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

He cocked an ear. A siren’s whining was dying in the street. Slabbe took three strides into the bedroom, eyes cruising one quick trip around the room. The mattress had been ripped, the drawers pulled out. The only thing that looked as if it hadn’t been upset was a small framed picture of a man on the dresser. There was handwriting on the picture. Slabbe swept it into his pocket and was back in the other room beside Gage when police brogues rumbled on the stairs and Homicide Lieutenant Carlin’s long, bony nose appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes flashed hotly.

“Now, now, we didn’t do it,” Slabbe clucked. “Gage here is the Zenith op I told you about. He potted Silk Flaim out on the sidewalk. We got the tip to come here from Whitey Fite.” Slabbe went on, explaining.

Carlin heard him out, said sarcastically: “Real open and above-board today, aren’t you?”

“Well, there ain’t nothing to be close about.” Slabbe shrugged. “Tommy Rex ought to be still down in the Carleton Arms Hotel lobby. I got Charlie Somers on him, but you can’t figure Tommy did this. Gage just put him in town at two-thirty and had an eye on him all the time.”

Carlin leered at Gage. “You’ve got a crust, blitzing in our town. Gimme your gun.”

Gage handed it over. Carlin broke it, looked at it, swung the cylinder back into place, put it in his pocket.

Gage said mildly: “I’ll take a receipt for it, Officer.”

Carlin’s eyes glittered on Gage, taking him in piece by piece. Slabbe pushed Gage into a chair. “The guy’s pooped, Pat,” he told Carlin. “He’ll stick and make his statement. I’ll make mine later, huh? I gotta see a guy.”

Carlin’s lips twisted. “You gotta see a guy,” he mocked. “Did I ever see you right after a kill when you didn’t

gotta see a guy!”

“I’ll level,” Slabbe said openly. “I’m going to look up Whitey Fite again. How he got to know that Pola Velie was here didn’t seem important before, but now it does. Who he saw her with and when is important, too. When she was killed might mean something. Who this Nikki Evans is we gotta find out.”

“Finished?” Carlin purred. He said over his shoulder to the assorted cops who had accompanied him: “Everybody understand how this investigation is going to be run, now? Inspector Slabbe will be glad to answer your questions.”

His dark eyes pinned Slabbe. “Siddown!”

Slabbe blew a bubble with his gum that burst with a flat little cracking sound, sat down on a chair by the telephone, looked at the instrument speculatively, then put it to his ear and gave the number of the Carleton Arms Hotel. He asked for the house man, McPhail.

“Barney,” he said, “is Charlie Somers still there?” Then he jerked the phone away from his ear, held it at arm’s length — it was spitting furious static. A word here and there remotely resembled McPhail’s normal voice and said: “No headaches, you promised... guy pulled a gun right in our lobby... shot at the guy your guy was watching... hell to pay... my job... just lucky they didn’t kill somebody!”

Slabbe shot questions sharply, listened, hung up again. Lieutenant Carlin hovered over him, challenging him to hold anything back. Slabbe didn’t. He tongued his gum out of the way into a cavity and explained: “Happy Lado, it looks like, went straight from here to the Carleton Arms lobby and took a potshot at Tommy Rex. He didn’t connect and Tommy sloped out with Happy still chasing him.”

Carlin’s thin nostrils flared. “My God, the Rotary and Kiwanis and the Citizens’ Committee use that hotel for meetings and dinners. They’ll crucify the whole department! Gimme that!” He snatched the phone, called the radio rotunda at the City Hall. “Railroad stations, airport, ferry slips!” he barked. “Get the staties to bottle the highways! I know you already done it! Do it again!”

Al Gage hissed at Slabbe. “How good is that Charlie Somers you have on Tommy?”

Slabbe winked. “He didn’t pull any miracles this week, but he gets by. Catch yourself forty winks, cousin. Carlin’s got great faith in letting guys loose and shadowing ’em. He’ll do it to us when his fuse burns out. While we’re waiting we can learn something, maybe.”

Slabbe waited till Carlin was dealing out orders to his squad, then slid out of his chair as unobtrusively as a man of his bulk could do and stepped into the kitchenette of the apartment. He scowled when he saw that a cop was posted there, but grinned when he saw that there was beer in the refrigerator. He uncapped a couple of bottles and went back and gave one to Carlin. Al Gage had closed his eyes and was breathing heavily.

Carlin took the bottle Slabbe proffered, sneered at Gage: “These slick Zenith guys! Gotta sleep on schedule or they’re no good.”

Slabbe said: “Whitey Fite will talk to me, Pat.”

“He’ll talk to a hose, too.”