The Frank Dunn Murder Case

Broadways, my beat, from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the godiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Broadways, my beat, with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. The summer evening flows gently over Broadway, and the carousel sounds of the street's carnival begin.

The brazen trumpet screams, calling the believers to the basement sanctuaries at a dime a prayer. The barkers of the night shout their spiel into passing ears, And the rustle of perfume silk rides the June wind.

You're shoved and pushed and mauled. And there's no bitterness because the taste of night melts in your mouth. You ride the rides, walk the midway, toss the hoop to win the cubby. You try not to notice the plucking at your sleeve.

But finally you turn. Your palm is crossed with violence. You hold onto it until the man in the tweet jacket and the grey flannel slacks takes it away from you. Gives death back to the other man, its owner.

brawled across the silk sheets of his bed, the blood from his bullet wound draining the sleep out of him. And because blood like that can stay in the reputation of an exclusive apartment hotel, the man in tweed makes a suggestion.

I offer it in all modesty, Mr. Clover. A mere suggestion. This can be... What, Mr. Tracy? What can it be? Handle discreetly, of course. You can do that. You have the power, the know-how. Keep it out of the papers.

Treat the frightful mess with velvet gloves. Anything else? Nothing more I can think of at the moment, not that I can bring to mind that the snap of your fingers. That's good. Now you can do something for me.