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EText from pulpgen.com
10-Story Detective , October 1947
The ballistics boys were helpless when they found the slaying bullet matched no known caliber. And it was left to Detective Logan to trigger the killer who rolled his own.
THE street was quiet, dark, and almost deserted. Jack Arnold walked quickly, keeping his face straight ahead, but glancing up at the top floor of the three-story building across the street out of the corner of his eye. In one of the center windows a man could be seen sitting, facing the window with a newspaper in his hands, his body outlined by the lights of the room. Arnold's eyes were cold and hard as they furtively studied the man in the window.
It was almost twenty years since he had last seen the man, but he still remembered him. His name was Charles Marlowe, otherwise known as Lefty. Arnold's name had been Jack Fort.
Yes, that had been a good many years ago. But he had still recognized Lefty when he suddenly showed up two months ago. Lefty hadn't known him, but that was just as well. This way he would get Lefty for old time's sake, and not even Lefty would know he had done it.
He reached the next block and went into the small diner on the corner.
"Good evening, Mr. Arnold," the kid behind the counter said.
"Hi ya, Tommy," he replied. They called him Mr. Arnold now, because nobody knew about the past. And it was going to stay that way. He was going to get Lefty, but nobody would get him.
As he ate his dinner, Arnold reviewed the past few weeks, remembering the day he first got the idea of how he could get Lefty. It was a slick little plan. All he had to do now was follow it through.
As he finished the last of his coffee, a large garbage truck rumbled up the block and stopped in front of the diner. Men climbed off the cab and picked up the barrels sitting on the curb, emptying them in the rear of the truck. The motor turned over noisily and the garbage was carted deeper into the truck by a chain belt.
Arnold glanced at his watch, then smiled to himself. "Those guys are always right on time," he chuckled.
He paid his check and went out. For a minute he halted and looked up the block to the still-lit window, firing a cigarette as he did so. He was all set now. Lefty's days were numbered. He turned to his right and walked down the street.
LOGAN scrutinized the slug Haley handed him, a worried frown on the brow beneath his red thatch of hair. "What do you make of it?" he asked the police ballistician.
Haley looked up and smiled wryly. "I'm kind of sorry you brought that damned thing in. I won't sleep for a week wondering about it. If somebody told me about it, I'd say they were nuts. I've seen just about every piece of lead a gun can throw, but that thing has got me stumped. Of course, going through a guy's head and a couple of walls sort of mashed it up a bit, but it must have been originally less than a .30, yet more, a lot more, than a .25. And, from what it went through before stopping, I'd swear it was a rifle that did the job."
Logan rolled the battered slug around in the palm of his hand, his left hand brushing through the mop of red hair. His stocky partner, Monk, noticed the gesture. It could only mean one thing---Logan was stumped too.
The detective looked up from the slug in his hand to Haley. "Well," he asked, "you must have some idea. What kind of rifle?"
Haley sighed. "Like I said, it must have been a rifle, 'cause no pistol could have driven even a small bullet like that fast enough to plow through somebody's noggin and a couple of walls to boot. There are some hunting rifles on the market using a powerful charge inside a big shell. The shell is 'necked-down' to take a small bullet. Go down to the sports store and take a look at a .257 Roberts or a .220 Swift if you want to know what I'm talking about. But I'd say that slug was bigger than a .257 or a .270 Winchester."
He took the slug from Logan and studied it again under a magnifying glass. "I'll tell you one thing," he said, "produce the gun that shot this bullet and I'll prove to any jury it's the murder weapon."
Logan said, "That's a big help. But thanks anyway. Do you mind if I keep the slug for a while?"
Haley handed the slug back. "It's okay by me. But don't lose it. I want it for my collection."
Logan went out of the laboratory building. Monk trailed behind him, calmly chewing an apple.
"Flare trough?" he asked Logan.
"Listen, either get your mouth empty or shut up," he snapped. "How many times do I have to tell you not to talk when you're eating?"
Monk hastily swallowed a piece of apple. "I was only asking where we're goin' now," he said reproachfully.
Logan couldn't help grinning at the sulking gloom his quick retort had brought to his sidekick's face. "Okay, but remember the next time to empty your kisser." He glanced at his watch. "It's twelve-thirty on the nose. You're going back to the scene of the crime. See if you find out anything more from that landlady. Ask her exactly what time this morning she found this Marlowe guy with the hole in the head. And ask the coroner, if he's still around, exactly what time the stiff got it. I've got a date with a hunch."
