Never Bet Your Life

by George Harmon Coxe

  Two cars stood outside the door, one with Michigan plates and one from Ohio. Both were well laden and when he went inside one man was picking his teeth while he waited for change and his wife took a postcard from the counter. Another family group of four was just getting up from the counter. Other than that there was only one other customer, a woman of thirty or perhaps a bit more, with auburn hair and considerable make-up for that hour of the morning. Her brows were arched and penciled, her mouth dark red against her city-white complexion. Sitting down she seemed tall and thin, and she wore an expensive-looking sun suit which seemed a little brief for one about to face a day of travel.

  Betty led him to his usual table and the quick bright smile she gave him was of a very special sort that he had never seen before. It did things to her hazel eyes that were wonderful to behold as she handed him the menu.

  “Mrs. Craft was in,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “She didn’t say a thing.”

  “She’d better not.” He dipped his head toward the woman in the sun suit. “Something new?”

  “She came yesterday afternoon after I’d left. She’s in number 3, I think.”

  “Umm,” said Dave.

  “Um, yourself,” Betty said as she moved away.

  Carl Workman cleared up the mystery a few minutes later. He arrived while Dave was eating his grapefruit, looking very natty in light-gray trousers, white shoes, and one of his short-sleeved shirts, a plain dark blue this time. He winked at Dave as he caught his eye, but he turned immediately to the woman’s table.

  He smiled. He said good morning. Dave could not hear what the woman said but he saw her smile in profile and Workman said something else. Then he was sitting down opposite her and signaling a waitress.

  The woman was already on her coffee when Workman’s juice came but she stayed to smoke a cigarette. After about ten minutes she left, Workman watching the swinging hips with approval before he picked up his coffee and joined Dave.

  “I’m retiring from competition,” he said in his quick, incisive way. He nodded, his amber eyes amused and a smile working at the corners of his thin mouth. “From now on you can have a clear field and a fast track.”

  “With what?”

  “With Betty.”

  “Good,” Dave said. “That’s damn nice of you.”

  “I knew you’d appreciate it. You saw the number that just left?”

  “I did.”

  “The Widow Collins. I spent most of last evening trying to make a little time. She’s decided to stay a few days.”

  Dave studied the tanned, hard-jawed face, his thoughts not entirely on what Workman said. He noticed the way the thinning hair grew in a widow’s peak from the bony forehead, and then the amber gaze held his and he made an appropriate answer. He said Workman’s decision would be a great shock to Betty.

  “She’ll get over it,” the other said, still grinning, “with your help. With Betty I found myself unable to make even an innocent pass, which was not my nature. I’m hoping,” he added, “that the widow will appreciate my talents.”

  For a moment then Dave considered telling Workman about Betty’s near accident because it had been his opinion right along that here was a shrewd, tough-fibered man, competent and experienced. Yet even as the thought came to him he knew that from now on, where Betty was concerned, he could trust no one. He picked up his check and left a tip.

  “If the widow needs a reference,” he said, “send her to me.”

  “I’ll do that,” Workman said. “Where you off to?”

  “Town. A copy of the will came this morning. I’ve got a lot of things to do. Also,” he said, “Captain Vaughn wants to see me.”

  “Yeah, Vaughn.” Workman’s smile went away. “He hasn’t bothered me since yesterday morning. I hope it stays that way…. See you on the beach, kid.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IT WAS ELEVEN O’CLOCK before Dave could get to Captain Vaughn’s and by that time he felt pretty low. It had not been a pleasant morning even though he got cooperation wherever he went.

  He had stopped first at the funeral parlor. Here the owner told him he would arrange to get a copy of the death certificate and take care of the details, but even so Dave had to select an appropriate casket and arrange for shipping the body back to Somerville where he had learned Gannon’s family had a plot.

  When he had talked to Boston to explain what he had done and ask for advice, he went to the county building to discuss the business aspects of the estate with the proper officials, and then he had to call Boston again and inform the office of the situation. He was in the tax collector’s office, and had not yet been to the bank, when Vaughn phoned to remind him to stop in. He had promised to do so within the next half hour, and now he sank gratefully into the chair beside the captain’s desk and wiped the perspiration from his face and forehead.

  Vaughn let him take his time. He was leaning back in his chair, looking cool and unruffled in his shirt sleeves and cotton trousers, but his dark eyes were sympathetic because he knew what Dave had been through.

  “I haven’t been able to do a thing on that accident business,” he said finally. “Doubt if I will. You got any idea why anyone—except maybe Resnik—would want the girl out of the way?”

  Dave shook his head. He said no and Vaughn went on to other things. He said he had called on Liza Drake.

  “She told me,” Dave said. “She said you didn’t find the capsules.”

  “Didn’t figure to with the swamps so handy. I told her what you said. She said you’d told her the same thing and she didn’t know what you were talking about.” He gestured emptily.

  “That seems to be that—for now. But there’s another little matter I’d like to discuss. This capsule business isn’t the only thing you held out on me.” He paused, gaze steady, letting his words sink in. “Had a visit with a Mrs. Craft,” he said. “A guest up at your motel. Said she’d given you some information.”

