Collection 1983 - The Hills Of Homicide (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “We told you, Mr. Ragan. Jack had a call from the Chase Printing Company. He repaired a press of theirs once, and they asked him to come not later than four o’clock, as they had a rush job that must begin the following morning.”

  “That was checked, and they said they made no such call.”

  “Mr. Ragan, please believe me,” Ruth Smiley pleaded. “I heard him talking. I heard his replies!”

  Ragan scowled unhappily. This was no help, but he was determined now. “Don’t raise your hopes,” he said, “but I am working on an angle that may help.”

  The Chase Printing Company could offer no assistance. All their presses were working, and they had not called Smiley. Yes, he had repaired a press once, and an excellent job, too. Yes, his card had been found under the door when they opened up.

  Of course, the card could have been part of an alibi, but that was one thing that had bothered him all along. “Those guys were crooks,” he muttered, “yet not one of them had an alibi. If they had been working, they would have had iron-clad alibis to prove themselves elsewhere.”

  Yet the alternative was a frame-up by someone familiar with their working methods. A call had taken Smiley from his bed to the vicinity of the crime, a crime that resembled his working ways. With the records each man had, there was no way they could escape conviction.

  He drove again to the Fan Club. Pike Ambler greeted him. “Still looking? Any leads?”

  “A couple.” Ragan studied the man. “How much did you lose?”

  “Two grand, three hundred.” His brow furrowed. “I can’t take it, Joe. Luretta hasn’t been paid, and she’ll raise a squawk you’ll hear from here to Flatbush.”

  “You mean Luretta Pace? Charlie Vent’s girl?”

  Ambler nodded. “She was Vent’s girl before he got himself vented.” He smiled feebly at the pun. “She’s gone from one extreme to the other. Now it’s a cop.”

  “She’s dating a cop? Who?”

  “Lew Ryerson.” Ambler shrugged. “I don’t blame him. She’s a number, all right.”

  Ragan returned to the office, reported in, and completed some routine work. It was late when he finally got to bed.

  He awakened with a start, the telephone jangling in his ears. He grabbed it sleepily. “Homicide calling, Joe. Stigler said to give it to you.”

  “To me?” Ragan was only half-awake. “Man, I’m off duty.”

  “Yeah”—the voice was dry—“but this call’s from the Fan Club. Stigler said you’d want it.”

  He was wide awake now. “Who’s dead?”

  “Pike Ambler. He was shot just a few minutes ago. Get out there as fast as you can.”

  Two patrol cars were outside, and a cop was barring the door. Joe had never liked the word “cop,” but he had grown up with it, and it kept slipping back into his thinking. The officer let him pass, and Joe walked back to the office.

  Ambler was lying on his face beside the desk, wearing the cheap tux that was his official costume. His face was drained of color now, his blue eyes vacant.

  Ragan glanced at the doctor. “How many times was he shot?”

  “Three times, and damned good shooting. Right through the heart at close range. Probably a .45.”

  “All right.” Ragan glanced up as a man walked in. It was Sam Blythe. “What are you doing here?”

  “Prowling. I was talking to the cop on the beat when we heard the shots. We busted in here, and he was lying like that, with the back window open. We went out and looked around but saw nobody, and we heard no car start.”

  “Who else was in the club?”

  “Nobody. The place closed at two, and the last to leave was that Pace gal. What a set of gams she’s got!”

  “All right. Have the boys round ’em all up and get them in here.” He dropped into a chair when the body had been taken away and studied the situation. A little bit of thinking sometimes saved an awful lot of shoe leather. Blythe watched him through lowered lids.

  He got up finally, making a minute examination of the room, locating two of the three bullet holes and digging them from the wall with care to add no scratches. They were .45s and he studied them thoughtfully.

  “You know,” Blythe suggested suddenly, “somebody could be playing us for suckers, kicking this modus operandi stuff around like they are.”

  “Could be.” What was Blythe doing there at this hour? He got off at midnight. “Whoever it is has established a new method of operation. All those jobs—Smiley, Chalmers, and Miller—including the burglary here, all between three and five A.M. The technique is that of other men, but the working hours are his own.”

