There he sat, staring at the three waitresses. None of them looked right to him, but he had to take a chance. He waited until one of the women approached him.
“Yours, mister?”
“Coke.”
She brought it to him and set the glass down. He pretended to be studying the menu and talked without looking up at her.
“Say, does a Mrs. Helen Krauss work here?”
“I’m Helen Krauss.”
He lifted his eyes. What kind of a switch was this, anyway? He remembered the way Mike used to talk about her, night after night. “She’s a tall blonde, but stacked. Looks a lot like that dame who plays the dumb blonde on television—what’s-her-name—you know the one I mean. But she’s no dope, not Helen. And boy, when it comes to loving…”
After that, his descriptions would become anatomically intricate, but all intricacies had been carefully filed in memory.
He examined those files now, but nothing in them corresponded to what he saw before him.
This woman was tall, but there all resemblance ended. She must have tipped the scales at one-sixty, at least, and her hair was a dull, mousy brown. She wore glasses, too. Behind the thick lenses, her faded blue eyes peered stolidly at him.
She must have realized he was staring, and he knew he had to talk fast. “I’m looking for a Helen Krauss who used to live over in Norton Center. She was married to a man named Mike.”
The stolid eyes blinked. “That’s me. So what’s this all about?”
“I got a message for you from your husband.”
“Mike? He’s dead.”
“I know. I was with him when he died. Just before, anyway. I’m Rusty Connors. We were cell-mates for two years.”
Her expression didn’t change, but her voice dropped to a whisper. “What’s the message?”
He glanced around. “I can’t talk here. What time do you get off?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“Good. Meet you outside?”
She hesitated. “Make it down at the corner, across the street. There’s a park, you know?”
He nodded, rose and left without looking back. This wasn’t what he had expected—not after the things Mike had told him about his wife. When he bought his ticket for Hainesville, he had had other ideas in mind. It would have been nice to find this hot, good-looking blond widow of Mike’s and, maybe, combine business with pleasure. He had even thought about the two of them blowing town together, if she was half as nice as Mike said. But that was out, now. He wanted no part of this big, fat, stupid-looking slob with the dull eyes.
Rusty wondered how Mike could have filled him with such a line of bull for two years straight—and then he knew. Two years straight—that was the answer—two years in a bare cell, without a woman. Maybe it had got so that, after a time, Mike believed his own story, that Helen Krauss became beautiful to him. Maybe Mike had gone a little stir-simple before he died, and made up a lot of stuff.
Rusty only hoped Mike had been telling the truth about one thing. He had better have been, because what Mike had told Connors, there in the cell, was what brought him to town. It was this that was making him cut into this rat-race, that had led him to Mike’s wife. He hoped Mike had been telling the truth about hiding away the fifty-six thousand dollars.
She met him in the park, and it was dark. That was good, because nobody would notice them together. Besides, he couldn’t see her face, and she couldn’t see his, and that would make it easier to say what he had to say. They sat down on a bench behind the bandstand, and he lit a cigarette. Then he remembered that it was important to be pleasant, so he offered the pack to her. She shook her head. “No thanks—I don’t smoke.”
“That’s right. Mike told me.” He paused. “He told me a lot of things about you, Helen.”
“He wrote me about you, too. He said you were the best friend he ever had.”
“I’d like to think so. Mike was a great guy in my book. None better. He didn’t belong in a crummy hole like that.”
“He said the same about you.”
“Both of us got a bad break, I guess. Me, I was just a kid who didn’t know the score. When I got out of Service, I lay around for a while until my dough was gone, and then I took this job in a bookie joint. I never pulled any strong-arm stuff in my life until the night the place was raided.
“The boss handed me this suitcase, full of dough, and told me to get out the back way. And there was this copper, coming at me with a gun. So I hit him over the head with the suitcase. It was just one of those things—I didn’t mean to hurt him, even, just wanted to get out. So the copper ends up with a skull-fracture and dies.”
“Mike wrote me about that. You had a tough deal.”
“So did he, Helen.” Rusty used her first name deliberately and let his voice go soft. It was part of the pitch. “Like I said, I just couldn’t figure him out. An honest John like him, up and knocking off his best friend in a payroll stickup. And all alone, too. Then getting rid of the body, so they’d never find it. They never did find Pete Taylor, did they?”
“Please! I don’t want to talk about it any more.”
“I know how you feel.” Rusty took her hand. It was plump and sweaty, and it rested in his like a big warm piece of meat. But she didn’t withdraw it, and he went on talking. “It was just circumstantial evidence that pinned it on him, wasn’t it?”
“Somebody saw Mike pick Pete up that afternoon,” Helen said. “He’d lost his car keys somewhere, and I guess he thought it would be all right if Mike took him over to the factory with the payroll money. That was all the police needed. They got to him before he could get rid of the bloodstains. Of course, he didn’t have an alibi. I swore he was home with me all afternoon. They wouldn’t buy that. So he went up for ten years.”
“And did two, and died,” Rusty said. “But he never told how he got rid of the body. He never told where he put the dough.”
