“Was he a winner or a loser?” I asked.
“Nobody wins at the track, Frank,” said Mitch. “At least, no one I know.”
“What about the disappearance?”
“It’s thin, Frank. No one is sure what happened, although the consensus is he left on his own power. There is one note from our police beat guy. It seems the cops were pretty close mouthed on Peterson, but that could just be because Mrs. Peterson is kind of a wheel. Maybe they were protecting her.”
“Or maybe they were getting pressure from above. Anything on how active the investigation is?”
“Not really,” he said as I heard shuffling papers. “Frank, this never made page one and we honestly didn’t devote many resources to it. I think he’s hooked up with a broad in Mexico.”
“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that, Mitch,” I said. “But I have a client paying the freight, so I’ll keep looking.”
After reminding me of my promise, Mitch gave me one other note. It seemed Peterson was a devotee of some of burlesque houses in town, but not since his marriage. That was new, and I added it to my notes.
After hanging up the phone with Mitch, I picked the receiver up again and called my service. After turning the phones over to them, I headed out for the day.
I headed downtown to the Hall of Records first. I didn’t expect to find anything that the cops didn’t have, but I didn’t know if they might be holding out. I knew my way around there fairly well and I spent several hours combing through property records, marriage licenses, civil suits, and the like for anything on Peterson. If anything was there I didn’t find it. The only thing I left with that I hadn’t had before was a couple of paper cuts.
The track seemed the next logical call so I pointed my heap towards the outskirts of town and arrived in time for the fourth race. Northern Downs was the oldest and best track in town. No broken down nags eking out their last few miles there. It was a first class operation and drew the best clientele. Once inside, after running a gauntlet of touts, I headed to the two-dollar window and put down six dollars on the favorite, which drew a slight sneer from the ticket seller. I wasn’t thin skinned so I scooped up my tickets and headed for the stands.
I didn’t know any of the swells, but I was acquainted with many of the denizens of the track. I spent the rest of the afternoon walking the stands, the concourse, and even took a trip through the stables. Most of the people I talked to knew my line of work and they all had their hands out. Since I had a rich client, I dispensed a few bucks to loosen tongues. I received a myriad of conflicting information about both Tony Peterson and his wife. Apparently, she had accompanied him often to the races, although there was another woman he was seen with occasionally. Some said she was a blonde, and others said a brunette, but it sounded like the same woman.
A couple of people said Peterson was a friendly sort, but others described a volcanic temper if provoked. I heard stories of him slugging a jockey after a poor race, although others said it was just an unpleasant conversation. On the question of his betting habits Peterson was universally said to be a big bettor, and as unlikely as it seemed, he was known as a big winner. He was also known to employ others in cashing big tickets for a small price. This was a common tax dodge at the track and there was always some down and outer happy to cash a five thousand dollar winner for a fifty.
The view on Mrs. Peterson was also mixed. Although she seemed very happy with Peterson, according to those in the know, her level of knowledge about him was disputed. Most people portrayed her as a victim of the charm of Tony Peterson and dazzled by his youth and dashing good looks. However, others saw her as the user and claimed she was far too cagey to be taken in by a gigolo. They felt if anyone was being used it was Tony Peterson. It was the usual story. Ten people go to the zoo and four will claim the zebra had spots and not the leopard.
One new bit of news was that Peterson had expressed an interest in a local middleweight boxer, one Johnny “On the Spot” Able. Able trained at a gym on the north side run by an ex con I had once arrested a decade ago, named Carl Foster. We had ended up friendly, but I hadn’t seen him in forever. I decided to head for the gym while I still had daylight.
A light rain had begun when I pulled across the street from the gym. It was called Norton Sports Hall, although I never heard who Norton was. As far as I knew, Foster had bought the place years ago when it was in bankruptcy. It was mostly a training facility, but they put together fights once a month or so, and piled a few hundred seats around a ring. Foster was a tough guy, and it was said he was on the square and that the local wise guys let him alone because they were afraid of him. I thought it more likely that he just didn’t have anything anyone else wanted. I crossed the street and walked in the door.
Even though the rain had darkened the skies it still took me a minute to adjust my eyes to the dim lighting of the gym. I looked around the room to see if I could find Carl, but he was nowhere to be seen. There was a small snack bar to the left of the door with a dozen stools. It was empty, except for two teen girls in mini skirts and a young boxer in a tank top letting them feel his biceps.
In the middle of the gym was a large ring with bleachers on two sides. The bleachers were a quarter filled with those watching a sparring match. The crowd looked to be split between boxers in between workouts in trunks and men in suits. Whether the suits were gamblers, managers, or promoters, I didn’t ask. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung over the ring. The rest of the gym was filled with boxers working the heavy bag, the speed bag, or shadow boxing. I watched for a while and it was hypnotic. I still didn’t see Carl, so I stopped a guy in white carrying towels. He hooked a thumb towards the back of the room. I saw a sign that read Office, and headed that way.
