"I don't know... but I can find out." She looked at me pensively. "Does it have to be tonight?"
"Tonight."
I caught up with her before she reached the phone. I put my arms around her and breathed the fragrance that was her hair. "I'm sorry, Kitten."
Ellen let her head fall back on my shoulder and looked up at me. "It's all right, Mike, I understand."
She had to make three separate calls to locate Roberts' number. It was an address in Flushing and when she had it she handed me the phone to do the calling. It was a toll call, so I put it through the operator and listened to it ring on the other end. When I was about ready to hang up a woman came on and said, "Hello, this is Mrs. Roberts."
"Can I speak to Mr. Roberts, please?"
"I'm sorry, but he isn't home right now. Can I take a message?"
Somebody had bottled up all my luck and thrown it down the drain. I said, "No, but can you tell me when he'll be back?"
"Not until tomorrow sometime. I expect him about noon."
"Well, thanks. I'll call him then. 'By."
I tried not to slam the receiver back in its cradle. I tried to sit on myself to keep from exploding and if it hadn't been for Ellen chuckling to herself from the depths of the couch I would have kicked something across the room. I spun around to tell her to shut up, but when a woman looks at you the way she was doing you don't say anything at all. You just stand there and look back because a toast-colored body that is all soft, molded curves and smooth hollows makes a picture to take your breath away, especially when it is framed against the thick texture of white terrycloth.
She laughed again and said, "You're trapped, Mike."
I wanted to tell her that I wasn't trapped at all, but there wasn't any room for words in my throat. I walked across the room and stood there staring at her, watching her come up off the couch into my arms to prove that she was real and not just a picture after all.
The cup was full this time, the wine mellow and sweet, and she was writhing in my arms fighting to breathe, yet not wanting me to stop holding her. I heard her say, "Mike... I'm sorry you're trapped, but I'm glad... glad." And I kissed her mouth shut again letting the rain slashing against the window pitch the tempo, hearing it rise and rise in a crescendo of fury, shrieking at me because the minutes were things not to be wasted.
It took all I had to shove her away. "Texas gal, don't make it rough for me. Not now."
She opened her eyes slowly, her fingers kneading my back. "I can't even buy you, can I?"
"You know better than that, sugar. Let me finish what I have to do first."
"If I let you get away you'll never come back, Mike. There are too many others waiting for you. Every week, every month there will be someone new."
"You know too much."
"I know I'm a Texas gal who likes a Texas man."
My grin was a little flat. "I'm a city boy, kid."
"An accident of birth. Everything else about you is Texas. Even a woman doesn't come first with you."
She stretched up on her toes, not far because she didn't have to go far, and kissed me lightly. "Sometimes Texas men do come back. That's why there are always more Texas men." She smiled.
"Don't forget to take those files in," I reminded her. Then there was nothing more to say.
I went back to the rain and the night, looking up just once to see her silhouetted against the window waving to me. She didn't see me, but I waved back to her. She would have liked it if she'd known what I was thinking.
On the way back I stopped off for a drink and a sandwich and tried to think it out. I wanted to be sure of what I was doing before I stuck my neck out. I spent an hour going over the whole thing, tying it into Toady Link and no matter how I looked at it the picture was complete.
At least I tried to tell myself that it was.
I said it over and over to myself the same way I told Pat, but I couldn't get it out of my mind that some place something didn't fit. It was only a little thing, but it's the little things that hold bigger things together. I sat there and told myself that it was Toady who drove the murder car and Toady who gave the orders to Arnold Basil because he couldn't afford to trust anybody else to do the job right. I told myself that it was Toady who engineered Hooker's death and tried to engineer mine.
Yet the more I told myself the more that little voice inside my head would laugh and poke its finger into some forgotten recess and try to jar loose one fact that would make me see what the picture was really like.
I gave up in disgust, paid my bill and walked out.
I walked right into trouble, too. Pat was slouched up against the wall outside my apartment with the friendliness gone completely from his face.
He didn't even give me a chance to say hello. He held out his hand with an abruptness I wasn't used to. "Let's have your gun, Mike."
I didn't argue with him. He packed it open, checked the chamber and the slide, then smelled the barrel.
"You already know when I shot it last," I said.
"I do?" It didn't sound like a question at all.
It started down low around my belly, that squeamish feeling when something is right there ready to pop in your face. "Quit being a jerk. What's the act for?"
He came away from the door frame with a scowl. "Goddamn it, Mike, play it straight if you have to play it at all!"
I said a couple of words.
"You've had it, Mike," he told me. He put it flat and simple as if I knew just what he meant.
"You could tell me about it."
"Look, Mike, I'm a cop. You were my friend and all that, but I'm not getting down on my knees to anybody. I did everything but threaten you to lay off and what happened? You did it your way anyhow. It doesn't go, feller. It's finished, washed up. I hated to see it happen, but it was just a matter of time. I thought you were smart enough to understand. I was wrong."
"That isn't telling me about it."
"Cut it, Mike. Toady's dead., He was shot with a .45," he said.
"And I'm tagged."
"That's right," Pat nodded. "You're tagged."
