Man Sinister

Standing on the back steps, I felt the slow, hard beating of my heart against my ribs. McGinty was not human — able to take five bullets, lose no blood, and walk or run across the back yard without leaving any foot marks on the grass.

Such a creature did not exist, of course. Then what had happened? Had I witnesses a killing at all? But I knew I had.

Vera was waiting on the front porch when I got back to the house on Northland. When she saw me, she ran to meet me halfway down the walk. She caught my arm.

“Steve! What has happened? Harold came in babbling that McGinty wouldn’t hound him any longer. Right after that, Papa Joe showed up, practically writhing. He was seething with anger, and deeply frightened at the same time. He called Harold into the parlor and they talked for a minute. Then Papa Joe went upstairs, yelling for Wilfred. He hasn’t come down since, and I can’t get anything out of Harold. I’ve been waiting for you. What is it, Steve?”

“I’m not sure yet. Where is Harold?”

“Upstairs, in our room.”

She followed me up. I opened the door. Harold swiveled his body around from the bureau. He’d been pouring himself a drink from the bottle that Wilfred had brought up from downstairs.

I closed the door. Vera moved around beside me, watching both of us.

I said bluntly, “You’re in serious trouble, Harold. If you want help, you’d better level with me. Why has McGinty followed you all the way down here because of that wharf girl painting?”

“Who said anything about the painting?”

“I did,” Vera said quietly. “Don’t you think you’d better tell him the rest of it?” She curved her glance at me. She was badly frightened, but clinging to her remaining poise with sheer willpower.

Harold had had almost an hour to calm himself down. The flush in his cheeks revealed that he’d been hitting the bottle heavily, bolstering his courage.

“First, Steve,” he said cautiously, “what are you going to do? Have a big slug and call the cops, as you told Papa Joe?”

“No, not yet.”

Astonishment whitened his face. “You mean you’ll help me get McGinty out of there so no one will ever know?”

“Not hardly. McGinty vanished.”

“He what?”

“Just that. There’s no trace of him in the cottage. No bulletholes. No blood.”

Silence fell over the room. Vera’s mouth worked. She cried suddenly, “What is this about bullets and blood?”

Harold set the whisky on the bureau and moved quickly to take her in his arms. But she was almost herself. She backed away from him, hysterical tears spilling down her cheeks.

“No, don’t try to wheedle me into submission! Tell me what happened to McGinty!”

“Darling, please—” Harold slipped his arm about her. She shrugged it off quickly, turning to me.

“Then Steve will tell me!”

Over her shoulder I glimpsed Harold’s anxious face. The plea in his eyes was urgent, unmistakable. It might have influenced me more than I thought but at the moment I believed I was thinking only of the lovely, distraught girl who was his wife.

I gripped her shoulders, kept my voice even and gentle as possible. “Tonight Harold met McGinty and fired a gun at him. Fortunately, he did not shoot straight.”

She murmured a broken, thankful sounding word and sank in a chair. Harold poured a small drink of straight whisky for her. She took it.

I crossed the hall to my room. I pulled my scuffed gladstone out of the closet, opened it on the bed, and began tossing clothes into it. I had the bag half-filled when the door opened. I threw a glance over my shoulder. Harold closed the door, came across the room.

“What’s the idea of the bag, Steve?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

He lighted a cigarette. His fingers were still shaking. “I know you had a run-in with Papa Joe this afternoon. He told me. Now you’re peeved at me. I can’t say that I blame you.”

I said nothing, but went on packing.

“What you did tonight was decent, Steve. I appreciate it. I really do.”

“Why don’t you take this McGinty trouble to the police, whatever it is, and be done with it?”

His smile was sly. “There’s no need for that now, is there?”

Some inkling of what he was thinking slipped into my consciousness. I snapped the gladstone closed before lifting my gaze to meet his. I saw the expression in his eyes that I was afraid I would see.

“You’re thinking,” I said, “that I carried McGinty out of the cottage, that I’ll chuck him some place for you.”

“I could hardly ask you to take such a risk, could I?”

I was angered at his growing confidence. I swung the bag off of the bed. “I didn’t lie to Vera. McGinty really did vanish, even though he couldn’t have left the cottage. If you missed him, the walls of the cottage would have stopped the bullets. The walls showed not a single bullet mark. McGinty took all that lead, and still did not bleed.”

The sincerity of my tone caused a momentary shadow of doubt to cross Harold’s face. He was struggling to believe what he wanted to believe, and he won.