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

“Half an hour. My man in the D.A.’s office hasn’t been able to find out a thing! The D.A.’s got Sutton in a locked room with a stenographer and a recording machine. God only knows what he’s telling them! I’m ruined, Ben, I’m ruined — and all because you couldn’t even find Sutton!”

“Calm yourself, Keever. I’ve got this thing sewed up in a bag. I even know who killed the Price girl.”

“What? What do you know about that? Durbin just told me the girl’d been murdered. My God, don’t tell me they can tie up my office in that!”

“I was there when it happened, boss. But keep your shirt on — I’ll bust the case wide open to the greater glory of the attorney general’s office. I’ll show them how we crack the cases that take in the D.A.”

Keever began to talk, but I couldn’t make any sense out of what he was saying. He seemed to be talking to himself. When I finally got him to listen, I said: “Round up some of the Keystone Kops and have them drag Jake Jervis out of bed over at the Wedgewood. Have him at your office by the time I get there. Maybe you’d better get Kay, too, to take down some statements.”

“Jake Jervis? That racketeer? What’s he got to do with this.”

“You’ll find out. I also want you to locate Sam Price. He’ll either be at home or at police headquarters. Get him, too.”

Keever had started to talk to himself again when I hung up. I turned to Brockley and said: “Come on, Brockley — we’re going to the A.G.’s office and make some phonograph records.”

Brockley groaned, then sighed resignedly and got to his feet. Shelton asked: “What do we do with this punk?”

He indicated the little fellow, and I said: “We’ll take him along just in case the cops ask any embarrassing questions about the street shooting tonight.”

I knew something was wrong when we pulled into the Annex parking lot. Two police cars were there, also a Buick that belonged to Gordon Kress, the district attorney. Shelton and I walked in with our reluctant companions.

And the sight that met my eyes when I opened the door of the big reception room in Keever’s suite was one I’ll never forget.

The first faces I saw were those of the city police, in uniform and out. They stared pop-eyed as I entered, then their eyes narrowed. They reminded me of an alleyful of cats coming across an astigmatic mouse.

They converged upon me.

“You’re under arrest!” said Lew Kaverman, a city detective captain.

“For what?”

“For shooting down Waxy Walters in cold blood! He came to at the hospital and told us who did it!”

Keever’s private door opened, and he appeared therein. He looked as if he were in the last stages of delirium tremens, and he had to brace himself against the door jamb to stand up. Fatly gloating, Durbin peered over his shoulder.

“Tell me!” screamed Keever. “Tell me it isn’t so! You didn’t shoot that man Walters, did you? Tell me that it wasn’t you!”

“Why, I couldn’t do that, boss — that would be telling a falsehood. Sure I plugged the guy.”

Keever collapsed. He fell backwards against Durbin, who lost his balance and fell down, Keever on top of him. Kay appeared then with a wet towel. I went over to help, but Kay stopped me with the most venomous glare I ever saw outside a zoo.

“You’ve done enough damage around here!” she said. “Why did you have to shoot somebody, tonight of all nights?”

“All in the line of duty,” I said, but not smartly. Kay’s look had seared my insides. I let Shelton pull Keever off the squealing Durbin, who got to his feet with the assistance of two cops. Beyond, in Keever’s private office, District Attorney Gordon Kress watched gloatingly.

He was accompanied by Phil Sutton, Sam Price and a man I vaguely remembered from the party. He would be Jake Jervis, I knew, the large-scale ticket operator.

Keever’s blood pressure finally went down to a point where he could stand up. Shelton helped him to his desk. He also helped me, explaining that Waxy Walters had tried to shoot me first But Keever’s glare in my direction was still murderous. It took extra chairs to provide seats for all of us, including Brockley. He was getting his own share of dirty looks from Jake Jervis and Phil Sutton.

“Maybe we can get somewhere now,” said Gordon Kress, who obviously regarded the affair as his own show. “I brought Sutton over here to give you a chance to make a statement in his presence, Keever. Did he or did he not give you that check in consideration for your favorable opinion in the Acme Auto Insurance matter?”

Keever was beginning to regain his composure. He eyed Kress in deadly earnest. “I never saw a check for ten thousand, much less one given me by Sutton. How about that, Sutton? What have you got to say?”

Sutton seemed to enjoy being the center of attraction. He took his time before he said: “Sure, sure, Mr. Keever, you never saw the check!”

Then he deliberately winked.

Keever paled. Sutton had sealed his doom as surely as if he had said: “Sure, I gave you the check, and you cashed it!”