by Mary Miley
The cop caught my eye, and I pointed silently to the broken window. “Who did that?” he growled. “Schaeffer,” said someone, no doubt a reporter from a competing newspaper. By now Carl Delaney and Brickles had joined the party.
“Well, well, Officer Delaney,” I said, trying for a little humor as they walked up. “What brings you out on this fine day?”
“Good afternoon, Miss Beckett. Brickles and I were at the station when one of your neighbors called in to complain about a ruckus next door, and I recognized the address. Not many ruckuses going on these days that don’t find you somewhere nearby, so I thought we’d come see what you had to say about this one.”
The reporter who had told me to beat it spun about when he heard Carl say my name, so startled that the gum fell out of his mouth. He stared at me as if I’d grown horns. “You are Jessie Beckett?”
“I told you I was.”
“You look— Never mind. Jasper! Over here, boy, get a picture!” Thinking to get a jump on his rivals, he whipped out his pencil and paper. “Were you jealous of Bruno Heilmann’s other girlfriends?”
“Too late, buster. I’m not talking to you now. Too bad you didn’t believe me to start with—I was going to tell you just how I murdered all those people and who I’m going to kill next.”
“That wasn’t very smart,” muttered Carl under his breath as he pulled me away from the reporters. He was right, but by then, I didn’t care. I’d care tomorrow when I read myself quoted in the article.
For once, I appreciated Officer Brickles’s finer qualities. “Clear out, boys,” he said, his voice heavy with the boredom of a man who had seen it all a hundred times before. When no one reacted, he gave two of them a shove toward the street. “I’m counting to five and any of you bums left standing on this side of the street is gonna get arrested for trespassing and vandalism. One, two…”
“Let’s get you out of the line of fire,” said Carl Delaney, guiding me through the reporters who had, all at once, realized who I was and were jabbering questions at me about my affair with Bruno Heilmann and why I had murdered Lorna McCall. We gained the porch just as the door opened, revealing the pinched faces of Lillian and Myrna. They had been seriously frightened by the reporters’ harassment and greeted the police with relief.
“They got meaner and louder until I thought they were going to break down the doors!” wailed Lillian.
“They did break a window,” Myrna pointed out.
“You girls should have called sooner,” Carl scolded, sounding like someone’s father. “They won’t bother you now. If they come back, you call the station and we’ll lock some of ’em up. And we’ll get Schaeffer’s newspaper to pay for your window, don’t worry.”
Like dogs herding sheep, the police pushed the reporters onto the street where they gradually dispersed. After the last of them had muttered away, Myrna and I walked Carl back to his car. We stood for a moment in the warm afternoon sun, thanking the four men, and I marveled inwardly that I could ever have felt such appreciation—even affection—for the police.
All at once a third police car pulled alongside Carl’s and the driver, wearing civilian clothing, rolled down the window. Ignoring us girls, he called to the four cops, “Get down to La Grande, pronto. We’re surrounding the depot. A tip came in—the guys who murdered Tuttle and Rios will be there at two.” And with a squeal of tires, he took off toward the station.
“What’s that about?” I asked Carl, suddenly feeling very cold.
“I’ll find out when I get there. Don’t worry, we’ll get ’em. Cops don’t like crooks who kill cops.” He set his lips and glanced at his wristwatch.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“One twenty-five.”
It could not be coincidence that David was meeting a friend there at two.
33
“Wait! Where are you going?” Myrna cried as I snatched my purse and banged out the door.
“The train station, fast.”
“What for?”
“Tell you later.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No. It might be dangerous.”
I waited one second after the three cars had peeled around the corner in a dramatic display of police bravado before I took off running down our narrow lane toward Sunset Boulevard. I had reached the busy intersection when I heard the footsteps behind me.
“Myrna! What are you doing?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, go back—”
“You stood by me when I needed you, and I’ll do no less for you.”
A taxi approached from the east. I thrust out my arm and flagged him down.
