Case File - a Collection of Nameless Detective Stories Read Online Free

any false hopes. "I just wanted to ask you a few more questions."
    "Oh. What questions?"
    "You mentioned yesterday that Colly liked to take walks in the evening. Was he in the habit of walking to any particular place, or in any particular direction?"
    "No," Lucille said. "He just liked to walk. He was gone for a couple of hours sometimes."
    "He never told you where he'd been?"
    "Just here and there in the neighborhood."
    Here and there in the neighborhood, I thought. The alley where Colly had been shot was eleven blocks from this apartment. He could have walked in a straight line, or he could have gone roundabout in any direction.
    I asked, "Colly liked to have a nightcap when he came back from these walks, didn't he?"
    "He did, yes."
    "He kept liquor here, then?"
    "One bottle of bourbon. That's all."
    I rotated my hat in my hands. "I wonder if I could have a small drink, Lucille. I know it's early, but . . ."
    She nodded and got up and went to a squat cabinet near the kitchen door. She bent, slid the panel open in front, looked inside. Then she straightened. "I'm sorry," she said. "We . . . I seem to be out."
    I stood. "It's okay. I should be going anyway."
    "Where will you go now?"
    "To see some people." I paused. "Would you happen to have a photograph of Colly? A snapshot, something like that?"
    "I think so. Why do you want it?"
    "I might need to show it around," I said. "Here in the neighborhood."
    She seemed satisfied with that. "I'll see if I can find one for you."
    I waited while she went into the bedroom. A couple of minutes later she returned with a black-and-white snap of Colly, head and shoulders, that had been taken in a park somewhere. He was smiling, one eyebrow raised in mock raffishness.
    I put the snap into my pocket and thanked Lucille and told her I would be in touch again pretty soon. Then I went to the door and let myself out.
    The skies seemed to have parted like the Red Sea. Drops of rain as big as hail pellets lashed the sidewalk. Thunder rumbled in the distance, edging closer. I pulled the collar of my overcoat tight around my neck and made a run for my car.
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    I t was after four o'clock when I came inside a place called Tay's Liquors on Whitney Street and stood dripping water on the floor. There was a heater on a shelf just inside the door, and I allowed myself the luxury of its warmth for a few seconds. Then I crossed to the counter.
    A young guy wearing a white shirt and a Hitler mustache got up from a stool near the cash register and walked over to me. He smiled, letting me see crooked teeth that weren't very clean. "Wet enough for you?" he said.
    No, I thought, I want it to get a lot wetter so I can drown. Dumb question, dumb answer. But all I said was, "Maybe you can help me."
    "Sure," he said. "Name your poison."
    He was brimming with originality. I took the snapshot of Colly Babcock from my pocket, extended it across the counter and asked, "Did you see this man two nights ago, sometime around eleven o'clock?" It was the same thing I had done and the same question I had asked at least twenty times already. I had been driving and walking the streets of Glen Park for four hours now, and I had been to four liquor stores, five corner groceries, two large chain markets, a delicatessen and half a dozen bars that sold off-sale liquor. So far I had come up with nothing except possibly a head cold.
    The young guy gave me a slanted look. "Cop?" he asked, but his voice was still cheerful.
    I showed him the photostat of my investigator's license. He shrugged, then studied the photograph. "Yeah," he said finally, "I did see this fellow a couple of nights ago. Nice old duck. We talked a little about the Forty-niners."
    I stopped feeling cold and I stopped feeling frustrated. I said, "About what time did he come in?"
    "Let's see. Eleven-thirty or so, I think."
    Fifteen minutes before Colly had been shot in an alley three and a half blocks away. "Do you remember what he bought?"
    "Bourbon — a pint.