by Basil Copper
“I know very little, you understand,” he said. “I knew Paul was running around with Sirocco. No one, but no one, knows where he hangs out. He comes and goes; it’s my belief that he’s from out of town and just flies in and out for specific jobs.”
“Like Murder Incorporated?” I said. He didn’t like that. He threw his cigarette butt into the gutter. One of the kids playing around the car picked it up and started to smoke it. He was all of ten years old.
“There’s only one thing I know and it may have nothing to do with it,” he said. “But both Paul and Sirocco sometimes had a biggish negro with them. I only saw him twice — both times at the Inn and then only for a few minutes together. But it might make things easier.”
I gave Mellow a long look. Something was beginning to stir down in my memory.
“Well,” I said. “Thanks, Mandy. You might have hit on something at that.”
“Anything to help the kid,” he said. He started the engine. The Caddy shuddered and the engine rose to a chortle as he engaged the gears. The seat hit the small of my back as the tyres gripped and we gunned off across town. I got him to drop me in front of my block. I thanked him and he drove off. Apart from a brief appearance in court and a casual drink later, that was the last I saw of him. I went over to a kiosk and got an Examiner. Black type about a foot deep screamed all over the front page; POLICE CHIEF JACOBY SLAIN BY UNKNOWN GUNMAN it said. GAMBLER’S BROTHER HELD IN D.A.’S PROBE. After all that there was about ten lines of the actual story at the bottom of the page, most of that wide of the mark.
I took about seventeen seconds to read the piece. I felt I had wasted my money. In the stop press I saw another fudge of blurred type, “Private investigator Michael Faraday of this city is assisting Captain Tucker in his inquiries.” At least that was accurate. I went on into the building and rode up in the neolithic lift.
“Hullo,” said Stella. “Another country heard from.” She wore a sort of cream costume which set off her figure to perfection and she made quite a picture as she bent over the coffee percolator.
“I should stay around the office more often,” I told her.
“Huh?” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“It would take too long to explain,” I said. I went on over to the desk. It had a lot of paper and stuff on it, some unopened bills, one or two letters; nothing extraordinary. Stella had filed most of the stuff already, I knew. If there was anything important, she would tell me.
I went on towards her. She intercepted my sweeping hand and guided it gently back to my side. Her fingers were cool on mine and she held my hand just a fraction of a second too long. I got out Mandy Mellow’s cheque and held it up for her to read. Her eyes widened.
“Yum,” she said. “Looks like we’ll be in business next week after all.”
The phone rang. Stella handed it to me. It was Tucker.
“Just thought you’d like to know,” he said. “The same gun.”
I should have been surprised otherwise. Stella was at the other phone taking notes.
“You heard anything from the Channing girl?” Tucker asked. I said I hadn’t.
“She’s done nothing unusual, so far as I can see,” he said.
“That’s what worries me.”
It was my turn to grin. “She may be quite an innocent party,” I said. “Anyway, she’s my problem. I’ll keep you posted.”
He rang off. I sat back at the desk, swivelled my chair and feathered smoke up at the ceiling. It rose swiftly in the warm air and formed a fog, hiding the crumby state of the decor. I stopped torturing my mental processes and picked up my cup of coffee. There was always tomorrow.
Then I remembered something else. I had left my car over at Police HQ. It wasn’t much good locking a convertible and I had left the key in the dash pocket. I sighed again. I got Stella to ring up Police HQ. I spoke to the desk sergeant.
“Are you still staking out my place?” I asked him after I told him who I was.
“Captain Tucker’s orders,” he said. “Any complaints?”
“On the contrary,” I said. “Never more welcome. I just wondered if your night squad had gone on yet.”
“Two men going out about half past six,” he said.
I asked if one of them could take my car out for me and told him where to find the key.
“This ain’t no Yellow Cab Company,” he grumbled.
“Many thanks, Sergeant, for your cooperation,” I said sweetly. That took him by surprise.
“Not at all, Mr. Faraday,” he said. “That’s a different matter. Pleased to do it.”
Stella was still smiling when I came up for my second cup of coffee.
