“He brought you home from wherever you were. The two of you got out of the car and ran, because of the rain, for the building entrance. You heard three shots and Marlin fell down and you saw a tall slender man in a gray raincoat and a pull-down hat run to the street and drive away in a car—a coupé, maybe; you can’t be sure. He drove north. You don’t remember much after that. The next thing you knew for sure, you were sitting in a chair in your apartment, trying to get control of yourself. It might have been two minutes; it might have been ten. Then was when you realized the police must be notified.
“And that’s all you say, Miss Sandmark. Nothing about your stepfather not liking Marlin; nothing on why you left the house in Oak Park to take this apartment. Now go ahead and make the call.”
Her eyes narrowed into a frown and anger deepened her voice. “Did John—my stepfather—tell you he didn’t like Jerry?”
I shook my head. “Can’t you understand we’ve no time for that now?” I picked up the receiver and dialed Central Station, then shoved it into her hand. “Go ahead. You’re on your own.”
She put the instrument against her ear, her eyes never leaving my face . . . Hello. I want to report a— a shooting. . . . Yes. My escort was shot by somebody as we got out of my car in front of my apartment. . . . Miss Leona Sandmark, 1317 North Austin Boulevard.” She spelled the name and repeated the address . . . I’m afraid so, but I—I can’t be sure. . . . No, he’s probably still there. . . . This number? Austin 0017. It’s my own. . . . Thank you.”
She put back the receiver like a soap bubble she didn’t want to break. “They’re sending someone. . . . Poor Jerry.” She dropped down on her knees and put her head against the night table and began to cry with a sort of subdued intensity.
I let her go at it for two minutes by my watch, although I hated to spare the time. Finally I put my hand on her bare white shoulder and shook it a little. “That’s enough for now. Don’t use any make-up until after the law sees you. They’ll feel better if your eyes are reddened up some.”
She jerked up her head and looked at me. through tears, as though I had crawled out of the woodwork. “How can you talk that way! Do you think I’m doing this to satisfy the police? We were going to be m-married, and now he’s—he’s—”
“Dead,” I said. “That’s bad and I’m sorry. But it can be worse and maybe it will be. Temporarily I’m throwing you to the wolves. As long as you stick to what I’ve told you to say, you’ll get by. I’m pretty sure the police won’t hold you, although don’t ever think they’ll just tip their hats and walk out. But you’ve got looks and your stepfather has a lot of money: a combination that will make the boys walk on eggs unless they get something mighty strong on you. . . .”
“One other thing. Don’t bring John Sandmark into this before you have to. If it gets too tough, call him. But make it at the last possible minute.”
She was alarmed again, and worried. “Why?”
“Not what you’re thinking. Just do it my way. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“You know I’m on your side, Miss Sandmark?”
“Yes . . . yes.”
I gave her a big grin. “Let’s keep it that way. Good morning, Miss Sandmark.”
I walked out of the apartment, leaving her still kneeling by the night table in the bedroom. I got into the elevator and rode down to the first floor and went out into the court. The rain was still coming down as though it hated the earth, but the thunder and lightning had slacked off”.
The body still lay where it had fallen after the bullets went into it. I went around it, walking neither fast nor slow, and got into the Plymouth. The engine turned over quick enough, but it backfired twice and I could have chewed my heart like a stick of gum.
Just before I reached North Avenue a twenty-eighth-district prowl car passed me from the opposite direction, going very fast. The boys weren’t using the siren, and that was fine. My nerves wouldn’t have liked the noise.
CHAPTER 7
After a hot shower had taken the chill out of my bones, I got into pajamas and went into the living room. I drew the lounge chair over to the big window, put my bare feet up on the sill and lighted a cigarette with fingers that shook hardly at all.
The rain had stopped shortly before dawn, but the sky was still heavily overcast and it promised to be a cool day after all. I sat there and thought my way through two cigarettes, glancing from time to time at my wrist watch.
