The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

Gilbert stopped with his mouth open, the next word ready but unuttered. In that instant the gun barked.

There had been no warning. Casey heard the shot and saw Gilbert’s coat lift under the impact of the slug, but he didn’t know who held the gun until it crashed again. Then he saw it in Norma Patten’s hand. It was a little gun, a .25, like the one Mary Nason had; a woman’s gun.

Between those two shots was not more than a fifth of a second, but it was long enough for Casey to do a lot of thinking.

Norma Patten, the woman who always got what she wanted. The thing had been a frame from the start, and he was the fall guy when it backfired. He remembered the damp polo coat on the Queen Anne love seat when he went to the Carteret. Norma had already been out — and she had killed Sorenson. Why—

He didn’t know why. He was listening to the little automatic. It was still going off in snapping, spiteful barks. He heard the door open, sensed that it was Logan without turning. He dropped to one knee, groped for the gun he had dropped, found it, then didn’t know just what to do with it.

There was blood on Gilbert’s neck and shirtfront. He went back into the chair with a curious smile, a sagging jaw and a burning vacantness in his eyes. Then, suddenly, the rest of the drama happened all at once.

Gilbert straightened in the chair with a gun in his hand. Patten, who had wasted the first two seconds in openmouthed amazement, pulled his own gun towards his wife. Norma Patten screamed. Gilbert’s gun roared, jumped in his hand and he dropped it as he collapsed.

Simultaneously another gun crashed and Casey thought it was Patten’s until he saw the man’s shoulder jerk and the automatic fly from his hand.

Gilbert slumped back in the chair. Norma Patten staggered and a red spot stained the left side of her fawn-colored dress. She was dead before she fell, but even then she went down gracefully, silently and was lost to Casey’s sight behind the table.

For a long time no one spoke. The only sound was the noisy, tortured breathing of the unconscious Gilbert. Then windows began to bang up in the courtyard and excited voices bounced back and forth, raucous and shrill.

Logan stepped forward, gun in hand. Patten, holding tightly to his right arm, turned slowly and looked at the lieutenant while the fury died in his eyes. Blood began to show through his clenched fingers and he finally said:

“Thanks, Lieutenant, for that shot of yours. If you hadn’t got me I guess I’d’ve plugged her!”

“That’s what I thought,” Logan said thickly. “I couldn’t see Gilbert’s gun. I took you when I saw you meant business.”

Except in the flicker of his eyes Patten showed no emotion. His appearance was unruffled. He still looked like a man accustomed to success, a man who could not be shoved around. His voice betrayed no inner misgivings.

“She had it coming,” he said grimly. “She and that heel” — he nodded to the crumpled Gilbert — “have been chiseling for months. I had a private dick on their trail in Chicago and I was about ready to get clear.

“When she pulled this blackmail story I smelled a rat, and I gave her the money because I figured I could trap her and force the showdown. I thought I could persuade Sorenson to see it my way, but something went wrong and—”

He shrugged distastefully. “I’ll give you what I know when we get this mess cleaned up.”

Casey looked down at the little automatic in his hand. He put it away, wiped his sweaty face and blew out his breath with so much noise that Logan heard him and said dryly:

“And what’s your story?”

“Me?” Casey sighed wearily and spoke disgustedly. “Where would I get a story? This is a job for you cops to dig out; it’s too tough for an amateur like me.

“I get tangled up in all the grief and — hell, I don’t even get a picture out of it. I’m just the fall guy.”