There was a thunk and a tearing sound and then the truck had disappeared around the curve.
A block away, there was a sudden babble of voices.
Grossman’s face was starchy white. “It could have missed him!”
Tanner raced up to the bleeding figure. He took one look and knew there was nothing anybody could do for the old man. He knelt down and hurriedly searched through the torn pockets, found what he wanted, and scrambled for the shrubbery lining the road.
Grossman was close behind him. “What are you doing?”
“Getting out of here. How much luck do you think we would have convincing a crowd that we hadn’t run over the old man? With Hart around to whip them up, we’d be lucky if we didn’t end up dangling from a tree. Where’d you leave your own car?”
“A business street a few blocks from here. Where are we going?”
“To Professor Scott’s home—before the police get there. The old man was killed for more reasons than just to make us look bad. I want to find out why!”
A crowd had begun to gather around Scott’s body but by then they were out of sight. In a drugstore Tanner made a phone call to Scott’s home. He passed himself off as a police officer and told the housekeeper what had happened and that she should get there as soon as possible.
Then he drove around to the house and parked until she had left. He took out of his pocket the things he had taken from the dead man’s clothing and started to sort through them.
Grossman looked at him accusingly. “Why did you take his wallet?”
“Because money isn’t going to do Professor Scott any more good. But it might come in very handy for us for such little things like eating and hotel rooms, or hadn’t you thought of that?” He brushed his hand across his forehead. “I’m sorry, Karl, I’m a little jumpy. Let’s go in.”
He opened the door with the keys he had taken from Scott’s body. The house was lavender and old lace with antique furniture made of thick cherry wood, hand-turned. A family album was on the sideboard, along with a chest of silver that was stained and tarnished. In the bedroom there was a tintype on the dresser and an old shaving mug whose gold letters had been nearly worn away. The room was closed up and stuffy and there was dust and yellowed curtains and the stink of age.
He rifled quickly through the dresser drawers and went hurriedly through the clothes in the closet. One suit caught his eye and he laid it aside on the bed. Scott had been a withered old man but he had a large frame. The suit would fit him, Tanner thought, and Lord only knew he needed a new one.
Grossman was leery. “His suit, too, William?”
“The dead don’t give a damn, Karl, and I need one.”
“You are looking for something?”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure what. Some note, some message. Something that would have made it dangerous for Scott to live any longer.”
“Perhaps he had a den?”
He hadn’t seen any on the main floor but it was logical that Scott would have had some kind of a workroom. He snapped his fingers. “Let’s try the basement.”
At first glance the basement was like any other basement. An oil furnace and a washing machine and dryer and the screens stacked up in one corner. There was a room just off the side and he stepped in and flipped the light switch.
The lights were fluorescent and it took a moment for them to come on. It was different than he had expected and a good deal different from the upstairs of the house. The study was a modernistic room with pine paneling and a mobile hanging from the ceiling at one end. Shelves of books were built right into the wall and one whole wall was devoted to a battery of filing cabinets.
He didn’t know where to start. He didn’t know what he could expect to find, he wasn’t even sure of what he was looking for. He looked over the den carefully, then two things caught his eye.
The first was a file card on the desk with a heading neatly typed on it reading: “Heterosis, bibliography.” On the card, Scott had written: “The most important. See dossiers.”
What dossiers? he thought.
And on whom?
And then he knew. Professor Scott had moved fast, possibly even faster than Hart had. The old man hadn’t lost any time. He had started assembling a dossier on each member of the committee before people had started to … forget.
But where would the dossiers be?
He looked through the desk and the bookcases, then came back to the shelf above the desk itself. An open space, about two inches, in the middle of the small group of books. Just right for half a dozen eight-by-twelve file folders.
Somebody had taken them, somebody who had entered the house about the same time Professor Scott had left for his walk in the park. Somebody who had known about the dossiers or had suspected their existence.
Who?
The other item depressed him. Scott had had access to the same information about John Olson that he had had and the old man had looked up a medical directory and then written a letter to Brockton. It was addressed to Dr. Herman Schwartz, Brockton, South Dakota.
It had come back, stamped:
Deceased.
The return postmark was Sunday night.
Saturday evening he had talked to Schwartz, he thought. Either he had unintentionally given Schwartz away or else … He looked at the back of the envelope. Somebody had read it and resealed it and they hadn’t done a good job. The chances were that Schwartz had never received the letter, a letter that undoubtedly asked questions about Adam Hart. Somebody who worked in the post office automatically read the incoming mail so any information relating to Adam Hart could be sidetracked and destroyed, and the people to whom it was sent could be investigated.
Schwartz had guessed that his life might not be worth a plugged nickel. And how right he had been.
He shivered. The pleasant little town of Brockton dozing under the South Dakota sun. Nice, friendly people who would be glad to pass the time of day with you and talk to you about their kids and what went into Mrs. Whosis’ angel-food cake. But for anybody who wanted to ask questions about Adam Hart, the town was a death trap, a multipetaled pitcher plant. If he had stayed one day longer, he never would have left alive.
