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

“Yeah,” said McFate. “Welinski was lucky to be somewhat off range when the gun went off. Otherwise he’d have got it good. Must have been reaching for something to the right.”

“The open door,” said Bergeron. “Trying to close it.”

“That’s it,” said McFate. “We better get the fingerprint men down here immediately.” He left Bergeron and sauntered back to Mrs. Barth with a question. “Got any idea how long ago Mulcahy parked his car there, ma’am?”

“You ain’t gonna give him a ticket, are you?”

“I don’t think so,” said McFate grimly.

“Well, okay then. Since about two o’clock this morning.”

“You mean it’s been parked at this spot for approximately nineteen hours?”

“I’d swear to it.”

McFate almost smiled. “He must know the cop on the beat.”

“He does and don’t doubt it,” said Mrs. Barth proudly.

Sunday morning arrived hot and humid. McFate, after a few hours of dyspeptic sleep, was making breakfast at his desk of bromo seltzer chased by black coffee.

Tippy Welinski was still alive, according to the hospital report, although he had lost a lot of blood and booze. Martin Mulcahy was still missing from his usual haunts. The fingerprint boys found nothing in the car except a few smears on the steering wheel, the dash board and the exterior and interior right door handles, all of which probably could be attributed to Welinski. But—

And it was a fine big “but” at that: the revolver had been loaded with two bullets — the one which was fired and a second in the chamber next to it as insurance against a dud. And a partial thumb and forefinger print had been found on this second one.

McFate looked questioningly at Lieutenant Bergeron, who was detailing all this information.

“We’re doublechecking with the F.B.I., Skipper, but our boys are sure the prints belong to a guy named Arthur Iacobucci.”

McFate’s eyebrows arched just perceptibly.

“He’s before my time,” Bergeron continued, “but maybe you remember him?”

“I remember him,” said McFate. “He’s been missing and presumed dead for the last eight years.”

“That’s what our I. D. boys said. A stoolie, wasn’t he?”

“In a way.”

“Testified in a murder trial against his own brother, they tell me.”

“That’s about it,” said McFate. “Did they tell you who the brother killed?”

“No.”

“Well, Fred Iacobucci killed Arthur’s wife. What the papers call a love triangle, with Fred getting the short side and not liking it. Anyway, he happened to strangle the girl in front of her husband and it kind of took the brotherly love out of the picture.”

“Lousy.”

“It got lousier. Fred was pretty high up in the Combination and word went out to rub Arthur. One day about eight years ago he walked into the Oriental Bathing Parlors and hasn’t been seen since. Until now I figured he was dead and down under.”

“What happened to his brother Fred?”

“The hot seat.”

“Oh, and another thing before I forget it. Martin Mulcahy phoned in yesterday afternoon.”

“Who forgot it up to now?”

“Well, the duty sergeant didn’t take the call seriously until he read his Sunday paper an hour ago. Then he remembered that Mulcahy called the desk about three yesterday and wanted to talk with you about a personal matter. You were at a meeting with the Super at the time and besides Mulcahy sounded drunk. So the desk sergeant — Jack Gillis if you want to know his name — said he’d have you call back. But Mulcahy wouldn’t leave a number. Said he’d be in touch with you later.”

“A towel boy at a Turkish bath,” said McFate musingly.

“What’s that again, Skipper?”

“That’s the way Mulcahy described Tippy Welinski. According to Alma Barth. A towel boy at a Turkish bath. Just to satisfy my curiosity, Bergeron, find out whether Welinski is employed by the Oriental Bathing Parlors.”

“You think he might be this missing—?”

“Hell no. I’ve known Welinski from a distance for a dozen years. He’s a third-rate boxer you could flatten with a feather. But it would be interesting if he happened to work at the Oriental. No more than interesting maybe.”

“I see what you mean.”

“Also get me a mug shot with full description of the not so late Arthur Iacobucci.”

“Will do, Skipper,” said Bergeron, leaving the cluttered office.

Wondering whether he really disapproved of the terminological hangover from Bergeron’s days in the Marine Corps, McFate lifted a flap-eared telephone directory from the file drawer in his desk and looked up Alma Barth’s number. When he found it he used his private phone.

The landlady, sounding much sobered, answered immediately.

“The Barth residence, Mrs. Alma Sturges Barth speaking.”

“You must have been waiting for my call,” said McFate.

The gracious voice grew grim. “And just who might you be, weisenheimer?”

“Right back in character, quick as a wink. Well, Mrs. Barth, this is Captain McFate again. You may recall having a chat with me last night.”

The landlady made an effort to return to graciousness. “I sure do, Captain. I guess I was kind of rude. If so, don’t blame me. Blame the situation.”

“I’ll do that. Have you heard from Mulcahy yet?”