9 - Bert Dexter
Next morning I showered, and had breakfast under the friendly eyes of the two cops. Margaret Standish rang. She sounded worried.
“Sorry to bother you, Mike,” she said. “Someone tried to break into my apartment last night. Can you come over some time?”
I did my best to cheer her up. “I’ll look around for a chat later,” I told her.
Next I rang Dan Tucker. I didn’t tell him about Margaret’s call. It might have had nothing to do with Adrian Horvis, but it was decidedly interesting.
“Paul Mellow’s been booked and appears in court again formally day after tomorrow. We may want you then. Meantime, we’re still digging.”
I smoked and held the earphone against my shoulder and stared out of the window at the trees opposite; already it was hot enough to make them shimmer in the early haze. It was really only around eight by the sun. Then Tucker said, “You still there?”
“Sorry, Dan,” I said.
He snorted. “Look, I’ve got to go out to the Horvis place again. Can you meet me there around ten?”
“Suits me,” I said and hung up. When I went out to the Buick, the tonneau was red-hot from the glare of the sun. I took off my jacket, laid it on the seat alongside me and put on a pair of sunglasses. The heat of the cushions frizzled my buttocks when I sat down; I half rose and the cop leaning against my porch grinned.
“Hot seat,” he said. I gunned out of the car-port, turned down the boulevard and drove across town. The day was a glaze of light and the sun struck the car bonnet and came back at my face like it was a stove-lid; I drove slowly, not from choice, but because the speed made no difference to the temperature of the air and the faster I went the quicker the insects, dust and smuts gathered in the driving seat.
I wasn’t in any hurry so I stopped at Jinty’s on the way over and had an iced beer; I was afraid the bartender was going to say “Hot” again. In which case I should have screamed. Fortunately, he was too busy to do more than put the long glass down, take the money and turn away. This brought the wheel full circle. It was less than a week ago when I had first been in here on the morning Adrian Horvis had rung me, but it seemed like a couple of years. There was no one I knew in the bar, so I came on out, got into the Buick and drove across town.
I had trouble getting on to Highway 44 what with the snarl-up of mid-morning traffic but I made better time when I hit the highway. It was a relief, though, when I got on to the dirt road and up into the hill country. It was a little cooler here, but still nothing to write to Congress about. I passed the Jazz Inn which had the usual clutter of cars choking the parking lot, found the Avocado-Peartree intersection and was on the boulevard once again.
There seemed to be one or two properties for sale since I was up here last and I noticed idly that the house next to 2168 was up for rent. The Horvis place looked even bigger than when I last saw it. I got up the marble steps with a heavy increase in my blood-rate. I knew Tucker was there because his car was parked at the bottom of the steps. The same Filipino house-boy I had seen before answered my ring.
His smile of recognition was genuine. I went on across the hall and through the patio and into the lounge. Tucker was sitting at Horvis’s desk going through piles of paper. He gave me a silent wave of greeting.
“I get you drink, sir,” said th
e Filipino and went off. I heard the welcome chink of glass and ice a moment later. I went and sat gratefully on one of the divans and rested my smoking feet. I guessed the Filipino was glad of something to do now that his master had gone and that set me wondering what Horvis’s estate planned to do about the house; I supposed the staff had been kept on in the interim to prevent the place from running down.
Tucker grunted and spun an apple core through the air. It hit the waste basket squarely and disappeared. The Filipino came back and set down a long glass in front of me; it was frosted, ice clinked in it and there was the smell of crushed limes. I took a tentative sip and decided this was one of the better days. Tucker thanked the house-boy and he withdrew. He seemed to go out on rubber castors for you never heard or saw him until he was on top of you. He would have made a great skating champion — without skates.
Tucker rubbed his hands. “We got it going, that’s for sure. All bullets matching; Mellow set for trouble unless something turns up; Sirocco identified and a net out. Yeah, Mike, it ain’t turned out at all badly.”
“Except that we don’t know what the hell it’s all about,” I said. He shrugged.