Obediently Monk climbed into the police car at the curb and sped up the block. After watching him turn the corner, Logan walked the other way into the business section of town. As he walked, he kept running his left hand through his red hair.
AN HOUR later that afternoon he stepped out of a taxi in front of cheap rooming house. A cop leaned against the front door, a bored look on his face. On the sidewalk a group of neighbors stood looking at a window in the fourth floor. Logan nodded to the cop and went inside. Up on the top floor he found more people clustered around a closed door, discussing, among other things, the very big hole in the wall above the doorframe. Some were looking at an identical hole sloping into the hallway ceiling.
Logan walked into the room quickly and closed the door firmly behind him. Inside he found another cop talking to the landlady, who might have been Miss America of 1897. Monk was hard at work on his second apple of the day. A sheet-covered object lay next to a chair by the window.
Monk opened his mouth to say something, remembered the apple, and shut it again. The landlady came over to Logan. "Oh, Lieutenant, I wish you would find the murderer and take the"--- she didn't say what, but pointed at the corpse on the floor without looking at it---"out of my house."
Logan replied, "Lady, your guess is as good as mine about the killer. But we'll have the body out of here in a couple of minutes. I'd like to ask you a couple questions, then you can go. Exactly what time did you find Mr. Marlowe this morning?"
The landlady pointed to Monk and said, "This gentleman asked me the same thing. Like I told him, I didn't hear Mr. Marlowe go out this morning at eight like he usually does. I got worried around eight-thirty, thought he might be sick or somethin'. Then the mailman told me he noticed his light was still on in his room. I came up and knocked, but he didn't answer. So I opened the door and---and there he was."
"All right," Logan replied in his most comforting tone, "just two more. You say the window was open when you came in, and the bed hadn't been slept in."
"Oh, yes, sir. About the window, I mean. Mr. Marlowe always sat there in the evening reading his paper with the window open. I'm positive about the bed. Carol, she's the girl I have helping me, made it up yesterday while he was out to work. And it was just like she left it this morning."
Logan smiled at the landlady. "Thank you very much, ma'am. You've been of great help to us. And now the policeman here will take you out."
He motioned to the cop who opened the door for the landlady. She went out into the babble of the people standing in the hallway.
Logan went over to the body and drew the sheet away. The head had a very clear and sharp hole running from one side to the other.
"The doc says he got it around eight, maybe a little before," Monk said. "The old dame must be right."
"Yeah," Logan replied, turning to look at the hole above the door where the bullet had left the room. "Only how come nobody noticed the holes until after he found the body?"
"She says Marlowe was the only tenant on this floor. Nobody ever came up here to the top of the building except to clean his place. Monk paused to finish his apple. He leaned out the window and dropped the core on the cop leaning against the front door.
"Ha! That'll teach you to call me a gumshoe," he laughed to himself. Logan shook his head at the wacky partner. "Okay, comedian, climb into the chair."
Monk walked over to the chair and sat down, being careful not to step on the corpse. Logan took a long pencil from his pocket and held it lengthwise against the back of Monk's head. He pushed Monk's head slightly until the pencil was lined up with the hole over the door. He tilted it until it followed approximately the angle of the bullet, glancing down at the hole in the corpse's head.
"Monk," he said, "take your block away and see what's on the other end of this pencil."
Monk did as he was told. "An eraser," he reported.
"No, you cluck! I mean down in the street."
"Oh," Monk said, feigning surprise. "Let's see. Well, there's a nifty blonde just got out of a taxicab."
Logan snapped, "To hell with blondes! What else?"
Monk smiled sheepishly. "Say, this case is getting you down. This blonde ain't bad." He caught the red glow spreading down Logan's face from his hair. "Now wait a minute. Well, roughly the pencil is pointing at the corner up the block. There's a bar, then a candy store on one side, and a diner across the street. By the way, I'm getting hungry."
Logan stood up and joined his partner's gaze. "I guess that's enough here. Let's go get a cup of coffee."
"Now that's the first intelligent remark you made today, boss man," Monk said.
THEY went through the door. Logan stopped by the cop standing in the hallway. "Okay, Wright, call the bus for the stiff," he said. "Tell them to keep somebody inside, though, to watch the place for a while."
He and Monk went outside. The cop at the door glared at Monk but said nothing. They walked over to the diner. Outside the door Logan turned and glanced up at the window. He turned back and they went inside.
A young kid, about sixteen, stood behind the counter. "What'll you have, gentlemen?" he said as he wiped off the counter before them.
"I'll take four hamburgers with onions and a cup of coffee," Monk said.
"Just for you?" the kid asked doubtfully.