At seven-thirty I went into the kitchen and put together a glass of bourbon, water and ice, brought it back to the lounge chair and put the telephone in my lap. At seven-forty-five I dialed the operator and gave her John Sandmark’s number.
A young voice, female, answered. I gave her my name and told her to put Sandmark on.
“I’m very much afraid Mr. Sandmark isn’t up yet, Mr. Pine.” Her voice hinted a half-witted cretin from the highest of the Alps would have known that. “Won’t you call back later?”
“I will not,” I said. “Try tickling his feet.”
Her gasp was half giggle. “But . . . are you certain it’s important enough for me to wake him?”
“Yeah.”
“. . . Hold the wire, please.”
I put my feet on the sill and sipped from my glass and waited. Presently an extension receiver went up and Sandmark’s deep voice said:
“Pine? What’s so important?”
I said, “Just a moment, Mr. Sandmark.” About five seconds later I caught the small click of a receiver being replaced. I said, “Did you get my message?”
“What message?”
“I called you a little after four this morning. Didn’t they tell you?”
“No.”
“They said you were out.”
“Yes.”
“Were you?”
“Yes. But I don’t see—”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where were you at four o’clock?”
“You’re overdoing things a little, aren’t you, Mr. Pine?”. Enough chill came over the wire to make me wonder if I should rub my ear with snow to ward off frostbite.
“I’ve had plenty of practice,” I said. “And I’m not asking questions just for the hell of it.”
“If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
“Sure,” I said. “At four this morning Jerry Marlin was shot to death in front of 1317 Austin Boulevard. With him, at the time, was a young woman. If you want her name I can furnish that too. She—”
“Leona!” It wasn’t much more than a whisper, but I’ve heard screams that had less horror in them. “I can’t believe . . . Listen to me, Pine.”
“Yes, sir?”
“She . . . Leona . . . she didn’t—I mean to say, it wasn’t Leona who—”
“I know what you mean,” I said soothingly. “She didn’t fog him; no. Matter of fact, she called the buttons herself.”
“Buttons?”
“Police.”
“Who did kill him?”
“I couldn’t say, Mr. Sandmark.”
“You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“Nope.”
“What are the police doing about it?”
“What they always do when there’s a killing,” I said. “Ask questions and dig into the lives of the people involved and look for motives and hunt up witnesses and pick up whoever was standing around when it happened.”
“What kind of gun did the killer use?”
I couldn’t figure the reason for that question. I said, “I don’t know, Mr. Sandmark. Why do you ask?”
“Well—well, my stepdaughter often carries one. She carries quite a bit of money at times, particularly when she gambles.” He hated saying those last four words. “She owns a pair of Colt revolvers and she knows how to shoot. A friend of hers who works for the City obtained a license for her.”
I thought of the .32 Pocket Positive she had brought to my apartment. Maybe it hadn’t been in her purse for my benefit after all
. I said, “She could have had one of them with her when Marlin was erased. But I know she didn’t use it.”
“All right.” He sounded relieved, but doubtful. “Have the police arrested her?”
“I don’t think so. They probably took her down to Central Headquarters to make a statement. But I doubt very much that they’ll hold her.”
The wire hummed. Sandmark was thinking. I wiggled my toes and got outside some more of my highball.
He said slowly, “It seems strange that neither Leona nor the police have got in touch with me by this time. I’m her father.”
“Not so strange,” I said. “She strikes me as an ankle who doesn’t yell easy. The cops will get around to you before long, but it won’t be because she gave them the idea.”
“How do you know all these things, Pine?”
I set the empty glass on the floor, put a cigarette between my lips and lighted the bobbing end of it while I answered that one. Actually it wasn’t an answer. I said, “Let’s leave that part of it go for a while, Mr. Sandmark. Look, there’s a pretty fair chance the homicide boys are going to find out how you felt about Marlin. On top of that there’s a possibility they’ll learn you weren’t at home when he was ironed out. So if you have a nice tight alibi for 4:00 A.M., well and good; if not, it would be intelligent of you to arrange one. Because if the law gets hold of those facts, you can bet your drawers you’re going to be asked questions. Lots of questions . . . under lights, and a guy with a notebook taking down the answers.”
