn’t blame him for moving in on Kay, for she has everything a gal should have. She’d been dating Shellie about twice a week, which was bad enough, but tonight it was the third time in a week, and that was why I was knocking myself out in that honky-tonk when Sutton walked in.

I thought I would go along and meet this dame he was telling me about and show myself no woman could really get me down. The idea had sounded good until I met the dame.

Her name was Millie Martin, and she was a travesty of Kay. I’d be willing to bet that if anybody had taken a tape and measured both girls their measurements would have been identical. They even had the same hair and the same complexion. Millie’s clothes fit her about like Kay’s, and even I could see that they were more expensive. But everything else about Millie was five-and-ten.

“Oh, Mr. Corbett,” she said, “I’m so happy to meet you! I told Philly he just had to introduce us some time.”

Sutton put an arm around my shoulders and said: “I told you she was a honey, didn’t I, Ben? I sure can pick ’em, can’t I, boy?”

I said he sure could pick ’em, but I didn’t mention what kind. He went off to a corner to his temporary heart-throb, a plump blonde who would be a fat one with about a year’s more boozing. There was plenty of booze, and it was good booze, so I made for it, trying not to notice Millie Martin.

I’m not a guy to nurse a drink. I was lapping the stuff out of tumblers after the first hour, and Millie had to lead me over to a chair. She sat on the arm a while, handing me a line of chatter that had something about going to her apartment in it. So, as I sat there staring, I knew the apartment wasn’t Millie’s, only I couldn’t just remember when she’d moved off the chair arm and mercifully gone away.

An automatic phonograph had long since got to the top record and was now playing it for the twentieth time. A couple stood in front of it, jiggling as if in a trance, apparently under the delusion that they were dancing to the music. The record was “Rollin’ ” — no bad tune, but pretty sour after twenty times in a row. It was just starting all over again when a skinny guy with a pasty face walked into the room, looked at me and asked: “You Corbett?”

I managed to nod.

“Phone.”

I let that soak in a little while, then pulled myself to my feet and managed to walk, jostling the dancing couple only slightly. I didn’t fall down until I was in the next room, and then I caught myself on a table, for it was a dining room. The phone was there for some reason, and I dragged a chair over and answered it.

Kay was calling.

“You’re drunk,” she said.

“Yep.”

“Well, you’ve picked a fine time! Keever’s tearing his hair out trying to find you. All hell’s popped loose.”

“Let ’er pop.”

“Can the wisecracks. This is serious. Governor Patterson’s going to remove Keever from office the first thing in the morning!”

I held the phone about a foot away, thinking there must be something the matter with it. Then I drew it closer and said: “Will you please say that again.”

“You heard me. Keever’s in a jam — a bad jam. It’s the worst in his career. It’s got him licked. You’ve got to chase over to the State House Annex and pull him together before he blows his top.”

I hesitated, then said: “It can’t be that bad. Why does he need me when he’s got a great genius like Curtis T. Durbin? And Shellie’s on the job, too, isn’t he, or is he sitting in your lap?”

Kay’s comment would justify the telephone people removing her phone. “Listen, you lame-brained lug,” she said when she had cooled down, “this is no time for a comedy act! I’m telling you the boss is in the grease, but bad! You’ve got to chase right over to the Annex and take over.”

“Are you there, too?”

“No, I’m at my apartment. I didn’t find your call until I got in a minute ago.”

“My what?”

“Your call. The night clerk said somebody’d called and left this number. I supposed it was you.”

“Well, for your information, I didn’t call you tonight. So quit handing me that line.”

“It’s no line. How do you suppose I located you? Do you think I dreamed up the number?”

I kicked that one around a few seconds and decided I must have called Kay after all. That burned me — I didn’t want her to get any wrong ideas.

“All right, let’s skip that. Just tell me what kind of jam Keever’s in.”

“Not over the phone. You’ll find out fast enough once you get over there. Better not use your car — you’ll get pinched before you get there.”

“I don’t have my car — I don’t even remember where I left it. I’ll take a taxi. Find out where I am and send one over, will you?”

“Are you kidding? Don’t tell me you don’t know where you are!”