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

by Louis L'Amour

  After a moment, Brooks looked around at him. “Do you?”

  Ragan shrugged. “Not that I can think of. Neither does Mary, but we’ll find what it was. Ollie was working on something, I know that.”

  “I still think it was a woman.” Brooks was cynical. “You say he never played around. Hell, what man would pass up a good-lookin’ babe? Ollie was human, wasn’t he?”

  “He was also in love with his wife. The guy had ethics. He was as sincere and conscientious as anyone I ever knew.”

  Al was disgusted. “Where did all that lipstick come from? Do you think he cornered some gorilla in that lot and the guy kissed him? Are you kidding?”

  “You’ve judged him wrong, Al, you really have. My hunch is that was all for effect. The killer wanted us to think a woman was involved.

  “Besides,” he added, “something they didn’t count on. He had a date with his wife and my girl friend. He was to meet them at nine. Allowing time for going and coming, he wouldn’t have had much more time than to say hello and good-by.”

  Al stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Have it your way, but take a tip from me and be careful. If he was working on something that was serious enough to invite killing, the same people won’t hesitate to kill again. Don’t find out too much.”

  Ragan chuckled. “That doesn’t sound like you, Al. Nobody on the force stuck his neck out more than you did when you pinched Latko.”

  “That’s another thing. I had him bottled up so tight he didn’t have a chance. None of his friends wanted any part of it. I had too much evidence.”

  Ragan got to his feet. “What the hell? We’re cops, Al. Taking risks is expected of us. Only if they tackle me, they will have a different problem than with Ollie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, I’m sort of a rough type, Al. I like it the hard way. If they start shooting, I’ll be shooting too. If they start slugging, I’ll meet them halfway. I like to play rough, Al, and when it comes to Ollie’s killer, I’ll be out for blood.”

  Al Brooks lifted a hand and walked out. Ragan looked after him. He had never liked Al Brooks, but he was one of the best men on the force. The way he had broken the Latko gang was an example. Aside from a few petty vice raids, it had been Brooks’s first job. Two months later he followed it with the arrest of Clyde Bysten, the society killer.

  Stigler met him in the hall and motioned him into the office. “Joe, you knew them. How did Ollie get along with his wife?”

  Ragan’s head came around sharply. “They were the most affectionate people I ever knew. They lived for each other.”

  Stigler looked up from the papers on his desk. “Then how do you explain that he was shot with his own gun?”

  Shock riveted Ragan to the floor. “Shot with what?”

  “Not with his issue pistol, but another gun he kept at home. It was a .38 Smith & Wesson. We’ve found the gun, and the ballistics check. The gun is on our records as belonging to Ollie.”

  “Oh, no!” Ragan’s mind refused to accept what he had heard. “Anyway,” he added, “Mary was with Angie all the time, from seven until I left them, long after midnight.”

  Stigler shook his head. “No, Ragan, she wasn’t. Your loyalty does you credit, but Mary left Angie at the table to go to the powder room. She was gone so long Angie was afraid she’d gotten sick and went to the rest room. Mary wasn’t there.”

  Ragan dropped into a chair. “I don’t get it, Mark, but I’d swear Mary can’t be guilty. I don’t care whose gun Ollie was shot with.”

  “What are you trying to do, Joe? Find a murderer or protect Mary?”

  Ragan’s face flushed. “Now see here, Mark. Ollie’s the best friend I ever had, but I’m not going to stand by and see his wife stuck for a crime she could no more commit than I could. It’s absurd. I knew them both too well.”

  “Maybe that was it, Joe. Maybe you knew them too well. Maybe that led to the killing.”

  Ragan stared at Stigler, unwilling to believe he was hearing correctly. “Mark, that’s the most rotten thing that’s ever been said to me, and you’re no half-baked rookie. You must have a reason. Give it to me.”

  Stigler looked at him carefully. “Joe, understand this. We have almost no evidence to prove this theory. We do have a lot of hearsay. I might also add that I never dreamed of such a thing until we found that gun in the weeds, and even then I didn’t think of you. That didn’t come up until Hazel Upton.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “She’s secretary to George Denby, the divorce lawyer.”

