by Jerry eBooks
There had been a muffled yelp at the very start and then nothing. After that the bundle seemed to relax slightly and the spread started to soak up red, like a blotter.
Hayssen stared at the quiet bundle in disbelief. It had happened so suddenly, without a moment’s warning. And Jock—
Jock.
He made it to the bathroom just in time. He stayed there a while, then thought of Jock and forced himself to go back in the bedroom. The bundle was still there, stained and relaxed looking. He got a book and threw at it. Nothing happened. He came closer and wriggled a corner of the fabric loose.
It had silvery threads of something running through it, threads j that were probably made of some sort of spring steel. But a spring steel like nothing he had ever known. The spread had been set, like a web to react when something fell on it or touched it.
Or sat on it, to take off its shoes and socks.
He felt sick again, with the sickness of sheer, horrible fright.
Something like himself.
The phone call had been on the level then. Somebody had been in the apartment and rigged it for him. Jock knew something was wrong and had tried to tell him when he came home.
The phone call wasn’t altogether right, though. He didn’t have a liquor cabinet.
Hayssen felt a cold shiver go down his spine.
No, he didn’t have a regulation liquor cabinet. He used the storage space in his radio cabinet that was meant to hold phonograph records. It was neatly fitted out with glasses and a bottle opener and a few bottles of cheap Scotch and fixings.
He went into the living room and inspected the radio cabinet. There was nothing on the outside that indicated anything was wrong.
He got a coat hanger, one of the wire kind, from the clothes closet and untwisted the top and straightened it out. He formed a little hook on one end of it and wriggled open the door of the cabinet while he stood to one side.
There was a thin, violet, fanshaped dare of light that streamed at an upward angle from the open cabinet. Then something on the inside gurgled-and died in a flash of reddish flame.
At first nothing in the room seemed touched.
An end table had been in the path of the flash and Hayssen went over and inspected it. There was a thin, fine line cut diagonally through the top. He touched the table and it shivered slightly and fell in two along the cut line. The cut surface was as smooth as the surface of a Johansen Gauge block.
His hat had been on the table and he picked it up. It was cut, too, on a diagonal line that went from the hatband through the crown.
The beam had fanned out and cut slightly into the wall facing it. A picture lay on the sofa. The beam had cut the wires that held it.
Hayssen stood in front of the cabinet and looked down. The bottles had been shoved toward the back and a tiny piece of apparatus had been placed in the cleared space.
There was nothing left of the apparatus now but a fused lump of metal.
He made an estimate and bent over, like he would if he was going to open the cabinet.
The beam would have caught him right at the neckline.
He sat on the sofa and thought over the events of the day before he had come home. There was only one that stood out.
Flaherty and his vial of radioactive water that was supposed to guarantee good health and long life. Maybe Lehman or one of his associates wasn’t anxious that he should be looking into their affairs.
But then, they weren’t supposed to know about it yet, either.
He went to the cabinet and got himself a tumbler of whisky. Somehow, they had known that he was going to investigate them. Somehow he had become dangerous to Lehman and his mob.
But how had they known that he was after them? How?
Naturally.
Flaherty’s very pretty—and very curious—secretary. She had listened in on the conversation. She was the only one besides Flaherty and himself who knew what he was after.
And there was the phone call he had received. A feminine voice, even though it was husky, muffled by the old gag of placing a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.
A feminine voice with an accent, he recalled. An accent like Catherine Cooper’s.
There was a C. Cooper listed in the telephone book and he dialed the number. She was home.
His voice was ragged and he made a mess of asking for a date.
She was coy. What made him think she didn’t have a date? Besides, and her voice became frosty, she was sure he wouldn’t like going out with a girl who was addicted to eavesdropping.
He hated to use it but this time it was true.
“Cathy, I have to see you! It’s a matter of life and death!”
Whose, she wanted to know.
“Mine! And I’m strictly on the level.”
On second thought, she’d be glad to go to dinner since she hadn’t eaten yet. She had been busy washing a pair of stockings. Any place would be O.K.
He put down the receiver with a relieved feeling. She hadn’t eaten yet. And she hadn’t been preparing a meal for somebody else.
For what it was worth, Catherine Cooper wasn’t married.
She was wearing a blue nylon dress and a short, gray fur coat. They went real well with her blue, eyes and soft, shoulder length blond hair.
Hayssen noted that she seemed to approve of everything. He supposed that she had been expecting one of those cozy little neighborhood cafes that specialize in red table cloths and homemade spaghetti.
He hoped that she was cheerfully disappointed. It was a high-class chromium-plated place that specialized in red leatherette booths, thick steaks, a small floor show, and high prices.
It was just the place to oil up a secretary if you wanted some information.
It was also just the place, he realized, to make a hit with a pretty blonde.
After they had eaten, he got down to business.
“What do you know about Arthur Lehman?” he asked casually.
Her face was vacant.
“Am I supposed to know something about him?
She was pretty, Hayssen thought. She had a quick wit and a nice figure and even had a vaguely planned place in his future.
