by Cleo Coyle
Eyes on the gunman, I unwrapped two sticks, folded them into my mouth, and gagged. “God, what is this?!” The brand was called Black Jack, and the gum literally was black. It tasted of aniseed, and I desperately wanted to spit it into the gutter, but I didn’t.
Still chewing, I yanked off my cork-shaped hat and tossed it there instead. A bunch of bobby pins followed, and I shook my copper hair loose. Finally, I took a breath and walked right up to the bruiser with the gold dentures.
“Hey, handsome,” I said, chewing furiously while tapping the big man on his meaty shoulder. “Can ya tell me where I can catch the Canarsie Line?” I snapped my gum and give him a wink. “This burg has got my silly head all turned around!”
My ruse was enough of a distraction for Jack to make his move.
As the gunman’s eyes bugged in my direction, Jack grabbed the gun and twisted it in his hand. For a moment, the two tangoed. Then I heard an ugly snap, and Gold Teeth howled. When they separated, it was Jack waving the pistol.
Gold Teeth should have been scared; instead, he was outraged. With a roar, he charged Jack like a Pamplona bull.
Just like a good bullfighter, Jack stepped aside. Then he squeezed the trigger, firing a single shot that blew the sailor’s cap off the big man’s fat head.
Before the blast’s echo faded, all three thugs were in full retreat.
“I bet they don’t stop till they get to Coney Island.” Jack slipped a wink my way. Then he helped the pin-striped gent to his feet.
“I appreciate your gallantry, sir!” the man said. “I was mighty useless, just now.”
Jack tucked the revolver in his coat and slapped the gent’s back.
“Don’t beat yourself up, Rochester. As neighborhoods go, this one’s not too friendly. I wouldn’t be slumming myself if I didn’t have a private eye license—and this dame—for protection.”
The gent’s gaze discovered me and brightened faster than a campfire on a moonless night. “And who is this delightful creature?”
“My lucky Penny. She comes in handy sometimes.”
Jack scanned the street. “Your friends won’t be coming back, but with all the stares, there’s no reason to let our feet sink into this concrete. I say we grab a cab and get you home.”
“But I can’t leave,” the gent protested. “The future of my business depends on finding a man who vanished in this neighborhood.”
Jack’s gray eyes narrowed. “This guy must owe you a bushel of cabbage to bring you down to Hades’ Kitchen without muscle.”
“He owes me far more than money, sir. Mickey Sizemore owes me a manuscript.” The gent extended his hand. “My name is H. L. Macklin, editor in chief and owner of—”
“Hey, it’s you! I didn’t peg you for a guy in the scribbler business. Do you publish scandal sheets? You know, ripsnorting pulps?”
“Books, Mister . . . ?”
“Shepard. I’m Jack Shepard.”
“You’re Jack Shepard?! The man I spoke to on the phone?”
“The very same. You already know Penny.”
“To be honest,” Macklin said, donning spectacles, “I haven’t had much luck with private investigators, but perhaps our meeting signals a change of fortune. Instead of that bar you mentioned, how about we share those drinks back at my office?”
“Why not? I’ve got nothing else on my docket.”
“Oh yes, you do, Mr. Shepard. Mickey Sizemore, that man I mentioned, is my top-selling author. He’s gone missing. And I’m hiring you to find him.”
CHAPTER 41
Mickey’s No Mouse
HERMIT, n. A person whose vices and follies are not sociable.
—Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary, 1911
SOON AFTER THE three of us reached H. L. Macklin’s Madison Avenue office, I concluded that the founder of this budding publishing empire was a man who could charm the opposite sex.
I knew because half the young women in Macklin’s employ watched with envy in their eyes as I walked beside their boss. When Macklin led us to his inner sanctum, his secretary—a mousy brunette young enough to be his daughter—openly glared as if we were romantic rivals.
“Now that we’re alone, the lady and I should be formally introduced,” Macklin told Jack, as if I weren’t present. “Who is this lovely creation?”
“Penny McClure, my partner.”
