Get a Load of This

     I was sitting with a party near the stairs leading to the office. As Rabener was going round, Fanquist suddenly appeared at the head of the stairs. I forgot about Rabener and concentrated on her. Believe me, she certainly was the tops. There was just one little thing that had kept me from insisting on an introduction. She looked tough. When I say tough I mean she didn't look the type who'd give in without a fight. My time's so tied up that unless they give in quick I have to pass them up. It's too bad, but that's the way I live. Anyway, I should worry. There are still a lot of broads even today who do it for the joy of it.

     Fanquist came slowly down the stairs. Her large eyes were like ice-blue chunks of sky. She passed close to me. I saw she had a small automatic in her hand, which she held by her side. For a moment I thought she had joined in the fun and games, but something about her made me think otherwise. I suppose I ought to have grabbed the gun, but I didn't. I was curious; I wondered what the hell she was going to do. I thought I was going to get a front-row seat at a first-rate news scoop. I was so sure that I grabbed the telephone that was plugged in at the table. I rang the night editor.

     Rabener became aware of her when she was about twenty paces from him. He looked up and met her eye. He reacted like he had trodden on a rattlesnake. I guess that guy saw death staring him right in the face and did he sweat! His face went loose and yellow. His eyes stood out like toadstools.

     Everyone sat watching. I don't suppose anyone in the room realized that this wasn't play-acting—but me!

     She didn't take her eyes off Rabener. The gun came up slowly, and the little black muzzle stared Rabener right in the face. Just before she shot him, the night editor came through. I gave him a running commentary on the whole set-up. Boy! Was that guy shaken!

     The gun made a vicious little crack. It startled us into a half-foot leap. A spot of blood appeared in the middle of Rabener's forehead. He swayed over with his hands pushed out, as if imploring her not to do it. Then he went down on his face.

     She turned and walked back to the office without haste and without looking at anyone. It was the coolest killing of the century.

     The uproar didn't start until she had disappeared. Then holy hell started popping.

     I just sat there, feeding the night editor with the stuff while he slammed it down on paper. It was on the streets within half an hour.

     Handling a murder like that gave me a reputation that I've been trying to live down ever since.

     There was no bother about arresting the broad. She just sat in the office until the cops came. They didn't like to bust in on her at first. They were scared she'd start some more shooting. One of the braver ones went in at last. He found her smoking a cigarette as calm as a chink in a hop-dream.

     When I got home I was as jumpy as a flea; even a couple of double ryes didn't do me any good. I just could not imagine what had made her do it. It wasn't as if it was in a jealous rage. It was all so utterly cold-blooded.

     The stink the newspapers raised in the morning would have suffocated a skunk. They played it all over the front page. There were photos of Rabener; there were photos of Fanquist behind the bars. She looked as calm in jail as she did when she shot him. I guess nothing this side of hell would rattle that baby. But she wouldn't talk; she wouldn't say why she had shot Rabener. They worried her for hours in a nice way. That's one thing she had in her favour. She was such a dizzy-looking number that there was no cop strong enough to get tough. A week or so before the trial came on I ran into the local police captain. He was having a snack at Sammy's Bar. I spotted him through the window. I walked right in and parked on the next stool.

     He looked at me with a cold eye that the cops reserve for newspaper guys and started bolting his food like he was in a hurry.

     “Don't strangle yourself, Cap,” I said, “I've got plenty of time and I won't run away.”

     “I know,” he said, sticking a sandwich way down his throat. “But I ain't got nothing for you.”

     “Tell me one thing,” I returned, “has she talked?”

     “Not a word; not one goddam word.”

     “O.K., Cap. I won't worry you again.” I slid off the stool. “That was a nice little red-head you were leading into temptation last night; I admire your taste. Well, Cap, I'll beat it.”

     The Captain looked like he was going to have a stroke. His neck expanded and his eyes looked like poached eggs. “Hey!” he said in a strangled voice. “Where do you get that stuff?”

     I paused. “I didn't get any stuff, Cap,” I said, “it was you who were doing the trafficking.”

     “Now, listen,” he said feverishly, “you've got to keep your trap shut about that. It was business—you understand?”

     “You're of interest to the public,” I pointed out; “it's got to go in the column. If your wife gets mad, what the hell do I care?”

     He sat like an exploded balloon. “O.K.,” he said bitterly. “What do you want to know?”