Top Assignment

by George Harmon Coxe

  ‘Sure’, Chapman said. ‘It’s only the best in the state.’

  ‘Deep-water sailors,’ the man said, shaking his finger at Palmer, ‘that’s what you should have had.’

  The arrival of the drinks punctuated that phase of the talk, and when he could Palmer asked Chapman how business was. He said he’d been seeing a lot of foreign cars around lately.

  ‘Business is all right.’

  ‘Pretty soon,’ Isabel Chapman said in her brittle way, ‘you might even make a profit, mightn’t you, darling?’

  ‘Business is all right’, Chapman reiterated, suddenly moody.

  ‘Doesn’t Leo Flynn work for you?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘He’s supposed to.’

  ‘How’s he doing?’

  ‘Just enough to keep from getting fired. He’s a bum, but he knows a lot of people. Don’t ask me how he knows them, but if they’ve got the money, who cares?’

  ‘He’s been with you quite a while, hasn’t he?’

  ‘A couple of years.’

  ‘Do we have to talk about this Leo Flynn?’ Isabel Chapman said.

  ‘No’, said Chapman.

  ‘What I want to see,’ the man who had kidded Chapman said, ‘is those six girls.’

  ‘Just be patient, George’. His wife patted him on the knee. ‘Stay sober for another half-hour and then you can drool.’

  Palmer knew what the man meant by the six girls. More decorative than talented, they had become the backdrop for the Bond’s floor show, and although the personnel changed from time to time, Gladys Flynn had remained a fixture and he wanted to see her now.

  Thanking Chapman for the drink, and excusing himself to the others on the grounds that he was supposed to be working, he moved across the dimly lighted room, skirting the stage and continuing through heavy curtains to a narrow hallway leading to the rear. When he knocked on a door on the right, it opened a crack and a girl peered out at him with one mascara’d and shadowed eye that was topped by false lashes thick enough to paint a picture.

  ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Gladys Flynn’, Palmer said. ‘Tell her Larry Palmer from the Bulletin would like to speak to her a minute.’

  ‘I’ll see’, the girl said, and closed the door.

  A few seconds later the door opened again and another girl came out bringing with her from the room beyond the odour of perfume, powder, and cold cream. Nearly as tall as Palmer—on the stage with high heels she would be taller—her hair had a red-blonde tint and her face had the painted artificiality designed for spotlighted effectiveness. Her position in the Orchid Room line demanded no great talent as a singer or dancer, but rather the ability to look alluring in costumes that varied from the flamboyantly overdressed to the skimpy minimum the law required. Either way Gladys Flynn had the proper equipment and in generous proportions, though at the moment all this was snugly encased in a long robe which was clasped at the waist with one hand.

  Palmer said hello and reminded her when they had met.

  ‘Oh, yes’, she said, and waited her green eyes wary as he took out the photograph and unrolled it again.

  ‘I’m trying to check on someone’, he said. ‘She might have known your husband and I wondered if you’ve ever seen her before.’

  He pointed to the face of Ethel Kovalik, then waited while she took the picture and tipped it to get a better look.

  ‘Yes’, she said. ‘At least I think that’s the one. She came to the apartment yesterday.’

  ‘About what time?’

  ‘Late morning. I’m not sure just what time it was.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘I don’t know. She asked for Leo and he wasn’t in. She said she would telephone him later. I think she did. Somebody that sounded like her anyway—she had sort of an accent—and Leo talked to her and then he went out.’

  She returned the photograph. ‘I guess I got a little sore. He said it was only business, but—well you know … Who is she anyway? Leo’s not in trouble, is he? Is that why the two cops came for him?’

  ‘Two cops?’

  ‘Well, they looked like cops. About an hour ago, it was.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Said they wanted to talk to him. He said: “About what?” and they said: “Just a routine check”, and he walked out with them.’