“A taxi?” Myrna gasped, astonished at my extravagance. If nothing else brought home my desperation, this single act did.
“Get in,” I said grimly. Then, to the driver, “La Grande Depot, as fast as you can.”
His foot slammed the pedal, knocking us back against the seat. Taking me at my word, he squealed a U-turn on Sunset, skimming past a farm truck loaded with crates of early asparagus, and motored east.
“What’sa matter, you gals gotta catch a train?”
“Yes. And I’ll pay any ticket you might get.”
That pledge brought on another spurt of speed, and we tore down the boulevard for many blocks until the driver snagged an unexpected right through a red light onto a side street. As we zigzagged through this sleepy residential neighborhood, he must have caught a glimpse of my startled expression in his rearview mirror. “It doesn’t look like it, lady, but it’s faster this way, honest.”
I had my money ready, and as soon as we came within sight of La Grande, I tossed the cash on the front seat. “Pull up to the main door and we’ll jump out.”
The parking lot and all the entrances were eerily quiet. No uniforms, no police cars, no unusual activity. A few passengers walked out carrying suitcases; a few others headed in. Perversely, the calm only stoked my fears. Was I too late? Surely not. I must have arrived ahead of the police. Or else they were gathering somewhere out of sight, laying their trap.
I dashed into the station with Myrna at my heels, then stopped cold. The big clock said six minutes to two. “Wait here,” I told Myrna. “I’ve got to find David.”
Taking a deep breath, I scanned the station floor. It was not particularly crowded at this time of day, with a few dozen people milling about at the newsstand, queuing up at the ticket booths, resting on benches, and squinting anxiously at the arrival-and-departures board. Not a single blue uniform in sight.
I tried to think like a policeman planning an ambush. I would position the men in uniform, like Carl Delaney, outside where they could ring the building and make sure no one escaped. Those inside would be in civilian clothing, like the two who had come by my house. I was instantly suspicious of every man in the station who was not with a woman or child, anyone who stood alone or with a male companion. I spotted several whose eyes moved systematically from one person to the next, as if they were looking for someone. Cops? I couldn’t be sure.
My eyes moved, too, from one end of the great hall to the other and back again, searching for David. I had to find him before the police did. What if they thought he had killed the two detectives in the desert? He hadn’t. I was sure of it. The tip had to have been wrong. He couldn’t have done such a thing. But they wouldn’t arrest him and ask polite questions about his whereabouts. They would shoot him. Carl Delaney’s words kept playing in my head: Cops don’t like crooks who kill cops.
David was nowhere visible, but he had to be here somewhere. I had heard him with my own ears telling that actress that he was meeting a friend at two. The arrivals board confirmed that a train was due to arrive at two minutes past two and, no surprise, it was coming from the north. The passenger he was meeting would be coming from Portland. I had eight minutes to find David and warn him off. Eight minutes before the police sprung a trap that would end with David’s death. His betrayal this morning played like a comic asi
de in a Shakespeare tragedy. I cared too much to lose him now.
Giving the ticket lines a wide berth, I traveled the perimeter of the vast hall, trotting toward the Harvey House with my silent shadow close behind. I didn’t want Myrna anywhere near me, but she stuck like flypaper.
“Myrna, things might turn ugly here. It would help if you would wait out front.” She neither replied nor changed her pace.
A quick survey of the restaurant told me David was not inside. Next I barged into the men’s room, surprising two gentlemen in the act, neither of them David.
All at once I saw him, slouched in the shadows by the alcove where the luggage lockers were stacked three high. His arms were folded; his fists were clenched. Even at this distance, I could read his anger in the way he held himself. Evidently he’d been observing me with mounting displeasure for some time. I rushed over.
“David! Thank God I’ve found you.”
David didn’t look at me or Myrna. His eyes stared past us to the exit from the train platforms where someone would soon pass. If willpower alone could have eliminated me, I’d have vanished in a puff of smoke.
