Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

Larry slid out of the booth, paid the tab, and left.

The girl watched the clock.

One minute.

Light came and went in her eyes. Her teeth gleamed.

Midnight.

She slumped back in the booth, as if exhausted.

In a far off state penitentiary a man had been seated. A switch had been thrown. Impulses, like unleashed demons, had crashed through wires, relays. The man had died, for the capital crime of rape.

Larry was standing impatiently on the corner. He came forward to meet her. She stopped, waiting. At her left was the mouth of an alley.

Larry reached out to take her arm. But as he looked in her eyes, he became frozen, hand outstretched.

“Beast,” she said. “You beast.”

Her hand went up and tore the shoulder of her dress. Then she began screaming.

Larry grabbed her, tried to shut her up by shaking her. They were like that when the shout of the cop came toward them.

Larry stood in confusion a moment. Then he broke and ran. He heard the shouted command to stop, two sharp cracks of a gun... pain, a falling into a deep black pit of pain...

Jeannine was crying when the cop reached her. “That man... He... I was going home... I...”

The cop loomed big and stalwart over her innocence and delicacy. He looked at her misty eyes and his jaw muscles knotted.

“There, there, little lady. He’ll never hurt nobody no more. Now, try not to think about it...”

40 Detectives Later by Henry Slesar

“Hold it!” I levelled the .32. “Don’t draw!” He didn’t listen to me. He had the revolver out.

* * *

I wasn’t flattered when Munro Dean walked into my office. I’d been hearing about Dean since ’49, when I was still a hotel dick for the Statler chain. He’d taken his case to every private investigator east of Chicago. Half of them had turned him down. The others had strung him along for a few days of expense money, and then sent him off with a shrug and a promise to “keep the file active.”

I kept him waiting outside for a couple of minutes, while I worried a hangnail on my thumb. Then I invited him in.

He walked like it was a struggle, and there wasn’t enough flesh on his frame to excite a starving buzzard. The skin was molded to his face so that you had a pretty good idea of what kind of a skull his head would make. It wasn’t easy to look Munro Dean in the eyes.

“Have a seat,” I said, with professional briskness. “Seems to me I’ve heard your name before, Mr. Dean.”

“Probably,” he answered. “Were you ever with the police, Mr. Tyree?”

“Not exactly. But I’ve got a lot of friends on the force. It was something about your wife, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It happened in 1948, October. In Rahway, New Jersey. A man — killed her. A slim, dark man, with bushy black hair. I came home from work and saw him running out the back door. The police never caught him.”

“I see. And you’re still interested in finding this man.”

He laughed abruptly, but without a change of expression. “Interested? Yes, I’m interested. I’ve been looking for him since it happened. You know that, Mr. Tyree. All you — people know that.”

“Mm.” I drew up a pad and poised a pencil over it. “Well, suppose we go into some detail. Have the police—”

“They’ve closed their books on the case. But I haven’t, Mr. Tyree. I’ve never given up. I’ve had at least forty private detectives looking for him. None have helped. Some of them — his face clouded — have taken advantage of me.”

It was time to clear things up.

“Look, Mr. Dean. Guys like me are in the business for money. Only some of us take the long view. Some of us figure that a real unhappy client is a bad advertisement. If I don’t think I can help you, I’ll hand you your hat.”

I was talking too loud, and I knew it. But Munro Dean was like some gaunt symbol of failure, a patsy for the Fates. You either rubbed your hands gleefully and picked his pocket, or you got sore and shouted at him.

“You can help me,” he said finally.

“What makes you so sure? Nobody else could.”

“But you can. Because I’ve found the man.”

I dropped the pencil. “Well. So what can I do now, Mr. Dean? Why not call in the police?”

“Because they’d pay no attention. Too much time has passed. They’ve lost interest.”

“Nuts.”

“It’s true. I can’t really prove this is the man. For one thing, he’s changed. He’s lost his hair. He’s fatter. He’s older. But he’s the man.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I am.” His eyes, two burned-out lumps of coal, suddenly glowed. “That face is engraved, here.” He tapped his forehead. “It’s funny, you know that? All those experts, all those years. Nobody could find him. And just by chance, I see him at a lunch counter—”

“It happens,” I said curtly. “Don’t forget, Mr. Dean, your description wasn’t much help. Maybe you’re the only one who could have spotted this man.”

“Perhaps. But now I need help, Mr. Tyree.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to act as go-between for this man and myself. I want you to arrange a little meeting.”

“What for?”

“What do you suppose?”