  Dave remembered. He also realized that in the light of what he now knew about Stinson the information could be important.

  “Mrs. Craft,” he said by way of excuse, “is a gossip. She’s a busybody.”

  “Gossips see things. Mrs. Craft saw Stinson going toward Gannon’s place around eleven or so.”

  “She didn’t see him go in.”

  “No.”

  Vaughn’s gaze remained steady, and more speculative than hostile. “It’s a mistake to let these quiet, inoffensive guys fool you when you’re dealing with murder,” he said. “I was up with the F.B.I, for a spell. Sort of goin’ to class. Learned some things, most of them routine. Did some reading. It ain’t only in books that a guy you’d never expect it of turns out to be a killer. Guys like Stinson. Quiet, hard workers, married mostly. Churchgoers. Teach in Sunday School. Never in trouble but all the time things building up inside them, or maybe just one thing building up. Then it happens. Quick. No planning generally, just the right time and the right opportunity.”

  “Have you talked to Stinson?”

  “This morning. For two solid hours. Think I scared him a bit, too. He had the opportunity and the motive. Look at it this way. He goes along for three years, working hard to earn an interest in this motel. He’s doing fine when along comes a guy by the name of Tyler and throws a wrench in the gearbox. Gannon blows his top. Says he’ll mortgage the place and cut down the profits. Wants the books in order. Okay, now who knows if the books are going to be in order or not, or if there’s a shortage?”

  He went on without waiting for an answer. “One day Stinson’s working along with only an interest in the profits of a place that’s going to be mortgaged; the next he’s the outright owner of twenty-five per cent of the property.”

  “Get back to those capsules,” Dave said. “Did Stinson know Liza Drake well enough to pay her or force her into doping my drink so Gannon would be alone?”

  “I don’t think he knew her hardly at all. Wouldn’t have to. The point is Stinson’s at the motel working and
he sees Gannon come home alone. First time he’s been alone. All Stinson needs is five minutes. He don’t care why Gannon’s alone; he only knows here’s his chance.”

  “Did you tell him what Mrs. Craft said?”

  “Certainly I told him. That’s when he started to scare.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Denied it. Said Mrs. Craft was mistaken. Admitted he was outside about that time but said he was just out for a smoke and to look around. Wasn’t going any place in particular.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he’s lying. If it was anybody but Mrs. Craft that saw him—a defense attorney could prove she was a busybody like you say and probably discredit her testimony—I might decide to hold him.”

  Dave made up his mind then. Experience had shown him that it was pretty silly to hold out on Vaughn. His own personal feelings no longer mattered and he accepted the fact that it was his job to help, no matter who got hurt in the process.

  “I have a little something on Stinson that may help,” he said.

  “That,” said Vaughn, with mild irony, “would be a novelty, coming from you.”

  Dave grinned to show he took no offense but his voice was serious, his words crisp and to the point.

  “This isn’t gossip,” he said. “This you can prove, or disprove.”

  “I’m listening. Skip the prologue.”

  “I can’t, not all of it. I have to tell you that Stinson was looking for a chance to go in business for himself.”

  “Who said so?”

  “He did,” Dave said and told of his earlier talk with the motel manager. “So yesterday afternoon I took a trip down to Eaton. I talked to the owner of the motel that Stinson was interested in.”

  “Wait a minute!” Vaughn sat up and reached for a pencil. “A man by the name of Greer, at the Villa Greer? Okay.”

  Dave told as much as he could remember of that conversation. He paused, leaning forward in his chair now, measuring his words.

  “Stinson called Greer the night of the murder and asked if Greer would accept option money on the motel.”

  “Hold it!” Vaughn said when Dave started to continue. He waited three seconds and then, his manner at once cold and businesslike, he said: “Now give it to me. Take your time and get it right. Just like you remember it.”

  He listened intently, no longer looking at Dave but at the sheet of paper on his desk. From time to time he made a note. When Dave finished he picked up the sheet.

  “Let’s see if I got this straight. Stinson had been down to see Greer. Came down last week again. The night of the murder he phoned to ask if Greer would give him a sixty-day option for a thousand dollars. Was supposed to put the check in the mail yesterday. You don’t know what time it was Stinson made that call. All Greer said was that it was late.”

  He put the paper down when Dave nodded and a smile that was more satisfied than humorous grew in the corners of his dark eyes.

  “Okay,” he said. “Now we’re starting to move. When we find out what time that call was made we may be in business. If he made it after my investigation he’s just an eager damn fool who was so wrapped up with the thought of having his own business that he couldn’t wait until morning. If he made that call before my investigation—”

  He cut the thought short and stood up, a new briskness in his normally casual manner. “We’ll check Mr. Greer,” he said. “Then, later this afternoon, I’ll have another try at Stinson. If he’s our boy he’ll crack. That I will personally guarantee.”

  It was a quarter of twelve when Dave returned to Seabeach and by the time he had parked the car Betty Nelson had come out of the Coffee Shop and was walking his way. He went to meet her, aware that she was hurrying and knowing something was bothering her. As she spoke he knew why.