He could see her nodding in the dimness. “That’s right. I guess they beat him up something awful, but he wouldn’t tell them a thing.”
Rusty was silent for a moment. Then he took a drag on his cigarette and said, “Did he ever tell you?”
Helen Krauss made a noise in her throat. “What do you think? I got out of Norton Center because I couldn’t stand the way people kept talking about it. I came all the way over here to Hainesville. For two years, I’ve been working in that lousy hash-house. Does that sound like he told me anything?”
Rusty dropped the cigarette stub on the sidewalk, and its little red eye winked up at him. He stared at the eye as he spoke.
“What would you do if you found that money, Helen? Would you turn it over to the cops?”
She made the noise in her throat again. “What for? To say, ‘Thank you,’ for putting Mike away and killing him? That’s what they did, they killed him. Pneumonia, they told me—I know about their pneumonia! They let him rot in that cell, didn’t they?”
“The croaker said it was just flu. I put up such a stink over it, they finally took him down to the Infirmary.”
“Well, I say they killed him. And I say he paid for that money with his life. I’m his widow—it’s mine.”
“Ours,” said Rusty.
Her fingers tightened, and her nails dug into his palms. “He told you where he hid it? Is that it?”
“Just a little. Before they took him away. He was dying, and couldn’t talk much. But I heard enough to give me a pretty good hunch. I figured, if I came here when I got out and talked to you, we could put things together and find the dough. Fifty-six gees, he said—even if we split it, that’s still a lot of money.”
“Why are you cutting me in on it, if you know where it is?” There was an edge of sudden suspicion in her voice, and he sensed it, met it head-on.
“Because, like I told you, he didn’t say enough. We’d have to figure out what it means, and then do some hunting. I’m a stranger around here, and people might get suspicious if they saw me snooping. But if you helped, maybe t
here wouldn’t be any need to snoop. Maybe we could go right to it.”
“Business deal, is that it?”
Rusty stared at the glowing cigarette butt again. Its red eye winked back at him.
“Not all business, Helen. You know how it was with Mike and me. He talked about you all the time. After a while, I got the funniest feeling, like I already knew you—knew you as well as Mike. I wanted to know you better.”
He kept his voice down, and he felt her nails against his palm. Suddenly his hand returned the pressure, and his voice broke. “Helen, I don’t know, maybe I’m screwy, but I was over two years in that hole. Two years without a woman, you got any idea what that means to a guy?”
“It’s been over two years for me, too.”
He put his arms around her, forced his lips to hers. It didn’t take much forcing. “You got a room?” he whispered.
“Yes, Rusty—I’ve got a room.”
They rose, clinging together. Before moving away, he took a last look at the little winking red eye and crushed it out under his foot.
2
Another winking red eye burned in the bedroom, and he held the cigarette to one side in his hand so as to keep the light away. He didn’t want her to see the disgust in his face.
Maybe she was sleeping now. He hoped so, because it gave him time to think.
So far, everything was working out. Everything had to work out, this time. Because before, there had always been foul-ups, somewhere along the line.
Grabbing the satchel full of dough, when the cops raided the bookie joint, had seemed like a good idea at the time. He had thought he could lam out the back door before anyone noticed in the confusion. But he had fouled that one up himself, and landed in stir.
Getting buddy-buddy with that little jerk Mike had been another good idea. It hadn’t been long before he knew everything about the payroll caper—everything except where Mike had stashed the loot. Mike never would talk about that. It wasn’t until he took sick that Rusty could handle him without anybody getting wise. He had made sure Mike was real sick before he put real pressure on.
Even then, the lousy fink hadn’t come across—Rusty must have half-killed him, right there in the cell. Maybe he’d overdone it, because all he got out of him was the one sentence before the guards showed up.
For a while there, he had wondered if the little quiz show was going to kick back on him. If Mike had pulled out of it, he’d have talked. But Mike hadn’t pulled out of it—he had died in the Infirmary before morning, and they had said it was the pneumonia that did it.
So Rusty was safe—and Rusty could make plans.
Up till now, his plans were going through okay. He had never applied for parole—believing it better to sweat out another six months, so he could go free without anybody hanging onto his tail. When they sprung him, he had taken the first bus to Hainesville. He knew where to go because Mike had told him about Helen working in this restaurant.
He hadn’t been conning her as to his need for her in the deal. He needed her all right. He needed help, needed her to front for him, so he wouldn’t have to look around on his own and arouse curiosity when he asked questions of strangers. That part was straight enough.
But, all along, he had believed what Mike told him about Helen—that she was a good-looking doll, the kind of dame you read about in the paperback books. He had coked himself up on the idea of finding the dough and going away with her, of having a real ball.
Well, that part was out.
He made a face in the darkness as he remembered the clammy fat of her, the wheezing and the panting and the clutching. No, he couldn’t take much more of that. But he had had to go through with it, it was part of the plan. He needed her on his side, and that was the best way to keep her in line.
But now he’d have to decide on the next move. If they found the dough, how could he be sure of her, once they made the split? He didn’t want to be tied to this kitchen mechanic, and there had to be a way.
