Free Long Live the Dead by Hugh B. Cave Page A

“I’m working on this case and think I’ve got something. But I want to be sure of the fundamentals.”
    Edson had examined the body of Paul White at Headquarters, shortly after it had been brought in. “You know, of course,” he said, “that the body was discovered by some chap who was on his way home from a theater and used the alley as a short cut. He notified the police.
    “Well, he’d been shot twice. One bullet passed through the left hip and was not found. The other lodged in his brain, killing him. He died in agony, Hanley. The body was found face down, on cobblestones. The toes of White’s shoes were practically worn through; and most of his fingernails were broken. He’d clawed up a lot of dirt, and one hand was wedged so hard between the cobblestones it had to be pried loose. Evidently the first shot—the one through the hip dropped him, and he writhed about for some time before being put out of his misery. The second bullet killed him instantly.”
    “That second bullet entered the back of his head and lodged in his brain?”
    “Right.”
    “And this happened about eleven o’clock, did it?”
    “About eleven, Hanley.”
    R ain was drizzling out of a midnight sky when Hanley got home. Pushing his key into the lock, he wondered why the house was so silent and why Mr. Buttons was not throwing fits against the door.
    The door creaked shut behind him, and the only light in the room was the red end of Hanley’s cigarette. Mr. Buttons was evidently asleep and that was queer because Mr. Buttons usually heard his master’s footsteps and came to offer vociferous welcome.
    In the darkness of an adjoining room something moved. Pooch Hanley stiffened on the balls of his feet, with one hand outthrust toward a light switch.
    It happened abruptly.The floor creaked, and a gun belched flame and thunder. A slug tore through space and buried itself in Hanley’s arm. Hanley slewed backward, staggered against the wall and dropped.
    He was reaching for his own gun even then, and it was in his fist, ready for business, before he slapped the floor. He didn’t use it, didn’t have to. No second blast came from the killer’s weapon.
    Instead, heavy shoes rapped out a tattoo across the floor in the other room, and a door shattered shut as a man fled.
    Hanley squirmed to his knees and swayed erect, his left arm hanging limp. Blood seeped out of it and warmed his shoulder. While he stood there, drops of blood made soft whispering sound on the carpet. The house was eerily quiet.
    Without touching the light switch, Hanley walked into the adjoining room and opened the door leading to the kitchen. The door on the far side of the kitchen, leading to the back porch and the back yard, was open. He closed it.
    “So now,” he said softly. “I’m a candidate for the morgue. Maybe the guy thinks he killed me.”
    He waited five minutes before showing a light. Five minutes would give the fellow time to cover a lot of distance, and it might be a good idea to let him go right on thinking Pooch Hanley was dead. Seeing a light, he might return to finish the job.
    In the bathroom, Hanley examined his shoulder, cleaned the wound and bandaged it. The bullet had gone through flesh. He found it imbedded in the living-room wall, dug it out with his door key, and pocketed it.
    Then, making a tour of inspection, he found Mr. Buttons.
    The dog was dead. Blood and matted hair on the floor indicated that he’d been slain near the front door. Red saliva covered his mouth, and a gray film dimmed the big brown eyes. Near-by lay a metal ash-stand with which Mr. Buttons had been viciously clubbed.
    Hanley placed Mr. Buttons on a chair and stared down at him. Hanley was trembling, his face was white and stiff, and his eyes smouldered. His hands curled convulsively.
    “Dead,” he whispered.
    It was like losing an arm or a leg. The pain was not the same sort, but was equally unbearable. It began in the region of his lungs and crawled through him,