Killer in the Street

by Nielsen, Helen

  Instinctively, Kyle looked for shelter. The adjoining balcony was protected by the partition, but the railing was continuous. He stepped to the edge of it and looked down. The swimming pool ballet had just ended. Six well-filled bikinis were sufficient to hold the limelight while Kyle hoisted himself up on the railing and made a quick transfer to the balcony next door. He was lucky. Dinner hour and the aquatic entertainment had emptied the rooms. He was alone. Still only inches from Donaldson’s window, but alone. He peered through the slats and waited.

  It was minutes before the big window slid open. At first there was no movement but the night air bothering the drapes, and then Donaldson stepped out onto the balcony. He was so close Kyle could have identified the weave of his suit if the light had been stronger. He could see his skin—freshly shaved and expensively scented but glistening with perspiration. It wasn’t hot enough for that so late in the evening. Donaldson was excited. He stepped to the edge of the railing and peered down. He now held the leather attaché case in his right hand—tightly and close to his side. The activity on the patio seemed to fascinate him. The tempo of the music had changed to a lighter beat, but it still offered adequate cover for any sound Kyle might make on his side of the partition. He edged closer to the opening between the slats until he could see what it was that held Donaldson spellbound.

  The bikini girls were gone. The pool was empty and the crowd at the chuck wagon weren’t in Donaldson’s line of vision. He was staring at the far side of the patio where more of those glass doors framed the entrance to the lobby. The door was open and the desk clerk, talking animatedly with his hands, emerged with Captain Jameson. Captain Jameson. Yes, something had happened—definitely! And then Kyle saw the one person he didn’t want to see anywhere in the vicinity at this time. Dee. Dee accompanied by Van Bryson. Dee, who hadn’t stayed at the cabin where she was safe, and who couldn’t now be shouted at and warned away from the staring eyes of a killer.

  Donaldson watched the small procession leave the lobby behind them and move to the manager’s unit a few steps away. He held his position for a few more bars of music from the combo below and then returned to his room. Seconds later the lights went out and Kyle heard the door to the hall slam shut. He crawled back onto the railing and stepped down onto the balcony outside Donaldson’s vacated room. The glass doors were still open. Kyle started to go inside and then waited, listening. The wind rustled the drapes, but only the wind. The cord that touched his throat was attached to the traverse rod; it wasn’t a wire like the one he had seen tighten about Bernie Chapman’s neck five years ago.

  But Kyle waited on the balcony until he saw Donaldson emerge from the stairway and walk out onto the patio below. He still clutched the sample case in his right hand, and carried the suitcase and the white raincoat in his left.

  A girlish voice rose above a break in the music.

  “I’m over here, Richard! Here at the chuck wagon. Richard—”

  Donaldson ducked his head and walked briskly toward the parking area. Kyle had seen enough. He stepped inside room 227—a room that was still as neat as when its departing occupant checked in if one overlooked a couple of soiled towels in the bathroom and a newspaper on the dresser. Kyle had no time for either.

  A parking area for guests was located behind each wing of the Apache Inn. Bathed by high, bright floodlights, every numbered slot was clearly identifiable even on the darkest night. Donaldson unlocked the trunk of the beige Chrysler parked in the 227 niche and tossed the suitcase inside. He slapped one pocket of the raincoat as an extra precaution, laid it across his shoulder, and set the sample case beside the suitcase. He then locked the trunk and walked around to the door next to the steering wheel. He never locked the doors of any car. Such carelessness could fatally delay a getaway. He opened the door, placed the raincoat on the far side of the seat and slid in under the wheel. He had the key in the ignition when the opposite door opened and Veronica’s giggle made instant ice in his bloodstream. Pink, fluffy, slightly drunk Veronica.

  “Where are you going? We haven’t eaten!” she said.

  “We can’t have dinner tonight,” Donaldson said. “I got an important phone call—”

  “But you invited me! And it’s too late for room service!”

  She was a beautiful spoiled brat who didn’t know the meaning of “no.” She shoved the raincoat aside and started to crawl in beside him, but doing that caused the gun with the round silencer on its nose to slide silently out of the coat pocket and rest on the upholstery between them.

