The Complete Cases of Max Latin E-Book

Norbert Davis

• Herausgeber: Popular Publications
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Back in print! Enjoy the adventures of Max Latin, the detective who doesn't want to be a detective! Author Norbert Davis mixed the classic hard-boiled style with humor, making Max Latin unique in pulp fiction. Appearing for only five stories in Dime Detective, this new edition includes an authoritative introduction by Bob Byrne.

Leseprobe

The Complete Cases of Max Latin

by

Norbert Davis

Introduction by Bob Byrne

Popular Publications • 2022

Copyright Information

© 2022 Popular Publications, an imprint of Steeger Properties, LLC

PUBLISHING HISTORY

“Introduction” appears here for the first time. Copyright © 2022 Bob Byrne. All rights reserved.

“Watch Me Kill You!” originally appeared in the July 1941 issue of Dime Detective magazine. Copyright © 1941 by Popular Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 1968 and assigned to Steeger Properties, LLC. All rights reserved.

“Don’t Give Your Right Name” originally appeared in the December 1941 issue of Dime Detective magazine. Copyright © 1941 by Popular Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 1968 and assigned to Steeger Properties, LLC. All rights reserved.

“Give the Devil His Due” originally appeared in the May 1942 issue of Dime Detective magazine. Copyright © 1942 by Popular Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 1969 and assigned to Steeger Properties, LLC. All rights reserved.

“You Can Die Any Day” originally appeared in the December 1942 issue of Dime Detective magazine. Copyright © 1942 by Popular Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 1970 and assigned toSteeger Properties, LLC. All rights reserved.

“Charity Begins at Homicide” originally appeared in the October 1943 issue of Dime Detective magazine. Copyright © 1943 by Popular Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 1970 and assigned to Steeger Properties, LLC. All rights reserved.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This edition has been marked via subtle changes, so anyone who reprints from this collection is committing a violation of copyright.

“Max Latin” and “Dime Detective” are trademarks of Steeger Properties, LLC.

Introduction by Bob Byrne

Norbert Davis is considered one of Joseph “Cap” Shaw’s Black Mask Boys: Those writers who formed the core of the legendary magazine editor’s stable. But Shaw only accepted four of Davis’ submissions, and one has to think it likely that there were more, but which were rejected. Davis would sell ten stories to subsequent Mask editors. Shaw did include a Davis story in his ground-breaking The Hard-Boiled Omnibus, but in reality, Davis was much less of a “Shaw guy” than the more commonly identified names, like Dashiell Hammett, Erle Stanley Gardner, Raymond Chandler, Frederick Nebel, Raoul Whitfield, or even Horace McCoy.

One of those five stories Shaw bought was “Red Goose,” which Raymond Chandler said impressed him more than any other tale he read when he began his career as a writer. I’d call that high praise!

Davis, who also did westerns, adventures, war stories, and even love stories, both for the pulps and the higher-paying “slicks,” wrote and sold hard-boiled stories to the pulps while he was a law student at Stanford. He was doing well at it, and when he graduated he decided rather than taking the bar exam, he would make a living as a writer instead! He never did become a lawyer.

Sadly, he is damned by being remembered as the master of “the screwball hardboiled story.” It’s not an inaccurate appellation, but it’s not particularly rewarding to his reputation. Davis did those kinds of stories better than anyone, as evidenced by his enjoyable Doan and Carstairs novels, which feature the smartest canine in private eye fiction. And he did “straight” hardboiled well, too: check out “Reform Racket,” which is Hammett-esque with its political theme. But it is the in-between where I think he nailed it: hardboiled with humor—but not over-the-top.

The Continental Op (Hammett), Carmady (Chandler), Cardigan (Nebel), Race Williams (Carroll John Daly), Jo Gar (Whitfield), Ed Jenkins (Gardner), Bill Lennox (W.T. Ballard), Dal Prentice (Roger Torrey): developing a series character was a viable path to pulp success. So, of course, Norbert Davis didn’t follow that route.

Benjamin Martin (1937–1938) did have five appearances in Detective Tales, with Dr. Flame (1939–1942) making four issues. John Collins (1942–1943) appeared in Black Mask three times after Shaw’s departure. I mentioned Ben Shaley, who was in the February, and April, 1934 issues of Black Mask, and then, sadly, vanished forever from the pulps.

Davis’ most successful ongoing character was William “Bail Bond” Dodd, who appeared in eight issues of Dime Detective from 1940 through 1943. Steeger Books has issued the complete Dodd collection in two volumes. Dodd is an excellent example of Davis writing with humor, but not too much of it.