“Listen! It’s a trap. Call it off. The police know something is up with some fellas at two o’clock, and they’re surrounding the station. They think you killed Tuttle and Rios. Get out while you have the chance.”
His eyes narrowed slightly and he worked the muscles in his jaw. Still, he ignored me.
“Look around! Some of those people are policemen wearing street clothes. If you walk into the Harvey House right now, you can get out. There’s a back door in the kitchen.”
He looked over my head and straightened, letting his arms fall slowly to his sides. I stole a glance at his face. Gone was the boyish quirk in his lips, the sparkle in his eyes. He seemed to have aged ten years.
I had come into the station afraid for David; suddenly I was afraid of him.
Before I could turn around, a rough voice from behind me said, “Well, well, what a coincidence finding you here.”
Johnnie Salazar stood a few yards away. His left arm might have been useless, bound up in the sling, but the right one was fine and dandy, tucked inside his coat pocket holding something pointed and hard.
Myrna’s hand flew to her mouth. “Johnnie! What are you doing here?”
“Shut up,” Salazar snapped, his eyes never leaving David’s face. “You dames keep still.” Then, to David, “I believe you have something that belongs to me, and I want it back. Right now.”
David held up two empty hands in a gesture that was meant to convey astonishment. I edged slightly closer to Myrna.
“Where are those suitcases?” hissed Salazar.
David gave a nonchalant shrug. “Sorry, Johnnie. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, you’re gonna remember real quick.” With his good arm, he grabbed a handful of Myrna’s dress and yanked her against his chest. The gun was in plain view now as he held Myrna with his good arm, the gun in the same hand, pointed up at her throat.
I felt every eye in the train station must be on us, every breath drawn and held in horror as our deadly performance played out. In my mind we were center stage, caught under a dozen spotlights, with an entire audience on the edge of their seats.
Incredibly, the spectators didn’t seem to notice us. We were as good as invisible there in the locker alcove. Passengers surged out of arriving trains, off the platform and into the station, luggage in hand. They hugged family members or hurried for the nearest exit. Redcaps with baggage carts piled high wove through the throngs. Two smartly suited businessmen actually passed within a couple feet of our drama, circling around us without a glance, eager to reach the bank of lockers and retrieve their belongings. A woman holding her son’s hand stopped almost at my side to study the departures board.
“Look, Mama,” said the boy, pointing at Johnnie and the gun.
“Hush up.” She tugged him along toward the trains, never turning her head.
“You think I didn’t know who took my dope? You stupid mick. Never underestimate Johnnie Salazar, eh? Someone saw your car at the doc’s house. I’m gonna see to it you don’t sell what’s mine.”
“Don’t be a sap, Salazar. Let the girl go. You shoot her in front of all these witnesses and you’ll swing.”
“I got nothing to lose. I’m a dead man anyway if I don’t get the dope and the money back where it belongs.” He cocked the gun. “Now where is it?”
For the first time that day, David’s eyes met mine. They sent a loud cue. I didn’t read it perfectly, but I knew enough to brace myself for what was to come.
“Have it your way, Johnnie. The suitcases are in locker 14.” David opened his hand flat and held it out so Salazar could see. A small brass key lay on his palm. “Here, catch.”
He lobbed the key gently toward Salazar’s right side, toward the right hand that held the gun. Instinctively, as people do when something is thrown to them, Salazar grabbed for the key with his nearest hand, letting go of Myrna and lunging toward the right. At the same moment, I shoved her to the left, out of his reach.
“Run!” I commanded.
With only one hand, and that one still clutching his gun, Salazar was doomed to miss the key. He reached far enough that it struck his hand but it clanked against the metal gun and fell to the floor, bouncing away. At that moment, I locked my elbows, clasped my hands together and, with all the force I could muster, swung them like a club into his injured arm.