“Darling, are you awake?”
Her voice! And calling him “darling.” He shuddered, then controlled himself.
“Yeah.” He doused the cigarette in an ash tray.
“Do you feel like talking now?”
“Sure.”
“I thought maybe we’d better make plans.”
“That’s what I like, a practical dame.” He forced a smile into his voice. “You’re right, baby. The sooner we get to work the better.” He sat up and turned to her. “Let’s start at the beginning—with what Mike told me, before he died. He said they’d never find the money, they couldn’t—because Pete still had it.”
For a moment Helen Krauss was silent. Then she said, “Is that all?”
“All? What more do you want? It’s plain as the nose on your face, isn’t it? The dough is hidden with Pete Taylor’s body.”
He could feel Helen’s breath on his shoulder. “Never mind the nose on my face,” she said. “I know where that is. But for two years, all the cops in the county haven’t been able to find Pete Taylor’s body.” She sighed. “I thought you really had something, but I guess I was wrong. I should of known.”
Rusty grabbed her by the shoulders. “Don’t talk like that! We’ve got the answer we need. All we got to do now is figure where to look.”
“Sure. Real easy!” Her tone dripped sarcasm.
“Think back, now. Where did the cops look?”
“Well, they searched our place, of course. We were living in a rented house, but that didn’t stop them. They tore up the whole joint, including the cellar. No dice there.”
“Where else?”
“The sheriff’s department had men out for a month, searching the woods around Norton’s Center. They covered all the old barns and deserted farmhouses too, places like that. They even dragged the lake. Pete Taylor was a bachelor—he had a little shack in town and one out at the lake, too. They ripped them both apart. Nothing doing.”
Rusty was silent. “How much time did Mike have between picking up Pete and coming back home again?”
“About three hours.”
“Hell, then he couldn’t have gone very far, could he? The body must be hid near town.”
“That’s just how the police figured. I tell you, they did a job. They dug up the ditches, drained the quarry. It was no use.”
“Well, there’s got to be an answer somewhere. Let’s try another angle. Pete Taylor and your husband were pals, right?”
“Yes. Ever since we got married, Mike was thick with him. They got along great together.”
“What did they do? I mean, did they drink, play cards or what?”
“Mike wasn’t much on the sauce. Mostly, they just hunted and fished. Like I say, Pete Taylor had this shack out at the lake.”
“Is that near Norton’s Center?”
“About three miles out.” Helen sounded impatient. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s no good. I tell you, they dug things up all around there. They even ripped out the floorboards and stuff like that.”
“What about sheds, boathouses?”
“Pete Taylor didn’t have anything else on his property. When Mike and him went fishing, they borrowed a boat from the neighbors down the line.” She sighed again. “Don’t think I haven’t tried to figure it out. For two years, I’ve figured, and there just isn’t any answer.”
Rusty found another cigarette and lit it. “For fifty-six grand, there’s got to be an answer,” he said. “What happened the day Pete Taylor was killed? Maybe there’s something you forgot about.”
“I don’t know what happened, really. I was at home, and Mike had the day off, so he went downtown to bum around.”
“Did he say anything before he left? Was he nervous? Did he act funny?”
“No—I don’t think he had anything planned, if that’s what you mean. I think it was just one of those things—he found himself in the car with Pete Taylor and all this money, and he just decided to do it.
“Well, they figured it
was all planned in advance. They said he knew it was payroll day, and how Pete always went to the bank in his car and got the money in cash. Old Man Huggins at the factory was a queer duck, and he liked to pay that way. Anyway, they say Pete went into the bank, and Mike must have been waiting in the parking lot behind.
“They think he sneaked over and stole Pete’s car keys, so, when he came out with the guard, Pete couldn’t get started. Mike waited until the guard left, then walked over and noticed Pete, as if it was an accident he happened to be there, and asked what the trouble was.
“Something like that must have happened, because the guy in the parking lot said they talked, and then Pete got into Mike’s car and they drove off together. That’s all they know, until Mike came home alone almost three hours later.”
Rusty nodded. “He came home to you, in the car, alone. What did he say?”
“Nothing much. There wasn’t time, I guess. Because the squad car pulled up about two minutes after he got in the house.”
“So fast? Who tipped them off?”
“Well, naturally the factory got worried when Pete never showed with the payroll. So Old Man Huggins called the bank, and the bank checked with the cashier and the guard, and somebody went out and asked around in the parking lot. The attendant told about how Pete had left in Mike’s car. So they came around here, looking for him.”
“Did he put up any struggle?”
“No. He never even said a word. They just took him away. He was in the bathroom, washing up.”
“Much dirt on him?” Rusty asked.
“Just his hands, is all. They never found anything they could check up on in their laboratories, or whatever. His shoes were muddy, I think. There was a big fuss because his gun was missing. That was the worst part, his taking the gun with him. They never found it, of course, but they knew he’d owned one, and it was gone. He said he’d lost it months beforehand but they didn’t believe him.”
“Did you?”
“I don’t know.”
Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve Page 12