He said, “Are you accusing me of murder, sir?” in a voice as tight as a fat woman’s shoe.
I looked at my fingers. “No. I doubt if you did it, Mr. Sandmark. It’s not reasonable to think you’d hire me to get something on Marlin, then bump him yourself the same night. Unless—no.”
“Just what do you advise, Pine?” he said quietly. “You seem to know about matters such as this. And you are working for me, you know.”
That last one got a grin out of me. “Not any more, Mr. Sandmark. You hired me to get something on Marlin to prevent him from becoming your son-in-law. I’ve found out he’s a corpse. That ought to be good enough.”
He sighed. Atlas must have sounded like that when they put the world on his shoulders. “I don’t know what to do, Mr. Pine. I just don’t know. . . . And I’m worried about Leona. She’s so . . . You’d think she would call me. I can’t stand by and let the police subject her to any— well—ordeal.”
“You’ll have to watch that,” I told him. “Since she hasn’t called you, and since the papers aren’t out yet with the story, there’s no way you could have learned about this. Wait until you find out officially before starting anything. The police can understand that.”
I took a few drags on my cigarette while he chewed his nails, or whatever. Presently he said, “I must have time to think about this. Meanwhile, I’ll follow your advice and do nothing. There’s always the chance the police will find the real killer.”
“Right,” I said. There was no harm in cheering him up a little. “Police make a business of solving murders, Mr. Sandmark, and they’re good at it too.”
He sighed again. If he had cheered up any, I couldn’t tell it. “All right. All right. Thank you for calling me about . . . If I need you I’ll—”
People talk like that sometimes. I said, “Do that, Mr. Sandmark,” and put back the receiver.
Seven-fifty-five. I blew some lopsided smoke rings and wiggled my bare toes some more and decided against going to bed. It appeared I didn’t have a client any more, so it might be a good idea to get down to the office and wait for the phone to ring and give me one.
I put a pot of fresh coffee on to boil while I shaved and got into clean underwear and a fresh white shirt and the brown suit that was just back from the cleaner. While I knotted the best of my three Sulka ties, I saw that the red mark on my face where D’Allemand’s foxy Andrew had belted me was mostly gone. Remembering that meeting gave me no pleasure. I went back into the kitchen and drank two cups of coffee black as the devil’s reputation and strong as Tarzan of the Apes.
Afterward, I stood by the window while I buttoned my raincoat and stared at the gun-metal sky and the rain-sodden branches of the trees in the strip of grass between sidewalk and street.
I found myself thinking of Leona Sandmark. First I thought of her as a girl who started out by making a high-school romance go a long way, following that with left-handed honeymoons with somebody else’s husband and a pedigreed crook.
That kind of canoodling, plus the old man’s money and a taste for roulette, should have shaped her into a cocktail-lounge cutie, one of these smooth-surfaced sisters who never look anything but bored and have a wisecrack for everything from muscle dancing to murder.
I couldn’t fit Leona Sandmark in there. It was tough fitting her in anywhere. During the three times we had been together she was either haughty, angry or scared. When you cover character with emotions like those, it’s hard to get at the real thing.
But the physical side of her kept pushing out the rest. I thought of the slender, highbred lines of her figure; of the narrow eyes that sometimes were green and sometimes gray-blue; of the full underlip that would be fun to gnaw on; of the way she smelled.
And I thought of the twin depressions in the rose-satin spread of her bed. . . .
I went out into a morning that was like the steam room of a Turkish bath. It wasn’t going to be a cool day after all. The Plymouth started as though I was kicking it out of a sound sleep. I drove east to Sheridan and turned south to the Loop.
I left the car with one of the day attendants at the parking station, crossed over Jackson and went into the Clawson Building. At exactly nine o’clock I opened the door of my reception room.