I started to knock on the door and then reconsidered and walked in. There was a burly man sitting at the desk in the office talking on the phone. He had on dungarees and a button up shirt with no tie. His grizzled features matched his hair. It was Carl Foster. He glanced at me, and then went back to his phone conservation. I took a seat without being invited and pulled a handkerchief from my pocket. The office was hot and I mopped my brow, waiting for the end of the phone conversation. From Carl’s end it sounded as if someone was backing out of a match. Carl was protesting.
“Then your boys are banned from this venue, tough guy,” he said. “That’s right, your whole stable. Don’t try and pull that can’t make weight crap on me.”
Carl listened for a minute.
“All right. That’s better,” he said in a calmer voice. “Call me next week and we’ll settle the details.”
He hung up the phone and turned to me.
“And what can I do for you, mister?” he asked. “Wait a minute. Holy crap, its Frank Randall. Someone told me you died.”
“I got better,” I said.
A large crooked grin crossed his face as he half rose and stuck out his hand.
“Nice to see you again, Carl,” I said as we shook. “Place seems pretty crowded.”
“Oh, that. You caught us on a good day, Frank. We got a card coming up and everyone wants to catch the last sparring days before they get a bet down. Gamblers are the only people keeping this rotten sport going.”
“I hear you got some good boys down here are pretty good. I was just at the track and got a tip on a middleweight named Able. Is he any good?”
“Kid is a ham and egger, Frank. Leads with his chin. Lucky for him it’s made of iron. Real crowd pleaser though. Dishes out a lot of punishment while he takes it. He’s a bleeder too, and you know crowds love that. He’s doing all right now, but when he moves up in class they’ll eat him alive.”
“The guy who gave me the tip was Tony Peterson. He seems to think the kid can go all the way.”
Carl took a minute to light a cigarette. He blew a puff into the air.
“You say Tony Peterson gave you that tip?”
“That’s right. Flashy dresser. I think he married some uptown broad.”
&nbs
p; “I thought we were friends, Frank.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Of course, we’re friends.”
“Then why are you giving me this guff about Peterson? You said you just came from the track and that’s where you got the tip? That’s unlikely, Frank, since Peterson lambed out weeks ago. Why do you treat me like a mutt, Frank”
“Okay, so I didn’t just get the tip, but I do know Peterson was interested in the kid.”
“Come on, Frank. I was just kidding about you dying. I know you’re a gumshoe now, and the word on the street is that Mrs. Peterson has hired you to find her runaway groom. I know you’ve been asking around.”
“All right so I’m looking for Peterson. I just happen to know he liked your boy and I thought you might have some information about what happened to Peterson. Maybe when he was down here you might have heard something just by accident.”
“How much is in it for me, Frank?”
“Geez, Carl, I cut you a break once upon a time.”
“Hey I’ll give you a rate, but let’s keep this on a business footing.”
I reluctantly pulled a fifty from my pocket and held it out. Carl reached for it, but I pulled it back.
“Only if you have something, and only if it’s new,” I said. “For one thing, how do you know Peterson lambed out? Why not foul play?”
“Because I know he was building a rainy day fund,” he said, as he stubbed out a cigarette and lit another one. “He was drunk in this very office one night and said that he had a nest egg for bad times. He was planning it, Frank. I’d bet anything on it.”
“That’s not much, Carl.”
“How about this? You’re not the only guy looking for him. There have been a few broken noses sniffing around his disappearance too.”
“You saying the mob is interested in Peterson?” I asked. “What is their business in this?”
I knew the answer of course, but I didn’t want Carl to know I knew.
“I can’t say to that, Frank. Maybe he was into a shark, I don’t know. I just know they seemed pretty serious.”
“That’s something I guess. Maybe a twenty or so. Anything else for the whole fifty?”
“There’s one other thing,” he said. “There’s another PI on the case.”
I showed my surprise that time.
“So you didn’t know that one, eh? If you didn’t know that, you’re gonna thrilled at who it is.”
“I’ll bite. Who?”
“It’s Homer Watkins. You’ve met him haven’t you, Frank?”
“I have,” I said. Watkins ran a one-man agency like myself, but that was where the similarities ended. He was a sleazy operator who used blackjacks as much as he used shoe leather.
“Didn’t he get the best of you in a tussle?”
“Well, sort of. I was winning on points when he caught me with fifteen lucky punches and hospitalized me.”
“Yeah, you should keep your left up, Frank. Anyway, he’s been asking the same questions that you are asking, except he’s asking about you too. He was in here this morning, talking to some of the boys. I didn’t talk to him myself, but he was bragging about a rich female client. You think maybe your client hired him to bird dog your investigation? That’s rich. I mean one, private cop following another. You fellows should just tie your bumpers together.”
That was worth the rest of the fifty, and I gave Carl the money. He promised to call if he ran across anything else and I gave him one of my cards with the raised embossed lettering. I left, mulling over the new developments. It was raining harder when I crossed the street back to my car. The rain danced across the windshield. The wipers couldn’t keep up, but I knew the way without them, as long as no one got in my way.
