A Handy Death

“Russ,” Mike said, his voice deadly serious, “I’m going to ask you one last time and then I’m going to lose my temper. As for the people you’re talking about, I know them, too, and they won’t save you from getting set on your ass if you don’t open up. Like you say, I bulk larger than you. Now, what did he want?”

Russ Jennings tried to look unhappy, but he was only weakly attempting to calculate how he could possibly make a profit without getting hurt. At last he decided it would be risky at best with Mike Gunnerson, and the unhappiness became real. Mike nudged him verbally.

“Well?”

“He wanted me to trace some dame,” Jennings said sullenly.

“Whose name was Grace Melisi?”

“If you know, what are you asking for?”

“Practice,” Mike said coldly as Hank watched entranced. “What did he give you for starters?”

“She had a sister in Albany. That’s where she came from originally.”

“Albany, New York?”

“Is there another one?” Jennings asked, disgusted.

“Several. And?”

“And what?”

“Russ,” Mike said, “if I’ve got to drag this out of you like pulling teeth, I’d just as soon pull teeth. Don’t sit there and act like you’re getting paid by the word—”

“I ain’t getting paid at all!”

“You’re so right,” Gunnerson said. “Did you find her?”

“I didn’t even start looking,” Jennings said. “Neeley was a policy peddler at the time; I knew that. And he’d been in a jam before with the top boys about some clip he tried to swing outside of school without nobody knowing—”

“Except you knew.”

Jennings looked scandalized. “Me? I never! Well, sure, later, when it was in the papers about him getting shot, I could put two and two together. I ain’t exactly stupid, you know.”

“That’s what everybody keeps trying to tell me,” Mike said, “but I’m not sold yet. So?”

“So I went upstairs and asked if the deal was kosher, and the answer was ‘No.’ So I dropped it.”

Mike frowned across the room at the little man sitting rigidly on the kitchen chair.

“Why did he want to find her?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Why don’t you call your doctor, because you’ll be needing him shortly?” Mike said. “It’s answer period, Russ.”

“Well,” Jennings said grumpily, “it was a dumb question. You know about the deal. He wasn’t going to measure her for diamonds.”

“So when you dropped it, who did he go to?”

“He didn’t,” Jennings said. “The boys upstairs told him to keep out of grief or go find another job. He listened.”

“So nobody ever did dig her up?”

“If they did, I don’t know it.”

There was a moment’s pause. Then Mike sighed deeply.

“Russ,” he said with deadly emphasis, “I guess you didn’t hear what I said before. I came here for information about Grace Melisi and I want it. If you can’t back up that cock-and-bull yarn of yours, I’m going to have to remember that Webley account deal.”

Jennings eyed him coldly for a moment and then walked over to a scarred and battered filing cabinet leaning drunkenly against one wall, opened a drawer, and came up with a handful of folders. He leafed through them and finally selected one.

“You don’t believe me, see if you believe this.”

Mike took the folder and opened it. A single sheet of paper was inside, headed in surprisingly neat hand printing: Grace Melisi. Beneath it was the date: March 23, 1965. Beneath this was her description; Mike took out a pencil and pad and copied it down in detail. The fact that there was no photograph had been noted in the file. A single line completed the sparse information: Sister, Anne Melisi, 1410 Lincoln Blvd., Albany, New York. The balance of the sheet was blank except for a scribbled note: Discontinued. Mike added the address of Anne Melisi to his other notes and handed the folder back.

“You always keep seven-year-old files in your current filing cabinet, Russ?”

Jennings hesitated a moment and then shrugged.

“What the hell! I read where Ross had the kid’s case and I dug it out. I figured maybe I could be of some use to him on the case...”

“Just take it from us and stay away from the case,” Gunner-son suggested pleasantly. “Don’t remind me I don’t like you.” He rose and moved toward the door. Ross joined him. Jennings, his jaw tense, walked over and started to dismantle his fortress at the front door again. He finished and dragged the door open.

“Out,” he said coldly.

“A pleasure,” Mike said, and walked down the hallway without looking back.

The two men trotted down the steps and walked, side by side, out into the street. A cruising cab responded to Hank’s raised arm and they climbed in. Mike gave the address of their office building and leaned back.

“Just a quick check before turning in,” he said.

Ross said, “You were pretty tough with Jennings, weren’t you? After all, suppose we did have to pay him something for his information? The client can afford it.”

“I’m not worried about the client,” Mike said, and grinned. “You’ll find that out when I send in my bill. But I’ve known Russ Jennings a long time. All he’ll ever get from me is sweat. Or the back of my hand.”