Tracy shrugged. “Either way. Leave it up to him.”

  Barney went back to the phone.

  CHAPTER 12

  TRACY POURED himself another shot — a single one this time. The two doubles had given him an edge, pushed him just a little over the border. Now he'd better slow down or he'd end up like he had at Stan's place Thursday night.

  Thursday night — Hell, Thursday night he'd seen Mrs. Murdock, just as he had tonight. He'd passed Dick's place; he'd been to the Blade; he'd been to Barney's; he'd ended up drunk.

  Was tonight going to repeat the identical itinerary? Should he head for Stan's place tonight too, just for the hell of it? Was there a Fate that — Cut it out, he told himself; you're getting drunk when you start thinking about Fate with a capital letter.

  He poured another drink. He was feeling a little better now. Some of the bitterness was going out of him. He was glad now that he'd stopped in Barney's.

  Barney came back. He said, “Lee's going to drop in here. He's on his way down.” He picked up the bottle and put it on the back bar. “You're hitting them a little fast, Tracy.”

  Tracy sighed. “All right, Grandma. Anyway, I can still count.” He put a bill on the bar. “Two doubles, two singles, and your own.”

  Barney rang it up and came back with the change. Tracy picked up a nickel of it and went over to the juke box. He looked over the listings and then turned around. He said, “My God, Barney, the Beer Barrel Polka's still on her. The one we used to play half a dozen times a night. Don't tell me it's the same record and not worn through to the other side?”

  “New record, but the same version. You boys wore that one out all right. Jeez, how I used to hate the thing.”

  “Me too,” said Tracy. He dropped his nickel and pushed the button for the Beer Barrel Polka. He came back to the bar and sat down as it started.

  The same damn tune. But it made him wish the gang was in here right now, and that they were playing pinochle and drinking beer at the back table. Hell, they would be in tonight around eleven, and it was now — He looked at the clock. Only seven-fifteen.

  The city editor of the Blade came in just as the record finished. “That damn tune,” he said. “Tracy, your taste hasn't improved a bit.”

  “My taste!” said Tracy indignantly. “I always did hate that thing. What you drinking?”

  “Just a beer. Got to go back to work.”

  “And another shot for me, Barney, if I've been a good boy long enough. What's cooking, Lee?”

  “Well — first, let's get this over with, one way or the other. That story Bates gave us, about the scripts of yours being followed out in the murders. Was it straight stuff?”

  “Absolutely, Lee. And except for minor details, it's the whole damn truth, as far as I know.”

  “Is it? That's what I wanted to see you about. There's at least one more story in it, if we can get enough dope to fill it out. The Mueller angle. Walther Mueller.”

  Suddenly Tracy wished he was a little more sober. He shook his head to clear it, and it didn't help much. He asked, “How'd you find out about that?”

  “Through you. Tracy, did you ever write a script about a jeweler getting murdered?”

  Tracy nodded slowly. He said, “All right, I'll talk first. Then you tell me how you got onto it, and what you know.” He told Randolph about Bates asking if he'd ever heard of a Walther Mueller — and Bates asking whether he'd been in town the first week in June. He said, “I put the two together and looked over the newspapers for that week and found the news account of the murder. That's all I know. And it's a false alarm, Lee. Just because I wrote a script about a jeweler, Bates was checking back on the last jeweler to be killed in town. That's all. The method was different, and everything.”

  “Sure of that?”

  “Positive. How'd you find out about it?”

  “Through you, like I said. Ray, down in Circulation, told me he'd given you back copies for that week. I looked through them myself to see what had interested you. There were several murders in the news that week. I checked into all of 'em and the Mueller one was the only one that tied in.”

  “But it didn't, I tell you. It was just—”

  “Barney,” said Lee, “Another beer. And a shot for my inebriated ex-employee. He's going to need it.”

  He tapped a finger against the top button of Tracy's vest. He said, “If you'd been a reporter instead of a — what you are — you'd have checked who handled the funeral arrangements. I did. It was an old-established undertaking outfit by the name of Westphal & Boyd.”

  Tracy said, “I'm suitably amazed. So what?”

