Long Live the Dead by Hugh B. Cave

said.
    Bill fumbled in his pocket and slapped a half dollar into the boy’s hand. “Here. Throw a Times-Herald on his porch, too. And give me one.”
    The boy gaped and said: “Sure. Thanks, mister.”
    “Been over by Fern’s Pet Shop yet?”
    “That ain’t on my route.”
    Bill snatched the paper, looked both ways for a cab, swore under his breath, and ran down the sidewalk. Five minutes later, at the corner of Matthew Fern’s street, he saw more newsboys climbing down from a truck and catching bundles of papers that a man heaved out to them. He exhaled slowly and stopped to light a cigarette. Then he grinned. Farther down the street a wide shouldered man with a derby was waddling along on big feet. The man was Macy.
    Bill strolled towards Fern’s Pet Shop, ambled past, and glanced inside. Fern was talking to a customer. Edwin Krauss was on hands and knees among an assortment of wire cages. Bill strolled past again and casually tossed his Times-Herald on the sidewalk, in the doorway. A moment later the door opened, the customer came out, and Matthew Fern picked up the paper.
    The shop was midway between the ends of a one-story block. Bill ran to one end of the block, plunged down an alley, strode along a cement walk at the rear. The back door of the shop was locked; so was the rear window. Bill hauled out a clasp-knife, finger-nailed the blade open, poked the point into the door-lock, and slapped the heel of the knife sharply with his palm. He opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door quietly.
    The room was dark; the door leading into the shop was closed. Bill tiptoed past a mound of empty boxes, squatted with one eye to the keyhole, and saw Matthew Fern standing near the counter, staring nearsightedly at a spread newspaper. Krauss was wiping birdcages with a white rag.
    Fern laid his newspaper down and walked along behind the counter. The front door opened, and he stopped. Macy came in. Macy and Fern stared at each other, and Fern took a step backward. Macy said: “Hello, Fern,” put one hand in his coat pocket, strode to Krauss, and said: “You’re wanted, Krauss. You’re comin’ with me.”
    “What for?” Krauss said, staring.
    “Never mind that. Come on.”
    Krauss said in a shrill voice: “But I haven’t done anything! I—”
    “Come on.”
    Krauss continued to stare, then mumbled: “All right. I’ll—come.” Without looking at Fern he walked slowly behind the counter, took his hat from underneath, and paced stiffly to the door. Macy strode out behind him.
    Fern peered at the door. He took the newspaper, unfolded it, and bent over it again, fingering his cheek. He looked at the door again, frowning, then paced quickly to the rear of the shop.
    Bill flattened against the wall just in time. The door creaked open. Fern entered, pushed the door shut quickly, stood blinking in the semi-dark. He began to mutter to himself, then groped nervously along the rows of shelves. In the far corner he pushed aside some empty cardboard cartons and tin cans, reached his whole arm behind them, and stepped back, holding a roll of newspaper. He pawed the newspaper apart, took a knife out of it, and stared at the knife intently, still muttering. He jerked a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the hilt and blade of the knife carefully, and rewrapped the knife in the crumpled newspaper. Reaching up, he moved the empty cartons back into place. Again muttering, he thrust the newspaper into his pocket and started towards the door which led to the back alley.
    “Thanks, Fern,” Bill said. “You’re a big help.”
    Fern spun around and stood rigid, and Bill paced quietly into the open. Fern took a step backward, stopped, and stood rigid again, eyes wide, mouth twisted. His fingers clawed the newspaper in his pocket.
    “I’ll take that,” Bill said. “Then we’ll go for a walk, mister. A long walk. Your own fault. You shouldn’t believe all you read in the papers.”
    Fern said: “What are you talking