Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

Narijian excused himself to make a call, no doubt to tell them down at Leonard Street that he had a hot one and was following it up. We arranged to meet him in the lounge in a few minutes time.

I took the time to shoot a couple of questions at Joan Chandler. She still insisted she didn’t know Noel Draftsman. She’d never seen a picture of him and didn’t know if Eleanor had one. So far as she knew, Eleanor was careful with money. Then Narijian came running in and I let him take Joan back to International Acoustics and her boss, George King.

I called Akutagawa to check in. I didn’t want him to think I was holding anything back. Also it was possible he might have solved the case while I was out. He did that occasionally, though most of the time he preferred to have me on hand to help wind things up. Not that I would have minded this time. I was still hoping to get away Friday.

But all he said was that he was still trying for a line on Noel Draftsman. He promised to talk to the conductor of the chamber music group Mrs. Draftsman played with, though he didn’t think anything would come of it. Also he was hoping that a witness to her subway fall might step forward.

I reminded him this was New York. He didn’t comment on that but suggested that I do some more probing into Joan Chandler’s background. I said okay, hung up and walked west on Forty-second Street to Seventh Avenue where I took the subway down to Twenty-third Street.

Nothing was falling into place, so far as I could see. We still didn’t have a motive, though the business with the money was puzzling. As for opportunity, it looked like anyone’s. I’d feel a lot better when we knew more about Nod Draftsman. But then maybe it wasn’t a personal thing and we were hitting the wrong angle.

I thought back over the current UN scene. Maybe there was a clue to be found in the proceedings of the major organs, like the security council, general assembly, economic and social council, etc. Trouble was, almost everything under discussion was highly controversial and offered grounds for Outside reaction. Like, the Security Council was debating the Jordanian charge of aggression against Israel, the General Assembly was discussing nuclear test suspension and halting the spread of nuclear weapons. So it went. There might be something to that angle, but the approach was fruitless.

I quit thinking about it as I stepped off the train at West Twenty-third Street and walked upstairs to the token booth. The Transit cop wasn’t around so I spoke to the change-maker behind the grill. I asked him about his clientele. He didn’t remember Eleanor Draftsman, but he sure had no trouble recalling Joan Chandler.

He had an eye for redheads, he told me, and Joan Chandler was both a redhead and a regular customer, a late customer. She always came rushing down at nine-thirty every morning, come rain or shine, and that included yesterday morning. She was some babe, he told me, and I agreed.

She was. Everyone agreed to that. Even the super in her building, a little guy with glasses who gave his name as Morris Greem, though he didn’t like the idea of giving anything away. He took my fin with a sneer. Little guy in his forties with a Caesar hairdo, whose left eye kept winking at me.

I didn’t like his looks, so I didn’t tell him who I was. I used one of Joe Benares’ business cards: Ajax Probes. Greem didn’t like Eleanor Draftsman but the worst he could tell me about her was that she worked for that “Pinko outfit” on Forty-second Street and the River, meaning of course the UN.

He started to elaborate, a real fanatic, but I cut him short. I asked him how long he’d been the super. He said, one year. I asked him if he was married and he balked. I told him I’d be back to spend the rest of that five.

He turned white and started to call me a lousy, no good — At the same time he reached behind his apartment door and grabbed for something he was in the process of transfering from one hand to the other when I kicked the door open.

It caught him on the side of the jaw — and a Colt Peacemaker dropped from his nerveless fingers. My God — a .45 caliber long-barreled Peacemaker! It must have weighed four pounds. No wonder he’d had trouble switching it from hand to hand. With its seven and one-half inch barrel it was something like one-handing a carbine.

I dropped it in the top unit of Greem’s oldfashioned toilet and on the way out picked up the duplicate key to Joan Chandler’s pad. Greem was snoozing peacefully: no sneer, no eyetick. On second thoughts I dragged him into the bathroom and locked him in. Then I hoofed it up to 3-G, fitted the key in the lock, turned it, pushed the door open and slipped in.

I sensed movement behind me, began to turn, but didn’t make it. Whoever chopped me down was an expert. I took the heel of a hand at the base of the skull and crumbled. I didn’t have a chance. Now I knew how Greem must have felt.