Tough Cop. John Roeburt

      “Hiya, Kennedy.” Devereaux submitted his face smilingly.

      “Devereaux!” The voice chided. “Thought you were catching a train or a boat.”

      “Tomorrow. One fine tomorrow.” Devereaux shrugged. “New York won’t let go, Kennedy.”

      The street filled with a mad warfare of horns, and Kennedy, motioning Devereaux to wait, shooed a backing truck away from an area whose curb sign read: “No Unloading, 8 A.M. to 12 A.M.” Soon the stalled line of cars inched again toward the avenue, and Kennedy returned to the tête-à-tête.

      “Somebody once said”—the mounted man’s eyes twinkled—“that tomorrow never comes.” He waved a newspaper clipping, then handed it down to Devereaux.

      Devereaux took the clipping. It was a tear from a gossip column, “The Lyons Den.” It read: “Radio producer Travis Cord coaxing tough cop Johnny Devereaux out of retirement with $l,000-a-week offer as narrator on True Crime-File serial. Who said crime doesn’t pay?”

      “Big piece of change, a thousand per.”

      “I’m lighting out tomorrow,” Devereaux said irritably. “Place your bet that way.”

      Kennedy grinned. “The offer will ride along with you. And in the end you’ll find yourself sticking your hand out, hoping the offer still holds good.”

      “I don’t need that much money.” Devereaux scowled. “That much money is indecent.” He closed his fist tightly and put the crushed clipping in his vest pocket. “Can I stay parked for a half hour?”

      “All day, even.” Kennedy chuckled. “I always give radio actors the run of the block.”

      “You go to hell.”

      2.

      “Sorry,” the clerk said, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of Devereaux. “She doesn’t answer.”

      Devereaux looked into the small lobby. It was a family hotel, indeed, and despite Management’s stern injunction against sterno cans and the single electric burner, an unmistakable odor of cooking hung in the atmosphere. The lobby loungers had the look of old residents, people to whom the broken chairs, shredding rugs, dust, and gloom were as familiar to their close, personal living as their next of kin.

      “Maybe sitting out there somewhere?” Devereaux suggested.

      The clerk peered. “No, she isn’t.”

      Devereaux watched the clerk’s fingers drum nervously on the counter for a moment, then observed mildly, “Slick numbers depot. Smart boy.”

      “Wrong, Devereaux,” the clerk protested. “You’re dead wrong. I quit the racket.”

      “For clerking at thirty-five per?” Devereaux’s lip curled derisively.

      “It’s a living,” the clerk said.

      “I’ll bet! See Mrs. Gordon go out this morning?”

      The clerk shook his head, then looked into a mail cubbyhole. “Funny,” he said. “She isn’t in, and she hasn’t left her key.” There was a small mystification in his face.

      “Does she usually leave her key when going out?”

      The clerk nodded, then looking earnestly at Devereaux, he said, “Going to jump at conclusions?”

      “Know one reason why I shouldn’t, with your record of arrests?”

      “I’ll lose my job.” The clerk shrugged resignedly. “Okay, jump. I don’t give a damn.”

      3.

      The elevator stopped at the fourth landing. “Step up,” the driver admonished.

      Devereaux stood, watching the elevator until it dropped out of sight, then walked to a bend in the corridor where dirt-streaked windows opened into an airshaft. He found Room 418, and stood contemplating the door doubtfully. Momentary mystification in a room clerk’s face hardly justified forced entry into a private citizen’s hotel room.

      He fingered a passkey, then flipped it into the air like a man tossing a coin. He caught the key and stooped to insert it into the keyhole.

      Devereaux opened the door cautiously, closing it behind him, and then, as his eyes adjusted to the curtained gloom, the scene inside pulled together into a single, jolting effect. He looked hard, and again, as if expecting the scene to dissolve, while another scene, a more conventional one, appeared.

      An elderly, gray-haired lady lay across a bed. Her eyes were fixed and unwinking, her lined features contorted. Dead, as if suddenly stricken. Devereaux’s rapid examination revealed no weapon, no visible injury. Around her was the disorder of a hundred incidentals to ordinary living suddenly pulled from their grooves and left in an uncatalogued heap.

      The detective roamed through the small, boxlike room. There were clothes, a reddish-tinged-with-gray hair switch, greeting cards marking the memory hoard of scores of years and as many occasions, papers, swatches of cotton and silk, rhinestone-studded hatpins of a bygone day, a St. James Bible standing on the floor like a motionless grasshopper.

      A beaded handbag held a net of $8.36. Devereaux retrieved an article from the floor and turned it absently in his hand. It was an enameled piece, like a polished sea shell, reading “San Francisco Exposition, 1914.” He picked the Bible off the floor and read the dedication page for a melancholy moment. An ink inscription, paled by time and set inside a flower design, read “To Cora Jennings, from Mother.”

      Devereaux nodded mechanically to himself. Cora Jennings. Undoubtedly the lady of Jennifer Phillips’ reminiscence. He glanced toward the bed and his mouth pursed regretfully. A gray-haired lady, to be revered and buried sentimentally in the great family album. The scene before him was all wrong, with Cora Jennings atrociously miscast.

      Devereaux went about the business of seeking out the less obvious evidences of assault and search. Corners, recesses, cubbyholes exposed nothing. Nothing of the assailant torn away in struggle, if there had been a struggle. No cuff link, button, strands of hair, bits of cloth, nothing. Fingerprints, if there were any, must wait on proper equipment.

      Devereaux went to an only closet and peered inside. It was pitch dark, and crammed tightly with clothing and luggage. He was feeling about blindly for a light switch, when the lights happened like an Independence Day rocket bursting inside his head.

      Devereaux raised his guard, too late, then grappled wildly with a charging mass of flesh, but too weakly. His hands were dying, and a sudden knee in his groin started a nausea that rose to join the pain in his head. He clawed the air, and fell with dresses and coats raining on his head.

      He came to with a colony of dwarfs working tiny hammers in his head. Then, off the floor and out from under the pile of clothes, he found the sink and stuck his head under a running faucet. When the colony of dwarfs was reduced to just one, Devereaux studied himself in a hanging mirror. There was a lump on his head where a blunt instrument, a blackjack undoubtedly, had struck his skull, and his cheek near the left eye sported a mouse that was rapidly becoming a clear shade of blue.

      As he quit the room, he was acutely alive to the lingering pain in his groin. He took the stairs down, reached the lobby, and then, without breaking stride, signaled the desk clerk to follow him.

      Devereaux entered a room whose sign read “Office.” A moment later, the clerk joined him.

      The clerk surveyed Devereaux uneasily, his eyes noting details of the detective’s battered appearance.

      “I was slugged in Room 418,” Devereaux said. The desk clerk met the detective’s glare silently. “Got any ideas about who did it?”

      The clerk shook his head.

      Devereaux collared