by Ed Gorman
I asked him if he wanted any coffee. He said sure enthusiastically. I got up and got him some. I wished for a bourbon and water but knew better.
I sat back down again.
He thanked me for the coffee and went on. "You ever hear of a Mrs. Bradford Amis?" he said.
"No," I lied. I was afraid my face was saying otherwise.
"Five months ago, she had nearly a quarter of a million dollars in gems taken from a wall safe in her home. She was having a party for charity. A lot of fancy society types were there, including your good friend Clay Traynor." He said "good friend" with his usual irony. "Guess who was also with him? Denny Harris and Ron Gettig."
"I'm not following you," I said. But my attempt at sounding stupid wasn't convincing to either of us.
"What if Traynor and Harris and Gettig got themselves invited to that party so they could take the gems?" he asked.
"Do you know who you're talking about? I mean, they're hardly the thief type."
"What's the 'thief type,' Mr. Ketchum? I don't think there is such a thing-especially when somebody is desperate."
"What did they have to be desperate about?" I was thinking of my conversation with Cindy. "Clay Traynor has a very good income-so did Denny and Gettig."
"You think so, huh?"
From his pocket he took a thick fold of papers. When he spread them out on the desk before me, I saw that they were bank and financial statements from a variety of sources.
"Here we have the financial status of the three men we're talking about," Bonnell went on. "When you give these reports a superficial look, everything seems all right. But when you look closely, you see that all three of them were deeply in debt."
He pushed the papers over to me.
Five minutes later, after having looked through everything, I saw that what he said was true. Everything from failed business ventures to expensive cars had put each man deeply, and perhaps irrevocably, in debt. What was most interesting was that two or three of the business ventures-a marina and a parts-supply house for foreign cars-they'd been in together, Clay, Denny, Ron Gettig. I realized it was time I contacted my personal accountant again-he was going through the agency books at night.
"Still think they didn't have motive enough to commit a robbery?"
"All right," I said, "I'll grant you motive, but how about actually doing it. They liked to play hard, but I still say they weren't criminal types. Anyway, how would they know how to break open a safe?"
He smiled. "I've been a busy man, Mr. Ketchum. I've got answers for every question."
I found myself smiling with him. He seemed to take a real delight in his work. But I didn't know what I was smiling about. If he booked Clay Traynor, events would set in motion the eventual-and probably sooner than later-transfer of power from Clay to his cousin, and the transfer of the account from Harris-Ketchum to some other agency.
No, I didn't have anything to smile about. My early morning mood of puppy love was fading fast.
"They didn't know how to break open a safe," Bonnell said, "but a security guard named Kenneth Martin did."
This time, I felt myself literally rise up from the chair. I was aware of Bonnell watching me closely. Instant sweat pasted my face and armpits.
Bonnell had indeed been busy.
"You all right?" he said.
I shrugged. "Didn't sleep very well last night. Upset stomach."
He held my eyes momentarily, enigmatically, then went on.
"I have warrants out for the arrest of both Clay Traynor and this man Kenneth Martin. I think I can prove that Harris and Traynor met Martin a few months before the party, got him planted in the security job, and had him help them steal her gems. Kenneth Martin has been around-never quite in prison but busted enough times for minor things that he might very well be able to pick a safe if he was offered enough money."
"Sounds like a bad movie."
"You've never heard of Kenneth Martin?"
I thought of the receipt in Stokes's blackmail envelope. I thought of Merle Wickes claiming the envelope. The receipt had been signed by one Kenneth Martin.
"You say you can prove all this?"
"I'm a careful man, Mr. Ketchum. I said I think I can prove all this. At the very least, I have enough circumstantial evidence to make an arrest of both Clay and Martin." He shook his head.
"I wanted to warn you about the arrest," Bonnell was saying. "Give you a little time to prepare yourself for the publicity about a client of yours killing your partner and one of your producers." He smiled. This time it wasn't a pleasant smile. "I also wanted to give you a chance to do a little rewriting."