She had also listened in on his conversation with the mayor about Arthur C. Lehman. And shortly after that, somebody had tried to kill him in several ingenious ways.
“I’ll refresh your memory,” he said stiffly. “I had a talk with hizzoner today about something that one Arthur C. Lehman sold him. You listened to that conversation. When I got home tonight somebody tried to kill me. I’m just smart enough to think there’s a connection between you and Lehman and that you tipped him off that I was interested in him.
“How’s that? Good enough for a first try?”
She hadn’t changed her expression.
“All right—I listened. But only if you say so.”
She was going to play dumb, he thought, and deny everything.
It’s not my own life so much, Lathy, it’s other people’s too. Lehman is no pitchman peddling flukum and ink sticks on the street corner. Sure, it might be just a political plot. But Lehman might have approached other people on it. Do you think it’s right to play on a person’s fear of death and disease to bilk them out of a thousand dollars at a crack? So Flaherty can afford it. There might have been others who couldn’t.”
The life-is-grim, life-is-earnest routine might get more out of her than trying to face her down, Hayssen thought.
Her face was impassive.
“Do you feel as sorry as this for the people who buy silver polish and fountain pens from your pitchman?”
“Look,” he said. “I used to have a little Scottish terrier at home named Jock. He was a friendly dog and because I fed him every night and took him for walks in the park, he grew to like me. He liked me so much the mutt gave his life trying to protect me. He didn’t have a chance. Right now he’s a crushed bundle of gristle and blood and fur.
“And if I had felt like a drink when I first came home toni
ght, the coroner would have thought the French Revolution had taken place in my apartment.”
Her eyes were questioning and he gave her the whole brutal story of what had happened. He was pleading with her, he realized, something he hadn’t planned to do. Her face was a picture of conflicting emotions and he tried to press his point.
“Cathy, when I called up tonight and you answered the phone and heard my voice, I thought you sounded a little relieved. Like you were glad I was calling. Like you were glad I was still alive.”
She sipped her drink quietly. Hayssen stared at her grimly and then on impulse reached over and took her purse before she could object. He went through the contents very quickly and found what he wanted, loosely crumpled in a corner. He had figured Out that she would be in a hurry and forget to check little details. He had been correct.
He took the handkerchief and placed it on the table. It was a clean handkerchief and had a faint circle indented on it, with little wrinkles running out from the circle’s edge.
“Thanks anyway for calling. You saved my life. You see, I recognized your voice even though muffled by a handkerchief. You’ve got a cute accent that’s hard to disguise.”
There was a sudden fear in her eyes, he thought, and a touch of pity.
“Why don’t you leave it alone, Don? You can call Flaherty and turn down the assignment. Give him back his vial and tell him you’re not interested in finding Lehman. Couldn’t you do it, Don? For me?”
Hayssen’s lip curled. It sounded like the punch line in a B movie.
“If you want to help me so much, why not tell me what it’s all about?” he urged. “You’re too nice a girl to be mixed up with guys like Lehman.”
Her face mirrored the fighting that was going on inside her.
“I would like to but I can’t. I can’t!”
He picked up the check.
“You can play it that way if you want but to me it’s as thin as a bowl of restaurant soup. You know something and you won’t tell me. Too bad Jock didn’t feel the same way.”
He walked out. He didn’t look back.
He went home and dug in the back yard for a while and then spent the rest of the night in the local Y.M.C.A. He didn’t sleep well; Jock and Flaherty and Cathy haunted his sleep.
The next day he went downtown and called the local branch of the Better Business Bureau. They had never heard of Arthur C. Lehman, Longevity Expert. He tried several headings under health and old age and pulled a blank there, too.
By one o’clock he was in the City Hall outside the license bureau, waiting for the public servants to come back from lunch.
At one thirty he had littered the marble floor with cigarette butts.
Five minutes later a short, pudgy character in his late forties showed up, stared at the butt-littered floor in disapproval, and reluctantly opened up the license window for Hayssen’s benefit.
Hayssen flashed a tin badge and tried to look official.
“Didja ever issue a license to a guy named Arthur C. Lehman. He’s a”—Hayssen studied the card as if it had just been handed to him a few minutes before—“longevity expert, whatever that is.”
“Long what?”
Hayssen spelled it out and the pudgy man disappeared for a moment. He came back shaking his head and looking relieved that Hayssen would leave now.
Hayssen didn’t.
“Try under Health then.”
It was just a guess that Lehman might be running a health salon of some kind at the address he had given.
The pudgy man came back this time with a piece of paper, heavily stamped and certified. Hayssen reached for it but the pudgy man held it back.
“I’m not so sure you have the authority—”
Hayssen took the cigarette out of his mouth and stared at him as if he had just crawled out from under a rock.
“Do ya like your job here, Charlie? Ya know ya could be obstructin’ justice and—”
The pudgy man bleated and handed over the license without any more argument.