“You can’t have everything,” he said. I leaned back and studied my socks thoughtfully. They were a nice shade of puce. Stella had picked them out for me.
“Are you going to be long?” I asked. “Because if so, I’ll take a stroll round the grounds.”
He looked surprised. “Am I boring you?”
“No, it’s not that,” I said. “You’ll get on a lot quicker and the walk will do me good.”
“Right,” he said. I went over to the garden porch on the opposite side of the house from the conservatory. I thought I might make it but I heard the scrunch of his teeth biting into another apple just before I went through the door. If ever a man ought to live to be a hundred it was him.
I had a walk round the garden; it was quite a sizeable affair; arbours, ornamental fountains, a gazebo, a Japanese garden, the lot. Then I strolled over to a terrace and looked down towards the garden of the empty house next door. The chauffeur was working on one of Horvis’s cars; they really glistened in the sun. Then I stopped; I looked again to make sure and bells began to chime. You really do need your brains testing, Faraday, I told myself.
I went back across the lawn with great strides. I must have made a lot of noise going in through the side entrance and Tucker looked up in surprise.
“Have you got the chauffeur’s name?” I asked him. He rooted among the papers on the desk.
“Eugene Lockhart,” he said. “Been with the old man about seven years.”
“Would you mind having him in?” I asked. I saw a funny look in his eye.
“This isn’t the sun,” I told him. “Just ask him a question or two, to make it look natural. I’ve got a wild idea, but if I’m right this will be the biggest break so far.”
I’d never seen Tucker so excited, but something about me must have impressed him for he went out of the room with surprising speed and a minute later I saw the Filipino pass the window. Tucker re-joined me and sat down at the desk again.
We waited perhaps five minutes and then there was a crunching of gravel. A tall figure in a grey livery appeared at the window. There was a tap and the chauffeur walked in. As he took off his cap I saw that he was bald; his eyes blinked nervously behind pince-nez. Anyone less like a chauffeur I never saw.
“Come in, Mr. Lockhart,” Tucker said. He shuffled some papers on his desk. “You were asking about that other car of Mr. Horvis’s we were holding. If you’d like to come down to HQ this afternoon you can bring it back.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lockhart. He nodded at me, smiled nervously at Tucker and went back out the same way he came in. “And that’s the chauffeur?” I said.
Tucker looked blankly at me. “Sure it’s the chauffeur,” he said. “We questioned him half a dozen times …”
“I didn’t mean that,” I said. “He’s a white man.”
“Is there any law against that?” Tucker exploded.
“Sorry,” I said. “I keep forgetting. What I’m trying to get at is this. The chauffeur I saw when I was here the afternoon Horvis was killed was a negro.”
I started walking rapidly up and down. Tucker opened his mouth once or twice, but no words came. He got a packet out of his pocket and lit a cigarette. “In other words …” he began.
“The murderer,” I said. “It’s got to be.”
Tucker offered me a cigarette. I took it and put it to my mouth. I walked up and down as I spoke, pulling my thoughts together.
“Horvis was due to be hit,” I said. “The trigger man — whom we’ll suppose is an out-of-town gunman — happens to be a negro, which is incidental. He and Sirocco have the place staked out. The regular chauffeur has the afternoon off — we can check that later — or perhaps he’s gone out for a short while. The trigger man, dressed as a chauffeur, turns up and is reconnoitring the place when I arrive.
“With commendable nerve this party starts to clean down one of the cars. Later on, he sees me out in the conservatory, seizes his chance, nips in and murders Horvis. Then he and Sirocco take off in the hire car; perhaps the negro is dropped round the corner, having changed out of his uniform meantime, and then Sirocco takes the car back to the hire firm.” There was a long silence. Tucker leaned back at the desk and took a thoughtful and lethal bite at another apple. I sipped my drink.
“Pretty good,” said Tucker. “I can see one or two snags, though. Wouldn’t it be taking rather a chance? The servants, for instance?”
