Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 5, April 1974

“You said you hadn’t talked to him in ten or twelve years,” I said. “Does that mean you hadn’t even seen him in all that time?”

“I’d seen him, yes. But never to talk to. I saw him on the street a few times, but he didn’t see me.” She paused. “We were together only a few months, you know. We got married just before the war in Korea broke out. Larry was recalled to active duty right away. By the time he came out, we both knew we’d made a mistake. We got a divorce.”

“I understand he had no living relatives.”

“That’s right. He had no one at all.”

“I wonder if you’d mind doing the police a favor, then. In cases like this, we’re supposed to have a next-of-kin identification. Which means we’ve got a problem.”

“I understand,” she said. “I’ll be glad to make the identification for you. Would you want me to do it now?”

“Not right this minute,” I said. “First, I’d like to find out a little about Larry.”

She sighed. “It’s all so strange,” she said. “It’s almost as if I hadn’t ever been married to him at all. Almost as if I’d never even known him. I... I just don’t feel anything.” She smiled faintly. “I suppose that sounds pretty terrible, doesn’t it? But it’s true. I simply don’t feel anything at all.”

“Basically, what kind of person was he?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Well, if you had to say he was one thing more than any other, it would be that he was completely self-centered. He was the most completely selfish person I’ve ever known.”

“Can you think of any habits or ways of his that might have led to trouble?”

She ran the tip of a small pink tongue across her upper lip very slowly, and then shook her head.

“No,” she said.

I put my notebook away. “I appreciate your help, Mrs. Daniels,” I said. “Now, if you’d be good enough to make that trip to Bellevue, we—”

“Bellevue?”

“That’s where Manhattan homicides are autopsied. Larry’s body ought to be there by now. I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up and bring you home again.”

She nodded, got to her feet, and walked toward a door at the rear of the room. “I’ll be only a minute,” she said. “I want to put on something a little more appropriate.”

The door closed behind her, and I went over to the telephone table and made arrangements for her trip to Bellevue. Then, while I waited for her to dress, I decided to call Stan Rayder at Larry Yeager’s apartment and see whether there had been any new developments. But I had, I discovered, forgotten to write down Yeager’s phone number. I looked around for a directory, but I couldn’t find one.

I walked over to the door Reba Daniels had closed behind her. “Mrs. Daniels?” I called.

“Yes?”

“I can’t seem to find your phone book.”

“I must have dragged it in here with me again,” she said. “Yes, here it is. Whose number did you want, Mr. Selby? I’ll look it up for you?”

“Larry Yeager’s,” I said.

There was a short silence; then she called out the number, and I went back to the phone and dialed Yeager’s apartment. Stan Rayder answered on the second ring.

“Pete, Stan,” I said. “Anything new happen over there?”

“Nothing important,” he said. “Doris Hagen’s on her way to the slammer, and Yeager’s body was on its way to Bellevue half an hour ago.”

I told him about my talk with Warren Eads and June Courtney.

“Where are you now?” Stan asked.

“Reba Daniels’ apartment. She’s going over to Bellevue to make our ID for us.”

“Good. She give you any dope on Yeager?”

“No. I’ve been drawing blanks ever since I left you.”

“There was a call for you. Barney passed it along from the squad room. Whoever it was that called left his number, but he wouldn’t give his name.” He told me the number and I wrote it down.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll give him a call.” I said so long, depressed the receiver for a moment, and dialed the number he had given me.

“Yeah?” a man’s voice said.

“This is Pete Selby,” I said. “Someone wanted me to call him at that number.”

“It was me. G-Man Gault. Remember me?”

I remembered him, and I ought to have remembered his voice as well. He was a roving bootlegger and part-time stoolie named Donald Gault, but much more widely, and variously, known as G-Man, Creep Eye, and Gin Bag. The last name was due to the fact that he always wore an outsize trench-coat, on the inside of which were sewn several rows of pockets the exact size of pint liquor bottles.

“I remember you, Gault,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”

“I hear you caught the Yeager squeal,” he said. “I think I got something for you on it.”

“Fine. What is it?”

“Chief do you know a cat named Dixie Ryan?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that Dixie is a man you should hit right now. I mean suddenly, chief. From what I heard, Dixie had been laying it down that he was going to cut Yeager up real good.”

“Why?”

“All I know is it had something to do with a movie. Dixie runs a stag show once a week regular, you know. So maybe it was one of his he-and-she movies.”

“You know where Dixie’s hanging out these days?”

“Sure. He’s padding down upstairs at the Poor Boy Bar, on West Fourth Street.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll look him up.”