Killer in the Street

by Nielsen, Helen

  And Sam wouldn’t be watched. Good Citizen Sam could be relied on to do the right thing if Kyle Walker came to call. Once the station wagon had turned in at the Stevens driveway, Kyle felt comparatively safe for the first time in almost twenty-four hours.

  Sam’s Cadillac was still in the drive. Kyle parked directly behind it and walked quickly to the front door. He rang the bell several times. There was no answer. Sam was an early riser who usually breakfasted in the kitchen with a radio newscast blaring at full volume. Kyle walked around to the rear and found that door unlocked. He rang again and then walked inside. He was now on the service porch where another door opened into the garage. Passing it by, he stepped into the kitchen. Sam wasn’t there and the radio was silent, but there was evidence of a hasty breakfast having been consumed: half a cup of stale coffee, a plate that had held eggs and bacon and an unwashed skillet still on the stove. A second cup of coffee—black (the way Sam drank it)—was untouched, and placed beside the cup was a long white envelope with the name “Julia” scrawled across the front in Sam’s familiar bold hand. The envelope was unsealed. Kyle opened the flap and found that it contained two one-hundred-dollar bills. He replaced the money inside the envelope and left it on the table.

  He walked into the hall and listened for some sound of life.

  “Sam—?”

  There was no answer. He walked to the study door and looked inside. At first glance the room seemed empty, and then Kyle noticed a second long white envelope propped up against a brandy decanter that was standing on a small table beside the leather chair. He walked to the table and picked up the envelope. This one was addressed, also in Sam’s hand, to Captain Jimmy Jameson. And then, because he was becoming prepared for what he would find, Kyle looked for Sam and found him seated deep in the leather chair facing the fireplace. He was dressed in his fanciest boots and the cowhide vest he had worn in the portrait, and the gun that was still clasped tightly in his right hand was a bone-handled range pistol taken from a rare-gun collection kept in a display case across the room. It had been fired once at close range and the shot was true. Sam Stevens had committed suicide.

  Kyle was stunned. It was so senseless. Ignoring the name on the envelope, Kyle ripped out the contents and began to read:

  Dear Jimmy,

  By the time your eyes see this letter I’ll be past the stage of being hurt, unless there’s some Power that can think up a hotter hell than I started making for myself six years ago. I’m too old to make excuses for myself. I was emotionally unstable after Sarah died, but I should have smelled skunk when it sprayed on me. Or maybe Drasco, the man my “boss” sent out to kill Kyle because of what he saw in New York five years ago, was right. Maybe I wanted to keep on being the biggest wheel in town long after I should have headed for the stable. That isn’t important. What is important is why I hired Kyle in the first place and why, as Van Bryson says, our corporation never made a mistake or took a loss. As long as I’m making this confession (how I hate that self-righteous word!) I may as well admit that what I told you about Van last night was out of pure fright. I knew what was happening as soon as you asked what I knew about Kyle when I hired him. I didn’t know a damned thing, you see. I just had my orders …

  The words on the paper in Kyle’s hand mocked his reason. There were several pages—some with dates and amounts of the transfer of money. It was the pathetic story of a man caught in a web from which he couldn’t get free short of the means he had finally used. The last few lines told that story:

  The girl—Veronica Moore—is dead. I found her body in the back of my truck last night. I thought Drasco would kill me then, but he didn’t. Not in his orders, I guess. But they won’t use the old man any more. Drasco is taking the truck in the morning. He’ll bury her somewhere on the desert. I can only hope you find him before he finds Kyle. I can’t telephone because the vermin cut the wires, and I’ve lost too much blood from the beating he gave me … I had that coming, I guess, but that little girl didn’t have anything coming but a long, wonderful life.

  Get him, Jimmy. Get him and throw the book at him. Whatever you need besides what’s in this letter you’ll find in my safety deposit box in the bank. Just get them all!

  Kyle stopped reading and touched Sam’s body. It was still warm. He had waited until Drasco left to fire the shot. That was the only way he could be sure Drasco wouldn’t find the letter and destroy it.

