Halo in Blood

by Howard Browne

  I grinned—the last thing in the world he expected. “You want to watch yourself, George. Guys bust blood vessels that way. I wasn’t giving you a brush; I told you what I knew. Shall I make up some details to keep you happy?”

  The extra color began to seep out of his cheeks and his eyes cooled down some and his lips stopped twitching. He put his cigar back in his mouth and moved it around to one corner and stared at my necktie. When he spoke again his voice was clear.

  “I’m a homicide man, Pine. My job is to find people who kill other people—find them and give enough information to the State’s Attorney to put them in the chair— if it can be made to go that far.

  “If whoever gets killed is prominent, then somebody’s got to pay for it. The papers play it up and the mayor starts getting ants about the third day and lights a fire under the commissioner. Then it’s a case of find the killer—or a reasonable facsimile—or the department gets a shake-up . . . and some honest, hard-working cop gets shoved out in the sticks and has to start all over again getting back what took him years, probably, to get in the first place.”

  None of this was news to me. A private detective learns about life in the big city before his, license makes a clean spot on his office wall. But Zarr had the ball and wanted to run with it and he was in the mood to step on anybody trying to take it away from him.

  He crossed his legs the other way and jiggled his toe lightly up and down and kept on talking. “Usually, though, the guy that gets rubbed is some nobody. The killing starts on page three and falls out of the paper the next day. That don’t mean we don’t try to get whoever done it; you know damn well we do, Pine. But if the answer comes hard—which ain’t often—then the whole works sort of slides into the unsolved files and the hell with it. Nobody cares much except maybe the relatives, and by that time they’re sick of cops and questions, so they don’t beef.”

  Very casually I picked up the slit envelope and fiddled it around in my fingers. He watched me with brooding eyes and kept on talking. Cops don’t usually talk so much.

  “Once in a long while one of those unsolved cases blows up again long after it should’ve been forgotten. The papers get hold of some nutty angle and first thing you know everybody’s talking about it and the department’s got to get to work. And there’s nothing tougher to dig into than a murder that’s had time to cool off.

  “Which is what’s happened in this John Doe thing. It was bad enough when some screwball laid out the dough to bury him. But when he hires twelve preachers to say the last words—well, there’s your dynamite. One of the evening rags lighted the fuse; now both morning sheets have written it up. I happen to know that Malone of the Tribune has orders to stay with the thing until he gets the complete story. If he breaks it ahead of the department, I’ll be lucky not to get transferred farther than Roseland.”

  He puffed a time or two at his cigar, took it out of his mouth and stared at it and ran the nails of his left hand lightly along the back of his other thumb. Outside, the clouds were beginning to lift and a strained yellow light came in at the window.

  “I’ve been a cop ever since I came to this town over twenty years ago, Pine. I started little but I got big . . . and I’m going to get a lot bigger if I don’t get put behind the eight ball on some such lousy pitch as this one. That’s why I got to bust this before it gets out of hand, and I don’t give a greased goddam who gets hurt while I’m busting it, either.”

  “Well, don’t get mad at me,” I said.

  He eyed me bleakly. “You’re in it, ain’t you? You say it was by accident. I don’t believe in accidents like that, friend. I think maybe you were sent out there by somebody for some reason. That means you know something I don’t, and that’s why I’m up here now, talking to you a lot more than I get any fun out of.”

  “All right,” I said. “I heard you; now it’s my turn. Nobody sent me to that funeral; I’ve told you so until my tonsils are sore. Check up with the cycle cop on duty at that intersection and he’ll tell you how I got into the line. But instead of doing any checking, you come busting in here and shoot off your bazoo at me and tell me if I don’t like it I can go to hell. Well, I don’t like it, brother. If you want to make something out of that, go ahead and see where it gets you. I know my—”

  The telephone rang.

  I jumped a little, and Zarr allowed himself a sardonic smile. I picked up the receiver, scowling, and barked: “Hello.”

