Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

When McFate addressed him the young police surgeon looked up from where he was squatting beside a man prone on the pavement and said, “Hello, Captain. The bullet seems to have just missed the descending colon.”

“Meaning what?”

“He’ll live.”

“Who is he, Doc?”

“I haven’t had time to check out his wallet, Captain,” the young surgeon said derisively. “If he has one.”

“His name’s Tippy Welinski,” said a buxom woman wearing a gingham dress of the wraparound style. “I thought he was drunk, so help me.”

“He’s not sober,” said the surgeon. “Let’s get him on a stretcher, boys.”

McFate turned his attention to the woman. “And just who are you, ma’am?”

“Alma Barth. The landlady here. I own this house.” She swept an arm in the direction of the brown-stone behind her.

“You’ve had a few drinks yourself, haven’t you, Alma?”

“Mrs. Barth to you, flatfoot,” the woman replied, indignant.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Barth. Let’s begin again. I’m Captain McFate of the Homicide Division.”

“My taxes pay your wages,” said Mrs. Barth.

“I’m trying to earn my wages, ma’am. By asking a couple of questions. You and Tippy Welinski had been drinking together, is that it?”

Mrs. Barth fluffed her red-tinted hair with red-nailed fingers. “I was drinking with Martin Mulcahy if that’s what you wanna know. The newspaper man. Martin Mulcahy, you’ve no doubt heard of him. Works for the Evening Express.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said McFate patiently.

“Well, Martin’s one of my tenants,” said Mrs. Barth. “Lives in the basement apartment. Known him for years and years and always a gentleman. But on a Saturday night like tonight we often take a little drink together. Tippy Welinski was there tonight, for some reason or other, but it’s the first time I ever laid eyes on him. A bum is all. A towel boy at a Turkish bath, Martin called him. Hell, Captain, I was drinking with Martin Mulcahy of the Evening Express, not with Welinski. That’s his little car there.” She pointed to the Volkswagen. “Ain’t it the cutest?”

“Whose car?”

“Martin’s.”

“And where’s Martin at the moment, ma’am?”

“Yeah, how about that? Where’s Martin at the moment? Now that y’ask, I don’t know. When he came out and saw Tippy flat on his face on the sidewalk, he took off like a bat outa hell.”

“You mean he ran away?”

“Well, walked would be more like it. Martin ain’t a kid no more. And he was a little loaded himself.”

“Which way did he go?”

“Toward Blandish Avenue. No liquor stores up there either.”

“No liquor stores?”

“Well, that’s what our next move was supposed to be,” said Mrs. Barth as if the logic were self-evident. “To get another bottle of rye. That’s what Tippy was supposed to be doing when he got shot. Martin gave him the dough and the car keys.”

McFate’s hard face remained expressionless as ever but a note of interest crept into his voice. “Was Welinski in that car when he was shot?”

“I guess so. I saw him getting out of it just before he fell down. So help me, I thought he was drunk.”

“You say you were in Mulcahy’s apartment?”

“No harm in that, is there?”

“Stow your moral dignity for a minute, Mrs. Barth, and tell me why you left the apartment and came out to the street.”

“I heard what I thought was a backfire. The windows were open and the door. And I wanted a breath of fresh air anyway. The men were smoking a lot.”

“And you came out for the air and saw Welinski getting out of the car?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re sure he wasn’t trying to get in?”

“Of course I’m sure. When I first come up the steps I thought the car was empty. The door was open but I couldn’t see anyone inside. Then Welinski must’ve sat up or somepin because all of a sudden he’s coming out and falling down.”

McFate called to Bergeron who was standing near the Volkswagen.

“Aye, Skipper?”

“Check that buggy for evidence of where a bullet might have entered. Windshield, windows. Was the right door open when you arrived?”

“It was. But he was shot in the left side, Skipper.” Bergeron began to circle the car with a flashlight in hand. “All glass intact. Both windows are rolled down about three quarters. No holes in the body that I can see.” He opened the left door and shone the light inside. A few seconds later he gave a whistle of surprise.

McFate came over.

“Take a look at that, Skipper. Ingenious rig if I ever hope to see one.”

McFate, sighting along the flashlight beam, saw a 32-caliber revolver taped neatly to the underside of the steering column. Its muzzle was so pointed that it would cover the driver’s lower rib cage exactly where it counted. Fastened to the trigger was a black cord, probably nylon, which ran like a rein through three guides made of paper clips and fastened by tape at equal intervals along the steering column. The end of the cord, neatly tied to the black clutch pedal, was practically invisible, even in the beam of the flashlight.

“Be damned,” said McFate to himself.

“A quick way to kill yourself,” said Bergeron. “Just step on the clutch and bang.”