Black Mask (Vol. 29, No. 3 — January 1947)

“All right, Sammy. You win,” I said. “You’re going to give me hell for this, but I might as well get it over. I was on the level when I said I wanted the bottle for a souvenir — just a goofy idea. But when I got home, I noticed something we’d both missed. It was bone dry! I was afraid you’d bounce the bottle off my nut, unless I could find something else to back me up when I hollered murder. So that’s what I was up to last night. I found her diary, but I’m just as glad I can turn it over to you.”

Sammy looked blank for a minute. “O.K., Junior G Man,” he growled. “I’ll buy it. But I’ll take it from here, if it’s all right with you.”

I made a date with Marion for Maxine’s funeral. Shortly after twelve, I picked her up and we drove down to the Hollywood Cemetery on Santa Monica Boulevard. The services were being held in the chapel.

As far as I was concerned, Maxine’s funeral was a waste of time. The flowers were pretty, Maxine made a lovely corpse, the music was moving, and, I thought, the eulogy was just corny enough to give the girl a last laugh before they covered her.

Marion identified the principal mourners for me but I was too thick to make anything of it. Except for one thing — Wally Burke was not among those present.

I wanted to have another talk with this Burke, so after we’d done all the public grieving we could for Maxine, I asked Marion if she would mind riding out to his place with me. The idea was, she knew where he lived. Besides, keeping Marion around for the rest of the afternoon wasn’t exactly unpleasant. She wasn’t my type — too pure. But I could dream.

Burke lived in one of those white ranch house mock-ups like no ranch outside San Fernando Valley. But it was all right, if you like that sort of thing — nice lawn, trees, and pansy beds beside the walk.

Marion and I couldn’t raise anyone inside. In the back yard, a dog barked and was answered by several hounds in the neighborhood.

So it wouldn’t be a total loss, I walked around to see Burke’s dog. He was a big, rust-colored collie. He knew Marion at once and jumped around, inviting us in. While Marion was mauling his ruff, I noticed his water pan was turned over. So I bought him a drink. He slurped it dry in twenty seconds Mex and woofed for more. It had been a long time between drinks. He acted hungry, too. I scouted the porch to see what I could find for him.

The back door was unlocked. I asked Marion if she thought it would be O.K. if we raided Burke’s ice-box — for the mutt, of course. She thought so, and while she was poking around in the frigidaire, I helped myself to the rest of the house. I got my money’s worth.

I found Mr. Burke hanging around in his closet — by his neck. He was wearing white silk pajamas, and his little blue toesies dangled a few inches off the floor. A small stool was kicked over behind him. He’d been there long enough.

I went back to the kitchen for Marion. “Come here a minute. I want to show you something.”

I took her to Burke’s bedroom. She looked, then buried her face in my shoulder. I could feel a shudder run through her. I led her to the living room, got a chair under her and helped her with a cigarette. Her eyes were large with fright, or shock, or something, but quite dry and clear. If she was having hysterics, they were all inside.

I located Burke’s telephone and had about half dialed the police, when I changed my mind and put in a call to Johnny Clark.

“Look.” I said, to his gruff hello, “what kind of an alibi have you got for your time last night?”

He laughed. “Part of the evening I spent with a dopy detective named Fowler.”

It wasn’t funny. “I’m serious, Clark. What time did the game break up?”

“About four o’clock.”

“You were there all the time?”

“Right. I wasn’t out of the room, except to talk to you,” he replied. Then he got curious. “Hey, what’s up?”

I told him. Then I said: “It’s another phony suicide — a hanging. This would be a good time for that letter of yours to stay lost.”

“Yeah,” he growled, “it better.”

I called the police in Hollywood. I knew this was out of his jurisdiction, but I wanted Sammy Hillman in on it.

“You’re going to hate me for this, Sammy,” I told him, “but I’ve found another stiff for you. Put away the crib board and come on out.” I gave him the address.

Since the homicide squad from North Hollywood was officially stuck with this one, Sammy and I were on our own, once I had explained how I found the body.

I drew Sammy aside. “I might as well volunteer this information,” I explained. “It’s going to come out sooner or later, and I owe you something for not springing those pictures of Burke and me.”

I told him about our brawl over the Zolta hunting accident: “Last night, I didn’t give a damn how Zolta was killed, except for its bearing on Maxine’s death. I thought if Maxine knew it was murder, and Burke knew she did and might use it on him, he might be our cookie. I know this much for sure: I had him plenty worried last night. If he had killed Maxine, he might have decided the game was about up.”