Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

“It’s big, man, so big I can’t believe it almost. I never thought I’d be so lucky. That’s why I went to pieces when those cops moved in on us today. At first we were sure you fingered us. Monk and I got separated, but then I met him later and we were plenty sore at you, but we talked to the Boss and he thought it over and a little later when we called him he said he wasn’t so sure you were a pointer. The job we pulled was so big he thought the cops might just have a bad case of the heebie-jeebies and were going around grabbing everybody they even saw near the diamond center. We shouldn’t have gone down there. Someplace out of New York would be better. That’s what we’ll do now. Maybe Philly or Miami.”

That Leon Schell told them I wasn’t a finger man was the best piece of news I’d had in hours — maybe he meant it and maybe he didn’t — but it tipped the scales for me when I needed it most. Larry Coster lost some of the tense expression on his face, he was walking back and forth rubbing his hands together. His lips were parted in something that might be a smile, only it made him look like a hungry shark.

“Man, that is good news, we got away from those cops after all. I still can’t believe I’m so lucky. When this is over I’ll send you five big ones for your trouble today. How about a quick drink before we see Monk?”

“No thanks,” I said.

“Maybe I had enough, too,” he said. “Let’s go meet Monk.”

He reached for his topcoat on a chair. My heart started to beat faster. I spoke as casually as I could. My face was frozen.

“Oh, Monk wanted you to call the Boss. You want to call from here or someplace else?”

Everything hinged on this. He had to call from this room. If he went out the door now I’d never learn what I had to and I could kiss Leon Schell goodbye for keeps. But I couldn’t let Coster even suspect how important this was. I stood up and started for the door.

“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. Maybe I better call him now. Wait a minute.” He walked over to the telephone.

My heart kept on beating faster and faster. I could almost hear it in the stillness of the room. He picked up the instrument and started to dial. I held my breath — half closed my eyes. The tiny clicks came through clear and as loud as drumbeats to my ears. I burned them into my memory. 6-4-4-2-1.

Then I caught the last two digits and almost shouted for joy. I had it. I knew where Schell was now. I repeated the numbers to myself. I could never forget them.

I made a quarter turn and closed my hand around the gun in my belt and brought it down to my right side, out of Larry Coster’s line of vision in case he should turn around to face me. My heart kept right on hammering hard. I wanted to end it quickly now — I just hoped the conversation wouldn’t be long.

They didn’t talk much. I heard Coster tell him briefly that Monk had found me and had the stuff back and was waiting for him downstairs. That news must have overjoyed Leon Schell, because then about all Larry Coster said was that they’d be over and bring me along — that he’d see him in twenty minutes or a half hour. He hung up without saying goodbye.

It was ridiculously easy then. He reached for his topcoat again and I levelled the gun at him.

“You won’t need it right away, Coster,” I said. “You’re under arrest.”

His face blanched, his eyes seemed to roll back in his head. His right arm made a slight motion for his back pocket where his gun was but stopped when I cocked my revolver.

“Your friend Monk Saunders is dead,” I told him. “He wanted to play rough with me, and now he’s dead. You try anything and you’re dead too.”

I saw fear come into his eyes.

“Put up both hands, real high, and turn around,” I said.

He turned around slowly and I walked over to him and took the gun out of his back pocket and slipped it into my coat.

“Now lie down on the floor and keep your hands out in front of you, face down.”

He got down on his hands and knees and then straightened out. He turned his head to look at me, his face an ugly mask of fear and hatred.

“Put your nose in the rug or I’ll kick it off,” I said.

He did, a wracking sob of anger and frustration shaking his body.

I backed up two steps to the telephone and picked it up with my left hand and dialed the operator and told her to get my office number. She told me in a syrupy voice that I could obtain that number by dialing it. I said I had my dial finger on the trigger of a 38 Detective Special with the hammer cocked and it was aimed right at the head of a jewel thief and that I had killed one of his buddies less than an hour ago and didn’t want to kill him unless I had to and would she please get the number. All the syrup left her voice and she stuttered all over the place but finally rang the office.

Jack Finch was still answering and he snapped it up.