by Milton Ozaki
SANDS' SLAYER STILL SOUGHT
The heading was a nice job of alliteration, but the story merely was a rehash of yesterday's meat. There were a couple of new pictures of Fia Sprite, both showing plenty of leg and bust, but nothing had been added to or subtracted from her imaginative story of a girl done wrong, the girl being herself.
In between sips of coffee, I pored through the entire paper, looking for a story about a minor massacre in Poljako's Garage. The first trip through, I spotted nothing. Puzzled, I went back to page one and checked each page carefully. On page three, at the bottom of a column, I found a half-inch of type, set in the size usually used for fillers:
Sam Jackson, 34, was found dead in an alley behind 1460 Wilson Avenue early this morning. Two bullets were discovered in the body. Police suspect murder.
On page nine, buried at the bottom of a column of household hints, I found a second item in the same size type:
A body believed to be that of Dominick Vassano, 24, was discovered by police early this morning in a doorway at 18th and State Streets. Police reported that he had been shot to death several hours earlier.
Considered in the light of known fact, the items were informative. One: neither Gold nor Sport Shirt had screamed for the cops. Two: they did not want anyone, particularly the police, nosing around the Poljako Garage, hence they had gone to the trouble of moving the bodies. Three: they did not want it known that Sam Jackson and Dominick Vassano had been killed in the same caper, and they therefore had gone to the additional trouble of arranging to have them discovered in widely separated areas. Four: unless Sport Shirt had recognized me, which I doubted, he, Gold and the Whisperer were working up to a nice case of ulcers trying to figure out what had happened. Five: they had a good reason for not wanting a spotlight on the garage.
I thought about it a while, then I finished my coffee and wandered back to the telephone booths. A dime got me a pleasant good morning from the switchboard operator at Central Insurance Underwriters. I asked for Dick Greene and waited. He finally came on.
"Dick, this is Rusty Forbes," I said. "Remember me?" I'd had dealings with him several months back on a jewelry job, but it had been a small deal and I thought he might not recall.
He laughed. "Not the Rusty Forbes?"
"Yeah. The stuff in the papers is strictly hogwash."
"For your sake, I hope so. What's on your mind?"
"I understand the Eastman Kodak Company had a large shipment of stuff snatched. Was it insured?"
"Hell, yes. You got a lead on it?"
"Maybe. If I have, would you be interested?"
"Me and the F.B.I. It was an interstate shipment."
"Can you mention the insured value?"
"Sure, hold on a second." The line hummed briefly. "The valuation quoted in all the F.B.I. flyers to dealers was four hundred thousand. That was based on list prices, of course. The shipment was insured for its replacement value, which the Eastman company figures is one hundred thousand.
"Okay. Make me an offer."
"Ten percent is usual, Rusty."
"Make it ten percent plus a favor. I want to know if the DuMorell Company—you know, radio and TV—carry a theft policy on their warehouse stock."
"Why don't you call them and ask them?"
"I don't know whom to talk to. Anyway, you can get the information easier than I can."
"Well, hold on a second. I'll check on another phone with an outfit which writes a lot of commercial theft paper. They may know something about it." The line hummed again and for a long time I stared at the pencil scrawls on the wall of the booth. The return of his voice startled me. "Yeah, it's all covered, Rusty, but it's peanuts. In the last couple years, they've only had one or two small sets stolen. I'd say that there's nothing in it for you."
"But it's all covered?"
"Sure. The DuMorell outfit is big. They couldn't afford not to carry complete coverage. But, as I said, the only stuff missing has been—"
"I have news for you, Dick. DuMorell is short a quarter-million in warehouse stock."
"The hell you say."
"Here's the way I hear it: Their warehouse manager, a guy named Bob Libby, has been shipping stuff out to various connections and keeping fake inventory sheets. The total is around a quarter-million, mostly in radio-TV consoles. I've just listened to an offer of twenty grand for the lot."
"Let me get this straight: The sets are in one lot? They haven't been split up?"
"A few, maybe. Most of them are in a warehouse."