Chapter Eight
Sometimes you get mad and sometimes you don't. If there was any of that crazy anger in me it had all been drained out up there in Ellen's apartment. Now it's making sense, I thought. Now it's where it should be.
Pat dropped my gun in his pocket. "Let's go, Mike."
So I went as far as the front door and watched the rain wash through under the sill. Before Pat opened the door I said, "You're sure about this, aren't you?"
He was sure. Two minutes ago he had been as sure of it as the day he was born and now he wasn't sure of it at all. His mouth hardened into a gash that pushed his eyes halfway shut with some uncontrollable emotion until they seemed to focus on something right behind me.
I didn't want him to answer me before he knew. "I didn't kill him, Pat. I was hoping I would, but somebody beat me to it."
"The M.E. sets the time of death around four o'clock last night." His voice asked for an explanation.
I said, "You should have told me, Pat. I was real busy then. Real busy."
His hand came away from the door. "You mean you can prove it?"
"I mean just that."
"Mike... if you're lying..."
"I've never been that stupid. You ought to know that."
"I ought to know a lot of things. I ought to know where you were every minute of last night."
"You know how to find out."
"Show me."
I didn't like the way he was looking at me at all. Maybe I'm not so good at lying any more, and I was lying my head off. Last night I was busy as hell sleeping and there wasn't one single way I could prove it. If I tried to tell him the truth it would take a month to talk my way clear.
I said, "Come on," and headed for the phone in the lobby. I shoved a dime in the slot and dialed a number, hoping that I could put enough across with a few words to say what I wanted. He stood right there at my elbow ready to take the phone away as soon as I
got my party and ask the question himself.
I couldn't mistake her voice. It was like seeing her again with the lava green of her dress flowing from her waist.
"This is Mike, Marsha. A policeman... wants to ask you something. Mind?"
That was as far as I could get. Pat had the phone while she was still trying to figure it out. He gave me a hard smile and turned to the phone. "Captain Chambers speaking. I understand you can account for Mr. Hammer's whereabouts last night. Is that correct?"
Her voice was music pouring out of the receiver. Pat glanced at me sharply, curiously, then muttered his thanks and hung up. He still didn't quite know what to make of it. "So you spent the night with the lady."
I said a beautiful thanks to Marsha under my breath. "That's not for publication, Pat."
"You better stop tomcatting around when Velda gets back, friend."
"It makes a good alibi."
"Yeah, I'd like to see the guy who'd sooner kill Toady than sleep with a chick like that. Okay, Mike, you got yourself an alibi. I have a screwy notion that I shouldn't believe it, but Link isn't Decker and if you're in this there'll be hell to pay and I'll find out about it soon enough."
I handed him a butt and flipped a light with my thumbnail.
"Can I hear about the deal or is it secret info like everything else?"
"There's not much to it. Somebody walked in and killed him."
"Just like that?"
"He was in bed asleep. He got it right through the head and whoever killed him went through the place like a cyclone. I'm going back there now if you want to come along."
"Blue boy there?"
"The D.A. doesn't know about it yet. He's out with the vice squad again," Pat said tiredly.
"You checked the bullet, didn't you?"
Pat squirmed a little. "I didn't wait for the report. I was so goddamned positive it was you that I came right over. Besides, you could have switched barrels if you felt like it. I've seen the extras you have."
"Thanks. I'm a real great guy."
"Quit rubbing it in."
"Who found the body?"
"As far as we know, the police were the first on the scene. A telegraph boy with a message for Toady saw the door open and went to shut it. Enough stuff was kicked around inside to give him the idea there was a robbery. He was sure of it when he rang the bell and nobody answered. He called the police and they found the body."
"Got any idea what they were looking for... or if they found it?"
Pat threw the butt at the floor. "No. Come on, take a look at it yourself. Maybe it'll make you feel better."
What was left of Toady wouldn't make anybody feel better. Death had taken the roundness from his body and made an oblong slab of it. He lay there on his back with his eyes closed and his mouth open, a huge, fat frog as unlovely dead as he was alive. Right in the center of his forehead was the hole. It was a purplish-black hole with scorched edges flecked by powder burns. Whoever held the gun held it mighty close. If there was a back to his head it was smashed into the pillow.
Outside on the street a couple more prowl cars screamed to a stop and feet came pounding into the house. A lone newshawk was sounding off about the rights of the press and being told to shut up. Pat left me there with a plain-clothesman while he got things organized and started the cops going through the rooms in a methodical search for anything that might be a lead.
When I had enough of Toady I went downstairs and followed Pat around, watching him paw through the wreckage of the living room. "Somebody didn't make a lot of noise, did they?"
I got a sharp grin. "Brother, this place was really searched."
I picked up a maple armchair and looked at it closely. There wasn't a scratch on it. There weren't any scratches on anything for that matter. For all the jumble that it seemed to be, the room had been carefully and methodically torn apart and the pieces put down nice and gently. You could even see some order in the way it was done. The slits in the seat cushions were evenly cut all in the same place. Anything that could be unscrewed or pulled out was unscrewed or pulled out. Books were scattered all over the floor, some with the back linings ripped right out of them.
Pat had one in his hand and waved it at me. "It wasn't very big if they went looking for it here."
