Run, Killer, Run

by William Campbell Gault

  Tom said, “I’m no better off than I was. Joe Hubbard’s death was one they couldn’t hang on me, anyway. I wonder how true Connie Garrity’s story is?”

  “It doesn’t matter as long as she sticks to it. With all the other things I’ve learned about Joe, I wouldn’t put anything past him. He even tried to make time with Lisa, one night at a party.”

  “You and Lisa have broken up, Nannie?”

  Nannie shrugged. “She seems to have found new friends, lately. I guess she thought I was going to marry her.”

  “Ames Gilchrist is one of her friends, Nannie.”

  “I know. Probably trying to pump her. She thinks she knows a lot about my business and she’s no doubt got him convinced she can do him some good there. She’s got less than Kefauver got.”

  Tom smiled. “And she’s got it in a safe deposit box. She told me that. And she told me about you and Lois and about you being out of town the time Lois died. And she said you were whining; she was sick of your whining.”

  “She’s riding with the winner — she thinks. Gilchrist ask you to work for him, Tom?”

  “He suggested it.”

  Nannie put a thin hand to his forehead. “Maybe you could learn something from him. There’s a good chance he knows some things I don’t Some of the boys have gone over to him already.” Nannie chewed his lips. “I’m getting kind of dopey, Tom. That morphine — ”

  “I’ll go, Nannie. I’ll see you again.” Tom stood up. “I wonder if Jud’s through eating?”

  “I’ll keep him here tonight. I’ll get him back in the morning.” Nannie’s smile was weak. “Jud’s one of the really loyal ones.”

  Jud hasn’t got a wife, Tom thought. He said nothing, studying the pain-ravished face of the man who had had everything.

  Nannie said, “I’m sorry things couldn’t have — worked out some other way, Tom. I — Oh, Christ, what’s the difference now?”

  Tom nodded. “I’ll see you again, Nannie. Something might break.”

  “For you, but not for me. Come back and see me, Tom. I don’t want to — to step off alone.” Shame in Nannie’s eyes. And moisture.

  “I’ll be back,” Tom promised. “I’m sorry about everything, Nannie. I guess we both are.” He couldn’t look at that skull face any more; he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  The white-jacketed man intercepted him in the hall, and opened the door for him. It was dusk, now, and the green of Nannie’s immense lawn seemed blade-perfect in the dying light.

  Tom walked around to the parking area through the shadow of the house. As he went past the study windows, he could see Jud drinking his coffee and smoking a cigarette. It was quiet in the area, without a sound of traffic coming from the street below.

  He took Westwood to Olympic, heading for Venice. Connie worked nights, but perhaps she didn’t start this early. It was still light out, but the traffic had thinned to almost nothing in Santa Monica; this was a stay-at-home town.

  Venice showed more activity; the bars on Windward Avenue were going at three-quarter throttle. They would be at full speed in another two hours.

  In an empty lot next to the apartment, Tom saw the ‘48 Ford. There were no cars around that looked suspicious; he drove the Plymouth into the same lot.

  The blonde was in black, the V of it not quite showing her navel. Dressed for work. She stood in her kitchen doorway and said, “Welcome home, pilgrim. Miss Revolt throw you out, again?” She stood aside for him to enter.

  He moved past the musky fragrance of her perfume into the odor of cooked meat. A partially eaten steak sandwich reposed on a plate on the kitchen table. She closed the door behind him.

  “Are you due at work?” Tom asked. “Are you late?”

  She shook her head. “Staying the night?”

  “No. I — well, I learned some things and — ”

  “Sit down and have a cup of coffee,” she said. She brought the percolator from the stove and poured him a cup.

  Tom sat down. “You heard about Delavan, I suppose?”

  She looked at him blankly as she picked up her sandwich. She shook her head. “Who’s he?”

  “A private investigator working for us. He was murdered.”

  “Working for us? Who’s ‘us,’ Tom?”

  “For me.”

  “I’ll bet, for you.” She took a bite of the sandwich and talked around it. “What do you want from me?”