"Hell, Rusty, I don't know what to tell you. We haven't got anything on it. If you're absolutely certain, of course—"
"I'm certain. Tell you what: There's no rush as far as I'm concerned. Put the finger on Libby and see what happens. We can talk about a deal later, but it's twenty grand or nothing as far as I'm concerned. I have to pay off to another party."
"All right. I'll go along with that. What about the Eastman stuff?"
I described the layout of the Poljako Garage and told him that he'd better take immediate action before the stuff was moved. He said he would. I pronged the receiver and fished in my pocket for another dime.
I dialed Ginny's number four times and got a busy signal. On the fifth try I got a hello. "This is Rusty," I said. "Got anything on Diane yet?"
"Not much, darling." Her voice sounded warm and eager over the wire. "A bar-girl I know at Teddie's Casino says she remembers her coming in there, but she was never twice with the same guy. The only real lead comes from a fellow who used to tend bar at the Club Erin. He says she used to have an apartment on Division Street, somewhere near State. He doesn't know the address, though."
"Okay. Keep trying."
I pronged the receiver again. Hell's bells. Division and State was lousy with small apartments. Without a definite address, finding her would be like looking for a knock-kneed girl in Soldiers Field during a candle-light ceremony. I walked straight south on Rush Street to the Crilton.
Two bellhops were chewing toothpicks in a corner of the lobby, enjoying the deadest part of the hotel's business day. I was carrying no luggage, so they ignored me. I headed for the room clerk's desk. He turned out to be a portly, wise-eyed, old grayhead. I drummed on the counter until I got his attention.
"Is Miss Kent still in seven-twelve?" I gave him the question briskly and with delicate intonation, inferring that I was a very old friend and regular customer.
"Seven-twelve is right, sir." As though bored by the ways of men and women, he smiled detachedly. I headed for the elevators.
My knuckles made a hollow sound against her door, almost as hollow as my stomach felt. She opened it quickly and held it wide for me to enter, smiling like a child who knows that a present is forthcoming. I walked past her and waited for her to shut the door.
"Gee, honey, I thought you'd forgotten about me!" she cried, coming toward me. She had a big, happy smile on her lips, a sparkle in her blue eyes, and wore a red woolen robe which did everything except cry welcome. Her arms reached for my neck and she clung to me, offering her lips.
I stood stiff, silent and unbending, and stared down into her eyes.
"What's the matter, honey? Aren't you going to kiss me hello?" She sensed that something was wrong, of course, but it's a rare woman who chooses to fight with her fists. She pressed herself against me and her fingers stroked the hair on my neck, tempting me with the bait few men can—or want to—resist.
I reached for her wrists and wound my fingers around them. She smiled, mistaking the anger in me for aroused passion, and she bent away from me in the instinctive, automatic gambit utilized by women who know that much may be won by losing a little at first. I tore her hands away from my neck and pushed her violently away. Surprise bathed her face and perplexity sprang into her eyes.
"Honey, you're angry at me... What's the matter?"
She came toward me again, anxious to wage the battle under conditions advantageous to a woman, and started to lift her arms. I struck them down. Fo
r the first time, fear edged into her eyes.
"You lying little bitch," I said, articulating each syllable clearly. "You've been lying from the moment you first laid eyes on me."
"Have you lost your mind? Rusty, honey—"
"You can't honey your way out of this." I grabbed the front of the red robe and shook her. "Who are you? Tell me the truth."
"You know who I am!"
"Let me hear you say it."
"G-giselle K-k—" I shook her violently, and she swallowed the rest of the name.
"You lousy little liar. You cheap two-bit floosie. You vicious little bitch." I threw the phrases at her, releasing some of the pent-up rancor which seethed within me. "I'm going to prove that you aren't Giselle Kent."
I sank both hands into her blonde hair and dragged her to a lamp. She writhed and kicked, but I held her tightly and forced her head under the light. Her teeth found my arm and pain stung me. I tightened my grip cruelly and slapped her head down. She began to sob. I parted her hair with my fingers, searching the area behind the hairline. There were no scars, nothing except the pale gleam of white scalp.
