“He tried to kill us!” Adele gasped, pushing herself back in her seat.
“He would have,” Dan said grimly, “if I hadn’t braked a split second ahead of his swing.”
Shifting into low, he lifted the speed to forty again, but made no attempt to catch the Lincoln.
It was just before five when Dan dropped Adele in front of her beauty shop. Returning the car to its rental garage, he walked moodily back to his hotel, not even bothering to ask the garage attendant for the name of the renter of the Lincoln. In front of the hotel his moodiness increased when he discovered the thin, sharp-nosed man who had been staring vacantly into a dry-cleaning window next door to the garage when he returned the car, was now staring just as vacantly into a jewelry window fifteen feet from the hotel entrance.
Momentarily he toyed with the idea of pitching the shadow into the gutter by the seat of the pants, but decided against it. Just the thought, however, somewhat relieved his feelings.
As he crossed the lobby, Dan saw Billie, the bellhop, standing near the front desk, and crooked a finger at the boy. Billie scampered over like an eager dog, a wide grin splitting his features.
“Yes sir, Mr. Fancy?”
“What does the hotel do with old newspapers, Billie? Sell them to a junkman?”
The boy looked puzzled. “Yes sir. I believe so.”
“Probably stores them somewhere in the basement until they get a big enough pile to sell, eh?”
“I guess so, sir. Did you want a particular back issue?”
“Thirty of them,” Dan said. “See if you can find me every issue for the past month. Either local paper. I’ll be in my room.”
It did not take Billie long. Within twenty minutes he delivered a thick stack of the Lake City Star. Piling them on the floor in front of the window chair, the big man went through them unhurriedly, reading every item he found on the killing of George Saunders and the subsequent trial and conviction of Eugene Robinson.
It was nearly seven when he finished the pile, and the only new information he had gained was the names of the witnesses who had testified against Robinson. Picking up the phone, he ordered dinner, went up to his room, and while waiting for it, methodically went through the phone book and listed on a sheet of paper the phone numbers of all those witnesses he found listed. All, peculiarly enough, were men. Of the five who had testified to bad blood between the deceased and the defendant, three were listed in the book. Of the six who were actual witnesses to the shooting according to their testimony, four possessed phones. The pawnbroker who had testified to Gene Robinson’s purchase of the murder gun had a business phone, but none listed for a residence.
Dinner arrived and the big man wolfed it hurriedly, eager to get on with his work. As soon as he finished gulping the last of his coffee, he pushed the dining cart aside, lit a cigarette and seated himself on the bed by the telephone.
The first number he called was that of a man named Adolph Striker, one of the witnesses to the alleged teasing of Robinson by the murdered man. A woman answered the phone, peremptorily announced that Mr. Striker was “on vacation” and could not be reached for two months. She hung up before Dan could ask any questions.
In chronological order he went down the list, and every number got him a variation of the first reaction. Some of the men had moved and left no forwarding addresses, some were “out of town for a while,” and the informants had no idea how they could be reached. Some simply bluntly denied ever hearing of the person asked for.
The operator answered when he called the last number on the list—that of the pawnbroker.
“That number has been disconnected, sir,” she told him.
Slowly the big man crumpled to a ball the list of names he had made and dropped the ball in a wastebasket. For a long time he sat in the window-side chair, his feet cocked on the sill and his hands locked behind his head. He smoked two cigarettes, arced the butts out the window, and stared glumly at nothing.
Suddenly a startled expression crossed his face, lingered and developed into a pleased grin. Rising to his feet, he thumbed the phone book once more until he came to the name: Bull, Lawrence. He copied the address on a card which he put in his wallet. Then whistling noiselessly, he left the hotel and hailed a passing cab.
“Seventeen-eleven Fairview Avenue,” he said loudly for the benefit of the thin, sharp-nosed man who had trailed him out of the hotel lobby and now stood idly in the entrance.
As he expected, a second taxi pulled out from the curb a few moments after his.