Logan said, "Yeah, they're all for him. Let me have a cup of coffee."
While the boy was frying the hamburgers, Logan got up and went into the men's room. He quickly noticed the window. It was painted black, but obviously looked out to the street. He opened it slightly and studied the view, his hand in his hair.
When he came back Monk was already on the first hamburger. He sat down next to him and picked up the cup of coffee the counterman placed before him.
"Say, did you hear about the murder across the street?" the kid asked, picking up the five-dollar bill Logan laid on the counter.
"You don't say?" Logan said, raising his eyebrows. "My friend and I were wondering what the cops were doing across the street."
"Yeah," the kid replied, handing him his change. "Some guy moved in about a month ago. Last night he was shot while he was sitting in front of his window, but they didn't find him until this morning."
"Well, we didn't know anything about it," Logan said. "We're strangers here." He paused for a moment and nudged Monk's foot with his. "You see, we're from a rifle club. We're looking for a certain man in this neighborhood that's interested in guns. You don't happen to know anybody like that do you, about five foot five, sort of thin?"
The kid looked thoughtful for a moment. "Say, you must mean Mr. Arnold."
"Who's he?" Logan asked.
"Mr. Arnold comes in here to eat every night. He hunts a lot, got a house full of guns. And he's short and thin."
Logan smiled to himself. "Where does he live?"
"You go four blocks down and turn to your right," the kid said. "You'll see a bunch of little houses on the left-hand side of the street. Arnold's is the third house."
Logan nodded to Monk. "I think he's the fellow Jake Moore of the Walnut Hill Club mentioned."
He turned back to the kid. "Do you think Mr. Arnold would be home on Saturdays?"
"I guess so."
"Thanks," he said. "Come on, Monk." Monk picked up his fourth 'burger and followed him out. Logan drew him away from the window of the diner.
Monk engulfed the remains of his last 'burger and said, "How come you got a line on this guy?"
Logan smiled. "Just playing the hunches, but forget that now. Listen, you go get the car and follow me over to this guy's house. Park where you won't be seen, but can watch the place. I may be out in a couple of minutes, or I may be in there for an hour, so don't louse the deal up."
HE LEFT Monk and walked quickly to the block the boy had mentioned. He went up to the third house and checked the name on the mailbox. J. Arnold, it said. Logan rang the bell. It was Saturday, he reminded himself; this joker ought to be home.
A short, thin man opened the door, his hands covered with grease. "Yes?" he said questioningly.
Logan worked his way into the hallway. "I don't want to alarm you, but I'm from the police department. A man named Marlowe was murdered over on Egan Street last night. I was in the diner where you eat and the counter boy told me you were there last night. I'd like to know if you could answer a few questions for me. We haven't been able to get anybody much in the way of witnesses."
"Certainly," the thin man said, closing the door behind Logan. "If you'll just go into the living room a minute while I wash up. I've been doing a little work in my shop downstairs."
Logan followed him into the small room off the hallway. The thin man disappeared behind a swinging door, going into what was probably the kitchen. Logan walked over to the window and looked outside. Four houses up the street a big sedan was parked. There was another car behind it, barely visible. A window opened in the second car and an apple core flew out to land in the gutter across the street.
Logan turned away and looked over the room, noticing the racks of guns on the walls. There were several glass cases enclosing pistols. Logan didn't know too much about guns, but he realized many of these were antiques. He felt an itch run up the nape of his neck. The trail was getting warm.
He was inspecting a large revolver mounted in a separate case when the other man returned.
"My name is Arnold," he said, extending his hand to the detective. "But I guess you know that already."
Logan took his hand and replied, "Mine's Logan."
Arnold sat down. Logan went over to the couch and took a small pad out of his pocket. "Now this is just routine, so there's nothing to be worried about."
Arnold nodded. "Certainly."
"What time do you eat dinner, Mr. Arnold?" Logan asked.
"Around seven-thirty, why?"
"As near as we can figure, this man was killed a little before eight. Nobody heard anything, and he wasn't found until this morning. Did you see or hear anything odd last night around the apartment house opposite the diner on the next block?"
Arnold looked thoughtful for a moment. "No, I can't say that I did. The garbage truck goes by about that time. It's hard to hear anything," he replied. "I didn't even know this Marlowe had been shot until you told me."
Logan sighed and brought his hand down from his hair to his knee with a slap. "That makes things tough, all right. It beats me somebody didn't hear the shot."
He got up and strolled over to the case holding the large revolver.
Arnold looked up from the cigarette he was lighting. "Interested in guns, Mr. Logan?" he asked.
