Shake a Crooked Town

by Dan J. Marlowe

  “Twelve,” Johnny said.

  “Twelve it is,” she said amiably. “I’m Mrs. Peterson.” She held out her hand.

  Johnny gave her twelve dollars. “Johnny Killain,” he said before he thought. He shrugged mentally. It probably didn’t make too much difference. He took the paper from under his arm and showed her the picture on the front page. “I used to know a Lowell in Washington whose home town was Jefferson,” he said casually.

  “Dick’s got a brother in Washington, but he’s a big shot in the State Department.” Mrs. Peterson’s intonation clearly expressed her belief that Johnny couldn’t be expected to know a big shot in the State Department. “Dick’s not the man Toby was, or their father, either. It’s probably just as well old Mr. Lowell passed on.”

  “Actually I came up to visit your chief of police, Carl Thompson,” Johnny said.

  “You must have been out of touch, Mr. Killain. Carl hasn’t been chief for four months. They ran him—” She hesitated. “I think he’s left town,” she finished lamely.

  “That’s too bad. He told me once he’d put in a word for me around here if I thought I needed it.”

  “A word from Carl Thompson in this town wouldn’t get you far.” The statement was positive.

  “Yeah? Carl’s in trouble, huh? Sorry to hear it. I like Carl.”

  “I like him, too.” Mrs. Peterson paused as if considering the admission. She sat down on the bed and lowered her hands to half-mast on the mop handle. “It’s kind of unfashionable to like him around here right now,” she confided. “I think he got a raw deal. Not that Carl was any angel. My husband was a sergeant under Carl and he used to tell me things sometimes—” She shook her head. “Charlie—my husband—was killed in a holdup stake-out three years ago.” Johnny nodded sympathetically as she continued. “This is a queer kind of town, as you’ll find out if you stay.”

  “Oh, I guess every town’s got its dirty washing,” Johnny suggested.

  Mrs. Peterson’s mouth drew down at the corners. “God help ‘em if they’re as dirty as this place,” she said grimly. “The mayor shacked up with his girl friend for anyone to see who’s got eyes, the president of the city council throwing over his fiancée to chase after the ex-police chief’s wife, the biggest lawyer—”

  “Thompson’s wife runs around? Hell, I thought they got along.”

  “She seems to get along with anyone who wears pants.” Mrs. Peterson bit the words off viciously. She rose to her feet. “I talk too much. Stop off in the kitchen and I’ll find you a key.”

  “Sure thing.” When the woman had gone Johnny mulled over her information. One bit he should be able to use. He dumped the contents of his bag into a drawer and a half of the bureau and descended the stairs. He found his way to the kitchen in back and his landlady handed him a front door key. “This fiancée of Jim Daddario’s,” he asked her. “Was her name Gilmore?”

  “No,” she answered, surprised. “It was the assistant librarian, Jessamyn—” Her mouth snapped shut. “Daddario’s name wasn’t mentioned upstairs. You seem to know a lot for a stranger in town.”

  “I don’t like him, either,” Johnny grinned.

  “If you’re egging me on, you can have your twelve dollars and the back of my hand,” she warned him. “I can’t stand that man expecting everyone to kiss his foot. I remember him when—” Her mouth closed again, this time with finality. “I said it before. I talk too much.”

  “Not for me,” Johnny said as an exit line, and departed. He ran down the front steps and headed downtown. It was no problem to locate his target. The Jefferson Public Library was a long, low, fieldstone building on an expanse of green lawn in the city square. Inside, Johnny walked to the central check-in desk. “The assistant librarian, Jessamyn—” He snapped his fingers at his forgetfulness.

  “Miss Burger?” the girl behind the desk asked brightly. “I believe she’s in the rear.”

  Despite his best effort to walk quietly Johnny’s footsteps echoed in the hushed atmosphere. Two or three people in the magazine room appeared to be the only seekers after knowledge. At the far end of the vaulted arch, so low it barely left room for a mezzanine, Johnny stopped at a table presided over by a gray-haired woman in a severly tailored suit. “Miss Burger?” he asked, instinctively throttling down his heavy voice.

  The woman looked over her shoulder to an alcove behind her. “Jessie? Are you in there?” She spoke in a normal tone that to Johnny sounded distressingly loud.

  “Up in the stacks,” a hidden voice replied.

  “The stairway on your left,” the gray-haired woman said to Johnny. He climbed a short, spiraling flight of iron steps and moved tentatively down a narrow passage that bisected row upon row of shelved books. An unshaded light bulb at the far end drew him onward. In the last row a heavy worktable nearly blocked the right-hand passage. Armsful and boxes of books were dumped on it indiscriminately. Beyond the table a girl trotted up a short ladder and deposited books on the top shelf over her head. In the process her skirt ascended enough to reveal very good legs. “Miss Burger?” Johnny asked again.

  “Yes, it is.” She turned on the ladder to look down at him. She had a pretty face, round, with dimples. Her hair was dark and fluffed out about her small head in a short bob curled at the ends. Johnny could see that despite the good figure, the dimples, and the round face, Jessamyn Burger was no longer a girl. He decided that maturity hadn’t hurt her a bit. “May I be of help?” she asked when he showed no sign of saying anything. She came down the ladder and reached for more books.

  “Let me do that,” Johnny said. “Those boxes goin’ up there?” He hoisted one up to his shoulder. “Clear the gangplank.” From the top of the ladder he looked down at her. “Any place in particular?”

  “Just push it to the rear of the top shelf, but you really shouldn’t. You might—”

  “Nothin’ to it.” He tossed two more boxes of books aloft, made piles of the remaining loose ones and disposed of them in two more trips. “There,” he said, dusting off his hands.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling. “You’re certainly energetic, aren’t you? And strong.” Cool gray eyes took him in, lingering on his leather jacket. Her eyes left him at the sound of voices approaching in the outside corridor.

  Two men in coveralls entered, a short, wiry man in the lead. He looked blank at sight of the empty table. “How in the hell—? Excuse me, Miss Burger. I hope you didn’t move those books yourself. I went to get Billy here to help with the boxes.”

  “Help arrived from an unexpected source,” Jessamyn Burger said.

  The wiry man glanced at Johnny. “He put ‘em up there by himself? Naah, I packed those things myself. I know what they weighed.” He took another look at Johnny. “He really did?”

  “He really did, Fred. Thanks just the same.”

  Fred and his helper shuffled out. In the doorway, Fred turned for another look before he left.

  “You know you’ve really spoiled his day,” Jessamyn Burger smiled. “I really do thank you, Mr.—?”

  “Killain,” Johnny supplied. “Did you know Carl Thompson is dead, Miss Burger?”

  Her smile vanished. “Dead? Where? When?”

  “He was killed in my hotel room in New York. A thousand dollars of my money is missing. I’m tryin’ to get it back.”

  “Wait,” she said quickly. “Wait. You’re going too fast for me. Carl Thompson killed? In your room? Why was he there?”

  “Oh, he’d come lookin’ for help on some crazy scheme he’d cooked up,” Johnny said indifferently. “I didn’t pay too much attention. I came back to the room an’ found him dead an’ my money gone. He claimed he’d been tossed around by someone up here. I figured if the people he was afraid of gave him the big bounce they had my money. I want it back.”

  “But why on earth come to me with such a—such a wild story!” Her expression was one of wide-eyed vacuity. “I simply don’t understand.”

  “I met Jim Daddario a couple of blocks
away from my place last night. I’m curious about him. I heard you could tell me about Jim Daddario.”

  The wide-eyed expression had vanished as quickly as the smile had previously. “You really do have more than a fair share of nerve, don’t you, Mr. Killain?” Icicles sprinkled every syllable. “There is nothing I care to discuss with you, now or later.”

  “Look at it this way—you know somethin’, I know some-thin’,” Johnny suggested. He watched her full lips purse doubtfully. “I know you can’t talk to me here but how about dinner tonight? I wouldn’t be dressed like this.”

  She looked at him as though unexpectedly seeing him in another dimension. “Really—” Even white teeth gnawed at her pouting lower lip. “I don’t know—I don’t see—are you sure you want to?”

  He gave her a big smile. “You damn right I’m sure.”

  “Well—” She appeared to be trying to get herself organized. “Would eight o’clock be too late?”

  “Just tell me where I meet you,” Johnny said promptly.

  “I think right at the restaurant would be best,” she said hurriedly. “Mollinson’s. The food’s quite good.”

  “Mollinson’s at eight.” He smiled at her again. “Wear something pretty. Not that you need it.”

  Down the spiraling stairway and out through the hushed main floor he carried in his mind the picture of Jessamyn Burger’s high-blooming color. The dinner would be no hardship.

  CHAPTER IV

  ON THE GRANITE library steps Johnny stopped to light a cigarette. A heavy push from behind sent him reeling. The cigarette flew from his hand and he staggered down three or four steps before recovering his balance. Another stiff push nearly upset him again as he turned to see what had happened. He stared at a slim, dark, handsome-looking man standing on the step above him. The man grinned and pushed Johnny again, deliberately.

  Belatedly, Johnny recognized the dark man as the one who had been in the Manhattan suite with Micheline Thompson and Jim Daddario. Savino. Tommy Savino. Had this little pimp followed him all the way up here from New York? If he had, it left Killain with plenty of egg on his face. “What’s the matter with you?” Johnny demanded at another push. Only the first one had moved him. Still smiling, Savino said nothing. He stepped down onto Johnny’s level as if to push again, changed his mind and swung his left hand. It caught Johnny on the ear, more of a slap than a punch, but it stung.

  The man’s left arm started up again, and Johnny reached for it. He checked himself immediately. That’s what he wants, he told himself. He’s looking for trouble. This is his town.

  He evaded the left hand with a head movement. Savino’s fixed smile took on a jeering aspect at Johnny’s checked grab for his arm. He kicked Johnny heavily in the right shin. A hot, glowing coal ignited in Johnny’s stomach. There was nothing openhanded about the right hand smash with which he hit Savino flush in the sneering mouth, knocking him flat on his back on the steps.

  The dark man scrambled to his knees like a snarling wildcat, the corners of his mouth dribbling blood. His right hand darted to his left wrist. Johnny stepped in close and picked him up bodily. He carried Savino to a wall buttress and stood him up against it with a knee in his back to hold him there. Unhurriedly, Johnny worked the left arm around behind the struggling body and beneath the loose-flowing jacket sleeve found a knife holster strapped to the forearm.

  Savino cursed luridly as Johnny removed a deadly-looking six-inch blade from the holster. He was disappointed to find no bone in the handle as there had been in the knife that had killed Carl Thompson. Johnny placed the blade against the stone buttress and applied pressure until it snapped off close to the hilt.

  “Ye’re under arrest,” a voice rumbled from behind him. “Both of you. Fightin’ in public.” Johnny turned. Sap in hand, a hulking patrolman stood watchfully, feet planted wide apart. Johnny removed his knee from Savino’s spine. The slim man whirled but the policeman spoke hastily. “None of that, now. We’ll settle it at the stationhouse. March on out to the curb.”

  Johnny looked at the high, narrow, boxlike body of the vehicle pulled up out in front. It had two steps up from the back and no windows. A twenty-year-out-of-date Black Maria that appeared without being summoned. Here comes trouble, Killain, Johnny told himself. It looked as though Carl Thompson had known what he was talking about.

  They walked through the rim of a gathering crowd to the police van. Johnny got in first and went at once to the front end and stood with his back to the wall. Savino followed him, and the patrolman lumbered on last. He looked at Johnny up in the front. “Sit down, you,” he said sharply, and turned to close and latch the van doors.

  Johnny stayed where he was. The instant the staring faces of the people outside were shut out, Savino charged, the patrolman a stride behind. Johnny grabbed Savino and held him out at arm’s length, using him as a buffer against the sap in the policeman’s big hand. “Get him, Collins,” Savino grunted, writhing in Johnny’s hands. Johnny tightened his grip and Savino swore hoarsely. Behind him Patrolman Collins prowled ineffectually, trying to get at Johnny past the barrier of Savino’s body. Their heavy breathing filled the van.

