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

“I guess he said no. I don’t remember. Next thing I know, I am being driven home in my Volkswagen at two in the morning by Tippy Welinski. Since then conditions have been vague.”

“Here we are,” said McFate, hugging the curb. “Memorial Mortuary. You’re going to have your big story yet, Marty.”

“I could use it, Tom. Want me to come along with you?”

“No, Marty. Sit in the car and take it easy.”

“I’ll bring my cane,” chuckled Damroth, “in case of trouble.”

The elaborately scrolled door was opened by a palefaced young man in a black suit and a gray tie. He tipped slightly in a bow. “Come in, please.” He lisped.

McFate and Damroth entered a heavily carpeted hallway.

“May I be of thervice, thirs?”

“We’d like to see Mr. Padgett,” said McFate.

“Whom shall I thay ith calling?”

“Captain Thomas McFate.”

“Are you a military officer, thir?”

“I’m a cop, sonny. Now get cracking.”

The young man pirouetted and pranced to a room at the far end of the hallway.

“This Padgett must be very brave or very stupid,” said Damroth.

“Why, Doc?”

“Well, obviously he disobeyed the Combination’s orders when he failed to kill Iacobucci eight years ago.”

“Hell,” said McFate, “he’s just a greedy gambler like the rest of them. You’ll see. He had a key spot to fill at the Oriental. He had to fill it with a man he could trust. What better man than a guy whose life he’d spared. And look at the profit. Anyone else in such a critical job would have had to be paid plenty. With a bonus for each kill. Iacobucci would work for peanuts and like it. You’ll see, Doc.”

“I must disagree with you this once, my friend.”

“Tell me why, Doc.”

“The risks were too great to be justified by Padgett for a comparatively merger monetary advantage. From now on his life isn’t worth a plugged nickel.”

“He gambled and he lost, that’s all.”

Just then a sound like a muffled pistol shot came from the rear of the mortuary. A second later the palefaced lisper sprang into the hallway with a squeal and ran toward McFate and Damroth. But they were already moving forward.

“He shot himthelf. Right in the head. Dreadful.”

It was true. Padgett, lying on a purple carpet beside a highly polished black desk, heaved a final rattling breath as the two men entered the room. For nearly a minute they stood silently staring down at the ghastly hole at the left temple and even as they watched, some of the skin in that area appeared to crack and drift away with a streak of blood.

Adjusting his pince-nez, Damroth stooped over. “He’s wearing pancake makeup, Captain.”

“He’s what?”

“Lend me a piece of facial tissue from that box on his desk.”

McFate complied.

Damroth quite daintily turned the dead head to one side and tweaked the ear lobe several times with the tissue. Then on one knee he took a close look.

“Anything?” asked McFate, somewhat tense for him.

Damroth nodded and stood up, “Signor Iacobucci had at least three sons, Captain.”

In Self Defense by Richard Deming

It seemed a routine case of a man defending himself from attack. And there was the catch... it was too routine.

* * *

I was surprised to see Sergeant Nels Parker in the Coroner’s Court audience, for homicide detectives spend too much of their time there on official business to develop any morbid curiosity about cases not assigned to them. I was in the audience myself, of course, but as a police reporter this was my regular beat on Friday mornings, and after five years of similar Friday mornings, nothing but the continued necessity of making a living could have gotten me within miles of the place.

When I spotted him two rows ahead of me, I moved up and slid into the vacant seat next to him.

“Busman’s holiday, Sergeant?” I asked.

His long face turned and he cocked one dull eye at me. For so many years Nels had practiced looking dull in order to throw homicide witnesses off guard, the expression had become habitual.

“How are you, Sam?” he said.

“You haven’t got a case today, have you?” I persisted.

His head gave a small shake and he turned his eyes front again. Since he seemed to have no desire to explain his presence, I let the matter drop. But as the only inquest scheduled was on the body of a Joseph Garcia, age twenty-one and of no known address, I at least knew what case interested him.

The first witness was a patrolman named Donald Lutz, a thick bodied and round faced young fellow who looked as though he, like the dead man, was no more than twenty-one.