by Jerry eBooks
“Monk,” he said, “take your block away and see what’s on the other end of this pencil.”
Monk did as he was told. “An eraser,” he reported.
“No, you cluck! I mean down in the street.”
“Oh,” Monk said, feigning surprise. “Let’s see. Well, there’s a nifty blonde just got out of a taxicab.”
Logan snapped, “To hell with blondes! What else?”
Monk smiled sheepishly. “Say, this case is getting you down. This blonde ain’t bad.” He caught the red glow spreading down Logan’s face from his hair. “Now wait a minute. Well, roughly the pencil is pointing at the corner up the block. There’s a bar, then a candy store on one side, and a diner across the street. By the way, I’m getting hungry.”
Logan stood up and joined his partner’s gaze. “I guess that’s enough here. Let’s go get a cup of coffee.”
“Now that’s the first intelligent remark you made today, boss man,” Monk said.
THEY went through the door. Logan stopped by the cop standing in the hallway. “Okay, Wright, call the bus for the stiff,” he said. “Tell them to keep somebody inside, though, to watch the place for a while.”
He and Monk went outside. The cop at the door glared at Monk but said nothing. They walked over to the diner. Outside the door Logan turned and glanced up at the window. He turned back and they went inside.
A young kid, about sixteen, stood behind the counter. “What’ll you have, gentlemen?” he said as he wiped off the counter before them.
“I’ll take four hamburgers with onions and a cup of coffee,” Monk said.
“Just for you?” the kid asked doubtfully.
Logan said, “Yeah, they’re all for him. Let me have a cup of coffee.”
While the boy was frying the hamburgers, Logan got up and went into the men’s room. He quickly noticed the window. It was painted black, but obviously looked out to the street. He opened it slightly and studied the view, his hand in his hair.
When he came back Monk was already on the first hamburger. He sat down next to him and picked up the cup of coffee the counterman placed before him.
“Say, did you hear about the murder across the street?” the kid asked, picking up the five-dollar bill Logan laid on the counter.
“You don’t say?” Logan said, raising his eyebrows. “My friend and I were wondering what the cops were doing across the street.”
“Yeah,” the kid replied, handing him his change. “Some guy moved in about a month ago. Last night he was shot while he was sitting in front of his window, but they didn’t find him until this morning.”
“Well, we didn’t know anything about it,” Logan said. “We’re strangers here.” He paused for a moment and nudged Monk’s foot with his. “You see, we’re from a rifle club. We’re looking for a certain man in this neighborhood that’s interested in guns. You don’t happen to know anybody like that do you, about five foot five, sort of thin?”
The kid looked thoughtful for a moment. “Say, you must mean Mr. Arnold.”
“Who’s he?” Logan asked.
“Mr. Arnold comes in here to eat every night. He hunts a lot, got a house full of guns. And he’s short and thin.”
Logan smiled to himself. “Where does he live?”
“You go four blocks down and turn to your right,” the kid said. “You’ll see a bunch of little houses on the left-hand side of the street. Arnold’s is the third house.”
Logan nodded to Monk. “I think he’s the fellow Jake Moore of the Walnut Hill Club mentioned.”
He turned back to the kid. “Do you think Mr. Arnold would be home on Saturdays?”
“I guess so.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Come on, Monk.” Monk picked up his fourth ‘burger and followed him out. Logan drew him away from the window of the diner.
Monk engulfed the remains of his last ‘burger and said, “How come you got a line on this guy?” Logan smiled. “Just playing the hunches, but forget that now. Listen, you go get the car and follow me over to this guy’s house. Park where you won’t be seen, but can watch the place. I may be out in a couple of minutes, or I may be in there for an hour, so don’t louse the deal up.”
HE LEFT Monk and walked quickly to the block the boy had mentioned. He went up to the third house and checked the name on the mailbox. J. Arnold, it said. Logan rang the bell. It was Saturday, he reminded himself; this joker ought to be home.
