Detective Tales February 1946 by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Pulp
Publisher: Detective Tales
Published: 1946-02-06T04:00:00+00:00

Ring Around a Rosy

by Jessica Don-Carlos

Once in a murder-moon, we find a crime story like this one that leaves us hanging on the ropes, How this story ends—for you—may depend on which side your heart lives!

“Here’s your cut, Shorty…”

Rosy Wegner looked in the mirror as he soaped his hands. He saw only the pinkish, smooth Rosy of those early days on South Halstead. He ignored the sacs under the eyes, the sagging jowls, the greasy roundness. With an admiring scrutiny of glossy nails, Rosy eased out from behind the ornate screen in the corner of his office.

“Sit down, Shorty, sit down.”

The slim figure twisted obliquely into a chair.

“God, stop that noise, can’t you? You’ll get me jumpy too.”

Rosy warmed triumphantly as he saw how instantly, how almost automatically, Shorty quit strumming on the table. That was the way Rosy liked ’em—let ’em know who was boss. Even a killer like Shorty.

“Not scared, Shorty, are you?” Rosy’s eyes probed curiously behind the handsome expressionless face. Shorty couldn’t really be scared, could he? He was too young to be cracking.

“What do you mean scared?” Shorty sounded the same as usual. Toneless. Deliberate.

“O.K., Shorty, O.K. It was a slick job. Peroni’s dead. Looks like an accident. Your technique gets better every time. And quick. That’s what I like. Why it was only last night we planned—”

“Rosy, you got it wrong. I didn’t—”

Rosy handed him the newspaper, “Black Market Highjacker Killed in Accident”. Rosy watched the taut muscles of the boy’s face relax as he read the account. There was almost a smile. Pretty smart that accident business. Now if Shorty’s alibi—

“What’s your alibi, Shorty? Just in case.”

Shorty looked at him an instant before answering. “I haven’t got one, Rosy.”

So that’s why he was scared!

“Never mind, Kid. We’ll fix that up. Nobody can say Rosy don’t take care—” Funny how black the kid’s eyes looked. “Let’s see, Shorty. I was at the fight, and then I sat in on the game at the Octopus, so I can’t say you was with me.”

Rosy bit the tip off a cigar—spat the brown nub across the room. “I’ve got it. You say you was up at my house with Gert, waiting for me to come home. Now never mind,” he added, as he saw Shorty’s shrug of objection, “you don’t have to be afraid of Gert. My wife will say whatever I tell her to.” Rosy smiled to himself, and rubbed his hands together until they shone fish-belly white.

He reached into his desk. “Here’s your cut, Shorty. You know I kinda like the way you won’t even tell me the way you worked that accident. Never lettin’ your left hand know—” He watched Shorty toy with a watch guard and then freeze motionless as his finger touched a dangling clasp.

“Shorty, where’s your gold rabbit’s foot?”

Shorty was very still.

“You had it on your watch chain where ou always wear it last night. When we was havin’ our drinks. Before I went to the fight.”

Shorty rearranged the silver-gray handkerchief in the small pocket.

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