"Rewriting?"
He sipped his coffee, trying to be as casual as possible. "Yeah. A few days ago you gave me a story about being with Clay Traynor the night Denny Harris was murdered. I thought in light of everything that's happened, you might want to do a little revision on that story of yours."
So there we were.
This wasn't the courtesy call I'd almost believed it to be. On the contrary, Bonnell was going to recruit me to do the one thing absolutely necessary to hanging Clay Traynor and losing the Traynor account in the process-break Clay's alibi.
"Well," he said, after a minute or two of my silence, "how about it, Mr. Ketchum? Was Clay with you the night of Denny Harris's murder?"
Just then-proving incontrovertibly that God is in fact up there watching over me-the intercom buzzed.
Sarah said, "Sorry to interrupt but there's a problem in production, Michael. Ab Levin just hit Tommy Byrnes and hit him pretty hard."
I swore, wondering what the hell was going on back there. My world had become one of the insane terrains you walk across with a rifle slung across your back and your hands filled with grenades.
"I'm sorry," I said to Bonnell, "would you mind if I find out what's happening back there? My agency seems to be disintegrating right before my eyes."
He stood up, looking very understanding. "Sure, it's all right, Mr. Ketchum."
I interrupted him before he could say anything else. "If you could just wait here-"
"That isn't necessary," he said.
I started around my desk.
He grabbed my arm.
"All I need is a simple yes or no answer," he said.
I looked longingly at the door. I would be happy to go in the back and referee a match between Ab Levin and Tommy Byrnes. I would be happy to spend a month or two in a leper colony. Anything-but answer Bonnell's question.
"How about it," he said, as if I had managed to forget what he'd asked me. "Was Clay Traynor with you the night that Denny Harris was murdered?"
I stared at him. He stared at me.
"They really need me in the back-" I said.
He smiled. "Yes or no, Mr. Ketchum. Then you can go." He paused. "Yes or no. Mindful of perjury laws. Perjury can be a very nasty business."
I knew what I had to say, knew that despite the evidence Bonnell seemed to have, I had to continue my risky poker hand.
"He was with me right up until midnight," I said. "Right up until midnight."
What surprised me was the look of disappointment on his face. He seemed to take my moral failings personally-as if I'd betrayed a real friendship we'd had.
"Yeah," he said sadly. "Sure he was."
He didn't wait for me to say goodbye.
EIGHTEEN
By the time I reached the production area, a small group of people stood between Ab and Tommy. The glares the two exchanged, however, spoke of an argument still smoldering.
The general air was of melancholy. In the moments following a blowup, most men I know tend to fall into a kind of remorse. Maybe they're thinking of just how bad things could have gotten-that instead of some harsh words being exchanged, or even a few stray punches, there could have been real bloodshed.
Given two murders in the past few days, I'm sure that thought was not uncommon.
At Tommy's feet lay a piece of rope curled around like a snake in waiting. Ev
erybody was careful not to get too close-as if it were radioactive.
"You think we could break it up?" I said. I looked at the half-dozen production people standing around-dressed more like warehouse workers in jeans and work shirts and flannel shirts-and shook my head. "I know the past few days have been tough for all of us, but we've got to get the work out no matter what."
There was no resentment on their faces as they started to disperse-only a kind of curiosity directed at Ab and Tommy.
Bill Malley, one of Ab's assistants said, "What Ab says is true, Mr. Ketchum. Honest."
Then Malley, with the rest of the men, went back to their area.
"What's true?" I asked Ab.
The man looked miserable, as if he were carrying around a secret so terrible it was literally destroying him. He said nothing, only stared at the rope, then glared up at Tommy. But there was more than anger in Ab's gaze-I saw the same expression that had been in Detective Bonnell's a few minutes earlier. There was disappointment in Ab's eyes.
"What's true, Ab?" I repeated.
"Aw, nothin'," Ab said. "I must've made a mistake is all." He turned and started away but I put out a hand and stopped him.
