‘Well, think again,’ I said, and stepped out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind me.
I’d got as far as the head of the stairs when she opened the door and screamed, ‘Donald, come back here!’
I went down the stairs in a rush. I heard her scream and run after me. I must have beat her to the lobby by a matter of seconds. I started through the door. A car was parked in front of the place with two men seated in it. They weren’t the two plain-clothes men who had been there earlier. The way in which they looked up as I came out showed what they were.
I pretended not to see them, crossed to an auto-mobile, got in, and stepped on the starter, leaning forward as I did so, so that my head was lowered almost below the line of the windows.
She came dashing out to the street, looking up and down, her face showing puzzled bewilderment as she saw I was nowhere in sight. She started to run toward the corner. The officers exchanged glances. One of them climbed leisurely from the car. ‘Looking for something?’ he asked.
She turned to look at him-and knew.
‘I thought I heard someone yell fire,’ she said. ‘Is there a fire?’
The officer said, ‘You’re dreaming, sister.’
To my surprise the ignition wasn’t locked. The motor of the car I was in throbbed to life.
I straightened up. She caught sight of me then, and stood there with the eyes of the officer on her, powerless to do anything.
I’ll hand it to her. She played the one card that would have got her by. Her lips quivered, and she said, ‘I’m awfully n-n-nervous this morning. My husband was m-m-murdered.’
I saw tension go out of the officer’s frame. ‘That,’ he said sympathetically, ‘is too bad. May I see you up to your apartment?’
I drove away.
Chapter 11
I REGISTERED at the Perkins Hotel as Rinton C. Watson of Klamath Falls, Oregon. I got a room with a bath and asked the bellboy to have the captain step up to the room for a minute.
The captain had that smirk of simulated deference which characterizes pimps, panderers and procurers the world over. He thought he knew what I wanted before I’d said a word.
‘You aren’t the one I want,’ I said.
‘I can do anything for you that any of the others can.’
‘No, it’s not that. I want to see a man, an old friend.’
‘What was his name?’
‘I think,’ I said, ‘it’s been changed.’
He laughed. ‘Tell me what it was, and I may know it.’
‘You would if I told you,’ I observed, letting him see suspicion in my eyes.
He quit laughing. ‘There are three of us on duty,’ he said.
‘Live here in the hotel?’ I asked.
‘I do. I have a room down in the basement. The others live out’
‘This man,’ I said, ‘is about twenty-five, with very thick black hair. It comes down low in the center of his forehead. He has a short, stubby nose and slate-colored eyes.’
‘Where’d you know him?’ he asked.
I deliberated for a while before I said, ‘Kansas City.’
The answer registered. The bell captain made a gesture of cooperation. ‘That’s Jerry Wegley. He comes on duty at four this afternoon and works until midnight.’
‘Wegley,’ I mused.
‘That the name you knew him under?’ the captain asked curiously.
I hesitated perceptibly before saying, ‘Yes.’
‘I see.’
‘Where could I reach him?’
‘Here, after four o’clock.’
‘I mean now.’
‘I might find out his address-perhaps you’d like to talk with him over the telephone.’
‘I’d have to see him,’ I said. ‘I was going under another name when he knew me’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Do that,’ I said, and locked the door as he went out. I took the money corset out of my belt and started taking out fifties and hundreds. There was eight thousand four hundred and fifty dollars in all. I put the bills in four rolls, distributed them in my trousers pockets, and rolled the corset-belt into a compact bundle.
The bellboy came back. ‘It’s Brinmore Rooms,’ he said. ‘If Jerry isn’t glad to see you, don’t tell him where you got the information.’
_ I gave him a fifty-dollar bill. ‘Could you,’ I asked, ‘bring me forty-five dollars in return for this?’
His face broke in a cheerful grin. ‘Surest thing you know,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back with the forty-five in five minutes.’
‘Bring me a newspaper, too,’ I told him.
When he returned with the forty-five dollars and the newspaper, I wrapped up the corset-belt and walked out of the hotel. I went to the Union Depot, sat down on one of the benches for a few minutes, then got up and walked away, leaving the newspaper-wrapped parcel on the seat.
From the branch post office I purchased a stamped envelope and a special delivery stamp. I addressed the envelope to Jerry Wegley, Brinmore Rooms, tore a page of newspaper into strips, folded some of the strips into the envelope, sealed it, and took a taxicab to the Brinmore Rooms.
The Brinmore Rooms consisted of a door on the street level, a flight of stairs, a little counter with a call bell, a register, and a fly-specked pasteboard placard with the words ‘Ring for Manager’ printed on it. I rang.
When nothing happened, I rang again. After another ten seconds, a thin-faced woman with a gold-toothed smile came out to see what I wanted.