Macklin’s eyes twinkled. “So, you have a fondness for secretaries, too.” The little man faced me. “Miss McClure, I’m charmed—”
“Mrs.,” Jack corrected. “War widow. And she ain’t my secretary.”
“Sure, sure, Mr. Shepard, whatever you say.” Harry flashed white teeth as he took my hand and kissed it. “I find it a rare pleasure to meet someone so lovely, so poised, so fashionable, and so . . . unmarried.”
“Uh, thank you, Mr. Macklin.”
“Darling, please. It’s Harry. Just Harry!”
“Harry-Just-Harry” poured on the compliments for another minute or five. The office door was open, and a pair of attractive young editors frowned when they saw their boss gushing over another woman. I was relieved when he finally closed the door.
Macklin’s corner office was posh but absurdly chaotic. Manuscripts were stacked on every surface, including the wide cushions of his long leather couch. The man’s massive carved walnut desk was covered in books, letters, and so many manuscripts that his phone was half buried, and his brass nameplate shoved off to make room. Its polished surface lay forgotten in the thick pile of his antique Persian rug.
In an age without central air-conditioning, the tall windows were wide open—despite the fact that we were twenty floors up. As the dull din of traffic wafted up from the street below, stiff breezes wildly stirred the brocade drapes and launched the occasional piece of stray paper from one end of the room to the other.
The only orderly area in the place was the well-stocked bar in the corner, which shouldn’t have been a surprise, given the empty Jameson bottle on Macklin’s desk. No doubt, cocktail hour came a few times a day for this busy publisher—and we’d arrived for one of them.
Macklin poured three whiskeys from a new bottle, we toasted, and he doubled us up with refills. Finally, the publisher sat behind his desk while Jack shoved aside enough manuscripts for us to get comfortable on the office couch.
“Jack, before you start looking for Mickey Sizemore, I want to be honest about something.”
“Shoot, Harry.”
“You aren’t the first detective I hired to find Sizemore. Pinkerton tried, but came up empty.”
Jack snorted.
“What? You don’t like Pinkerton?”
“I got no beef with them. They knock on doors, beat a bush or two, ask polite questions that wouldn’t intimidate a sawdust baker hoarding ration coupons. Then they write up a nice, pretty report, complete with a carbon copy, and deliver it to their client. Why, I’ll bet they handed one to you, too, didn’t they, Harry?”
“They did,” Macklin said. “It was pretty flimsy. Not even a picture. Just a couple of contradictory descriptions from casual neighbors that sound like two or three different people.”
“So, what gives with this guy?”
“Sizemore’s a phantom. A hermit. A misanthrope. He doesn’t gamble. He doesn’t frequent bars, and he’s got no family or gal pals. None that I know of.”
“Don’t authors have agents?”
“Not Mickey. His first manuscript came out of the slush pile, and I negotiated the buy through some two-bit Bowery lawyer who up and ran off to Hollywood! I’m telling you, Mickey Sizemore is a mystery, an enigma—”
“To the gumshoes at Pinkerton.”
“Don’t sell Pinkerton short, Jack. They did find out one important detail. After his lawyer took off, all I had on Sizemore was a Hell’s Kitchen PO box. The detectives managed to find Mickey�
��s real address, some dive in Brooklyn—”
“After your scribbler already skedaddled, right?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Macklin eyed Jack and saw the skepticism there. “Look, I didn’t just hire anyone. I went with Pinkerton on the recommendation of my good friend Dash—that’s Dashiell Hammett. Did you know he was once a Pinkerton detective before he was a writer?”
“Do tell,” Jack replied. “And I’ll give fair odds your pal is a better scribbler than he ever was a detective.”
“You’re probably right.” Macklin threw back his shot, then shook his head. “I wish I’d published Dash, back in the day. He hasn’t done much since the war, but I’d sure like to try for a reprint of previously published short stories. A nice edition, something he’d be proud to put on his shelf.”
“Is Mickey Sizemore in the same league?” I asked. “As Dashiell Hammett, I mean?”