Finally, we come to the irrepressible Max Latin. He’s not your typical private eye, and he only appeared in five issues of Dime Detective, from July, 1941, through October of 1943. In a twist on the trope, Latin pretended to be absolutely corrupt, but wasn’t really as bad as he presented himself to be. Inspector Walters, the weary, cynical, career cop in the series, actually tells Latin a few times that he knows it’s partly an act. Latin is suitably offended by this ‘positive aspersion’ on his character.

In “Don’t Give your Right Name” (December, 1941), Inspector Walters confronts Latin after a dead body is found:

“I know the reason why you never get convicted of any of these things you get pinched for. It’s very simple. Because you aren’t guilty. You bend the law around like a pretzel, but you never quite break it. Taken all in all, you’re generally, almost honest.”

“You spread that rumor around and I’ll sue you for slander.”

There are other comments like that throughout the stories. Latin’s bad image is good for business, and he bristles at the allegation that he’s better than he appears. You be the judge.

But it’s not just Latin that carries the stories. If you are a fan of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe (and why the heck wouldn’t you be?), you know that those stories aren’t really about the plots and the crimes to be solved. It’s the interplay between the regulars at Wolfe’s New York City Brownstone which draws readers back to the stories over and over. It’s about Wolfe, Archie, Fritz, Inspector Cramer, Saul, and the rest of the cast, and how they relate to each other. The Latin stories are similar, be it Latin, Guiterrez, Dick, or even Happy.

Norbert Davis was very good at writing characters. He was also very good at writing atmosphere. And he was equally adept at hardboiled and at comedy. That’s a lot of strengths to work from. For me, there are three recurring elements in the stories that really stand out: the restaurant, the characters, and Max Latin himself.

THE RESTAURANT & STAFF

Guiterrez (we never get a first name) is a top-flight chef and runs the restaurant which bears his name. That establishment, along with Guiterrez and his head waiter, Dick, is a fixture in the series.

Max Latin comes across like a not-official private investigator, though we learn in a later story that he is duly licensed. He doesn’t have an office; he operates out of a back booth at the restaurant. By the end of the first story, we realize that Latin actually owns the place, but not openly. That explains why the staff does what he tells them to, and why his booth is always available for him.

Early in the first story, “Watch Me Kill You!,” a prospective client comes to Latin’s booth and Guiterrez says to him, “Did you know that Latin is nothing but a crook? Did you know he just today got out of the county jail, cell three, north tier?”

When the man replies that he thought Latin was a private inquiry agent, Guiterrez adds, “Also a crook. But you probably are, too.”

Now, Latin had, in fact, just gotten out of jail that day, but Guiterrez’ tone is set. He consistently runs Latin down as a crook. He hates his customers and tries to get rid of them any way he can. But it’s always packed at his place, because his food is so good. And it enrages him that his patrons wolf down his food. He wants them to savor it: to slowly enjoy it.

The place is a dump. The ceilings are sooty, and the tables and booths are nothing special. The staff is loud, insulting and gives poor service. Guiterrez, his disdain for his customers, and his attitude towards Latin, are a treat in every tale.

Dick, the headwaiter, is another full-blown character, always of interest in his scenes. We first meet him as “A waiter wearing a baggy grease-stained coat that was at least three sizes too large for him and an apron that would have served for a circus tent….”

It’s anybody’s guess whether he will pull a plate, a ridiculously expensive bottle of brandy, or a huge knife out from underneath his voluminous apron. He has a propensity for removing cork bottles with his teeth and making insulting comments to his boss. It’s impossible to imagine the place without him.

Guiterrez’ is always a place we like to read about, though I’m not sure about actually eating there.

THE CHARACTERS

Guiterrez and Dick are integral to the scenes at the restaurant. And we’ll get to Latin. But Davis populates the series with a plethora of strong characters. Detective Inspector Walters, Homicide, provides the police presence in the series. He knows Latin is constantly up to something, though as mentioned, that Latin isn’t as ‘bad’ as he seems. He’s a good cop, who has worked too hard, for too long. He’s worn down by all he’s seen, and it shows on his face. When he discovers that he’s going to have to deal with the wealthy and influential Patricia Wentworth Craig, he says he’ll have to walk soft and talk small. “It seems like they could put me out to pasture or something in my old age.”

He is honest, and does his best, though he is a bit too prone to chasing after Latin: Walters tells him that he is minding his business when he follows Latin around. In “Don’t Give Your Right Name,” Latin impersonates Walters, and introduces the detective as his subordinate. It’s an enjoyable scene with Walters, who is a gruff, but likable, character. He appears in all five stories, and he more than pulls his weight.

