Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 27, No. 2 — September 1945)

“I’m not pretending any such thing,” Barrett said earnestly. “But I do think that the pressure of righteous public indignation can prevail over dishonest policemen.”

“Sure it can, but not for very long stretches. The racket boys know that — they merely crawl back under their rocks till it’s safe to come out. The point is they always come out.”

Barrett sighed deeply, and I let it go at that. I dropped him off at his office, then cut across to police headquarters. I’d already introduced myself there and had gotten a colder reception than a petticoat salesman at a nudist colony. It seemed the Chief was in northern Michigan for his health, and the place had been left in charge of a captain named Hinchman.

Hinchman looked up sourly when I appeared in his office.

“Well, the boy wonder is back again! I suppose you’ve found out by this time that Ditson wasn’t any suicide at all but that he was pushed out of that window at the Maramoor!” Hinchman stood about six-feet-four, and he had the weight to go with the height. He looked rugged and tough, and something in his eyes indicated that he could teach a Jap when it came to low blows. But I promised myself that before I left the corporate limits of Midtown, I’d hit Hinchman at least once.

For the time being, I said: “As a matter of fact, I’ve been wondering just who did see Ditson take his dive. Would you mind my taking a look at the file?”

“Help yourself,” sneered Hinchman. “Some of the boys will tell you where it is, if you can’t find it.”

When a clerk had reluctantly handed over the file, I found about enough stuff to convince anybody who had already seen Ditson’s body that he was dead. There just wasn’t anything there. It did mention the name of Carl Bronson as the only person who had witnessed Ditson’s leap. I remembered the name. Carl Bronson was the owner of the convertible into which the body had fallen. The girl, Sheila Brown, had been his fiancée.

It didn’t take much imagination to see how tough a deal like that would be on Bronson. He’d temporarily parked his car in the hotel’s no-parking zone and run across the street to where his investment brokerage office was located. His statement in the file said he’d turned back to wave to Sheila when he’d reached the opposite curb. She waved back, then he happened to look up.

Ditson was standing in the window. At that moment he leaped. Bronson said he simply couldn’t utter a sound. He stood there and watched the falling body. He said he knew it was going to fall into the convertible, and he tried to warn Sheila with gestures. But she just laughed at him as if she thought he was crazy. Still stricken speechless, he watched Ditson’s body crush her.

This had taken place the evening before at about 9:10 P.M., when dusk was beginning to fall. Apparently nobody else had seen Ditson leap, or at least, if anybody had, the police hadn’t bothered to find him. All mention of the cause for Ditson’s suicide, even of his letters, published in the newspapers the evening before, was omitted from the file. This was natural enough, perhaps, for Ditson had accused the cops of giving him the bum’s rush when he’d complained about his losses at the Silver Dollar.

I handed back the file to the waiting clerk and walked out of the building. A cop was busy writing up a ticket for my car. I’d parked it in a space marked: Reserved for Police Cars Only. I didn’t tell the cop who I was, because I didn’t think it would mean anything if I did. I pocketed the ticket and drove off. It was only four-thirty in the afternoon, and I thought maybe I could catch Spain Westfall.