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

“I’ll tell you why Levinson claimed he did it.” I put a fist under her chin, make her look at me. Her eyes are dry; also they are blazing with hate. “Levinson did love you. And he knew you’d done the double-crossing with the cartridges. He was afraid you’d be found out; decided the best thing he could do would be to take the rap himself. He tried it once before, by jumping out the window.”

“Maybe Levinson saw her hiding behind them coats,” suggests Mike. “But why didn’t Zara and Frinkey see her? And how does she get in and out of the closet without everybody getting wise?”

Zara doesn’t speak up and Frinkey, the world’s greatest comedian, is standing there with his eyes shut and tears streaming down his face, but not making a sound.

“Zara was probably too busy fixing the gun, to notice anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if Frinkey did spot her, Mike. She came in through 801, the room Larry had taken next door when the gag was planned. She must have waited in the little boys’ room, while Larry was having a drink with the Louse in 801 before the others got here. And she came out of the closet after I’d busted into the room. Zara’d turned out the light; he and I were doing a rough-and-tumble on the floor.”

I rubbed a bump on my head. “Just to make sure I wouldn’t fix Zara’s wagon and come chasing after her, she beaned me with a beer bottle. Then I figure she had the gall to hide in 804, my room, right across the hall, until she heard me talking to the Louse. Then she rushes in, as if she’d just stepped off the elevator.”

Mike let go of Zara. The musician walked over to the frill.

“He’s telling the truth, Claire. You meant Larry to die! You’ve been trying to get rid of him for months so you could get your hooks into Hipper Dipper. Another thing, Larry told me about your urging him to take out that big insurance—”

She slapped at him, viciously. “You leave Harry Frinkey out of this, you scabby little—”

Frinkey stops her. He doesn’t open his eyes and he doesn’t stop crying, but says, very quiet:

“It doesn’t make any difference, Claire.” He has a hard time finishing. “It’s all over, anyway.”

Mike is bewildered. “Can you tie that, Vince? All this just because the dame is nuts about one guy and married to another!”

“Oh, no,” I say. “She could have gotten a divorce, but easy, if she wanted it that way. But then she’d have no share in Del Grave’s big insurance.”

Zara spits out: “Are you right! She’s the gold-diggingest little — that ever broke a decent man’s heart. It was the insurance she was after, all right. Larry sure had plenty of it.”

That makes sense, all around, but I am having a little difficulty looking at it from a strictly reasonable angle. The babe is trying a new tack.

She throws her arms around my neck and sobs:

“Don’t let them hurt me, please don’t let them.” She even gives me a little of the suggestive knee. I might have relented, because I am a sucker for the old flesh appeal and, anyway, it is going to be tough to convict her of first degree, but the bulls are banging at the door and Mike is letting them in...

So I push her away and say: “Save that leg-art for the prosecutor, kid. Even in court, the show has to go on. You’ll need all the pretty pink things you’ve got if you’re going to keep that cute figure out of a numbered uniform.”

Then the cops came in. It is about time.