He walked out of the office, and Henekey, his face tense, watched him drive rapidly away in a dusty aged Buick.
Karsh stopped off at the Ojus Post Office. He put through a call to the office. When Hare came on the line, Karsh told him about Henekey and the lighter.
'What do you want me to do?' he asked at the end of his recital. 'Give the lighter to the cops?'
'We mustn't rush anything,' Hare wheezed. 'Never rush anything, Sammy. Chris and Val, you say? Now why should those two names ring a bell in my mind? I want a little time to think. You go and have a nice cold beer. Telephone me in about an hour. I've got thinking to do.'
After he had hung up, he sat for some minutes, his fat face tight with concentration, then he reached out and rang for Lucille.
'Get me a copy of the Miami Herald for yesterday.' he said as she poked her head around the door. 'Fast, honey.'
When she had brought him the paper, he waved her away. He flicked through the pages until he came to the Society Gossip column where he read that Charles Travers, the tenth richest man in America had flown out from New York to spend a couple of days with his daughter and son-in-law, Chris Burnett. Further down the column, he learned that Mrs. Burnett's christian name was Valerie. He also learned the young couple were staying at the Spanish Bay hotel. He then called for this morning's edition of the Miami Herald. He learned of Chris' disappearance and re-appearance, but the information was so slight he was unable to form an opinion of what had actually happened to Burnett. He put a call through to the Spanish Bay hotel and asked to speak to Henry Trasse, the hotel detective who was on Hare's payroll. He listened to what Trasse had to tell him about the Burnetts, grunted and hung up.
He then lit a cigar and sat slumped into his chair for some time while his evil, fertile mind was busy. It was only when Karsh telephoned that he came alive.
'Sammy, I think we are on to something very, very interesting. The lighter belongs to Chris Burnett, the son-in-law of Chris Travers ... yeah ... that's the one. Trasse tells me Burnett is a nut. A couple of days ago, he took off from his hotel and was absent for twenty-four hours or so. He was picked up by the cops. He didn't know what he had been doing or where he had been. He's in Gustave's squirrel farm right now. Now look, Sammy, this could be a very profitable deal if we play our hand right. Here's what I want you to do. I want you to drive from the Park Motel towards the North Miami Beach highway. All along the route, taking your time, I want you to keep your eyes skinned. Check all the dirt roads. Burnett must have had a car. He was also wearing a sports jacket when he left the hotel. It was missing when the cops found him. If you could find the jacket, we would be sitting very pretty. Work at it, Sammy. Pull out all the stops in your organ. I want the full bloodhound treatment.'
Karsh cursed under his breath as he sweated in the hotel telephone booth.
'You want me to turn the lighter over to Terrell?' he asked.
'No more than I want you to cut my heart out and drop it in the harbour,' Hare returned.
'Who said you had a heart?' Karsh snarled and hung up.
Leaving the booth, he got into his car. He lit a cigarette, tipped his hat over his eyes and sat for some moments, thinking. When Hare had said he wanted the bloodhound treatment he was referring to Karsh's uncanny knack of discovering the undiscoverable. It was almost as if Karsh was psychic. Time after time he had been able to solve a case simply because he had this odd feeling that he would find the necessary clue if he looked in a particular place. He looked and he found it.
While he sat smoking, he completely relaxed, his eyes closed, his ferrety face in repose, then after some minutes, he straightened his hat, started the car and drove rapidly back to the Park Motel. At the entrance of the motel, he U-turned and then started to drive towards the North Miami Beach highway, some fifty miles ahead of him.
He drove at a steady thirty miles an hour and his mind was like an antenna, groping for something that would home him on to the thing he sought.
It was growing dusk when he was within three miles of where Burnett had been found. He had explored every side road, reversing when he had found nothing and returning to the highway. Now, he suddenly became alert. A dirt track to his right led off the highway and into dense woodland. It was more of a cart track than a road and Karsh had no hesitation in turning his car up the track, and as the car bumped over the uneven surface, he began to whistle under his breath. He had this sudden strong feeling that he was about to find what he was looking for.
