The Eleanor Corbett Murder Case

The moon's the most mild in the world. It is my beast with Larry Sore as detective Danny Clover. The special moon over Broadway. To the laughter of a clack of heels, and the lights flung downwards in the spectaculars.

And occasionally people notice it and squeeze somebody's hand, point at it, wink at it, and walk into whatever shadow that slams for the night. The moon holds briefly, rides its long, slow, curved, cross-town, then rides the river.

Broadway's happier. I was in the land of the tenement, the district of the rap and the low rent, the moon completed, stranded rapidly. That's why the light had to be furnished by the city. Specifically the spotlight from the squad car parked in the alley, cutting the darkness out of the backyard.

The smoke from Detective Muggarman's figure act curls up into a key point, too. Right there, Danny. I was not too long ago. Could be suicide, do you think? No, no, I don't. If Curl Feller was pushed, neck broken, see?

The attitude of the body. Yeah, I saw it. That's why I said maybe suicide. Women don't pick back yards of tenemone houses, Mugamam. You register in high glance hotels or find a bridge, you know that.

Yeah, most of them, Danny. Not all. And take a look. Another one here. This girl died instantly. These bruises were from the beating. And she got thrown, huh? I'd say so. Who is she? I can't tell no identification, Danny.

I'd say she was about 22, huh? But take care of the technical boys when they get here, Mugamamam. I'll get back to you later. Those of mouths a lit window, like yellow posters, piled one on top of the other against the foot-drammed tenement walls.