  And now it was Kyle’s, and there was nobody left to protect Dee and Mike. He folded the letter carefully and put it back in the envelope, and then he put the envelope into his inside coat pocket. It just might be enough to buy his freedom.

  Jimmy Jameson stood with his back to the wall map in his office and tried to follow Detective Geary’s story. Clifford was there to back him up. Baird had gone to the airport to check out the Mexico City flight.

  “We know the man in the white pickup was Donaldson,” Geary said. “The optometrist, Madsen, gave us the story. Donaldson came in yesterday morning and left a pair of glasses with a broken lens. He wanted a rush order on the repair job—said he was in town to represent an air-conditioning firm and couldn’t do his work without glasses.”

  “Madsen,” Jameson reflected. “He wasn’t the first listing, was he?”

  “No, a Joseph Abrams was the first, but it didn’t matter. As soon as we got to Abrams and briefed him on the situation, he gave us the telephone number of the concern that would have to do the lens grinding on such a job. They traced the order back to Madsen and we got there about three minutes after the shooting.”

  “Three minutes too late. What about the pickup? Did any of the witness get the license-plate number?”

  “No. It was probably stolen anyway.”

  “And what about the man who fired at Donaldson? Any identification?”

  “Two positives,” Geary said. “Madsen and a waitress in the coffee shop across the street gave almost identical descriptions. I sent a man over to Walker’s house to pick up his photograph, and both witnesses agreed he was the attacker.”

  “The attacker?” Dee echoed. “Oh, no!”

  Jameson silenced her with a glance. “Aren’t you the person who reported to me that Kyle was missing and had taken his gun? Go ahead, Geary.”

  “That’s about it,” Geary said. “Madsen got a look at Mr. Baird’s photo collection on the way back here and gave us another positive identification. Mr. Madsen, would you like to do your own talking?”

  Ollie Madsen sat on a straight-backed chair flanked by Geary and Clifford. Somebody had given him a cup of hot coffee which he seemed to be using as a hand warmer. He smiled wanly.

  “The man who told me he was R. R. Donaldson—I have his business card in one of my pockets. Oh, well. You know about that anyway. Donaldson is the same man Mr. Baird is looking for—Rick Drasco.”

  “You will swear to that, Mr. Madsen?”

  “On the Bible!”

  “Thank you,” Jameson said. “Did Mr. Baird tell you that Drasco is a known gangland assassin who has been identified by his accomplice as the killer of a New York City garage attendant five years ago?”

  Madsen looked pale.

  “You may go now,” Jameson added.

  “Now?” Madsen echoed.

  “Don’t worry. Your shop is the last place Drasco will come to now. He got his glasses, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And now,” Jameson added, looking at Geary, “he’s no longer immobilized.”

  Geary got the message. “I think we had better locate Walker and worry about Drasco later,” he said.

  Jameson backed away from the map and leaned against his desk. He stared at a collection of wriggling, bisecting lines, and reflected on Kyle’s situation. He knew all of those streets—he had developed many of them. It wasn’t going to be easy to find him if he was determined to go on with this loner act.

  “All right, let’s start with where we know he isn’t,” Jameson said. “He isn’t at his own house, and he
isn’t at his secretary’s apartment.”

  “When I talked to her last night—or was it early this morning?” Geary mused—”She said that R. R. Donaldson of Baemer Air Conditioning had called at Kyle’s office yesterday morning, but Kyle told her he was accepting no calls. That proves Drasco was trying to make contact.”

  “Then it isn’t likely that Kyle will go back to his office today,” Jameson declared, “or that Baird will find him at the airport. Even if he was booked on that flight, he won’t expose himself so soon after the shooting.”

  “That’s what I told Baird,” Clifford remarked. “He said I was probably right, but an order is an order.”

  “That leaves Dr. Bryson’s apartment—and we know he hasn’t been there.”

  “And Sam’s house,” Van suggested.