1711 Fairview Avenue was a white frame house in one of the nicer sections of town. A stupid looking but pretty blonde in a tight-fitting red dress answered Dan’s ring.
“Looking for Sergeant Larry Bull,” the big man said.
The woman’s expression as she examined his huge frame was that of a cattle buyer judging a steer, and a flicker of animal interest appeared in her eyes.
“Come in,” she said, stretching the “in” to an open invitation.
She led him through a hallway into an elaborately furnished living room where the police sergeant sat watching television. Dan estimated that the furnishings of the living room’ would have cost two years of an honest policeman’s salary.
When Sergeant Bull looked up at his visitor, his eyes hardened. Rising, he cut the television switch and said to the blonde in a flat voice. “Scram.”
The woman’s mouth turned sullen and her eyes flicked sidewise once more at Dan, but she turned obediently and left the room, slamming the door behind her.
“Well?” Bull asked.
“Just remembered where I saw your picture,” Dan said easily. “Armed robbery and murder in St. Louis about nineteen forty-six. Can’t remember the name, but it wasn’t Bull.”
CHAPTER THREE
Hide-and-Seek With Death
Sergeant Larry Bull’s flat face turned the color of paper, but his eyes remained expressionless and hard. For a long time his gaze remained unwaveringly fixed on the big man’s grin. “What do you want?” he asked finally.
“Nothing,” Dan said. “Absolutely nothing. I’m not going to turn you in. Just wanted you to know I recognized you.”
“Why?” Bull asked flatly, but the big man only grinned at him.
Puzzlement and wariness mixed with the fear in the sergeant’s face. “You know you’re giving me a damn good reason to knock you off. You’re not that dumb, Fancy. What’s the angle?”
“No angle. Does Big Jim know you’re wanted for murder in Missouri?”
Bull licked his lips. “No.”
“Want him to?”
“No.” The man watched Dan’s face, a waiting expression on his own.
“Might give him a toe hold on you, eh?” Dan asked. “You don’t mind working for Jim Calhoun, but you wouldn’t want to be in a spot where you couldn’t quit, would you?”
“What do you want?” Bull demanded.
The big man simulated surprise. “Nothing, I told you. Nothing at all. I’m not going to inform the Missouri cops, and I’m not going to tell Big Jim. You can depend on it.”
“You must want something,” the sergeant insisted worriedly. “If you’re working up a deal where you expect me to cross Big Jim, forget it. I’d rather face Missouri.”
Dan shook his head and grinned hugely. “You’re an untrusting soul, Sergeant.” Opening the door by reaching behind himself and turning the knob, he backed out of the room.
He was still grinning when he pushed the door shut again.
Back at the hotel the big man put in a long-distance call to Martin Robinson.
“Fancy!” the old man said sharply. “I’ve been going crazy waiting to hear from you. Have you seen Gene?”
“Yes,” Dan said shortly. “He’s bearing up. Think I have a lead.”
“Yes?” The old man’s voice was eager. “For five
thousand bucks and a guarantee of immunity one of the arresting officers will repudiate his original story and sign a full confession to the whole frame.”
“Five thousand?” Martin Robinson’s tone made it sound like five cents. “Well, for goodness sakes, Fancy, promise it to him. I’ll wire it immediately.”
“Good. I’m in room five-twelve of the Lakeview Hotel.”
He hung up before the old man could ask any questions.
* * * *
The short, burly man with the bald head rapped quietly on the bar at the Downtown Athletic Club, bringing the bartender from his dreams of a chicken farm.
“Hello, Stub,” the barman said.
“Big Jim in?” The burly man’s voice was as soft as his manner. Everything about him was soft, except his eyes, which could have chipped sparks from a piece of flint.
“Yeah. He’s expecting you. Go on up.” Stub approached a door at the side of the bar and waited. The bartender’s foot touched a concealed button, a low buzz sounded, and Stub pushed open the door. He followed a narrow hallway to the open door of a self-service elevator, pushed the button marked 2 and rose silently to the second floor. When the elevator door slid back, another steel-grilled door barred his exit from the car.
