“And this is Mr Joseph Nelson,” said Williams.
“Pleased t’meet ya,” Mr Nelson said, seizing a half-filled glass of gin and ginger ale and sliding along the leather cushion on his side of the booth. “Sit down. I’m in the laundry business.”
He was, at the moment, very drunk.
“The Elite Laundry,” said Mr Nelson. “Finest in Miami. Yes sir, or rather ma’am, as the case may be, the very finest. As I was just telling Mr … aah …”
“Williams,” said Doc Williams.
“Mr Williams, here, there ain’t a better man in the whole world to work for than old B. J. Though I guess you ladies don’t know what the B. J. stands for, now do you?”
They didn’t.
“Benjamin Jenks,” said Mr Nelson triumphantly. “Benjamin Jenks. See? B. J.: Benjamin Jenks. President of the Elite Laundry.”
“What the hell is this?” demanded Crane of Williams.
“Yeah, Doc,” asked O’Malley, “what about Tortoni?”
“Tortoni?” said Mr Nelson. “Tortoni? Ha! I’ll tell you what about him.”
“Tell ’em, Mr Nelson,” said Doc Williams. “Tell ’em what you told me.” His button-black eyes gleamed with amusement.
“Well, I saw it this way …” Mr Nelson paused to take a drink.
“Saw what?” asked Crane.
“What? I’m tryin’ to tell you what,” said Mr Nelson.
“Let him tell it,” said Doc Williams.
Mr Nelson took a long breath. “Whitey works in the diaper division,” he said.
Crane said, “I must be crazy.”
“Let him tell it,” said Doc Williams.
“Whitey’s my friend,” Mr Nelson said. “We been working for Elite for moran ten years. Old B. J. said …”
“Tell ’em about Tortoni,” said Doc Williams.
“I am,” said Mr Nelson indignantly. “Whitey and me goes into this lunch counter joint for a couple of sanniches and some Java. I woulda had beer only B. J. don’t like for his people to drink. Not that B. J.’s a dry. No sir. Well, this Tortoni’s sitting on the next stool but one from us. I don’t know him from Adam, but Whitey said, ‘You remember me, Mr Tortoni? A couple of years ago I sold you our towel service for the washrooms at the Blue Castle. I bin promoted to the diaper division since then—tha’s why I haven’t been around t’ see you.’
“I don’t know why, but he didn’t warm up at all. He said, ‘I remember you all right.’ He didn’t warm up at all.”
“Whitey said, ‘Meet my pal, Joe Nelson.’
“‘It’s a pleasure, Mr Tortoni,’ I said, holding out my hand real friendly. ‘I heard a lot about you.’”
“Why, you’d think my arm was cut off at the elbow from the way he acted. He just sat there, not even lookin’ at me. If he hadn’t of been a friend of Whitey’s I would have got mad.”
“Well, after we got the sanniches Whitey said, ‘And how’s the towel service going? Everything satisfact’ry, Mr Tortoni?’”
“Now I ask you: ain’t that a civil question? But wha’d he do? He just stared at Whitey like he never seen him before and started to get up from the counter.”
“‘What makes you so oblivious?’ I asked him. ‘Is it your income tax, or are you composin’ a poem, or is somebuddy after you?’ I asked him.”
“That’s just what I asked him. I was sore, him being so upstage to Whitey. We’re all citizens and can vote and ain’t we all equal under the skin, as the saying goes?”
“But he didn’t pay any attention. He had turned his back to me and was just startin’ to walk away when it happened. The first thing I knew was when he stopped walking and stared at the door. I turned around to see what he was looking at and there was a guy in a green suit with a gun in his hand. There was another guy in back of this guy but I didn’t get a good look at him. Well, this guy shot Tortoni two times in the stomach and then when he falls on the floor he shoots him through the top of his head, holding his pistol right up close to——”
“He killed him?” O’Malley’s mouth hung open. “Killed Tortoni?”
“That’s what I bin trying to tell ya,” said Mr Nelson. “This guy in the green suit——”
“Imago!” cried Miss Day. “What’s the matter?”