Patricia Wentworth Craig, the client’s husband in the first story, is one of my favorites. Her imperious attitude is wonderful. Telling Walters that she has no doubt Latin is guilty of killing someone, she says, “You will see to it that he is hanged, of course. Good evening.” To her, it’s a done deal. She instructs him to use the third degree on Latin, and guarantees that no one will object. She absolutely dominates her scenes.

In “You Can Die Any Day,” Rene and Raymond play two criminals Latin hires to scare a woman. Yep—you read that right. They are brothers, and not your typical heavies. Davis again gives us compelling characters to provide depth. They’re hired through Happy, who runs the garage where Latin rents his cars. Happy lights up his scenes and is a fun addition to the stories.

“Give the Devil his Due’s” Count Fidestine Fiolo and his unamorous pursuit of future heiress Hester Zachary makes for a terrific story. That story also gives us madame-gone-straight Rosie Fitzgerald, who absolutely could have been a recurring character in any pulp series. You can picture her running girls in an Old West saloon.

I’d be hard-pressed to name one of Davis’ contemporaries who was better at fleshing out an array of recurring and varying characters in pulp tales. Of course, there were only five Latin stories, so it’s a small sample. But this element absolutely shines through. And the author is worthy of recognition for it.

MAX LATIN

Which bring us to the star of the series. At the beginning of that first story, Latin is just out of jail for helping to “recover” some stolen goods which he may well have arranged to be stolen in the first place. He was arrested for compounding a felony, though the District Attorney’s Office couldn’t prove it. The same crime is discussed in regards to the case he’s hired for in the next story. Questionable ethics are absolutely part of Latin’s persona.

Referred to as a private detective on the shady side, he replies, “black as night.” The stories are replete with Latin’s own intimations that he’s “crooked as a swastika.” His shady reputation plays a part in the clients approaching him in all five stories. Walters is more right than wrong about the PI, though like all private detectives, Latin operates “out there” on his own. And I would say that secretly disposing of a body and not reporting it is a questionable activity.

A private eye like Latin certainly needs a lawyer on call, and that’s Abe Moscowitz. You can believe his client causes some work for him. He is amusing in a brief appearance in “Don’t Give Your Right Name.” He deserved more time in the series, and is another example of Davis’ ability to consistently create strong supporting characters—not an easy accomplishment in the short story format.

Latin’s interactions with Guiterrez are something to look forward to throughout the stories. And his personality, sometimes benevolent—more often, self-serving—makes for an interesting protagonist. I think that the Latin stories are Davis’ best work, and Norbert Davis is on my Hard-boiled Mt. Rushmore. Hopefully you’ll enjoy them. It truly is a shame there are only five.

And a bit of a warning: In Latin’s world, and indeed, throughout Davis’ work, villains get their comeuppance. And in the world of the hardboiled pulps, that includes violence. Women get hit, just like men. Davis punches out a woman in “Don’t Give Your Right Name.” It turns out she’s a murderess, and she attempts to kill Latin a couple different ways, but he does cold cock her.

To end on a lighter note: Davis never met an adverb he didn’t like. He uses more adverbs per page than any other pulpster I’ve read. For a guy getting paid by the word, he had no use for Stephen King’s advice. Latin doesn’t smile, he smiles glumly. Guiterrez doesn’t just go through the back door to the kitchen, he slaps violently through it. Dick doesn’t nod. He nods slowly. A maitre d’ shivers realistically.

So, enjoy the exploits of Max Latin, and keep an eye out for those adverbs. They’re deliciously everywhere.

Watch Me Kill You!

An assignment as art buyer is a new one for Latin, the shamus with a shady rep—but he soon discovers that even murder can come under the head of fine art. Sorting among the rare exhibits—a rolypoly art-dealer who’s as crooked as a swastika, a sultry sculptress, and a blue-blooded patroness with a brow-beaten mate—the brandy-drinking “thin man” uncovers a couple of cool killers who’d put a hardened gunsel to shame.

Chapter One

LATIN IN ART

Guiterrez came out of the kitchen in a cloud of steam and slapped the heavy metal swing door violently shut behind him. He was a tall man with a dark, bitterly disillusioned face. He was wearing a white jacket and a white apron, and he had a chef’s hat crushed down over his right ear. There was a towel wrapped around his neck, and he wiped his forehead with its frayed end, glaring at Latin.

“What was the matter with it?” he demanded.

Latin was sitting in the last one of the row of narrow high-backed booths. “Matter with what?” he asked.

