A Body for McHugh

By Jay Flynn

A CORPSE ON HIS DOORSTEP LURES MCHUGH INTO THE ARMS OF THE MAFIA—AND A LETHAL FEMALE…

McHugh called his joint “The Door,” and for the stranger with the shiv in his guts, it was the door to Death.

It was a tough caper to figure. McHugh finally put the pieces together—just in time to save himself from being fed to the fish in Monterey Bay.

FRIENDLY PERSUASION…

“It would be wise for you to tell us all about it,” the dark man said softly.

She held out for five minutes. Once McHugh almost stepped forward to help her. That was when the Cuban had stripped the blouse from her, caught a full breast in his fingers and squeezed until the cords in his hand stood out stark and white. She screamed then, screamed in terrible agony, and words gushed from her torn lips.

“Please stop,” she gasped. “The money’s in L.A. I’ll tell you everything...”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Muriwai Books
• Release date: Mar 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781789120691

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Text originally published in 1960 under the same title.

© Muriwai Books 2017, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

A BODY FOR McHUGH

by

JAY FLYNN

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

CHAPTER 1 4

CHAPTER 2 8

CHAPTER 3 14

CHAPTER 4 20

CHAPTER 5 28

CHAPTER 6 36

CHAPTER 7 44

CHAPTER 8 53

CHAPTER 9 61

CHAPTER 10 68

CHAPTER 11 76

CHAPTER 12 83

CHAPTER 13 93

CHAPTER 14 98

CHAPTER 15 107

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 113

CHAPTER 1

THE GIRL WAS LOVELY. She was also running scared.

McHugh sensed it the moment she came into The Door, chased by the persistent gusts of San Francisco rain. She stood for a moment at the front of the long, dim room. From back of the bar he saw her small nose wrinkle at the merged odors of stale whisky and dead cigarettes and people and dampness. Then she moved toward a corner table, walking in the hesitant yet graceful way of a deer that senses the hunter and is ready to bolt.

A doll, boss. Livin’ doll... Benny muttered the words. Girl like that got no business bein’ out alone. Like in this dive, particularly.

McHugh will see she’s well protected, the woman on the other side of the bar said. Her tone was light, but not amused. She puffed on the cigarette between her wide, full lips, and her green eyes challenged him.

Remember, it was your idea, honey, he said. Loris seldom gnawed on him, but this seemed to be one of the nights. He wished she would go back to the piano and sing something gutty. He grinned at her and acknowledged his bartender’s analysis with a small, thoughtful nod. The girl’s eyes were searching the sparsely filled room now, and her lips were, pursed in an expression that could have meant indecision. She did not brush back the hood of her light raincoat; nor did she bother to shrug the stray drops of water from it.

She sat, digging cigarettes and a lighter from her purse with nervous fingers. The lighter sparked but did not flame. She slapped it down on the table, fished up a pack of paper matches and got the smoke going. Her shoulders trembled as she inhaled.

McHugh wondered what it was that had her in such shape. It might be nothing more than the bar itself. She did not belong to this back-street cellar club that catered to the kind of people who walked the shadowed places of the world. At that, business was off. The only foreign agent on hand at the moment was Koolwyk, the fat Dutchman. There were a few other regulars: the FBI team involved in a liar’s dice game with the Treasury agent at the far end of the bar; a couple of Navy Intelligence men arguing the prospects of the Giants; the San Mateo County gambler holding office hours in a back booth.

There were also four butter-and-egg men, slurring their loud words, debating whether to look for some girls or a bar where they could see a gaggle of fairies.

Hey, now. Lookit that, willya!

A visiting fireman had spotted the girl. He said something to his companions and started for her table. McHugh put his coffee cup on the back bar and moved around the end of the plank. The stranger was leaning on the girl’s table, saying something, and she was shaking her head.

McHugh slid his hand along the man’s arm. Thumb and forefinger found nerve centers, pressed. The man breathed in sharply and raised up on his toes as the pain became intense.

Hey! What’n hell you think—

I think you better go sit down. Or take a walk. Outside. McHugh was smiling pleasantly, but there was nothing friendly in the eyes that were the color of new maple syrup. Blow, big spender.

He released the man’s arm, meeting the glare. The man went back to his party. McHugh saw Loris watching him. The slender, long-limbed woman who owned the other half of The Door and shared the hilltop apartment had turned away, but her eyes were on him in the back-bar mirror.

Hi. You look like you could use a drink, McHugh said, smiling. The girl had dark hair and dark eyes and a heart-shaped face. She had crossed her knees, and he approved of her legs. Old enough?

She started to get up, fumbling the cigarettes back into her purse as she said, in a low voice, Of course. But I better not. I shouldn’t have come anyway.

You won’t get any static here. Stay as long as you like. You’re supposed to see someone, and it’s a lousy night for waiting on the street. His hand dropped to her shoulder, and the insistent pressure of it urged her to stay.

I—how did you know?

This is a popular meeting place. World famous. He brushed a hand over dark hair that was cut short and salted with gray. What’ll it be?

She fingered a driver’s license from her wallet and handed it to him. McHugh gave it a superficial glance; he had already decided she was old enough to drink if she wanted to. His trained mind absorbed the information in that instant. The license said she was Cecille Marie Harnois. Age twenty-five. Height five-five. Weight one-twelve. Eyes, brown. There was an address on Scenic Drive, Carmel.

A cognac, please. With coffee on the side, if you have some.

McHugh went to the bar and gave Benny the order. Georgie came from the back room with her tray and McHugh sent the drink over with her.

What’s the matter? Does she have a husband? Loris said. Her voice was husky, the way it got when she was going to get either very loving or very difficult indeed. He did not think she was going to be loving.

