Nightfall by David Goodis

you?”
      “May I know whom I'm speaking to?”
      “Hansen. Homicide. What's on your mind?”
      Vanning repeated the self-introduction he had given to the first voice. He said, “We'd like to do a feature story on a murder that took place in Denver some time ago.”
      “That's not telling me much.”
      “Eight months ago.”
      “Solved?”
      “That's what we don't know. We got the shreds of it from hearsay.”
      “Any names?”
      “No,” Vanning said. “That's why I'm calling. We don't have any record of it in our files. But from what we've picked up, it's one of the sensational things.”
      “Is that all you can tell me?”
      Vanning stared at the wall beyond the telephone and told himself to hang up. This was a crazy move. It was packed chock-full of risk. If he stayed on the phone too long, if he made one slip they would trace the call. Maybe they were tracing it already. He couldn't understand why he was staying on the phone. For a moment he wanted them to trace the call, he wanted them to nab him, once and for all, get the entire affair over with, one way or another. In the following moment he told himself to hang up and walk out of the drugstore and leave the neighborhood. But something kept him attached to the phone. He didn't know what it was. His mind was filled with an assortment of jugglers and they were dropping Indian pins all over the place.
      He said, “We know the victim was a man. The killer was identified, but he got away.”
      “Wait a minute. I'll have a look at the files.”
      Vanning lit a cigarette. The quiet phone was like an ocean without waves. He blew smoke into the mouthpiece and watched it radiate. The minute went by. Another minute went by. And a third. And a fourth. The operator was in there for a few seconds, and Vanning told her to come in at the end of the call and tell him what he owed the phone company. Then the phone was quiet again. And another minute went by.
      And then the voice from Denver went on again, saying, “Maybe this is it. You there?”
      “I'm listening.”
      “Eight months ago. A man named Harrison. Shot and killed a few blocks away from the Harlan Hotel. Suspect a man named James Vanning. Still at large.”
      “That's it.”
      “What about it?”
      “Can you give me anything?”
      “Nothing you could build into a story. But then again I'm not in the newspaper business.”
      “Anything at all.”
      “Listen if it's this important, why don't you send a man down?”
      “We will, if I think the thing can be shaped into something.”
      “I doubt it, but you'll be paying good money for the call. You want to take it down?”
      “I'm ready. Shoot.”
      “Harrison, Fred. Record of six arrests. Served time for robbery. Arrested on a murder charge in 1936 but case thrown out of court for lack of evidence. On probation at time he was murdered. From there on we're in the dark. No motive. No trace of the suspect.”
      “You sure about your suspect?”
      “No doubt about it. Fingerprints on the gun. Vanning's car parked near the Harlan Hotel. Vanning registered at the Harlan Hotel under the name of Dilks, along with two other men.
      “Their names?”
      “Smith and Jones. You can see what we have to work with.”
      “Anything more on Vanning?”
      “He was spotted with Harrison in the lobby of the hotel. About ten minutes before the murder. Someone piped them leaving the hotel together. That was the last time he was seen.”
      “Try to stay with him,” Vanning said. “I don't promise anything definite, but we may be able to dig up a few facts you can use. Try to give me more on the man.”
      “There isn't much to give. On the face of it, we'd