  “Sam’s?” Jameson twisted his torso about and peered quizzically at Bryson. These Quiz Kids bothered Jameson. He was never sure when they were serious. “Sam would have called me the minute Kyle stuck his nose in the door,” he protested.

  “Love is blind,” Van reminded, “and Sam loves Kyle the way a father loves an only son.”

  “All right, we’ll try Sam’s house.”

  Jameson did the calling on his own telephone. By this time he was getting used to that anxious look in Dee’s eyes. He could face it while he waited for the response that didn’t come. He called the operator and asked her to dial Sam’s number. Then he put down the telephone.

  “They can’t get through,” he said. “There’s something wrong with the connection. Geary, send a car over to Sam’s house right away. Any more suggestions, Dr. Bryson?”

  “They might have gone up to the cabin,” Van said.

  “That’s possible. How long is it since we last called Ramon?”

  Van checked his watch. “Nine hours.”

  “That’s long enough. We’ll try again.”

  This time the response was immediate. Ramon’s answers were prompt and clear and his information arresting.

  Jameson listened and said, “When? When did you get that call? … No, of course he wasn’t telling the truth! Sam Stevens isn’t sending a man to pick up Mike and take him to his father. Ramon, listen to me—”

  By this time Jameson was shouting his words, but all that came back to him was a quiet, disconnecting click on the opposite end of the line. He put down the instrument and forced himself to face Dee again.

  “A man called the cabin and told Ramon he was being sent up to get Mike.”

  “Drasco?” Dee whispered.

  “You did tell me that he heard Mike say you were going to Uncle Sam’s cabin, didn’t you?”

  “Jimmy—”

  Dee rose automatically to her feet. Van was instantly at her side.

  “Geary!” Jameson yelled. “Get the radio room busy. This time we’re looking for Kyle’s station wagon and for a man driving a white pickup truck that’s been shot at. I have to get something from my locker.”

  Jameson’s locker was at the far end of the office next to some filing cases. When he returned from the short, swift journey he was buckling on his sidearm. Dee’s anxious eyes missed nothing.

  “I’m going up there with you,” she said.

  “Dr. Bryson,” Jameson ordered, “I’m leaving Mrs. Walker in your charge.”

  “You can’t keep me away, Jimmy!” Dee cried. “He’s my son! I’m coming—with or without you!”

  Dee would have clawed him to pieces with her small white hands if he had tried to stop her. “All right,” Jameson said, “you can come if Bryson will be responsible for you. Mr. Clifford will have to be responsible for himself.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Kyle left Sam’s house, he knew only one place to go. A race for the border was out of the question. All highways would be doubly watched since the shooting—particularly those leading to Mexico. But there were narrow roads that wound up into the mountains where he could hide until he got his bearings and decided how to use the weapon Sam left behind. He tried not to think of Sam’s death. Grief deadened the senses and he needed all the instincts for survival that nature provided.

  It was a beautiful day. It seemed incongruous that he could be aware of beauty at such a time, but danger made everything sharper and more poignant. The sky was bluer because it might be the last sky he would see. The air was clearer because time was running out. Drasco—thanks to Sam’s letter the killer had a name—had known Sam’s house was the one safe place where he could spend the night. Now he had gone to bury a girl’s body. Afterwards, because he would assume Sam was still alive, he might try the cabin for his headquarters.

  Kyle was trying to think the way Drasco might think. From the cabin he could telephone Sam and order him to send Kyle up on some pretext. Ambush was Drasco’s style. And he needed other transportation now. The shooting at the white pickup would have been reported to the police. The truck was too hot to drive in the city. Sam kept a jeep at the cabin for Ramon’s use. Drasco could commandeer it—and Ramon—to get him out of the danger area. One thing was positive: whether or not he had guessed Drasco’s strategy, there would be a confrontation soon. Any deal he hoped to make by virtue of Sam’s letter was predicated on the slim chance of being able to stay alive long enough to open negotiations. There was no blueprint for that operation. It had to be played by ear.

