“Aw, somebody must have told you,” murmured The Duchess, and so Mitch took her along with him to avoid bloodshed.
Inside his own office, he ripped the paper from the doll and set about finding a drawer large enough to hold her. “You might file her,” The Duchess suggested, “under S for San Quentin. Don’t you think it’s about time to take the wraps off this development? The authorities rather like to handle these things themselves.”
She was right, of course. The Duchess was always right. But the authorities in this instance would mean a federal narcotic squad, and what Mitch had in mind was more in the line of a local homicide detail. “Where’s your sense of adventure?” he chided, slamming the bottom desk drawer shut on a heap of crumpled satin. “Why should I cut the law in on my piece of pie?”
“Your what?”
“My piece of pie. A big, juicy pie. Do you have any idea of what this doll must be worth? She’s already cost three lives. Somebody must want her pretty badly.”
“And what are you doing, trying for four?”
That kind of kidding wasn’t meant to be funny. Mitch glanced up and caught her grim expression, and again The Duchess was right. But that was something he didn’t dare think about now.
“Stop preaching!” he snapped. “If the game’s getting too rough why don’t you pick up your marbles and go home?”
He waited for her to slam out of the office—The Duchess didn’t take kindly to being snapped at—but she just stood there looking puzzled and worried, and then she threw him one of those powerful winks and grinned.
“Secret agent X-9 reporting for duty,” she said. “Where do you want the dirt shoveled today?”
Two amateur sleuths and a headless doll, that was the batting order for the Wales team, and somehow Mitch had the feeling that his was the last inning coming up. He knew what had to be done—that was all mapped out during the wakeful night—but it was a slow, deliberate business that must be accomplished the same way as walking a picket fence, one step at a time. The first step was getting the paper along to that stage where the headaches fell to the circulation department, and it was midafternoon before he was able to get away. The Duchess was still out on her mopping-up mission but Mitch couldn’t wait. He had to see a lot of people before nightfall.
The first interview on the schedule was with the manager of that liquor store, where business was slow at such an hour and the standard smile for prospective cash customers was broad and warm. Even when Mitch started asking questions the smile didn’t die out completely. Did he recall the attempted burglary when Mickey Degan was slain? He certainly did! Look what happened to the door!
“Maybe you don’t think it was a job sweeping up all that glass!” he reflected.
“Was that all you swept up?” Mitch asked.
This was a question that drew a blank stare until he explained himself. “I was wondering what Degan used to break the glass—a rock, maybe?”
“I didn’t see any rock.”
“What about outside?”
The man shook his head. “All I saw was broken glass. Where would you find a rock around here?”
That was about the size of what Mitch had been thinking. This was a business street, not a cluttered alley, and merchants like this store manager swept and hosed down the sidewalks every day. But it still had to be something pretty heavy that had shattered that plate-glass panel, and the man behind the counter beat him to the answer.
“He probably used a gun, anyway it sure was a mess. I think I’ve had my share of that kind of trouble for a while.”
Mitch already had the little he’d come for and was turning toward the doorway, but he couldn’t walk out on a suggestive remark like that. “I take it this wasn’t the first time,” he said.
“The first time! Listen, you won’t believe this but three different times within the week before Degan got it he was around here tampering with that door. The crazy fool! He might have known I’d report it to the police and they’d be watching the place.”
“How do you know it was Degan?” Mitch asked, and got a toothy grin along with his answer.
“I don’t know, of course, but since that shooting I’ve had no more trouble. It kind of adds up, don’t you think?”
It added up. It added up to a trip down to police headquarters where Mitch found a man in charge of answering stupid questions from curious citizens. By this time the whole department knew about Mitch Gorman’s vivid imagination, but he had to be humored like taxpayers’ committees and councilmen.
“You’ll find everything we took off Degan itemized in this list,” the officer said, handing over a sheet of paper from the files. “Of course, the stuff’s been turned over to his mother by this time.”
