by Carter Brown
“I’d be grateful, Sheriff, if you’d stop telling me I know how things are,” I snapped. “It seems to me you spent most of the time while I was in here during the early hours of this morning telling me I know how things are, over and over!”
“I’m sorry, Wheeler.” He pushed his chair back a couple of inches. “Please accept my apologies.”
For a moment there, I couldn’t believe I’d heard him right. But one look at his face confirmed my hearing was a hundred percent. All the jowls were quivering apologetically, and the overall picture was as near to humble as Lavers could ever get.
“What else has been happening?” I asked conversationally.
“Nothing much. I’ve put a tail on Kingsley, Cordain, and Strachan. If any one of them tries to leave town, they won’t get far.”
“Dana and Fisher?” I said. “Any leads yet?”
He shook his head regretfully. “I’ve had a couple of patrol cars up around Bald Mountain all day, asking questions, but they haven’t come up with anything so far.”
“When is Polnik’s funeral?”
“Day after tomorrow. Everything’s organized—guard of honor—all the details taken care of, Wheeler.”
I got a feeling of sudden panic inside, as I watched the identical kind of synthetic grin spread across his face as had spread across Annabelle’s face. Only with all Lavers’s jowls, it took a hell of a lot longer to reach where it was going.
“I guess there’s nothing you can do right now, Al. Why don’t you go home and take it easy?”
“I’ve just done that, remember?” I bared my teeth at him. “The last time you organized a kind of Gestapo medical outfit to knock me out cold, then sent me home in an ambulance!”
“You did say, no hard feelings, Wheeler!” His face turned a muddy-gray color. “Remember?”
“Sure.” I nodded. “But you can always have too much of a good thing, right?”
“Right!” he said quickly.
“I mean, you know how things are, Sheriff?”
“Right!”
“And you also know how it is, too?”
“Of course,” he said in a shaking voice.
In the eight-odd hours I had been knocked out, the whole world had suddenly gone raving mad. I sat there in silence for maybe thirty seconds and just watched the sheriffs face. During that time, he seemed to pass from a state of abject fear into one of stark terror. Then, someplace in the back of my mind, a nasty thought began to gnaw its way through.
“Are you scared of me, Sheriff?” I asked mildly.
“Scared of you, Wheeler?” He pressed his palms together, with the fingers interlocked tight, to try and stop his hands from shaking. “That’s ridiculous! Why would I be afraid of you?”
“But you are,” I said slowly. “And so was Annabelle Jackson, too. If I’d said about one-tenth of the things I’ve said to you this afternoon, at any other time before, you would have hurled me bodily out of your office!”
“Come, come, Lieutenant!” His laugh was reminiscent of a dying swan being parboiled alive. “I’m not that hard a man to get along with!”
“Up until now, you could have fooled me,” I said truthfully. “Doc Murphy didn’t load that hypodermic with the wrong drug, by any chance? I mean, instead of giving me a powerful sedative, he gave me something totally different?” I leaned forward in my chair. “Something experimental, maybe? Something he hasn’t tried out on any human being up until now, because he’s not sure it won’t induce the Jekyll-and-Hyde syndrome?”
“Wheeler! What a fantastic imagination you have!” He jerked the handkerchief out of his top pocket and mopped his face with it vigorously. “Of course not! We’re only concerned with your health, after the great strain you’ve been through, is all.”
“The transcript of the Stensen trial!” I suddenly remembered. “Did that come through yet?”
“Why, yes!” Lavers almost shouted, then scrabbled through the papers on his desk, and tossed me a bulky manila envelope. “Why don’t you take it home with you right now and read it through? Maybe it contains the vital clue we’ve all been looking for.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I might just do that.”
Annabelle Jackson pretended she didn’t see me when I came out of Lavers’s office, but I figured she did. There must have been some good reason for her sudden reaction. One moment she was just sitting there, typing away furiously, and the next moment she had suddenly turned side-on in her chair, locked her ankles tight, pushed her face down onto her thighs, and wrapped both arms tight around her knees. I walked out into the street to pick up the car from where it had been parked since early morning and had the nasty feeling that maybe I was some kind of a plague that everybody knew about, except me.