“My spaghetti à la crème à la Guiterrez.”

“Nothing that I know of,” said Latin.

“Then what did you send half of it back for? I suppose it ain’t good enough for you? I suppose they feed you better in the county jail, cell three, north tier?”

“No,” Latin said judiciously. “As a matter of fact, they don’t. You just served me too much. I’m full.”

A waiter wearing a baggy grease-stained coat that was at least three sizes too large for him and an apron that would have served for a circus tent came up and poked Guiterrez in the ribs with his elbow. “Out of the way, boss.” He was carrying a bottle of brandy and a glass, and he planked them down on the linoleum tabletop in front of Latin and went away.

Latin poured himself some brandy. He was a thin man with wide, high shoulders. His features were narrow and carefully expressionless, and his greenish eyes tipped a little, catlike, at the corners. He had a casual air that was as smooth and polished as an expensive gem.

Guiterrez turned around suddenly and said: “Well, what do you want?”

The pudgy little man who had been trying to edge past him stepped back, startled.

“They—they told me at the door that I’d find Mr. Max Latin in the last booth—”

“That’s him,” said Guiterrez.

The pudgy man ducked his head in an embarrassed nod. “How do you do, Mr. Latin. My name is Bernard Hastings.”

Guiterrez tapped him on the shoulder. “Did you know that Latin is nothing but a crook? Did you know he just today got out of the county jail, cell three, north tier?”

Hastings swallowed. “Why—why, no. I—I thought he was a private inquiry agent.”

“Also a crook,” said Guiterrez. “But probably you are, too, and if you want to talk to him sit down in his booth. I don’t allow people to stand in the aisle around here.”

Hastings slid gingerly into the seat opposite Latin.

The waiter in the baggy coat came up and looked over Guiterrez’s shoulder. “You wanta eat, chum?”

Hastings said: “No, thanks. I don’t—”

“So my food’s not good enough for you?” Guiterrez interrupted.

Hastings was looking scared now. “Oh, no! I mean, it isn’t that. I’ve just eaten and—”

“So I suppose you think you’re gonna sit here and deadhead and take up my table space while you chat with this crook?”

“Why—why, no,” said Hastings quickly. “If I could have a—a drink—”

The waiter produced a glass from under his voluminous apron, reached around Guiterrez and planked it down on the table.

“Drink some of Latin’s brandy,” Guiterrez ordered.

“But—but I don’t like…. If I could have a wine list….” Hastings stopped, staring incredulously at the label on the brandy bottle. “Why! That—that brandy is priceless! You can’t buy it anymore!”

“If you don’t like it, get out,” said Guiterrez. “I didn’t ask you to come here.”

“But I do like it! I was just startled at seeing it! It’s the best—the very best—”

“Phooey,” said Guiterrez, and went on up the aisle toward the front of the restaurant.

Latin poured some of the brandy in Hastings’s glass. Hastings watched him, wide-eyed, and then cleared his throat with a nervous little cough before he spoke.

“Did—did I offend that—ah—gentleman in some manner? I’m sure I had no intention—”

“Guiterrez?” Latin asked. “Oh, he’s always offended. Pay no attention to him. He’s frustrated.”

“Frustrated?” Hastings repeated.

Latin sipped his brandy appreciatively. “Yes. You see, Guiterrez is a very good chef. For twenty years he worked in the top-notch restaurants and hotels, but he didn’t like it. All the time he was saving his money so he could start a small, quiet, dignified place of his own where he could serve the absolute best in food, cooked just the way he wanted it to a select group of customers who would appreciate his efforts.”

“Why, that’s very laudable. I can’t see why—”

Latin waved his arm. “Look at this place.”

It was one long dingy room with dark-stained walls and beams crossing close against the sooty ceiling. High-backed booths were lined along one side and the rest of the floor space was packed with spindly wire-legged tables. It was still early for dinner, but every seat in the place was taken.

The confusion was unbelievable. Crockery clashed and clattered, a jukebox howled boogie-woogie from the corner, and the cash register clanged with maddening irregularity. Cigarette smoke floated in eye-smarting layers, and Guiterrez was denouncing a tableful of customers in a bitterly despairing voice while they ignored him and kept right on eating. An incredibly shabby army of waiters dipped and swerved between tables with the breathtaking skill of slack-wire walkers, in the meantime shouting orders, threats, and demands for the right-of-way. Conversational babble throbbed in the thick air like the beat of an immense drum.

