No Pockets in a Shroud

by Richard Deming

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “Hannegan, reporting nothing new. Horne denies the killing.”

  I walked over to her, put a hand on either shoulder and looked down into her face. She raised her lips to be kissed.

  I said: “Close your eyes.”

  Obediently her eyes closed, and I dropped my left hand over the edge of the purse held beneath her arm. My right palm transferred to her right shoulder, pushed, spinning her sidewise so that I was literally left holding the bag. Taking two backward steps, I sat on the desk top, holding the purse in my lap with both hands.

  She came at me quickly and I raised one foot, letting her run against the sole and at the same time drawing back my knee to cushion the contact. She came to a gentle, but firm stop with my foot pressed into her stomach.

  Her eyes stared into mine stonily. “Give me my purse!”

  I said: “If I straighten my leg fast, you’ll end up across the room.”

  I straightened it slowly and steadily. She gave ground until my leg was out straight, then impatiently stepped back another step and brushed a palm across her stomach. I kept my eyes on her as I unzipped the purse. She watched un-winkingly as I removed the Army .45 and laid it beside me on the desk.

  “I thought this was only for roulette nights,” I said.

  She didn’t say anything.

  I laid a cigarette case, a lighter, a small flask, a pen and checkbook, a lipstick and a handkerchief beside the gun, keeping my eyes on her face all the time and locating each item by touch. In the bottom of the bag I felt what I was looking for.

  I brought out the squat metal tube and dropped my eyes to it. It was a spare barrel for a .45 automatic, with a thin wire looped around one end.

  Eleanor asked: “How long have you known?” She made it a simple question with no particular emotion.

  “I got a glimmer last night when you showed too much knowledge of your husband’s business. But I couldn’t see any possible way you could have done it, and when everything began to point to Horne so neatly, I stopped thinking about you. Then your desire to get back here today convinced me there was something here you had to get. You rang me in because you needed an excuse to come here and didn’t know Fausta well enough to just barge in. But I still wasn’t sure until a minute ago when Hannegan told me Horne saw no one enter the grounds. Even then I hadn’t the faintest idea how you did it.”

  “Do you know now?”

  I nodded. “The extra barrel. Your interesting soldier friend with the gun collection probably gave it to you. I should have thought of that. I found dozens of broken guns in combat, in wrecked planes and burned out tanks. And sometimes I’d build a good one out of the salvageable parts of several. Your friend probably did the same thing, only he kept the leftover parts. How many extra barrels did he give you?”

  “Two.”

  “So you still have enough for one more murder.”

  Her face flushed, but she made no reply.

  “When you came to see Bagnell,” I continued, “your gun was equipped with a full clip and an extra shell in the chamber. In your purse you also had the extra barrel and this little piece of wire with a hook on one end and a loop on the other. After drinking and necking a while, you decided to go to the bathroom. You left the door open and filled the washbowl with cold water. That served a double purpose, didn’t it? No man, even a wolf like Bagnell, is going to look toward an open bathroom door while a woman inside is running water.

  “You must have dropped to one knee to get the correct gun level before you shot him. Then you field stripped the gun. I can field strip an Army automatic in fifteen seconds. You probably practiced until you were at least that good. You dropped the hot barrel in the washbowl and reassembled the gun with the other barrel. By the time the automatic was back in your purse, apparently un-fired and with a full clip, the other barrel was cool enough to handle without the black leather gloves you so conveniently wore.

  “You let out the water, lifted the removable strainer, hung the barrel from it by means of your little wire and reinserted it so the barrel was out of sight down the drain. With previous practice you could do all that in less than two minutes. And the only visible evidence was a few drops of oil in the bowl, which I never figured out.

  “Then you went back into the office and spread yourself on the floor in apparent faint until Greene and Caramand broke in. You made a mistake there, though. Your spotless dress puzzled me because the floor was spattered with blood. You carefully didn’t lie in any, but later realized you should have and told me you’d been splashed. How’d you get rid of the spent shell?”

  “Flushed it down the drain.”

  I sat swinging my feet and turning the gun barrel over and over in my hands. She continued to watch me, her face just as expressionless as it had been from the beginning.

  Finally she said: “You had to know, of course.”

  I raised my eyes inquiringly.

  “I’d have told you eventually if you hadn’t found out. I’ve thought about it a lot and tried to figure out some way not to tell you, but I couldn’t. I had to, in order to carry out the rest of the plan, and if I didn’t, killing Louis was wasted.”

  I frowned and continued to look puzzled.

  “You realize now, I suppose,” she went on, “that I’m the organizing brains behind Byron. He’s nothing but front, but he’s been necessary because the organization wouldn’t take orders from a woman. He didn’t even know Louis was going to die. I just told him to have all the boys get perfect alibis and to drop in on you for his own. I wanted to be sure you’d be dragged into the case because, you see, I’d picked you to succeed Byron.”

  I stared at her blankly while her calm voice pursued the explanation.

  “The O’Conner girl’s body showing up was pure coincidence. Neither Byron nor I ever heard of her. Louis had to die because no one in his organization was strong enough to wear his shoes, and his death left the town wide open for us. But when things settle down, outside gangs are going to realize the pickings here and start moving in to take over. Anyone of them could take the town from Byron,”

  I twisted the barrel some more and waited for her to go on. She moved a step nearer me.

  “You’ve got a reputation,” she said softly. “No out-of-town mob is going to buck you any more than they bucked Bagnell.”

  “What happens to Byron?”

  “He dies of dyspepsia.”

  I thought about this for a minute. “So it’s induced dyspepsia,” I said slowly, and suddenly remembered Byron’s retaining me to solve his murder “in case it happened.”

  I said: “I wouldn’t make a good substitute for Byron. I don’t take orders from women.”

  “I’ll take orders from you. Don’t you know I’m in love with you?”

  “Sure,” I said, “That’s why you pumped bullets at me through the bathroom window.”

  She stopped moving toward me and flushed slightly. “I was only scaring you away from the bowl. I’d have hit you if I really meant it.”

  I threw a twisted grin at her. “Didn’t you say Byron had your first husband killed? That must have been before you started having his ideas for him. Do I get murdered by another successor in a couple of years?”

  She stood very straight and her face lifted haughtily. Without turning, I reached sidewise and picked up the phone. I drew it into my lap and dialed a number.

  “Who you phoning?”

  I smiled at her. “Hello,” I said. “Put on Lieutenant Hannegan.”

  She started toward me, her fingers spread for clawing and lips pulled tautly back from her teeth. I let her get close, stuck my metal foot in her stomach and pushed.

  She was sitting on the floor, her pupils dilated like an animal’s, when Hannegan came to the phone.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented
, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Andrea Worthington

  978-1-4804-6236-6

  No Pockets in a Shroud by Richard Deming (January 1949, Black Mask Magazine) is copyright © 1949 by Popular Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1977 by Popular Publications, Inc., and assigned to Keith Alan Deutsch as successor-in-interest to Popular Publications Inc., Proprietor of Black Mask Magazine, and conservator of all copyrights, text and art.

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