“Across the roof-top, a dim shadow slipped silently to a barred window, like a dull gray wraith that merged perfectly with the curling fingers of fog drifting in from the lake.” For those unfamiliar with shadows, we are told that it made no noise.
The “hissing intake of breath, unmistakably a woman’s” reveals who is casting that shadow. She cuts a circular hole in the window, and fires two shots at a man sleeping in bed: “two dull clicks from the blue metal in his fist.” Wait, is the killer a man or woman? Dude breathes like a lady.
The next morning, Detective Dan Conley tells Captain Steele, “Mugs Brandon was bumped off last night in that roof-top apartment of his.” Conley says the killer is a woman because, “There was one footprint on the roof under that window, and it was made by the rubber sole from a woman’s shoe.” Steele suspects it was either one of Mugs’ old molls, a Clancy Street Dame, a Hallway Baby, or Totie Fields.[1] Conley more specifically suspects, “Clerical Clara. It looks like her work.”
Steele responds by spitting in “the brass cuspidor which is a part of every police captain’s furniture.” That response, though disgusting, is well-earned. Steele points out, You know dam’ well that dame ain’t never been mixed up in this booze racket.” OK, so how exactly did this look like her work then? And by the way, in 1931 was leaving the “n” off of “damn” enough to bamboozle the censors?
Despite his captain’s well-reasoned spitting, Conley heads over to Clara Beaumont’s accounting office. As well he might, as she is a “blonde beauty . . . between twenty-five and thirty-five, according to her mood.” She denies knowing Mugs Brandon, and Conley notes her feet are 2 sizes smaller than the print left at the murder scene. Clara says, “You dicks make me sick”. Sensing there would be no double-entry posting with the bookkeeper that night, Conley leaves.
Ten minutes later, a “quietly-dressed girl” enter’s the office. Clara feels threatened because the girl has a pistol, and also is 10 years younger than her. The visitor is “a dark slender girl of about twenty-two, with the regal high-breasted carriage that speaks of breeding in any language.” They exchange some snappy dialog, but the purpose of the visit is not clear. Not having Conley’s eye for feet, the girl also suspects Clara shot Mugs. She holds a gun on Clara all during the witty repartee, and threatens to kill her next time she sees her. Then leaves. Hunh?
Two days later, Mugs is buried. After the festivities, “Sergeant Conley could not have told you what prompted him to return to the apartment where Mugs Brandon had been killed” (i.e. the writer couldn’t think of a reason). In Mugs’ desk, he finds a box containing $50,000 and a list of names written in Clara’s hand:
- Jake Cling, $5,000.
- Soapy Taylor, $5,000.
- Toad Wilson, $3,000
Once he remembers that “Jake” is just a nickname, he realizes what all three men have in common — they were recently shot.
Clara shows up and pulls a gun on Conley. She is owed the dough for killing the three men on the list. Then the younger woman, Mugs’ moll Carmen, shows up and pulls a gun on Clara. Clara is able to elbow Carmen in the mouth, and the ladies start fighting.
20 minutes later, when it is clear this brawl is not going to lead to any ripped clothing or them kissing, Conley tries to escape. But Clara holds them both at gunpoint. The cops bust in, but Clara is able to get away.
It goes on, introducing a couple of unnecessary characters, but maintains a good pace. Bonus points for Clara hiding out disguised as a messenger boy at the end. My mental image of that outfit is pretty cute, but wholly impractical as the scandalous décolletage would have given her way immediately. But think of the tips . . . from the customers, I mean.
Some crackling prose and good zingers make this a pretty good read . . . of the short story, I mean.
Other Stuff:
- [1] No one under 80 will get that reference. I am under 80. Ergo I don’t get my own reference. What? It is 2:10 am.
- First published in the August 1931 issue of Gun Molls.
- Also that month: Lou Gehrig played his 1,000th consecutive game — nothing can stop him now!