“A new poem?”
“A new nightie.” She patted her handbag.
We reached my place safely enough. No front ends came loose, no brakes failed. I tipped the cabbie, we moved up to the front door and I unlocked it with the silly, out-dated key. I turned on lights. We stepped inside.
I stiffened—a different odor in my rooms. Or was it imagination?
“What is it, Mark?”
“Probably nothing. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
She was sticking close beside me. I moved into the living room, looked around carefully. No muddy footprints, no cigarette butts, no handkerchiefs. I went through the other rooms, poked in closets. Nothing. Maybe I was getting spooky.
The back door was locked, as I’d left it. Blinds down.
“Mark, has somebody been here—while we were gone?”
“I wish I knew, cutie. But everything looks shipshape, so let us relax.”
She eased onto the daveno, crossing her legs.
“Are you afraid, Marie?”
“Not now, really. But I was, for a minute—” She flicked on my radio. She turned out one lamp. “Come here, Mark. We were going to be frivolous—”
I sat down and we were frivolous.
For several minutes all I could hear was music on the radio and the old radiators popping.
“—honey, it unzips here…”
I unzipped. She slithered out of the dress, posing for me. Her slip was bright red, so were the bra and panties. Then she removed the bra and began running her hands over her breasts. When the nipples were erect and pulsing, she cupped her hands under them and offered them to me.
“Wild,” I said.
She laughed. “I think the nightie’ll be more wild, Mark…”
She never made it into the nightie.
* * * *
By the time the cab driver had returned me to the bungalow, it was 2:30 in the morning. I had seen her safely home. I should have felt elated and lightheaded, but it was time to quit kidding myself. I was getting the shakes.
Something had happened to take the glow out of what should have been a perfect evening. An odor, a suspicion, a feeling.
Marie had been sweet and understanding, eager to please. And I had pleased her, tempted her, awakened her and given her what we both needed—but for me it had gone unshared. I think she knew it and understood. These young gals nowadays are very grown up, you know.
This bastard of a tormenter had notched another victory.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The next morning at nine I plugged in and called Riley. He was waiting.
“It’s all set up, Jason.”
“Good.”
He told me which used car lot to visit, the license number of the chosen vehicle. I said I’d call a cab and be down to take care of it.
I dressed for the weather, which was a dirty overcast. I remembered his mention of an item in the paper, so I went through my copy of the Herald. It was a news brief on the back page, nice and prominent.
It said I was driving to Grangemont this evening to visit a friend who was very ill. It looked so neat in type I nearly believed it myself. Grangemont was ninety miles away, in the heart of a big sawmill and farming community, and one section of the only road leading to it from Layton was a tricky six-mile grade climbing steeply for over fifteen hundred feet. No guard rails.
At the used car lot I wandered around like a regular tire-kicker. A salesman came along and got some practice. He had trouble repeating my name, so I figured he wasn’t in on the plan.
Finally I returned to the right car, a nice little 1950 Ford V-8, four-door, light cream color. I got in and started the motor, liking the sound of it. The guy made his pitch. I tried the gears and clutch, was assured that everything worked, a young mechanic had just traded it in, it had just been overhauled and they’d give me a 30-day warranty. I said it looked okay and we went in the office.
I asked for the sales manager and gave him the slip of paper Riley had passed to me at the supper club. He nodded agreeably, papers were signed, keys handed over. Altogether it had taken about an hour.
Driving back to the apartment, I discovered the Ford had plenty of go, the overdrive worked and the brakes had been touched up. I liked the feel of it right away. New seat covers, new floor mats. When I got my insurance dough from the last one I decided I’d try to make a deal for it.
I parked it in front of my abode, went inside and called Riley.
“Okay. The car’ll be watched until you’re ready to pull out. I figure you ought to wait till about six or so, when it’s good and dark. If this nut tries anything, it’ll probably be before you get too far out of town.”
I nodded vocally.
“Stop for gas at Mel’s Service—you know where that is?”
“Yes”
“Leave the rest to me.” He gave me a few more things to do.
“Little melodramatic, isn’t it?”
“So help me, this is no laughing matter, Jason.”
“The sound you hear is not laughter.”
He cut the connection and I unjacked the telephone. I had a smoke and wandered about aimlessly. Finally I went back outside, like any owner of a ‘new’ car, and looked it over again. Maybe I was a little suspicious, too.
Pretty soon I knew why it had been so jazzy. Two double-barrel carbs, a Mallory coil, new plugs and ignition wiring. And twin pipes. This thing would take off like a shot if I needed to.
I went back inside, fixed something to eat, made more coffee and waited. I looked out of my windows. The valley was clear of smog and it could stay that way if it liked. Henry’s little house under the hill was dark.
Did you ever try to kill five nervous hours? I’d been told to stay inside, and ordinarily I’d have found a good book and settled right down. There was a dandy around somewhere on the Pleistocene era that I wanted to digest—but I couldn’t get interested.
Small unpleasant segments of the more recent past kept crawling around in my dome—like Angela Stein, Louise Schmidt and Fay Simmons. All cold in the ground.