Halfway up the track he came to a small clearing in heavy forestland. On the clearing stood a white and blue Ford Lincoln. It had a deserted appearance and he stopped his car, got out and walked over to the Lincoln.
He wandered around the car, inspecting it closely, then he took from his hip pocket a pair of well-used pigskin gloves which he put on. Then he opened the driver's door and slid under the wheel. He examined the licence tag hanging from the steering column. He learned the car was owned by U-Drive Car Hire Service, Miami. He turned around and looked on the back seat. On the seat, neatly folded, inside out, was a man's sports jacket. Still whistling, Karsh lifted the jacket and laid it across his knees. In the inside pocket was a slim, expensive-looking wallet. This he examined. It contained two fifty dollar bills and three one hundred dollar bills, a driving licence made out in the name of Chris Burnett of New York, and a snapshot of a nice-looking girl in a smart swimsuit. On the back of the snapshot, scrawled in pencil was the one word: 'Val'.
When Karsh unfolded the coat he got a shock that abruptly stopped his whistling. The front of the coat was heavily encrusted with dried blood. Karsh was too old a hand not to recognise the rust-like stains. He sat for some moments staring at the coat, feeling sweat gathering on his low forehead, then he hurriedly refolded the coat and getting out of the car, he went over to his car and locked the jacket in his boot. He returned to the Lincoln and although he spent twenty minutes going carefully over every inch of the car, he found nothing else. By now it was seven-twenty-five o'clock and getting dark. He returned to his car, lit a cigarette, brooded for about three minutes, then U-turned and drove back to the highway. He reached Miami a little after eight-thirty, having driven fast and carefully, his mind busy.
He decided to call on the U-Drive Car Hire Service before contacting Hare. From long experience, he knew Hare never thanked him for coming up with only half the information necessary to swing into action.
The Manager of the U-Drive Hire Service was a willowy blond man with heavy bags under his eyes and a frown of perpetual worry creasing his forehead.
Karsh gave him his business card and then draped his small frame into a chair.
'Came across one of your cars.' he said. 'Seems abandoned. Licence No. Mean anything to you?'
The Manager, whose name was Morphy, frowned at him.
'Abandoned ... what do you mean?'
'Up a dirt road off the North Miami Beach highway,' Karsh explained. 'Dumped in a wood clearing ... no driver no nothing. I thought you might be glad to know.'
Morphy reached for his register. He thumbed through the pages, found an entry, read it, frowned some more and then sat back.
'I don't understand. We hired the car to Miss Ann Lucas for five days. Maybe she was taking a walk in the woods or something.'
'You got a map of the district?' Karsh asked.
Morphy produced a map from his desk drawer.
Karsh examined it, then marked the map with a pen.
'That's where the car is. If after five days you don't get it back ... that's where you'll find it.'
Morphy seemed to be getting uneasy.
'You don't think she was talking a walk or something?'
'I wouldn't know. I get hunches. I got the idea the car's been dumped. Who is Ann Lucas anyway?'
Morphy consulted his register.
'She lives at 237, Coral Avenue. Never seen her before. I checked her driving licence. She paid the usual deposit. I even checked her in the phone book.'
> 'You remember what she looked like?'
'Sure. A blonde: well dressed. She had on a headscarf and sun goggles: around twenty-five ... why?'
'Know her again?'
'Why, sure.'
'Without the head scarf and goggles?' Morphy stared at him uneasily.
'Well, no ... I didn't see much of her. What's all this about?'
Karsh got to his feet.
'Force of habit, palsy,' he said. 'When talking to me, you have to expect questions like that.' He showed his yellow teeth in what he called a smile. 'Well, you know where your car is if you want it. So long,' and he walked back to his car.
He drove to a drug store and shutting himself in a sweltering telephone booth, he looked up Ann Lucas in the book. He found her number and dialled. While he waited for the Connection, he looked at his strap watch. The time was half-past nine.
There was a click and then a girl's voice said, 'Hello?'
'Miss Lucas?'
'That's right.'
'You own a driving licence No. 559700. That right?' 'I don't know the number, but I have lost my driving licence. Have you found it?'
'How did you lose it?'
'Someone stole my bag.'
'Did you report the loss?'