  “You think those jobs were frames? Ryerson won’t like it.”

  Ragan shrugged. “I’d like to see his face when he finds I’m back on this job.”

  “You think it’s the same one?” Blythe asked quickly.

  “Don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Those were burglaries. This is murder.”

  “Sure,” Ragan agreed, “but suppose Ambler suspected somebody otherwise unsuspected? Wouldn’t the crook have a reason for murder?”

  A car slowed out front, and then a door slammed open. They heard the click of angry heels, and Luretta Pace swept into the room. Her long, almond-shaped eyes swept the room, from Blythe to Ragan. “You’ve got a nerve! Getting me out of bed in the middle of the night! Why couldn’t you wait until morning?”

  “It is tomorrow,” Ragan said. He took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Have one?”

  She started to refuse, but something in his amused gray eyes made her resentment flicker out. She turned abruptly, seating herself on the arm of a chair. “All right, ask your questions!”

  She had green eyes and auburn hair. Ragan found himself liking it. “First,” he suggested, “tell us about the fight you had with Ambler.”

  Luretta stiffened, and the warmth left her face. “Listen! Don’t try to frame me! I won’t stand still for it! I was out of here before he was shot, and you know it!”

  “Sure, I know it. And I don’t think you slipped around back and shot him through the window, either.” He smiled at her. “Although you could have done it.”

  Her face paled, but Luretta had been fighting her own battles too long. “Do you think I’d kill a guy who owes me six hundred bucks? You don’t collect from a corpse! Besides, Pike was a good lad. He was the first guy I’d worked for in a long time who treated me right.

  “You’ll hear about it, anyway,” Luretta said. “Joe owed me money and couldn’t pay up. The money he figured on paying me was in that safe, so when he was robbed, I figured I was working for nothing. I can’t afford that, so we had some words, and I told him what he could do with his night club.”

  “Did he give you any idea when he could pay? Or tell you when he might have the money?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, he said he would have it all back, every dime. He told me he would pay me tomorrow. I didn’t believe him.”

  “Where do you think he planned to get it?”

  “How should I know?” She shrugged a lovely shoulder.

  “Then,” Ragan asked gently, “he said nothing about knowing who robbed him?”

  Sam Blythe sat up abruptly, his eyes on Ragan’s, and Luretta lost her smile. She was suddenly serious. “No, not exactly, but I guess what I told you could be taken that way. Do you think that was why he was killed? Because he knew and tried to get his money back?”

  It was a theory and a good one. Suppose Ambler possessed information not available to the police and believed he could get his money returned by promising not to turn in the thief? If he contacted the criminal that could be a motive for murder. Joe understood there could be other reasons for murder, but he believed the relationship between Ambler and Luretta was strictly business…but suppose someone else had not?

  The only admirer of Luretta’s he knew was Lew Ryerson, and that was ridiculous. Or was it?

  Such a girl as Luretta Pace could have many admirers. That Sa
m Blythe thought she was something was obvious. For that matter, he did himself.

  It was almost noon when he left the club and walked into the sunlight, trying to assemble his thoughts and assay the value of what he had learned. He was standing on the curb when Andre Gimp came up to him. “Mr. Ragan? Only one thing is missing, and that seems strange, for it was only a picture.”

  “A picture?” Joe Ragan knew what was coming. “Of whom?”

  “Luretta Pace…in costume!”

  There it was again. The burglary, Luretta Pace, the murder. He drove back to headquarters and found Stigler pacing the floor with excitement. “Hey!” Stigler exploded. “You’ve got something! The gun that killed Ambler was the same gun that killed Charlie Vent!”

  “I thought so when I had them checked. It was a hunch I had.”

  “You think this ties in with those burglaries?” Stigler asked. Then he smiled. “Wells Ryerson called up, boiling mad. Said you’d been questioning people. I told him homicide was involved now. He shut up like a clam, but he was sure sore.” Stigler rolled the cigar in his jaw and asked, “What next?”