At six o’clock I turned out the lights, picked up a small overnight case, empty, locked the doors and sauntered out to the pride of Detroit. The street lamp marking the end of the street seemed much too dim and too far away. The usual hum of traffic from down on Main, the usual cold wind kiting around the hill.
I shivered and climbed in. I turned the key and punched the starter button. It kicked right over, emitting a steady roar. The mufflers sounded like glass-packs. I swung it around, the headlights good and strong. It handled like a breeze.
I crossed the Hill, dropping down Ninth. I watched the rear-view mirror, seeing nothing suspicious. But it was good to be moving, to be doing something. I’d been brooding on my backside long enough.
I located Mel’s Service on a side street. A small station and a big garage out back. Probably more service work here than gasoline sales.
A young guy in overalls came out of the station. I killed the motor, rolled down a window. I told him to fill it with ethyl.
“Sure, mister.”
I waited. The gas pump whirred. He completed the fill, went around in front. I pulled the hood lock handle. He looked underneath, fussed around. He left me that way and walked back to the station, inside.
He appeared to be looking for something under the counter. Little ordinary things that happen around service stations hundreds of times a day—but now they had me on edge. I pulled out a smoke to kill time—and the lights went out.
I’d been expecting it, but it jerked me.
“Hey—!” I yelled.
“Just a minute,” he yelled back. It was as dark as sin. Suddenly I heard the rear door of the Ford—on my side—open gently, the car sagged a bit from added weight, and the door closed, quietly. I kept my head pointed straight ahead.
“I got it,” the attendant called.
The station lights came on again, nearly blinding me.
“Sorry, Mister—”<
br />
“It’s all right,” I managed. I heard him check the oil, battery, anti-freeze. The hood dropped.
“She’s okay under there. Nice rebuild!”
It went on like that, as you do, and all the while the back of my neck felt cold and exposed, and what if something had gone haywire and the wrong character was crouched in the rear?
The attendant and I got all the signatures and credit slips taken care of, he grinned and didn’t even glance in the rear seat area.
I slid the car out of the station, my nerves ragged. I hit the first stop sign. A car had nudged up behind me.
“Don’t look around, Jason—”
I heaved a sigh. The voice belonged to Riley. I moved ahead, and the car at my tail turned the other way. I felt just a little bit let down.
I made time toward Main, then swung eastward. Traffic moving at a good clip. Roads still bare.
“I thought you might send somebody else,” I said, keeping my eyes up front.
“Turn on the heater, will you?”
I obliged, feeling relief from the tension of the day. Riley would be a good man to have around, almost anywhere.
We were getting across the Clearwater bridge now, doing forty. I had a smoke, keeping alert. Normal flow of traffic for a cold February evening—not very heavy. I heard him moving around, trying to get comfortable. I grinned.
We reached the sixty mile an hour zone, and I pushed down a little. It came alive neatly. I let up, felt the overdrive shift, and we were doing fine.
“Whatta you think now, Jason?”
“I don’t feel scared yet.”
He growled something and slid into a different position. The heater was blasting now.
“Where do you think he’ll try me?”
“Look—how would I know? Keep the speed about fifty-five. See a car away back with one fog light?”
I saw it in the rear-view mirror, and said so.
“That’s two of my men. One under-cover car ahead, too.”
“Goody for us.”
“Don’t get cocky, Jason.”
The four-lane highway squeezed down to two. Traffic thinned. We’d passed most of the joints and outlying houses. The road here ran along by the mill pond. Acres of logs scattered out under lights. The Ford purred in the moist air. It seemed to beg for a real let-out.
Riley lapsed into silence. I drove and smoked. I watched the oncoming traffic. Nobody tried to crawl up behind or pass. Finally we reached a junction ten miles out of town. Another bridge, an overpass. Going up a wide valley now, toward the foothills. We passed the Nez Perce Indian agency.
Nothing happened.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In his office at police headquarters, Riley still muttered darkly under his breath. His jaw poked out stiffly. I’d parked the Ford in back, and we’d come in through a rear entrance.
We had driven clear to the top of Winchester grade, the bad one mentioned earlier. On the return trip we’d done it alone, Riley having told his men to get back to town. A dry run. It was now ten o’clock.
“If anybody wants to know, this friend of yours suddenly got better,” he said. “You stopped along the road and called Grangemont.”
I nodded, looking around with interest. I’d never been in a police official’s sanctum. On the wall behind his chair hung a map of Layton and surrounding area, a few colored pins stuck in it. A pile of official looking papers on his desk, several books between severe book-ends. Nothing fancy in the whole place.
“I figured it would work, Jason.”
“The opportunity was there.”
He cursed fluently.
“Could be a leak.”
“Not a chance. It was set up too fast. Only four men and the Commissioner were in on it.”
“What about the car—the used car lot?”
“Nobody there knew anything. The department buys their squad cars there—they all know what an authorization looks like. One of my boys in on the deal checked the lot over yesterday and picked the Ford.”
“I get it. I’d like to own the car for keeps.”
“We can fix it up.” He fiddled with papers on his desk, not seeing them. Through an open transom could be heard reports coming in on their police radio. I glanced at the map again.
