“You’re sure? When we talked about finding a way—”
“Will you start making sense? It was the stakeout.” I gestured at my surroundings. “It went wrong.”
“Please God you’re telling me the truth. Ohhhh, I can’t think! What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to take him out of here.”
The line hummed emptily in my ear for an instant. “I don’t — you’re going to do what?”
My nerve-ends were jangling at her slowness. “I’ll try to set up something on the outside so no one can point a finger at me.”
Her slow exhalation whispered in my ear. “Why?”
Exasperation overwhelmed me. “So I can save my damn job, that’s why! Maybe my life, if other people think like you do! Do you realize the spot I’m in here? Or maybe you think I should put my .38 in my mouth and even things up?”
“Don’t talk like that, Mickey.” Her voice was much stronger. “Are you sure it’s the thing to do?”
“No, I’m not sure. But I’m damn sure if I stay here my ass has had the course.”
“What can I do to help?”
I swallowed a sigh of relief. “They’ll be knocking on your door. Watch yourself. Watch what you say. You don’t know anything about where we were.” A thought crossed my mind. “What we were talking about Sunday — your getting a divorce? You didn’t mention it to anyone, did you?”
“No. I haven’t had—”
“Then don’t,” I interrupted her. “Someone might think—”
“That I killed Tony?”
It startled me. “You? Hell, no!”
“Someone might.”
“They’re far more likely to think it’s me. Listen, I’ve got to get out of here, right now.”
“P-lease be c-careful, Mickey.” I could hear her crying. “I’m just beginning to realize. Please be careful!”
“You know it.” The forlorn note in her voice made me ache for her. “Hold tight, now. We’ll ride it out.” I hung up.
So there’s your passport, Hanrahan. She’ll handle them when they come to her door. That’s an all-purpose woman. Who should know better than you? Now get started on what you have to do.
I had a sudden, sharp picture of the full-bodied Louise lying wide-eyed in bed in the silent apartment. A lot depended upon her nerve. In the first moment of shock I’d only had time to think about saving my job. If anyone found out about us, it could come down to saving my neck, or hers.
I had to get the body out into the car and then set up something to make it look like we’d run into something unexpected on the street. It might work or it might not, but at least it was a chance.
Louise had asked me if I’d killed Tony. I’d already been thinking about the stocky, black-masked gunman who had entered the jewelry shop. Had it been a small man? Or a tall, full-bodied woman?
Stop it, man.
That way lies disaster.
Get moving. You’ve got a job to do. You’ve got—
A scratchy sound from inside the showroom bristled the hair on the back of my neck and produced my automatic in my hand without my even thinking about it. I approached the curtain stealthily. Gun at the ready, I beamed Tony’s penlight around the four corners of the room.
The beam lingered on the corner near the showcases, then froze.
I stopped breathing.
Tony Costanza was sitting up in front of the showcase.
A bloody-faced Tony Costanza was staring into the light. “That you, Mickey?” he asked hoarsely. “Man, what a headache! Feels like that shot lifted a flap off the front of my forehead. Did you get the bastard?”
My hands were shaking worse than when I had been unable to find a pulse or heartbeat on him. “N-no.” Leaden-footed, I approached him where he still sat on the floor.
He brushed at the blood obscuring his vision, then looked at his hand. “Were we right?” he asked. “Was it the right guy?”
“No. I was wrong.” Kill him now, the inner voices said. Kill him. He’s already dead in your mind. He’s already dead in Louise’s mind.
Tony was heaving himself shakily to his feet. “Can’t win ’em all,” he said. “We’ll just have to try somethin’ else. But first we’re goin’ after this buzzard.” He started for the workroom, weaving a little. “I’ll get the first aid kit from the car so you can patch me up. No use scarin’ Louise.”
My .38 was lined up on his broad back as he went through the curtain.
Then I lowered it and returned it to its holster.
There had to be a better way.
I had to call Louise and tell her it had been a mistake.
We had a reprieve straight out of hell.
Reassessments could wait.
Survival and sex were two of the strongest instincts of mankind. The strongest was survival, but not by much.
I headed for the telephone.
I wasn’t a better man for what had happened during the last few moments, but I was a different man.
Louise — and the police department — would have to settle for that.
The Murder of Mr. Excitement
by Michael Avallone
Somebody wanted him dead in the worst way — and that’s the way he got it!
I was backstage at the Dover Theatre trying to help Captain Michael Monks of Homicide solve a murder. One of the newsiest and most celebrated of his long career with the New York Police Department.
The Tan Hat Man had been running on Broadway for three hit months when a pistol shot sounded like a cough during the middle of Act Two and leading man Walter Wiley pitched off the apron of the stage into the orchestra pit — dead. That’s a long sentence but it gives some idea of the length of Walter Wiley’s hold on the public. Also, there hadn’t been a murder in a playhouse since Lincoln.
Not even the hastily-struck overture by the baffled musicians could drown out the screams of a terrified matinee audience. Theatre parties and vacationing matrons from the Coast and Mid-West had packed the plush seats of the Dover. The death of Walter Wiley stunned the entertainment world. Or so the Manhattan tabloids blared. Broadway’s Mr. Excitement — the singing, dancing sensation known as Walter Wiley had been strangely, inexplicably murdered. I’m quoting again.
Like the assassination of Honest Abe, an unknown killer had struck from the audience. But the cops didn’t even have a John Wilkes Booth to contend with. Walter Wiley’s murderer remained. Nobody for three whole days while the official police machinery rolled. Producer David Merrick fumed, but kept on selling tickets for The Tan Hat Man. He would re-open when Monks found the murderer.
“A theatre crowd of fifteen hundred people,” Monks groaned at me over a bottle of pop. “Might just as well have been Yankee Stadium.”
“Take it easy,” I said. “It’s not as bad as all that.”
Monks’ smile was sheer irony. “No? Pray tell us more. I’m not using your private crystal ball, Noon.”
“Since when did you let numbers bother you? Fifteen hundred customers. So what? You can whittle that down.”
“I’m still listening, Noon.”
“Okay. Wiley was killed with a .22. Through the heart. Front and center. A perfect shot under any conditions. Knowing what you know about .22’s, you can eliminate the mezzanine and second balcony. The distance is too great.”
Monks scowled and put the empty pop bottle down behind one of the flats that was designed to represent a Manhattan skyline. “Go on.”
“Also, you couldn’t shoot a man onstage from a sitting position. Not in a packed house with someone sitting in front of you. Wiley was center stage when he fell. He hadn’t moved for a good two minutes before the shot. I know this show. Saw it last month and remember the stage business. Wiley was singing The Tan Hat Man. You know — where he stands still marking time like a soldier with a cane slung over his shoulder. So you know he was shot while he was standing there facing his adoring public.”