When Pete rose to refill their mugs, the detective spoke and his tone was quizzical. “You’ve overlooked the main sticker, Pete. How did the slug with your gun markings get into the trash barrel?”
“Sam, there’s only one possible way I can figure it. The slug Homicide dug out of the barrel was the one that was on file in the police lab. Somebody lifted this sample from the lab and probably substituted another in its place. Then this person gave the genuine slug from my gun to Augie’s people and when they shot Deaver they retrieved the bullet that killed him from the garbage and substituted my slug in its place.”
“And who do you think switched slugs in the lab?” Sam asked.
“My bet would be on Conway.”
“And you would be right.” Sam Tolliver now took the floor and began to unfold his bizarre story with obvious relish. He fired a cigaret and squinted through the curling smoke.
“Big Augie dreamed up this scenario for the reasons you just mentioned. His cast included Conway, who had been betting the ponies and couldn’t pay — Old Whitey, the gunsmith and engraver, whom he threatened to frame back into stir — and, of course, Punchy who needs his supply of horse to keep going. But the main star was Dan Deaver and he played his part for keeps.”
“Yeah, I knew Punchy had been a mainliner for years,” Pete interjected, “and I figured he made that first call to me about the hit contract.”
Tolliver ignored the interruption. “But you had no way of knowing the real Dick Tracy angle of this setup, Pete, and you’re not going to believe it.
“After I dropped you off the other night, I began to dig deeper into this Whitey and Conway hookup and it worried me. I didn’t realize how near Whitey was to cracking wide open but just on a hunch I dropped back to his shop about eleven P.M. and routed him out of bed. Well, I took a shot in the dark and told him Conway had been singing loud and clear, naming names and dates, the works.
“The old man came unglued and began to spill the whole bucket of worms. I took him down town and for the vague suggestion of a ‘maybe so’ suspended sentence he wrapped up all the loose ends for us.”
Tolliver fell silent, savoring the suspense building up toward the flash point in his friend.
“But the slug, damn it, Sam, the slug,” Merrick’s eyes were like live coals as he leaned across the table. “Did they discover the phony bullet Conway planted in the lab as a substitute for mine?”
The detective held up a hand. “Pete, remember that Big Augie was playing these poor bastards like puppets on strings, and he gave all the orders. First, Conway and Whitey met Denver in one of Augie’s warehouses, lined him up in front of the garbage cans and shot him once with a .357 mag, the same gun we spotted in the gun shop.
“Then they dug out the spent slug and substituted the bullet they had in their possession. They hauled the two cans and the body to the alley location as you have already doped out. Conway waited in the van while Whitey cased the corner where you were supposed to show. The whole operation hinged on exact timing. Whitey didn’t intend for you to spot him but he had no way of knowing you recognized him, anyway.
“After you arrived they placed everything in proper position. When they had the props all set up, Conway drove off in the van and Whitey fired a shot in the air as he saw you cross the alley entrance and then high-tailed it for his shop, where he cleaned the Mag and hung it on the rack.”
“And the bullet from my gun?” Pete begged as Sam paused.
“Pete, recall when you spotted Conway and Whitey at the door of the gun shop? Well, Conway was picking up your lab specimen slug from Whitey to return it to its proper place in the police lab. He had stolen your bullet with your .357 markings on it and left it with Whitey who is probably the most expert engraver the counterfeiting fraternity has ever produced. Whitey took your slug and engraved the ballistic markings on an unfired bullet, turned out an exact duplicate which even fooled our Ballistics experts.”
“He did what?” Pete croaked in absolute incredulity. “That’s impossible, it’s never been done before.”
“Probably true,” Sam shot back, “but any craftsman who can duplicate the intricate shadings on a fifty-dollar bill as expertly as Whitey can do most anything with metal. Just think about it. Visualize the delicate tools Whitey uses and how good he is with them.”
Pete Merrick uncoiled from his chair and began circling the room like a caged animal. “He must have been using blowups like we glimpsed in the back room and working under high magnification.” His voice was tense with excitement. “But what went wrong, Sam?”
“Just one of those little accidents that usually trip up the best of criminal schemes. If you hadn’t just happened to spot Whitey’s face and funny ears from an old mug shot you once, saw, we would have never been alerted about the old engraver.
“Incidentally, we have Whitey and Punchy but Conway has disappeared into thin air, gone, evaporated. His wife claims he hasn’t been home for two days. Augie probably took him out of circulation for keeps.” The detective rose and began fumbling with his top coat.
“Thanks for everything, Sam,” Merrick said simply, thrusting out a hand.
“It was almost a pleasure, old buddy,” the other grinned. “When you drop around to the Captain’s office to pick up your Mag get him to show you the three slugs. He’s keeping them in his desk for curiosities. Ballistics swears all three came from your gun but we know only two of them did.” Sam moved toward the door.
“Well, what do you know?” Pete Merrick had followed the detective and the two stood smiling for a moment, probing each other’s face. “I turned up in a genuine counterfeit frame made by an expert engraver but it will furnish me with a picture for Part Five of my crime series and another paycheck from my publisher.”
“Be seeing you,” Sam Tolliver slipped out into the hall with a wave of the hand.
Pete Merrick stalked to his typewriter and grinned down at the machine. “Let’s go baby.”
Peter’s Second Wife
by Joann S. Scheb
Peter Morley gave his wives all that money can buy — but for some reason first Elaine and now Marlo took to drink.
Marlo Morley stopped by the palm tree at the elevator, balanced the bag of groceries on one shapely hip, thumbed the button for “up” and waited impatiently. Peter’s car hadn’t been in its slot, so she knew he wasn’t home yet, but she wanted to be upstairs and out of her tennis clothes, bathed and beautiful and especially sexy-looking before he got there. Tonight was a special night.
Besides, Peter didn’t like her to stop at the grocery store in tennis clothes. Peter was very proper.
The elevator came and, ignoring the bulging eyes of a young man getting off, Marlo entered the cab and pushed the button for the ninth floor. The telephone started ringing while she was still trying to fit the key into the lock of her condominium.
“I’ve been trying to call you all afternoon,” he said, and she felt her heart skip a beat. He hadn’t forgotten. He was going to wish her a happy anniversary. He was going to invite her out for dinner.
“I’ve been playing tennis,” she told him. She had won. She felt wonderful. She wished he would ask, but he didn’t.
“I wanted to tell you that I have an appointment to show a house at seven,” he said. “I’ll just grab a bite to eat at the cafeteria.”