“What’s that, William?”
He waved the letter. “Nothing unusual, at least not now. Just a letter to a man who knew too much and died because of it.” He stuffed the letter in his pocket. “I’ll change into the suit upstairs and then we’ll leave.”
They stood for a moment on the doorsteps outside and Grossman said, “Why did the truck hit Professor Scott and not us, William?”
“Because whoever was driving it didn’t have orders to, Karl. It wasn’t Hart, he didn’t even know we were there. While we were in the park, Hart was here, rifling the house.” He started down the steps.
“Where are we going to stay tonight?”
Tanner frowned. “I don’t know but I think it’s a mistake to stay together all the time. If we do, it’s putting all our eggs in one basket.” He hesitated. “Tell you what—I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Chicago public library tomorrow at ten, all right?”
Grossman nodded. “Be very careful, William.”
“I’ve had a lot of experience along that line the last few days, Karl. You just watch out for yourself.” He walked down the street, turned the corner, and once more he was cut off and alone.
Nordlund.
Van Zandt.
DeFalco.
It was narrowing down fast, faster than Adam Hart could have figured on. Grossman had been eliminated, Scott had been killed, Petey had been identified as Hart’s mistress. Marge could safely be counted out for obvious reasons.
Now there were only three.
Pick on any one, he thought, and I’ll be one-third right. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo, catch a superman by the toe. And if he hollers, don’t let go … .
Which left him with the problem of how he was going to get through the night. There was no sense in kidding himself. He had succeeded in distributi
ng the danger between Grossman and himself but he was the case ace and Hart knew it.
It was getting towards dinnertime and the streets were emptying again. He caught the El back uptown and walked into one of the larger hotels in the Loop. He had cleaned up and had Scott’s money; he was presentable, if not a fashion plate.
An events board in the lobby listed four different conventions going on in the hotel. He memorized the brief listing, then wandered into the bar. People, lots of people, for far into the night. Before the crowd started to thin, he would make contact and then he’d be good until morning again.
He juggled a small box in his pocket. Dextroamphetamine. Enough to keep him awake for a week. And after that?
But by then, of course, the game would be over—win, lose, or draw.
He picked a table in the corner where he could watch the people in the room and ordered beer. It was nearly eight o’clock and he was tracing wet rings on the marbelite top when he suddenly picked it up.
It was just an awareness, a feeling that somebody had come into the room and quickly glanced over it. Somebody who had stopped for a moment a few tables away, looked at him, and then passed on.
He tensed, waiting for the prying and the probing but it never came. There was only a subtle aliveness to the air, a feeling of being watched. Whoever it was was still in the room, waiting for him to go to the john or do any one of a number of stupid things that would momentarily separate him from people.
He settled back in his chair and quietly inspected the room. It did no good. It was too smoky, there were too many pillars that people could hide behind, and it was doubtful if he could recognize anybody in the hazy atmosphere anyways. He turned back to the beer rings and pushed a finger around one of the circles, smearing the oval of dampness.
Somebody walked up to the table and sat down across from him.
“Bill.”
He didn’t look up. “You’ve got a chance to leave now, Marge. Stick around and you’ll be tagged. Adam Hart’s here.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
He kept his voice low and tried to hide his annoyance. “The mystery man, Marge. The man who moves little tents of paper on Saturday mornings just by looking at them. The man who murdered Olson. So be a nice girl and beat it.”
“I’m not going to run out.”
“It’s not a question of personal bravery, it’s just good common sense.”
“I’ve been here too long already, then. It wouldn’t make any difference now, would it?”
His voice became sarcastic. “It’s really charitable of you to take such an interest in my welfare. You’ve really changed in two days. If I remember correctly, the last time I talked to you, you thought I was a murderer.”
“It looked that way. Can you blame me?”
“Sure I can. You’ve known me long enough to know it couldn’t be true.”
“Maybe I made a mistake in coming over here.”
“I’ve already told you that. Why don’t you beat it?”
“You don’t have to insult me to get me to leave.”
“What do I have to do?”
“I don’t have to take that,” she said tightly. “From you or anybody else. So I thought it was possible you might have killed John. The police think so and they know more about that sort of thing than I do. Then I talked to Petey today and she doesn’t even remember that she used to work for you!”
“And, clever girl that you are, you figured something was rotten in Denmark. Very bright.”
She looked down at the table and didn’t say anything.
“You haven’t heard the rest of it,” he said bitterly. “Professor Scott was killed today. And last night a little country doctor in South Dakota got his. I’ll be suspect in both of those, too. What are you going to believe then?”
Her voice was low. “How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”
He looked at her and tried to feel angry at the same time, then gave it up as a bad job.