'Of course I did. I reported it to the police a couple of days ago. Who is this talking?'
'Did you hire a U-Drive car a couple of nights ago?'
'Why, no. Who is this ... is it the police?'
'Could be,' Karsh said. 'Could be anyone,' and he hung up. He left the booth and drove fast to the office.
Homer Hare was unwrapping a large parcel containing thickly cut beef sandwiches.
'Just what I was hoping to find,' Karsh said, Scooping up two of the sandwiches. These he carried with him to a chair opposite Hare's desk. Hare sighed and looked at Lucille. 'Tell the boy to bring some more and another carton of coffee.'
Karsh ate hungrily. When he had wolfed the sandwiches he looked expectantly at the pile before Hare, but Hare covered them with his arm. 'You wait ... these are mine.' Karsh made a grab for the carton of coffee, but Hare was too quick for him.
'Mine too,' Hare said shoving Karsh's hand away. 'What a hog!' Karsh said bitterly.
'While I'm earning the money, you just sit here and stuff your cave.'
Lucille came in with more sandwiches and a carton of coffee. As soon as Karsh started eating again, he said, his mouth full, 'Is this Burnett really a nut?'
'No doubt about it,' Hare said, his mouth equally full. 'He got into a car smash a couple of years ago and he's been a scrambled brain ever since.'
Karsh poured coffee, finished his sandwich, then recited the events of the afternoon and evening. Long before he had finished, Hare had stopped eating and was listening intently, his little eyes glazed with concentration.
'Looks for sure this nut killed the woman,' Karsh said. 'His lighter was on the bed and his jacket covered with blood. This is going to make Terrell look as high as an ant.'
'The car puzzles me,' Hare said, lifting the last of the sandwiches from the wrapping. 'Who was the woman who hired the car? You don't think it was Ann Lucas?'
'No, but we can check. I think some woman stole her bag and used her licence to hire this car? 'Why? How did Burnett's coat get into the car? You know with what we've got, we could put the bite on Joan Parnell for a lot more than a thousand bucks.'
'We're wasting time,' Lucille broke in. 'Terrell won't like this delay. Sam should have gone straight to headquarters, reported finding the car, the lighter and the jacket.'
'I was going to do just that,' Karsh said irritably, 'but Big-Brain here said not.' He looked at Hare. 'You want to go to headquarters in person, is that the idea?'
Hare licked his great, thick fingers, peered into the wrapping to make sure he hadn't left anything he could eat, then regretfully screwed up the paper and dropped it into his trash basket. He then lit a cigar and blew smoke up to the ceiling.
'No, that's not the idea, Sammy,' he said. 'I've been giving this affair considerable thought. Handled properly it could be very, very profitable.'
'I heard you the first time,' Karsh said, staring at him. 'So we up the price to the Parnell woman: what would she stand for?'
'We don't do that,' Hare said. Absently, he reached for Karsh's last sandwich, but Karsh was too quick for him. 'I didn't think you wanted it,' Hare said in a hurt voice.
'I do ... keep talking.'
Hare sighed and folded his hands over his enormous stomach.
'Tomorrow morning, Lucille will take the five-hundred dollars the Parnell woman paid us and she'll call on her. She'll tell her we can't take the assignment. She'll explain that I have talked to Terrell and he is against a private agency moving in on a murder case. Lucille will then give her back the money and duck out.'
Karsh stared at Hare as if he thought he had gone out of his mind.
'He's been eating too much,' he said to his wife. 'His brains are clogged with food.'
Lucille said, 'From where then do we make our very interesting profit?'
Hare smiled at her.
'From Valerie Burnett .... who else?'
Karsh sat bolt upright in his chair. His ferrety face became tense.
'Now, wait a minute ...'
Hare stopped him by raising his big doughy hand. 'This is the chance of a lifetime, Sammy. The Burnetts have money, and Travers is worth millions. Do you imagine he would want his son-in-law to stand trial for murder? Do you imagine Travers would allow his son-in-law to spend the rest of his days in a Criminal Asylum?'
Karsh shifted uneasily.