“We’ve seen how these boys operate,” I said. “Nothing fazes them. If anyone had seen him, or the servants had opened the door while he was in the garden, he could easily have made up some errand. It’s not unusual for some of these rich old birds to send their chauffeurs out to collect a car or something of that sort. He could have said he had mistaken the address.” Tucker furrowed up his face. He threw his apple core away and took up his cigarette.
“But I still don’t get it,” he said. “Not that I think you haven’t got something important here. Why a negro? Gould anything be more conspicuous?”
“Let’s tackle it from another angle,” I said. “Did you ever read a story by an English guy named Chesterton? It was about this man who committed a perfect murder. Nobody saw him because he was so conspicuous. He was disguised as the postman and he carried out the body in a sack under the eyes of the police.”
“So?” queried Tucker.
“So what I’m saying is this,” I said. “Look at the position of the negro in this country today; they’re everywhere; everywhere and nowhere. Yet do you ever see them as individual people? Can you ever say you recognize their faces? Aren’t they all the same to the average white man?”
There was another long silence. I started walking again. “The fact that this gunman is a negro is purely incidental, I’d say. What’s the decisive factor is that he must be one of the best men in the business; fearless, ruthless, with nerves that don’t shake under stress. He’s efficient at his job — apart from the shot he took at me, I don’t know anyone else who survived; he killed cleanly always — except for Braganza, and that was in the dark — usually with one shot and faded away so quickly that only one or two people in all these killings gained a vague impression that a negro had been in the neighbourhood.
“And, in a variety of menial disguises, he could come and go in a hundred places without being spotted; he could mingle with waiters in a hotel and never be noticed. With Sirocco as his finger man he couldn’t go wrong. Then all he has to do is get on a bus or a plane and turn up a couple of thousand miles away.”
Tucker whistled. His face had changed as I was speaking. He put his hand on my shoulder.
“Not bad, Mike,” he said. “It was ‘The Invisible Man’.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“That story,” he said.
“That was Wells,” I said.
“Chesterton
too,” he said.
“I didn’t know you could read,” I said. I went over and finished my drink.
“What I can’t understand,” Dan said, “is why you didn’t spot this sooner.”
“Well,” I said, “this is the sort of thing they rely on. This guy’s action was an inspired piece of impromptu. He seized his chance and got away with it. I had no way of knowing whether Horvis had a coloured chauffeur or not. I just assumed so, when I saw him cleaning that car, which was what he was banking on.”
Then I remembered something else Paul Mellow had said. It made me think a minute.
“Do you remember that negro who passed us in the lobby when we went out to see Mellow?” I said. “And do you remember what Mellow told us? It was something about the killer having gone such a short while before that he didn’t know how we could have missed him. Well, we didn’t.”
A fly buzzed loudly in the sudden silence. Tucker mopped his face. “Crize,” he said. “I think the sooner we nail this goon the better.”
We drove down to HQ soon after. We went into Tucker’s office, he had some coffee sent up and then he got out the slide projector. It didn’t take long. I had a hunch about this too. He had a tired-looking sergeant bring in a stack of files and photostat record cards.
“Do you remember those pictures you showed me of Sirocco?” I asked him. “Can I see them again?”
I had been right, but the whole story took a little longer to sort out. We looked at a few pictures and then I asked him to stop. It was the shot of Sirocco and the group of cons in the prison courtyard. But now it was the picture of the negro in the background that interested me. It was curious to think that the last time I had looked at this, I had studied only Sirocco and hadn’t given the negro a second glance. Now I dismissed Sirocco and had eyes only for the negro. That didn’t tell me much; no detail.
But Tucker had a couple of men on the San Quentin files and after an hour we narrowed down the search to two men. The second set of pictures hit the jackpot. They were of an expressionless-looking negro with flat, unstaring eyes and a wide, slit-like mouth; I could recognize in it, grainy as it was, the man I had seen in chauffeur’s uniform at the Horvis place, but it had been too dark in the hall of the apartment house for me to place him. I put my finger on the stack of glossies. Tucker gave me a curt nod, but his eyes had a glint to them. I looked at the photostat record card when it came up. It was a good record if you counted crime in plus-units. From petty larceny, assault and unlawful wounding it progressed to full-scale murder.