Hastings said: “I noticed the atmosphere seemed rather— But certainly Mr. Guiterrez can’t complain about the amount of business—”

“Oh, yes he can. That’s what’s the matter. There’s too much business. Guiterrez insults his customers, gives them terrible service, makes them stand in line outside whenever it’s raining, but he still can’t get rid of them. The food he serves is too good. The customers don’t mind putting up with a few discomforts if they are allowed to eat it.”

Hastings shook his head. “It seems very strange. But if he really wanted to get rid of some of his excess customers, he could just stop serving such good food for a while.”

“He can’t help making it good. He’s an artist.”

“Oh,” said Hastings, nodding as though that explained everything. “An artist. Yes, I see. Artists are indeed incredible people. I can’t understand…. But Mr. Latin, I wanted to talk to you about my wife.”

“Yes,” said Latin. “Five hundred.”

Hastings stared at him. “Eh?”

Latin elaborated: “Yes, I will get evidence that will enable you to divorce her, and it will cost you five hundred dollars unless I have to fake the evidence and then the price is seven-fifty.”

“But—but it isn’t that at all! I mean, I’m very happy. I mean, I don’t want a divorce!”

Latin poured himself more brandy. “Oh. Well then, what do you want?”

Hastings took a deep breath and started over again. “Mr. Latin, you were recommended to me by Walker and Crenshaw, my attorneys. They told me that you were very clever and absolutely—ah—unscrupulous.”

“Right on both counts,” said Latin complacently.

“Yes, I see,” said Hastings in an uncertain tone. “Well, anyway, my wife is Patricia Wentworth Craig.”

Latin put his glass down carefully. “Who?”

“Patricia Wentworth Craig.”

“The girl with the money bags?”

“My wife is the possessor of an extremely large fortune,” Hastings admitted with dignity.

“Yes, indeed,” Latin agreed. “Fifty million dollars. I thought you said your name was Hastings.”

“I did, and it is. Due to her enormous business interests and to the legal complications in which they result, she thought it best to retain her maiden name after we were married. It is less confusing.”

“Yeah,” Latin said absently. “I heard she had a husband kicking around somewhere. How’d you do it, anyway?”

Hastings’s lips tightened. “I beg your pardon?”

“How’d you hook her? I’ve always wanted a wife with fifty million dollars. How do you go about getting one?”

Hastings’s round face was red with indignation. “Mr. Latin, if you please! My wife married me because she loved me and I loved her. Her fortune had nothing whatsoever to do with it. I assure you that I am myself by no means a pauper. I have never touched a cent of my wife’s money and never will!”

“Them that has gets,” Latin said gloomily. “All right, what did you want to tell me about your wife?”

“If you’ll let me talk without these constant interruptions. My wife’s father had a brother who, instead of being as honest and energetic and astute as my wife’s father, was nothing but a bum and a loafer all his life. He died years ago of acute alcoholism. He had one son.”

“I’m right with you so far,” Latin said.

“This son’s name is Winston Wentworth Craig. He’s an artist. I mean, a real one. He paints pictures.”

“All right,” said Latin.

“My wife collects pictures—modern paintings in particular. She has a most extensive collection—very valuable.”

“It would be,” said Latin. “Go on.”

“It seems,” Hastings admitted reluctantly, “that Winston Wentworth Craig is a very good painter. He’s had many exhibits, and his pictures are in all the most famous museums and art galleries and collections. My wife wants some of them in her collection.”

“Why doesn’t she buy them?”

“Because Winston Wentworth Craig won’t sell her any.”

Latin blinked. “Why won’t he?”

Hastings wiggled on the hard bench. “Well, you see, Winston Wentworth Craig’s father spent most of his time trying to sponge money off my wife’s father. When he managed to get any he dissipated it in riotous living. Winston Wentworth Craig came to my wife several years ago and asked her to finance him while he studied in Paris. She refused to give him any money, and I’m afraid she—ah—laughed rather rudely at his ambition to be an artist.”

“I’m beginning to get the idea,” said Latin.

Hastings made a harassed gesture. “How could she know he was going to turn out to be good? He has many of his father’s—ah—less desirable characteristics, and she thought naturally that this art study business was just an excuse to get enough money from her to loaf a year or two. But her refusal made him angry, and he’s a very vindictive sort of a person. Now he refuses to sell her any of his pictures.”

“So what?” Latin asked.

Hastings leaned forward earnestly. “Don’t you see? My wife, over a space of years, has built up a reputation as an authority on modern paintings and as a sponsor of it. Now this uncouth person, Winston Wentworth Craig, goes around telling everyone who will listen that she is merely a rich ignoramus who knows so little about art that she can’t recognize talent even in her own relations. It’s horribly humiliating. People laugh at her!”

