Shortly afterward another big change came with my being ordered into the detective service. A whole new life opened before me. The hope of every uniformed man had been finally gratified for me.
The Point in Evidence
by Roland Phillips
Eddie Corbin was too good a dick not to leave a tip for Porky Neale when he was caught unarmed.
I
Catching the faint sound from the window overlooking the fire escape, Detective Eddie Corbin turned his head to stare incredulously at the slim young man who had one leg hooked over the sill. The late afternoon sunlight streamed upon the floor, upon the checkered cap the intruder was wearing, upon the gun held rigidly before him.
“Keep your seat, dummy!” the man snarled. “I got something to say to you. It won’t take long.”
Corbin drew in a quick breath that set his pulse racing, that sent a cold prickle of dread scurrying along his spine. Five minutes before he had come into his room, had shed his coat and shoulder holster. Both lay upon the bed, six feet away. His eyes jumped from the trespasser’s pale face to the bed.
“Forget it!” the man snapped. He squirmed through the window as he spoke and stood erect. Then he moved toward the detective who, in shirt sleeves, sat at the table.
Corbin saw now that the gun leveled upon him was equipped with a silencer, and realized the grim significance of that. He kept his hands flat on the table. They were damp, tingling.
“It’s too bad you had to climb out of a uniform and get yourself promoted to a dick,” the man began slowly. “Too bad you stopped swinging a night stick and pounding a beat, flatty. Too bad you had to get so curious about things that didn’t concern you. You ought to know it would be the death of you.”
“Lay off the chatter,” Corbin flung back. “What’s this cheap show of yours about?”
“It’s about finished, for you,” the other returned. “You’re all washed up.”
“Put that gun away!” Corbin ordered.
“In a minute. I’ll take it apart and put it away when it’s spoke its little piece.” The man’s lips twitched derisively. “It won’t speak so loud. I’m always careful about that.”
Corbin contrived a smile, although his lips were like cardboard and a thin stream of perspiration was trickling down the back of his neck. He had been in jams before, and squeezed out of them, but somehow he felt this was not the same.
Being out of uniform, meeting punks on a new level, changed the perspective of things.
He knew the man who confronted him; knew his name, his unsavory contacts and reputation. They had met once — twelve hours ago. He saw now that he should have made his pinch then.
“Soon’s I finish my business here,” the man continued, “I’m calling the inspector, telling him how one of his boy scouts done too good a deed and gets a lead medal for it — hot lead.”
From somewhere below a hurdy-gurdy ground out a jerky tune. The shrill voices of children piped above it... dancing children.
“Listen,” the man was saying. “When you get to glory, or wherever all good dicks go, just keep on twanging your harp and minding your own business. It’s always safer.”
Corbin made no response. His eyes drifted to the pot of yellow flowers that stood on the edge of the table; a big pot dressed in bright, crinkly paper, and tied with a bow of silver ribbon. The flowers were as golden as the April sunlight. He had bought them this morning, and would be carrying them to Nora after dinner.
The man watching him, laughed. “You’re taking it pretty cool,” he said. “Some of ’em don’t. Well—”
Corbin’s eyes were still on the flowers, but his mind was spinning. It might be possible to upend the table, drop behind it before the prospective killer could squeeze the trigger. No other plan suggested itself. Without looking up, he began to slide his hand warily toward the edge of the table...
He heard the click and saw the puff of smoke. Something smacked tremendously against his chest, drove the breath from him, but he felt no pain. He sat gripped in a queer paralysis of mind and body until his head tilted and he sagged against the table. He closed his eyes and opened them again.
The room was empty, crowded with shadows. He was hit all right. Pain stabbed him, and with it a fierce, bitter resentment. To have had a chance, to go down fighting, wouldn’t have been so bad. He wouldn’t have complained. But to pass out like this — alone — with so much to tell...
He groped despairingly for the pencil he had sharpened a few minutes before. His fingers touched the knife he had used. It was open. The room was darker than ever now, the flowers blurred. Too late now to tell all that should be told, all that Inspector Neale hoped to hear. But time enough for one thing. The killer was not to escape.
The top of the table was soft, the blade sharp. He dug the blade into the wood, smiled grimly at thought of the damning evidence he was to leave behind.
II
Inspector “Porky” Neale was cocked back in his chair, his feet hoisted upon his battered desk, enjoying one of Sergeant Wallace’s birthday cigars and passing comment with the donor.
“The kid’s been right on the job from the start,” he declared. “I knew he’d be. That’s why I’ve done all I could to get him out of harness and under your wing. Wasn’t Bob Corbin a go-getter in his day? Eddie’s a chip off the old block. Blew in here an hour ago, all steamed up. Been working a week on the Kelsey case and says he’s going to bust it wide open.”
“Didn’t spill anything?” Wallace asked.
“Might have, but I was busy at the time. Told him to see me first thing in the morning. I tell you, sergeant, it puts a little pep into one, having a few hustling youngsters around.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” Wallace conceded. “They’ll be shoving the both of us off the shelf before long. Last time I talked with Eddie he was in a furniture store with a girl. Getting married, he told me.”
“Next week.” Neale chuckled and expelled a great cloud of smoke. “And that reminds me. Don’t forget to kick in with a five-spot. The boys are buying ’em a present.”
“Eddie won’t be worth a hoot for the next month,” Wallace remarked. “You can’t honeymoon and—”
The ringing of the phone cut him short. Neale reached for the instrument without taking his feet off the desk.
“Yep, inspector speaking... What’s that?” He listened to the low, obviously disguised voice that purred in his ear. “He’s what?... You mean Eddie Corbin?... Say, who—”
He glared into the mouthpiece as the receiver at the other end of the line banged. His feet thudded to the floor.
“What’s the trouble?” Wallace demanded.
“Eddie’s been smoked!”
The sergeant reared from his chair. “Who says so?”
“The bird who just phoned tells me!” Neale growled. “In his room. Even gives me the address.” He reached for his hat. “Maybe a false alarm, but we’re finding out. Coming along?”
The two sped from the office, clattered down the stairs to the street, piled into a waiting police car that roared off when Neale barked an address to the alert driver.
“If it isn’t a false alarm,” Wallace said, “then Eddie’s found out too much.”
Neale said nothing. The sergeant promptly followed his example. The car whirled them through the crowded streets to their destination. The men jumped out. Neale, who had visited the apartment house before, bounded up the stairs to the second floor, flung open the door at the rear of the hall.