  A sharp left turn staggered them up against the wall. The van slowed and Collins smothered a remark under his breath. As it stopped he hung the sap back on his belt, opened the back doors and stepped down. Johnny half-threw Savino at the doors and he staggered out into a sunlit yard. Johnny followed cautiously and found himself in a hollow square of public buildings with thousands of windows looking down upon the open space. He relaxed for the first time in minutes. This kind of trouble didn’t usually come in the open and the sunlight.

  The driver swung down off the front seat, a folded canvas stretcher under his arm. His stolid expression turned foolish at sight of all three of his passengers on their feet. He hurriedly stuffed the stretcher back inside the van.

  Back entrance double-doors were spaced at regular intervals around the square. A blue light marked Police Headquarters. “Get inside,” Patrolman Collins said curtly. His hands were empty. A raging Savino almost sprinted to the door. Johnny moved quickly to keep him within reach. Savino might be allied with the police but he was still Johnny’s passport. The moment Johnny was maneuvered into laying a hand on the police rather than on Savino the situation would become a lot stickier.

  He followed on Savino’s heels down a long, polished-stone corridor. Closed doors on both sides bore silver-lettered glass panels labeled City Engineer, City Clerk, City Health Department, City Council Meetingroom, City Tax Office. Savino’s pace outdistanced Collins and the van driver. A red neon arrow with the word POLICE beneath it pointed down a short flight of stairs. Savino ran down them with Johnny right behind him. They burst out into a brightly lighted room with a high desk behind which sat a hard-faced uniformed sergeant.

  Johnny made it his business to beat Savino to the desk. “I want to prefer charges against this man,” he said. He tossed the broken knife up on the desk. “That thing had four more inches on it when I took it away from him.”

  “I’ll prefer the goddamn charges,” Savino blurted thickly. His handsome features were pale with anger. Dried blood crusted a corner of his mouth. “Where’s Riley?” he demanded.

  The sergeant nodded silently to an unmarked door at the rear of the room. Savino wheeled and walked to it, entering without knocking. The desk man glanced back at the stairs as Collins and the driver rattled down them. “I brought ‘em in, Sarge,” Collins puffed. “Fightin’ on the street.” He pointed at Johnny. “He started it.”

  “He’s preferring charges against Savino,” the sergeant said. His face was expressionless. He held up the broken knife. “Claims he took this away from him.”

  “I didn’t see nothin’ like that,” Collins said. “First I saw this guy hit Savino in the mouth an’ flattened him.”

  “Then why’d you arrest Savino?” Johnny asked him. “Just to give him a shot at me in the van?”

  Cold blue eyes looked down on
Johnny from behind the high desk. “I don’t see any marks on you,” the sergeant said. “Any witnesses to your story?”

  “Three,” Johnny lied easily.

  The blue eyes shifted to Collins who looked suddenly uneasy. “I’m tellin’ you what I saw, Sarge.” He bore down heavily on the personal pronoun. “I didn’t—”

  He stopped as the door at the rear of the room behind which Savino had disappeared opened quickly. A big man in an impressive uniform filled the doorway. He was both tall and wide. There was barely enough room in the doorway to see Tommy Savino standing in the room behind him with a smirk on his face. Johnny looked at the scrambled egg motif on the big man’s uniform cap and the bulge of crumpled white shirt overflowing the belt buckle visible via the unbuttoned jacket. “What is it, McDonough?” the man in the doorway asked.

  “Street fight, Chief,” the desk sergeant replied. “Collins brought—”

  “Book that one,” the chief interrupted him, looking at Johnny for the first time. “I’ll talk to him later.”

  McDonough held up the broken knife. “He’s preferring—”

  “I said book him.” The chief left the doorway and headed for the stairs. Savino followed, grinning.

  “I guess right about here is where I get to make my phone call,” Johnny said to Sergeant McDonough. The sergeant cut his eyes toward the stairs. Johnny saw that the chief had halted on the second step. It wasn’t likely this crew would let him make an outside phone call but they should be curious as to whom he wanted to make it.

  There was no sound from the stairs. With no change of expression McDonough stood up behind the desk. He lifted a phone over the top of it and handed it down to Johnny, stand and all. “Make it snappy, pal,” he said.