Dear darling. Will you please get off my back? he said amiably. You’ve been picking at me until I feel like I’ve been rode hard and put away wet.

Georgie was back, asking for another shot of cognac. She nudged McHugh and said from the corner of her mouth, She’d like you to come over.

And McHugh will be delighted to oblige, Loris purred.

McHugh started to retort, swung around and looked at the girl for a minute. He wished Loris wasn’t in such a she-cat mood, but he supposed she had sensed the restlessness in him. She had been his woman a long time—since the Berlin days. She had never complained when one of the phone calls from General Burton Harts took him away indefinitely. No warning ever preceded the calls; no explanation followed. And it had been almost four months this time. McHugh had spent the weeks running the side-street bar, waiting, wondering when and in what part of the world a situation would reach the point where the crusty brigadier would put the small, highly specialized net of unorthodox agents to work again. McHugh stifled a retort, knowing how the uncertainty that never seemed to end affected this woman who loved him.

Instead he said, This girl is alone. She’s frightened. She keeps watching the door. She’s got class, and she’s waiting for someone who hasn’t.

You’re sure about that.

If she was waiting for her own kind, she’d be at the Fairmont or the Clift.

He went over to the table, skidded a chair back and sat down. My name is McHugh. I’m one of the owners. What’s bothering you?

The girl’s fingers cupped around the snifter. She sipped, running the red tip of her tongue over her lips as she said, I—I’m probably being foolish. But this neighborhood makes me uncomfortable. I’d like to leave, but I promised... Her voice trailed off, and she was lighting another cigarette with fingers that trembled. Can I leave a message with you? A man will be coming in. He should have been here by now.

Sure. You want to write it down or just tell me?

Just say—no, I’d better write it.

I’ll get some paper. McHugh stood, moving aside as the butter-and-egg men, who seemed to have something to do with selling hardware, weaved their way past him toward the front of the bar. The one he’d grabbed gave him a dirty look.

The first man lurched and stumbled into the door. It gave an inch or two, then closed. McHugh heard a muttered oath, and the man straightened himself up and tried again. This time the door opened about a foot, then jammed and refused to move. The man put his head out into the rain, then pulled it back in.

Hey, bartender. You got some guy passed out here.

Oh? McHugh crossed the room as the smallest of the men clustered around the entrance squeezed through the gap.

Hey! This guy isn’t drunk! he shouted. Somebody stuck a knife in him. He looks dead!

McHugh broke into a run. He pushed the men aside and slammed a meaty shoulder against the heavy timbers of the door. He felt a sluggish weight yield, and the door was open.

The Federal men were moving into it, herding the others back inside. McHugh bent over the crumpled form. There was no question; the man was dead.

He had light brown hair, and a face that probably had been pleasant before someone shoved the heavy-handled knife into his belly. The knife had gone through a raincoat, and blood had seeped around the slit. McHugh saw the red spots trailing down the three steps that led to the street. They were flushing away in the rain. A dark green felt hat with a large feather in the band lay upside down near the man’s outstretched right hand. The knees were drawn up to the belly, and rain pelted into the open, glazing eyes.

The FBI men looked at McHugh, and one of them asked, Know him?

McHugh shook his head. Anybody calling the cops?

Jensen.

I don’t want any part of this. One of the hardware men was trying to squeeze past.

Murrell, the other FBI agent, caught his arm and showed him a badge. Sorry, sir. You’ll have to stay.

Somebody get on the back door, McHugh said.

The back— The second FBI man broke away from the group and hurried along the bar toward the entrance that opened on the alley in the rear.

McHugh went inside and found Loris in the crowd. His eyes swept the barroom, and he snapped, Where’s the girl?

I don’t know, Loris replied. She was at the table when I ran up here.

She’s not now. Check the can.

Loris hurried toward the rest-rooms. McHugh walked back of the bar, poured himself a shot of Scotch, drank it in a gulp and poured another. Jensen, the Treasury agent, was hanging the phone up when Loris came back.

She caught McHugh’s eye and shook her head.

Uh-huh, he said. Looks like that little gal was waiting for the victim of foul play. Makes me wonder.

What, McHugh? There was no irritation in her voice now.

Whether he’s the one she was waiting for. Or maybe the one she was afraid of. Or whether it’s the one who put the blade in him.

He slid a second shot glass across the bar and poured her a drink as a siren groaned over the surge of the storm.

CHAPTER 2

INSPECTOR KLINE stepped over the body and gazed with a sour expression at the assembly. He had the look of a man who has been summoned by the income tax man and asked to explain in detail his returns for the past five years.

I was afraid I’d find something like this, he said grimly. He was recalling previous encounters with McHugh. McHugh alone was bad enough, but McHugh with a body on his front stoop was intolerable. And when it was one of those things with the FBI involved, Kline fervently wished the chief would bust him out of Homicide and put him on a three-wheeler, where he could spend his declining years happily writing parking tickets.

McHugh and Nick Foote and Jim Murrell, the dour FBI team, seemed to delight in stepping in and crumbing up Kline’s cases. Now McHugh poured a mug of coffee and slid it across the bar toward the inspector.

Afraid of what, Inspector? McHugh said in a pleasant tone.

Kline made a growling sound deep in his throat, shoved his rain-splattered hat back on his head and gulped a mouthful of coffee. Gimme the story, he demanded. And make it good.

We can give you a body, McHugh told him. Not much in the way of a story. Just a stranger comes out of the night and gets taken dead with a dirk.

Just that and no more. Kline eyed McHugh, Murrell, Foote and Jensen grimly. It’s just a coincidence that the dump happened to be full of Federal types when the stiff arrives. Who is he? Give.

"We never saw him before. We don’t