  “I wanted to know if you’re sure Joe was in town here when my wife was killed.”

  She didn’t answer immediately. She swallowed the food that was in her mouth and sipped some coffee. Then, “You must be back working for Mr. Koronas, Tom.”

  “I’ve seen him. You never told me he questioned you about Joe.”

  “About men like Koronas, I don’t repeat stories. I’ve known people who did and regretted it. I learned that early, Tom. All I want to do is get along with everybody. If you’re here for information, you’re wasting your time.”

  “All I want is the truth about Joe at the time Lois was killed. There’s no point in protecting him, now; he’s dead.”

  “I know he’s dead. And I know he was here when your wife was killed. That’s the gospel truth. Tom, don’t come here again with questions, will you? I think I’ve done my part.”

  He stood up. “I won’t. Thanks for all you’ve done, Connie.”

  She finished her sandwich and lighted a cigarette. “Don’t mention it. Give my love to Miss Revolt.” Her voice was dull.

  He nodded, and started for the door. He was reaching for the knob, when she said, “Don’t we kiss good-by?”

  He came back to lift her chin with a forefinger and kiss her on the mouth.

  Her voice was softer, now. “God bless you, lamb. And luck.”

  She didn’t look his way as he went out the door. As he moved down the wooden steps, Tom was thinking about the story she’d told him, the champagne story. All she wanted to do was get along with everybody, she claimed. But she nevertheless was playing a dangerous game in that bar.

  He believed her about Joe Hubbard. It didn’t matter much if he believed her or not; so long as the reverse couldn’t be proved, Joe was clear. Joe was safe, anyway, protected by the good earth.

  The dying daylight held. He headed for Santa Monica Boulevard, the fast route to Hollywood.

  Chapter 12

  IN THE lobby of Lisa’s apartment, Tom waited, but there was no answer to his ring. He was parked about four hundred feet from the entrance; he went out to wait in the car.

  He had an unobstructed view of the doorway from where he sat. He had no way of knowing whether Lisa would be home within a reasonable time. It was only that he had no other place to go for leads. The lead he wanted from her was Ames Gilchrist’s address. It wasn’t in the phone book.

  He waited a half hour and then remembered that Jean knew the man. He drove to a drugstore and phoned her at her friend’s house.

  Her voice was panicky. “You’ve been — caught?”

  “No. I phoned to find out if you knew Gilchrist’s address.”

  “Tom, the police wanted my car. There’s a print of a tire tread in the mud alongside the driveway and they think it must have been put there in the fog. But they wanted to be sure it wasn’t my car. It was a very unusual tread design. I told them a friend had my car, and I think they’re looking for it, now. You’d better just leave it, walk away from it.”

  “That would look fishy as hell, Jean. Maybe I can drive in — ”

  “No,” she interrupted. “Don’t drive anywhere. I can get a rental car here in Santa Monica.”

  He said, “I’m not too far from that apartment of Leonard’s. The police won’t have discovered that, yet. I still have the key. I’ll meet you there.”

  In front of the apartment on Kenmore, he sat in the car for a while, intending to wait out there. Uneasiness grew in him; he left the car and went into the apartment building.

  Their unfinished eggs were still on the kitchen table. He e
mptied them down the grinder and washed the dishes and the coffee-pot. Then he went out to the front steps to wait for Jean.

  She came within a few minutes in a green Ford Tudor. He saw her start to get out on the driver’s side, and came quickly down to the car.

  “Get in,” he said. “Two people talking in a car are less conspicuous.”

  She slid over, and he sat behind the wheel.

  She said, “I phoned a friend for Ames’ address.” She handed him a slip of paper. “I put it down for you. The police said something about a star imprint on the tire treads; I guess it’s very unusual. That isn’t what my car has, is it?”

  Tom shook his head. “A — star tread? What makes them think it’s important?”

  “Because it had to happen during the fog, and what other cars came up that driveway during the fog? And remember, even I couldn’t stay on it; I went off it once.” She lighted a cigarette. “The ground wasn’t soft enough before the fog. I haven’t watered for days. Where have you been, Tom?”