The dancer’s face looked as though it had been freshly dusted with rice powder. “Nothing,” she said. “It is nothing.”
“Here.” Crane handed her Doc Williams’ glass of whisky. “Drink this.”
“Dead!” exclaimed O’Malley.
Mr Nelson said, “That’s what I bin trying to tell you——”
“I am all right,” said Imago.
“That’s terrible,” said O’Malley.
“Terrible? I’ll say that’s terrible,” said Mr Nelson. “This guy in the green suit didn’t pay any attention to Whitey or me. He bent over Tortoni and put a brand-new buffalo nickel in his hand and whispered, but loud enough so Whitey and me could hear, ‘Use this on the slot machines in hell, wise guy.’ That’s what he said, me and Whitey could hear him. Then he and the other guy walked away. Yeah, I mean walked. They didn’t run a step.”
Crane’s eyes met Doc Williams’ over the table. He was recalling that Williams had told him Tortoni was trying to muscle in on the Miami slot-machine racket.
“Whitey turned as green as that guy’s suit,” said Mr Nelson. “I seen Tortoni was dead. The counter man was trying to get the police on the phone. ‘Why didn’t they plug us?’ I asked Whitey. ‘We’re witnesses.’
“Whitey said, ‘And just a minute ago we was talking to him.’”
“I said, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’”
“Did you?” asked Crane.
“I hope to tell you, mister,” said Mr Nelson. “I said goom-by to Whitey and went to a place a couple blocks down the street for a drink. I was kinda sick to my stommick. And as I was telling some of the boys about what I seen this genlman, Mr … aah …”
“Williams,” said Doc Williams.
“Mr Williams here said would I come down here and tell the story to you folks and I did.”
“His story ought to be worth another drink,” said Williams.
“Hell, it’s worth a whole bottle,” said Crane. “Waiter!”
“Ah!” said Mr Nelson.
“One thing,” said Crane. “We don’t have to see Tortoni now. We can have lunch.” He looked at the dancer. “That is, if Imago feels like eating.”
“I am all right,” Imago Paraguay said.
Chapter IX
THEY LAY ON THEIR BELLIES in the warm sand, their heads resting on crossed arms, the sun hot on their bare backs and legs. In the east whipped-cream clouds floated on the blue Atlantic. The lazy breeze was heavy with the perfume of tropical blooms; soft with the rustle of palm fans; moist with traces of sea spray. It was late afternoon.
“This is good,” said Crane.
“Picture of two great detectives at work,” said O’Malley. His voice, directed into the sand, was muffled.
“I’m thinking,” said Crane.
“What about?”
“About a drink.”
“‘Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging,’” O’Malley said.
Crane groaned.
“It wasn’t my idea to learn all that stuff,” O’Malley said.
“I made a mistake.”
O’Malley pretended to be surprised.
“But now everybody knows we’re detectives,” Crane went on; “can’t we forget it all?”
“I kinda like being able to say those things. It gives class with the dames.”
“Not with Imago.”
“No, I guess not.”
Crane’s arms were beginning to get tired from the weight of his head. He turned over on his back, rested his head on his peppermint-striped beach robe.
O’Malley said, “That Imago’s certainly got Di Gregario’s number.” He found a cigarette, lighted it. “What is she?”
“She says she’s part Spanish a
nd part Mayan.”
“What are Mayans?”
“High-grade Indians. They lived in Yucatan about a thousand years ago.”
“Maybe she thinks she’s Mayan,” O’Malley said, “but I’ll bet somebody from China stayed at her family’s house once.”
“It’s her make-up. She didn’t look Chinese today.”
“You could tell she wasn’t from Dublin.”
A big coast guard amphibian, flying low and close to shore, went over them on its way to Miami. It was going quite fast and it was very steady in the air. The two motors made a lot of noise.
“I suppose it’s looking for Camelia,” said O’Malley.
“I still don’t see how anybody’s going to know the boat she’s in even if they do see it.”
“Do you think Di Gregario’s got her, Bill?”
“Why would he want to kidnap her?”
“The fifty grand.”
