Dead End

scared he nearly burned himself with his cigarette.

     “These same guys might try to get me,” I went on, “but they know it's bad business killing a cop. And they don't blame me, know it's my job. But you, doing their pal in for money—they'll never forgive or forget that. The minute your name is mentioned in the papers you become a walking target! For Christ sakes, why do you think I've gone out of my way to keep you out of this?”

     “Wouldn't the police give me protection?”

     “Sure, for a few days, a week or so. A thug like Batty was big time, known around the underworld for years, he has to have a gang of friends. You go home and talk sense to your wife!”

     He crushed his cigarette in an ash tray filled with apple cores—Elma always feeding her fat mouth. “I'll try, Bucky. It was her idea and I thought the publicity might help business, so I—”

     “You'll be the busiest optometrist under a headstone! Shep, I know what I'm talking about. Why, this would be the worst thing possible for your business; people would be afraid to go into your office, afraid they might step in the way of a bullet. Make your wife keep still. And tomorrow you tell whoever you talk to downtown that it was only a lot of talk, you made a mistake.”

     “I'll explain things to... at home. But I'll sure look like a fool when I talk to the inspector.”

     “At least you'll be a live fool! Long as it doesn't make the papers, so you'll only be a fool to the inspector. Remember what you told me—they don't pay off on dead heroes. Now speak to your wife before she talks too much.”

     “Okay, Bucky.”

     “And if anybody threatens you, let me know at once.” I put an arm around his little shoulders, practically pushed him toward the door. “Explain to your wife about the spot I'd be in. I got a promotion; I'd lose it if it came out I'd lied, even to protect you.”

     “I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, Bucky. You know that.”

     “I know it, but do you? Don't forget, in your office, you made a point of telling me to keep you out of this. This is a hell of a time to change your mind— after I've made out my reports.”

     “I'll swear I told you that.”

     “Shep, my first duty is to the police department, not to you. For your safety, and my job, let's not have it come to the point where you have to swear to anything. You could be dead before you have time to swear! Now go to your wife.”

     When he left I smoked a cigarette slowly, went into the kitchen and put the gas under the coffeepot. I was okay. Even if downtown believed Shep, or rather didn't entirely believe his retraction. Long as he made a retraction. Okay, so it might have been bad police work for me to do it alone, but I had made the collar. I had killed him—the headlines backed me up—so what more could the department want?

     I went to the bedroom and got out my new detective shield. Yeah, whether they liked the way I handled the case or not, there was little chance of them taking this tin from me. But it would be best if they thought Shep a jerk. I didn't plan on being a third-grade dick all my life. The main thing was I had a detective badge. Not bad for a young fellow. At this rate, by the time I'd be thirty I might be a...

     Elma came in with a couple bottles of beer, looked around, and asked, “Where's Mr. Harris?”

     “Gone.”

     “What did he want?”

     “Some advice on killing a traffic ticket.”

     “And I had to rush out and get beer.”

     “You've had plenty of practice.”

     She got off her four-letter word, several times.

     I grinned. “I'm only kidding. Elma, get dressed; we're going out tonight. I still got the car and we can drive to some fancy place on the island and eat.”

     She spun around, her coat half off. “Car? What car? How come you have money to step out? Bucky, you cheap bastard, you did get that reward!”

     I grabbed her hand so hard she screamed. She yelled again. I let go, gave her cheek a rough pat. “Sorry, Honey, but you know how that word 'bastard' sends me sky-high. This is a big day for me, for us. Let's not fight. So get this through your head: If there was any way I could put my mitts on that reward money, I'd do it. But there isn't. I borrowed a couple of bucks from a sergeant downtown, last night, to celebrate my promotion. As for the car, I rented one yesterday.”

     “You never told me. What you need a car for?” Elma asked, rubbing her wrist, which was very red.

     “I met some guy who wanted to move a lot of stuff, and I thought by renting a car I could come out a few bucks ahead. But I never got to it. Forget it and get dressed. While I take a shower, make me a sandwich or something. I'm starved. I'm sorry about your wrist.” I pulled her to me, kissed her.

     “I'm the one who should be sorry, Bucky. It slipped out. I didn't mean that—that name.”

     “I know.”