A short, thin man opened the door, his hands covered with grease. “Yes?” he said questioningly.
Logan worked his way into the hallway. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m from the police department. A man named Marlowe was murdered over on Egan Street last night. I was in the diner where you eat and the counter boy told me you were there last night. I’d like to know if you could answer a few questions for me. We haven’t been able to get anybody much in the way of witnesses.”
“Certainly,” the thin man said, closing the door behind Logan. “If you’ll just go into the living room a minute while I wash up. I’ve been doing a little work in my shop downstairs.”
Logan followed him into the small room off the hallway. The thin man disappeared behind a swinging door, going into what was probably the kitchen. Logan walked over to the window and looked outside. Four houses up the street a big sedan was parked. There was another car behind it, barely visible. A window opened in the second car and an apple core flew out to land in the gutter across the street.
Logan turned away and looked over the room, noticing the racks of guns on the walls. There were several glass cases enclosing pistols. Logan didn’t know too much about guns, but he realized many of these were antiques. He felt an itch run up the nape of his neck. The trail was getting warm.
He was inspecting a large revolver mounted in a separate case when the other man returned.
“My name is Arnold,” he said, extending his hand to the detective. “But I guess you know that already.”
Logan took his hand and replied, “Mine’s Logan.”
Arnold sat down. Logan went over to the couch and took a small pad out of his pocket. “Now this is just routine, so there’s nothing to be worried about.”
Arnold nodded. “Certainly.”
“What time do you eat dinner, Mr. Arnold?” Logan asked.
“Around seven-thirty, why?”
“As near as we can figure, this man was killed a little before eight. Nobody heard anything, and he wasn’t found until this morning. Did you see or hear anything odd last night around the apartment house opposite the diner on the next block?”
Arnold looked thoughtful for a moment. “No, I can’t say that I did. The garbage truck goes by about that time. It’s hard to hear anything,” he replied. “I didn’t even know this Marlowe had been shot until you told me.”
Logan sighed and brought his hand down from his hair to his knee with a slap. “That makes things tough, all right. It beats me somebody didn’t hear the shot.”
He got up and strolled over to the case holding the large revolver.
Arnold looked up from the cigarette he was lighting. “Interested in guns, Mr. Logan?” he asked.
“From a professional point of view you might say. I know my .45’s, .38’s, and .357’s, but anything outside of that is a little out of my line.” Arnold joined him at the case. “If you really knew your .45’s,” he said, “you’d know this one. That is one of the original Colt Peacemakers, the gun that ‘won the West,’ as the books say. It fired a cartridge greatly similar to the modern .45 ACP. In fact, the .45 ACP was developed from it.”
Logan said, “You certainly know your guns, don’t you?”
Arnold smiled. “It stems from my hunting. At first I just collected old hunting rifles, but I went on to pistols and revolvers.”
Logan turned and started to the door. “I guess there isn’t anything else. Thanks for your help.”
“Not at all,” Arnold replied. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help to you.”
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br /> As Logan reached the curb, Monk pulled up in front of him. He opened the door and swung in. “Get going,” he said. “I don’t want him to see your face.”
Monk swung around the corner and slowed down.
“I got news for you,” he said from around the banana he was eating. “Our stiff, Marlowe, went in for a stretch about twelve years ago for hijacking. When I went over to get the car the lieutenant was there and he gave me the dope. Seems he was a big boy back in Prohibition. He got out about three years ago, been going straight ever since.”
Logan nodded. “I got news for you. I just had a chat with our killer.”
Monk’s eyebrows lifted. “You don’t say. Okay, let’s go pick him up.”
“Keep your pants on,” Logan answered. “There’s the little matter of proof. Now hear this. I want you to take that midget camera down to the diner tonight and snap a couple of pictures of our pal when he comes in for dinner. Tip the kid off so he won’t queer the deal. And ask the kid if this guy Arnold went into the men’s room last night. Me, I got a couple of letters to write.”