  “Divorce lawyer?” Ragan stared. “Who would want a divorce lawyer?”

  “Miss Upton called us to say that Mary Burns had called when her boss was out, but Mary told her she wanted a divorce from Ollie.”

  “Somebody is crazy,” Ragan muttered. “This is all wrong!”

  “We’ve got a statement from her. We’ve also got a statement from a friend of Mary’s, a Louella Chasen, who said Mary asked her what her divorce had cost and who her lawyer had been. She also implied there was another man.”

  Ragan was speechless. Even before this array of statements, he could not believe it. He would have staked his life that Ollie and Mary were the happiest couple he had ever known. He looked up. “Where do I come in?”

  “You were a friend of the family. You called often when Ollie was away, didn’t you?”

  “Well, sure! But that doesn’t mean we were anything but friends. Good Lord, man…”

  For several minutes he sat without speaking. He knew how a word here and there could begin to build a semblance of guilt. Many times he had warned himself against assuming too much, and here it was, in his own life.

  There was that old affection for Mary, never serious, but something they would bring up. He knew what a hard-hitting district attorney could do with the fact that he had known Mary before she met Ollie. They would insinuate much more than had ever existed between them. Ragan could see the net building around them, and there were two aspects he could not explain. Ollie had been shot with his own pistol, and Mary Burns had no alibi. Worse still was the one thing he could not understand, that Mary had actually spoken of divorce.

  “Mark,” he said slowly, “believe me, there is something very wrong here. I don’t know what it is or where I stand with you, but I know as well as I am sitting here that Mary never wanted a divorce from Ollie. I was with them too much. And as for Mary and me, we were never more than friends.

  “Mary knows I am in love with Angie and would marry her tomorrow if she’d have me. She knows that somehow or other we’ve gotten into the middle of something very ugly.”

  “Keep on with the case, Joe. If you can find out anything that will help, go ahead. I am afraid Mary Burns is in a bad spot. You can’t get around that gun, and you can’t escape those statements.”

  “They lied. They lied and they know they lied.”

  “For what reason? What would they gain? Why, they didn’t even know why we wanted the information! Mary Burns was seen coming out of Denby’s office, so we made inquiries. That was when we got the statement from Denby’s secretary. Denby was out of the office, so he knew nothing about it.”

  “Who saw her come out of that office?”

  Stigler compressed his lips. “I can’t say. It was one of our men and he had a hunch there was something in back of it. As his hunches paid off in the past, we asked him to look into it.”

  “Al Brooks?”

  “Don’t start anything, Ragan. Remember, you’re not in the clear yourself. You make trouble for Al and I’ll have you locked up as a material witness.” His face softened. “Damn it, man, I don’t want to believe all this, but what can I do? Who had access to that gun? She and you. Maybe your girl friend too. There isn’t anybody else.”

  “Then you’ve got three suspects. I wish you luck with them, Stigler.”

  Nevertheless, when he got outside he felt sick and empty. He knew how much could be done with so little. Still, where had Ma
ry gone? And what about this divorce business?

  For a moment he thought about driving out to see just what had happened, then he decided against it. Nobody needed to see him and Mary again now. Besides, there was much more to do.

  Mary had said Ollie had called her from the Upshaw Building. There was no reason why that should mean anything, but it was a place to begin, so he drove over and parked his car near the drugstore where Ollie had met Mary to go shopping.

  No matter what had happened since, his every instinct told him to stick to the original case. If Ollie had begun to close in on somebody, all the troubles might stem from that.

  The Upshaw Building had a café on the ground floor across the hall from a barbershop. Upstairs there were offices. In the foyer of the building there was a newsstand. Walking over, he began to study the magazines. There was a red-haired girl behind the counter and he smiled at her, then bought a package of gum. He was a big young man with an easy Irish smile, and the girl smiled back.

  “Is there something I can find for you? Some particular magazine?”