  “I went to see Nannie. He told me — ” Tom stopped. “Maybe I’d better not tell you what he told me.”

  A pause, and then, “About Joe?”

  “Yes, it’s about Joe, and I’m not going to tell you, now. He also told me that he and Lois were going to be married; he told Joe that.”

  “But not you.”

  Tom didn’t answer that.

  Jean reached over to take his hand. “Did he tell Joe about Lois before he sent Joe to St. Louis?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I know what you’re not going to tell me, then.”

  “Maybe you do, and maybe you don’t. Nannie is dying, Jean; he’s horribly sick. He said if there was any foolproof way he could take the rap for Lois’ death, he’d do it. He’d do that for me.”

  “And Leonard’s?”

  “He doesn’t know who did that.”

  “But he knows who killed Joe.”

  “I didn’t say that, Jean. I can’t tell you any more without it being a violation of a trust. Jean, Nannie’s my friend.”

  “You’re going back to him? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Never, not to gambling, not to anything illegal for anyone. But he was and is my friend. And that’s why Joe died.”

  “That’s plain enough. And you’re not going to the police with it?” Her grip tightened on his hand. “Don’t you see it? You’re still morally on Nannie’s side of the fence.”

  “No, I’m not. Are you on Joe’s side? I’m concerned with clearing myself. Right now, I’m on my side of the fence and mine alone. I’m not betraying any friends, especially those who could be allies. That’s simple self-interest and that’s what’s going to motivate me until I’m clear. If I’m ever clear.”

  Silence for seconds and then a choked sound from her and headlights went by and he saw her tears. He leaned over to kiss her wet cheek.

  She whispered, “Working with people like that — no good can come of it, Tom.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s the only way I have.” He handed her the keys to the Plymouth. “I’ll phone you later. I suppose I could sleep in this apartment tonight?”

  “Or my place.” She gave him a key. “I have another hidden in the garage. Be careful, Tom, won’t you?”

  “You can bet on that.” He kissed her, and watched her get out and walk to the Plymouth. He didn’t start the Ford until the Plymouth’s tail lights had disappeared around the corner.

  The address she’d given him was in west Los Angeles, in the Cheviot Hills district. It was an expensive district of large homes and winding, hilly streets, of well-kept palm trees and perfect lawns.

  The address Jean had given him was one of the few new homes in the district, a low place of fire-engine-red barn siding with a shake roof, the eaves of which extended to the top of the shrubbery in front of the house. Ames Gilchrist was getting acclimated in a hurry.

  There was a car in the driveway and Tom pulled up behind it. It was a Buick Roadmaster convertible with white sidewall air wheels, and the stars of the tread were visible in the glare of the Ford’s headlights.

  Tom killed the motor and saw the light go on in the shrubbery-shrouded areaway around the front door. He was walking across the stepping stones that led from the driveway when the front door opened.

  Ames Gilchrist stood in the open doorway, squinting out at the dark lawn. As Tom came into the light spilling out from the areaway, Ames said, “Well, this is a surprise. I was expecting someone else.”

  “Lisa?”

  Ames didn’t answer that. He looked at Tom thoughtfully. “Here to do business, Tom?”

  “Maybe. I can’t work for you until I’m clear, though. I’d be no good to you the way I am.”

  “I know. Come in.”

  Tom went in to a long, beamed living room, furnished in Early American. Ames indicated a chair, and asked, “Drink?”

  Tom sat down, his hand not far from the .38 in his waistband. “No, thanks. How do you figure I could work for you?”

  Ames sat on the figured davenport and reached forward to take a cigarette from a box on the maple coffee table. He studied it like a ham actor before putting it between his lips.

  He lighted it, inhaled, and said, “I guess we can pin your wife’s death to Nannie without too much trouble.”

  “You underestimate Nannie.”

  “Maybe. I was told by one of the boys when I first came out, that all of Nannie’s boys are loyal, too. You’d be surprised to learn how many are working for me right now.”

  Tom smiled. “You really moved in, didn’t you? Even with Lisa.”

