The Wade Caper By Hashiell Dammit 

A Very Hard-Boiled Detective Story 

Originally published in Campus Humor #2 in 1957

This is an age of turbulence. Big business has boomed (What's good for General Motors is good for the country), and the New Haven Railroad boosted the man in the gray flannel suit to new heights. In Korea there was fighting, but we chose to call it a police action, while H. S. T. chose to let MacArthur fade away. Millions watched the rise and fall of Marilyn Monroe's breasts in glorious technicolor, breathtaking cinema-scope, and stereo. phonic sound. And America was...But, you know the story as well as we. 

She was quite a blonde. Yeah, Quite a blonde. Yeah, Yeah, Quite a blonde. 

As I ambled in, the Ox was serving drinks at the bar—it was chrome plated, just waiting for you to fall under it. The drinks were the kind that explode when you heat them. But her hands didn't look warm. They were steel-cold, like her eyes—if I could just have read in them what was going to happen, but some guys don't have it. Especially private eyes. 

The Ox turned his mashed prize. fighter's face to me and looked at me with steel cold eyes. He had cauliflower ears, a nose like an artichoke. The beefy type. 

“What'll ya have, mister?" he repeated. I whipped out my .38 and slammed him right between the eyes with it. He collapsed with a sort of groan. I wasn't taking any chances. 

I sidled over to the blonde. She was a mysterious doll. "Hello, baby,” I smiled coldly, putting my .38 back in my pocket. 

"Hello, mister." That accent didn't fool me I just stared. 

The smoke-filled dive shook with the hoarse laughter of men out for a good time with women they'd just met. Like me. Only I wasn't out for a good time. This was strictly business. The blonde lit a cigarette casually and offered me one. That was too old a trick. "No, thanks,” I countered with a grin. 

"I like my dope on the up and up." 

I took my own pack out of my pocket with one hand, picked up the dirty pack of matches off the table with the other, and grabbed an old-fashioned off-the-chipped-silver tray that some shambles of a waiter was balancing. He spun around. 

"Hey, that ain't yours..." 

I cut him off with a hard right in the stomach. He doubled up and slid against the edge of the booth with a moan. The tray crashed loudly to the floor. 

"That'll give him something to really belly-ache about," I returned. 

"You shouldn't have done that," the blonde said. 

"Aw, go climb up your thumb," I snapped. That shut her up. 

Not for long, though. The waiter had moved away, still doubled up, and the place had gotten noisier and brighter. I began to feel nervous. I thought of the Old Man back in his mahogany-paneled office, sitting on his lard bottom in a swivel chair, not giving a damn about his Operatives. Not too bad a guy, though. We all liked him, I guess; the blonde started to jabber.

"Well?" 

"Well, what?" 

"Well, what do you want? You could get arrested for speeding you know."

"Well, you're just my speed." She put her rye and ginger down with a clink, but I wasn't going to let her get anything past me. 

She was annoyed. “Look, we're getting nowhere fast." 

"What do you want to eat?" I smiled. 

She just looked at me, surprised, then picked up the menus I studied her. She was pretty well stacked, all things considered, though not the type you'd want to settle down with. I'm not the type who wants to settle down anyway. She had some lipstick smeared on the corners of her mouth and she was wearing a couple of oyster-shaped earrings, gold, and silver. They weren't the ten-cent store kind, I decided. She had magenta eyes, I noticed; I figured she was the type who likes to be different. 

"Make mine the roast beef,” she said. 

I had to find out her name first. "What'd you say, Myra?" I answered casually, watching her carefully. I thought I saw something flicker behind her eyes, but I couldn't be sure. 

"I said I'll take the roast beef," she answered, as though she hadn't heard me say it. "And the French fries." 

"French fries, Lona?” I shot it out at her. She blinked, but outside of that her face was a mask. I still wasn't sure. 

“Yes, and the peas." 

"Peas, Miriam?" If she recognized it, she didn't show any signs, I saw she was going to be a tough cookie to crack. 

"Yeah, peas. And my name isn't Miriam. It's Dorothy Wade." That checked. 

