by Jada M Davis
Ree sat down on the desk and smoked, keeping his eyes away from Baldy. A feeling of unease followed the thought of his trip across the back lot to hide the money.
Footprints? Doubtful. He shrugged the feeling away. Too dark to follow footprints tonight, and he could move the money before morning. The footprints could be explained away. He could say he’d been looking for the guy, the other guy, the one that got away.
Sirens.... A police car swept into the driveway at the front of the building, its siren screaming and red light blinking. The flood of lights went out, and three figures floated from the car to the front door. He slid off the desk and went to open the door.
Crowley, Wesley, and Johns stood there.
“What’s going on here, Ree?” Wesley asked.
“Well, it’s not a social gathering.”
“What’s happened?”
“Safe-cracking job, chum.” He was careful to keep his voice under control, fighting against tight anger.
“You got one of them.”
“That’s right.”
Wesley went into the office, switched on a light. He got down on his knees and peered at Baldy.
“Did one get away?”
“Yeah.” He didn’t know whether to go on answering questions. Maybe he should take charge.
“Know either one of them?” Wesley asked.
“No. Didn’t get a good look at the one that got away. Just a fast-moving shadow.” He laughed. “I mean fast. I got about three shots at him and might have made a hit, but can’t be sure. Caught this little dried up cuss in the office, though. He tried his best to gun me, but I was faster.”
“How’d you happen to be here?”
“I was on my way to see my girl.”
“Where’s she live?”
“What’s that got to do with it, Wesley?”
“Maybe a lot. Where’s she live, Lieutenant?”
“Thirty-three West Main.”
“Her name?”
“Laura Green— What the hell does this mean, Wesley?”
Wesley was taking notes. He didn’t look up. “You mean Legs Green.”
“Laura Green.”
“They call her Legs.”
“The name is Laura and you didn’t answer my question.”
“Look, Ree,” Wesley said. “You’re off duty. I’m on duty. It’s my job, see. So, if you’ll just answer my questions—”
“Shoot.”
Wesley turned to Johns. “Call the coroner and get an ambulance.”
“Want me to call Bronson?” Johns asked.
“No need. He’s about finished, anyway.”
Johns made the call. Wesley turned to Ree, his eyes betraying his inner excitement.
“Tell us what happened, Lieutenant.”
“Well, I was walking by—”
“And saw the men at work?”
Willa Ree suppressed a laugh. “No, Wesley,” he said. “With that front light on, it’s impossible to see back here from outside. I heard a noise.”
“How’d you get in?”
“I tried the front door and then I went around back. They’d jimmied a window. I slipped in and came up front. There were two of them in the office. The safe was open and they were bent over it. The little guy went for his gun and the other one ran. I got the little man and shot at the other.”
Wesley scratched at the pad with his pencil. “We’ll have a look around.”
They found the bar, picked it up carefully with a handkerchief, and examined the window. They forced the back door and surveyed the ground outside.
“Not much chance getting footprint impressions,” Wesley said. “The ground’s too hard.”
“Might look for blood,” Johns said.
“No use,” Wesley grunted. “Well, not much we can do here. It looks like you had a good night, Ree. Yeah. I’d say you had a good night.”
“In what way?”
Wesley shrugged.
“In what way?” Ree asked again.
“I only said you had a good night, Ree. Don’t make a federal case out of it.”
“Well, if you’re hinting at anything, Wesley, why don’t you search me?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Wesley said, stiffly. “You’re a lawman.”
“Just the same, chum. There are newspapermen present. I think you ought to search me.”
“I didn’t make any accusations, Ree. You’re wearing your feelings on your sleeve.”
“Just the same.”
Wesley smirked, and did the searching. He did a good job.
“Okay, Ree. You’re clean.”
Ree’s lips trembled, tightened back against his lips.
“I’m going now, Wesley. Since you’ve taken charge here you can finish the investigation. And be sure to search yourself before you leave.”
“You’d better wait until the coroner finishes in there.”
“O.K.”
He wasn’t going to give Wesley anything to think about. Or talk about.
The coroner was in a hurry to get back to bed, and finished his investigation in a few minutes. A reporter and photographer came from the Telegraph. They asked Ree to pose. He obliged.
“You’ll be a hero now, Ree,” Wesley said.
“I’m going now, Wesley. If it’s all right with you?”
“Go ahead. But you won’t leave town for a while, will you?”
Willa Ree swung around. He walked up to Wesley. Close. For a breath, a short breath, he stared into the man’s face. He smiled pleasantly.
His right hand chopped, side down, and the blow caught Wesley behind the left ear. Wesley slumped to the floor and Willa Ree rolled him over on his back with his foot.
“He’ll wake up in a minute, boys,” he said. “Maybe he’ll want his picture in the paper so he can be a hero.”
Johns cleared his throat. “What’re our orders?” he asked.
“Look around the back of the building. Better try for prints on the safe. See what you can find out about the dead man, and leave a report on my desk. I’ll want it first thing in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
And Willa Ree walked away.