Mitch didn’t even glance at the list. “Even his gun?” he suggested.
“Oh, naturally—for sentimental reasons,” chided the officer.
“Then he was carrying a gun?”
“As a matter of fact, no. The gun was found in the glove compartment of his car.”
There was a big fat-faced clock on the wall ahead of Mitch and it made quite a noise when there was no competition. After a bit he smothered his excitement and asked, “Are you sure of that?”
“Sure, I’m sure! I was right here.”
“And you never gave it a thought, I suppose. The glove compartment! That’s a hellova place to leave a gun when you’re out to pull a burglary!”
Mitch slapped the list down on the desk and spun on his heel, but sometime during this little chat he’d picked up an audience. Ernie Talbot was filling the doorway—Ernie and a troubled frown. He didn’t seem in the mood for clearing the passage, either. “What’s this about going out to pull a robbery?” he queried. “Anybody I know?”
“Knew,” Mitch corrected. “Mickey Degan is strictly past tense.”
“Am I supposed to be in mourning?”
“Not yet. That comes later when the chief wants to know why you arrested an innocent man for murder.”
It was hard to tell about Ernie. His face was always red and flabby and his eyes always looked a little bloodshot. That emotion he was struggling with could be almost anything from anger to bewilderment, but it definitely wasn’t indifference. Not any more.
“I’m trying,” he muttered, “I’m trying hard, but sometimes I think I’m developing an allergy to newspapermen. I wonder if you know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure I do,” Mitch said. “I’ll explain it to you when I have more time.”
“You’ve got time right now, son. All the time in the world. And while you’re explaining, what was the idea of that cute business at the hospital last night? Frank Wales’s lawyer! I bet you don’t even own a briefcase.”
That accounted for the anger in Ernie’s tone. He didn’t like being tricked even if it was a minor trick, and the way he was looking at Mitch suggested nothing less than high treason.
“I was curious,” Mitch said. “After all, I’ve been getting front pages out of the man all week—I wanted to see what he looks like.”
“And now that you’ve seen him?”
“I’m more positive than ever—the man’s innocent.”
He couldn’t just let it stay that way. Ernie was disturbed, but not enough to follow along without persuasion. “Look, Ernie,” he persisted, “you know damned well that murder doesn’t come easy to most people. It takes an awful lot of pressure combined with opportunity for the average man to kill, and I’d say that Wales is a pretty average man.”
“That’s guesswork,” Ernie protested.
“Not at all. What have you learned about this man in the time you’ve been looking for him? Does he have a record? Does he have a reputation for violence, heavy drinking, or any of the usual things that could turn an ordinary citizen into a murderer? Remember, life is sacred to a guy like Wales. He’s not a professional killer.”
Ernie hadn’t taken his eyes from Mitch’s face all this time, but now he smiled crookedly. “Spare me the
chorus,” he said. “I’ve heard it before.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong? Singer, Boyle, Costro—man, you’re not tracking a suspect; you’re tangling with a system!” Ernie wiped a hand across his face as if to blot out Mitch and his troublesome arguments. “Maybe you’re right,” he conceded. “Maybe Wales is innocent as a babe—nobody’s going to convict him without a trial. But I can’t make an arrest just because you think somebody else would look better behind bars.”
That was leaving the door wide open for Mitch to reveal everything he knew, but this thing was a lot bigger than Ernie Talbot. One word about the stuff in that doll and Ernie might do an about-face; but by this time the district attorney was preparing his case, and the public, thanks to eager boys like Peter Delafield, already had theirs prepared. No, it would take more than a sympathetic ear to clear Frank Wales now. The only person who could do that was Virginia’s murderer.
And that meant that Ernie would have to stand there waiting for an argument that wasn’t going to come until finally, and almost reluctantly, he shrugged and stepped out of the doorway.
“Go ahead and have fun,” he muttered. “Everybody should have a hobby.”
