Later, when Merrick reached the front door of his walk-up after the session with his publisher, he was in a foul mood.
The fellow was proving difficult about the final installment. He was insisting on more detail, was all but demanding a definite description of Big Augie, himself. Sam Tolliver was waiting at the foot of the long stairway.
“Thought you might be lying low, or have you heard yet?” Sam barked.
“Yeah, I heard,” Pete retorted.
As the two men plodded upward, Sam Tolliver outlined the rumors running up and down the grapevine.
“You’ve got to believe this contract is for real,” Tolliver cautioned as he opened the door and swept the room with a glance.
“Could be,” Merrick replied, attacking the empty coffee pot with a restrained ferocity, “and he does have a good reason to have me put away.”
After a while the old pot began to bubble with a muted ecstasy. Pete stared across the table and locked eyes with the detective. Both men broke into a mutual grin of understanding.
“You’ve been in spots before,” Tolliver observed.
“True,” Pete answered, beginning to pour fresh coffee.
As the two sat hunched over their mugs, sipping the fragrant brew and kicking the facts around, Merrick broached the subject of an informer in the Department.
“You hate like hell to even think about having a rat in your nest,” Tolliver said at last with a bitter edge in his voice.
“Sure,” Pete agreed, “but the evidence points that way.”
Tolliver checked his watch and swore, heading for the door. Then, as the detective paused, Pete described his brief glimpse of the two faces he had seen.
“I’m certain one of them was Conway of the lab but I can’t place the old white-haired one. I’ve seen that face somewhere, though.”
“Buddy, you’ve seen a lot of faces, everywhere,” Tolliver flung over his shoulder. “Be careful,” he added by way of farewell.
The week that followed was sheer frustration for Pete Merrick. Then, Saturday night, about nine, the break came. Old Punchy, one of Pete’s most dependable stoolies, called and set up a meeting at the corner of Sixth and Water Street. He had a hot tip. With only minutes to spare before rendezvous time, Pete slid through the thinning herd of humanity and approached the appointed corner.
A car nearby backfired with a sharp report. As Pete’s head jerked sideways with an involuntary reflex, his glance raked a figure with snow-white hair passing quickly in the crowd. Pete stifled an impulse to turn and follow but then the elusive impression that had been bugging him clicked into place. Damn it all, one of the man’s ears was longer than the other. He kept churning this strange face through his mind’s eye as he waited impatiently for Punchy but the stoolie failed to appear.
At 9:30 sharp Pete Merrick muttered a string of variegated oaths and started walking swiftly back down Sixth toward his parking spot. As he crossed the mouth of the first alley cutting off the lighted street the report of a heavy caliber shot lanced out of the darkness. Pete threw himself sideways in a dive toward a nearby doorway. Then he grinned sheepishly and replaced his half-drawn gun in its holster.
You damned idiot, he reminded himself, you never hear the one that gets you. It was undoubtedly a big gun, he thought, as he continued on his way. His wrist watch showed 9:31 and he filed the fact away in his mind as routine, wondering if Punchy’s call had been a trap.
Two days later, the sky caved in on Pete Merrick. Sam Tolliver’s mighty pounding on the door jolted him awake from a catnap. The detective entered and began to pace the floor with savage, pent-up energy. Abruptly turning he stabbed a forefinger into the air like a switch-blade knife. “Man, they have got you shot down, but good.” The detective’s words.
The detective’s words lashed out at him like a striking snake.
“What the hell for?” Pete demanded.
Sam Tolliver slumped in the easy chair. “The young D. A. has you hooked for the murder of Danny Deaver in that alley,” he stated.
“He’s what?” Pete’s voice was raspy and the short hairs on his neck began to crawl.
“The Captain just clued me in,” Sam began. “Look, Pete, some dude heard a shot and called in and they found Danny slumped against a couple of garbage cans; you must have seen the papers. The slug had bored through Danny and one can, and was lodged in the second one. The slug was a .357, Pete.”
Merrick stood still, frowning. “Yeah, go on,” he said, his voice tight and controlled.
“Well,” Sam continued, “they have a witness that places you on the corner a half block away at about nine thirty. The way the D. A. sees it, you had a motive, you were at the scene and your gun is the right caliber. He figures that you must have known Deaver was one of Augie’s hit men and this would be your motive. The Captain asked me to bring in your .357, Pete, to fire a test round.” The detective glanced up at the other’s tense face, then looked away in embarrassment.
“You’ve already got a slug fired from my Magnum,” Pete broke in. “Remember when that new Police Commissioner got that weirdo idea about having everybody on the force fire a test slug and file it in the lab with a little I.D. card?”
“Sure, we still have it but the D.A. wants a new slug fired from your gun by our Ballistics boys. Sorry, Pete.”
“Don’t let it bug you, buddy, it’s not your fault.” Pete Merrick stalked, stiff-legged, to the night table and returned with his service revolver, holding it out butt-first toward the detective.
Tolliver came to his feet and moved toward the door. “I’ll keep you posted, fellow, if I can, and when they test-fire this gun the D.A. will really look stupid.”
Pete managed a crooked smile. “Thanks for everything, Sam, but I didn’t gun that hood down. I never even saw him.”
“I believe you,” Sam Tolliver flung over his shoulder, “but somebody has gone to a lot of trouble to finger you.”
The day following Tolliver’s visit, Pete was sitting at the typewriter trying to phrase the last few paragraphs when a sharp rapping at the door brought him out of his chair.
“Pete Merrick? It’s Jimmy Dranow here! Open up,” The voice cut through the door like a buzz saw. Pete checked through the peephole and then opened the door to the Homicide detective.
“Come on in, Jimmy,” he said, giving his visitor a half-grin of welcome.
“Pete Merrick, you’re under arrest on suspicion of murder and anything you say...” The man’s voice trailed off as Pete raised an impatient hand.
“I know my rights, Jimmy. Save your breath, but what about the test slug?”
“They matched, Pete. The murder slug was fired from your gun. Let’s go.” The detective’s eyes roved over the room. “Get your topcoat. I’m double-parked down there.”
“They couldn’t match,” Pete ground out, “because I didn’t shoot that hood.” He walked slowly to the closet and took down his windbreaker, feeling in the pocket for an extra pack of cigarets.
“You want to argue with Ballistics?” Dranow barked. “Then you can do it in the Captain’s office. Let’s move.”
As they left the apartment, the detective threw a hard glance at Pete. “You wouldn’t do anything crazy like trying a break, would you?”
“Hell, no,” Pete answered curtly. “Why should I? I’m not guilty of anything.”
The trip to Headquarters was made in silence. Sam Tolliver and the Captain were waiting, fidgeting and uneasy.