“Hey!” It was the reporter calling. “You want a lift?”
“Thanks.”
He directed the boy to Laura’s apartment.
“I’ve gotta hurry back to the office,” the kid chattered. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we got out an extra.”
“Just over one dead safe-cracker?”
“Well, the town’s been on its ear for a long time about these burglaries,” the boy said. “The paper’s been running editorials.”
“Yeah. I know.”
The boy let him out, and drove away.
Willa Ree tried the door, but it was locked. He rapped.
“Who is it?”
“Open the door.”
Laura opened the door. Her hair was up in curlers and she wore a housecoat.
“Any time of the day or night,” she said. “Don’t bother to call. Let me guess. Let me dress and sit around wondering whether you’re coming or not.”
He took her in his arms....
He opened his eyes to darkness and felt smothered, hot and smothered and panicky. He lay still and felt the sweat start, felt his heart race and jump and gallop. His hand found warm flesh, and he knew it was Laura and was glad. He threw back the sheet and climbed out of bed, his fumbling fingers touching the table, groping for a cigarette and matches.
The brief flare of the match hurt his eyes.
It was two o’clock. He sat on the edge of the bed, sucked in smoke, and listened to Laura’s regular breathing.
She didn’t know.
His stomach, suddenly, was a ball of white fire. He went into the bathroom and was sick. He felt better then, and he splashed cold water on his face, the back of his neck.
He looked out the window and saw a man across the street, in the shadows, leaning against a telephone pole.
“Wesley!” he w
hispered. “The bastard knows.”
He dressed fumblingly, and rushed out of the house. He walked toward town, not daring to look back.
The shadow moved away from the post and followed.
Willa Ree walked past the Johnson Tool Company without slacking pace. His footsteps made a brisk clip-clop on the walk, and he heard an echoing clip-clop far in the rear.
An all night café flooded light into the street. A few cars were parked at the curb. He entered and had a cup of coffee. The shadow didn’t show.
Wesley would follow him to his room, he was sure. It would be too risky to head back to his money cache now. He cursed, bitterly, to himself.
One suspicious cop on an entire force, and he would get nosey tonight of all nights. He’s bucking for Chief, Ree thought, and too bad for me if he gets it, but he won’t get it by catching me, the bastard.
He reached the boardinghouse. In his room he flipped on the light, undressed and hung his clothes in the closet. He slid into pajamas and brushed his teeth. Turning off the light, he lay down on the bed.
An hour passed. He wanted a cigarette but didn’t dare strike a match, lest Wesley see through the window.
The second hour dragged. Must be getting on toward morning, not much time left.
He fumbled for his clothes and dressed in the dark, and in the dark groped his way down the hall and out the back door. He ducked under a clothesline and vaulted the fence. Instead of going down the alley he cut across yards, and emerged into the street at the far side of the block.
He began to run. For two blocks he ran. Turning left, he walked for one block, turned right and ran as fast as he could. He was puffing hard when he turned down the alley.
In the middle of the alley he climbed a fence and traversed a yard. A dog growled in the darkness, and a heavy weight hit the fence as he gained its top. Wearily, he dropped to the ground and began to trot.
He approached Johnson Tool from the north, crossing a lot and hitting the alley. In case guards had been posted, he dropped to his knees and crawled the alley’s length. Once he flattened out on his belly and waited, holding his breath, while a car rolled down the street. For an agonizing moment he thought the car was turning into the alley, but then it was gone and he was wrapped in friendly darkness.
On hands and knees he searched for the lid to the sunken water shutoff box. A tight smile pulled at his lips when his hands hit the lid. He lifted it and thrust both hands into the opening.
The package of money was gone!
Chapter Fifteen
Wesley was in the office when Willa Ree entered. He was smiling, showing teeth. There was a lump on his chin, red and blue tinged. “Good morning, Ree,” he said.
The guy was smart. Too smart to be surly over last night’s ruckus. Or maybe he was expecting something, planning something.
Ree pointed at the squad room where the entire force stood, backs to wall, waiting.
“Oh, them,” Wesley said. “The council is in session and said they had an announcement to make. Said for everybody to wait here except the men in the patrol cars.”
Ree grunted.
“They’re going to name the new chief,” Wesley said.
“And you expect the job.”
Wesley showed more teeth. “Well, I might take it. I could retire, though.” He winked. “I had a big night with the cards. Made a killing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Guess you could call me a wealthy man.”
“I could call you a thieving sonofabitch.”
“Pot calling the kettle black, Ree.”
“So you made yourself a haul.”
“And you did the dirty work, Ree.”
The office door opened. It was Morris, the city secretary. “Ree?”
“Yeah.”
“They want you in the council room.”
“Be right with you.”
Ree waited until Morris closed the door before turning back to Wesley.
“Wait for me,” he said, “and we’ll have a little talk.”
Wesley shrugged. “You want to make a proposition, but I’ll tell you now I won’t be interested. But I’ll be here, Chief.”
Willa Ree went to the door. “I’m not chief, yet.”