Facing him from behind a desk across the room sat Big Jim Calhoun.
“It’s Stub, Mr. Calhoun,” the baldheaded man called.
Another buzz sounded. Stub pushed open the steel door and let it swing shut behind him. His eyes flicked briefly at Lieutenant Morgan Hart, who sat with his back against one wall, then returned to Big Jim.
“I kept Fancy in sight all day,” Stub reported in his soft voice. “Gyp Fleming relieved me at five.”
“You didn’t make a special trip over here, just for that?” the blond giant asked.
“No.” The burly man glanced at Lieutenant Hart. “He rented a car and drove up to the prison to visit Gene Robinson. He took Adele Hudson along with him. Following your orders to take advantage of any situation where it would look like an—ah—accident, I cut him off on the mountain road so short it should have pushed him over a hundred-foot bank. He was expecting it and he crossed me up.”
“You still haven’t said anything that couldn’t have waited till tomorrow,” Big Jim said irritably.
“No,” Stub agreed. “It’s coming now. I left word for Gyp to phone me if anything special developed, and he just phoned me at home.” His eyes again flicked at Lieutenant Hart, then moved back to Big Jim. “I want to report this privately.”
A frown disturbed the cherubic blandness of Big Jim’s expression. “You can talk in front of Morg. You know that.”
“Yes, sir. Generally. I’d prefer to report this privately.”
Big Jim’s eyes narrowed and swung to Morgan Hart. The homicide officer rose with a mixture of puzzlement and suspicion tingeing his expression.
“What you getting at, Stub?” he asked belligerently.
“Speak up,” Big Jim commanded, his voice nearly as soft as Stub’s. “If Morg doesn’t like it he can learn to.”
The baldheaded man shrugged. “I’ll give you the full report in order, including what we got from the phone tap. About a half hour after you left his room, Fancy put in a call to the state justice department and arranged to sec Gene Robinson at the prison. Like I told you, he rented a car and took the girl with him. They were at the prison about forty-five minutes. When they got back to town, he dropped off the girt, returned the car and went back to the hotel. That’s when I dropped out and Gyp Fleming took over.
“Fancy had a bellhop find him a month’s back issues of the Star, and stayed in his room with them about an hour and a half. At seven he had dinner sent up. At seven-fifteen he started making phone calls. He made eight, and these are the numbers.” He laid a half-sheet of paper on Big Jim’s desk. “From the names he asked for whenever he got an answer, I guess he was calling all the witnesses in the Robinson trial.” Stub smiled briefly. “He didn’t have any luck.”
“He wouldn’t,” Big Jim said without interest.
“About eight he left the room and grabbed a cab to Larry Bull’s house. He was inside about fifteen minutes. Then he returned to the hotel and phoned Martin Robinson in Pittsburgh.”
Stub paused and for the third time his eyes moved to Lieutenant Morgan Hart. “This is where I wanted it to be private. Bull is a pal of the lieutenant’s.”
Hart’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What about Larry?”
“Go on,” Big Jim ordered.
The baldheaded man shrugged. “Fancy told Robinson he had a lead. He said one of the arresting officers in the Saunders murder was willing to repudiate his testimony for a guarantee of immunity and five thousand bucks. Robinson promised to wire the money.”
“I don’t believe it,” Morgan Hart said, flatly.
Stub raised brows over eyes as hard as steel knives. “You mean I made it up?” he asked softly.
The homicide officer took a step toward the bald man, both of his fists clenched.
“Cut it!” Big Jim said. His eyes moved with displeasure from one to the other of his men. “Get Bull over here,” he ordered Morgan Hart. “Don’t tell him why. Just get him here.”
Without a word the lieutenant strode into the elevator. The steel door clanged and the elevator door slid shut.
“Think that’s wise?” Stub asked. “Sending Hart, I mean.”
Big Jim glared at him irritably. “Morgan would kill his mother if I told him to. And when I need punks to advise me, I’ll let you know. Sit down and shut up.”