“How too bad,” said Latin.

“Also,” said Hastings, ignoring the comment, “he tells people that she can never acquire any of his work, even with all the money she has, and naturally other collectors—who are envious of her—ridicule her for that reason. It is vital, Mr. Latin—vital—that she acquire some of Winston Wentworth Craig’s pictures!”

“I can see that,” Latin said gravely.

“I want you to get some of those pictures for her.”

“Steal them?” Latin asked in a bland voice.

“No!” Hastings said emphatically. “Of course not! My wife will pay any price he asks. I want you to get him to consent to sell some to her.”

“I hate to do myself out of a job,” Latin said, “but this seems pretty silly to me. All your wife has to do is to buy one of Craig’s pictures from some other collector or dealer or museum. With her money, that shouldn’t be very difficult to accomplish.”

“Please, Mr. Latin!” Hastings snapped. “Do you think my wife is such a fool she didn’t think of that long ago? Craig won’t permit anyone to sell her one of his pictures.”

“After he once sells a picture to someone, the picture belongs to the buyer. The buyer can resell it to whom he pleases. Craig couldn’t prevent that.”

“Oh, yes he can!” Hastings said angrily. “You don’t know how maliciously clever he is. He claims that he has a reversionary creative interest in every picture he paints.”

“A what?” Latin asked.

“A reversionary creative interest. There is no such thing. I think he just made it up himself. But he says that the mere thought of one of his pictures being in my wife’s possession would be such a mental torture to him that he couldn’t paint any more and that he would sue her for a million dollars on the grounds that she was robbing him of his talent and means of livelihood.”

“He wouldn’t get very far.”

Hastings tapped the linoleum tabletop. “Far enough, Mr. Latin! Far enough! He couldn’t win any such fantastic suit, of course. But he certainly would file it. He’s just the type. And if he did file it, the newspapers would get hold of it and put it all over the front pages. Can you think of the dreadful humiliation that would mean for my wife? The whole country would laugh at her!”

“Oh,” said Latin.

“So,” Hastings said earnestly, “Winston Wentworth Craig must consent to sell her some of his pictures! Her reputation as an art patron and her peace of mind are at stake! And she must obtain those pictures at once! At once!”

“Why?” Latin asked.

“Because she is having an exhibition of her collection at the Keever Art Gallery in just three days. That exhibition would not be complete without some of Craig’s pictures. All of her enemies will laugh at her if she doesn’t have some of her own cousin’s paintings in her collection. If she doesn’t, they’ll know why. Craig has seen to that.”

“I see,” said Latin.

Hastings said impressively: “My wife is willing to pay up to five thousand dollars for each Craig picture you can get him to consent to sell her.”

Latin sat very still. “I thought you said five thousand dollars per picture.”

“I did. They are selling currently for about a thousand dollars apiece.”

“One thousand,” Latin said dreamily. “Five thousand. Mr. Hastings, you’ve made yourself a deal. I’ll get Craig’s consent to sell her some pictures if I have to kill him doing it.”

“Oh, no!” Hastings said, horrified. “Mr. Latin! Please! Nothing like that!”

“Half kill him, then,” Latin compromised.

Hastings looked very doubtful. “Mr.—ah—Guiterrez said you had just gotten out of jail. He was—ah—joking, no doubt?”

“He never jokes. I did just get out.”

“Oh,” said Hastings uneasily. “And—ah—what were you charged with?”

“Compounding a felony.”

“I’m not familiar with legal terms—”

Latin said: “I was charged with paying some gentlemen to return some jewelry they stole from a client of mine and forgetting to ask the gentlemen what their names were or where the police could find them.”

“Did you—ah—do that?”

“Certainly not,” said Latin. “I merely paid a reward for the return of some jewelry that had been inadvertently lost.”

“Lost.” Hastings repeated vaguely. “Stolen. Reward. Buying back. It doesn’t seem to me there is very much difference….”

Latin smiled. “Just the difference between sitting here and sitting in the county jail, cell three, north tier, that’s all.”

“Oh,” said Hastings. “Well—please look into this matter at once, Mr. Latin. Time is of the very essence. I can’t overemphasize the importance—”

“I’ll get right on my horse.”

“Winston Wentworth Craig lives at 345 B, Greene Street. You’d best go there now. He works at night, and he’s never there in the daytime. I haven’t mentioned it, but he has an—ah—unpleasant disposition. He can be most insulting—”

“So can I.”