“Yeah, that’s so. But I think it would be too dangerous for him.” He blew smoke at the sky. “She’d be bound to recognize him and tell when he let her go.”
“Unless he killed her.”
Two gulls circled over their heads. The birds’ feet were pink against their white underbodies.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Crane said.
O’Malley pushed his cigarette into the sand. “Have you got anybody in mind?”
“No.”
“What about Tortoni?”
“He wouldn’t think of writing notes signed The Eye.”
“Not before he snatched her, anyway.” O’Malley rested his chin on his right palm. “A professional wouldn’t work that way.”
For several minutes they lay in silence on the sand. Crane lay with his face toward the sky, his eyes closed. His half-smoked cigarette dangled from his mouth. O’Malley poked holes in the sand with a disconsolate finger.
At last Crane said, “O’Malley.”
“What?”
“Did you ever drink usquebaugh?”
“No. Why?”
“I was just wondering how it tasted.”
The breeze seemed to be freshening. It shook the palm leaves, beat them against each other, making a noise like someone folding a newspaper. Far out at sea smoke from a freighter lay like a log on the horizon.
“Did you notice the way Imago took Tortoni’s death?” asked O’Malley.
“Yeah.”
“Could she have been a pal of that guy too?”
Crane rolled over on his side. “She knew him.” He told O’Malley of his encounter with Imago in Tortoni’s office.
“She must have been a pal … for him to cash a check for a grand,” said O’Malley.
“If there was a check.”
The tide was coming in slowly. A tiny roller nibbled tentatively at Crane’s foot. He crawled further inshore.
“She certainly made good use of the grand,” said O’Malley.
“She made a nice profit.”
“Say!” O’Malley sat up. “Where’s your money? The Eye is probably——”
“Don’t get excited.” Crane fumbled with his beach robe. “I’m taking no chances.” He held up the packet of nine one-thousand-dollar bills.
“You better stick that in a bank.”
“Maybe I will.”
“How are you going to spend it?”
Crane thought for a moment. “I think I’ll go on a bender.”
“I’d like to know what you’ve been doing for the last six years.”
“Just warming up.”
O’Malley pondered this bit of information, then said, “I wish I could see you when you get going.”
“You’re invited to come along.”
“No, thanks. I’ve been in jail.”
There were voices in the direction of the house. Coming toward them across the sand were Major Eastcomb, Essex and Tony Lamphier. They all wore white suits. Essex’ face was haggard.
Lamphier asked, “Have you heard about Tortoni?”
Worry had aged him, had somehow improved his appearance. His face had lost its bland arrogance.
“Yes, a couple of hours ago,” Crane said.
“The afternoon papers say his death is connected with the kidnaping,” said Lamphier.
“What do you think?” asked Essex.
“I think they’re wrong,” Crane said.
O’Malley said, “We think he got it for trying to muscle into the slot-machine racket.”
“That’s so,” said Essex. “One of his men was killed a week ago.”
Perspiration had wilted Major Eastcomb’s collar. “You think he had nothing to do with the kidnapin’?” In contrast to the white bandage on his nose, his skin was brick red.
“I don’t know about that,” Crane said. “I think he was killed because of slot machines.”
“There’s no news about the girl?” asked O’Malley.
Essex said, “We took a plane and flew down the keys. No luck. It was just an outside chance, anyway.”
“We thought we might see something suspicious,” Lamphier said.
“We were only one of about fifteen planes,” said the major. “Whole country’s in the hunt.”
Crane stood up and looped his beach robe over his arm. “I hope they find her.” He made sure his money was in the pocket.
“Beside lying on the sand, what have you been doing all day?” asked Major Eastcomb.
“I can’t think why I’m telling you,” said Crane, “but we saw Di Gregario.”
“You did?” Essex’ voice was eager. “What did you get from him?”
“Nothing of any value.”
“You turned the beggar over to the police?” asked the major.
“No.”
“You didn’t even tell them where he was?”
“They didn’t ask me.”
“They requested me especially to order you to cooperate with them.”
“And did you?” Crane inquired.