‘Special delivery letter for Jerry Wegley,’ I said. ‘You want to take it in to him?’
‘No, he’s in 18, straight down the hall,’ she said shortly, folding her lips back down over her gold teeth and slamming the door of her room behind her as she turned back.
I went on down to 18, knocked three times gently on the door, and got no action. I tried to insert a knife blade along the side of the lock, and decided after five minutes that I was a failure as a burglar. I walked back down the threadbare carpet to the counter with its bell and register, lifted up the hinged gate in the counter, and looked around on the inside. There were a half dozen bundles of laundry, three or four magazines, and a pasteboard suitcase. I kept looking around and finally found what I wanted, a nail with a big heavy wire loop hanging on it. A chain hung from the loop, and the key dangled at the end of the chain. I took care to keep the chain from jingling against the wire as I took the key and walked back down the hall.
The passkey opened room 18 without any difficulty.
The bird had flown the coop.
There was some dirty underwear on the floor of the closet, a sock with a hole in the big toe, a rusty safety razor blade, and the stub of a lead pencil.
The bureau drawers yielded nothing but a frayed necktie which had begun to pull apart in the center, an empty gin bottle and a crumpled cigarette package. The bed hadn’t been slept in since it had last been made, although the sheets and pillow cases looked about ready for the laundry.
The place was dingy, smelly, dejected, and deserted. The mirror over the cheap pine bureau threw back a faded, distorted reflection of my face.
I went back to the closet and looked the underwear over for laundry marks. I found an old X-B391. It was pretty well faded. The same number had been written more recently and in a different handwriting on the waistband of the shorts.
I made a note of the number, left the room, locked the door, and paused long enough in front of the counter at the head of the stairs to slide the wire hoop down under the counter where it would look as though it had fallen off the nail.
Jerry Wegley had the last laugh. I’d paid him twenty-five dollars to slip me a gun which was hotter than a stove-lid. Wegley went on duty at four o’clock in the afternoon and was off at midnight. He probably went to bed as a rule around two or three o’clock in the morning. This time he hadn’t gone to bed. Had it been because he’d learned what had been done with the gun he’d passed off on me?
I
didn’t know, and had no immediate way of finding out.
I waited on the street until a cruising cab came along, and went out to the airport. An aviator who made a specialty of chartering planes to bridal couples agreed to take me to Yuma, Arizona, and seemed surprised that I was making the trip alone.
Once in Yuma, I followed a plan of operation which I had rehearsed in my own mind so many times that it made me feel I was playing a part in a play.
I went to the First National Bank, went to the window marked ‘New Accounts,’ and said, ‘My name is Peter B. Smith. I’m looking for some investments.’
‘What sort of investments, Mr. Smith?’
‘Anything that I can turn to quick advantage and make a profit.’
The assistant cashier smiled. ‘A lot of people are looking for these same things, Mr. Smith.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘I don’t expect you to help me look, but if I find something, I’d appreciate having your reactions.’
‘You wish to open an account?’
‘Yes.’
I took two thousand dollars in cash from my pocket.
‘Where’re you going to live, Mr. Smith?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t got located yet.’
‘You come from the East?’
‘No, from California.’
‘Just got in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you have a business in California?’
‘Just sharpshooting,’ I said. ‘But I think California’s just about reached the maximum of its growth. Arizona has a long way to go.’
That was all the reference I needed. He made out a deposit slip, gave me a withdrawal card to sign, counted the two thousand dollars, and entered the amount in a deposit book. ‘Do you,’ he asked, ‘want a flat checkbook or a pocket checkbook?’
‘Pocket.’
He fitted a block of blank checks into an imitation leather folder stamped with the name of the bank, and handed it to me. I put it in my pocket, shook hands, and walked out.
I went to the Bank of Commerce, hunted up the new account man, gave the name of Peter B. Smith, shook hands, told him the same thing, and deposited two thousand dollars. I also rented a safety deposit box and put most of the balance of Sandra Birks’ money in there.
It was late afternoon by the time I’d secured a room, paid a month’s rent in advance, and explained to the landlady that my baggage would be along later.
I walked around town, sizing up the automobile agencies. I picked the one which looked as though it was doing the largest business, walked in, and asked to be shown a light sedan for immediate delivery. I told the salesman I was thoroughly familiar with the performance of the car, that what I wanted was an immediate delivery. I wanted a car that could start out and go. I’d prefer a demonstrator to a new car. He said he had a demonstrator he could have ready for the road in thirty minutes. I told him I’d be back. He asked if I wanted to buy it on contract, and I said no, I’d pay for it in cash. I whipped the checkbook from my pocket, asked the total amount that would be due, and wrote a check for one thousand six hundred and seventy-two dollars.