I thought I said something to myself, but I said it out loud and Pat's head swiveled around at me. "What?"
I didn't tell him the second time. I shook my head, knowing the leer I was wearing had pulled my face out of shape and if Pat had good eyes he could read what I was thinking without looking any farther than my eyes. He might have done it if a cop hadn't come up to tell him about the junk in the basement, and he left me standing in the middle of the room right where Toady had made me stand, only this time I wasn't after Toady's hide any more because he wasn't the end at all.
Another cop came in looking for Pat. I told him he was downstairs and would be right back. The cop spread out the stuff in his hand and flashed it at me. "Look at the pin-ups I found." He gave a short laugh. "I guess he didn't go for this new stuff. Don't blame him. I like the pre-war crop better myself."
"Let's see them."
He handed them over to me as he looked through them.
Half of them were regular studio stills and the rest were enlargements of snapshots taken during stage shows. Every one of them was personally autographed to Charlie Fallon with love and sometimes kisses from some of the biggest stars in Hollywood.
When he was done with the pictures the cop let me look at a couple of loose-leaf pads that had scrawled notations of appointments to be made for more photos of more lovelies and the list of private phone numbers he had accumulated would have made any Broadway columnist drool. Every so often there was a reminder after a name... introduction to F.
And there it was again. Fallon. No matter where I turned the name came up. Fallon, Fallon, Fallon. Arnold Basil was an old Fallon boy. All the dames knew Fallon, Toady had some connection with Fallon. Damn it, the guy was supposed to be dead!
I didn't wait for Pat to come back. I told the cop to tell him I'd left and would call up tomorrow. Before I got to the door the reporter who was trying to make the most of being first on the scene tried to corner me for a story and I shook my head no. He dropped me for the cop and got the same story.
Something had gentled the rain, taking the madness out of it. The curious were there in a tight knot at the gate shrinking together under umbrellas and raincoats to gape at the death place and speculate among themselves. I managed to push myself through to the outer fringes of the crowd with about a minute to spare. Just as I broke clear the D.A. came in from the other side with his boys doing the blocking. His face was blacker than the night itself and I knew right away that somebody had crossed him up on another deal. His boat still had a hole in the bottom and if it leaked any more he was going to get swamped.
If it hadn't been so late I would have called Marsha to kiss her hand for pulling me out of a spot, but tonight I didn't want to see anybody and speak to anybody. I wanted to stretch out in bed and think. I wanted to start at the beginning and chew my way through it slowly until I found the tough hunk that didn't chew so easily and put it through the grinder.
Then I'd have my killer.
Two blocks down a hackie tooted his horn at me and I ran for the door he held open. I gave him my address and settled back into the seat. The guy was one of those Dodger fans who couldn't keep quiet about how the bums were doing and talked my ear off until I climbed out in front of my apartment and handed over a couple of bucks.
I got all the way upstairs and there they were again. Two of them this time. One was big as a house and the other wasn't much smaller. The little guy closed in with a badge flashing in his palm while the other one stood by ready to take me if I didn't act right. Both of them kept one hand in their pockets just to let me know that the play was theirs all the way.
The guy said, "Police, buddy," and stowed the badge back in his pants.
"What
do you want with me?"
"You'll find out. Get moving."
The other one said, "Wait a minute," and yanked my gun out of the holster. Under his flat smile his teeth were yellowed from too much smoking. "You're supposed to have a bad temper. Guns and guys with bad tempers don't go together."
"Neither do badges without those leather wallets a cop keeps them in."
I caught the quick look that passed between them, but I caught the nose of a gun in my back at the same time. The big guy smiled again. "Wise guy. You wanta do it the hard way."
"That rod'll make a big boom in here. A nice quiet joint like this people'll want to know what all the noise is about."
The gun pressed in a little deeper. "Maybe. You won't hear it, buddy. Move."
Those two were real pros. Not the kind of hoods who pick up some extra change with nickel-plated rods either. These were delivery boys, the real McCoy. They knew just where to stand so I couldn't move in and just how to look so nobody would get the pitch. One had a pint bottle of whisky outlined in his inside jacket pocket to pour over me so I'd smell like a drunk in case they had to carry me out. And they had that look. Somebody had given the orders to bump me fast if I tried to get rough.
That look was enough for me. Besides, I was curious myself.
We got downstairs and big boy said, "Where's your car?"
I pointed it out. He snapped his fingers for my keys and got them. The other one did something with his hand and a car down the block pulled away from the curb and shot by us without looking over.
It didn't take much to see what was going to happen. I was getting a one-way ride in my own car. After I was delivered someplace first. I wasn't supposed to know about it. I was supposed to be a real good boy and act nice and polite so they wouldn't have any trouble with me. I was supposed to be a goddamn fool and let myself get killed with no fuss at all while a couple of pros congratulated themselves on their technique.
My head started banging with that insane music that was all kettledrums and shrill flutes blended together in wild discord until my hands shook with the madness of it. What kind of a simple jerk did they take me for? Maybe they thought they were the only ones who were pros in this game. Maybe they thought this had never happened before and if it had I wouldn't be ready for it to happen again.
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