  The open door had flooded the interior of the sedan with light.

  “Oh—” Veronica said.

  “Get in!” Donaldson ordered.

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her inside—transferring the gun to his suit pocket in almost the same gesture. He reached past her and slammed the door and then, in the comforting darkness, switched on the ignition and kicked the accelerator. The engine responded and he switched on the lights.

  “Maybe I’d better get out,” Veronica said.

  She wasn’t giggling any more.

  “It’s all right,” Donaldson snapped. “I was teasing you. I don’t like the food at this place. There’s a better restaurant at the edge of town.”

  Donaldson adjusted his dark glasses and backed the Chrysler out of the slot. There was a rear exit from the lot that led into an alleyway—that was the kind of thing he checked the first day on any job. He spun the wheel to dodge a porter riding a baggage truck without lights and then leaned hard on the accelerator. He was angry but he couldn’t afford to be reckless. He had his pride. He liked his jobs to be neat. Clean, quick and neat.

  Chapter Eleven

  Albert Morrison was a polite young man—slightly nearsighted (hence his black-rimmed eyeglasses)—who wanted desperately to impress the West Continent Motel System with his managerial ability and was, therefore, eager to cooperate with Captain Jameson of the police department if such cooperation caused no inconvenience to the guests of the Apache Inn. He listened attentively to the excited group that had crowded into his small office. From the barrage of confused statements coming from this obviously distinguished company, he learned that one of the registered guests, R. R. Donaldson of Phoenix, was suspected of operating an automobile bearing stolen plates. Morrison didn’t have to be told that this was a practice common to people driving stolen cars, and the knowledge was most disturbing. The Apache Inn was a business-directed motel. It had taken very fancy finagling to wrest the monthly luncheons of the Daughters of the Desert Pioneers and their annual Christmas charity ball from the stiffening competition. Morrison wanted none of the stolen-car clientele.

  Jameson tried to soften the blow. “Donaldson may be an innocent victim of circumstance,” he explained. “He could have picked up the car secondhand and know nothing of its history.”

  But Albert Morrison was nobody’s fool. Captain Jameson wouldn’t usually investigate such matters himself, and there had to be some reason why the lady who had been introduced to him as Mrs. Walker had tear-stained eyes and was unconsciously shredding a very expensive Swiss-linen handkerchief while she waited. Morrison didn’t hesitate. He authorized an immediate examination of Donaldson’s bill. The man had checked in early in the morning—not too unusual for a commercial motel.

  “We even have a display room for sales conventions,” he explained proudly.

  “Did Donaldson come for a convention?” Jameson asked.

  “That’s not possible. We have none scheduled for six weeks. But he is registered as a representative of Baemer Air Conditioning. He has received no callers …” Morrison scanned the record eagerly. “He made two telephone calls: one shortly after registering and a second at four-fifty P.M. Both were local calls and so no record was made of the numbers. What do you want me to do, Captain? Call Mr. Donaldson to the office?”

  “I’d rather you called Fred Crane first,” Jameson said.

  “Fred Crane?”

  “One of your porters. I unde
rstand he handled Donaldson’s bags when he checked in this morning. Your desk clerk tells me Crane told the switchboard operator he saw an extra set of plates in the trunk of the car.”

  Morrison looked at the desk clerk. Young. Good-looking. Sun-tanned. West Continent liked the clean-cut all-American type up front. But this Waverly was an idiot who talked too much. Morrison didn’t like being taken for a fool. He was about to ask Captain Jameson in his haughtiest tone of voice if R. R. Donaldson had bought the extra plates along with the used car, and then he became aware of the suppressed hysteria in Mrs. Walker’s eyes and understood why everybody was trying to play the scene cool. In some weird way this mess concerned a terrified woman.

  Morrison got Crane’s home number from the files and let Jameson do the calling. As soon as Crane knew he was talking to the law, his memory blossomed like a debutante’s ego. The rumor about what he had told the switchboard operator was true.

