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

The gum got a sudden rest. “Now that ain’t a bit likely, gents. Not one little bit.”

“Why not?” said Damroth. “Maybe you wanted to be assistant manager.”

“Nosirree, Cap. I’m content with my lot. A plain man.”

“Just Plain Homer Whipple,” said McFate wearily. “Well, if nobody has gone through this door since Iacobucci walked through it alive, who do you think shivved him in the shower? The stylish stouts remedying a Sunday hangover?”

“No, they’re regulars.”

“The colored kid then? Asleep like the end of the world on a rub-down table.”

“No, Cap. He’s too lazy to tie up his own shoes.”

“That leaves you, Whipple. Unless there’s another way to get into this trap.”

Whipple scratched his long jaw. “The fire escape maybe.”

“Maybe. We’ll take a look.”

“I’ve already examined the fire escape, Captain,” said Damroth cheerfully.

“I might have known.”

“It’s the spring-ladder type from this floor to the ground, requiring the human body as a counterweight to lower it. A most minute examination of the rust increment at the articulating joints convinces me it hasn’t been raised or lowered in many months.”

“You heard what the Doctor said,” McFate said solemnly.

An hour later, after placing the Oriental Bathing Parlors investigation temporarily in the hands of Lieutenant Bergeron, McFate and Damroth went to the Sunday stillness of the usually booming Evening Express. They were welcomed to the deserted city room by a young man with a crew cut and a tattersall vest incongruously divided at brow level by an eyeshade. His name, he said, was Tony Waterford, federal beat, now doing lobster trick; Mr. Simmons, the editor, had called to say the visitors should be granted all courtesies. This way, gentlemen, to the square cool desk of Martin Mulcahy, which is in the same state of munificent misarrangement as he left it.

McFate coughed slight thanks and extracted the telephone from an open desk drawer overflowing with crumpled copy paper, half-squeezed and topless tubes of glue, pencil stubs and the like.

“Dial nine for outside,” said Tony Waterford, then left.

McFate called his office while Damroth, setting aside his cane and hat, sat down in Mulcahy’s perilous swivel chair and began to stare speculatively at the reams of confusion that literally blotted out the desk blotter.

“...no sign of him in any of the parks yet?” McFate was saying to the phone. “Well, keep looking everywhere. Alleys. Back lots. And another thing, I want you to send a cruiser to the home of Dinny Shannon. Yes, the old guy who does all the clerking for the City Clerk. He’ll be taking a ride to City Hall. He doesn’t know it yet, but I’ll call him now.”

In ten seconds McFate was talking to Shannon. “Dinny, I know you’re dying to get away from the old lady before she puts you to mowing the lawn. Now here’s what I’d like you to do...”

When McFate finally hung up, Damroth said, “I see you believe in the seven-day week, Captain.”

“That’s the number of days it has, Doc. Now what have you found here?”

Damroth applied his pince-nez. “Nothing very tidy.”

“Well, whatever makes Mulcahy a danger to somebody must be here. My men found nothing in his apartment except dirty socks.”

Damroth opened a desk drawer. “I suppose we might start with this.” He set three fat folders on the desk.

Just five minutes later he smacked his dry lips with satisfaction. “Did you know that Mulcahy was a collector of cremation certificates, Captain? Or, rather, photostats of such certificates?”

“News to me. News to him, too, I suppose. After all, he was an obituary editor. And what in hell is a cremation certificate, Doc?”

“Counterpart of a burial certificate. It authorizes a licensed undertaker to cremate a body.”

“I’m listening.”

“Mulcahy has fourteen such photostats in this folder. The first is dated eight years ago and the last just two weeks ago. Each photostat, as you can see, is attached to several newspaper clippings. The clippings in each case are dated within a day or two after the issuance date of the corresponding certificate. Shall I take them in order, Captain?”

McFate sat on the edge of the desk. “Why, yes.”

“The certificate dated eight years ago, October sixth, authorizes the Memorial Mortuary of one eleven Essex Avenue to cremate the remains of David Dunkle. The attached clippings, dated two days later, report that Arthur Iacobucci, key witness in the murder trial of his brother, has been reported missing from his usual haunts. The police are quoted as fearing the man has been kidnapped and probably killed, gangland style. Your predecessor, Captain, told the press that Iacobucci was last seen by a business associate entering the Oriental Bathing Parlors from which he failed to emerge an hour later to keep an important business engagement. The description of Iacobucci is detailed, even to the lobe tattoo on the left ear. Mulcahy has circled this with a red pencil.”

“Be damned,” murmured McFate.