Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

“I want to be sure of your nerve, and of your confidence in me.”

“I got plenty of nerve,” blustered Bracco.

The lawyer looked at him. “Yes; you’ve got the nerve to shoot a helpless man in the back. But have you got the kind of nerve you’ll need on the witness stand — with a jury watching every move you make and every expression on your face? I can build a defense for you, Bracco. I can coach you in the lies you’ll have to tell. But have you got the guts to follow where I lead you? Above all, will you — at all times and without reservation — really trust me? Trust me with your life?”

A muscle twitched in the gangster’s dark face.

“Say! Would I be sittin’ here in your office if I didn’t trust you?”

“You’ve got to prove it to me,” Morton said in his quiet voice. “I can’t afford to take the slightest chance of losing my reputation in this community. It’s my life as well as yours. You’ve got to prove your confidence in me.”

“Prove it — how?”

Gail stretched a long arm across the desk.

“Give me your gun.”

“I ain’t— How do you know—”

“Hand it over, Bracco.”

The killer reached under his left armpit and drew out a thirty-eight caliber revolver, which he placed in Gail Morton’s hands.

“What’s the game?” asked Bracco, scowling.

Morton didn’t answer. Now he had the revolver out of sight under the desk. He was doing something with it. The mysterious movement of his hands under the desk sent muscular ripples up his arms and into his drooping shoulders. Finally he thrust his left hand into his overcoat pocket. With his right hand he pushed the cocked revolver back across the desk toward Bracco.

“I want you,” he said, “to put the muzzle of this gun against your temple and pull the trigger.”

“You want — what?”

“You heard me, didn’t you?”

“Say, lissen, you! What’s the gag? D’you think I’m nuts?”

“Listen yourself, Bracco. I’ve taken all the cartridges out of that gun. It’s empty.”

“How do I know it’s empty?”

Morton thrust his huge torso halfway across the desk. His ugly face gleamed like marble in the lamplight.

“You don’t know, Bracco! That’s just the point. You’ve got to take my word for it. Before I accept your case you’ve got to prove to me that you’re willing to trust me with your life!”

The gangster’s swarthy skin turned swiftly to parchment; his black eyes stared wildly out of a mottled, repulsive, yellowish face.

“What the hell!” he shrieked faintly. “What the hell!”

“Do what I say!” roared Gail Morton in a voice whose thunders had shaken many a courtroom. “Do what I say — or walk out of this office straight to the electric chair!”

Bracco made a sound — an inarticulate animal sound, deep in his throat. Then, as if hypnotized, he slowly raised the revolver (it seemed a great weight in his hand) and placed the muzzle against his right temple. His eyes grew enormous as they stared into Morton’s.

“O.K., smart guy! I’m trustin’ you, see? I’m trustin’ y—”

The shot shattered with crazy echoes the silence of the room. Bracco’s body leaped convulsively off the chair, struck the floor with a soft crashing sound, and lay still.

Gail Morton acted quickly then. In an instant he was bending over the gangster’s crumpled form. Bracco was dead. Picking up the revolver that lay on the floor nearby, Morton took from his pocket the five cartridges that he had removed from it and, breaking the gun, replaced them in the chamber. The empty shell of the sixth cartridge, which he had not removed, remained where it was.

Carefully replacing the revolver on the floor, near the dead man’s outstretched hand, Morton rose and went to the clothes closet near the fireplace. He took off his hat and overcoat and hung them in the closet. He removed his yellow pigskin gloves and stuffed them into his overcoat.

He strode back to his desk and phoned police headquarters. Then he sat down, lighted a cigar, and waited.

In a remarkably short time two patrolmen, a coroner’s assistant, and a detective sergeant arrived at his office. Morton met them at the door. They all knew lawyer Morton.

“Evenin’, sir,” said the sergeant. “What’s happened?”

Gail pointed to the corpse on his carpet. He said quickly, “That is — or was — Johnny Bracco, sergeant.”

“Bracco! You mean Bracco the gangster?”

“Yes. He came here tonight to try to engage me as his attorney. He confessed to the Pendexter killing and—”

“Johnny confessed he done the Pendexter job?”

“Yes. He wanted me to defend him. He felt that he was in grave danger.”

“He was right,” said the police officer grimly. “But — go on, Mr. Morton. What’s the pay-off on this story?”

“It’s very simple, sergeant. Bracco was desperate — frightened out of his wits and yellow to the backbone. When I refused to have anything to do with the case, he went all to pieces.”

“I ordered him to leave my office. Suddenly he pulled out his gun and shot himself. Temporary insanity, I suppose.”

“That tough gangster killed himself?”

“Yes.”