Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

He nodded somberly. “Looks that way. He’s got long eyeteeth. Ain’t that why you stopped laughing a minute ago when I mentioned the nickname?”

“I... I — suppose so,” Olga stammered, torn between telling him the truth and a desire to soften its impact. “I didn’t really notice them too much, darling.”

“I did. When he was talking to you at the bar before the ten o’clock show tonight, I was watching you through there.” He motioned toward a circular glass peephole in the office wall that overlooked the nightclub below. “When he smiled at you, and showed those teeth, that’s when I remembered this thing in yesterday’s paper.” He lapsed into silence, gnawing gloomily at a fingernail.

“He told me he was a kind of a newspaper man,” Olga said eagerly. “And anyway, why do you need to worry? You haven’t stepped out of line, have you?”

Paoli seemed to make up his mind. “Go back downstairs,” he said. “And if he’s still around, ask him to come up here and see me. Ask him real nice, baby.”

Incredulously, she said, “You’re sending for him? If he’s really Dubrowski, you’re asking for trouble, Vergil.” She gave him a long look. “Aren’t you?”

“Send him up,” Paoli said.

When she had gone, he took an unsigned telegram from his desk drawer and read it through again. The message, handed in at Chicago that afternoon, was addressed to him at The Club Gala and read:

NEIGHBOR REPORTS YOUR ENCROACHMENT OVER PROPERTY LINE. ADVISE PROMPT, REPEAT, PROMPT SETTLEMENT BEFORE LAWSUIT BECOMES NECESSARY.

Paoli was sweating heavily now. His hand, holding the telegram, trembled a little. When the knock came on his office door a few minutes later, he went over and opened it himself.

Thomas seemed even taller and more gangling close-up than at a distance. He was young. He had light blue, glacially-cold eyes that showed nothing of his thoughts whatever. His right hand was in the side pocket of his jacket.

At Paoli’s invitation, he took a seat. “I’m Thomas,” he said. “You’re Paoli, I guess? Olga said you’d like to talk to me about something.”

Paoli hid his nervousness well. He offered Thomas a cigar which was declined. A Scotch-on-the-rocks, mixed by Paoli at a tiny bar in a corner of the office, met with a kinder reception. Thomas sipped at it impassively and waited.

Paoli could see no virtue in beating about the bush. He said, “You ain’t Thomas. You’re Dubrowski. Am I right?”

Thomas raised his eyebrows but his eyes didn’t change expression. “Wrong,” he said. “I’m Thomas while I’m in Demmlertown. Sandy Thomas.”

“Let’s not kid around,” Paoli said. “You’re from Chicago, Dubrowski. From the Brotherhood.”

“Call me Thomas,” the other said, a hint of iron in his voice. “I want you to know that I’m a reporter on the Demmlertown”... he stretched his neck to read the bannerhead on the newspaper on Paoli’s desk... “the Demmlertown Herald. That’s my paper, right there. I’m a legitimate local citizen, Vergil.”

Paoli winced. Nobody called him by his fancy name but Olga. Its use by this cold-eyed killer set his teeth on edge. He said, “I suppose you got to have a cover name, any town you’re in. A real name to hide behind. But you’re still Dubrowski.”

“No. I keep telling you I’m not.” Thomas seemed amused. “Why don’t you call up the paper and ask them?”

Paoli shrugged at this transparent evasion.

“I mean it,” Thomas said. “Go ahead. Call them, just for kicks. It will show you how I work.”

Paoli picked up the telephone on his desk and asked the Club’s switchboard girl to get him the Demmlertown Herald. Thomas could hear the tinny voice of the newspaper operator when she answered.

Paoli said into the phone, “You got a reporter on the Herald named Sandy Thomas?”

“Certainly we have,” said the operator promptly. “Who is this calling? Do you wish to be connected?”

“No.” Paoli’s eyes switched to Thomas’ face. “This is the Credit Bureau calling. What does Thomas look like?” He thought he might as well press it; maybe he could lean on Dubrowski a little if the description didn’t fit.

“Some Credit Bureau!” the girl said. “Do you know it’s eleven o’clock at night, Mister? Why don’t you quit for the day? If you really want to know, Thomas is a doll! His credit’s good with me, any time!” She snickered.

“Wait,” said Paoli, trying again. “Is Thomas there at the paper right now?”

“Of course. I asked if you wanted to be connected, Mister...”

“Thanks.” Paoli hung up. “Twins you are,” he said to Thomas with a faint feeling of triumph.

“She doesn’t always know when we’re out on a story,” Thomas said, unmoved. His lips curved in a humorless smile. “I like to be thorough,” he said. “I don’t take any chances. I’ve got all the bases covered before I go to work on any job like this.”

“Like this?”

“That’s what I said.”