The bald man blinked rapidly and a film settled over his eyes. He took the chair Morgan Hart had deserted and sat looking straight ahead. Big Jim opened a ledger and began adding figures.
Twenty minutes later Morgan Hart returned with Sergeant Larry Bull. He left the sergeant standing in front of Big Jim’s desk, and retired to a corner himself. Bull’s flat face wore a faintly worried expression. “Dan Fancy called on you tonight,” Big Jim said without preamble. “What did he want?”
The sergeant flushed. “I don’t know. He just asked some silly questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like—I don’t know. I don’t remember exactly.”
“You mean you don’t want to remember?” Big Jim asked softly.
The sergeant looked alarmed. “No, sir. It wasn’t anything important. Nothing about the Saunders murder.”
Big Jim’s cherubic face became even more cherubic. “Now why would you mention the Saunders murder if he didn’t talk about it?”
Bull’s alarm visibly increased. “That’s why he’s down here, isn’t it? I mean, I thought it was funny he didn’t mention it.”
Big Jim nodded agreement. “Very funny. My sides practically ache.” He dropped his eyes to the ledger again. “That’s all I wanted, Bull,” he said quietly. “Go on home.”
An expression of incredulous relief flooded the sergeant’s flat face. “Sure, boss,” he said hurriedly, backing into the elevator.
When the elevator door had closed, Big Jim looked up at the two remaining men. “Arrange it as soon as you possibly can,” he said casually. “Dan Fancy will be the sucker, of course. And make it fool-proof. We’ll probably have the best defense lawyers in the country defending Fancy, and I want it so tight nothing can upset the apple-cart.”
* * * *
Dan rose at eight, had breakfast in his room, and phoned Adele Hudson about nine. She was cool over the phone, apparently having not entirely forgiven him for his frank comments about her fiancé, but she agreed to have lunch with him. He arranged to meet her in the hotel cocktail lounge at eleven.
Over a Manhattan her coolness melted a trifle, particularly after Dan made a point of apologizing for his frankness. It was a somewhat oblique apology, however.
“I shouldn’t have sounded off the way I did ab
out young Robinson,” he said. “It’s none of my business whether the guy you love has all of his marbles or not.”
“You just don’t understand Gene,” she told him. “You’re like his father. Gene has the soul of a poet.”
Fancy grunted and changed the subject, not trusting himself to comment on Gene Robinson’s poetic soul without starting the argument all over again.
“The witnesses at the trial have all been pulled into cover,” he said. “There isn’t a chance in the world of breaking open the Saunders killing again, so I’m trying something else.”
“What?”
“You’ll be better off not knowing. But the wheels are in motion. At least I think they are. I’m banking on Big Jim’s having had my phone tapped. If he did, I expect to be neck deep in trouble by tomorrow at the latest. And I want to be left in it. Don’t try to help me out by hiring lawyers or any such thing. Just sit tight and watch.”
She frowned puzzledly. “Why, Dan? I’m not afraid. You said I could go along for the ride.”
“The ride just ended. From here on all you could do is foul things up. Be a nice girl and stay away from me awhile, eh?”
“If that’s what you want,” she said slowly. “Is that all you asked me here for?”
“Not entirely. I was bored. There isn’t a thing I can do until Big Jim makes the next move, and I figured I might as well kill time with a beautiful girl as on my back in a hotel room.”
She made a face at him, but her facial muscles got out of control and reduced it to a grin.
From the cocktail lounge they moved into the dining room for lunch, where by tacit consent they kept conversation away from both Big Jim Calhoun and Gene Robinson. At twelve forty-five she left him to return to her beauty shop.
“Good luck, Dan,” she said softly, putting her small hand in his enormous one.
He grinned down at her. “Thanks. But I’m banking on a little more than just luck.”
As he re-crossed the lobby after escorting Adele to the street and putting her into a taxi, he was stopped by Billie, the bellhop.
The Richard Deming Mystery Megapack Page 23