  “So next I did what you'd have done if you'd been on the ball. I checked with Westphal & Boyd to see who handed them the funeral arrangements to handle, and I found out.”

  “I'll bet a little Boyd told you.”

  Randolph winced. “I should walk out on you. Better, I should poke you in the nose. But instead, I'll tell you. The man who made the arrangements with the mortuary was named Dineen. Arthur D. Dineen.”

  Tracy took a long deep breath. He let it out slowly. He felt sober suddenly. He said. “And what else? You didn't stop there.”

  Lee said, “I went to Bates with what I had, and he wouldn't tie any ribbons on it for me. He wouldn't cooperate even enough to tell me why he wouldn't cooperate.”

  “When was this, Lee?”

  “Yesterday. So I sent Burke out to talk to Mrs. Dineen to see what he could get there. It was something, but not much. She's the kind of a dame who hates reporters and froze up. Burke made the guess that she didn't want the past raked over, because she was afraid something might come out. Like maybe Dineen was playing around with someone. Was he?”

  “I don't know, Lee. I heard a rumor but I don't know.”

  “But we found out this much: Dineen and this Walther Mueller were close friends. Before Dineen got into radio, when he was younger, he'd lived in South America. He'd represented an American firm there. He and Mueller had formed a friendship that stuck, even after Dineen came back. He'd been back to South America a time or two on vacations, and Mueller had been here a time or two. And they'd corresponded.”

  “Did Dineen meet Mueller at the plane?”

  Randolph shook his head. “His wife says not. Says they'd known Mueller was coming to America, this time to stay, but they didn't know exactly when he was to arrive. Mueller went right from the plane to the hotel and was killed there before he'd even phoned Dineen — and they didn't know Mueller was in town yet until they read about the murder in the papers. At least that's what Mrs. Dineen says. Anyway, Dineen stepped in then, helped in winding up Mueller's affairs, arranging the funeral and what not.”

  “Urnmm,” said Tracy. “Did Mueller have any relatives?”

  “A son and two daughters back in Rio de Janeiro — all grown up and married — inherited the estate. It wasn't too big — somewhere in five figures, but he wasn't a millionaire. Dineen was executor for the estate. Officially, I mean — actually he let his lawyer handle it.”

  “You saw the lawyer?”

  “Burke did, this morning. Nothing startling. The pearl necklace that was in customs at the time of the murder was turned over to the estate and brought twelve thousand, after the duty was paid. Then there was the bank draft he brought with him, and a few investments back in Rio. Came to about thirty thousand after all deductions and all goes back to Rio, to the son and the daughters.”

  Tracy made slow circles on the bar with the wet bottom of his shot glass. He asked, “Any relatives in this country?”

  “A niece. Mrs. Dineen said she believed she lived in Hartford, Connecticut. Mrs. Dineen never met her.”

  “Know her name?”

  “No. What the hell could that matter?” That might depend, Tracy thought, on what the name was. But he didn't say it. He said, “Couldn't, I guess. That's all you've got?”

  “Listen who's asking! Sure it's all I've got. But one thing puzzles me. Why isn't Bates hotter on that angle than he is?” Tracy stared at his reflection in the back-bar mirror. He said, “I guess because Bates thinks it doesn't really tie in. He thinks he knows who killed Dineen and Hrdlicka.”

  “The hell. Who?”

  “Me,” said Tracy. “I think he thinks I'm psychopathic. That I write scripts and then feel impelled to act them out. Or something.”

  “Are you?”

  “Don't be an ass, Lee. Would I tell you, if I was?”

  Lee Randolph shook his head wonderingly. He said, “I know you pretty well, I guess. You aren't crazy — that way. But what are you going to do about it?”

  “What can I do about it? Nothing. Except not let Bates catch me at any more murders.”

  “You're not kidding me, Tracy? You really mean, you're just sitting on your dead ass hoping you'll be cleared? Dammit, Tracy, you used to be a good reporter.”

  “What's being a reporter got to do with it?”

  Randolph snorted. “When you worked for me, if I'd put you on a case like this, you'd have gone around asking people questions till you got some answers that dovetailed — or didn't. Then you'd — Oh, skip it. I hope Bates sends you up.”

