“What?”
“The gun that Charles Morse produced, it was my gun, I’d swear it.”
“Your gun?”
“A shining, nickel-plated, thirty-eight calibre revolver, with a pearl-type handle. There aren’t too many around like that.”
“Look, pal. Did you kill Joe Malamed?”
“No.”
We sat in silence and stared across at one another. He seemed a nice enough guy, about twenty-eight, with glistening black well-combed hair, scared brown eyes, dark cheeks closely shaven to a blue sheen, and long white fidgety fingers with buffed nails.
I said, “Why do you think it’s your gun?”
“Because I had one exactly like that. It disappeared.”
“Got a license for the gun?”
“Yes.”
“How’d it disappear?”
“I don’t know. It was in my apartment. Then it wasn’t.”
“Any idea who hooked it?”
“Any one of perhaps five hundred people.”
“Do that a little slow for me, will you, pal?”
“I have a penthouse suite on Central Park South. Two days ago, I had a cocktail party, and it was open house. People came and people went. You know how it is.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Here’s the truth, Mr. Chambers. When it comes to guns — any kind of firearms — I’m a bust. I have a phobia about guns. I may have fired a gun at targets maybe three times in all my life, and each time I was scared to death.”
“Then how come you own one?”
“I got it as a gift. I... I sort of liked it, made me feel good, that sort of thing. I got a license for it, and kept it around the apartment — for protection, sort of, though I don’t think that’s the real reason.”
“What would the real reason be?”
“I don’t know. Made me a big man with a gun. Blew up my ego in some cockeyed kind of way.” His smile was wan.
“All right, then, Melvin—”
“My friends call me Mel.”
“Okay, Mel. Just what do you want me to do for you?”
“I want to retain you — right now — to discover who murdered Joe Malamed.”
“Don’t you think the cops can do it?”
“That’s just what I’m afraid of. I’ll wind up as their pigeon. Guns can be traced, can’t they?”
“I take it you didn’t mention any of this to Lieutenant Parker.”
“No. I didn’t mention it. Will you handle it, Mr. Chambers?”
“Did you kill him, Mel?” I asked again.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Okay. I’ll handle it. But I’ll tell you right now, if it develops that you’re it, I turn you in, pal, and I keep the fee.” I tried a smile. “It’s what you call ethics.”
He took out a folding check book and a small ball-point pen and he scribbled and he scraped the check from the pad and handed it over. It was for one thousand dollars. I like rich clients.
“Fine,” I said and folded the check and put it away. “One question. About you and Joe Malamed.”
His face puckered. “Yes?”
“How’d you get along, you and Joe — say, as of yesterday?”
He looked for more gin in the teacup. There was no more gin in the tea-cup. “I’d rather not discuss that.”
“Suit yourself. You’re the client.” What the hell — it would be easy to find out.
“Where’ll I be able to reach you, Mr. Chambers? I mean—”
“I’ve got an office, but I’m almost never there. I’m up nights and sleep days, mostly. Here. Here at Schmattola’s. From curfew till the sun starts coming up, you figure to find me here.”
“Swell.”
He stood up and rubbed his hands. “Okay if I leave now?”
“Not at all. Leaving myself. Hang on till I pay the check, and I’ll ride up a way with you.”
IV
The next day I made the bank by a whisker and deposited his check. It was a day of high wind and everybody looked healthy. I fought the wind to a theatrical-type store and made a purchase that put a dent in my new fee. I fought the wind again to the Long-Malamed. I didn’t take a cab. You’ve got to do something for your lungs occasionally.
There’s nothing more dreary than a night club before it opens, except a graveyard in a fog. The Long-Malamed smelled of yesterday’s cigarette smoke and today’s disinfectant. One bright light cast long and frightening shadows. Tobias was behind the bar vigorously putting sparkle to the cocktail glasses.
“Hello, Mr. Chambers,” he said. “You’re a little previous. We ain’t serving yet.”
“You’re serving him, aren’t you?” I pointed to the back of a man at the end of the bar.
“He’s special.”
“Is he?”
The man turned around. It was Louis Parker.
“Special enough, Tobias. My apologies.” I placed my flat package down on the bar and went to Parker. I said, “How goes it, Lieutenant?”
“Not too good. What brings you pub-crawling this early?”
“Same brings you, I imagine.”
“You mean you cajoled a client out of this mess?”
“That’s the truth, Lieutenant.”
“Who?”
“Confidential, but I’ve got a hunch you’ll know sooner than you think.”
“We’re not going to cross wires, are we, Pete?”
“With other guys in the Department — maybe. But not with you, Louis.”
“Thanks.”
“How goes it?”
“Stinks.”
“The gloves?”
“Just the way I figured. Absolutely nothing.”
“The gun?”
“Only prints are Charles Morse’s, which is as it should be, since he handled it taking it out of his pocket. The rest were smudges.”
“Pretty smart.”
“Smarter than you think. I had one angle. I figured that would do it for me.”
“What was that, Lieutenant?”
“All our suspects furnished us with specimens of their prints. Voluntarily, of course, but on request.”
“But if the gun had no useful prints, and the gloves had nothing — what’d you need the specimens for?”
“My angle. Any guesses about my angle?”
“Nope. I’m dull this afternoon.”
“There’s stuff people forget, when they’re not too smart.”
“Such as?”
“Such as you leave no prints when you wear gloves and no nitrate particles hit your palm — but what people frequently forget is that prints can be left inside the gloves. Check?”
“You’re a cutie, Lieutenant.”
“Well, whoever pulled this was cuter. They made sure to rub the fingerprints off the gloves, so nothing showed.” He shrugged. “Smart operator, Petie. Real smart. It’ll be a pleasure to nab him. Or her.”
“Trace the gun yet?”
“We’re working on that.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” He got off the stool, went to the door, said, “Keep in touch,” and left.
“Nice man,” said Tobias.
“The best. How’s about an eye-opener?”
“Only for you, Mr. Chambers. On the house.” He poured.
I raised the glass. “First today.”
The doors swung and Irene Whitney entered, pert in a neat blue suit and rosy with the wind.
“First today,” I said at Irene Whitney.
She made a prim face. “Anybody who drinks before nightfall is a drunk.”
“That’s me,” I said, and knocked it down. It burned and I shuddered. “Got a present for you.”
“For me?” said Tobias.
“For her,” I said.
“Naturally,” said Tobias.
Irene hovered while I unwrapped the package. Her perfume was lovely. “Oh,” she said with enough enthusiasm to equal the purchase price. “Opera-length nylons! Long, wonderful lace nylons.” She looked at me with real affection, kissed my cheek. “You’re a thoughtful kind of guy.” She kissed me again.