I went back to the apartment and settled down with a bottle of Scotch at my elbow and the transcript of the Stensen trial in front of me. It was dark by the time I had finished reading it, and my stomach was starting to tie itself in knots as a kind of masochistic lesson to the rest of me.
I made myself another drink, so I could try and ignore the hunger pains, and still couldn’t believe what I had just read. No wonder the judge had some scathing remarks to say about the conduct of the defense! Up until the last quarter of the trial, it looked like no jury in its right mind would even consider finding Stensen guilty. Then suddenly, Kingsley seemed to lose all interest. He let the prosecutor, and some of his witnesses, get away with testimonial murder. When one of his own witnesses—and it happened on at least three separate occasions during the trial—told the prosecutor a completely different story from the one he had told the defense, Kingsley hadn’t even bothered with any redirects. On several occasions the judge had pointedly asked him if he wished a redirect, and Kingsley had refused. Twice, in the closing hours of the trial, the judge had taken Kingsley to task in the interests of his own client. There was only one obvious answer: Kingsley had deliberately thrown his client to the wolves. Why? I wondered fleetingly if Stensen was sitting his cell in the state penitentiary wondering the same thing. Then the phone rang.
“Al? This is Ed Sanger, from the crime lab,” a familiar voice said. “I don’t have to tell you how we all feel about Sergeant Polnik!”
“You don’t,” I said, “but I appreciate you trying, Ed.”
“One of the boys has just come up with something. We took bloodstain samples from the floor of the room inside the shack where Sergeant Polnik was killed.” His voice warmed a little. “We took a lot of samples, Al. In fact, we would have taken that whole goddamn shack right down to a pile of wood shavings if we’d thought it could help! So it’s taken time to analyze and classify each and every bloodstain sample. Every one of them proved to an O group classification, which was Sergeant Polnik’s classification. Therefore, in reasonable logic, the stains were made by his blood.”
“You’re about the best lecturer I’ve ever heard over the phone, Ed,” I said patiently. “But how about coming straight to the mindbender, whatever it is?”
“It only happened a couple of minutes ago. We’ve just come up with an AB group classification!”
“It’s not possible it could be a mistake?” I said cautiously. “One of your boys didn’t cut his finger on a test tube, or anything?”
“No mistake,” he said confidently. “We ran it backward, forward, and sideways before I called you. You think Polnik maybe wounded the killer?”
“His gun wasn’t fired,” I said. “Thanks for the information, Ed, and I was right the first time when I called it a mindbender.”
“Any time, Al,” he said graciously.
“Have you see Doc Murphy at all today?” I asked in a real casual voice.
“A couple of times.” Sanger sounded puzzled. “You know if there’s something worrying that guy?”
“Why do you ask?”
“He looked so uptight! Kept looking over his shoulder about every third step, like he was expecting some monster from Outer Space to suddenly pulverize him into a fine s
pray of formaldehyde!”
“Is that right?” I said thoughtfully.
“Anyway, I should get back to the grindstone. See you around, Al.”
“Sure, Ed,” I said absently.
Two of them, my mind said as I hung up the phone. One is the decoy in the back room, and the other hides in the front room waiting for his friend to lure Polnik far enough down the hallway so he can sneak up in back of him and put three slugs into his cranium. Then afterward, one of them bleeds? Maybe the killer accidentally shot the decoy with a slug that missed Polnik. How could you miss at a range of under three feet? I thought the hell with it for the moment, picked up the phone again and dialed the sheriffs office.
“Not you again!” I rasped.
“Good evening, Lieutenant,” the bland voice of Patrolman Stevens said. “No twangs, I trust?”
“You’ll know when I’ve found a twang,” I said. “Because the next day you’ll be standing in the middle of an intersection with sixteen lanes of traffic coming at you, four different ways. What’s the last report you have from the tail on Kingsley?”