“Then I’ll leave you—”

“Not without paying for that brandy, you won’t,” said Guiterrez, suddenly appearing beside the booth. “And I know how much you drank, too, because I marked the bottle. It’ll cost you just three bucks.”

“Three dollars!” Hastings exclaimed. “But I only had one very small—”

“So you want an argument, do you?” said Guiterrez. He called to one of the waiters: “Dick, go out in the kitchen and get me my cleaver. The sharp one.”

Hastings swallowed. “Well, on the other hand, rather than make an issue—”

“Three bucks,” said Guiterrez. “Count it out on the table and no back-chat.”

Chapter Two

MURDER FOR ART’S SAKE

Greene Street had once been a cowpath, and the city fathers had never taken the time or trouble to straighten it out and brush it off and make a modern thoroughfare out of it. Now, as it always had, it wandered in draggling loops between the river and the sullenly massive factories of the industrial section, crossing more conventional streets at any old careless angle, making blocks as weirdly shaped as the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. It was old and lazy and tattered and nobody cared, least of all the people who lived on it.

The cement blocks that made up the narrow sidewalk had risen in some places and sunk in others, and Latin had the impression of climbing up and down a flatly elongated stairway. The dusk hid the soot streaks, and the houses were all the same depressed gray color, squatting close together and silent, down a little from the street level.

Latin found 345 by the process of counting from the corner. It was a thin starved-looking building with brilliantly artificial light gleaming through the tall windows on its second floor. There were no lights downstairs, and Latin groped his way down three cement steps and along a narrow brick walk to the front porch.

A cigarette tip made a sudden bright red dot in the black shadow of the front door, and a woman’s hoarsely pleasant voice said: “What do you want, sonny?”

Latin tapped the brim of his hat politely. “Looking for Winston Wentworth Craig.”

“He doesn’t live here.”

“I’m still looking for him.”

A light switch snapped, and a bulb in the porch ceiling glowed with weary brilliance, revealing the woman who was standing in the doorway. She had brown hair that was cropped carelessly short and tousled like a boy’s. There were blue shadows under her eyes, and her lips were twisted into a cynical half smile. Her cigarette was in a long ivory holder, and her long fingernails were stained a dark bloodred. She was wearing a cotton hostess coat and open-toed sandals. She regarded Latin with a detached, disinterested air.

“Shall I advance three paces and give the password?” he asked.

“Try it, and I’ll stick this cigarette right in your eye.”

“Which eye?” Latin asked curiously.

“The left one, I think.”

“That’s O.K., then. The left one’s my glass eye.”

Latin came up the steps and on the porch. The woman was lounging against the edge of the door, and she didn’t move, but she did smile a little.

“Hello,” said Latin.

She nodded her cropped head. “Hello. What’s your name?”

“Max Latin.”

“Latin,” she repeated thoughtfully. “There was a Latin in the papers the other day—also in jail.”

“I’m that one.”

“I thought so. Private detective on the shady side, eh?”

“Not shady,” Latin denied. “Black as night. Got any minor crimes you’d like committed? I’m cutting prices these days because I owe my lawyer some money.”

“I’ll think it over. Why do you want to see Craig?”

“Who’s asking?”

The woman smiled more broadly. “Nan Carter. You can call me Nan if you want to be formal. The reason I’m curious is that I’m holding off process servers and bill collectors and such vermin until I can pry some back rent out of my distinguished tenant, Mr. Winston Wentworth Craig.”

“You wrong me,” Latin told her. “I’m an earnest student of the arts, and I am here to purchase paintings in large quantities.”

“Who sent you?”

“Remind me to tell you all about it sometime when I’m not busy.”

Nan Carter blew a long plume of smoke at him. “In other words, Patricia Wentworth Craig.”

“That would be about it.”

Nan Carter said: “Craig won’t sell her any of his pictures nor let her buy any. Don’t you know the setup? He’s a genius, or so he claims. Temperamental and like that. He wouldn’t touch any of her money. He scorns it. He’d rather borrow from all his friends and forget to pay them back or let me put his rent on the cuff for six months straight.”

“I’ll change his mind for him.”

“How?” she asked.

“I’ve got a wonderfully persuasive personality and also a pretty fair left hook.”

Nan Carter watched him thoughtfully. “Rough stuff, huh? I sort of figured you for that sort of a gent.”

“If people get between me and a nice juicy fee, is it my fault if they get trampled in the rush?” Latin asked reasonably.

