Although Spillane was a better novelist than short story writer, his name on a magazine cover was certain to increase circulation; he was eagerly pursued for new works and was often accommodating. “The Lady Says Die!” originally appeared in the October 1953 issue of Manhunt, the ultimate hard-boiled digest magazine of its time.
The stocky man handed his coat and hat to the attendant and went through the foyer to the main lounge of the club. He stood in the doorway for a scant second, but in that time his eyes had seen all that was to be seen; the chess game beside the windows, the foursome at cads, and the lone man at the rear of the room sipping a drink.
He crossed between the tables, nodding briefly to the card players, and went directly to the back of the room. The other man looked up from his drink with a smile. “Afternoon, Inspector. Sit down. Drink?”
“Hello, Dune. Same as you’re drinking.”
Almost languidly, the fellow made a motion with his hand. The waiter nodded and left. The inspector settled himself in his chair with a sigh. He was a big man, heavy without being given to fat. Only his high shoes proclaimed him for what he was. When he looked at Chester Duncan he grimaced inwardly, envying him his poise and manner, yet not willing to trade him for anything.
Here, he thought smugly, is a man who should have everything, yet has nothing. True, he has money and position, but the finest of all things, a family life, was denied him. And with a brood of five in all stages of growth at home, the inspector felt that he had achieved his purpose in life.
The drink came and the inspector took his, sipping it gratefully. When he put it down he said, “I came to thank you for that, er …tip. You know, that was the first time I’ve ever played the market.”
“Glad to do it,” Duncan said. His hands played with the glass, rolling it around in his palms. His eyebrows shot up suddenly, as though he was amused at something. “I suppose you heard all the ugly rumors.”
A flush reddened the inspector’s face. “In an offhand way, yes. Some of them were downright ugly.” He sipped his drink again and tapped a cigarette on the side table. “You know,” he said, “if Walter Harrison’s death hadn’t been so definitely a suicide, you might be standing an investigation right now.”
Duncan smiled slowly. “Come now, Inspector. The market didn’t budge until after his death, you know.”
“True enough. But rumor has it that you engineered it in some manner.” He paused long enough to study Duncan’s face. “Tell me, did you?”
“Why should I incriminate myself?”
“It’s over and done with. Harrison leaped to his death from the window of a hotel room. The door was locked, and there was no possible way anyone could have gotten in that room to give him a push. No, we’re quite satisfied that it was suicide, and everybody that ever came in contact with Harrison agrees that he did the world a favor when he died. However, there’s still some speculation about you having a hand in things.”
“Tell me, Inspector, do you really think I had the courage or the brains to oppose a man like Harrison, and force him to kill himself?”
The inspector frowned, then nodded. “As a matter of fact, yes. You did profit by his death.”
“So did you.” Duncan laughed.
“Ummmm.”
“Though it’s nothing to be ashamed about,” Duncan added. “When Harrison died, the financial world naturally expected that the stocks he financed were no good and tried to unload. It so happened that I was one of the few who knew they were as good as gold and bought while I could. And, of course, I passed the word on to my friends. Somebody had might as well profit by the death of a …a rat.”
Through the haze of the smoke, Inspector Early saw his face tighten around the mouth. He scowled again, leaning forward in his chair. “Duncan, we’ve been friends quite a while. I’m just cop enough to be curious and I’m thinking that our late Walter Harrison was cursing you just before he died.”
Duncan twirled his glass around. “I’ve no doubt of it,” he said. His eyes met the inspectors. “Would you really like to hear about it?”
“Not if it means your confessing to murder. If that has to happen, I’d much rather you spoke directly to the DA.”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that at all. No, not a bit, Inspector. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t do a thing that would impair either my honor or reputation. You see, Walter Harrison went to his death through his own greediness.”
The inspector settled back in his chair. The waiter came with drinks to replace the empties and the two men toasted each other silently.
“Some of this you probably know already, Inspector,” Duncan said…
Nevertheless, I’ll start at the beginning and tell you everything that happened. Walter Harrison and I met in law school. We were both young and not too studious. We had one thing in common and only one. Both of us were the products of wealthy parents who tried their best to spoil their children. Since we were the only ones who could afford certain— er — pleasures, we naturally gravitated to each other, though when I think back, even at that time, there was little true friendship involved.
It so happened that I had a flair for my studies, whereas Walter didn’t give a damn. At examination time, I had to carry him. It seemed like a big joke at the time, but actually I was doing all the work while he was having his fling around town. Nor was I the only one he imposed upon in such a way. Many students, impressed with having his friendship, gladly took over his papers. Walter could charm the devil himself if he had to.
And quite often he had to. Many’s the time he’s talked his way out of spending a weekend in jail for some minor offense — and I’ve even seen him twist the dean around his little finger, so to speak. Oh, but I remained his loyal friend. I shared everything I had with him, including my women, and even thought it amusing when I went out on a date and met him, only to have him take my girl home.
In the last year of school the crash came. It meant little to me, because my father had seen it coming and got out with his fortune increased. Walter’s father tried to stick it out and went under. He was one of the ones who killed himself that day.
Walter was quite stricken, of course. He was in a blue funk and got stinking drunk. We had quite a talk, and he was for quitting school at once, but I talked him into accepting the money from me and graduating. Come to think of it, he never did pay me back that money. However, it really doesn’t matter.
After we left school I went into business with my father and took over the firm when he died. It was that same month that Walter showed up. He stopped in for a visit and wound up with a position; though at no time did he deceive me as to the real intent of his visit. He got what he came after and in a way it was a good thing for me. Walter was a shrewd businessman.
His rise in the financial world was slightly less than meteoric. He was much too astute to remain in anyone’s employ for long, and with the Street talking about Harrison, the boy wonder of Wall Street, in every other breath, it was inevitable that he open up his own office. In a sense, we became competitors after that, but always friends.