     “I'd never call you that.”

     “Sure. Elma, things will be different now. We won't be so strapped for dough. As a detective, I should have more chance of picking up extra bucks.” I slapped her barrel-like rear. “Let's get dressed and have a good time.”

     Under the shower a new idea hit me. If I admitted Shep's part in things, took a chance on still holding my new badge, he probably would get the reward. But would he split it with me? Twenty-five hundred bucks was a lot of folding money. But once he got the reward, or knew he was entitled to it, how could I make him split? And Shep would be stuck for the tax bite on it. A grand for Sam would only leave us four to split.

     I thought about it as I dressed, had a cheese sandwich and coffee. There were two things wrong: I couldn't be sure Shep would agree to share the dough, and I didn't want to look the fool to the police brass. Still, two grand was...

     The bell rang. I opened the door to see this thin, dapper man standing there. He didn't look like a reporter. He smiled, said, “Hello, Penn. Remember me, Detective Alexander? I was in the Commissioner's office this morning when he talked to you.”

     “Sure I remember you,” I lied. “Come in.”

     He gave me a small, amused smile as he walked in—the smile saying he knew I was lying.

     As I took his coat and hat—both of them real expensive, and not the kind of clothing that had to shout how much they cost, either—Alexander glanced around the living room. His eyes said I was living in a dump. Just then Elma had to come out of the bathroom, a robe around her, a towel wrapped about her head. She looked like a walking tent. I introduced her and she giggled something about excusing the way she looked and ducked into the bedroom.

     Alexander grinned at me politely. His tight smile said I was married to a pot. I asked, “Want a beer?”

     “No, thanks. I'll make this short. Deputy Commissioner Oast has a dinner engagement, so he asked me to come up and talk to you. Penn, do you know a Dr. Sheppard Harris?”

     “Yeah. Has an office on my old post. Why?”

     “He phoned Howie—Commissioner Oast—late this afternoon, claims he tipped you off to Johnson. We're going to talk to him in the morning, so we want to get your version straight first.”

     “My version of what?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

     “Of how you knew the car washer was Johnson. It would not only embarrass the department a great deal if the doctor's story is true—considering that we've told the papers you did it solo—but there's also the matter of department discipline. But I don't have to tell you about that. The point is, if the doctor's story is true, we have to know it now, so we can straighten out the newspaper stories. Did he tip you off?”

     Alexander took out a cigarette, toyed with it. I was not only nervous, I was getting sore. Maybe his not offering me a cigarette did it. I mean, he was acting so damn big, as if he knew all about me. I said, “Shep is one of these crime nuts. Also the kind of guy who likes to fondle cops. You know the type. He reads the wanted circulars at the post office, fact-detective magazines. I used to drop into his office now and then and—”

     “What for?” He was tapping the cigarette. His nails were actually manicured.

     “What?”

     He said gently, almost like Nate used to talk, “How come you dropped in to see him so often?”

     I thought: This slick character with his good clothes and fancy nails—he probably never pounded a beat in his life. I said loudly, “Off the record, to get out of the cold, maybe use his John.”

     He didn't say a word, kept playing with his cigarette.

     “I sent some of the boys at the precinct house to Shep for glasses. He gave them a good deal. Well, Shep liked to shoot the breeze about famous cases, the stuff he read about in these magazines. When Johnson was named the top wanted man, Shep said he hoped I could collar him. He would say that about every wanted criminal and—”

     “Was the contact lens bit his idea?”

     I rubbed the side of my head, as if in deep thought. “He mentioned it once, as a possibility. You see he was especially interested in Johnson, since he had knocked off an eye man.”

     “Dr. Harris didn't spot Johnson in the car wash first?”

     “No.” (I almost said, “Sir.”) “As I told the Commissioner, I spotted him because of his odd face.”

     “Yes, that's what you told us. So Dr. Harris merely mentioned Johnson's name, along with a lot of other wanted clowns?”

     “Yeah.”

     “He's another crackpot after publicity?”

     “Yeah, in his own way.”

     “Should the department brush him off as a crackpot?”

     “Yes.”

     He gave me a real smile, stood up. “That's what I want to know. You bagged your man; that's all that should count, Penn. But there's