“Let’s just say you’re a pigeon,” the woman bit off. “Who the hell cares? Give it to me straight.”
The carefully shaven face cringed but the voice said: “Straight. He’s up at 3232 Bret Harte Road with another guy’s wife. If you act fast, you catch him.”
“I’ll catch him all right. Don’t you lose no sleep over it, honey.”
“Not that it matters,” the man lisped, “but are you an ‘ex’, too? Not that it matters.”
The girl dug into her handbag, pulled out a five dollar bill and threw it on the ground at his feet. “Not that it matters,” she repeated. “If you’re a sample of his friends, he must have been scraping the bottom of the barrel lately. Thanks.”
The big bronze door chimes struck the quarter hour. Doctor Halloran tensed, the blood vessels at his temples pulsing quickly. He took slow, deliberate strides to the door and swung it open. A woman faced him.
“Maybe I’m wrong. If so, no harm’s done. Back in!”
Her hair was ebony. She wore a pretty chesterfield over a strawberry-red pleated suit. Her voice sounded thin — ageless as the Sphinx, but thin.
He backed into the living room, keeping his hands well away from his sides. He didn’t especially care for the automatic the woman held pointed at him. He stopped when his feet bumped into the green davenport.
The woman pulled the automatic back into her hip deeply where it would be safe. With her left hand she pawed his clothing, found Barda’s gun, took it.
“Sit down.” she said. “I’ll like it better that way.”
He did so slowly.
“Make me a story,” she began, “a story about Paul Barda.”
Doctor Halloran pulled his hands onto his knees, palms down. The fingers spread, stayed that way.
“Paul Barda,” he repeated. “I don’t believe I know him.”
Something in the tone made the woman whip her gun up. “No mistake,” she whispered. “This is the place all right. Talk!”
Doctor Halloran sighed. His fingers relaxed. His voice, when he replied, sounded tired and a little resigned.
“It seems to me,” he said, “you have all the cards but one. On the other hand I have none — nor am I even interested in the game. Suppose you talk, instead.”
“I’ve already burned a guy down tonight,” she said. Her eyes glared, making his skin itch. “For nothing at all except I wanted a little money and he couldn’t see it that way. What’s more, I came here to bum another. One more added to the score won’t matter.”
He raised his right hand, halted it in mid-air and replaced it on his knee. He nodded. His eyes even seemed to light up in pleasant agreement.
“As you say. One more won’t matter. It won’t matter to me, either, for reasons you wouldn’t guess.”
The automatic was a tight black line pointing straight at him. “Something tells me I’m wasting my time,” she said. “But I’ll give it a try. All right. Paul Barda used to be in love with me.” Long eyelashes flicked toward the ceiling.
“Oh, it was an easy thing for him. He’s had so much practice. But he got tired. Me, I didn’t tire easy. And I thought maybe I could get him back by doing some dirty laundry for him... A guy died in my apartment.
“Paul swore he’d never forget me and I got off easy with five years. Did you ever spend five years waiting day after day, night after night — in hell — waiting for someone you loved? Or waiting for a letter? A postcard, even?” Her lip curled. “That was me, brother.”
Doctor Halloran dropped his eyes to his hands, studied them. He said nothing.
“I’d played it smart — if you don’t use brains at all, that is. And when I finally got out I banged my head some more hunting around, finding out how Paul had spent those five years on the outside. It led me to Reno. And here.
“They said he’d be here with some guy’s wife. It sounded like Paul. He can take any woman and do that to her. He did it to me. I used to be a good woman. Would you believe it?”
Doctor Halloran raised his eyes. They were tortured eyes, hot with the agony of something seen for the first time.
The logs in the fireplace stirred.
“You’ve wasted your time,” he said slowly. “Paul Barda isn’t here. You may search the place if you like. You may shoot me if you like. You may steal my car which stands at this moment outside with the keys in the ignition. You have my gun and you have your own.”
The woman grunted. “You talk plenty, mister, but the words don’t mean anything.”
He sighed again, more audibly this time. “I’ve told you once. Barda isn’t here. I don’t even know the man.”
The woman’s gun faltered. Her hand began to tremble just the slightest. She breathed noisily.
“Your wife?” she finally asked. “It was your wife?”
“Yes.” He got up, went over to the small table upon which rested the whiskey bottle. He poured himself a stiff drink.
“I’m sorry for you, brother,” she said. “I can mean that from the heart. I can really mean that. And where do you think they’d go?”
Doctor Halloran raised the whiskey to his lips, let the fluid bum there a moment. Then the faintest suggestion of a grin crossed his eyes.
“They say Las Vegas is a winter playground,” he murmured.
“Yeah. Vegas. That sounds like Paul. Anywhere just so long as there’s plenty of gambling. I’ll take you up on that car business. I’ll ditch it somewhere to the south. Maybe Carson City. I can pick up another there. O.K.?”
“Carson City,” he agreed.
“You want your gun? No, I’ll take it along. It’d be a nice gesture in Vegas, wouldn’t it? I think you’d like that.” Doctor Halloran watched the woman drive away with Paul Barda’s convertible. He waited several minutes and then went to the telephone, dialed Police Headquarters. Outside a sleigh full of kids went by noisily. Christmas Eve carols.
“I’d like to report a stolen car,” he said. The voice on the other end told him to hang on. Then: “Stolen Car Division. Avila speaking. What make? What’s the license?”
The instrument seemed made of lead, it was so heavy. He shuffled it in his hand. “I...” he said hesitantly.
“Yeah? What’s the dope. What car? You still there?”
Doctor Halloran dropped the phone in its cradle. “Never mind,” he whispered to no one.
He went to the bedroom, looked down at his wife. She was sleeping the heavy relaxed sleep of a drugged person. He went over to the window, raised the shade and looked out at the thick glittering snowfall. It was going to be a beautiful white Christmas in Reno this year.
Murder Tops the Cast
by Robert C. Dennis
It was old stuff for Carmody, the henpecked sleuth, to be part of a shadowing operation, but he was usually on the tail-end of the deal. It was a new twist to find his own tracks dogged — and by a beautiful blonde at that.
Chapter One
That part of Hollywood Boulevard lying between North Ivar and Highland Avenue is either eight or nine blocks long, depending on which side of the street you’re on. And there are, at any given hour of the day, three screwballs per block, either side of the street! I counted them once.
For instance, when I came around the corner from my office building — which is on Ivar — a silver-blonde girl wearing dark glasses, purple slacks and a mink coat sailed past behind two over-sized greyhounds in harness. I wondered why she didn’t just get a cart and let those beasts work for her. They were as big as a team of horses anyhow.
Watching them I nearly ran into a small man who quacked at me like a real duck. It scared the hell out of me. You don’t expect to encounter a duck on a busy street.