The Nude On The Cigarette Case

It had been another crummy year... for everyone. Everyone from the poor slob standing in line at a soup kitchen, to the still wealthy executive of Long Island, Riverdale, or Central Park West, who managed to hang onto the appearance of affluence. December, 1939. Millions still out of work, FDR struggling to keep us out of a war in Europe he desperately wants to join, and Lou Gehrig, the iron horse, great Yankee's first baseman, is cut down by ALS. One bright spot was when Mayor Fiorello La Guardia opened the first season of the New York World's Fair in April. It closed in October but was to reopen in April, 1940 if cost overruns didn't kill it. Nighttime. Snow falling to mix with the gray slush on streets and sidewalks. In the defused light of streetlamps and shops it was a gray night in a gray world. I had just come out of Jimmy's bar in lower Manhattan after downing a couple double bourbons, no chaser, and was crossing the opening to an alley when two muffled shots rang out. Quick. Double tap. I stepped back, paused a few seconds, then peered around the edge of a building into the alley but saw no movement. It was then I spotted what looked like a pile of blankets about one hundred feet in. Nothing else. I pulled my .38 snub nose from my shoulder holster and slipped it into my overcoat pocket, my hand around the butt and finger resting on the trigger guard. Keeping close to the building, I eased into the alley and made my way slowly toward the pile, checking each doorway as I went. Nothing. The pile of blankets was a man. A man in a gray trench coat in keeping with the gray world. He was in a fetal position, slightly turned to one side, his hat about three feet away and his glasses a few inches from his face. He was bleeding. A lot. Blood was running from under his coat into the nearby sewer grate, mixing with the water and slush. I bent over and turned him slightly so he was face up. He'd been shot center chest. Twice. Through spittle mixed with bright red blood he was mumbling. He grabbed at my coat, pulled me close, and at the same time with his other hand, tried to reach into his inside coat pocket. “I must find the nude on the cigarette case.... Find the nude on the cigarette case.” Nothing more. He went glassy-eyed and stopped breathing. I looked over my shoulder. Several people had gathered at the end of the alley and I hollered for someone to call a cop. With my body shielding the view from behind me I reached into the man's inside coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette case. There was a picture of a nude on it and quite a nude she was. I pocketed the case. Curiosity, I suppose, but whether about the man or the nude, I couldn't tell at the moment. If I were to guess, I'd say the nude, but I'd check the case later and make a papal decision. I stood and waited on the cop who arrived in about three minutes. I knew him to see him, a beat cop named Howard. Whether that was his first name, last name, or both, I didn't know. He stopped when he got to the body, then nodded to me. “Dead?” “Dead. Two in the chest.” “You see it?” “No. Heard the shots as I got to the alley but didn't see anything except this pile laying on the ground. When I got to him he was bubbling but didn't say anything. Died in less than a minute.” A lie of course, but I had the nude in my pocket and didn't want to give her up. “I'll call it in. Wait here.” I moved off to my left several steps. “I'm going to stand in that doorway by the fire escape.” “OK, Grant. Nowhere else though, huh?” “Sure.” I wondered if he thought Grant was my last name or first... or both. Names, like history, seem to repeat themselves. Max Grant, private investigator, always somehow stepping into someone else's cow dung. That's me, alright. Thirty five years old, just shy of six feet, dark brown hair and brown eyes, heavy mustache, and 180 pounds if I’ve had a good meal that day. Ex cop, ex credit chase man, ex car owner, ex steel worker, ex married, ex ex. Ex cigarette smoker as well, or trying to. I kinda gave them up six months ago and switched to a pipe. Went from three packs a day to one pack or less a week. Depends on how much of a hurry I'm in. It’s also made a difference in climbing three flights of stairs to my corner office. The light from a lone street lamp shown into the doorway alcove at an angle and taking the cigarette case from my suit coat pocket, I took advantage of it. It was an old case and an old picture but a beautiful young woman nude from the waist up. Inside the case were four Camel cigarettes and a folded paper. I unfolded the paper and took a quick look. I could have taken three hours for all the good it would have done. The first line read: One kilogram (about 2.2 pounds) of matter is equivalent to E = 1 kg x (3 x 108 meters/sec)2 = 1 x 3 x 108 x 3 x 108 joules = 9 x 1016 joules. There was more but in the same vein with few words of explanation. I folded the paper, put it back in the case, and returned it to my pocket for further examination in my office. My math was limited to the general high school kind and the only joules I knew was a drunken Frenchman named Jules. The rain had turned completely to snow and large white flakes were gradually covering the body. I shivered, not sure if it was due to the weather or the circumstance. I blamed it on the weather. Less than five minutes later Howard was back with another officer and Sergeant Belden, another cop I knew. Belden was a good cop but could be a prick of the first order. We got along but I couldn’t say he liked me personally. Well... that wasn't quite true. He didn't like private detectives of any kind so that qualified me for his shit list. I stepped out of the alcove. “You shoot this guy, Grant?” “I already told -” “I didn't ask you who or what. Did you shoot this guy?” “No.” No sense arguing. I'd just move higher on his list. Belden turned slightly toward the corpse. “How is it you happened to be in this alley?” “Heard the shots. Came in to take a look.” “You packin'?” “Yeah, .38 snubnose.” Belden held out his hand. “Lemme see it.” I handed my revolver over butt first and watched the Sergeant open the cylinder, check that no rounds were fired and then put it to his nose. He closed the cylinder and handed it back. “Not fired lately,” said Belden. “Nope.” “I could ask you to stay and make a statement to the Assistant D.A.” “You could, but then you'd miss out on a double bourbon on my tab at Jimmy's Bar just down the block.” Belden looked at me, debating. The booze won. “Gimme your card. If the D.A. wants to talk to you, he can call you.” I gave him my card, turned, and walked out of the alley.