  Palmer said he did not know about the police; he was just trying to get a line on the woman. Then, because he did not want to become involved in further explanations, he thanked her and tried to turn away before she could think of another question. As he did so she reached out and grabbed his arm.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ she said, her accents suddenly harsh. ‘You come here and want some information and I give it to you.’ She tightened her hold on the robe, which had started to loosen. ‘It’s your turn’, she said, her voice still edged. ‘Who’s the woman? What makes her important?’

  ‘Somebody strangled her earlier this evening’, Palmer said. ‘Maybe the police wanted to talk to your husband because his name and address were in her bag.’

  She let go of him then. The artificial lashes opened up and so did her painted mouth. Palmer was nearly to the end of the hall before she called after him, and he kept on going …

  Wilson, who had been sleeping on the front seat of the company car, sat up and yawned when Palmer slid in beside him. Palmer’s apprenticeship had given him a good working knowledge of the city streets, but he was not sure of the one where John Destler lived, so he asked Wilson.

  ‘I think it’s out Jamaica Plain way’, the photographer said. ‘Drive out Huntington.’

  Wilson’s hunch proved to be correct. The street they sought was dark, quiet, and tree-lined, a middle-class neighbourhood of one- and two-family houses with tiny lawns and no distinction. When they located the right block, Wilson kept pace with the car while Palmer moved along on foot, approaching one doorway after another to lean close and peer at the numbers.

  The one he sought was in the middle of the block, a grey storey-and-a-half structure with a small screened porch on one side. Light glowed dimly from the front room adjacent to the porch, but otherwise the house was in darkness as he stood on the top step and rang the door-bell. He pushed the button three times, hearing the ringing inside, and when there was no answer he tried the knob. This told him the door was unlocked, and now he hesitated, reluctant to enter, yet even more reluctant to drive back to the office without making sure that no one was home.

  A second later he stood in the semi-darkness of a narrow hall that led towards the rear. On his right was the doorway to the living-room and he stepped inside, finding the light source a floor lamp near an easy chair in one corner by the porch. The furniture looked well worn but comfortable: another big chair and a matching sofa, a table desk, end tables, a console radio, an oblong stand well covered with magazines. The smell of tobacco suggested that the room had not long been empty, and mingling with it was a faint but fragrant odour he could not define.

  Slowly now, he moved to the centre of the room. Ahead of him was another doorway, apparently giving on a dining-room, though he could see nothing but blackness beyond. The tension that now began to work on him came from uncertainty and the sudden realisation that he had no business prowling around this house like a thief.

  He turned, eyes busy in their search of the interior but his mind made up. In another moment he would have retreated, but by then it was too late.

  Some whisper of sound or movement caught his ear. Before he could identify it the voice struck him from out of the darkness of the rear room.

  ‘Stand still!’ it said.

  Palmer obeyed. He stood very still, like a man in shock. Only his eyes moved to focus on the doorway, for the command had come from there, a woman’s voice, though in that instant he could see her only vaguely, the pale oval of the face, the skirted figure. The out-thrust hand alone was clear-cut and distinct; that, and the tiny automatic which was levelled right at him.

&n
bsp; CHAPTER FIVE

  ALREADY CONDITIONED BY a guilty conscience, Larry Palmer had a bad time in that next second or two. Startled into immobility, his mind raced on, leaving an odd fear in its wake, not so much at the sight of the gun as at the way it was held.

  For as the girl took a step forward he saw that she was young and very scared. The muzzle of that automatic trembled, and when she tried to steady it her hand tightened, increasing his alarm. In the face of this threat he spoke quickly, trying to sound both convincing and unconcerned.

  ‘Okay’, he said. ‘I’m still.’

  ‘Put your hands up.’

  He obeyed. He forced a grin. ‘Like this?’ he said.

  The girl’s face was still tight and pale at the mouth. He saw her swallow, aware now that she was dressed in sweater and skirt and short white socks and loafers, a combination that made her appear even younger than she was. He saw also that her hair was medium blonde and moderately long, like the lashes that framed the wide blue eyes. Her cheekbones were prominent but not angular, and her mouth was generous, well-shaped, and at that moment very determined.