Monk left Logan at the station and went off with the camera. Logan went inside and borrowed a typewriter. He took an envelope from his pocket and studied the address. Then he sat down and laboriously began to peck out a letter.
Monk brought the pictures in to Logan where he sat, his feet on his desk. Logan looked through them, picked out the best one, put it in an envelope and sealed it. He added it to a second letter, both of which he dropped in the mail slot in the hall.
“Now what?” Monk asked.
“Now we wait,” Logan answered mysteriously.
FOUR nights later Logan and Monk sat in their car four doors down from Arnold’s house. “There’s a light down in the cellar,” Monk said.
Logan glanced toward the lighted cellar windows. “He must be working on his guns. He’s got a workshop down there.” Logan opened the window on his side and flipped his cigarette butt out into the street. “You got everything straight? I go in the front door; you cover the best you can. I’m not sure whether we’ll make pay dirt this trip, but be ready for anything.”
Monk deposited the orange he had reduced to a pulpish mass in the ashtray and drew a snub-nosed .38 revolver from a shoulder holster. He spun the cylinder, then returned the gun to its resting place. Logan opened the door and stepped out onto the curb. A minute later he was at Arnold’s door.
Arnold was a long time in answering the door, but finally a light appeared in the hall and Logan was admitted.
“Good evening,” Logan said, holding out his hand. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, Mr. Arnold, but I was wondering if you could give me some more of your time.”
Arnold wiped his hand on the heavy apron he was wearing. “Not at all. I’ve been working on my guns again, as you can see. If you wouldn’t mind, we can go downstairs and talk.”
Logan quickly accepted the invitation. Nothing would have suited him better. The cellar was much as he expected. His knowledge of gunsmithing had increased within the last few days, and while he couldn’t positively identify everything, he recognized the metal lathe, the loading tools, and of course the target trap hanging on one wall.
Arnold picked up a pistol from the workbench. “I suppose you’ve heard about this little item,” he said. “It’s a P-38, the first I’ve seen. I was examining the peculiar ability it has to fire without cocking the first cartridge.”
Logan hardly listened; his eyes were eagerly searching the room. Every murderer left some clue. He finally discovered what he was looking for. He walked across the room to a stack of metal blocks sitting on the end of the bench.
“There is something about this recent murder,” he started quickly, “that might interest you.” He glanced at Arnold who quizzically returned his look. “The slug we recovered has our ballistician stumped. He says it’s larger than a .25, but smaller than a .30 caliber.”
“There’s a Russian pistol of 7.62mm caliber,” Arnold said. “That’s a little less than a .30.”
“No,” Logan went on, his hands on the metal blocks, “we’ve ruled that out. Our man seems to think the gun was a rifle firing a special bullet in front of a large case. Either that or a specially made pistol capable of firing a bullet with tremendous velocity. In fact we’re beginning to think the gun was made specially for this single job, and then destroyed.”
Arnold had put the German automatic back on the bench. His hand now rested in the pocket of his apron. Logan’s eyes darted to the metal blocks under his hand. Suddenly he pulled one out. “You know, this looks like the caliber we have in mind,” he said, holding the block up.
ARNOLD’S hand came out of the apron. For a moment Logan didn’t see the gun, it was so small. It looked like a toy cap pistol, even in Arnold’s small hand.
“I don’t know how you caught on, Logan,” Arnold snarled. “I had everything worked out smooth. I got rid of everything except that damned block.” He caught Logan’s forward movement.
“Hold it!” he snapped. He waved the tiny pistol in his hand. “This rod may look small, but I can put five bullets just a little smaller than .22’s in your face before you could move two feet.”
Logan acted without thinking. The metal block left his hand and headed for Arnold. He twisted aside and the toy gun in his hand popped. The detective dived for the floor as the tiny bullet buzzed over his head. Logan raised his head from the floor to see Arnold point the little gun at his face. He bunched his muscles for a leap. Suddenly a window smashed and a heavy gun barked. Arnold’s left ear disappeared in a spurt of blood as he crumpled to the floor.