  “I was sort of watching for a friend of mine, a big guy with a wide face. Weighs about two-twenty. Has a scar on his jaw.”

  “Him? Sure, I remember him. He comes by a lot, although I don’t know what for.”

  “Maybe to see you?” Joe smiled. “I couldn’t blame him for that.”

  “He’s nice. Married, though. I saw the ring on his finger. He was talking to me about Nebraska.”

  “Are you from there? I used to work out in a gym in Omaha. I was a fighter for a while.”

  “You sure don’t look it. I mean, you’re not banged up a lot. You must have been pretty good.”

  “Fair.” Ragan peeled a stick of gum. So Ollie had been here more than once? And just standing around? “He’s a friendly guy, my friend is. Likes to talk.”

  “Yes, he is. I like him. He’s sort of like a big bear, but don’t you tell him I said so.”

  “All warm and woolly, huh?”

  She laughed. “He did talk a lot, but he’s a good listener too.” She glanced at Ragan again, appraising his shoulders. “What business is he in? He told me he was looking for an office in this neighborhood.”

  “He’s a lawyer, but he doesn’t handle court cases. He works with other lawyers, prepares briefs, handles small cases. He likes to take it easy.” Ragan paused. “Did he find an office?”

  “I don’t know. They’re full up here, though he was interested in that office on the fourth floor. Nobody is ever around there, and he was hoping they’d move out. I told him I couldn’t see why anybody would want an office they didn’t use.”

  “Does seem kind of dumb, when you’re paying rent. That’s like buying a car and leaving it in the garage. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “It sure doesn’t. I think Mr. Bradford has been in no more than twice all year. I think he comes over to do his work in the evening. Old Lady Grimes, she cleans up in there, and she says he’s been here several times at night. I asked her about the office, thinking maybe I could find out something for your friend. She said they had a special lock on the door, and their own cleaning man who comes once a week.”

  Joe Ragan steered the talk to the latest movies and her favorite songs, then strolled to the elevator and went to the fourth floor.

  He had no idea what he was looking for, except that Ollie Burns had been interested, and Ollie was not a man who wasted his time. Getting off the elevator, he walked briskly down the hall as if looking for a particular place, his eyes scanning the names on the doors.

  A closed door with a frosted-glass upper panel was marked JOHN, J. BRADFORD, INVESTMENTS. There was a mail slot in the door.

  Opposite was an open door where a young man sat at a desk. He was a short, heavyset young man with shoulders like a wrestler. He looked up sharply and there was something so intent about his gaze that Ragan was puzzled by it. He went on down the hall and into the office of JACOB KEENE, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.

  There was no receptionist in the outer office, but when he entered, she appeared. She was not a day over twenty, with a slim and lovely body in gray dress that left little to the imagination, but much to think about and more to remember.

  “Yes?”

  Ragan smiled. “Now that’s the way I like to hear a girl begin a conversation. It saves a lot of trouble. Usually they only say it at the end of the evening.”

  “Oh, they do?” She looked him over coolly. “Yes, for you I imagine they would.” Her smile vanished. “Now may I ask your business, please?”

  “To see Mr. Keene. Is he in?”

  “Just a minute.” She turned, and her figure lost nothing by the move. “A gentleman to see you, Mr. Keene.”

  “Send him in.” The voice was crabbed and brusque.

  Joe Ragan stepped by the girl as she stood in the doorway, her gaze cool and unresponsive. Then she stepped out and drew the door shut.

  Jacob Keene was a small man who gave the appearance of being a hunchback, but was not. His face was long and gray, his head almost bald, and he had the eyes of a weasel. He took Ragan in at a glance, motioning to a chair. “Can’t get girls these days that don’t spend half their time thinking about men,” he said testily. “Women aren’t like they were in my day.” He looked up at Joe, and suddenly the hatchet face broke into a lively smile and his eyes twinkled. “Damn the women of my day! What can I do for you?”

  Ragan hesitated, then decided against any subterfuge. “Mr. Keene, I don’t think I’m going to fool you, so I am not going to try. I’m looking for information and I’m willing to pay for it.”