I laughed and motioned a waitress over. She had straggly black hair and two gold teeth 

"What'll it be bud?” I didn't like her tone. She knew more than she seemed to know, but I gave her our order. I was going to have just what the blonde had. 

When she moved away the blonde said in a low voice, "My God, don't tell me you're from Universal Detective Agen..." 

"You don't have to scream it to everybody," I cut her short, grabbing her wrist. Her earrings shook and she blushed. It went well with that hair. 

The waiter, looking as if he had re-covered, passed by with another old-fashioned. I grabbed it off the cracked tray. He turned around fast, then recognized me. 

"Now. wait a minute you..." 

I stopped him with a hard uppercut that sent him and the tray sprawling into the next booth. He stayed there for a while. 

"Smart guy," I said, and let it go at that. 

The place was getting noisier and brighter and smokier every minute. I figured it was about time to get down to business. 

The blonde was fixing her hair. I looked over at the bar out of the corner of my eye and saw the Ox nod. That hair-fixing trick must be a signal. I decided to play it innocent. 

"What's the dope?” I queried suspiciously. 

"You are the man then?” she countered. 

"Yeah, sure, Continental Detective Bureau." 

“I'm in trouble. I need help, and I need it bad." 

I sipped the old-fashioned as she went on, blowing bubbles in it every now and then to show her I was on my toes, waiting for her to slip. 

“Let me begin by explaining that my Father is a rich but eccentric old man. My mother died a year ago and her fortune went to Dad. And he developed a strange—almost obsessed—desire for collecting matchbook covers." 

"Yeah?” I wanted to show her I wasn't asleep. 

"Somehow...I'm not quite sure just where...he got hold of a solid gold matchbook cover that dates back to Ramases II. But the curious thing about it was that every one of its owners had died a mysterious death of a violent nature. So when I found out that he'd gotten hold of it (I'm his only child) I begged him to get rid of it. But he said no, it was far too valuable.” 

I blew a stream of smoke at her. 

"Only people who have collected matchbook covers for a long time know about it. That's one of the things that makes it so rare. Anyway, last week it disappeared. And my father with it. I waited a few days because it didn't really seem too unusual—my father disappearing for a few days if you know what I mean." 

I knew what she meant. "Anyway on the fifth day—that was Thursday—I got worried. So I called Continental, and they sent you. I've got to get that cover back—it's priceless." 

"And your father?” 

She merely adjusted her earring. The waitress came over with our order and then moved to the bar. I continued. 

"Well, they sent me, whether or not you like it, baby. I had to size you up first, that's why I tried that name trick." I polished my nails on the table cloth, as the blonde started to fix her hair again. I wasn't going to let on that I noticed it. "Now first, kid, I'll need to ask a couple of questions..." 

The blonde was toying with her French fries when the lights went out. Two claps of thunder broke loose, each one followed by a flash. Suddenly there was complete silence. After a minute or two, I realized that two shots had been fired. Somewhere a woman screamed. I reached for my .38, fingering it protectively when someone switched on the lights. Everybody turned to look at the bar, and some more women screamed. It wasn't a pretty sight - the waitress was crumpled up grotesquely against it. Her face was a mass of blood. I wheeled back to the blonde but she wasn't sitting across from me anymore. I saw the revolving door start to revolve and I rushed toward it. The blonde was bidding a hasty farewell. I caught up with her a half-block away. 

"Don't you like my company?” I asked casually, grabbing her elbow. 

"Cut it, peeper,” she snapped, trying to break away. I held her fast. 

'Come on baby, don't be cute. Who bumped the waitress?” 

"Waitress?" she asked innocently. I saw she was playing it dumb. Or smart. 

"Cut the act, dream doll.” I opened her clenched fist. "If you don't know anything about it, what's this?” It was a wadded match cover, cheap and strictly night-club. I realized it was from the dive we had just been in. 

"You're hell on wheels, ain’tcha?" she cracked. 

"You're just hell, baby," I whispered huskily, brushing my lips against her ear. 

"Op," she breathed. I noticed she was wearing a funny-smelling perfume. 