"From a professional point of view you might say. I know my .45's, .38's, and .357's, but anything outside of that is a little out of my line."
Arnold joined him at the case. "If you really knew your .45's," he said, "you'd know this one. That is one of the original Colt Peacemakers, the gun that 'won the West,' as the books say. It fired a cartridge greatly similar to the modern .45 ACP. In fact, the .45 ACP was developed from it."
Logan said, "You certainly know your guns, don't you?"
Arnold smiled. "It stems from my hunting. At first I just collected old hunting rifles, but I went on to pistols and revolvers."
Logan turned and started to the door. "I guess there isn't anything else. Thanks for your help."
"Not at all," Arnold replied. "I'm sorry I couldn't have been more help to you."
As Logan reached the curb, Monk pulled up in front of him. He opened the door and swung in. "Get going," he said. "I don't want him to see your face."
Monk swung around the corner and slowed down.
"I got news for you," he said from around the banana he was eating. "Our stiff, Marlowe, went in for a stretch about twelve years ago for hijacking. When I went over to get the car the lieutenant was there and he gave me the dope. Seems he was a big boy back in Prohibition. He got out about three years ago, been going straight ever since."
Logan nodded. "I got news for you. I just had a chat with our killer."
Monk's eyebrows lifted. "You don't say. Okay, let's go pick him up."
"Keep your pants on," Logan answered. "There's the little matter of proof. Now hear this. I want you to take that midget camera down to the diner tonight and snap a couple of pictures of our pal when he comes in for dinner. Tip the kid off so he won't queer the deal. And ask the kid if this guy Arnold went into the men's room last night. Me, I got a couple of letters to write."
Monk left Logan at the station and went off with the camera. Logan went inside and borrowed a typewriter. He took an envelope from his pocket and studied the address. Then he sat down and laboriously began to peck out a letter.
Monk brought the pictures in to Logan where he sat, his feet on his desk. Logan looked through them, picked out the best one, put it in an envelope and sealed it. He added it to a second letter, both of which he dropped in the mail slot in the hall.
"Now what?" Monk asked.
"Now we wait," Logan answered mysteriously.
FOUR nights later Logan and Monk sat in their car four doors down from Arnold's house. "There's a light down in the cellar," Monk said.
Logan glanced toward the lighted cellar windows. "He must be working on his guns. He's got a workshop down there." Logan opened the window on his side and flipped his cigarette butt out into the street. "You got everything straight? I go in the front door; you cover the best you can. I'm not sure whether we'll make pay dirt this trip, but be ready for anything."
Monk deposited the orange he had reduced to a pulpish mass in the ashtray and drew a snub-nosed .38 revolver from a shoulder holster. He spun the cylinder, then returned the gun to its resting place. Logan opened the door and stepped out onto the curb. A minute later he was at Arnold's door.
Arnold was a long time in answering the door, but finally a light appeared in the hall and Logan was admitted.
"Good evening," Logan said, holding out his hand. "I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, Mr. Arnold, but I was wondering if you could give me some more of your time."
Arnold wiped his hand on the heavy apron he was wearing. "Not at all. I've been working on my guns again, as you can see. If you wouldn't mind, we can go downstairs and talk."
Logan quickly accepted the invitation. Nothing would have suited him better. The cellar was much as he expected. His knowledge of gunsmithing had increased within the last few days, and while he couldn't positively identify everything, he recognized the metal lathe, the loading tools, and of course the target trap hanging on one wall.
Arnold picked up a pistol from the workbench. "I suppose you've heard about this little item," he said. "It's a P-38, the first I've seen. I was examining the peculiar ability it has to fire without cocking the first cartridge."
Logan hardly listened; his eyes were eagerly searching the room. Every murderer left some clue. He finally discovered what he was looking for. He walked across the room to a stack of metal blocks sitting on the end of the bench.
"There is something about this recent murder," he started quickly, "that might interest you." He glanced at Arnold who quizzically returned his look. "The slug we recovered has our ballistician stumped. He says it's larger than a .25, but smaller than a .30 caliber."
"There's a Russian pistol of 7.62mm caliber," Arnold said. "That's a little less than a .30."
"No," Logan went on, his hands on the metal blocks, "we've ruled that out. Our man seems to think the gun was a rifle firing a special bullet in front of a large case. Either that or a specially made pistol capable of firing a bullet with tremendous velocity. In fact we're beginning to think the gun was made specially for this single job, and then destroyed."
Arnold had put the German automatic back on the bench. His hand now rested in the pocket of his apron. Logan's eyes darted to the metal blocks under his hand. Suddenly he pulled one out. "You know, this looks like the caliber we have in mind," he said, holding the block up.
