Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 104, No. 4, August 22, 1936

I took another cab down to 52nd Street to the Surf Bar which used to be one of the better speakeasies and which hankers to the Broadway crowd now as a respectable bar. It was moderately filled when I got there, mostly women chattering at their afternoon cocktails.

The bartender was an Irisher named Mike McFee. He knew me. I went over to him.

“And how are ye, Daffy Dill?” he asked cheerfully. “I ain’t seen ye hereabouts since Hector was a pup! What’ll it be?”

“Info from you,” I said quietly. “You know Solly Sampson.”

“Shure I do. He’s in here all th’ time.”

“He was here last night. Were you on?”

“Shure.”

“There was another guy with him. Who was it?”

McFee looked at me and then moved his eyes away. “Shure and I don’t know, Daffy. That’s the truth.” He coughed behind his hand. “Somethin’ happen to Solly?”

“Solly’s all right. He got a Mickey Finn in one jigger last night. Did you slip it to him?”

“Glory be to God, ’twasn’t me, sir!”

“All right,” I said. “Then quit the kidding. This other bird came in last night. You know who he is. He asked you to point out Solly Sampson when Solly came in. You did. Then he proceeded to binge with Solly and he took Solly home. Now, who in hell was it?”

“I... I can’t be a snitch, Daffy.”

I said soberly, “Listen, Mike, there’s murder in this. Did you ever hear of an accessory before the fact being just as guilty as—”

“Holy Peter!” McFee whispered. “I had nothin’ to do with it, Daffy! He jest came in and says for me to point out who Solly Sampson is. Faith, I didn’t know—”

“Never mind what you didn’t know,” I said. “What do you know? That’s the catch... come on, Mike, who was the bird? Loosen up...”

“All right,” he said finally, taking a deep breath. “It was Leo Stivers.”

“Fine,” I said blankly. “And who the hell is Leo Stivers?”

“That I wouldn’t know,” McFee replied in a low voice. “But him it was with Solly last night.”

“Don’t you know anything about him?”

“He runs a sorta pawnshop and jewelry store on Broadway between 38th and 39th Streets.”

I said, “That’s got it, Mike.”

IV

I was walking out of the Surf Bar vestibule when a man came up to me and said, “Have you got a light, pal?” He was short and skinny and he had pop-eyes. He wore a salt and pepper suit and a lemon-colored straw hat and there was an unlighted cigarette hanging in the corner of his mouth. I‘d never seen him before in my life.

“Sure,” I said. I took out a clip of matches and handed him it. He struck a match and lighted his cigarette and as he handed the clip back he said, “Daffy Dill, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Crime reporter on the Chronicle.”

“Are you telling or asking?”

“Telling. You were on the Aranthic this morning when Rainsford bumped off. He gave all the reporters each a dagger. Balinese belly-rippers. You got one. Have you still got it? It’s worth money.”

“I’ve got it,” I said. “How’d you know all this?”

“It’s in the papers. Every damn reporter wrote about it. You want to sell your dagger?”

“What’s it worth?”

“That depends. Have you got it on you?”

“Sure I have it,” I said. “Right here.”

“That’s all I wanted to know,” he said. “Now get this straight and don’t pull a phony. There’s a brown coupé at the curb behind me. There’s a guy in it with a .38 pistol silenced, un’er-stand? Play ball or take one between the eyes!”

I stood still for a moment and I let my eyes wander to the car at the curb. The man who sat in it grinned at me in a nice palsy-walsy way and just over the edge of the car window I saw the blunt cylindrical muzzle of a silencer. I said: “What’s my move?”

“Get in.”

I walked over to the curb and climbed into the car, edging under the steering wheel close against the man with the gun.

“Well, if it ain’t Mac,” he grinned, smelling of garlic. “We had quite a time this morning, didn’t we?”

I stared at him. “I get it. You’re the guy who poured the drinks.”

“Now ain’t you the detective!”

“You’re the guy who slipped Rains-ford the cyanide and—”

“Quiet, Mac,” the gunman said, leering. “Suppose a flatfoot heard you! Why, he might arrest me!”

“Skip that stuff,” said the man in the straw hat, getting in under the wheel. “Get the dagger and see that Dill doesn’t pull a sandy.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m learning. I don’t know who you are, but this ape-man with the gun is Leo Stivers.”

The driver laughed. “Way off, Dill, way off. I’m Leo Stivers. Now doesn’t that cover it all nicely? Oh, you’re a smart egg, even if you haven’t figured it out. Got that dagger, Porky?”

Porky reached over into my inside coat pocket and pulled the dagger out. As a matter of fact, it was the first time I had seen it since Rainsford handed them out. It had a sheath like a derringer. Sounds funny, but that’s the way it was.