I flung her from me.
"You killed her and took her place," I accused scathingly. "But why? Why in God's name attempt to get away with an act like that? What was your purpose? You must have known that you couldn't get away with it very long."
She glared angry defiance. "I haven't killed anybody! You're the killer!" She drew herself up with an attempt at hauteur. "I... I'm going to scream!"
"Scream away," I snapped, "all it'll get you is a mouthful of loose teeth."
"You've got a hell of a lot of nerve, pushing me around! Wait'll I tell the cops—"
I swung around. "What are you going to tell them?"
"I'm going to tell them it was your idea for me to pretend to be Giselle Kent!" Her voice rose triumphantly. "I'll say you forced me to go out there last night and identify her as Diane Doll. Don't forget, you're wanted for Eddie Sands' murder and you need an alibi. I'll deny I ever saw you before. I'll swear the whole thing was your idea—"
"You know, kiddo," I said, "it never occurred to me before, but you're no dummy. You've got a brain. Right from the beginning, you figured the odds closely and connived like an expert. At first, I thought you were just a pawn, just a kid with a yen to make a few quick bucks for herself, but now I'm beginning to realize that you play in the top league— and that I'm the one who has been dumb."
"Dumb ain't the word," she retorted, laughing harshly. "You're a 24-carat hole-in-the-head and when I get through with you, you're going to wish you'd been born dead."
As I stared at her, a few more pieces of the puzzle slid gently into place. "You knew Sands' body was in the trunk of the Caddy," I said, "so the whole thing was an act. You even knew that Giselle was dead—or was going to be killed— and you had her wallet along because you intended to leave it in the car when you ditched it. You thought that would confuse the trail, that it would make it look as though she had killed him, abandoned the body, and gone back to Chicago to meet her own death—but then I came along and you had to write in lines which weren't in the script."
"Go ahead, figure it out," she taunted, "a lot of good it'll do you!"
"The thing I don't understand," I went on, "is how you intended to collect, why this has been worth the risk—and it must have seemed worth a considerable risk, otherwise a sharp girl like you wouldn't have touched it." I eyed her appraisingly. "It was a set-up where Eddie Sands and Giselle Kent had to die. Eddie had a joint, but the joint doesn't figure, because he had a wife and she stood to grab it. Eddie was edging into the hot-goods racket and had a lot of expensive TV sets under his hat. But you didn't have your hooks into Eddie—if anyone did, it was Ginny Evans—so that angle is out. Still, those sets have been the center of a lot of action—"
"Damned right," she agreed, tossing her head. "They're worth a quarter-million bucks, and that ain't hay."
"It's sour grapes to you, kid, because neither you, nor Gold, nor Eddie's widow have the faintest idea where Eddie stored those sets—but I do."
Some of the arrogance faded from her face. "Who told you?"
"Two and two make four. I've got the key and the address."
"You lie!"
"Gold doesn't think so; he offered me ten grand for them. Norma Mae Sands doesn't think so, either; she offered me twenty-one grand. As soon as the insurance company files a bid, I'm going to put them in a hat and pick one out. The highest one, of course."
"Don't be a complete fool!" She sat up straight, giving me her undivided attention. "Why, the insurance company would only kick back a fraction of their value!"
"Maybe you would like to file a bid?"
"Have you really got them—honest—to God?"
"Try me."
"Suppose I got you an even fifty grand?"
"You would be high bidder."
"I'm sure I can get you fifty grand. Will you give them to me for that?" Her blue eyes were wide, her lips were parted with excitement.
"Bids should be sealed and accompanied by a certified check for a substantial sum." I said pointedly.
"Norma Mae didn't give you any dough, did she?"
I had to admit she hadn't. "But," I pointed out, "Mrs. Sands is a person of substance. The Silver Cloud isn't going to disappear overnight and Norma Mae isn't the type to do a quick-change act on me. You, on the other hand—" I shrugged and let the rest of the sentence hang delicately.