“Thanks, I will,” Mitch said. “By the way, have you found any trace of Rita?”
“Rita? Who’s Rita?”
“Rita Royale. I hear she’s jumped bail.”
This time Ernie was really lost. “What the devil are you talking about?” he demanded, but Mitch couldn’t wait to explain now. “I’ll tell you sometime when I’m not in a hurry,” he said, backing through the doorway. “Right now I’ve got to find an undertaker.”
That would give Ernie something new to worry about—that and the crack about Mickey Degan’s gun. Confusion was good for a man suffering from over-confidence. But in the meantime Mitch was driving across town to a dingy building with a pair of dusty velvet drapes covering the front windows. The undertaker he was looking for was easy to locate. All he had to do was find the cheapest prices in town, and there he was—the man who had fixed Mickey Degan up with a funeral.
It didn’t take Mitch five minutes to learn what he’d come after. A corpse with a couple of bullet holes was easy to remember, and the hands? No, there was nothing wrong with his hands. No cuts, no bruises.
“I did a real fine job on the boy, natural as life, and folded his hands across his chest—so. There wasn’t a mark on them.”
That was exactly what Mitch wanted to hear. He thanked the man for his trouble and went out smiling, because it was a big help to know finally why Virginia had been so afraid.
A system, Ernie had said. He was taking on a system, and that was about the size of it. At first thought it seemed a formidable job, but what was this system except a chain of men, some weaker than others, some more easily frightened than others, and none of them big enough to play the game without a marked deck? When he thought of it that way Mitch felt good. The chain was already showing strain in a couple of spots, and he had just the lever that could pry it apart. The trick was in knowing where to apply the pressure.
It was after four when he reached Pinky’s lunchroom, and the high-school crowd was slugging coins into the juke box as if the thing paid off in cash. All those Levi-legged customers could make Pinky a rich man if they used the menu, but this was the Coke and soda society and the way the back booths were rocking made Mitch wonder if anything extra ever found its way into those glasses. The music was nice though; it drowned out all that careful conversation he was going to have with Pinky.
“Draw one,” he said, dropping down on the nearest stool. “Black.”
Angelina was busy with a tray at the rear of the room and that left Pinky himself to do the honors. Pinky had a pair of dark shadows under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept well, as if somebody had been playing games under his window last night and kept him awake.
“Seen Dave today?” Mitch queried.
“Why should I?” Pinky snapped.
“Why not? He’s one of your customers isn’t he?”
“Customers!” Pinky stuck the cup of coffee under Mitch’s face and shoved the sugar shaker forward. “I’ve got no customers. All I’ve got is a lot of noisy kids and an editor who likes to hear himself talk.”
“Is that how you managed to pay off your mortgage so fast?”
This was known as the direct or frontal attack. The shock of red hair always made Pinky’s face seem pale by comparison, but the color of his hair had nothing to do with the way his lips started trembling. “How do you happen to know so damn much about my business?” he demanded.
“Admiration,” Mitch said. “I’m thinking of forming a fan club. Just think, six months ago you took over this landlord’s liability and today you own the business free and clear! I don’t see how you do it. I’ve been managing the Independent for five years, and all I have to show for it is three hundred dollars in the bank and the pink slip on a car that’s about due for the wreckers.”
“I’m crying for you,” Pinky said.
“You needn’t—not any more. I’ve just discovered that I have a talent, too.”
Mitch stopped talking and began to enjoy his coffee, not to mention the troubled expression on Pinky’s face. “I find things,” he explained between sips. “Other people search high and low for them, but I’m the boy who does the finding.”
“What kind of things?” Pinky asked hesitantly.
“Oh, valuable things. Are you sure Dave hasn’t been around?”
“You found something that belongs to Dave?”
Mitch smiled. “Now that’s a technical matter that doesn’t concern me,” he answered thoughtfully. “I’m not interested in whom it belongs to; only in who can pay for it. Let’s just say that it’s something Dave has been looking for ever since Mickey Degan was killed on your doorstep.”