I tried to fight the feeling that was sweeping over me. I was on a job. I couldn't afford...but it wasn't any use. I let the match-cover drop. The night was black and the el roared by us overhead. I looked at that hair, at the earrings swinging, and I knew it wasn't any use. "You win, baby," I said. 

I clamped my lips down on hers hard. Like a vice. No. Like a vice. 

I got drunk that night after letting the blonde go. I tried to figure out where I fitted in, but my thoughts were hazy and confused. All on account of that little love scene we'd played under the el. When I got back to my apartment, O'Gar from the Detective Squad was waiting for me with the usual crack. 

"Well if it ain't our little denizen of the nightlife. You look a little tired." He was being more polite than usual; something must be up. Or down. "Here's a telegram that was waiting for you. It's signed 'the Old Man'. Now, who could that be?" 

I wondered if he was being sarcastic but covered it by nonchalantly lighting a cigarette. 

When he saw I wasn't going to answer, he came bluntly to the point. “The telegram is in code so we couldn't decipher it anyway. What's it say?" He shoved it out at me. I saw he had McCann and Field with him. They're down at headquarters usually; not very bright. O’Gar carries them around with him occasionally. For contrast. 

I took the telegram, but I couldn't decipher it either. I presumed it wasn't important, but I mused over it as if it was. O'Gar got mad. 

"Well, what's the angle?"

"Sorry, professional secret.” 

"Look, Op, I don't wanna hafta get rough..." He motioned toward the two rookies. 

"Oh, you're one of these tough guys I read about in the funny papers, huh?" I smiled sweetly. 

He became sweet, too. “Look, just tell me if it has anything to do with the murders.” 

"Murders?” I asked. 

"Yeah. That waitress...I know you were down there at the time it happened, don't worry.” 

I ignored it. "I thought you spoke of murders—in the plural.”

"I did. The Ox was found an hour after. wards in the gutter outside, his head bashed in by a blunt instrument." 

"Blunt instrument, huh? What was it, a mandolin?" I laughed. "Did you find a match-book cover near the body?” I shot out at him before he could think. 

He was surprised, to say the least. "Why—uh—yeah, we did.” 

"That's all I wanted to know. Sorry, got to go now." I whipped out my .38 and shot the three of them in the leg to keep them from following me. I had some business to attend to. 

I backed out the door and ran down the stairs. I had a hunch I knew where to find the answer to everything: I headed straight for the dive. 

Third Avenue was pretty well unlit by this time and there was no one on the street. The lights in the dive were out and an old watchman was locking up. I tapped him lightly on the head with my gun-butt and he collapsed. I wasn't taking any chances. I eased my way into the place. It was pitch-black. 

After stumbling over a few of the stacked up chairs, I suddenly noticed a light in the back room. It was thin as a splinter- underneath the door and I felt a little nervous. But the job had to be finished. I had one hand on the doorknob and the other on my gun when I began to notice the strange familiar smell of perfume. I wondered if it came from in. side the room. 

It was then that I felt a warmth at the back of my neck. Suddenly all feeling went out of my body, and my muscles wouldn't respond. I heard a dull thud on the floor and I realized it was me. As I lay there unconscious, I knew someone had sapped me from behind. 

I woke up inside the room but still on the floor. It was a small room with no windows or furniture. They'd taken the gun away from me—the blonde and the Chinaman. The blonde looked as if she'd been crying and the Chinaman was impassive. He introduced himself as Chong Spelvin, which made me suspicious. 

"Well, what's the dope?" I asked. It was like trying to get through a mist, what with the pain that throbbed in my head. 

"I might ask the same of you," he replied. 

“Foreigners oughtn't to play with hardware," I said, referring to the double-barreled shotgun he was peeping out from behind. 

"I'll give you ten seconds to tell me what you know about the Wade match. book." He spoke like a cultured English man. The blonde didn't say a thing. 

I stalled by pretending to faint. He splashed a Martini in my face. The single bulb in the ceiling glared down at me. 

"One, two, three..." That shotgun didn't look too good. "Four, five..." 

I thought that maybe if I let him go on, he wouldn't be able to count high enough. 

"Six, seven..." 

On the count of eight, I yanked on the edge of the rug hard. The Chinaman dropped to the floor and I jumped on him, smashing his face as hard as I could. After a while, he relaxed. Well, I was pretty well bushed, and my head was still aching, but I headed blindly right out of there. The watchman was just getting up as I emerged into the city, but I kicked him back down onto the sidewalk. I was in no mood for jokes. 

I went straight to O'Gar at headquarters. They had his leg taped up. God, these cops are soft. 

He reached for his gun, but I beat him to it. 

“Look, O'Gar, I only want the answer to one question. When you found the Ox in the gutter, was there the smell of bitter almonds around him?” 

He was too surprised to answer at once. But finally, he said, "Why, yeah, there was. How did you know? And what the hell does it mean?” 

I just laughed. “Thanks, O'Gar, I know all the rest of the answers.” 

I beat it back to the apartment too fast for O'Gar to follow. I knew what I'd find there. 

She was sitting in the easy chair, smoking when I came in. 

“Hello, Op," she said coolly. I mixed a couple of drinks. 

"What'll you have?" I asked her. 

“Rye and ginger," she said, fixing her hair and smiling. “I came to apologize for Chong's behavior." 

"Oh, that's okay, I love shotguns." As I handed her her drink, I saw her eyes fill up. 

"Oh, God, I didn't want to, but he was blackmailing me. You don't know what it is to be haunted by a guy like that god damn Chink.” She took a long drink. "It would have killed father if he ever found out. But when Chong found out that the waitress knew, he killed her. The same thing with the Ox." 

“Knew what?” 

"Knew that he had stolen the cover and kidnapped father.” The tears were running down her face now, washing the mascara off. “Kiss me, Op," she said softly, "Like that first night." I kissed her. 

"It would have killed father if he ever found out," she said. I kissed her again. "It did," I said. She started back. "Wha–what do you mean?” 

"It won't take, Baby. Sorry." Her mouth opened and she looked at me like a surprised kid. I turned my back to her. "The story's fine, except for a couple of changes. It was you who stole the matchbook cover and cut your old man's life-span. The waitress found out and blackmailed you for it until you finally had to hand it over to her. After you shot her in the dark, you hastily searched for it and picked up a paper one by her body by mistake. But you were in a hurry that night, baby. On account of me. What you didn't know was that the waitress had melted the cover down into gold fillings for her teeth. She was wearing it all the 

time.” The blonde was breathing heavily. I went on. "She told Ox before you shot her, so you had to give it to him, too. Then you hired Chong to get me, but it didn't work. You made one slip, baby, and that's what tipped me off. You didn't kill Ox with a blunt instrument, you poisoned him first. With potassium cyanide. There was a smell of bitter almonds around that body. I'm an expert on poisons, dream doll. That perfume you were wearing that night wasn't perfume, it was potassium cyanide. You had a passion for it. You bashed in Ox's head to make it look like a man had done it." I finished off the drink. 

"Please, Op, please don't turn me in," she pleaded, sobbing. "I had to do it. I was in debt—please, Op, remember that night when we —” 

"Sorry, baby. I won't buy. This is it." I still had my back on her in the mirror. She bit her lip and then suddenly I saw her hand rise. She was holding a dark object. Next, everything went black and I fell to my knees groggily. Pain swept through my head and the smell of bitter almonds penetrated my nostrils as I passed out. 

I came to about ten minutes later. I had deliberately stepped slightly so that she wouldn't knock me out too long. Just long enough to let her get away. She had. 

As I started to my feet, I noticed a small envelope lying near me. It was blue and smelled of a familiar perfume. I opened it and took out the note inside. 

Wish we could have been on the same side of the fence. But thanks for letting me escape, anyway. Maybe someday we'll meet again—who knows? I'll never forget that first night under the shadow of the el. In remembrance of that night. 

Dorothy Wade 

There was something else inside the envelope. I shook it out. 

I'm not exactly the sentimental type and I don't go in for mementos and all that stuff. But when I saw what it was that dropped into my hand after I'd read the note, I felt a queer lump in my throat and water in my eyes. It was an old French fried potato. 

- Purple Cow