  “A little looking around and another talk with Luretta Pace.”

  In the alley in back of the Fan Club, he found where a man had been standing behind a telephone pole watching Ambler through the window. A man who smoked several cigarettes and dropped paper matches. Ragan picked up a couple of them; each match stub had been divided at the bottom by a thumbnail and bent back to form a cross. Such a thing a man might do subconsciously, while waiting. Many people, Ragan had noticed, have busy fingers of which they are scarcely aware. Some doodle, and usually in the same patterns.

  Ragan placed the matches in a white envelope with a notation as to where they were found. In another envelope, he had an identical match, and he knew where others were to be found.

  Later, he went to a small target range in the basement at headquarters and fired a couple of shots, then collected all the bullets he could find in the bales of cotton that served as backstop for the targets.

  Luretta met him at the door when he arrived, and he smiled at her questioning glance.

  “Wondering?” he asked.

  “Wondering whether this call is business or social.” She took his hat, then glanced over her shoulder. “Drink?”

  “Bourbon and soda.” He hesitated. “Better not; I’m still on duty. Just a cup of coffee.”

  She was wearing sea-green slacks and a pale yellow blouse. Her hair was down on her shoulders, and it caught the sunlight. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, watching her move about.

  “Ever think about Charlie?” he asked suddenly.

  The hand that held the cup hesitated for the briefest instant. When she came to him with his cup and one for herself, she looked at him thoughtfully. “That’s a curious thing to ask. Charlie’s been dead for nearly five months.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  She looked over her cup at him. “Occasionally. He wasn’t a bad sort, you know, and he really cared for me. But why bring him up?”

  “Oh, just thinking!” The coffee tasted good. “I was wondering if your recent company made you forget him.”

  Luretta looked him over carefully. “Joe, you’re not subtle. Why don’t you come right out and ask me what you want to know. I’m a big girl now, and I’ve been coming to the point with people for a long time.”

  “I wasn’t being subtle. The trouble is, I’ve a finger on something that is pure dynamite. I can’t do a thing until I know more, or the whole thing is liable to fly up and hit me in the face.

  “This much I can say. Two things are tied up with the killing of Pike Ambler. One of them is the burglaries; the other one is you.”

  “Me?” She laughed. “Oh, no, Joe! Don’t tell me that! There was nothing between Pike and me, and you don’t for the minute think I double in safecracking?”

  “No, I don’t. Nor do I think there was anything between you and Pike. It’s what somebody else may have thought. Moreover, you may know more than you realize, and I believe if I could get inside your mind and memory, I could put the pieces together.” He got to his feet and put his cup down. “If anybody should ask you, this call was purely social. If you always look as lovely as you do now, that would be easy to believe.”

  The buzzer sounded from the door, and when she opened it, Lew Ryerson was there. His eyes went from Ragan to her. He was about to speak, but Ragan beat him to it. “Hi, Lew! Good to see you!”

  Ryerson came on into the room, his eyes holding Ragan’s. “Heard you were all wrapped up in a murder case?”

  “Yeah, just took time off to drop around for coffee.”

  “Looks like I’ve got competition.” There was no humor in the way he spoke, and his eyes were cold and measuring.

  “With a girl like Luretta, you will always have it.”

  Ryerson glanced at her, his lips thinned down and angry. “I guess that’s so, but it doesn’t make me like the idea any better.”

  She followed Ragan to the door. “Don’t mind him, and do come back.”

  There was ugly anger in Ryerson’s eyes. “Luretta,” he said, “I want you to tell him not to come back!”

  “Why, I’ll do nothing of the kind!” She turned on Lew. “Please remember we are only dating occasionally. I told you after Charlie was killed that it wouldn’t be any different. I just do not intend to tie myself down. If Mr. Ragan wants to come by, he’s welcome.”

  “Thanks, honey.” Ragan turned to Lew. “See you later, Lew. It’s all fun, you know?”

  Ryerson glared. “Is it? I’m not so sure.”

