Black Mask (Vol. 7, No. 5 — April 1950), British Edition

Griffin grinned at Rawne. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Schmidt. Neighbors saw more than one party in Greer’s room. We’re not finished with the loose ends. There’s a busted dinner plate that’s interesting. And a bit of coal dust and a dash of perfume and an odor of cigar smoke with no cigar butt around and a slice of bacon with the narrow part of a woman’s shoe imprinted on it. The neighbors in an opposite apartment saw some of the show. They couldn’t see much, but they called us up. Maybe they can help. I’m leaving a patrolman at Four A. Well, I’ll see you, Schmidt. Thanks for everything.”

Griffin went away grinning and Rawne closed the door fuming. The soft, irritating ring of the ambulance went up the street and car gears ground in the shifting.

The girl came back. She was flushed. “It’s my shoe print on that bacon up there.”

Rawne was glowering at the floor, jerking his head from side to side. “Yeah, yeah.” He looked up angrily. “They’ll have a tail on you the moment you walk outside. Griffin considers me in custody already. He’s going to see where I go and then he’ll tag me when he wants me. I can fry for what they can build up against me.”

He went to the closet. “They packed Searle off — the lead I wanted. I was hoping to crack Searle open. He had plenty of motive. He could dodge work forever with Greer’s ten grand. What does that leave me?” He looked sourly at the girl. “That leaves me you. You’re not excused, Lulie darling. You had my wallet. But how can I bang you around?”

Rawne felt under the sheets on the shelf. He muttered and turned on the girl, his eyes sharp. “Hey! What’d you do with it? Where’s my gun? Don’t play katzenjammer with me.”

Lulie Nolan shivered. She clutched the manuscript of Shady Something to her. “I hid it. I was afraid. How do I know you didn’t kill Jim Greer?”

A key scraped in the lock and the door opened. Schmidt came into the room with a startled look of perplexity. His narrow face was shaved and pink and powdered and he smelled like a barber shop.

“What is this, Mr. Rawne?” Schmidt rubbed his nude pate apologetically and nodded to the girl. “Miss Nolan.”

“You’re looking at a pair of suckers, Schmidt,” Rawne said, “who are going to stay awake all night getting pushed around at police headquarters. Jim Greer was murdered.”

Schmidt nodded solemnly. “The whole block’s buzzing with it.”

“We were in Four A,” Rawne said, “when the sirens hit Twenty-second Street. We came down the dumb waiter and ran in here to keep from bumping into cops. I was Emil Schmidt for a while, but I didn’t fool anybody.”

Schmidt was self-conscious in his own apartment. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rawne. It’s too bad about Mr. Greer. I guess if you owe everybody, it’s best to stay poor.” Rawne strapped on his empty shoulder holster. “We’ll get out, Schmidt. Thanks for the use of your apartment. You can read all about us in the morning papers.” Rawne sniffed. “You smell mighty nice. Schmidt, and you look pretty.”

Schmidt rubbed his powdered face sheepishly. “I went in for a shave and the barber wanted to sell me a massage. I said that was gilding the lily. When you make a wisecrack like that you got to pay for the laugh. I had the massage.” Schmidt mopped his skull. “Have some beer before you go.” He gestured toward the yellow-covered manuscript in the girl’s hands. “I see you have Shady Lady, Miss Nolan. Have you read any of it? Does it play?”

“A lot of the lines,” Lulie Nolan said, “are identical with the lines in Jim Greer’s Tarnished Lady. And your play was written two years before Jim’s.”

Schmidt nodded. “Every producer on Broadway rejected Shady Lady before Mr. Greer bought it. Mr. Greer gave me fifty dollars and two complimentary tickets, but one seat was behind a post. I’ll get the beer.”

Rawne looked up from the city directory, opened on the library table to the T’s. “Schmidt,” he said. His voice was strangely soft. “Mind coming here?”

Rawne was humming. Schmidt looked at him oddly and advanced a few steps.

“What’s the matter with your eye, Schmidt?” Rawne asked. “The left one.”

“My eye?” Schmidt caressed his skull. “It’s bloodshot, you mean? I got a clinker in it.”

“Around the outside, I mean,” Rawne said. “The flesh looks raw and tender.” Rawne ran a finger down a page of the Red Book. “Look, Schmidt.”

“Yes, Mr. Rawne?”

“Under the caption Tattooing,” Rawne said. “There’s a finger smudge opposite the name Flags Buchanan. He’s the tattoo artist and black eye specialist. I know Flags Buchanan. He’s painted out more than one black eye for me. I know how the flesh looks after the leeches are taken off.”

Schmidt backed away. His left hand was on his head, his right hand was in the pocket of his yellow-green sports jacket. He was frightened, but he was looking at the empty holster under Rawne’s arm.