The license didn’t say much, just authorizing one Arthur C. Lehman to run a health salon at such and such an address. A photograph of Lehman was attached. It was not an unusual face. You could run into it three times a day and it would never stick in your mind. Rather thin, balding, pleasant face. Glasses.
There was an affidavit attached to it that gave a little more information. He had done business in a suburb before this. The same suburb that was listed as his home town. A Martin Green, of the same town, was down as a reference.
Hayssen handed the certificates back, grunted a “thanks” and left.
The suburb was an old German settlement; old homes and a lot of taverns with. German names. The address listed for reference was on a shady side street. The gingerbreading on the outside dated the house as having been built before the turn of the century.
There was a separate entrance for Martin Green. Hayssen walked up the stairs and leaned against the buzzer.
The character who answered the bell was portly and dignified with the type of pompous face that usually graces a bank board meeting. He was all decked out in a bathrobe and slippers and harrying the afternoon paper in his hands.
“Something I can do for you?” His voice wasn’t overly friendly and it carried a slight accent.
Hayssen flashed his badge again and then abruptly wished he hadn’t. Green looked like he might be the type who would insist on seeing credentials.
“Just a little checking I would like to do; nothing serious.”
“Certainly. Come right in and make yourself comfortable.” He was being nice to Authority, Hayssen thought. Authority always played on the side of people like Green anyway.
Hayssen walked in and found an easy-chair to sit in. He looked around the apartment while Green was picking some papers off of another chair. The room was rather modern in style. Blond furniture, a brand-new radio-television set. Expensive wall hangings. All in all a rather modern room that had become comfortable through use.
“Sorry to have to trouble you,” he started, “but I’m looking for information about an Arthur Lehman. What kind of business he’s been in, what kind of”—he coughed discreetly—“credit rating he might have. You see, I’m in the—”
Green held up a genial hand. “You don’t need to explain further, Mr. . . . ah . . . Mr.—”
“Hayssen.” He pronounced it very carefully. It wouldn’t hurt to give his name. If Green insisted on a check, it might stand him in good stead to give the same name that was on his driver’s license.
“Well, you hardly need to worry about Lehman. He’s a very intelligent man when it comes to handling money.”
“I rather wondered about his standing in the community, Air. Green. You know, if he’s done business here before and what kind of a reputation he’s had.”
“Oh yes, Art’s been established in this community for a long time. Excellent health business, very good organizer. As I understand it, the businessmen around here thought very highly of him. Member of the Elks and the Masons. Very good man.”
Hayssen beamed. “Well, that’s the kind of information I like to get hold of, Mr. Green,” he lied. “You’ve been a big help to me, a big help. It’s nice to be able to finish up the business so soon.”
Green was on his feet, holding open the front door. “Anything to be of service, Mr. Hayssen. You’ll never go wrong backing Arthur Lehman.”
That’s what you say, Hayssen thought.
They shook hands and he left.
It was queer, Hayssen thought. So neat a reference that actually wasn’t a reference at all. And it was nice that Green had been home that afternoon. Of course, maybe he had shift work. Except a guy like Green wouldn’t be working in a factory.
And Green himself. A character right out of Sinclair Lewis’ “Babbitt.” But why should a guy like Green be renting a tiny apartment in an old run-down house?
Green looked like the type of guy who should own the whole block.
&
nbsp; An hour later Hayssen was sure the afternoon was going to be filled with unpleasant surprises.
The local Chamber of Commerce had no record of Lehman.
The Elks had never heard of him. Neither had the Masons.
The local grammar and high schools had no record of him.
Hayssen went back to Green’s address. There was no answer to the buzzer. He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked harder.
“What do you want? What are you making so much noise for?”
An elderly lady with a heavy German accent had opened the door downstairs and was peering up the dimly lighted hallway.
“I want to see Mr. Green,” Hayssen said.
“No Mr. Green lives here.” Her voice was flat. “I think you have the wrong address.”
“But I just talked to him a couple of hours ago!”
She came up the stairs, slippers making a slapping sound on the treads.
“I tell you that Mr. Green doesn’t live here! Maybe a month ago a Mr. Green came around and rented the apartment but he never moved in.” She shrugged. “I do not understand it at all. But he paid good money and we’ve let it go vacant thinking he might come any day, but so far he hasn’t.”
She squinted at him closely. “Maybe you would like to see the apartment? Maybe you would like to rent it for yourself?”
She put the key in the lock and then hesitated again. “It is not furnished, however. We didn’t have enough furniture to put in this apartment too.”
Hayssen felt his skin turn clammy. Not furnished.
But Green had had a lot of modern furniture and rugs and wall hangings!
The old lady was saying something. “The size of the room doesn’t matter to you, does it?”
“Size?”
She was fiddling with the key. “Mr. Green said he wouldn’t rent it if it was any smaller than fourteen by sixteen feet.”
The door swung open and her hand found the wall switch and flicked it.
The room was as empty as his hopes. The plastered walls were bare and a small leak in the roof had discolored the ceiling. There was no sign of a carpet or any furniture.