"Look, Rusty—hell, I don't have to draw you a picture, do I? You're in a jam and you need money. I can get you out of your jam and I can get you money, big money, more than you could ever get from Gold or Norma Mae Sands. I admit I'm Diane Doll and I've been giving you a run-around, but I can make the whole thing worthwhile to you." Her cheeks were flushed as though she were feverish. "Fifty grand, Rusty—that's a lot of potatoes. You could forgive me for dough like that, couldn't you?"
"I don't know," I said. "Fifty grand is hard for me to visualize. If I could feel it, or see it—"
I paused, stopped by an abrupt change in the expression on her face. Her nose had wrinkled and she was holding her chin loosely, as though preparing to sneeze. She got to her feet hurriedly and headed for the bathroom. Through the thin panel, I could hear the muffled sound of retching, dry and deep. It lasted several minutes, and I spent the time sitting in a chair and blinking at the ceiling, while pretty pictures went through my mind, pictures which were mostly green, the color of money.
When she returned, she looked pale and a little embarrassed. "Sorry," she said shortly. "Something I had for breakfast must have nauseated me."
I grinned at her. "It wasn't anything you ate, kiddo."
"It must have been. I thought the eggs tasted old, but—"
"You know, Diane, you're practically an automatic liar." I shook my head regretfully. "Yesterday, while you were driving into Wisconsin, you got sick and you had to stop at a gas station and a drugstore. On the way back, you began to feel nauseated again, but you managed to make a production out of it like a game little actress. You probably had a good heave-ho while I parked the cars—and another after I made you go out and look at Sands' body. Add this all together, and any stupe could reach the conclusion that the eggs which just made you ill weren't chicken eggs."
She shrugged. "All right. So what?"
"So nothing, except that you've got one less lie on your conscience. Who's the papa? Not Arnold Richmond, I hope."
"None of your goddamn business."
"Maybe it is."
"Like hell," she flared, "as long as I don't accuse you—"
"The only reason you don't," I interrupted, smiling knowingly, "is because you have a better use for the information. Who are you putting the screws on for it, Diane? Anybody I know?"
"It's none of your damn business. Period. Are you interested in fifty grand—or aren't you?"
"I'm interested in many things—and fifty grand is certainly one of them. But, as I said a moment ago, y
ou lie so fluently, and about such silly little, things, that I'm not exactly filled with trust."
"It's just because I'm nervous, Rusty." She paced restlessly in front of me, holding the woolen robe tightly about herself as though it were chilly in the room. "This business of having a kid is one of the reasons, I guess. I've been jittery and worried for a month, and sitting in this damned room hasn't helped. It's been hell. I can't think, can't eat, can't do anything, and in a few more months I not only will feel like hell, I'll look like hell, too!"
"You'll be able to wear a red carnation on Mother's Day," I reminded her.
She stopped her pacing and faced me. "Look, Rusty, I've got myself deeper into this than I planned. At first, it looked like a quick, foolproof way to make a big buck. But it's beginning to seem things are getting out of hand. Now I want out. Plain o-u-t, but not without my share of the dough. I did my part of the act and I'm entitled to it."
"We're talking about DuMorell sets again, I take it?"
"Certainly. Put into the right hands, Rusty, those sets are worth an easy fifty grand to you and"—she showed me her palms—"here are the right hands. I can market them. I know how they can be sold at a high price—and fast, too."
"How?" I asked.
"Do I get the sets?" she countered.
"Not for nix, baby," I said. "So far, all you've given me is conversation."
"I can't get the dough immediately," she hedged. "It might take a couple days, but I swear you'll get it."
"No dough, no deal."
"Can't you wait a couple days?"
"I could, but I'm not going to. The DuMorell Company is onto Libby, and I'm not going to get burned. I'm going to dump them as soon as I can."
She took a deep breath. "I guess I'll have to level with you, Rusty. No two ways about it, I've got to have those sets. I can't let you sell them to anybody else. I'm going to draw you a great big picture—and hope that you'll trust me."