"Ab, I want to know what's going on here. You and Tommy disrupted the whole department. I think I've got an explanation coming."
Tommy, his Norman Rockwell face flushed, said, "I'll tell you what's going on."
He motioned to the rope on the floor.
"Ab decided to sneak some candy," Tommy said, "the way he usually does." A kind of fondness softened Tommy's voice momentarily-Ab and Tommy were father-son, Ab always sampling the candy Tommy kept in his desk. "Anyway, when he dug in my desk drawer he found the rope. I guess he thought…" The flush on Tommy's face grew deeper. Tormented. "He thought he'd found the rope that had been used to strangle Ron Gettig."
I glanced at Ab. His eyes were still downcast.
Tommy went on. "So he asked me about it-about the rope and everything, and when I told him I hadn't ever seen it before, he got mad and said I would only make things worse by lying." Tommy's voice gained an octave. "Honest, Michael, I've never seen this rope before. Somebody put it there!"
"Bill Malley," Ab said, speaking at last. "He saw me pull the rope out of Tommy's desk. He knows it was in there."
"Sure it was in there, Ab," Tommy said. "But somebody put it there-planted it there, can't you see that?"
Ab shook his head. "Aw, that's just in movies, Tommy. I saw you and Gettig arguing that day! Just tell the damn truth, that's all."
I glanced at Tommy. "What were you and Gettig arguing about?"
"Just because we were arguing doesn't mean I'd kill him," Tommy said, sounding very young, almost hysterical. "God, I… I couldn't kill anybody."
The whole idea of murdering somebody sounded preposterous to Tommy-as it seemed to at that instant to Ab Levin.
He smiled at Tommy. Suddenly. Surprisingly. "You're right."
Tommy smiled nervously in return. "Last time I killed anybody, Ab, was in a fantasy I had a year ago when another guy took my girlfriend."
I was glad they were getting along again, but Tommy still hadn't answered my question about Gettig and why they were arguing.
"Ab, you mind if Tommy and I speak alone?" I asked.
Ab's first response was suspicion. "Hey, the thing about the rope, that's all cleared up, right?"
"Right," I said. Then I saw that he wanted me to explain why I wanted to talk to Tommy. You pay a price for having a democratic managerial style. "I want to find out why he and Ron Gettig had an argument."
Ab said, "I'm curious myself."
Looks like I had company.
Tommy said, "About a week ago some videotapes Ron had wanted arrived-sample reels from various production companies. The package came and I took it in and put it on his desk. He came in and got all bent out of shape, like he was hiding something and I'd discovered it."
"That must've been when I came in," Ab said.
"Yeah, it was," Tommy said.
"I thought he was going to hit you."
"Yeah, so did I."
"Did you happen to find anything in his desk?" I asked.
"God," Tommy said, "what a day. First Ab accuses me of being a killer, and now you're calling me a thief."
"Tommy," I said, "all I meant was did you find anything that looked suspicious lying around on his desk. He's been murdered. We're trying to find out who did it and why. I thought maybe you'd seen something that could help the police."
Ab clapped a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right, kid. We're all just a little jumpy."
"Yeah," Tommy said, "I guess so." He shrugged. "Nah, I didn't see anything suspicious, Michael."
"And Gettig didn't give you any hint of what he might be trying to conceal."
"Uh-uh."
I sighed.
Ab and Tommy caught the significance of the noise I made.
"No offense," Ab said, "but you look like heck, Michael. I mean you got bags under your eyes that could hold three days' worth of laundry."
"Thanks," I said, trying to laugh.
The wide fatherly hand left Tommy's shoulder and came down on mine.
"You get some rest," he said. "Otherwise you ain't going to be worth a damn to anybody."
But I was no longer paying attention to Ab. Instead I was looking at the man in the dark raincoat and the dark fedora who stood in the doorway. The big man with the air of comic menace. My favorite private eye, Stokes.