“Mickey’s got a style all his own . . .” Maybe it was the booze, but the publisher went maudlin. When he spoke again, his gaze seemed miles away. “Sizemore spins the kind of yarn no one else has the guts to tell. The man’s one of a kind. He writes with tears, blood, and sweat. Mickey is—”
“Missing,” Jack said flatly. “And he’s an author that earns?”
Macklin instantly snapped back to unsentimental reality. “His first two novels sold like hotcakes. No, they sold better than hotcakes—like GIs swapping nylons in Paris. Mickey is no mouse. As a writer, he’s a straight flush. But that bastard owes me one more novel, and he’s vanished—with the hefty advance I dropped on him, too.”
Macklin removed his spectacles and leaned over his desk, blue eyes as big as a trapped animal’s.
“Jack, I’ll tell you a secret. My company’s in the red. If that damn manuscript doesn’t arrive this week, we can’t go to press. If we can’t go to press, my company’s bankrupt. Then my options are limited to skipping the country, or . . .” He sighed, pointing to the billowing drapes. “Jumping out one of these windows.”
“Don’t worry, pal,” Jack soothed. “I’ll find out what happened to your author. I’ll need that address Pinkerton gave you—just for a starting point, you understand.”
“Sure, Jack. Anything you want.”
Macklin used a buzzer to summon his secretary. The young, mousy brunette responded at once, waltzing in with a worshipful smile for her boss.
“Miss Moreland, would you please fetch me that Pinkerton report? It’s filed with Mickey Sizemore’s contract.”
“Certainly, Mr. Macklin!”
As the girl departed, she shot me a private look—one of pure, venomous jealousy.
Honey, you can have him, truly!
Miss Moreland discreetly closed the door behind her. She wasn’t gone five minutes before we heard her bloodcurdling screams.
CHAPTER 42
Blood, Sweat, and Paper
It is only when you open your veins and bleed onto the page a little that you establish contact with your reader.
—Paul Gallico, Confessions of a Story Writer, 1946
JACK AND HARRY were on their feet and through the door in two shakes of a duck’s tail feathers.
Unfortunately, I was delayed by the sunken leather couch, too-high heels, and a skirt that only allowed for baby steps. When I finally reached the secretary’s desk, I found a trembling Miss Moreland cradled in Harry Macklin’s arms, sobbing into his lapels.
“It’s horrible, just horrible!”
“Please, Miss Moreland,” Macklin cooed. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Like an Olympic-class precision hugger, the girl released Macklin’s suit and latched onto his neck. If I were scoring, she would have gotten a perfect ten.
“Oh, Mr. Macklin, it was awful! I went to the file room to retrieve the Pinkerton report. When I returned to my desk, that box was waiting for me. I knew it was important, so I opened it, and . . .”
She began sobbing all over her boss again.
Jack observed the scene with cool concern. He caught my eye, tipped his head, and together we turned our attention to Miss Moreland’s tidy desk. A large cardboard box sat in the middle of it. The parcel was unwrapped, brown paper still gathered around its edges. With the tip of a pen, Jack carefully lifted off the cardboard lid.
Inside sat a manuscript. I cringed at the sight of dried red blood on the neatly stacked pile of typed pages. Whoever splattered the gore was considerate enough not to obscure the title.
DAMES DON’T DIE
A NOVEL BY MICKEY SIZEMORE
With his secretary still clinging to his neck like a sea lamprey on a herring, Macklin cautiously peeked into the box. His eyes lit like blue neon, and he pushed Miss Morehouse aside so quickly she nearly bounced off the wall.
“Mickey, you magnificent bastard! You came through!”
Only after a quick victory rumba around his secretary’s desk did Macklin take note of the bloodstains. He glanced up at Jack Shepard.
“They say a writer has to bleed on the page. But this?” Macklin jerked his thumb at the box. “I’d say it’s overkill.”