  “Mr. Pine?” It was a man’s voice, steady, pleasant, not young and not old. A handshaking voice, rich, smooth, self-confident in a modest sort of way. The voice of a radio announcer or a con man.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “My name is Baird, Mr. Pine. C. L. Baird. You have my letter?”

  “Not that I know of, “J said.

  “I mailed it yesterday afternoon.” He sounded a little worried. “Perhaps you haven’t had a delivery yet.”

  My eyes went to the four envelopes on the blotter. “I haven’t got around to the morning mail, that’s all.”

  “Yes. Well, I wrote to you asking for an appointment at eleven this morning. Would that be convenient for you?”

  “It can be arranged,” I said. I shifted my glance to where Zarr was sitting. He was being obvious about not paying any attention to the conversation. “Do you want to come to the office or would you like me to call on you?”

  “It would be better,” the voice said crisply, “if I came there.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll expect you.”

  He said good-by and hung up. I put back the receiver and fished a cigarette from the pack on the desk top and reached for a match. “I’m going to be busy, Lieutenant. Is there anything else I can tell you before you go?”

  Zarr grunted and rose to his feet and drew down the brim of his hat. “What does that mean—anything else?’”‘ he said heavily. He went over and put a hand on the knob, then he turned around slowly and gave me a long, thoughtful look.

  “All right, Pine. Maybe it did work out the way you say. Anyhow, just remember I’m working on this thing; and if you fall into it again . . . well, I can get awful sick of coincidence.”

  He went out, banging the door behind him.

  It seemed suddenly very quiet in the room. I picked up the slit envelope and drew out the single sheet of white bond paper, unfolded it and read the few neatly typewritten lines.

  My Dear Mr. Pine:

  I should like to call on you at your office tomorrow, Wednesday, morning at eleven. I wish to engage your services in a highly confidential matter of extreme importance.

  Respectfully,

  C. L. Baird.

  It sounded like one of the notes Sherlock Holmes used to get. I refolded the sheet, slid it back into the envelope and dropped it back in the drawer. Then I put on my hat and went downstairs for a sandwich.

  CHAPTER 8

  He said, “Good morning. Are you Mr. Pine?”

  I told him I was. He came all the way into the office and turned around and very softly closed the door. Then he turned around again and smiled winningly and said, “I hope you don’t mind my closing the door, Mr. Pine. I shouldn’t want anyone overhearing what I have to say.”

  There wasn’t anyone in the reception room to overhear him, but I let it pass. I nodded without getting up and pointed to the customer’s chair. He sat down gracefully and laid his woven-under-water panama on a corner of the desk and crossed the legs of a reddish-brown tropical-worsted suit that had been put together by a tailor who loved his work, and adjusted the cuffs of his fifteen-dollar brown madras shirt. The brown-and-red figured handkerchief with hand-rolled edges in his breast pocket matched his foulard tie, and the brown-and-white oxfords on his slender high-arched feet probably cost more than my best suit.

  It was a treat just to look at him. He turned on his white-toothed smile again and leaned back in the chair and said:

  “My name is Baird, Mr. Pine.” He spoke softly, in an almost purring voice. “You did receive
my letter?”

  “Uh-hunh.”

  “You’re free to do a job for me?”

  “That,” I said, “will depend on what the job is.”

  He nodded his head approvingly. He liked me. He thought I was wonderful. I didn’t know why. “Naturally, you’d want to know that first.”

  He was a year or two past thirty and an inch or two under six feet, with long slender legs, not enough belly to mention and a pair of football shoulders. He wore his crisp black hair parted on the left side, with sideburns that came down to the tragi. He had a rounded chin, thin smart lips, rather a pointed nose with a high bridge, brown eyes set wide apart, thick black eyebrows and a high smooth forehead with a widow’s peak. The skin of his hands was a little too white, but his face showed a tan—the kind of tan that comes either from Florida or a sun lamp.

  If I had been a girl I would have loved to let him take me dancing.