“You will be. Last night’s job put you over. But I can tear all that down when I get ready. Just remember that, if you’ve got any bright ideas. You slugged me last night.” He fingered the bruise on his chin. “I don’t forget easy.”
“You wait for me.”
Wesley laughed. “Course,” he said, “you could say I was well paid for that blow.”
Willa Ree went into the council room.
The councilmen sat around a large table, cigars and cigarettes between their fingers or between their lips. The mayor sat at the end of the table, heavy and pompous and prosperous. He introduced the members of the council, as if Willa Ree were a stranger: Halliday, France, Carter, Simpson, Mueller, Byrd.
Byrd looked tired, drawn, hang-overish. Unhappy, maybe. Or scared. His suit was well-cut, expensive, and he wore a flashy diamond. But his hair needed cutting and he could have used a shave. There were shadows under his eyes. He had a tiny black mustache, but his nose stuck out over it like a finger from a fist. He’d been drinking when Willa Ree had seen him last, and now, sober, he looked like another person.
“Ree,” the mayor said, “the council has voted you in as the new Chief of Police.” He rolled the title off his tongue as if the words were sacred.
“I accept,” Willa Ree said, “with pleasure.”
The mayor cleared his throat. “The council recommends that you retain Wesley as Captain of Police.”
“That’s all right with me.”
“We feel,” the mayor said, “that you have shown qualities of—ah—leadership that—ah—qualify you for—ah—leadership.”
“Thank you.”
“We—ah—want you to clean this town up, Ree! Too many—ah—burglaries around here lately; though—ah—you seem to have made a beginning, a good—ah—beginning on that already.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“We are all—ah—sure that you will—ah—do your best.”
“Thank you.”
“Well,” the mayor said, “that takes care of everything, then. Congratulations, Ree, and—ah—good luck.”
Ree shook hands with the mayor, with each of the councilmen, and left the room. He went directly to the squad room.
“Men,” he said, “the council has just named me as chief, replacing Chief Bronson who has—retired. Carry on your duties as before. Wesley is still captain. Dismissed.”
They buzzed excitedly as he left the room.
Wesley was waiting in the office. He was smoking, leaning back in the swivel chair with feet on the desk.
“Beat me out of a good job, Ree, and I’ll bet they didn’t even throw me a bone.”
“You’re still captain.”
Wesley’s lips tightened as he watched Ree fumble for a cigarette, strike a match on thumb, and light up.
“We could bury the hatchet,” Willa Ree said. “We could organize this town right.”
“Maybe.”
“Might make some money, real money.”
“I’m set for money now. Not that I couldn’t use more. Or, I could spill the dope about last night and get your job. Then I could organize things myself. It wouldn’t be hard to do, Ree. Just a whisper here and a whisper there in the right places. About you and the dead guy working together.”
“You forget something, Wesley. I was searched last night. That reporter saw me searched. Remember?”
“Just horsing,” Wesley said. “I was just horsing you.”
“Well, since we’re going to work together anyway, we might just as well make some money.”
“You’re so right.”
“We’ll talk it over tonight.”
“Where’ll I see you?”
“You got a car?”
“Yeah.”
“Wel
l,” Willa Ree said, “pick me up out front about nine.”
“O.K.”
“And now, let’s get some work done.” He grinned at Wesley and walked into the chief’s private office.
He couldn’t eat.
That damned Wesley. Damned chiseler, long-nosed chiseler, poking into my business—damn him!
He tried to think.
No use crying over spilled milk, but forty thousand dollars is a hell of a long way from being spilled milk. Wesley could offer to split, at least.
And he wants to work with me. Can I trust him? No. Hell, no.
If he’s bad enough to keep the forty grand, he’s bad enough to double-cross me later. And he’s smart. He was smart enough to figure where I hid the dough, or he followed my tracks, and that makes him too smart to suit me.
But I’ll give him a chance. I’ll ask him to give me half the dough. If he does, O.K. If he doesn’t....
He took a bite of steak, chewed slowly, and drank some coffee.
If he splits—which he probably won’t, maybe—I’d better skip. But that would leave him in the driver’s seat, with the dough. And he’d send the hounds after me. Anyway, this is my oyster. My own personal in my pocket oyster, and I’m going to suck it dry and spit out the seeds. And no two-bit copper from the sticks is going to scare me off.
He took another bite of steak.
He read the Telegraph in his room. They’d given the police shake-up a three-column spread on page one, and they’d given him a big play.
He threw the paper on the floor.
There was another paper on the bureau, the Traveler.
He picked it up and scanned it. On the second page was an “Around Town” column. And, beneath the column heading, in bold type, was the question: “WHO IS WILLA REE???”
The writer asked the reader questions about Willa Ree.
“Where did Willa Ree come from? What police experience and background has he? Why did he come into town by slow freight?”
The string of burglaries and safe-crackings were traced... dated.
“More burglaries in three months than the town’s had in ten years,” the article trumpeted.
It bothered him, that article. It would start people thinking, asking questions. Of themselves and others.