“All right, so I’m sorry. I suppose I should have guessed it would end up this way.” There was still the feeling of being watched, of having every little movement scrutinized. And there was the barest suggestion that the crowds would be clearing out shortly. Suddenly all the friendliness drained out of him. “How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I just came in here with my date—I think he’s in the john right now. Very big fraternity man. I’ll hold his hand on the way home and he’ll tell all the boys at the house how he seduced me. You know the type.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “You better get back to that bar then before he comes out.”
“Bill.” She worried her lip between her teeth for a moment, then took the plunge. “I think you’re going after this … Adam Hart. I think he might be a very dangerous man. And I can’t help wondering if you shouldn’t give it up.”
“Who are you fronting for?”
She didn’t slap his face, she didn’t cry, she didn’t get sore. “I’ll make it very simple, Bill. I love you. I want to see you alive and not dead and if that sounds corny, I can’t help it.” She leaned towards him and he was suddenly very conscious of the smooth sweep of her breasts and the tan of her shoulders and the fine tone of her skin. The faint smell of her perfume and sweetly scented soap … “I’m lonely and I want you, which is something no girl is ever supposed to admit. But I’m tired of playing games and it doesn’t look as if either one of us is going to have much time for them.”
“I never got a proposal from a girl before.”
“I’ll bet this will be the only one, too.”
He smiled. “It probably will be.”
She stood up to go back to the bar. “Breakfast with me—pick me up say at nine tomorrow?”
“It’s a date. In some nice, crowded restaurant.” He watched her walk across the room, trying to catch a look at the guy she had gone out with. But people got in the way and her date kept his back turned and shortly afterwards, they left.
He went back to smearing his beer rings.
The feeling of tension was still in the room.
It was getting late and he was going to have to make contact soon. He stood up and sauntered over to the bar where a small group of men had been talking in loud whispers, then suddenly guffawing and slapping each other on the back. Name badges identified the group. He leaned casually on the bar and turned to face them. He glanced idly at one of the badges and his face lit up.
“Say, all you fellows in the kitchen-supply business?” They stopped talking and he knew he had sparked interest. “Got a brother in the business, runs the Amco supply house on the South Side.”
“Y’don’t say!”
A friendly clap on the shoulder.
“Hey, barkeep, bring a drink for m’friend here!”
A furious pumping of his hand.
“Didn’t catch the name but mine’s …”
“Amco, huh? Y’know, we’ve got a new line …”
“Little party going on upstairs …”
He was in.
There was no Amco and he had no brother but it wouldn’t be difficult to string them for the evening. He could take his lead from what they had to say, maybe even accept verbal orders for his “brother.” The party upstairs would be dull, of course. Cheap whiskey and tap water and “entertainers” supplied by the bell captain and too many people in too small a room.
But it would be a party that would keep going into the daylight hours, traveling from room to room. He couldn’t have wanted anything better.
He drank with them in the bar and when they left and took the elevator up, he was still with them.
But so was the tension. It rode the elevator with him, a shadow he couldn’t shake. The ghost that would sit in the corner and wait for him to make one small mistake. He turned, to try and locate it … .
“Face the front of the elevator, please.”
The shadow went with him from party to party, always shifting or vanishin
g when he tried to pin it down. The rooms were filled with laughing, giggling, empty faces, trying to convince themselves and each other that they were having a great time. The loneliest faces in the world. And behind one of them … ?
But which one?
Early in the morning he suddenly discovered that he was slipping. He was drinking just a little too much, he was laughing just a little too hard, he was getting drunk a little too easy. Something was trying to push him along, like a butcher laying his thumb on the scale. Something was trying to add the straw to the camel’s back.
Drinking and laughing and thinking it was so damned funny that they thought he had a brother who owned a warehouse. What a clever fellow he was, he ought to tell them the joke, just to see the look on their faces. They’d get a big bang out of it … .
A big bang …
He shook his head and tried to swim out of the alcoholic fog. Tell them what he had done, he thought thickly, and they’d throw him out. He’d be alone in the corridors and Hart would pounce on him before he could even get to the elevators.
He held a glass from then on but he didn’t drink.
Five-thirty in the morning came very slowly and he could sense the tension being replaced by a feeling of disappointment. Sunrise and a faint, pink color behind the silhouetted skyline. Two more hours and there would be people on the streets and the city would be alive again.
He was suddenly sick to death of the smell of stale beer and the mumble of drunken conversation. There were about a dozen people in the party and they were nearly out on their feet. Glasses and empty bottles and small mountains of cigarette butts littered the room and in the corner somebody had been sick.
He sneered inwardly. The human race at its worst.
you agree …
It was just a drifting thought that plucked at his mind; he couldn’t be sure but what he might have thought of it himself.
your pocket …
in your pocket …
look in your pocket …
He glanced quickly around. Nobody was looking at him, nobody was paying any attention to him. He walked over to the window and he could feel the skin crawl between his shoulder blades and knew that somebody in the room was watching him.
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