  “Donaldson gave me the car keys and told me to get the bag from the trunk,” Crane reported. “He wouldn’t let me touch the little one.”

  “The little what?” Jameson demanded.

  “The little bag. You know, one of those James Bond cases. He carried that one up to the room himself. I drove his car around back and parked it, and when I opened the trunk to take out the big bag I saw these plates. Dirty plates … No, I didn’t notice what state. Someplace east, I think. New Jersey or New York. I can’t even swear to the colors. They were too dirty.”

  “Did you mention them to Donaldson when you took the big bag up to his room?” Jameson asked.

  “Hell, no,” Crane said. “He gave me a buck tip. Why should I ask personal questions?”

  “It might increase your I.Q.,” Jameson said, and cut the connection.

  He called the switchboard and asked the girl to ring Donaldson’s room. There was no answer.

  “But he must be up there,” Waverly insisted. “He stopped by the desk about half an hour ago and asked for the duplicate key. He’d left his key in the room and couldn’t get in.”

  Jameson could hear the operator still ringing room 227.

  “Never mind,” he said into the receiver. “I’ll try later. Thank you.”

  He dropped the instrument into the cradle and glared at Waverly. “Why didn’t you tell us that when we came in?” he demanded.

  “I didn’t think it was important.”

  “Can’t you describe Donaldson’s physical appearance?”

  “No, sir. I was busy. I didn’t look up when he asked.”

  “But you looked up this morning when he registered, didn’t you?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t come on duty until two o’clock this afternoon. Hal Spence was on the desk when Donaldson registered.”

  “Then how in the devil,” Jameson demanded, “do you know it was Donaldson who asked for that duplicate key?”

  Dee stopped shredding the handkerchief. “Captain, do you think it was Kyle—?” she asked.

  “I’m past thinking,” Jameson said. “Who does have a key to 227?”

  Albert Morrison beamed inwardly. Waverly. Spence. The rugged, sexy all-American boys with everything up front and nothing above the ears. They might be the darlings of the aging ladies of the Daughters of the Desert Pioneers, but they would never maneuver Albert Morrison, the mousy Albert Morrison, out of his job.

  “I’ll get a key from the housekeeper,” he said quietly.

  “Follow me, please, Captain.”

  Jameson ordered Van and Dee to remain in the manager’s office and then followed Morrison on the quest for a passkey. They obtained it and went upstairs to room 227. Morrison knocked. There was no answer. He tried the key and the door opened easily, but the room was empty. Not merely empty. It was vacated. The closet was barren and not so much as a forgotten toothbrush could be found in the bath. The sliding glass door to the balcony stood open. Jameson stepped outside and looked down. The lobby was like a showcase beyond the swimming pool. There was no doubt that Donaldson could have seen him come in with Dee Walker and Van Bryson—but why check out because of that? Jameson wasn’t in uniform. Who could Donaldson have recognized? Dee? Van Bryson?

  Jameson terminated the guessing game and turned his attention back to the room. He found the folded newspaper—unfolded it and looked at the masthead.

  “New York City,” he read aloud.

  “Captain,” Morrison said at his shoulder, “there’s a porter here who has some information I think you’ll be interested to hear.”

  Jameson refolded the paper and studied the picture of Jake Berendo. He read the caption and the lead paragraph of the story, but it still didn’t ring any bells. New York gang wars weren’t in his jurisdiction. Times were changing and not all of the changes were good, but they hadn’t changed that much—yet.

  “I sent Waverly down to see if Donaldson’s Chrysler was in the parking lot,” Morrison added. “It wasn’t but Waverly found this porter who saw him driving off the premises a few minutes ago.”

  Jameson left off reading the Berendo story and turned to see what Waverly had found. He was a uniformed porter: a growing boy about six foot-four who was too long for his trousers and too skinny for his jacket. His name was Larch and his information was brief. Yes, he had seen Donaldson drive away in the Chrysler. The big car had almost run him down in the darkness.