A tall man with beefy shoulders and his hat on was sitting on the couch and reading a paper as I walked in. It was Lieutenant George Zarr of the Homicide and Sex Detail. He lowered the paper and said, “I want to see you, Pine,” in a tight cold voice that matched his eyes.
Being more or less involved in a killing one night and finding a homicide dick on the doorstep the next morning can make a man a little nervous. I was a little nervous. I said, “Sure. What about—homicide or sex?”
It didn’t amuse him. Nothing I would ever say would amuse him. He stood up and folded his newspaper with deliberate motions of his stubby fingers and stuck it in the pocket of his suit coat and waited for me to unlock the inner office door.
He followed me in and sat down in the visitor’s chair alongside the desk and broke the cellophane on a cigar while I drew the Venetian blind all the way up and opened the window. Traffic sounds floated in and settled over the furniture. A faint faraway buzzing was the drill in the dentist’s office next door.
I yawned and got out of the raincoat and went over and picked four envelopes off the carpet under the letter drop. Zarr struck a kitchen match against his thumbnail and it cracked into flame with a noise like a cap pistol. He lighted his cigar, turning it slowly to get it burning evenly, his expressionless eyes on me while I went back around the desk and sat down and tucked the envelopes into a corner of the desk blotter pad. The room smelled a little of stale cigarette smoke and damp plaster.
Zarr took the cigar from his mouth and looked approvingly at the glowing end. He said, “You been reading the papers lately?” in a too-casual voice.
I eased up inside. It was too early for any mention of Marlin’s murder to be in the news sheets. “Not any more than usual. Why?”
“Your friend’s been hogging a lot of space.”
Put it down to my lack of sleep, but I didn’t get it right away. I wrinkled my forehead at him and said. “Who’s that?”
He squeezed out a smile that was meant to tell me if I wanted to play it dumb he’d humor me along—within reason. “The one they planted day before yesterday. Remember?”
I said, “Stop acting so goddam coy. He wasn’t my friend; I pointed that out to you then. I also told you how I happened to
get into that procession. Maybe my friends don’t live in penthouses, but they don’t hang out in Madison Street flea-traps; either.”
His breath made a sudden rustling sound in his nostrils and his heavy eyebrows pulled sharply together. “I don’t recall saying anything about a flophouse, shamus. Let’s kind of hear about that part of it.”
I curled my lip at him. “Nuts. You can comb the rubber hose out of your eyebrows, Lieutenant. I read about that angle in the News.” I found my cigarettes and shook one out and lighted it. “Let’s you and me get straightened out on this business, Zarr. All I know about that screwy funeral is what I saw out there and what the News had to say. I’ll go along with you to the extent of admitting I’m curious why it should take twelve harp polishers to bury an unidentified bum. But I exercise my curiosity for nobody but clients, if homicide wants to put me to work on the thing, okay; it’ll cost the taxpayers thirty bucks a day. If not, then the hell with it and stop bothering me.”
I opened the middle drawer of the desk and took out a copper letter knife with a blue enamel medallion on the handle—a gift my automobile-insurance company sent me one Christmas—picked up the first of the four envelopes and slit open the top edge. It was white and the size business houses use. There was no return address, front or back, and there was a three-cent stamp where it should have been.
Zarr’s broad stubby-fingered hand reached out before I was aware of what he was doing. He grabbed the opener and the letter out of my fingers and slammed them down on the desk so hard it sounded like a gunshot.
I stared at him with my mouth open. His eyes weren’t cold any more. They were hotter than a two-dollar pistol, and his face was red and his lips were twitching a little. He said thickly:
“Who the hell do you think you’re brushing off, gumshoe? I came here to talk to you, and by God you’ll talk— if not here, then in a basement room at headquarters! You’re not pushing around some crummy client to show him what a hot-shot you are. I’m the law, Jack; when I ask a question I want an answer quick and respectful, get it?”
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