The revelation about Watkins made me uneasy. If Mrs. Peterson hired him to follow me, then maybe I had misjudged her. I stopped at a bar around the corner from my apartment building and went in for a drink. One turned into five, and I burned up a couple hours that I wasn’t going to use anyway. I tossed a ten on the bar and walked out. The rain had stopped and the sky was clear. I decided to walk to the apartment and leave my car on the street overnight. In ten minutes I was pounding my pillow, and in eleven I was asleep.
Chapter Eleven
I was in my office bright and early the next morning plotting out the next step I should take, when the phone rang. I answered it, and heard a suave cultured voice.
“May I speak with, Mr. Randall?” said the male voice.
“This is Randall,” I said.
“Ah, Mr. Randall, my name is Rodgers. I am in Mrs. Peterson’s employ,” he said. “She has authorized me to speak on her behalf.”
So this was the Rodgers that Mrs. Peterson had told me about. Supposedly, he was the indispensable man.
“On what matter has Mrs. Peterson authorized you to speak?” I asked. I was beginning to talk like him.
“Madame has given me the honor of setting her calendar and she requests your presence this morning at eleven o’clock.”
I looked down at my wrist and remembered my watch was gone. I glance at the clock. It was a quarter till nine.
“I can be there in twenty minutes. How about that?” I asked.
“I am sorry, sir, but madam will be engaged until the time I specified. Shall I inform her that you will be here at eleven?”
He had a somewhat haughty manner and I was tempted to tell him to tell madam I would be there when I got there, but you don’t say that to rich heiresses.
“Fine, Jeeves,” I said. “Inform Mrs. Peterson I will be there promptly at eleven. Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes, sir,” Rodgers purred.
“Is it black tie?”
“I will inform madam of the conformation of your appointment. Good day, sir.”
I heard a click on the other line and then a dial tone. I was kidding about the black tie, but the two-hour lead-time did give me a chance to go back to my apartment and grab my good jacket that was back from the cleaners. Once home, I shaved again and had another couple of cups coffee. At ten thirty I was on my way to the Mrs. Peterson’s estate. I had the address from the packet she had given me at our first meeting, but I had never been there or even driven by it. The address was in the tony section of town where the Richie Riches lived. As I drove away from the apartment, I saw a squad car coming the other direction. As it passed, I noticed that Officers Murphy and Scarpeli were the occupants. It didn’t seem random.
The estate was even more opulent than I had imagined. The mansion stood atop a hill dotted with mature trees and surrounded by a high iron fence with a security guard at the gate. The guard buzzed the house and with a look at my ID, he sent me through. A winding drive led to the front entrance. There didn’t seem to be valet service, so I parked my heap in an available space and made my way to the arched door. I rang the bell.
In less than five seconds the massive door opened and I found myself facing a man dressed in formal wear. It could only be Rodgers. I had been right about Jeeves. Rodgers looked just like the man from the movies. He was a balding, tall, and slender man with an elegant aloof manner. I crossed the threshold without being asked.
“Rodgers, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Madam will see you now”
With that, he turned heel and led me down a corridor. We came to a door and he knocked. I heard no reply, but he opened it and announced me. The room was a library with built in bookcases lining the walls. It smelled of old leather. It was a man’s room decorated in dark colors with heavy furniture. Seated on a leather sofa in a simple blue dress, balancing a cup on her knee, was my client. Rodgers excused himself without a word and I crossed the room to Mrs. Peterson.
“Sit down, Mr. Randall,” she said. “I appreciate you coming on such short notice.”
“It was not a problem, Mrs. Peterson. Besides, I was planning on calling you today anyway.”
“Indeed? Are there developments?’ she asked.
“Possibly,�
� I said. “And there are a few things I think you can clear up that might help.”
“Of course. Whatever you need to find my Tony. What have you learned?”
“Mrs. Peterson, it would appear that your husband may have been a former criminal. At least, according to my sources.”
I looked for an intake of breath, or anything that would show surprise. There was none forthcoming.
“I take it that is not a shock to you,” I said.
“Mr. Randall, when I first was informed by the police that Tony’s identity was an alias I assumed he was hiding from something in his past he wanted buried. It only makes sense. One does not assume a new identity if the actual one is not a menace of some sort.”
She said it in a matter of fact manner and she was correct.
“It’s more than that, Mrs. Peterson,” I said. “There is a rumor that he testified against some very dangerous men. His life may be in danger, and by extension, your life.”
“I am in no danger, Mr. Randall,” she said with confidence. “Money buys protection, and I have nothing to fear from petty criminals and my money can buy Tony protection too. I need you to find him and convince him of that.”
I had left out some of the more disturbing details, in order to spare her feelings and protect my sources, but she was making it difficult.
“Ma’am, this isn’t a parking ticket situation. I assure you there is danger.”
“Nonsense,” she said airily. “Now, you said that you wanted to see me too. Do you need more money?”
“No. It’s not money. There have been a few things that have come up that only you can answer. I know you do not believe that Tony had another woman, but some of the track denizens have reported a woman with your husband both before and after your marriage. Do you know of anyone? A suspicion, anything.”
The Visible Suspect (A Frank Randall Mystery) Page 6