  “It’s those dark glasses,” the porter said. “He probably couldn’t see me. He’s been wearing them all day—in the sunlight at the pool and in the dark at the bar. I’ll bet he wears ‘em to bed at night—if he has time.”

  The worldly innuendo in the porter’s last phrase reminded Jameson how messy his job could get. It was an opening to the question he had to answer next.

  “Was Donaldson alone in the car?”

  Larch grinned obscenely. “No, sir! There was a girl with him. The Moore girl from bungalow 12.”

  “How can you be sure? You said it was dark?”

  “Okay, I’m not sure. I figured it was the Moore girl because he’s been making a play for her all day. The whole staff’s been laughing about it. A guy old enough to be her father!”

  “And she’s a pretty neat job, right?”

  Jameson didn’t wait for an answer. He had no time for motel gossip. He walked to the bedside table and picked up the telephone. “Ring bungalow 12,” he told the operator. While she rang, his attention strayed to the classified directory on the table that was still open to the heading Optometrists.

  There was an answering voice on the telephone after the third ring. A boy’s voice husky with sleep.

  “Is Miss Moore in?” Jameson asked.

  “Who?” the boy said.

  “Miss Moore.”

  “Oh, you mean my sister Veronica. Naw, she’s having dinner with that old guy, Mr. Donaldson. Can I give her a message?”

  “No, thanks,” Jameson said. “It’s not important.”

  He replaced the phone. “Did you say Donaldson always wore dark glasses?” he asked the porter.

  “Every time I saw him he did.”

  Jameson tore the page listing Optometrists from the classified directory and thanked the porter and Mr. Morrison for their cooperation. Then he went back downstairs to Morrison’s office and gathered up Dee Walker and Van Bryson and they all drove quietly back to police headquarters without any of the nice people at the chuck wagon, or the staff, or even Albert Morrison having the vaguest idea that somebody was about to die.

  Twenty minutes later Jameson sat under the nude on the Dover Insurance Brokerage calendar and watched Dee Walker’s face while she read the news story about Jake Berendo and the five-year-old murder at the Cecil Arms. He watched Van Bryson’s face, too. Faces could be more telling than fingerprints.

  “The Cecil Arms!” Dee exclaimed. “Van, we lived at the Cecil Arms when Bernie Chapman was killed. You remember. You were at the apartment the week after it happened!”

  Faces. Jameson rocked back in his chair and concentrated on Bryson. Some men didn’t
need handsome features; they had a magnetism and wit that made them seem to shine in the dark. But Bryson wasn’t shining. He was frowning.

  “The week after Chapman was killed?” he challenged.

  “Yes, don’t you remember? You stopped by to see Kyle before flying to Tucson. Charlene Evans was with you—that was the night we met. It was raining, and Kyle said it. always rained on the night of his extension course—but he’d quit the course because he had this bug about leaving New York. He even had those passport applications—”

  “Passport applications?” Jameson echoed.

  “For tsetse flies,” Dee said. “That’s a private joke. Kyle said we were getting in a rut. He wanted to go somewhere else to work. Out of the States. He started talking that way the night Bernie Chapman was killed—but he didn’t know Bernie was killed. He couldn’t have known until hours later when the police detective came to the door. Could he, Van?”

  Dee’s question was like a small cry for help. She stared at Van as if he might be a fragment of God who could solve a frightening enigma. Van didn’t answer.

  “And then, one week later,” she recalled, “You helped him get out of New York—”

  “And out of the rut,” Van said quickly.

  “No. No, don’t you see? He was frightened. I knew it then, but everything happened so fast it just didn’t relate. Kyle heard you were going to Tucson to work for Sam, and he suddenly had to go too. Don’t you remember? And then Charlene said that was why you stopped by. Sam needed another good man and she’d asked you to recommend one—”

  Van reached under the desk and gave Dee’s hand a sharp, warning squeeze. For a few moments she seemed to have forgotten all about Jimmy Jameson and his calculating eyes.

  Jameson missed nothing.

  “I think you should let Mrs. Walker speak her mind, Bryson,” he drawled. “It might do her good to get her troubles aired.”