  ‘Move over that way, please’, she said, gesturing with the gun.

  Palmer did so, stopping beside the floor lamp. He saw then that she was sidling towards the telephone on the desk. When she reached towards it, he spoke.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘The police’, she said. ‘What would you suggest?’

  ‘A truce’, he said as the tension eased and he saw the grip on the gun relax. When she hesitated he moved his hands deliberately, patting his pockets and turning to pat his hips. ‘See?’ he said, elaborately casual now. ‘No gun.’

  ‘Then what are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for Mr. Destler. I rang three times—’

  ‘I heard you.’

  ‘—and the door was unlocked.’

  ‘Yes’, she said, and sighed. ‘I didn’t know that.’ Then, the determination building again: ‘Who are you? What right have you got to come in here like a burglar?’

  ‘None’, Palmer said. ‘Put it down to faulty judgment. But now that I’m here I’d like to show you something … It’s in my wallet’, he said and extracted it, flipping it open to show his press card.

  She backed away, motioning once more with the gun. ‘Put it on the desk.’

  Palmer did so, his admiration for the girl mounting, not just the way she looked—and he liked very much what he saw—but the way she kept command of the situation. He wanted to ask her who she was and what she was doing here. Instead he did as he was told, backing away as she advanced and glanced down at the card.

  ‘Oh’, she said. ‘A reporter.’

  Her voice sounded relieved, but nothing changed in her face as she lowered the gun. He waited, watching the frown wrinkle the smoothness from her brow. Finally, as though the gun now embarrassed her, she opened a desk drawer and put it inside.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘I told you. I wanted to see Mr. Destler.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Do you know where I could find him?’

  ‘At Police Headquarters, I imagine. Two detectives came and got him a few minutes ago.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They said they wanted to talk to him. I offered to go along and they said no.’

  The information did not surprise Palmer, but the girl continued to do so. He found himself wishing she would smile, though there seemed little chance of this. She did not seem resentful either; just withdrawn and remote, as though not even aware of him as a person. And who, exactly, was she? Destler had no family, O’Neil had said; a bachelor. Could he have been married since he left prison? The informal way the girl was dressed suggested she was living here, and yet—

  ‘I’m sorry’, he said. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. I know I shouldn’t have come in that way … Is that your gun?’

  She blinked at his sudden digression. ‘No.’

  ‘You were sort of handy with it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why,’ she said, ‘and then you can go … About a half-hour ago the bell rang and when I went to answer it two men pushed me back into the room and told me to get in the corner and stay there. One of them had a gun, and they were pretty rough. The one with the gun threatened John and asked him a lot of questions while the other began to search the room.’

  ‘What sort of questions?’

  ‘I didn’t understand them. They said he had some list and they wanted it, and he said they were mistaken. They were getting ugly, but before they could do anything more the bell rang again and one of them went to the window and peered out. He said it was the police, and the two of them ran out the back way. I guess he must have seen the car parked in the street because when John opened the door right after that, these two detectives came in.’

  ‘Did you tell them what happened? What did they say?’

  ‘I don’t think they believed us. They looked at each other and shook their heads, and one of them said for John to get his hat and take a ride. They didn’t even bother to look out back.’

  Palmer nodded and reached again for the rolled photograph. ‘Did the two with the gun act as if they knew Mr. Destler?’

  She hesitated then, her voice for the first time uncertain. ‘I don’t know’, she said and her glance was evasive.

  Palmer put the picture on the desk and asked if she would take a look at it. When she came up beside him he pointed to the man named Henkel.

  ‘Was that one of them?’

  She leaned down, close to him now so that he could smell the fragrance of her hair. Her sweater brushed his shoulder lightly and a covert glance reassured him about the smoothness of her skin.