Monk, despite his stocky build, wiggled adroitly through the window and dropped to the floor. Logan stood up and dusted himself off. “I wish you wouldn’t time things so blasted close,” he said shakily.
Monk grinned. “I got here, didn’t I?”
“Another second and it wouldn’t have made any difference to me whether you did or not,” Logan replied. He bent over the still form of Arnold and took the tiny gun out of his hand.
“This guy was full of tricks,” he grunted, examining the gun. Next he retrieved the metal block and slipped it and the gun into his pocket. He glanced around the shop for the last time.
“Well, I guess we got everything. Let’s give our little friend here a lift down to the morgue.”
On the way back to the station, Monk said, “I guess it’s time you told me what’s going on.”
Logan smirked. “Like they say in the books, it’s all very simple. Haley put me on the right track. The first day I went down to the town’s only gunsmith and asked if there was anybody he knew who did a lot of amateur gun work, or was interested in guns. It didn’t seem likely that some joker would lug a rifle around the streets to bump a guy off, but if a pistol did it, it would have to be a custom job.
“Anyway, the gun expert mentioned a guy that lived near the murder scene. That was Arnold, although I didn’t know his name then. I also got the name of one of the best gunsmiths in the business, a fellow named O.P. Tackley out in Cheyenne, Wyoming.
“In the diner I noticed you could see Marlowe’s room from the window in the men’s room. Then the kid comes up with the fact that Arnold eats there every night. I knew we were getting warm. But it was Arnold himself who clinched it.”
HE PAUSED to light a cigarette and Monk impatiently waited for him to go on. “It’s the oldest gag in the business, but it still pulls the suckers in. I told him Marlowe had been killed, but I didn’t say how. He comes up with the word ‘shot’ first.
“That night, I wrote a letter to this Tackley guy, asking him if it were possible to make a pistol that could shoot accurately at 300 yards. That’s approximately the distance from the diner to Marlowe’s room. I sent the slug along and added that it must have been moving faster than a P-80 when it hit Marlowe. I was positive we were looking for a pistol, because Arnold must have carried the weapon into the diner with him. A shrimp like him would have troub
le concealing a good-sized slingshot, much less a rifle. I also dropped a line to a pal in the F.B.I., along with his picture.
“Both tips came through. The gunsmith said such a gun might have been made on an old singleshot pistol action with a sawed-off rifle barrel and a special shell and bullet. The odd caliber was fixed by slipping a tube inside the rifle barrel. Those old single-shots were strong enough to take a pretty heavy shell, and the whole job couldn’t have been very tough for Arnold.
“He probably even had a silencer on the thing, but the garbage truck, which he had timed, covered most of the noise. Of course, he got rid of the gun later. But Tackley mentioned that special bullet molds would have been needed to make the bullets, and the killer might have overlooked destroying the molding blocks.
“I messed around Arnold’s cellar just now until I found a mold that looked something like the slug. I still don’t know if it is the right one, but it rattled Arnold enough to tip his hand.
“My pal in the Feds supplied the motive. Marlowe ran a gang of hijackers back in the old days. Arnold was a young punk who helped out on jobs. One night they plugged a cop that ambushed them. The cop didn’t die, but the rest of the bulls put on the heat and Marlowe knew something had to be done. He talked Arnold into taking the rap and clearing the gang. They probably told him they’d spring him later. Instead they let him rot in stir.
“Arnold finally got out and went straight. But then Marlowe accidentally showed up. Arnold recognized him, decided to even up the score. And that’s what made for the hole in Marlowe’s head.”
“Boss, you’re a genius,” Monk said. “Now let’s go get something to eat. All that exercise gave me an appetite.”
WAKE UP AND DIE
Robert Turner
Frightful dreams had been troubling Dan Munson’s fitful slumber. But these dreams were as nothing compared to the wild nightmare of bloodshed and horror that confronted his hour of awakening.
