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

We climbed in, and I started the motor. There were no words, going down, either pleasant or otherwise. Devine was smoking a cigar and scowling. I kept my eyes on the traffic.

At headquarters, I dictated a statement while Devine went in to see the Chief. When I’d finished, when it was typed and signed, he told me: “The Old Man wants to see you.” He didn’t look at me.

The Chief was looking out the window when I entered his office. I waited respectfully, making no sound. There would be a speech, in a moment, and I’d listen to that respectfully, too. For he was a good, capable, honest man — if a little verbose.

Then the big, white-thatched head turned toward me. “This is a big town, Morty, a very big town.”

I agreed that it was.

He indicated a chair, and I took it. He offered me a cigar, which I refused. He put the tips of his fingers together, and studied his desk top. “If you won’t work for us, you should work with us. We need all the help we can get in a town this size.”

“I work with you,” I said. “I think you’ll remember all the times I’ve worked with you.”

He pursed his lips, and nodded. “Well, yes, when there’s a pinch to be made, you call us. But you’re working around us, now, aren’t you? You won’t reveal all you know about this.”

“I’ve told you all I knew, Chief.”

“Who’s your client?”

“That I can’t tell you. There’s no reason to think it has anything to do with Moose Lundgren’s death. His death was overdue. Devine’s probably told you why I went over to see Lundgren.”

The Chief looked annoyed. “Sure, sure, sure... Even if it’s true, it’s a hell of a story. I think you went over there to make a deal with him. Maybe you even know who killed him. I’m not believing a word of that fairy tale you told Devine. I want the facts.”

I looked down at my hands. “You’ve got all the facts I can give you,” I told him. “Talking won’t get us anywhere.”

There was a silence. His voice, when it came was low. “I’ve never threatened to take your license away from you, have I? Never?”

“I hope you’re not threatening it now,” I said. “You’ve got Every to work on. I gave you that. Would you rather have someone a little easier to crack? Is that why you want my client?”

“You know me better than that,” he said.

“O.K. I shouldn’t have said it. But old Pop Delaney was in on my current deal this morning, as soon as I got it. I could have called from Lundgren’s office, and then taken a powder. I’ve been working with the department all day. I’ve kept one thing secret, the name of my client. The Marines couldn’t get that, not from me, on this case, or any case, unless I want to tell them. That’s my stand, and that’s the way it’ll always be.”

“Delaney?” he said. “Somebody’s missing? You might have told me that before, Morty.”

“I though you’d know,” I said. “A girl is missing. A girl named Flame Harlin. She was the featured attraction at Val Every’s Golden Pheasant. That I know. That’s all I know.”

I didn’t tell him about Rodney Carlton, because Rodney would lead them to Miss Townsbury.

“O.K.,” the Chief said. “We’ll go ahead on that as far as we can. If it isn’t far enough, I’ll be calling you in again. Cooperation is what we want here, boy.”

“It’s no one-way street,” I said, “this cooperation. It works both ways. You might mention that to some of the gang.”

He smiled. “Like Devine? He getting in your hair again? Devine’s a hard worker, Morty. He puts in a lot of hours.”

“All right,” I said. “As a taxpayer, I’m not kicking. But if you could just keep him out of my cases. His touch is too heavy.”

The Chief smiled again. He’d had a change of mood. “We can’t all have your touch,” he said. “Some of us are more serious. Some of us work for a living.”

Glen Harvey was out in the corridor, talking to Doc Walters, and I stopped. Glen told me: “It was a .22, all right. What would that spell to you, Jonesy?”

“Some guy had a lot of confidence in his Shooting,” I said. “Or maybe he was too lazy to carry a heavy gun. It could spell anything.”

“Like a woman? That could be a woman’s gun, huh?”

“Right. But not between the eyes. A woman who could shoot like that could give exhibitions. You ever meet a woman who could place one like that?”

“Not lately,” Glen said. “What’d the Old Man want?”

“Just my views on how to improve the department,” I said. “Homicide stinks, to hear him tell it.” I left them with that.

I went back to the office, but there was nothing there. I went over to Mac’s and had some meat balls with spaghetti. Mac watched me anxiously while I ate it.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

He watched me put the last mouthful away. “I guess not,” he said, “by the way you ate it. I kinda thought that meat was spoiled.”

Nice guy. “The Dodgers stink,” I said, “and Mickey Walker couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag.”

“Hah-hah,” Mac said. “Your opinion, just your opinion.”

“Besides which,” I went on. “You run a crummy joint. The only reason I come here is because it’s handy.”