Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

“He’s coming. To look at some records.” I explained the details of the ruse, but Dean didn’t seem interested. He kept staring into the glass, his lips white.

“It’s been so long,” he whispered. “So many years...”

“And so many dollars,” I said. “This search of yours hasn’t been cheap, Mr. Dean.”

“No,” he answered hollowly. “It’s cost thousands. Hiring all those men...”

I headed for the door. “Well, if you need anything else—”

“I do!”

“What?”

He put his glass on the floor and went to the red-leather suitcase on the bed. He fumbled at the straps, and his hands were shaking as he snapped open the locks. But they were steady when they came out with the V-shaped parcel in brown paper. Even before he got the wraps all the way off, I knew it was a .32 automatic.

“Good idea,” I said approvingly. “You’ll need the protection, Mr. Dean.”

“No.” He came towards me. “This is for you.”

“What?”

“Take it. I... I don’t know anything about guns. They frighten me.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

He looked at the floor. “I want you to do it for me. I thought I could do it myself, but I can’t. After all these years — I can’t.”

He shoved the weapon at me, but I wouldn’t touch it.

“Look, Mr. Dean,” I said. “You better let the cops handle our friend Otto. If you can prove he’s your wife’s murderer—”

“Don’t lecture me!” he said hoarsely. “I’m offering you a deal. This man killed the most important thing in my life. I’ll give you three thousand dollars to avenge me!”

That stopped me cold. “Three grand?”

“Yes! And there won’t be any risk. Not when the story comes out. It’ll be self-defense. After all, I hired you to protect me. And when this man threatens my life... Don’t you see!”

“Yeah. I see all right. Only I can’t buy it, Mr. Dean. Not even at your price.”

He snatched the gun back angrily. “All right! If that’s the way you want it.”

“And I’d think twice about doing it yourself, Mr. Dean. The law’s pretty definite about murder — no matter what the reason.”

He took a wallet from the jacket draped over a chair and slowly counted out my fee.

“Here you are, Mr. Tyree. Thank you.”

I opened the door. “You sure that’s all?”

“Positive.” I closed the door.

I got back to the office around five-thirty and typed out a report on the case, leaving out my speculations about what might happen in Room 305 at the Bayshore that night. I figured that part was none of my business.

I dropped the folder into the file and frowned at the skimpy number of reports in the cabinet. I wasn’t getting rich at this business, and I began to wonder if hotel sleuthing wasn’t such a bad dodge after all.

I dropped into the chair behind my desk and chewed thoughtfully on the hangnail. Behind me, the sun was making a last splash, and the blood-red color reflected in my window started me thinking about Dean and his long hunt for the killer of his wife. I supposed that I should feel sorry for Dean. But for some reason, I was feeling sympathy for the heavy-set bald guy named Otto who would be knocking on the door of Dean’s hotel room in a couple of hours. It had been a crummy way to earn my rent money, setting him up for ambush. No matter how good the cause, I felt like some kind of pimp.

Around seven o’clock, I dropped into the chop-house down the street. Nothing on the menu stirred my appetite, so I ordered a couple of coffees and sipped them in silence for an hour.

Then I went for a walk. I didn’t think about my destination, until I got within viewing distance of the cheap neon sign that said HOTEL BAYSHORE, TRANSIENTS.

I set up a minor stake-out across the street, suddenly hoping that the pigeon wouldn’t show.

But he did. At twenty-five past eight, the burly gent with the fondness for old jazz records came striding down the street. He headed straight for the hotel doorway.

I smoked another cigarette while I tried to make up my mind. Then I dropped the butt to the street, stomped on it and headed for the Bayshore.

I took the elevator to the third floor, strolled down the empty hallway to Room 305. It was awfully quiet behind the door. I put my ear to it, listening for sounds.

For another minute — nothing.

Then — bam!

Without thinking, I hit that door like a fullback. It crashed open, and somebody yelled. At the same time, a lamp spun crazily off an end table, the shade rolling at my feet, the naked bulb setting up a glare in the small room that fell revealingly on the frightened face of Munro Dean.

He was crouching against the wall, still in shirtsleeves, with the .32 in his white-knuckled hand. He was blubbering, and his eyes were on the burly man on the carpet. Otto wasn’t dead, but he was flopping like a fish, and muttering a hoarse monologue of foul words. His hand was trying to get inside his jacket, and there wasn’t any doubt about what he was after.