  “Son”—Keene’s eyes twinkled with deviltry—“your last phrase touches upon a subject that is close to my heart. Pay! What a beautiful word! Money, they say, is the root of all evil. All right, let’s get to the root of things!”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t have much money, but what I want will cost you no effort. Shall we say”—Ragan drew ten dollars from his pocket—“a retainer?”

  The long and greedy fingers palmed the ten. “And now? This information?”

  “I want to know all you know about John Bradford and his business.”

  Keene’s little eyes brightened. Their light was speculative. “Ah? Bradford? Well, well!”

  “Also, I’d like to know something about the business across the hall from Bradford, and about the young man at the desk.”

  Keene nodded. “Sit down, young man. We’ve much to talk about. Yes, yes, that young man! Notices everything, doesn’t he? Most odd, I’d say, unless he’s paid to notice. That could be, you know. Well, young man, you have paid me. A paltry sum, but significant, significant.

  “Bradford is a man of fifty, I should say, although his walk seems to belie that age. He dresses well, conservative taste. He calls at his office about once a month. The cleaning man takes away the mail.”

  “The cleaning man?” Ragan was incredulous.

  “Exactly. An interesting fact, young man, that has engaged my fancy before this. Ah, yes, money. We all like money, and my guess would be that our friend down the hall has found a shortcut. People come to his door but they never knock or try to enter, they just slip envelopes through the mail slot.”

  Keene glanced at his calendar. “Wednesday. Four should come today, but they will not arrive together. They never arrive together. Three are women, one a man.”

  He drew a long cigar from a box in a drawer and bit off the end. “Nice place I have here, son. I see everyone and everything in that hallway. Two doors here, you see. The one you came in has my name on the door; the outside of this one is just marked ‘Private.’ If you noticed, there are mirrors on both sides of that door, and they allow me to see who is coming to my office before they arrive. If I don’t want to see them, I just press a buzzer and my girl tells them I am out.

  “Not much business these days, young man. I tell people I am retired, but I handle a few accounts, longstanding. Keeps me busy, and seeing what goes on in the hallway he
lps to while the time away.”

  Keene leaned forward suddenly. “Look, young man, here comes one of the women now.”

  She was tall, attractive, and no longer young. Ragan’s guess was she was no longer fifty. She walked directly to the door of Bradford’s office and dropped an envelope into the slot. Turning then, she went quickly down the hall as if in a hurry to be away. He was tempted to follow her, but on second thought he decided to wait and see what would happen.

  It was twenty minutes before the second woman came. Joe Ragan sat up sharply, for this woman was Mary’s acquaintance, Louella Chasen: the woman who, according to Stigler, Mary had asked about a divorce lawyer. She, too, walked to the door of Bradford’s office and dropped an envelope through the slot.

  Keene nodded, his small eyes bright and ferretlike. “See? What did I tell you? They never knock, just drop their envelopes and go away. An interesting business Mr. Bradford has, a very interesting business!”

  Three women and a man, Keene had said, and that meant another woman and man were still to come. He would wait. Scowling thoughtfully, Ragan shook out a cigarette and lighted it. He rarely smoked anymore, and intended to quit, but once in a while…

  “Look into the mirror now,” Keene suggested.

  The big-shouldered young man had come into the hall and was looking around. He threw a sharp, speculative glance at Keene’s office, then returned to his own.

  A few minutes later a tall young man, fair-haired and attractive, dropped his envelope into the slot and left. It was almost a half hour later, and Joe was growing sleepy, when he glanced up to see the last visitor of the day.

  She was young and she carried herself well, and Ragan sat up sharply, unbelieving. There was something familiar…She turned her face toward Keene’s office. It was Angie Faherty, his own girl friend. She dropped a letter into the slot and walked briskly away.

  “Well,” Keene said, “you’ve had ten dollars worth. Those are the four who come today. Three or four will come tomorrow, and so it is on each day. They bunch up, though, on Saturday and Monday. Can you guess why?”