Black Mask (Vol. 22, No. 2 — Mary 1939)

“I can believe that. He’s been hanging around for two days trying to bother me. I’ve refused to talk to him. Or any private detective. My life’s an open book. Every time I open my mouth a newspaperman’s around to print what I say.”

“They’re probably outside, right now,” said Quade. “They’ll want to know everything about—”

“And I want to know something,” Slocum flared up. “I hired you for tomorrow. What the hell are you doing around here today?”

“Giving you good advice,” said Quade. “You’re going to need it in a little while. When Lieutenant Murdock gets—”

The door of Maynard’s private office was jerked open and Lieutenant Murdock stabbed his hand in Tommy Slocum’s direction. “Mr. Slocum, I want to ask you some questions.”

“Think fast,” murmured Quade.

Slocum glared at Quade, then went toward Murdock. Quade walked casually behind him and got into the other room without being noticed by Lieutenant Murdock.

Christopher Buck was pacing up and down, his hands clasped behind his back, a deep scowl on his face.

“Mr. Slocum,” Lieutenant Murdock said. “I understand you’ve been having trouble with Maynard. What was the nature of this trouble? What I’m getting at is a motive for this suicide.”

“I haven’t had any trouble with Maynard,” Slocum declared. “He worked for me. He was my right-hand man.”

Buck stopped his pacing and confronted Slocum. “Then why did Maynard telephone me in New York and have me fly out here? He was going to sue you for a million dollars.”

A cop stuck his head in the door. “Lieutenant, the medical examiner’s man is here.”

“All right, have him come in. I’m through here.”

Quade stepped forward and caught the lieutenant’s arm. “Just a minute, Lieutenant, you’re making a mistake. Maynard didn’t shoot himself.”

“What the—” Murdock began angrily, but Quade whispered in his ear, “Look at the direction the bullet took. Quick, before the medical examiner tells you what’s what and makes a chump out of you.”

A heavy-set man came into the room, followed by a white uniformed man carrying a black bag. The heavy-set man made a clucking sound with his mouth as he regarded the dead man.

Murdock stepped swiftly around the medical examiner and peered over the desk at dead Stanley Maynard. He straightened.

“It isn’t suicide, Doctor,” he said loudly. “It’s murder. Take a look at the course the bullet took and see if you don’t agree.”

The doctor made his examination, studied the dead man’s face and throat carefully, then turned and frowned. “The bullet entered his mouth from above, then cut through the bottom of the mouth and entered the throat from outside—”

“Could he have done it himself, Doc?” asked Murdock eagerly.

“Umm,” said the doctor. “There are powder burns which indicate the gun was held closely, but — no, he would have had to hold the gun over his head and point it downward at himself to inflict such a wound. Not impossible, but decidedly improbable. And exceedingly awkward.”

“Thanks, Doc,” said Lieutenant Murdock. He nodded in satisfaction and shot a swift look at Quade. Quade was deliberately avoiding Slocum’s angry stare.

Buck pounced down. “So, it’s murder! I knew it! Well, Mr. Slocum, what have you to say to that, now?”

Slocum drew himself up. “I say, to hell with you. And you, too, copper. If you want to ask any more questions, talk to my lawyer.”

“I don’t have to do that, Mr. Slocum,” said Murdock, angrily. “I could take you down to Headquarters, you know.”

“You want to arrest me?” snapped Slocum. “Go ahead, and see what happens.”

Murdock shook his head. Slocum was a Hollywood tradition. You don’t arrest a Hollywood tradition off-hand, especially not if the tradition has several million dollars behind him.

Murdock said, “I suggest you telephone your lawyer, Mr. Slocum. I’m afraid I will have to ask you a few questions later on!”

“Fine! I’ll be in my office.” Slocum slammed out of the room, throwing a dirty look at Oliver Quade, as he passed.

A woman’s sobbing in the other room reached the inner office as Tommy tore out. Quade moved toward the door. Murdock headed him off. “Just a minute!” he said.

Quade spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I helped you out of a tight spot a minute ago,” he reminded. “Saved your face.”

Murdock reddened. “Yeah, but I want a word with you in a minute.” He was looking past Quade into the other room. Suddenly, he stepped around and went through the door. Quade followed.

A girl with gorgeous blond hair was slumped in a chair, sobbing. A tall, clean-cut looking young fellow in his middle twenties, stood over her, awkwardly patting her hair.

“There, there, Thelma!” he was saying. “It’s tough, but nothing you can do about it.”

“What’s your name?” Lieutenant Murdock asked of the young fellow.

“Paul Clevenger,” was the reply. “And this is Miss Thelma Wentworth.”