'While we are asking questions,' he said, 'have you ever heard of a little word called "blackmail"? Have you any idea what kind of rap blackmail draws?'
'Have you ever heard of half a million dollars?' Hare said, hunching his massive shoulders and staring at Karsh. 'Travers will jump at the chance of buying the lighter and the jacket for half a million. You see...I'll handle it. You leave this to me.'
'Not me.' Karsh got to his feet. 'Oh no. I'm getting along pretty well as I am. I'm not going to be locked up in a cell for fourteen years just to please you.'
'You won't be pleasing me,' Hare said quietly. 'You will be on the receiving end of half a million dollars.'
Karsh started for the door, paused, then came slowly back to his chair.
'You really think you can swing it?'
'I know I can. Think about it, Sammy. So far the cops haven't an idea it is Burnett. With the evidence we have got, he hasn't got a prayer. He'll be put away in a squirrel house for life. Travers would pay more than half a million dollars to avoid that. You leave it to me, Sammy. You've done your share, now I'll do mine, and we split the take.'
'Don't I get in on the split?' Lucille asked, her thin face ugly with greed.
Karsh glared at her.
'You're my wife.., remember?'
'It'll be split three ways,' Lucille said, 'or it doesn't get split at all.'
The two men stared at her, then Hare, who knew his daughter, said with a resigned sigh, 'So it'll be split three ways.'
chapter five
Lee Hardy slowed his Cadillac when he came in sight of the entrance to the Park Motel.
Pulling into a lay-by, he stopped the car.
'Okay, boys, stick around, but keep out of sight,' he said. 'I may not need you, but it's my guess I will.'
Jacko Smith belched gently as he heaved his gross body out of the car. Moe Lincoln, smelling of a new perfume Jacko had given him, slid out after him.
'Enjoy the moon,' Hardy said. 'You don't do a thing until I give you the nod.'
'That's fine with us, dear,' Jacko said. 'We'll be right here if you want us.'
Leaving them, Hardy drove on towards the motel. The time was five minutes after ten and he found Henekey waiting for him. As Hardy walked into the stuffy little office, Henekey who had seen him park his car, was standing by his desk.
'Come on in, Mr. Hardy,' Henekey said. 'Glad yo
u could come.'
Hardy walked across to the chair opposite Henekey's desk and sat down.
'You said urgent personal business,' he said, his voice harsh. 'I hope for your sake you haven't brought me here on a bum steer. What is it?'
Henekey sat down. His heart was thumping, and there was a film of sweat on his face.
'Something I thought we should talk over together, Mr. Hardy. Something you wouldn't want to discuss over an open line.'
'What is it?' Hardy repeated.
'Sue Parnell,' Henekey said. His eyes went past Hardy to the window and then to the door. His hand, now behind him, rested on the butt of his gun.
'She's nothing to me,' Hardy said.
Henekey hesitated, then he forced a smile.
'Well, that's fine. Then what she told me must have been all lies. Okay, then I'm very sorry, Mr. Hardy, I've given you this trip for nothing. I can go now and talk to Terrell.'
The two men stared at each other, then Hardy rubbed his hand over his smooth, closely shaven chin.
'You could be talking yourself into trouble,' he said, a rasp in his voice.
'Not me,' Hardy said with more confidence than he felt. 'I'm old enough to take care of myself. I had the idea Sue Parnell did mean something to you, that's why I didn't talk to the cops. I thought we might do a deal. But if she doesn't mean anything to you, then I still have time to talk to Terrell without getting into trouble.'
'Just what are you getting at?' Hardy demanded, sitting forward.
'I've known Sue now for more than two years,' Henekey said. 'We had a business arrangement. Whenever she had a business date she didn't want to take to her home she came here. Sure, I could get into trouble ... immoral earnings and all that, but I reckon Terrell would forget about that if I told him about you.'
Hardy drew in a whistling breath.
'And what would you tell him?'
'What Sue told me,' Henekey said. He kept looking to the window and the door. He was scared that any moment Jacko Smith and his boyfriend might walk in. He gripped the butt of his gun so tightly his fingers began to ache.
'What did Sue tell you?' Hardy asked.
1964 - The Soft Centre Page 6