Black Mask Detective (Vol. 35, No. 2 — November, 1950)
Five O’Clock Shroud
by Richard Deming
Goons were busting out all over, making Mr. Moon regret — that he’d cracked a safe, kissed a blonde, and toppled a gambling czar’s throne!
Chapter One
What Price Glory?
I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself. It isn’t every day that a private detective gets to nip a crooked politician’s career in the bud by exposing his crookedness. Nor every day that he makes a hundred dollars for three hours work.
But mostly I was feeling satisfied because my name wouldn’t enter into it. My fat client, Raymond Margrove, would take all the credit — and also any of the gangland vengeance that was handed out. Normally in a case as big as the expose of Gerald Ketterer, I would have welcomed newspaper publicity, for it is equivalent to free advertising. But when the exposed crook heads a city-wide gambling syndicate reinforced by numerous goons who carry guns, I would just as soon remain incognito. Free advertising won’t plug up a hole in your head when a mugg goes to work on you.
The story broke in an extra edition of the Morning Blade at midnight. Hailing a newsboy from a front room window of my apartment, I tossed him a coin. He folded a paper into a compact envelope and tossed to me in turn. Without a care in the world, I settled in an easy chair to read the account from start to finish.
Two inch headlines on the front page announced: REFORM MAYORALTY CANDIDATE EXPOSED AS GAMBLING HEAD. The story rated two columns plus a front page editorial. I read the news story first:
Late this evening the MORNING BLADE came into possession of documentary proof that Gerald Ketterer, candidate for mayor on the Reform ticket, is secretly the head of the same city-wide gambling syndicate he claims to be fighting. The proof is in the form of a detailed confession in Ketterer’s own writing, describing the entire gambling setup, which includes 483 illegal horse-betting establishments, fifty-three house-run dice and card games and the locations of 1,528 slot machines throughout the entire city.
In a preface to the document, Ketterer states: “This book has been prepared by me as a form of life insurance, since the enterprises in which I am engaged involve contact with various individuals who would like to replace me, and are not above murder as a means of accomplishing their end. These individuals are aware of the existence of this book, and I have taken pains to inform them my secretary has instructions to destroy it in event of my death from natural causes or accident, but has been instructed to turn it over to the MORNING BLADE if there is any suspicious element connected with my death.”
The document, which is in the form of a plain clothbound notebook, did not come to the MORNING BLADE as a result of Ketterer’s death, however; and as far as this paper knows, the Reform candidate for mayor is still in perfect health. The manuscript wag accidentally discovered by a private investigator named Manville Moon, who turned it over to the MORNING BLADE as soon as he realized its importance.
I stopped there to do a double take. And that is where I began to develop cares. Before finishing the item, I went into the bedroom, cleaned and loaded my P-38 and laid it on my bedside stand. Then I cursed the mental image of Raymond Margrove and returned to the paper.
Reporters were unable to reach Ketterer for a statement, as neither his bachelor apartment nor his office showed lights, and both telephones went unanswered. Miss Antoinette DeKalb, private secretary to Ketterer, was interviewed at her home at 324 Center St., but denied all knowledge of the document. However, she did admit after examining the preface that the handwriting was that of her employer.
The rest of the story was a biography of Gerald Ketterer.
The front-page editorial was one of those “We are deeply shocked to discover a viper in our bosom” things. I gathered that while the Morning Blade had innocently supported Gerald Ketterer for mayor, it was big enough to admit a mistake, and now wanted no part of him.
Reading it made me sleepy, so after checking the locks on both doors and making sure my P-38 had a shell in the chamber, I went to bed.
I was awakened at ten a.m. by another newsboy shouting, “Extra!”
Irritably I thought the Blade was certainly dragging its extra out, since the regular morning edition must have hit the street three hours before.
Rolling out of bed, I hopped to the bathroom on my left foot, my right leg consisting of a cork and aluminum contraption I don’t bother to wear when asleep. After a shave and shower, I hopped back into the bedroom again, fished my leg from beneath the bed and strapped it on.
While waiting for coffee water to come to a boil on the stove, I switched on the shelf-model radio in my kitchen. A musical program ended and the news came on.
“This is George Gross with the up-to-the-minute news,” said the commentator. “At eight o’clock this morning mayoralty candidate Gerald Ketterer was discovered to have committed suicide as a result of the sensational disclosures made by the Morning Blade last night. The body was discovered by Miss Antoinette DeKalb, the dead man’s secretary.
“Miss DeKalb had waited until the Rand Building, in which Ketterer maintained his office, opened at seven a.m.; then had obtained an extra key to Ketterer’s apartment from her employer’s desk, and arrived at the apartment about eight. The dead man was discovered in the bathroom, where he had slashed both wrists with a razor and bled to death.”
The rest of the report was a rehash of the exposé made by the Blade.
I was stirring my second cup of coffee when the phone rang. Carrying my cup with me, I went into the bedroom to answer it. It was Raymond Margrove.
“Hear the news?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “Just now on the radio.” Then in a sour tone I added, “Thanks for the newspaper plug.”
Apparently he caught the sour note. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Good publicity, wasn’t it?”
“Sure. Every gambler in town will love me.”
For a moment he was silent. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he said finally. “I thought I was doing you a favor.”
“Don’t do me any more like that,” I said shortly. “That crowd moves fast and plays rough. You didn’t swallow that suicide story, did you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why should Ketterer commit suicide?” I asked. “And don’t tell me because he couldn’t become mayor and his racket was busted wide open. The most he could have gotten on a gambling rap is a five-hundred-dollar fine, and the guy had a fortune to pay it with. The syndicate rubbed him out for spilling the works.”
He was silent even longer this time, and I could hear his labored breathing as he thought things over.
“But it was obviously a suicide,” he managed finally.
“Nuts,” I said.
Suddenly his voice squeaked, “Do you think I might be in danger?”
“Not if you keep your mouth shut,” I told him peevishly. “They’ll be looking for a guy named Moon.”
I hung up on him and took my coffee back to the kitchen to finish.
Twenty minutes later I was still sitting there smoking a cigar and trying to promote enough energy to wash the coffee pot when a polite cough came from the kitchen door.
I turned to observe a dapper young man of about twenty-five exposing even white teeth in a grin. He was carrying a .45 automatic.