  He worked a cigarette case out of a pocket and got one of the contents burning. It was a cheap plastic case that clashed with the rest of his getup. I refused a cigarette and he put the case away. He leaned back again and looked at me and gave me the benefit of his insurance-salesman’s smile.

  “Shall we get right down to it, Mr. Pine? My partner and I own a small manufacturing plant out on Belmont Avenue. We’re engaged in making gambling equipment: dice tables, roulette layouts, chuck-a-luck cages, and so on.

  “Two mornings ago my partner failed to show up to keep a golfing date with me. I called a few places where he might be, but without success. I wasn’t especially alarmed; any one of several reasons might have explained his absence. Then, yesterday afternoon, I found this note in my apartment mailbox.”

  He thrust a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and brought out a folded sheet of sulphite bond and handed it to me. I unfolded it, smoothed out the wrinkles. Words were printed on it with a hard lead pencil. They read:

  Baird:

  We’ve got Taggart. You can have him back for twenty-five grand. Bring it, in small used bills, to the dirt road that runs behind the Glenhaven Cemetery. The road turns off Addison, just west of Harlem. Drive along it for a hundred feet, then park. We’ll contact you. One o’clock Thursday morning. You only get one chance. We don’t have to tell you to keep away from the cops.

  There was no signature. There didn’t have to be. I slid the paper back to him across the blotter and he refolded it and returned it to his pocket. I said, “What do you want me to do, Mr. Baird?”

  He put the tips of his thumbs together and looked at them. His mouth was without the salesman’s smile right then and it was a lot harder around the edges than I had noticed before.

  “I should like you to handle the matter for me,” he said, keeping his eyes on his thumbs. Between the first and second fingers of his right hand, his cigarette sent up a wavering gray line. “I’ll turn the money over to you, and you go out there and make the contact.”

  I pushed the letter knife around with the tip of a forefinger. “Why not handle it yourself, Mr. Baird?”

  He left off fooling with his thumbs and took a long drag from his cigarette. He said, “I’m fairly new in the gambling supply business, Mr. Pine, and I’m not used to associating with the type of people who buy our merchandise. They talk hard and they act hard, and frankly they—well—they frighten me a little.” He laughed briefly and his face colored. “Taggart was the victim of a snatch once before. He tells me it’s a sort of occupational hazard for anyone in our line of business.”

  It added up okay. It was just that he didn’t look much like a coward. But then you never know. I said, “What do you figure the job’s worth to you, Mr. Baird?”

  The wide shoulders under the tropical-weave jacket rose and fell. “Three C’s ought to be fair enough. I could pay that.”

  “The price is right,” I said. “Where’s the money I’m to pay out?”

  “I’ll get it to you this afternoon.”

  “How?”

  He looked faintly astonished. “Does that make a difference?”

  “You bet it does,” I said. “A lot of difference. I wouldn’t want some kid walking in and handing me a package and walking out. When I opened the package I might find some cut-up newspapers, and then you’d be mad at me for stealing your money.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “I trust you, Pine.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I like to be trusted. But maybe I don’t trust you.”

  His nice soft brown eyes turned hard as paving stones.

  “Perhaps you had better explain that.”

  I nodded carelessly. “It’s fairly obvious. You come in here and see me for the first time in your life and offer me twenty-five grand to carry around like a bag of margarined popcorn. You’d do that, maybe, if somebody you trusted a lot had recommended me. In that case you’d have mentioned his name right away. But you haven’t mentioned anybody’s name.”

  Back came the smile. “That’s clear enough. I’ll bring the money to you myself.”

  “What time? I’ll want to be here.”

  “Around five o’clock.”

  “That will be all right. You said three hundred. You can pay me half now and the rest when the job is done. Okay?”

  He took a brown alligator billfold from the same pocket the note had come from and slid out three one-hundred-dollar bills. He fanned them out so I could see the figures in the corners and put them gently down in front of me. “In advance,” he said lightly. “All of it. I said I trusted you, Mr. Pine.”