  Kyle drove fast. The road was a series of corkscrew turns, but he knew it well. The first order of business was to reach the cabin ahead of Drasco. Now he was grateful that Dee had gone husband hunting at the Apache Inn. She hated night driving. There wasn’t a chance she had returned last night. The air was clearing more and more as the station wagon gained altitude, and Kyle was beginning to feel the excitement of confidence. And then, so immediately ahead he was forced to floor the brakes to avoid head-on collision, there was a police car parked on the narrow shoulder with the nose pointed toward him. Kyle tried to spin the wheel and execute a fast U-turn, but the road was too narrow. The car swung out to meet him and forced a halt.

  Jameson was at the wheel. Van sat beside him. Both men got out of the sedan and approached the station wagon.

  “Kyle, come out of there,” Jameson called. “We know you’re in trouble. We want to help.”

  Jameson’s voice was strained. Van looked unnaturally sober and the worse for it. Kyle did get out of the wagon, but he held one hand on the gun in his pocket.

  “Where’s Dee?” he asked.

  “Up at the cabin,” Jameson said.

  “At the cabin? Where’s Mike?”

  There had to be a reason why Dee had come back. This time Kyle hit home.

  “He’s gone,” Jameson answered. “Drasco got to the cabin ahead of us. He knocked out the houseman and took Mike—but we’ll find him, Kyle. He can’t get far—”

  “You’ll find him!” Kyle roared. “Jimmy, there’s only one road to the cabin from here and this is it! The only cutoff is Red Canyon Road a mile above us and it ends at a stretch of timber backed up by a pile of rocks with a two-hundred-foot drop behind them! Drasco’s already below us.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Jameson said. “I’ve been in radio contact with the patrol below. You were spotted driving up, but nobody’s come down. Drasco is still up here.”

  Kyle looked up at the mountain: quiet, impassive, totally indifferent. Its very silence seemed to mock him. Kyle Walker, the man who was going to use a dead man’s letter to bargain for his life.

  “Nature is kind,” Kyle said.

  “What?” James echoed.

  “A point of view. Nature is kind. It tells us when to stop dreaming.”

  “Kyle, we’ll get Mike back,” Van said. “They sent out a man from the FBI.”

  “I don’t care if they sent a man from the FBI!” Kyle snapped. “It’s me that Drasco wants. Me—not some gun-happy detectives! Drasco’s gone into that canyon with Mike. When he finds it’s a dead end, what do you think he’ll do?”

  “Come back out,” Jameson said.

&n
bsp; “Yes, using Mike as hostage. I don’t want my son used for target practice, Jimmy. Where’s your FBI man?”

  “At the cabin with Dee. He’s got Charlene Evans with him. I think they had a bug on her phone—at any rate, she admits that she’s been working for the syndicate all these years. She’s responsible for your job with Sam, Kyle. She knew you were slated for murder the minute Drasco walked into your office yesterday.”

  “Charley?” Kyle echoed.

  “Charley. Good old Charley. I warned Sam about that girl when he hired her. Star-struck. Flighty. I thought she was trying to move into Sam’s territory when the old boy’s defenses were down. That shows how wrong I can be! She was up to her false eyelashes in debt to a phony talent scout on the syndicate payroll. She was given a choice of being their contact in Sam’s office or of working out her debts in one of those fun-and-games ranches outside Vegas. Oh, they’re nice people, Kyle. Real cute people.”

  The blows were falling too fast. Kyle tried to think of Charley the way Jameson was painting her and the colors wouldn’t blend, and then Jameson added the needed perspective.

  “I guess Charlene did a lot of growing these past six years,” he said. “She had to know that covering for you was signing her own death warrant, but that’s what she did. Last night she called the Phoenix contact and reported that you were flying to Mexico City this morning. Then she went to the airport to meet the killer she knew would be waiting for you. The only reason she’s not in the morgue now is because Baird reached her first. She’s hysterical, but she’s beginning to make sense. She’s talking like words were going out of style. Come out with me, Kyle, and help Charlene break this mess wide open.”