The major eyed him angrily.
O’Malley got up. “How are your two punches on the nose, Major?” he asked.
“I’m tired,” said Essex. “I think I’ll go up to the house. Coming, Major? Coming, Tony?”
“I’ll be along in a minute,” said Lamphier.
Essex and Major Eastcomb walked toward the house. Slowly the others followed.
“You ought to be easier on the major,” said Lamphier. “He really means well. It’s just …”
“Yeah, I know. His manner is unfortunate.”
Lamphier tried to smile, but he wasn’t very successful. He really was quite nice looking. He had a fine length of bone; the long legs of a hurdler; the sloping shoulders of a man good at fast games; sensitive hands. His crew-cut hair disclosed a well-shaped head.
“He does mean well,” he said. “Despite his dislike of the idea he arranged to have the fifty thousand ready for the ransom.”
“That’s nice of him, especially as it isn’t his money.”
“I know, but he could have held things up.”
O’Malley asked, “Has he got it with him?”
“No. It’s at the bank.”
“Maybe I ought to lay off him,” said Crane.
“He does mean well.”
“I don’t like him anyway.”
Lamphier’s eyes wrinkled at the corners. “Nor I.” They entered the patio. “But I didn’t mean to talk about him.”
“No?”
“I just wanted to say …” He hesitated, looking embarrassed. “… if anything comes up … if you ever need help … I wish you’d call on me.”
“Why sure,” said Crane. “We will.”
“I was pretty sour in the chase last night, but——”
“Who wouldn’t be, with a sock like that on the head?” asked O’Malley.
“No, I was pretty sour.”
“We were all pretty sour,” said Crane.
“Well, if anything does come up …”
“We’ll call on you.”
“You know, I fee
l terrible about this,” said Lamphier. “I feel so damned impotent.”
“You just have to wait.”
“If there was only something we could do.”
“There isn’t, though.”
“It’s a terrible feeling.”
“Sure.”
“But you will call on me?”
“Absolutely.”
Tony Lamphier went into the house. The sun was still hot and the blue water in the pool looked cool and inviting. They put down their robes and dove in and at once the lazy feeling caused by their sun bath disappeared. While Crane swam under water for rubber bricks at the deep end O’Malley tried jackknives from the board. He got plenty of spring, and he was able to touch his toes, but his trajectory was wrong. Crane had heard that a good diver was supposed to go very high in the air and come down very close to the board. O’Malley went out toward the center of the pool, like a broad jumper.
Once, on his way back to the brass ladder, he paused beside Crane.
“I feel bad about that girl myself,” he said.
He resumed his diving and Crane admired his build. He thought O’Malley would have made a wonderful boxer. He had long arms, powerful shoulders, a deep chest, narrow hips and a flat stomach. His legs were possibly too slender for maximum durability, but they would have a lot of speed. He had the blue-gray eyes of a marksman too.
After a time they put on their beach robes and went up to their rooms and started to dress for dinner. They both felt fine. The liquor they had drunk before and at lunch had mostly been eliminated by the sun and the water and the swimming and all that was left was a pleasant feeling and a mild desire for more liquor.
Soft dusk had seeped into the room when Crane woke. He would have liked to sleep longer, but he saw it was time for dinner. The air was filled with the melancholy sizzle of the surf. He swung his bare feet over the side of the bed and sat there for some time. He thought about Camelia Essex. It was a hell of a note, but what could you do? If you were too smart the kidnaper would become frightened and kill the girl. It didn’t make much difference to him, as the penalty for kidnaping and murder is the same. It was best to hold back until the ransom had been paid. Not that he had anything to hold back on.
There was still another difference between a murder and a kidnaping case. At least for a detective. In a murder case a detective could take an impersonal attitude. Most of the time he hadn’t known the corpse and the chase after the murderer was like a nice game of chess. The murderer had made the first move and the purpose of the game was to forestall his future moves until, finally, he was checkmated. There was rarely any personal feeling, but if there was, he thought, it was more often favorable to the murderer. So many corpses had it coming to them.
The Dead Don’t Care Page 10