  Sam Blythe was waiting for him when he walked into the office at homicide. His face was dark and angry. “What goes on here?” he demanded. “Who gave you the right to have my gun tested by ballistics?”

  “Nobody,” Joe admitted cheerfully. “I knew you didn’t carry this one off duty, so I had it checked. I had mine checked, too, as they will tell you, and Stigler’s.”

  “What?” Stigler glared. “You had my gun checked?”

  “Sure!” Ragan sat on a corner of the desk. “I needed some information, and now I’ve got it.”

  “Aside from this horsing around, what have you done on the Ambler case? Have you found the murderer?”

  “Sure, I have.”

  Stigler jumped, and Blythe brought his leg down from the arm of the chair. “Did you say—you have? You know who did it?”

  “That’s right. I know who did it, and that means I know who killed Charlie Vent, too.”

  He scowled suddenly, and taking the phone from its cradle, he dialed a number. Luretta answered. “Joe here. Still busy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Luretta, I meant to tell you but forgot. The same man who killed Pike Ambler killed Charlie Vent.”

  “What?” He heard her astonished gasp, but before she could ask questions, he interrupted.

  “Honey, don’t ask questions now or make any comments, but you do some thinking, keep the thinking to yourself, and call me any time of the day or the night, understand?”

  He replaced the phone and turned back to Stigler, who took his cigar from his mouth. “All right, give! Who did it?”

  “Stigler, you’d call me a liar if I told you. Nor do I have evidence for a conviction, but I’ve set a trap for him if he will only walk into it. Also, he pulled those jobs for which Blackie Miller, Ed Chalmers, and Jack Smiley are awaiting trial.”

  “That’s impossible!” Stigler said, but Ragan knew he believed. Sam Blythe sat back in his chair watching Ragan but saying nothing, his eyes cold and curious.

  “What happens now?” Stigler asked.

  “We sit tight. I’ve some more prowling to do.”

  “What if your killer skips? I want this case sewed up, Ragan.”

  “Just what Wells Ryerson told me. You’ll both get it.” Ragan studied his shoes. “Anything about Charlie Vent’s murder ever puzzle you, chief? You’ll recall he was shot three tim
es in the face, and that’s not a normal way to kill a man.”

  “I’ve thought of that. If I hadn’t thought it to be a gang killing, I’d have said it was jealousy.”

  “My idea, exactly. Somebody wanted to muscle in, all right, but on Charlie’s girl, not his other activities.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Blythe protested. “Lew Ryerson’s going with her.”

  “And how many other guys? She belongs to nobody. She’s a doll, that one, but she’s got a mind of her own, and for the time, she’s playing the field.”

  “Yeah,” Sam agreed. “I could name three of them right now.”

  The phone rang, and Ragan dropped a hand to it. “Joe? This is Luretta. I think I know what you mean. Can you come over about ten tonight?”

  “I will, and not a minute late.” He hung up, glancing from one to the other. “Ten o’clock, and I think we’ll get all the evidence we need. If you guys can sit and wait in a car for a while, I’ll give you a murderer.”

  It was dark under the row of trees that lined the curb opposite the apartment house where Luretta Pace lived, and the dark, unmarked car was apparently empty. Only a walker along the park fence might have seen the three men who waited in the car.

  “You’re sure this thing is set up, Joe? We can’t slip up now!”

  “It’s set. Just sit tight and wait.”

  Rain began to fall, whispering on the leaves and on the car top. It was almost 8:40 when Ragan suddenly touched Stigler on the sleeve. “Look!” he whispered.

  A man had come around the corner out of the side street near the apartment house. He wore a raincoat, and his hat brim was pulled down. He stepped quickly to the door.

  Mark Stigler sat straight up. “Man, that looked just like—!” His voice faded as Ragan’s hand closed on his arm.

  “It was!” Ragan replied grimly.

  A curtain in an apartment-house window went up and down rapidly, three times. “Let’s go,” Ragan said. “We’ve got to hurry!”

  An officer in uniform admitted them to the apartment next door to that of Luretta Pace. A recording was already being made, and through the hidden mike in the next apartment, they could hear the voices clearly.