  “Mrs. Craft,” she said.

  “Oh-oh. Last night?”

  “No. Something else that happened this morning.”

  “What?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me. She wants to talk to you…. Now don’t be like that,” she added when Dave sighed loudly. “It might be important.”

  “If it is she’ll tell Vaughn anyway so why not tell him now?”

  Betty took him firmly by the arm and led him to Mrs. Craft’s unit. The occupant awaited them. She bowed them into her room and asked them to be seated. She was wearing the same plain blue dress Dave had seen the other day and when she sat down she folded her hands in her lap. A twist of her mouth settled her upper plate in its proper place and then she was ready.

  “I’ve always made it a point,” she said, her glance fastened on her folded hands, “to mind my own business.”

  Oh, sure, Dave thought.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m just a meddlesome old busybody because I can assure you it is not true. But when murder has been done I think we all should help, in our own small ways, to bring the guilty to justice.”

  She looked up to see if her audience was in agreement, and apparently was reassured by the nods she received.

  “She came just after eleven this morning,” she said.

  “Who?” Dave said.

  “That hussy from down the road, that singer…. Now these walls”—she gave a flip of her fingers—“are not soundproof. They never are in any motel I’ve ever been in. You hear things. Even if they were soundproof you’d hear things. You couldn’t help it with the windows open the way they usually are. Cars coming and going, children shouting, radios playing. It’s a wonder a body can sleep at all.”

  She tightened her mouth as the thought came to her that she was digressing. She tried again.

  “Mr. Tyler,” she said, “has the next apartment. She came to see him. I was in my bathroom washing out some—some things. The windows were open.”

  “So you heard what they said.”

  Mrs. Craft drew herself erect in the chair, her gaze frosty. “Mr. Barnum,” she said, with calculated severity, “I have just told you I do not eavesdrop. I just happened to—”

  Dave cut her off. He said he was sorry. “What I meant was, you just happened to hear a word here and there that gave you the gist of the conversation.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And what was it about?”

  “Blackmail!”

  Mrs. Craft waited, her lips working on the upper plate. Dave looked at Betty and she cautioned him with her glance.

  “Blackmail?” he parroted, not believing it but still interested in what was to follow.

  “Blackmail,” Mrs. Craft repeated.

  “Who was doing it?”

  “He was. Mr. Tyler.”

  “What did he want, money?”

  “I gathered as much.”

  Dave found his interest mounting in spite of himself because here, for the first time, was the suggestion that Tyler and Liza Drake had known each other in the past. Either that or—

  He cleared his throat. He said he understood that since Mrs. Craft was not listening she could not have heard much of what was said, but perhaps she could give him her general impression. She said she would be glad to, and what she had to say indicated that she had been listening very hard indeed.

  “They were quarreling,” she said. “At times their voices were raised.”

  “Mr. Tyler wanted money,” Dave prompted.

  “Help is the word he used. Financial help. Enough, he said, to tide him over until he could collect something on his share of the motel.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “At first she said no and he said, ‘How would you like to go back to the Coast?’” She paused to make a deprecating gesture. “Of course I was busy. I could only get a snatch of conversation now and then.”

  Dave said he understood. “Was anything more said about the Coast?”

  “He said something about dropping a word.”

  “Dropping a word?”

  “Back on the Coast. Something like, ‘If I dropped a word back on the Coast it could be awkward for you, couldn’t it?
’ He said, ‘Call it a loan. You do me a favor and I’ll do you one.’ Something like that.”

  Mrs. Craft had very little to add but what she had already said had Dave thinking hard. For it seemed now that if Frank Tyler knew Liza Drake in connection with something on the Coast, he had probably known her the night John Gannon was murdered. It was almost a certainty that Tyler had seen Liza at the Club 80. And if he knew enough, or thought he did, to extort money out of Liza, he might well know enough to force her to use her sleeping capsules on his, Dave’s, drink.

  “Did she give him the money?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. The first thing I knew the door slammed and she was gone.” She hesitated, fixing him with her gaze. “What I wanted to know is, what should I do? Do you think it would be wise for me to tell Cap tain Vaughn?”

  Dave stood up. He was glad he had come. He had an idea that most of what he had heard was true and while he appreciated the information, he was at the same time faintly disgusted by the methods used to get it.

  “Why don’t you do what you did before, Mrs. Craft?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You told me about Stinson and then you told Vaughn. Why shouldn’t you tell him this?”

  Mrs. Craft did not like the reply. Her pinched expression indicated that she classed it as impertinent. At the door Dave gave her a thin smile.

  “You could think it over,” he said. “If you decide you’d rather not tell the captain I could do it for you, if you like.”

  Mrs. Craft made no reply. Dave held the door for Betty and followed her out of the room.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BETTY HAD TO RUSH BACK to the Coffee Shop and Dave wanted a swim before lunch, but there was one thing he wanted to do first. He had thought of it last night too late to do any good, and now, a glance at his watch telling him it would be nine fifteen in California, he went back to the bungalow, turned to the telephone, and asked for the long-distance operator.