“No,” Nan Carter admitted, “and I think perhaps our dough-heavy friend has finally figured the right way to approach her dear cousin. He’s nasty, but he’s yellow as a daisy. The stairs are right there. There’s no lock on the studio door. Don’t bother to knock. Just go in and make yourself at home.”

Latin went through the door and along the short length of hall and up the steep, shadowy slant of the narrow stairway. At the top there was another and shorter hall with the black well of back stairs at the far end of it. There was a door midway along the hall, and Latin went to it, turned the knob quietly and pushed it open.

The bright light from inside the studio jumped at him, blinding him momentarily, and then he caught the whole scene in one flashing split second and stepped quietly into the studio and pushed the door shut behind him.

The partitions had been knocked out and the whole upper story of the house was one enormous room with its ceiling the high, peaked slant of the roof. There was an easel against the far wall with powerful daylight floor lamps set in front of it, their reflectors focused so there would be no slightest shadow on the canvas it held.

The man was lying in front of the easel, crumpled up there, with his blue painter’s smock making a bright pile of color against the dull black of the floor. His face was turned toward Latin, and his eyes were wide and bulging and glassy. There was no blood, but the man was dead.

Latin stood against the door apparently relaxed, while he turned his head slowly a little at a time, searching the shadows that clung in the corners of the big room. On the other side of the easel there was an open window, and through it Latin could hear the faraway hum of traffic and see the faint glow of lights from the uptown district.

There was no sound and no movement in the studio. After a moment Latin walked quietly across to the limp form in the blue smock and knelt down beside it. He felt one of the man’s bony wrists, and it was warm in his hand, but there was no faintest pulse.

Latin pursed his lips and began to whistle soundlessly to himself. He started to get up and then stopped, staring at an object under the easel.

It was a woman’s shoe. A dancing pump delicately made of thin strips of crisscrossing red leather with a high, stiltlike heel. Latin took a handkerchief from his pocket and, using it to cover his hand, carefully picked the slipper up.

It was an expensive one, handmade for a short high-arched foot, and Latin was looking inside it for the maker’s name when he heard the hinge on the door squeak softly.

Latin moved with instant, catlike coordination. He flipped the slipper out the open window, came up to his feet and pivoted, crouching warily.

“Hold it right there,” the man in the doorway whispered.

Latin stayed rigidly immovable.

The man in the doorway was small and slight, and the overcoat he wore made him seem more so. The overcoat was enormous. It looked as though it had been made for someone three feet taller and two feet wider. It hung in shapeless heavy folds, the skirts brushing the floor. The high collar was turned up and fastened with a strap across the front, hiding everything of the man’s face but a pasty white triangle from his chin to the bottoms of the huge dark-lensed glasses he wore. He had a black flop-brimmed hat pulled down over his forehead.

In his right hand he was holding a thick stubby-barreled automatic. He moved it warningly and then reached behind him with his left hand and carefully closed the door, holding the knob so the latch wouldn’t click.

“What did you throw out of the window?”

“You guess,” Latin invited.

The man watched him in silence for a second, the lenses of the glasses like shiny blacked-out portholes. “Move over to your right a little,” he ordered in the same soft whisper.

Latin moved one step sideways and then another. The other man began to move, too, following the opposite rim of the invisible circle that separated them. He moved in light, mincing steps, as gracefully as a dancer.

“Stand still now.”

Latin obeyed. The other man had reached the easel. He stood with one foot on either side of the blue-smocked body on the floor. Still watching Latin, he leaned down and began to grope behind the easel with his left hand.

There was a little scraping clatter, and he brought his hand out holding three small, square canvases.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, and he began to travel sideways on his mincing circle toward the door.

Latin suddenly realized what was getting away from him. “Oh, no,” he said. “No, you don’t. I’ve got first call on those pictures. Put them down.”

The man in the overcoat stopped, and his tongue flicked over the thin red of his lips.

“I mean it,” Latin said. “You’re not walking out of here with those pictures.”

The man in the overcoat fired at him without the slightest warning. Latin flopped flat on his face on the floor, kicked himself over and rolled frantically for the wall. The automatic whacked three times more, and the bullets dug into the floor on both sides of Latin with sinister little snaps.

Latin banged into the wall and sat up, flipping his own stubby .38 out of the waistband of his trousers. He was just in time to see the studio door close and hear the latch snap with quiet finality.

Latin heaved himself up and charged across the studio. He was blind, fighting mad, and he jerked the door open again heedlessly and jumped out into the hall.

He could see down the front stairs into the empty front hall, and he whirled around and headed for the rear stairs. He had reached the top when the little man in the overcoat materialized out of the shadow against the banister and extended a leg deftly in front of him.