Mitch studied Pinky’s face over the rim of the coffee cup. He was too upset to be unaware of what all this talk was about. A couple of kids from the rear booths came up to pay their checks and he didn’t even look at their money, which was proof enough that Pinky had big troubles on his mind. “You remember Mickey,” Mitch added. “He was a friend of Virginia’s.”
The atmosphere was getting pretty heavy by this time, but with those kids at the counter Pinky was at a disadvantage. Mitch forked out a dime for the coffee and stood up. “You’ll tell Dave if he comes in, won’t you?” he said. “Tell him I’ll be working late at the office tonight—alone. And tell him to bring his checkbook.”
Pinky, of course, wasn’t going to tell Dave anything; but that was all right. Dave’s apartment was the next stop on Mitch’s list, anyway.
The last time Mitch met Dave socially the evening had ended in a big headache, but that was before he acquired that special life insurance in the shape of a Mexican doll. With that kind of backing even Herbie’s big shoulders couldn’t scare him away from the door. Dave, who came out of the bedroom perfumed with something allegedly masculine and wrapped in a dazzling silk robe, couldn’t have made his own shadow jump.
“I was just driving by,” Mitch began, “and I remembered that I’d forgotten to thank you boys for taking me home the other night. And in my own car, too.”
“It’s a service of the house,” Herbie said. “We always take care of noisy drunks,” but Dave silenced him with a glare and then found another for Mitch. “All right, what do you want?” he demanded. “Any time you come near me it’s trouble. Don’t you ever get enough?”
“Enough?” Mitch grinned. “There’s no such thing as enough, Dave, you should know that. Money, women, power—a man just naturally keeps reaching as long as there’s more to be had.”
“Shall I throw this guy out now?” Herbie asked hopefully, but nobody was going to throw Mitch anywhere. He picked a chair with its back to the wall (just in case Herbie had any ideas about getting behind him) and made himself comfortable. “I’m no different from the rest,” he added. “When I see a chance to make a buck I�
��m all for it.”
“So what’s that to me?” Dave snapped.
“Plenty. You’re the boy who’s going to help me make it. Oh, you’ve helped a lot already, Dave, and I’m grateful. Without you saying and doing the wrong thing all the time I’d probably still be in the dark about Virginia Wales’s murder. Worse than that, I’d never have found the doll—”
It was beautiful to see the first link in the chain snap wide open. Of course Dave knew about the doll; Mickey hadn’t figured that angle all by himself. The idea had an artistic touch and Dave was a very artistic boy—look at that robe! But it must have been terribly frustrating to go over Virginia’s house with a fine-tooth comb and find nothing at all.
“How could Virginia know the doll was so valuable?” Mitch added. “You should have cut her in on the deal.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Dave yelled.
“Like hell you don’t! I’m talking about a cheap souvenir doll with a not-so-cheap insides. I’m talking about Mickey Degan with a couple of slugs in his back, and Virginia with her pretty face all spoiled. And if that’s not enough to stir your memory I’ll throw in Rita Royale and her permanently cured insomnia. Now do you get the picture, Davey, or do I have to run it on the front page?”
Mitch was a little out of breath. He’d come up from the chair quick when he saw Herbie moving in, but now Herbie was looking at Dave with a queer sort of expression. That was the trouble with a system like Costro’s—the links were never quite sure of each other.
“You’re not going to hang that on me!” Dave sputtered. “I was out of town when Rita—” Dave caught himself but it was already too late. For a man who wasn’t supposed to know Rita was dead he seemed remarkably well informed. Mitch merely smiled and took it from there.
“Too bad about Rita,” he said. “You shouldn’t have told her why you were hanging around Virginia Wales so much, but I suppose she was quite a handful when she got jealous.”
“You suppose a hellova lot,” Herbie growled, “but you don’t know nothing.”
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