  “A lot of consolation you are.”

  “Consolation,” said Randolph. “That's what you want, huh? For God's sake, consolation. Somebody uses you for a fall guy for three murders or so, and you sit on your fanny and want consolation. If that's what radio does to a good reporter, I'll take mustard.”

  “Goddam it, Lee, you can't—”

  “The hell I can't. You've turned softer than a featherbed. What you need is a deadline. Okay, I'll give you one. Get me the story by tomorrow night, or you're fired.”

  Tracy grinned. “Simon Legree, my pal. Glad I don't work for you any more.”

  “I'm damn glad, too,” Randolph said. He tossed down the rest of his beer and stood up.

  He said, “You used to be a hell of a guy once. Now you want consolation.”

  He walked out of the tavern.

  Tracy's grin faded slowly. He watched it fade in the back-bar mirror, and then motioned to Barney.

  “A double,” he said. He turned and looked at the windows at the front. It was dark outside now. It wasn't any too bright inside.

  He said, “Dammit, Barney—”

  “Yeah?”

  And what was the answer to that? He didn't know the answer to anything. He said, “Have one with me, Barney.” . Barney poured it. He said “Bumps” and they drank. Tracy said, “Barney, I used to be a good reporter once.”

  “Yeah,” said Barney. There wasn't any question mark after the “Yeah" this time and it annoyed Tracy that there wasn't. It would also have annoyed him if there was. “So what?” he said.

  “So nothing,” Barney said. “I was just agreeing with you. Thanks for the drink.” He moved off down the bar to wipe some glasses.

  I'm going to get drunk, Tracy thought. Hell, I am drunk. Or am I?

  He didn't know. Physically, there was that woozy feeling that comes with one too many, but there didn't seem to be any cobwebs in his brain. His body was just a little drunk; he knew that when he got off the stool he'd have to concentrate to walk naturally. But his mind was still at the wrong end of that damn telescope, looking through at a tiny Tracy sitting alone at the bar, trying to get drunk. “Look—” he said.

  “Yeah?” Barney looked toward him but didn't come back. “It's none of their goddam business.” Barney just grunted.

  Barney must think he was drunk, talking like that. Maybe Barney was right. He shouldn't use a pronoun without an antecedent.

  But it wasn't their business.

  What right had Millie to assume that he had taken this week's freedom to stick his nose into a buzz saw? It was his nose, not Millie's.

  And what business was it of Lee Randolph's to think he ought to go mixing himself up worse in something he was too mixed up in already? He paid city taxes, didn't he, for the upkeep of a police department whose business it was to solve crimes. And they had facilities for solving them, and he didn't.

  What right did Barney have to agree with them? Yes, Barney did; he could tell by the way Barney looked at him.

  Bates was more sensible. Bates wouldn't think he was taking a week off to hunt a killer. Hell, no. Bates would think he was taking time off to figure out another murder or two.

  Damn that telescope he saw himself through. Damn the mirror back of the bar. It showed him another bar and a solitary, owl-eyed drunk sitting at it alone, looking like a dope. Just a dope at twilight, when the lights are low.

  A dope who let himself be pushed around by the police, because a killer had pushed him around first. A damned plagiaristic killer who'd stolen his ideas.

  A three-time killer, at least. Sure, admit it. The Mueller business was in, too. Mueller had been a friend of Dineen. That was enough of a tie-up to put it into the pattern somewhere.

  Coincidence; that was what you called a clue that you were too lazy or too scared to run down.

  Like Dotty-Dorothea Mueller. Dotty the beautiful, with the soft neck nape that had been so nice to kiss, and with the flying fingers that could turn a typewriter into a machine gun. Little and soft and tender and young and desirable and — damn her.

  Her last name being Mueller wasn't any coincidence. There weren't any coincidences. A coincidence was the name you put on a lead you were afraid to follow up.

  Randolph would have followed it up all right — or sent one of his leg men to do it — if Randolph had happened to know that a girl named Mueller had worked at KRBY under Dineen, hired by Dineen. Only Randolph hadn't known that; that was one edge he had on Randolph if he decided to get busy and—

  But he wasn't going to decide that.