His scream of pain and outrage echoed through the depot, and he dropped the gun. It skidded on the smooth floor away from the key toward a cluster of potted palms. The key, meanwhile, slid into the path of several passengers who were arguing about the best place for dinner. One of them inadvertently kicked it farther away.
For one second, Salazar was paralyzed with indecision, looking from the gun to the key and back to the gun. That was all it took.
Although he had a greater distance to cover, David leaped toward the gun at the same moment that Salazar made his decision to do the same. They collided on the floor and struggled frantically for the weapon, knocking over one of the potted palms, scattering dirt and fronds everywhere, and finally drawing the attention of several nearby passengers who stopped to watch as if it were an intriguing publicity stunt.
Where the hell were the police when you needed them?
Salazar managed to get his finger on the trigger, but his one hand was no match for David’s two. The struggle to point the barrel was brief. When the gun went off, it was pressed against Salazar’s chest. The muffled bang left Johnnie Salazar dead.
34
The gunshot and the screams from onlookers turned the heads of the plainclothesmen positioned near the entrance to the tracks. Springing into action, they came running with guns drawn, shouting, “Don’t move! Don’t move! Drop your weapons!” to a huddle of unarmed people frozen in horror.
I rushed to David, who was kneeling on the floor breathing hard. “Are you all right?”
He nodded wearily, then looked over at Myrna. She was crouched against the lockers, her hands clasped so hard her fingers were white, but she was unhurt.
“Good job, kid,” he said to me. “I knew I could count on you.”
Under the circumstances, the safest place seemed to be the floor, so David and I sat and waited for the cops to assemble. David held the gun out flat on his palm to the first to reach us. Only then did I notice Carl Delaney and Brickles. They had come inside along with the surge of blue uniforms. Carl hung back but his eyes moved from me to David, and I could hear his brain tapping like an adding machine calculating the odds of finding us together. On hands and knees, I made my way to the key to locker 14, nearly buried beneath the spilled dirt and broken palm branches.
One cop crouched over Salazar’s body to satisfy himself that he was dead. “What happened?” he asked David.
David hadn’t heard the question. He was staring intently at the entrance to Track 4. I followed his gaze an
d saw a man holding a large valise, taking in the mayhem in our corner. David shook his head. The man disappeared.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I butted in before David had a chance to reply. “David Carr is a hero. He saved my friend Myrna’s life as well as mine and shot this—this murderer here. That man”—and I motioned toward Salazar’s body with my toe—“killed Detectives Tuttle and Rios out in the desert last Thursday. He was wounded during the gunfight, as you can see—his arm has a bullet wound—but he escaped, and he took the dope with him. Here’s the key. He hid it in this locker until he could sell it.”
I turned the key over to a redheaded cop who went straight to the bank of lockers to search for number 14. Finding it on the bottom, he opened the door and, as everyone watched, pulled out two large suitcases. They were top-drawer, made of dark leather with brass corners and catches. Even from where I stood I could see the bold initial H.
Just as I thought—Heilmann’s suitcases. I knew Tuttle and Rios had taken the dope they found in the upstairs bedroom, but I was never sure how they got it out of his house. I asked myself what I would do in the same situation, and I answered myself that I would look for something large to carry the dope. Something found in every house. A suitcase. The detectives had made a similar deduction, found Heilmann’s luggage in a closet somewhere, and loaded up. They must have ruminated for a few days before deciding that their likeliest customer was the local mob. Big mistake.
If local crime bosses didn’t like high-flying film directors muscling in on their business, they liked cops even less. They must have sent Johnnie Salazar and some of his gang to meet Tuttle and Rios in the desert, ostensibly to buy the dope from them. Someone started shooting, and Salazar walked away with the goods. I still wasn’t sure how David had gotten involved, although I suspected it had been my doing. I was the one who had given him the information about the detectives and the dope. I was the only one outside the mob who knew the connection.
“Who was that man on Track 4?” I hissed.
“You don’t miss much, do you, kid?” He shifted his weight and I thought for a moment he wasn’t going to answer. “A friend.”