“Be grateful Sizemore delivered,” Jack replied. “Though it looks like this could be his final opus.” He picked at the brown wrapping paper. “There’s no postmark and no stamps. Though it’s addressed to you, Harry, this package wasn’t delivered by the post office.”
He turned his steel gaze on the mousy secretary. “Miss Moreland, answer me straight. You claim you found this box on your desk?”
“It was right there when I got back from the file room.”
“Did you see anyone drop it off?”
“No. No one. It just appeared!”
“Like magic?” Jack stepped closer to the suddenly nervous secretary—so close Harry Macklin felt the need to step between them.
“Back off, Jack. Dorothy’s just an innocent child. She can’t help you. I’ll call the mail room. They’ll know how that box got delivered.”
As Macklin went back to his office, Jack focused his penetrating gaze back on the secretary.
“Excuse me. I took a fright. I need to put myself back together!” Miss Moreland announced before fleeing to the ladies’ room—though it was clear enough she was running from Jack and his questions.
“Now what?” I asked.
Jack folded his arms. “You tell me, sweetheart. What’s next?”
“I see. This is another test, right?”
Jack cocked his head.
Thinking fast, I stepped into the hallway, not to follow Miss Moreland, but to check for any sign that her story was true.
“Jack, look, there’s a mail room boy near the elevator. He’s pushing a cart.”
“Hey, pal!” Jack whistled, stopping the mail boy. “Did you just deliver a brown paper package to Macklin’s office with a manuscript inside?”
The boy shook his head. “Nothing like that. Only a stack o’ bills and some perfumed letters. Manuscripts always go to Mr. Macklin’s lady editors first.”
Now I did my bit. “Do you know everyone on this floor, everyone who belongs?”
“Sure, miss, I been working here a year. Deliver to every office, and I know every pair of pretty legs.” He didn’t bother hiding an open leer at mine. Then he winked.
Jack stifled a laugh at my outraged expression. Wrestling with my desire to lecture the boy on sexual harassment, I focused instead on the case at hand.
“Answer me this, young man,” I demanded, voice stern. “Did you see anyone on this floor who doesn’t belong—man or woman?”
“No, lady. I didn’t see nobody like that.” Then he shrugged and with one last leer at my legs, turned, and ambled his cart away.
“So, you thinking what I’m thinking?” Jack asked.
“What you thought, you mean, back when you worked this case. Yes, I think Miss Moreland might have put the manu
script on her own desk. And if she did, she might know Mickey Sizemore—or, at least, where we can find him.”
“That’s what I thought. So, sweetheart, what’s our next move?”
“With Macklin so protective, I say we find out where Dorothy Moreland lives and question her at home.”
“Good.” Jack nodded, and the two of us returned to Macklin’s office. While he went into the man’s lair to pick up the Pinkerton report, I pawed through the secretary’s purse, looking for anything with her home address.
In her wallet, I struck gold, and not just because I discovered where she lived. I’d discovered something even more important to this case. After some quick scribbling, I tucked everything back the way it was, nice and tidy—everything but one small item, which I slipped into my own purse.
“Okay, Harry. You’re the boss . . .” I heard Jack loudly declare (to warn me, no doubt) as he walked out of the publisher’s office. “That is, if you still want me to find Mickey Sizemore.”
“Sure, Jack! I want you to find him. Now more than ever. I need to know if he’s alive in case I need rewrites!”
Ten minutes later, Jack and I were back on Manhattan concrete. Jack carelessly folded the Pinkerton report and tucked it behind his lapel.
“Something stinks like old fish,” he muttered. “I never liked that smell, yet it’s always tickling my Jimmy Durante.”
He whistled for a taxi.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“We got some time before Miss Moreland’s off work.” He checked his watch. “How about you and I have a nice romantic dinner? I know a little Italian joint, down in the Village—candlelight, fruity Chianti, veal pounded so thin it’ll melt on your tonsils. What do you say?”
“I could eat.”
“Good. We can talk over the case. There’s something off about Macklin’s ding-dong girl. Did you notice?”
“Sure, I noticed. Did you see that jealous look she gave me?”