  ‘Yes.’ She looked up at him. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A fellow named Henkel.’

  ‘But—who is he? I mean, what does he do?’

  ‘He used to be a waiter at the Bond Hotel.’

  ‘And do you know what he could have wanted here?’

  ‘No,’ Palmer said, ‘but I could guess how he happens to know Destler. I think maybe Destler might have sold him a false birth certificate once.’

  When she did not question the statement, he understood that she knew about Destler’s conviction, and now he pointed to Ethel Kovalik, asking if the girl had ever seen her.

  ‘Why—yes’, she said.

  ‘When?’

  ‘She came here the day before yesterday. I’d been to the market and she was just coming out of the house when I got back. I asked John who she was and he said a friend of a friend of his from out of town.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  She drew away from him at that, her blue gaze again remote. ‘It was none of my business’, she said frostily.

  ‘Her name is Ethel Kovalik’, Palmer said. ‘She was strangled earlier this evening, maybe by Henkel and maybe not. Mr. Destler’s name was in her purse. That’s probably why the police are questioning him now.’

  ‘But—he was here all evening’, she protested.

  ‘Then that’s lucky for him.’

  He put the photograph away, still intrigued by this girl in spite of her lack of interest in him, wanting very much to know what she looked like when she smiled. Aloud he said:

  ‘Thanks for the help. Maybe you’d better be sure the doors are locked this time.’

  Wilson was awake when Palmer went back to the car. ‘Where to now?’ he said, turning up the volume on the police radio.

  ‘Headquarters’, Palmer said. ‘I’m due for a little session with Lieutenant Neilson.’

  ‘Hah!’ said Wilson. ‘Be sure you spell his name right.’

  When Wilson parked the car on Berkely Street opposite Police Headquarters, Palmer said he didn’t see any point in Wilson’s hanging around and why didn’t he get back to the office.

  ‘What for?’ the photographer said. ‘I’ve got to put my time in some place. Maybe they’ve got a little game going in the press room; wait’l
l I check with the desk.’

  He took the microphone from the hook on the dash, flipped the switch, and called the Bulletin. When a voice said: ‘Come in, Car 87’, he said: ‘We’re parked opposite Headquarters. Palmer’s going up to see Lieutenant Neilson and I’ll be in the press room until he finishes.’

  In the lobby Wilson swung left down a corridor to the press rooms and Palmer rode upstairs in the lift, turning into an office part way down the hall. A detective in shirt sleeves was working at a typewriter and the door to Neilson’s office stood open. When the detective looked up, Palmer asked where Neilson was.

  ‘Upstairs’, the detective said. ‘Busy.’

  ‘Could you give him a ring? He said he wanted to see me. Tell him Larry Palmer of the Bulletin.’

  He eased down on the wooden settee along the wall while the detective spoke into the telephone, and a few minutes later Neilson entered, indicating with a jerk of his head that Palmer was to follow him into his office. Here the lieutenant spoke briefly over the telephone and presently a policewoman came in, notebook and pencils in hand.

  ‘Okay’, Neilson said. ‘Tell it. When you went to Martin Street, what you saw, what you did.’

  Palmer told the story as he remembered it, occasionally answering a question from Neilson. This did not take long and when the woman left he said:

  ‘I hear you picked up Leo Flynn and John Destler.’

  Neilson leaned back and gave him a thin grin, but his eyes remained hard and humourless.

  ‘You didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You found the body. Being a nosy reporter, you went through her pocketbook. You saw a slip of paper with some names on it. You checked when you could and found we’d beat you to it. That’s how you know about Flynn and Destler.’

  Palmer eyed him morosely, his quick resentment coming not from the accuracy of the lieutenant’s deduction but from the deliberate arrogance of the tone and manner.

  ‘I went to see Gladys Flynn’, he said. ‘She told me a couple of your men had picked up her husband.’

  ‘So you went out to Destler’s and found out the same thing.’

  ‘What do they say?’