And when this dame down at The Record had run wild on the Varelli story, the chief sent me down to see what I could get from Wolfe for The Courier. I looked up at him again. The half-smoked cigarette drooped from his mouth and there was a mocking twinkle in his eyes.
“Well,” he said. “What about it?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” I replied. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t’ve plugged Varelli. All I know is that you’re quicker’n hell on the draw. The witnesses who saw it said you both yanked out your guns at the same time, but that you fired an instant before he did.”
Wolfe laughed. “I’m quick on the draw — but we both drew at the same time. Then I can’t be so quick, eh?”
“Well—” I stammered. “I don’t know, I wasn’t here. That’s what I heard.”
Wolfe sat upright with a jerky movement, tossed the cigarette away and pulled his coat sleeve up. Rolling up his shirt sleeve above the elbow, he showed me his arm. A yellowish scar showed on one side of the muscle, a larger scar on the other side.
“There’s one,” he snapped. “I got another one in my side. I didn’t get ’em in Europe either. I got ’em right here in Boston. And I got both of ’em because I drew first — and didn’t shoot.”
He rolled down his sleeve. “Quick on the draw! That’s a lot of bunk. It’s got nothin’ to do with it. There’s plenty of guys in the grave that drew first.”
“Well, then,” I pressed, “what’s the answer?”
“The answer’s a state of mind.” He waited a moment for his words to sink in. “When you go after a man you’ve got to know whether he’s gonna shoot or not. And if he is going to shoot, you’ve got to be first — if you want to live.
“I’ve seen a cop with his gun drawn stop a guy who still had his rod in his pocket. Yet the cop was the one that got plugged. Why? Because he didn’t think the other guy would shoot — while the guy himself knew he would.
“After this second nick I got, I made up my mind I wanted to live a while. Understand, I don’t draw unless I have to. But when I draw on a killer now, I figure on shootin’.
“This Varelli thug is an example. He was a killer. I knew it, everybody knew it. I went in after him. Neither of us had a gun in our hand. When he went for his, I knew he meant business.”
Wolfe pulled out the makings and started another cigarette.
“Doesn’t make a very good story, does it, Charlie?”
“Well—” I hedged, “I guess it does, but I never thought of it that way before.”
“Then let it lay. I’ll give you a ring in a couple days — if I’m lucky. If you want, I’ll let you see for yourself.”
Wolfe kept his word and three days later I got the call. It was in the evening and I was down at his office about nine o’clock.
He was sitting indolently in his chair, one of his half-consumed, smoke-stained cigarettes in the corner of his mouth. It was a funny habit, that rolling his own. It must’ve been a hangover from his army days. I never saw him smoke anything else.
I waited for him to speak. I didn’t know just what he was going to do or what he had in mind. He’d said he was going to let me see for myself. And without knowing how or why, there was a definite tingle to my skin and the palms of my hands were damp.
“All set, Charlie?” he said, finally.
“Sure. What’re we gonna do?”
“We’re goin’ after Shulz.”
I whistled and made no attempt to disguise my feelings. Shulz was the one they had been looking for on the baby killings. The fellow had a record a mile long but with surprisingly few convictions. He’d been up for murder twice and both times he had beaten the rap. And two weeks ago, in gunning out a rival, he had killed a little girl and crippled a boy.
I hadn’t said anything to the chief about Wolfe’s offer, but now I thought I’d better phone in. To tell the truth, I wasn’t so sure I was coming back.
“Is it all right to call in and tell ’em what I’m on?” I asked. “I’d like to have ’em get all the stuff out of the files and the morgue, so they’ll be ready for it. Will it break by eleven?”
Wolfe looked at me with that poker face of his and his lips barely moved.
“It’ll break by eleven. But I don’t think you’d better call in. You may change your mind about it before you get through. And — we might not be successful.”
I knew what he meant by that last, so I sat back and watched him open the drawer of his desk and take out a long-barreled, light automatic. I was plenty surprised and I guess I showed it when I spoke.
“You’re not going after Shulz with that, are you? Looks like a .22.”
“It is.” Wolfe fondled the gun, slipped out the clip. “And this isn’t always what I use, Charlie.”
He put the clip back in the .22, pulled back the slide to throw a bullet in the chamber, and laid it on the desk. Then taking a larger gun — a revolver — from the drawer, he inspected this also.
“This is the old stand-by. A .38 special. But sometimes I have use for the .22. It all depends on the job and what I’ve got to do.”
He slipped this in his shoulder holster and picked up the .22 again.
“It’s a funny thing, Charlie. They’ve got me down for a killer. A hardboiled murderer. Well, I’ve been on this job five years and I’ve killed just three men in that time — including Varelli. Not so many, is it, when you think of what I’ve been up against.”
“But,” I sputtered. “It seems like—”
“Nope.” Wolfe interrupted and forestalled the thought I was about to express. “I’ve shot plenty, Charlie. That’s what you’re thinking of. I’ve shot plenty — wounded ’em enough so we could take ’em. But that doesn’t make such a good story, does it?”
I kept still and he continued. “That’s what the .22 is for. With the .38 I can generally put a quick shot in a three-inch circle at ordinary range. With the .22 I can make that a one-inch circle. It’s almost as good as a rifle, Charlie. And sometimes it comes in handy.”
Wolfe stood up and slipped the .22 in his coat pocket. “I guess we’re set. And just remember, this is no picnic. You know Shulz’s reputation. If he should get me, it might be sort of tough on you. I’ll try to take care of you, but it’s not too late to back out and I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
I looked at the sharp-featured face, sized up the slim, wiry build. There was competence in every line of him.
“It’s O.K. with me,” I said.
We left the taxi at Columbus Avenue. “How do you know you’ll find him?” I asked.
“I’ll find him. That’s what stoolies are for. He won’t be in when we get there but we’ll stick around till he comes.
“The house is almost down to the next block. I’ll go down alone. You watch me. See where I go. Then follow me in about five minutes. I’ll wait down in the hall for you.”
Five minutes later I followed Wolfe down the depressing canyon of three and four storied, dirty brick apartment houses. There was a sordid atmosphere of decay about the neighborhood that quickened my footsteps. I was glad when I reached the house into which Wolfe had turned.
The door was unlocked and Wolfe was waiting inside.
I followed him up two flights of narrow, dimly lighted stairs and down a corridor to an entrance on the left. He tried the knob, then fished out a ring of keys. An instant later he pushed open the door and stepped inside. I followed and stood out of the way until he had closed the door.
The place seemed pitch black. And as I waited there in the darkness for him to speak, I was conscious that I was holding my breath, that the blood was thumping at my eardrums. It seemed as though we stood there for five minutes before he said: