by Al Fray
“Lean forward, Baker.” I fell toward the rock, and wound up leaning against it at an angle, my head turned back over my shoulder to watch Joe Lamb.
“Go to his car, Carol,” Joe ordered. “Nola says he keeps the gun in the glove compartment. Get it.”
“But Joe,” Carol said, “you said you were only making sure Eddie didn’t hold his gun on you. You told me—”
“Get the gun!”
Carol looked at me, then moved toward the car.
“You’ve cracked wide open, Lamb,” I said. “This will get you no place but the gas chamber. They’ll grab you so quick you’ll think—”
“Not very likely. You’re registered as Edwards and it’s going to take some time to straighten that out and identify you as Baker. By then the trail will be as cold as wet snow. They’ll probably write you off as a poor boob that picked up a hitch-hiker and got bumped off for his kindness. For sure they won’t come knocking on my door. I’m due in Las Vegas tomorrow to catch an act at the Desert Inn. There’s a singer I’m adding to my list of talent. So I’m driving up tonight, got a reservation at the Inn, and this is just a detour. No one knows I’m within a hundred miles of Ojai.”
“No one except the redhead,” I said, glancing toward where she rummaged in my car pocket. “How do you figure to muzzle her on something this big?”
“If you force me to pull this trigger, Baker,” he said grimly, “she automatically becomes an accessory to murder. She’ll have to keep her mouth shut. So don’t get brave; just be a good little boy and follow instructions.”
“Such as?”
“Holding still for a few minutes. The first order of business is a search of your car. The underside, behind the seats, the whole damn thing. We want that package and we know you haven’t—”
“Joe, I can’t find the gun,” Carol said.
Lamb passed his free hand quickly under my arms and then around in front. When his fingers touched the weapon he called Carol over.
“Damn it, be careful!” I said, as his hand slipped inside my shirt, “that trigger is—”
“Shut up, Baker,” Lamb barked. I was sweating now and beads of perspiration slid down my face. I sucked in my stomach so the gun would be free as he pulled it out; I didn’t want it to catch on anything. Not that gun! Out of the corner of my eye I could see Carol tugging at Joe’s elbow.
“Joe,” she yelled, “you’re insane. Let him—”
“Get hold of yourself, baby,” Joe said harshly. “All you got to do is hold his gun on him for a few minutes while I go over his car. We want that evidence. If it’s there I’ll find it and he’d better be praying that I do.”
“But, Joe,” she pleaded, “you aren’t going to kill anyone over a publicity stunt.”
Lamb held out my automatic to her. She was trembling now, her face white and her eyes big. Joe told her all she had to do was shut up and make sure I didn’t move. She extended a shaking hand toward the weapon, and the thought of that hair trigger flashed through my mind.
“Good God!” I yelled, “don’t let her—” I tried to push away from the rock, my eyes riveted to the automatic as her fingers closed over it, and as I moved, Joe whirled back toward me. He was holding my .45 by the barrel; her finger had already closed over the trigger. And in swinging back toward me, Joe must have pulled the gun a little, must have jarred it just enough.
The blast of the .45 was deafening, and Joe Lamb caught the slug somewhere in the ribs under his left arm. It knocked him three feet and spun him half around. The shot was still echoing, through the canyon when he fell face down in the brown dirt beside the road.
I moved fast. Carol still had the gun in her hand, and her fingers were white along the butt. If she relaxed and then squeezed again, we’d have another slug slamming out. I slapped the barrel aside, caught hold of it, and got my other hand on her finger. When I finally had the gun, Carol stood there trembling, her lips moving soundlessly, her hands reaching toward the fallen Joe Lamb.
“Get hold of yourself,” I said. She didn’t hear me. I swept one arm under her knees, caught her back in the other arm, carried her ten feet to a small boulder, and sat her down. “Don’t get off this rock,” I said hurriedly. “Just stay put for a minute and give a guy a chance to think.”
I went back to Lamb and took a close look, even though I knew it was useless. A .45 at arm’s length doesn’t leave any room for doubt. It looked like the bullet had smashed a rib on the way in. It had probably hit the backbone, because it hadn’t gone on through. His wasn’t a lingering death. I straightened up and then a shadow moved across in front of me. When I whirled around, Carol was there.
“Go back! I told you to—”
“I’ve killed a man,” she said, her small fists clenched. “I killed him, I—”
“Carol! Snap out of it!”
Her face turned toward me only for a second, then she looked toward Lamb again. “It was an accident. Surely they’ll realize it was an accident. I’ll go to the police and tell them exactly—”
“No. No, you can’t do that.”
“Of course I can. I must. They’ve got to believe me when I tell them how—”
I swung the door of Joe’s Plymouth open, picked him up, and dumped him on the floor of the back seat. We were in a hell of a bind, a lot worse than she knew, but I’d have to get through to her some way. I went to the place where Joe had lain and kicked dirt over the bloody earth. When I had the road cleaned up I took Carol’s arm and led her to my car, got her into the front seat.
“Now try to listen,” I said softly. “Sure it was an accident, and if there weren’t any other circumstances you could get by with no worry. Or at least I think they would believe you, but this one is bound to tie in with Hank Sawyer. That makes it different.”
“Hank Sawyer?”
“The fat lifeguard Nola worked with to frame me. You didn’t know him?”
“No. Not his name, I mean, but you—you mean he’s dead?”
“That’s right. It was only a small item in the paper, a routine case of poison from bad booze. To date, that is. But it won’t be routine if you open that pretty mouth of yours.”
Then I told her about the entire caper and exactly where each of us stood in the deal, and I finished with the tie-in they were sure to make if she didn’t play this right. “It’s ironic,” I said. “This shooting was an accident. You weren’t even aware that Hank was murdered. Either of these two things alone you might prove, but together they make a pair and no jury in the world would believe you on the two of them.”
“But they’d have to believe me. I didn’t even know Hank Sawyer, and there couldn’t be any reason for me to kill a total stranger. How could they think—?”
“You were Joe Lamb’s partner, and you were at the beach the day this caper got under way. They’re going to hammer that point home. They’ll add up the big stack of chips Nola is sure to make on this picture and maybe dozens more and they’ll put you in the same boat with Joe Lamb—the motive is the money you stand to lose if Nola’s balloon collapses. How are you going to beat it?”
Carol buried her face in her hands. “It can’t be that bad.”
“The hell it can’t! It’ll be worse. A couple of experienced hands from the homicide squad will go over this ground and in one hour they’ll have the picture so clear you’ll think they were standing behind you with a camera. They’ll know exactly where Joe stood when you sh—when he caught that slug and how his hand was on the barrel of the gun and where you stood and were your hand was. It’ll take them about three minutes to come up with a guess that he saw you pointing a gun and grabbed for it too late. The D.A. will pace back and forth in front of that jury box and point out that with Joe Lamb gone you get the whole commission instead of half and it isn’t uncommon for thieves to fight over the loot and—oh, hell, why go on. If you talk, you’re dead!”
There were tears in her eyes now and she was biting her nails, but at least she was seeing the picture. I looked toward the Plymou
th, then turned back to Carol.
“We have no time to plan; all we can do is give Joe the same gaff he planned for. me. Motorist picks up hitchhiker and is killed for the cash in his wallet.”
“But Joe was on his way to Las Vegas. When he’s found here won’t there be some questions? And I’m at the hotel here in town and we’re partners and—”
“You’re very right,” I said, “and there’s only one answer. He’ll have to be found on the road somewhere between Los Angeles and Vegas.”
“But we’re nowhere near that highway.”
“I know,” I said, and pulled a California road map out of the glove compartment of the Ford. “But that’s where he’s going to be by morning.”
Chapter 12
WE TALKED ANOTHER FIVE MINUTES about what had to be done and how we would handle it, and then I got out of the Ford, slipped the advertising section of the paper off the back seat, and went over to the back seat of the Plymouth. Using my handkerchief as a glove, I took Joe’s wallet out, worked the diamond-set lodge ring off his finger, and removed the wristwatch. I carefully covered him with the newspapers and rolled up all of the windows except the one on the driver’s side in front. His possessions and both guns I dropped on the floormat by the front seat and put a section of paper over them. When I got back to my car, Carol was sitting at the wheel, her head resting in her hands.
“Now remember that you want to establish your alibi carefully,” I said through the open window. “And yet you can’t be too obvious about it. Spend most of the evening in the lobby. Don’t play bridge; you’ll goof it so bad they can’t help but know you’re higher than a kite. Just thumb through some magazines and keep to yourself—they’ll know you’re there.”
“All right, Eddie. I’ll try.”
“Trying won’t quite do,” I said, “The whole thing depends on us getting Joe to hell out of here and you putting on a convincing act. You’re just a tourist, a career girl from Hollywood who’s taken a few days off to rest in the sun at Ojai. Tomorrow or the next day you’ll be called back to L.A. in a hurry and everyone at the hotel will be saying ‘poor thing’ and ‘it’s too bad—her business partner murdered’ and all the rest. Believe me, Carol, it will be better all around if nobody comes up with a ‘Didn’t you think she acted mighty peculiar last night?’ This whole thing depends on us keeping you and Joe’s death separated. Once someone makes any kind of connection, you’re involved up to here in two killings.”
“I know. And you—why are you doing this, Eddie? Until now you aren’t in any deeper than a shakedown. That’s a lot different than being tangled up in a murder charge.”
“I play the cards the way they’re dealt,” I said.
“But you really haven’t any cards now. Nola can’t help but know that Joe came here. He isn’t the brains. Nola sent him. I thought it was to pay you off, but she crossed me. I’m beginning to see that they didn’t count me in very far any place along the line. So now you’re holding the bag. Your hold over Nola fades fast if you drive Joe’s—if you move him.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. There’s a lot Nola can’t be sure of. She can guess hell out of things but the only sure result for Nola is still the same—no matter what happens to Baker, Nola Norton faces an unbeatable first-degree murder charge. She doesn’t have any hope of winning; it isn’t even a gamble from her side of the fence. Sure, she can make it rough for me, but she has to pay with her lovely head for the privilege, and I know her better than that.”
We stood there looking at each other, and maybe we were thinking the same thing. Chauffeuring a cadaver all that distance wasn’t going to be any picnic. Of course, I could slide into my Ford and gun out of there and then—but I couldn’t. This wasn’t the time or place to go into a clinch or make a pitch, but something was beginning to build between us. An understanding. A hope for some sort of future. The quicker I got under way, the better.
“I’ll have to show myself at the hotel,” I said. “I’ve been coming in from the desert every day, and we don’t want to change anything. Have you got your part straight?”
She nodded and started the engine of the Ford. When she drove down the road, I walked all around Joe’s Plymouth to make sure the newspapers covered him from every angle, then slipped behind the wheel and followed Carol. Just outside of Ojai we stopped and traded cars.
“Don’t park. Don’t drive too fast or too slow,” I said. “Go out the highway for fifteen minutes, then turn and head back. You won’t enjoy the next thirty minutes; I know that. But we can’t park something like this along the road. It has to keep going and I’ll be back to relieve you as soon as I can. Check?”
“All right.”
I hopped into my own car, whipped into town and over to the hotel, and rolled into the parking lot. Catching up a couple of sample bags, I went through to the lobby and asked for mail.
“Nothing, Mr. Edwards,” the clerk said.
I grunted and went on back to eighteen. It was after five. I lost fifteen minutes getting cleaned up and into some slacks and then I eased out to the Ford again and got out onto the highway. We met about a mile beyond the city limits and switched cars once more.
“Park it in the residence district just beyond the hotel,” I said. “Throw the keys on the floor. I’ll be by in the wee hours of the morning to pick it up and move it over to the hotel—I hope.”
“All right, Eddie.”
“And good luck.”
