William McGivern - Shield for Murder

The man Nolan planned to kill came out of an all-night taproom about one oclock in the morning. He stood for a moment, taking a few last drags from his cigarette, and glancing idly across the wet, gleaming street. His name was Dave Fiest, and he was a gambler; not the biggest in Philadelphia, but far from the smallest.

Nolan watched him from the shadow of a building entrance about twenty yards away. His hands were deep in the pockets of his suit coat and there was a dead cigar in his mouth.

Dave Fiest flipped his cigarette away and strolled south on Broad Street, the collar of his camels hair sport coat turned up against the fine misting rain that was falling.

Nolan spat the cigar from his mouth and moved out from the shadow of the building, traveling fast for a man his size, and came up behind Fiest at the corner of Crab Street.

Hold it a second, Dave, he said.

Dave Fiest turned and regarded Nolan with surprise. Whats up, Barny?

Im taking you in, friend.

Taking me in? Dave Fiest turned his palms up and smiled. Whats the gag? Im an honest citizen, Barny.

Yeah, sure, Nolan said, and reached inside Daves coat and fished into an inner breast pocket. He brought out a roll of papers and looked at them with an expression of satisfaction. They were horse bets and numbers slips. Honest citizen, eh? he said, staring at Dave.

Dave Fiest shrugged slightly. He was a small man, with narrow shoulders and a pleasant alert face. His hair was graying at the temples.

Im all right with the vice squad boys, he said.

Thats their business, Nolan said. Lets go.

Barny, wait just a second. I dont get this. Dave Fiest smiled good-naturedly. Supposing you let me buy you a drink, eh?

Lets go.

Barny, whatre we going to prove? You slate me as a gambler, and I make a call to Delaney and he has me out on a copy in an hour. Were just making work for everybody on a rainy night.

Nolan took Dave Fiests arm and walked him down Crab Street. They passed an all-night diner, a closed cigar store, a gas station, and then crossed an intersecting street and kept walking.

Say, Barny, is there heat coming? Dave Fiest asked, a new interest in his voice. I read they shifted some House Sergeants around in South Philly. Is that the angle?

The lieutenant doesnt want gamblers hanging around Center City, Nolan said.

Dave Fiest laughed shortly. Ramussen should be leading a cub scout pack. Does he expect to clean things up by locking up a few gamblers?

I dont know what he expects, Nolan said.

Dave Fiest stopped at the intersection of Ellens Lane and Crab Street and put a hand on Nolans arm.

Now listen to me just a minute, keed. I know you havent worked downtown long, but you must have heard by now that Im okay. And heres the pitch: I dont want to hang at the Sixty-fifth even for the hour or so itll take Delaney to get a copy. The point is, Ive got to meet Mike Espizito in about fifteen minutes, and you know how he feels about people being late. Especially when they owe him money. Dave Fiest smiled as he said this, and watched Nolans big square face hopefully.

No deal, Nolan said.

Dave Fiest shrugged. So whatre you going to charge me with?

Common gambler, maintaining an illegal lottery, pool selling, loitering.

No arson and rape? Dave Fiest said.

Nolan didnt answer. He glanced back toward Broad Street, scanning both sides of the dark quiet block, and then looked in the other direction.

Come on, he said, and turned Dave Fiest into Ellens Lane.

Hey, whats up? The Sixty-fifths the other way.

Walk ahead of me.

Are you nuts? Dave Fiest stared at Nolan, suddenly suspicious. Whats the deal, chum? I offered you a note, didnt I?

Turn around, Nolan said. And Dave Fiest obeyed slowly.

Now walk, Nolan said, and glanced up and down the street once more. A bright patch of red light from the diner lay on the wet sidewalk; and two blocks away, on Broad Street, a couple were shouting for a cab. Nolan could hear their voices clearly in the still night.

Dave Fiest had walked ten feet into the lane. He glanced over his shoulder and said, You arent God, chum. I got rights, remember.

Keep walking.

When Dave Fiest had gone another ten feet, Nolan pulled out his gun and followed him into the dark lane. The gambler heard his footsteps and turned around suddenly. He saw a splinter of fight break off Nolans gun.

Hey! he said, the word nothing more than a soft gasp. Whats this, Nolan? Listen, you dont need to make a stick-up out of it. I got dough with me, Barny.

Turn around.

Nolan, please

Turn around.

Dave Fiest turned his back to Nolan, and his body moved stiffly, jerkily.

Nolan yelled: Halt! Stop, you bastard!

And then fired twice, once in the air, and once into Dave Fiests slender, neatly tailored back.

The shots went banging down the lane and into the quiet night, and Dave Fiests last sob was lost in their shattering echoes.

Nolan ran swiftly forward and bent over the sprawled figure. His hands moved swiftly, surely, through Dave Fiests pocket, and found the thick wad of money. He stripped three bills from the roll and pushed them back into Daves pocket, and then straightened and walked toward Crab Street. But a powerful impulse caught him suddenly, and he wheeled and ran back to Dave Fiests body and kicked it twice, savagely, furiously.

Then, confused by his action, he ran out of the lane and crossed the street to a police call box. He pulled out the phone that was connected to the house sergeants room at the Sixty-fifth, and when Sergeant Brennan answered, he said, casually: Nolan, Sarge. I just shot a guy here at Crab Street and Ellens Lane. Send over a wagon, will you?

Is he dead?

Yeah.

Okay.

Nolan put the phone back in place and closed the door of the call box. Several people were in the street now, and two young men were running along the sidewalk.

Nolan walked back across the street and stopped at the entrance to Ellens Lane. When the two young men came panting to a stop before him, he said, Okay, boys, everythings taken care of. Just drift on about your business.

We heard some shooting, one of them said. Two shots.

Nolan took out his wallet and flipped it open. The fight from a street lamp danced on his shield.

No kidding? he said, and stared at them until they turned and walked hesitantly back toward Broad Street.

They stopped after about twenty yards and stood together, talking in low voices and watching Nolans big bulky figure.

Three well-worn stone steps led from the street to the Sixty-fifth police station. Above them hung a single white electric globe.

The district occupied a three-story brick building that seemed sturdy, and a trifle smug, in a block of luncheonettes, shoe-shops, curio dealers, and unpainted frame homes.

The Thirteenth Detective Division had its headquarters on the second floor of the building, in three high-ceilinged rooms that were separated by wooden partitions.

A card game was going on in one of these rooms the night Nolan killed Dave Fiest.

Detective-Sergeant John Odell and three of his shift were playing poker, while a reporter, Mark Brewster, lounged in the doorway, smoking and watching the game without any particular interest. Sergeant Odell slapped cards down on the desk with a steady voluble comment on the caprices of fortune. He was thickly built with rimless glasses, thinning brown hair, and a complexion the shade of top round steak.

Ten a possible straight, nine, possible nothing, K-boy, nothing yet, and I get a miserable damn deuce. K-boy bets.