  Something close to a frown on the thin face. “Lisa — never liked anything but Nannie’s money. She and I understand each other.”

  Tom said, “I learned that Nannie was in Frisco at the time my wife was killed. He’ll have witnesses up there.”

  “Maybe. Some of his Frisco boys are working for me, too, now. Nannie’s a has-been, Tom. They don’t get much loyalty.”

  Tom thought of Jud and said nothing.

  Gilchrist said softly, “I even hear that Nannie’s seriously sick. Is that true, do you know?”

  Tom shrugged. “I doubt it. I heard he had some stomach trouble, but he’s had it before. He eats too well.” Tom glanced at the open evening paper on the davenport beside Gilchrist. “Anything new on Delavan?”

  Gilchrist glanced at the paper and back at Tom. “That was the first I’d heard of it.”

  “Is that your car out there?” Tom asked.

  The thin man studied him. “The Buick? Yes. Why?”

  “That’s the kind of car the body was brought to the house in.”

  Ames Gilchrist’s face was totally blank. “How do you know?”

  “I was there.”

  “This town is filled with Buicks,” Gilchrist said. “There’s nothing in the paper about a Buick.”

  “I didn’t tell the police it was a Buick. I didn’t see them, naturally. And I didn’t tell Jean I saw the car.”

  Ames smiled. “But you saw it? Really, now?”

  Tom nodded, his right hand in his lap, near the gun.

  After a moment, Gilchrist said, “I don’t think I’m following you, Tom. I think we can be frank with each other.”

  “I’m being frank. It’s your turn.”

  “Fair enough.” Ames leaned forward to put out the cigarette in an ash tray. “First of all you suggest you don’t know if Nannie is sick or not. I happen to know you were at his house today. You tell me you saw a Buick at Jean’s house; the fog in that canyon was too thick for you to see five feet away from you.”

  “How do you know it was? Were you there?”

  “I may have been, though not with a body. At any rate, you were there and you know it was that foggy. You sound as though you’re trying to trap me. I thought you were looking for work.” Ames leaned back against the cushions. “I think you’re still working for Nannie Koronas.”

  “So far,” Tom answered, �
�I’m just working for me. Your man comes up to Jean’s house, posing as a cop; you go around trying doorknobs and then a body is dumped. What do you want me to do, recommend you for my lodge?”

  Ames smiled. “All I want you to do is decide who you’re going to work for. You wouldn’t be coming in as a partner, you know, but as an employee.”

  “If I’m cleared,” Tom said, “you’d welcome me as a partner. Because I’d be a millionaire.”

  Ames frowned and his eyes narrowed. “That’s right — your wife was rich, wasn’t she? And you’d — ” He paused.

  “She hasn’t any relatives,” Tom said.

  Ames nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful. “I see — Well, that would put a different angle on things, probably.” He smiled. “Did you want to buy into the firm, Tom?”

  “First, I want to know how you’re going to clear me. Nannie would be too slippery to be sure of.”

  He shrugged. “There are other stooges. I need an entry into the big money betters, Tom.”

  “Other stooges, you said. Maybe you’ve got one in mind?”

  “I might. Tom, we’re getting nowhere. Are you in, or out? If you’re in, say so, and let me worry about the rest of it. You can stay here. You’ll be safe here. I’ll set up the patsy for you.”

  Tom smiled. “It might even be the real killer.”

  Ames Gilchrist’s face stiffened. “We’re going around again, Tom. Do you know who the real killer is?”

  “I think it’s the same one who killed Delavan.”

  “And who’s that?”

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

  “Did you come here to find out?”

  Tom nodded.

  Gilchrist’s head was back against the cushion of the davenport and he closed his eyes. “I don’t think we can do business, Tom. You didn’t come here to do business. Good-by. Stay out of trouble.” He opened his eyes. “If you can.”

  Tom stood up. “It bothered you to learn I was rich, didn’t it? It put a new angle on it.”

  Something flickered in Gilchrist’s eyes, but his face remained impassive. “Good-by, Tom. Get out.”

  Tom kept his hand under the jacket, on the butt of the .38 as he went out.