  I opened the middle drawer and brushed the bills into it with a careless motion as though there were hundreds more like them in there. Baird stood up and ground out his cigarette in the glass ash tray, straightened, put on his panama, tilting it a little over the right eye, and stuck out his hand. I got out of my chair and shook his hand for him and walked with him as far as the corridor door.

  He said: “About five, then, Mr. Pine,” and opened the door and went down the hall without a backward glance. I closed the door and went back to my desk and took out the three bills.

  There didn’t seem to be any marks on them that didn’t belong there. I got out my wallet and tucked them in with the fifties John Sandmark had given me two days before. Four hundred and fifty dollars in slightly under forty-eight hours. The landlord was going to start being respectful to me again.

  The alarm bell went off at eleven-forty-five, but I didn’t need it. I hadn’t dozed off after all. I stretched, reached over and cut the alarm, put a marker between the pages of my copy of Modern Criminal Investigation, and got off the bed. I went into the kitchen and lighted the gas under the pot, then went back to the bedroom, took a quick shower and put on a tan sport shirt and dark trousers.

  I drank coffee laced with black molasses rum. returned to the living room and took a gun—a .38 Colt Detective Special, a black leather shoulder holster, and a brown-paper parcel from the drawer of one of the end tables flanking the couch.

  After adjusting the holster under my left arm, I put the gun into it and slipped on my jacket.

  The parcel had twenty-five thousand dollars in it—in one-hundred-dollar bills. I knew that because I had opened it in front of C. L. Baird at a quarter to five that same afternoon and counted them. I didn’t figure I’d need the gun, but in calling on people who have so little regard for the law that they put the sneeze on a fairly respectable businessman, it doesn’t hurt to have something under your coat besides muscle.

  I put out the lights and walked down the corridor, past the self-service elevator and through the door to the building stairs. I went down two flights and came out into the lobby across from the desk.

  Wilson, the night man, was sitting behind the switchboard reading a pulp magazine. He tipped a hand at me, gave the brown-paper bundle under my arm a glittering stare and said, “Going out, Mr. Pine?” in his reedy voice.

  “Nice deduction, Sam,” I said.

  He was the most literal-minded guy I knew . . . and the most inqu
isitive. His eyes stayed on the package. “I’m afraid all the laundries are closed by now, Mr. Pine.”

  “You mean this?” I indicated the parcel. I made a show of looking around to see if the lobby was deserted. “Keep it to yourself Sam, but there’s twenty-five grand in there.”

  He said. “Ha, ha,” sourly and went back to his detective story. I walked on out through the screen door and stood on the sidewalk and looked at the sky.

  The stars were out, also half a moon. That was a relief; I’d have hated to use a dirt road on a dark and rainy night. It was hot and sticky out and there wasn’t enough breeze to break a smoke ring. I blew out my breath and turned left and walked slowly around the corner to where my heap drooped at the curb.

  I unlocked the door and slid in behind the wheel. The air was hot and lifeless the way it is when the sun beats down on the roof of a closed car. I rolled down the windows, started the motor and drove east. There were a couple of cars behind me by the time traffic thinned out on Sheridan enough for me to swing south.

  At Irving Park I turned into Marine Drive and followed the inner lane to Addison Boulevard. Another car swung in behind me as I made the turn there, and for a moment I wondered if maybe I didn’t have a tail. But traffic was heavy enough to make it hard to be sure. I could have circled around a few side streets to make sure but there would be time enough for that later on.

  The moving car stirred the air enough to give an illusion of coolness. I lighted a cigarette with the dashboard lighter and slipped out of my jacket. I unshipped the .38 and laid it beside the parcel on the seat next to me.

  The car radio gave me “Whispering.” very softly, with a lot of strings, a growling doghouse and a sobbing trumpet. The wet half-moons under my arms began to dry out. Way off somewhere a train whistle mourned for the miles ground under iron wheels. Now and then a car whished past my open windows, the headlights laying an unsteady carpet in its path. A huge cross-country Greyhound bus hissed its air brakes briefly at me and went by with its nose in the air.