  He said, “Another drink, Barney. You too.”

  Barney came back and poured a drink for him. He said, “Not me this time. The evening's young, it ain't eight o'clock yet. I can't get drunk this early.”

  “Wherein we differ, Barney. I can. I'm going to.”

  “Why?”

  Tracy said, “Well—” and didn't quite know how to go on. It was a hell of a question for a bartender to ask. It wasn't any of Barney's business why a customer wanted to drink.

  Why couldn't other people keep from minding his, Tracy's, business, anyway? All he wanted was to be let alone. He said, “Come back here, Barney.” Barney came back.

  Tracy said, “Look, Barney, is it anybody's goddam business but mine whether I'm a man or a mouse?”

  “I guess it ain't,” said Barney. “Which are you?”

  “A mouse,” Tracy said promptly. “Look, I like being a mouse. Look, I'm Bill Tracy, not Dick Tracy. Not Superman. Not even Philo Vance or the guy who took a message to Garcia.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I don't know,” said Tracy. “I don't even know who Garcia was or what the message was about. Maybe it was from Garcia's tailor saying he should call for his pants. But this guy took it. I wouldn't have.”

  Barney said, “I don't know this guy Garcia, but I got a box of Garcia cigars. Want one?”

  “Keep it, and don't tempt me to tell you what to do with it.”

  “You can't smoke a cigar that way,” said Barney. Tracy frowned. He said, “I'm trying to be serious, Barney. How did we get off the track to talking about how you can't smoke a cigar?”

  “Garcia. You were not taking a message to Garcia and I told you we had some Garcia cig—”

  “Cut it out. Get back to the main question. If I want to be a mouse, and like being a mouse, is it anybody's goddam business but mine?”

  “I guess not.”

  “All right then,” said Tracy. “Shut up about it.” Barney sighed and went back to wiping glasses. Tracy looked at himself in the mirror. It looked, for the moment, as though there were two mice sitting there instead of one, and he had to focus his eyes to resolve the double image. But why, he thought, go to the trouble? Why couldn't he be two mice if he wanted to? Wasn't there something about two mice being better than one? No, that was heads.

  “Barney,” he said, “I used to be a good reporter once.”

  “Yeah,” said Barney. There was resignation in his voice.

  “Barney.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Barney, are two mice better than one?”

  “No.”

  Tracy said, “That's what I thought.”

  He got down off the stool and stood there for a moment, resting his hand on the bar in case he'd need it to balance himself. No, he didn't. He could stand up. He could still walk.

  If he concentrated, he could even walk straight. He did; he walked straight to the door and out of it.

  It was twelve blocks to Dotty's place. He knew he could sober up quite a bit in twelve blocks.

  Halfway there, he began to feel almost sober. Almost, too, he decided to turn around and go back.

  It was too beautiful a night to start trouble, to go asking for trouble. The breeze was cool and pleasant on his face, as soft as would be the caress of Dotty's hand. And the sky was clear and blue-black, with the stars showing even through the haze of city lights. Stars that were like the little highlights he'd like to see in Dotty's eyes when she looked at him.

  Overhead, as he cut across Washington Square, the leaves of the trees rustled, and lovers sat on the benches under them. Children ran and squealed and shrieked.

  And it was still a beautiful night when he reached Dotty's.

  He went into the hallway, rang the bell and stood with his hand on the knob of the inner door until the latch clicked.

  Then he went up the stairs, not having to walk carefully now, and at the top of the stairs he almost changed his mind — not about going on, but about what he was going to do when he got there.

  She heard his footsteps along the hall and opened the door. “Why, Bill! I wasn't expecting—”

  He walked on in, past her.

  Her voice took on an edge. “Bill, I'm glad to see you, but — I'm sorry, you can't stay. I'm expecting someone else and I was just—”

  “I'm not staying,” Tracy said.

  He glanced over at the desk. The cover was on the typewriter. Beside it lay two neat piles of paper, one pile yellow, the other white. Paper clips divided each pile into five separate manuscripts.

 

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