ARNOLD'S hand came out of the apron. For a moment Logan didn't see the gun, it was so small. It looked like a toy cap pistol, even in Arnold's small hand.
"I don't know how you caught on, Logan," Arnold snarled. "I had everything worked out smooth. I got rid of everything except that damned block." He caught Logan's forward movement.
"Hold it!" he snapped. He waved the tiny pistol in his hand. "This rod may look small, but I can put five bullets just a little smaller than .22's in your face before you could move two feet."
Logan acted without thinking. The metal block left his hand and headed for Arnold. He twisted aside and the toy gun in his hand popped. The detective dived for the floor as the tiny bullet buzzed over his head. Logan raised his head from the floor to see Arnold point the little gun at his face. He bunched his muscles for a leap. Suddenly a window smashed and a heavy gun barked. Arnold's left ear disappeared in a spurt of blood as he crumpled to the floor.
Monk, despite his stocky build, wiggled adroitly through the window and dropped to the floor. Logan stood up and dusted himself off. "I wish you wouldn't time things so blasted close," he said shakily.
Monk grinned. "I got here, didn't I?"
"Another second and it wouldn't have made any difference to me whether you did or not," Logan replied. He bent over the still form of Arnold and took the tiny gun out of his hand.
"This guy was full of tricks," he grunted, examining the gun. Next he retrieved the metal block and slipped it and the gun into his pocket. He glanced around the shop for the last time.
"Well, I guess we got everything. Let's give our little friend here a lift down to the morgue."
On the way back to the station, Monk said, "I guess it's time you told me what's going on."
Logan smirked. "Like they say in the books, it's all very simple. Haley put me on the right track. The first day I went down to the town's only gunsmith and asked if there was anybody he knew who did a lot of amateur gun work, or was interested in guns. It didn't seem likely that some joker would lug a rifle around the streets to bump a guy off, but if a pistol did it, it would have to be a custom job.
"Anyway, the gun expert mentioned a guy that lived near the murder scene. That was Arnold, although I didn't know his name then. I also got the name of one of the best gunsmiths in the business, a fellow named O.P. Tackley out in Cheyenne, Wyoming.
"In the diner I noticed you could see Marlowe's room from the window in the men's room. Then the kid comes up with the fact that Arnold eats there every night. I knew we were getting warm. But it was Arnold himself who clinched it."
HE PAUSED to light a cigarette and Monk impatiently waited for him to go on. "It's the oldest gag in the business, but it still pulls the suckers in. I told him Marlowe had been killed, but I didn't say how. He comes up with the word 'shot' first.
"That night, I wrote a letter to this Tackley guy, asking him if it were possible to make a pistol that could shoot accurately at 300 yards. That's approximately the distance from the diner to Marlowe's room. I sent the slug along and added that it must have been moving faster than a P-80 when it hit Marlowe. I was positive we were looking for a pistol, because Arnold must have carried the weapon into the diner with him. A shrimp like him would have trouble concealing a good-sized slingshot, much less a rifle. I also dropped a line to a pal in the F.B.I., along with his picture.
"Both tips came through. The gunsmith said such a gun might have been made on an old single-shot pistol action with a sawed-off rifle barrel and a special shell and bullet. The odd caliber was fixed by slipping a tube inside the rifle barrel. Those old single-shots were strong enough to take a pretty heavy shell, and the whole job couldn't have been very tough for Arnold.
"He probably even had a silencer on the thing, but the garbage truck, which he had timed, covered most of the noise. Of course, he got rid of the gun later. But Tackley mentioned that special bullet molds would have been needed to make the bullets, and the killer might have overlooked destroying the molding blocks.
"I messed around Arnold's cellar just now until I found a mold that looked something like the slug. I still don't know if it is the right one, but it rattled Arnold enough to tip his hand.
"My pal in the Feds supplied the motive. Marlowe ran a gang of hijackers back in the old days. Arnold was a young punk who helped out on jobs. One night they plugged a cop that ambushed them. The cop didn't die, but the rest of the bulls put on the heat and Marlowe knew something had to be done. He talked Arnold into taking the rap and clearing the gang. They probably told him they'd spring him later. Instead they let him rot in stir.
"Arnold finally got out and went straight. But then Marlowe accidentally showed up. Arnold recognized him, decided to even up the score. And that's what made for the hole in Marlowe's head."
"Boss, you're a genius," Monk said. "Now let's go get something to eat. All that exercise gave me an appetite."