He noticed my stare and grimaced. He turned around in his swivel chair. “Those pins are where some of the TT calls originated, Jason. Care to gander?
“Naturally—”
He leaned back, looking pale under his freckles. “The red pins are your calls. The blue one belongs to Goddards.”
I saw a total of three red pins. “Is that all?”
“Look—I explained that…”
“That’s not much to go on.”
“Don’t ruffle me, Jason. I’m not in the mood. The phone company says they’re doing all they can. It’s tricky, because some lines carry several conversations, they say. Different frequencies. And in case you’re interested, they’re all from pay phones in busy places.” He stood up. “This one was made from a booth in the Clark Hotel—three booths there in a hallway at the entrance to the clubroom. It was the middle booth. Hundreds of people in and outa there all day—”
I agreed. Miss Swatch lived at the hotel.
“This one,” he said, pointing with a stubby forefinger, “same deal. Sid’s pool hall, one of the busiest phone booths in town, but a single.”
“And not far from my diggings.”
He grunted. Old stuff for him.
“The other one originated in the Ray Hotel, another live spot. Bus depot and restaurant. It was made the day after Fay got killed.”
I remembered that call vividly. But none of this meant anything I could think of.
“This guy is real cagey,” Riley said, finally. “Someone who would know the calls might be traced. And all three booths are accessible to both men and women.”
I sat down and so did he. I had a smoke. “If it’s any of my business, have you singled out any particular persons?”
He scowled. I had no official capacity whatever. But I’d served as a lure for our big fish, and he was obligated to give me some kind of an answer.
“Look—if I tell you anything here, Jason, I might deny it later.”
“Goody, goody.”
He snorted. He waved his hand at a row of books on top of his desk. “See those, Jason? In them are laws that keep people out of jails, not put them in. Suspicion isn’t always grounds for arrest, especially with people with some drag. Don’t ask me to go into that! It works up into politics, money and influence.
“Major crimes we can prosecute, no matter who it hits, if we got the proof. This city is better than most, I can tell you that. The Commissioner is a square guy—I saw him force a case into the open that involved an old buddy and neighbor. He’s with me on anything within reason. But we haven’t got a smell, so help me!”
“Have you found the car that killed Louise?”
He hesitated.
“I’ll quit any time…”
“Okay. We found it—back on the used car lot where it was lifted.”
I sat forward in my chair.
“There was fabric from her coat caught in the grill. No fingerprints that did any good. The switch had been ‘hot-wired’—these kids nowadays do it with no trouble at all. Some of ’em use a tinfoil gum wrapper. It was a ’49 Ford with a push-button starter.”
Something away back in my head stirred—then quieted. I had no answer.
“The river took care of any prints we mighta got underneath your car. We figure it could have been jimmied while it was parked in front of your apartment, or out at this ‘poet’s’ barn.”
“The brakes—”
“As near as we could tell, the oil line was loosened, making a slow leak.”
I nodded.
“We got one little bit to work on. If we could pin down any kind of reasonable suspect, we could maybe find out where they were during the time Schmidt was run over. The whole thing probably didn
’t take over half an hour.”
I had another smoke. “How did this character know when to connect with Henry and Louise on a little-used part of Fifth Street?”
He shook his head. “How did he know your run out of town tonight was faked?”
I stared at the wall a while. It seemed obvious, but I said it anyway. “Somebody close to those killed, somebody close to me and the people I know.”
“Not necessarily, Jason. I’ve been over that. I’ve checked out quite a few of them—as much as possible without breaking any laws.”
“No doubt.”
He let that pass, so I added: “Such as—?”
“One was this Vently, who says he was up on First Avenue talking business with Mrs. Snark. She verified it.”
I opened my trap, then shut it. He didn’t have to know about my little adventure—and what had I learned?
“—which we can’t argue with right now. Fay Simmons, who was home alone—”
That didn’t need any delineation.
“—this Sproot couple, also home. Lewis Cable, who was doing a repair job on a juke box at a tavern on Main, partly verified. I got to check it again.” He paused, watching me.
“You ended on a note of indecision.”
“We also checked you out.”
Said quietly and simply, those blue eyes hardening.
“Just one wild moment, Riley—”
He smiled. “We didn’t go overboard on that wheelchair routine, Jason. I contacted Doc Schiller. He admitted you might have been able to move around enough, and you were home, alone.”
Several nasty words caught in my throat. I waited. “It was working your way—you could easily have pretended to get anonymous phone calls, and called Louise and Henry. But when you nearly got it yourself, it seemed a little outa line.”
“Thanks!”
He didn’t smile.
“But you did escape. Anyway, we found out the steering breakdown couldn’t have been controlled from inside the car, and we couldn’t see you risking that much to get somebody else.”
“Goody for you.”
“Jason, in this business, you don’t overlook nobody.”
“Naturally. What about Ben Cook?”
“At home, alone. And also out at that ‘meeting.’ He’s no dummy, and well-heeled. And no evidence. Ditto for Mrs. Snark, and if she got riled up she could raise a real stink.”
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