“I’ll check it out right away.” He was back on the line inside five seconds, I grudgingly noted. “He and his wife left the house about an hour ago by cab. They’ve just about ordered their dinner at the Flamingo Club by now, so it looks like they’re making a night of it.”
I thought about it for five seconds or so, then said, “Thanks,” before I hung up. The straight menu at the nearest chicken inn only took around twenty minutes from top to bottom, and it would keep my stomach quiet until breakfast time, I hoped. Then I drove out to the rented two-story white house, parked the car on the driveway, and rang the doorbell. The door opened maybe a whole two inches, and one magnified eye appeared in the crack.
“Oh! Good evening, Lieutenant.” The door swung open wide and Tyler stood there peering up at me anxiously through the thick lens of his rimless glasses. “I’m afraid both Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley have gone out for the evening.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said easily. “It was you I wanted to talk with, Mr. Tyler.”
“Oh?” The apple in his throat did a high kick. “Won’t you come in, Lieutenant?”
We went into the living room, and Tyler twitched in the center of the room for a while, until he decided that maybe the alcove bar would be the best place after all. In back of the bar, he seemed to shrink another couple of inches. Maybe it was a trick of perspective, his height relative to the bar top, or something.
“Can I make you a drink, Lieutenant?” he asked solemnly.
“Thanks. Scotch on the rocks, a little soda.”
“Now there’s a coincidence!” The magnified eyes swam in a tight little circle. “That’s exactly the same drink Mrs. Kingsley prefers.”
“I thought she preferred bourbon on the rocks,” I said. “That was what she was drinking yesterday afternoon.”
“You’ve caught me out in my little deception, Lieutenant!” He set up the glasses carefully. “I was only trying to be polite and friendly.”
I watched him make my drink, then carefully fill the other glass with straight lemon pop, recklessly topped off with one solitary ice cube.
“From what Adele was saying yesterday afternoon, I figured you had an expert knowledge about all her little preferences.” I gave him that knowing smirk which is the trademark of one fellow adulterer to the other. “Like a real intimate firsthand experience, Walt!”
For a moment there, he looked like he was about to have a coronary occlusion. “I assure you, Lieutenant,” he said shrilly, “that is totally untrue!”
“Ah, come on, Walt!” I put my elbows on the bar top and leaned the top half of my torso across it. “Adele told me herself. She doesn’t mind depriving Gerard for six months, but for herself it’s different. ‘Poor Walt isn’t that virile, exactly,’ she said, ‘but he’s an eager student.’”
He shrank back from me until his thin shoulders were pressed hard against the storage shelves on the far wall. His eyes, lens-distorted to twice their normal size, had a terrified pleading look in them.
“I don’t know why she’d tell you a lie like that.” He shook his head so violently his glasses nearly fell off. “It’s not true! And even apart from my loyalty to Mr. Kingsley”—his voice dropped to an eerie whisper—“an emotional or passionate involvement with Adele Kingsley would be unthinkable!”
Either he was the world’s best undiscovered actor, or he was telling the truth. I pulled myself back to my side of the bar top, and picked up my drink.
“I’m sorry about that, Walt,” I said. “I wonder why the hell she’d tell me a blatant lie like that?”
He eased his shoulders away from the storage shelves, and made a tentative lunge for his lemon pop. “There’s no accounting for that woman’s moods or actions,” he said tautly. “She tells so many lies, they sound more like the truth than the truth does, on those rare occasions when she tells it!”
“You’re the expert on the inner workings of the labor union, Mr. Kingsley tells me,” I said.
His chin lifted a couple of inches. “I don’t consider myself an expert, Lieutenant, but Mr. Kingsley is kind enough to consult me on such matters.”
“I’m trying to figure out some more of Adele’s truths or lies,” I said in a respectful voice. “If you’d help out, Mr. Tyler, I surely would appreciate it. She attributed all of her statements to you, of course.”
“I would be glad to, Lieutenant.” He settled his glasses more firmly on the bridge of his nose. “What do you wish to know?”
“When Stensen was convicted, it left the boss’s chair vacant. Cordain stepped in fast and filled it. The only other guy in the running was Joe Dana. Is that right?”
“Correct.” He nodded stiffly.
“You said Cordain was smarter than Dana, but Dana was a dangerous man to cross, so Cordain had better watch his step?”
“Correct.”
“It was Strachan who first approached the union about organizing his plant, because he wanted a kickback from the deal?”
The heavy lens flashed with indignation. “An absolute lie! Pure fantasy! That woman should have her tongue burned out with a red-hot iron!”
“Dana dropped out of sight in San Francisco a few days back, and Lou Fisher—who runs the union goon squad—along with him?”
“Correct!” His head jerked forward again.
“Dana is trying to persuade Strachan to stall his deal with Cordain long enough for him to force Cordain out of the union?”
“Adele knew that?” He sounded mildly surprised. “It’s perfectly correct.”
It wasn’t much, but it was something, I thought. Tyler had bought the first premise that never came from Adele, as coming from her. The hard part was to figure out how many more he would buy.
“Fisher could be playing both sides of the street. Ostensibly loyal to Dana, he could be Cordain’s spy planted right beside Dana, so he can report back everything to Cordain?”
“Oh, yes,” he nodded vehemently. “That’s a very real danger!”
“Mr. Kingsley accepted Cordain’s offer to support him and, at the trial, deliberately threw Stensen to the wolves?”
A pained expression showed up on Tyler’s face. “I would never put it so strongly as that, and I’m surprised Adele was so blunt. But, in essence, yes, it’s correct.”
“But the last thing Mr. Kingsley ever dreamed would happen was that he’d be disbarred later?”
“Absolutely, Lieutenant.” He looked like he was about to bust out crying. “It was a wicked thing, wicked!”
“How did it happen, exactly?” I asked casually. “I read a transcript of the trial, and Kingsley didn’t exactly come out smelling of roses, for sure. But even the judge’s acid comments wouldn’t be enough by themselves to get him disbarred, surely?”
“No, no! You’re right, Lieutenant. It needed much more than that. The evidence, and testimony, delivered against Mr. Kingsley at the hearing was formidable
. Someone obviously had obtained access to all the union’s secret files, and photostated every single document that could be used against Mr. Kingsley. Some witnesses, who had left California as much as ten years before, were brought in from the East Coast to testify against him. The whole thing was a nightmare, I assure you, Lieutenant!”
“Engineered by Hal Cordain?” I said softly.
His face froze. “There is no proof of that, no proof at all!”
“But you’re certain of it in your own mind!” I snapped. “He promised Mr. Kingsley the earth if he’d get rid of Stensen for him, and that Kingsley did. Then Cordain pulled the rug, by making sure he was disbarred, and after that it was a fact he had Kingsley at his mercy!”
“I’m not sure I should discuss this any further with you, Lieutenant.” He pressed the back of his hand tight against his mouth for a moment. “This enters into an entirely different field from the internal workings of the labor union. I think you should discuss this with Mr. Kingsley at some other time.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Call him, and tell him I’m here waiting to discuss the matter of his fall from grace, as engineered by Hal Cordain.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he quavered, “but they didn’t say where they were going.”
“The Flamingo Room,” I said, then checked my watch. “They should just about be through the entree by now.”
Chapter Eight
They came into the living room together, Caligula and his Empress, and they looked like they owned the whole world between them. Kingsley’s bald head shone brightly with reflected light from the overhead chandelier; his hooded eyes were serene, his tailoring magnificent, and the aroma of the fat cigar expensive. Adele eclipsed him without trying, in a body-hugging yellow dress with nothing or very little underneath, by the way her breasts moved freely beneath it, not to mention the outline of her buttonlike nipples against the fabric. As she moved, the dress dipped in between her thighs, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if she wasn’t wearing any pants, either. She was the sort of woman to make things more than convenient for herself.