She nodded and the car moved away. I got into Joe’s Plymouth, glanced into the back seat once more to be sure he was still covered, and pulled onto the highway. I had a piece of the map I’d torn out back in the canyon, just the bit showing the roads leading from Ojai over to Victorville, and I took it out of my pocket now as I drove along. Adding up the distance, it came to only a hundred and thirty-six miles, but on this end they were going to be slow miles. On the long flat stretches I could make time, but the first sixty miles would be curves and hills.
An hour later, just east of Fillmore, I stopped and went over the car with my handkerchief—door handles, window cranks, plastic seat covers—everything I’d touched as far as I could remember. On my way once more, I began to think about disposing of some of the evidence. I moved the paper, got the .45 in my lap, and began to dismantle it as I drove along. It was registered to me; it had killed Joe Lamb. The gun had to go. One by one I tossed the bullets out into stunted growth along the edge of the highway, a shell each time the speedometer of Joe’s car turned over another mile. Between Piru and Saugus I jettisoned other parts of the gun, each tossed from the car far into desert growth or bushes. I stopped only once. This was for the piece with the serial number. When it grew dark and I came to a reasonably remote spot, I got out, found a stick, dug a shallow hole near the base of a cactus and buried it.
One down and one to go. When I got back into the car, I picked up Joe’s gun, and in the next few miles I gave it the same treatment. Now I was rid of both guns.
His jewelry was next. To make this look like a hitchhiker had killed Joe, the watch and ring had to go, but I sure as hell didn’t want them on me. I stopped on the Mint Canyon highway long enough to get out and crush the ring under my heel. I gave the same treatment to Joe’s watch, then picked up the pieces. Between there and the turnoff just beyond Vincent Station, I tossed them away—watch case here, the twisted ring there, the setting another place, and the wristband from the watch still farther on. The chances of any of these parts getting together again would be one in several billion, I guessed, and now I was rid of everything except Joe’s wallet.
And Joe.
I went through the glove compartment and found nothing of value. I didn’t like taking his money but it had to be done. There were just over ninety dollars and, driving along, I tore the bills into small bits and poked them into the pocket of my sports shirt. I was as ready now as I was going to be until I hit the main highway just out of Victorville.
Over and over I went along the trail m
entally, asking myself if I’d taken care of everything. My nerves were on edge, and I had to force myself to hold the speed down; the last thing I needed was to be stopped on a traffic violation. Or for anything else. A routine road-block along the way and I was completely unhorsed. A brush of fenders with another car, witness to an accident—there were a dozen things I didn’t even want to think about.
About nine I hit the main highway. There are plenty of ways Joe Lamb could have left L.A. on his way to Las Vegas, but eventually he’d have to wind up on 66 and pass through Victorville. I came east on the road from Pearblossom, which cuts into the big highway only a couple of miles south of Victorville. I turned north, drove along slowly until I found a place that looked abandoned, and parked the car, very conscious of Joe Lamb’s body. It was just a shack along the desert, set back from the highway, and it would do nicely. I took out my handkerchief once more, wiped the ignition key, the wheel, the door handle on my side, and the window trim. Then I rolled the window up, got out, used the handkerchief to close the door, and picked up a piece of weed near the car. Waiting until there were no cars in sight, I went toward the highway, brushing away my footprints in the dust as I walked, and at the concrete I tossed the weed away and started toward Victorville.
If someone remembered seeing a man hiking along the highway, at least they’d recall that he was heading for town, but I didn’t want anyone to offer me a lift. I couldn’t afford to get that close to anybody for a while.
At the first big service station I went into the men’s room. Emptying every scrap of torn bill from my pocket, I dropped them into the can and flushed it twice. Then I took out Joe’s wallet, wiped it carefully with toilet paper, and slipped my arm down the side of the waste-paper-barrel until I hit bottom. It was a good place for the wallet. In the morning, when they emptied the waste towels, it would come to light and, being empty and discarded, there wouldn’t be any doubt that someone had stolen it. I dropped the toilet paper into the can, flushed it down, and went back out to the highway.