Ab caught the line of my gaze and quit talking. His eyes followed mine over to Stokes. He had the same reaction I had on first seeing Stokes-his eyes narrowed, trying to pinpoint the elusive reason that Stokes should exude such an air of evil.
Maybe I was imagining things, but I thought I saw Ab shudder.
That was when I noticed how pale Tommy had gotten.
Stokes had fixed the kid in his gaze. Tommy danced nervously, as if on the point of a knife.
A yellow grin twisted Stokes's mouth. If the agency was ever called on to do a poster against child molesting, I knew who we could cast in the role of the villain.
Tommy, clammy now, said, "Maybe I'd better be getting back to work, Michael."
"Interrupting something, am I?" Stokes said, strolling in the room.
Ab said, "Yeah, I better get back to it, too, Michael." He reached over, clapped Tommy on the back, and the two started away.
So it wasn't just me. A lot of people had the same repelled response to Stokes.
"You make friends everywhere you go," I said.
Stokes laughed. "I quit worrying about friends when I was in second grade."
Stokes bent down and picked up the rope. "I read in the paper where your man Gettig was strangled."
In his black-gloved fingers, the ordinary piece of clothesline rope assumed a violent significance. "Interesting," he said.
"What do you want, Stokes?"
He looked at the rope then let it drop back to the floor.
From inside his black coat he took a piece of paper. A newspaper clipping, much like the one I'd been carrying around myself these past few days, flared from his fingers.
"I want you to come by my office tonight at ten o'clock," he said. "I think I've figured this thing out for you. I can save you some headaches-and maybe your life."
He smiled yellowly again.
"The way you tried to save Merle Wickes's life," I snapped. "By blackmailing him?"
"So you peeked, huh?" he said, greatly amused that I'd looked inside the manila envelope he'd had me drop off at the duck pond the other day.
"I had a right to see what was going on."
"Don't get pious," he said. "You peeked just like everybody else would-just like I would." He chuckled. I had confirmed his suspicions that human beings were a sorry lot.
"Merle didn't do it."
"No, he didn't. But he's involved and he's got access to money-money I could use."
"Merle?" I said. "Money? You're crazy."
&
nbsp; Stokes's eyes swam angrily behind his thick glasses. "I didn't say his money. I said access to money. I don't care whose money I get, I just need some."
For the first time-a curious tone of pleading, of desperation, in his voice-Stokes sounded human. It didn't make him any more pleasant, it just took the spooky edge off him.
"I want you at my office tonight at ten o'clock," he said. The threat had come back in his voice.
He handed me the newspaper clipping he'd been holding.
"See you," he said.
NINETEEN
She called around lunchtime. When I heard her voice, the receiver seemed to glow. All kinds of sappy lines came to mind when I started to talk, but I was afraid to say them, afraid to make myself vulnerable in case she'd been using me the way she'd been using Denny and decided to drop me.
"I'm still thinking about last night," Cindy Traynor told me. "You're really sweet."
"Gee," I said, "a guy likes to be told he's handsome or strong or bright, but I'm not sure he likes to be told he's sweet."
She laughed. "If he really understands women, then he knows how much of a compliment that is."
Now I laughed. "OK, I'll take your word for it."
"Detective Bonnell, the one you told me about, he was here this morning."
"Here?"
"My home. Questioning Clay. From the little I could hear, I think he thinks Clay did it."
"He didn't arrest Clay, did he?"
"No, but from what Clay said, he came pretty close." She paused. "Clay's not holding up very well. He started drinking bourbon straight after Bonnell left, then he went out. I'm not sure where. I'm worried about him and-and I think he may actually have done it."
"What makes you think so?"
"Remember I told you about the night Gettig and Merle Wickes and Clay were here and Denny was trying to get the bag from Merle?"
"Yes?"
"Guess what I found?"
"What?"
"The bag."
"Yeah?"
"Yes, tossed in among some stuff to be carried out that for some reason never got carried out."
"Anything special about the bag?"