I signed the check and said, ‘This is my first day in Yuma. I am going to be in business here. You don’t know of any good investments, do you?’
‘What sort of investments?’
‘Things where a man can put a little money, figure on a quick turn-over, and large profit with no risk.’
It spoke volumes for his credulity that he stopped and gave the matter frowning concentration for several seconds before he shook his head slowly. ‘No, I don’t know of anything like that right now, but I’ll keep you in mind, Mr. Smith. Where are you going to be staying?’
I made a show of trying to recall the address, said, ‘I have rather a poor memory at times,’ and fished the rent receipt from my wallet. I held it so he could see the name of the apartment house. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I know the place. Well, I’ll keep in touch with you, Mr. Smith.’
‘Do that,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour, and I want to be ready to roll.’
I went out to a restaurant, ordered the biggest steak on the menu, and polished it off with mince pie k la mode. I went back to the automobile agency to pick up the car. They had pinned my check to the top of a pile of papers.
‘You’ll have to sign your name here two or three times,’ the salesman said.
I noticed that someone had written in indelible pencil in the upper left-hand corner of my check the word ‘Okay,’ followed by the initials ‘GEC.’ I signed the name Peter B. Smith two or three times, shook hands all around, climbed in the car, and drove out. I went directly to the First National Bank. It lacked about fifteen minutes of closing time. I went to the counter and drew a sight draft on H. C. Helmingford for five thousand six hundred and ninety-two dollars and fifty cents. I drew a counter check for one thousand eight hundred dollars. I went to the cashier’s window and said, ‘I’m Peter Smith. I opened an account here today. I was looking for some investments. I have found one which is going to require immediate cash. I have here a sight draft drawn on H. C. Helmingford. I want this presented to him through the Security National Bank of Los Angeles. It will be honored immediately on presentation. I want it rushed.’
He took the draft and said, ‘Just a minute, Mr. Smith—’
‘It isn’t necessary,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to give me any credit on this. Simply handle it as a collection. Have your Los Angeles correspondent wire back at my expense.’
He gave me a receipt for the draft. ‘And you wanted some cash?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, and handed him the counter check for eighteen hundred dollars, looking at my watch as I did so.
He said, ‘Just a minute,’ stepped back to the bookkeeping department to verify the balance and my signature. He hesitated for a moment, then came back and asked, ‘How do you want this, Mr. Smith?’
‘In hundreds,’ I said.
He gave me the money. I thanked him, drove over to the Bank of Commerce, got into my safety deposit vault, and put the eighteen hundred dollars in with the other money in there. Then I climbed in the car, drove out of town and crossed the bridge over the Colorado River into California. I parked the car for about half an hour, sitting there smoking and letting my dinner digest. Then I started the motor and drove on the few yards that brought me to the California quarantine station over on the right-hand side of the road.
Under the guise of maintaining an agricultural inspection, the California authorities stop every car, search it, unpack baggage, fumigate blankets, ask questions, and inconvenience the motorists as much as possible.
I swung in close to the checking station. A man came out to look me over. I yelled at him, taking care to run the words all together so that he couldn’t hear anything except the jumble of sound as I stepped on the gas. He signalled for me to pull into the unloading platform, and I gave the car everything it had.
A couple of hundred yards down the road, my rear-view mirror showed me that a motorcycle officer was kicking the prop out from under his wheels.
I started traveling.
The motorcycle officer came roaring out from the checking station and my car started going places. I heard the siren swell into noise behind me, and let it get close enough so the sound of it helped clear traffic ahead. The officer didn’t reach for his gun until after we’d got pretty well into the drifting sand hills. When I saw he was getting ready to shoot, I pulled over to the side and stopped.
The officer wasn’t taking any chances on me. He came up alongside with the gun pushed out in front. ‘Stick ‘em up,’ he said.
I stuck ‘em up.
‘What the hell’s the idea?’
‘What idea?’
‘Don’t pull that line with me.’
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘you’ve got me. This is a new car. I just bought it in Yuma. I wanted to find out how fast it would go. What does the judge soak me, a dollar a mile over the legal limit?’
‘
Why didn’t you stop in at the quarantine station?’
‘I did. The man motioned for me to go on.’
‘The hell he did. He motioned for you to pull in and stop.’
‘I misunderstood him,’ I said.
‘You bought this car in Yuma, eh? Where?’
I told him.
‘When?’
I told him.
‘Turn around,’ he said. ‘We’re going back.’
‘Back where?’
‘Back to the checking station.’
‘Like hell we are. I’ve got business in El Centro.’
‘You’re under arrest.’
‘All right, then, take me before the nearest and most accessible magistrate.’
‘How’d you pay for this car?’ he asked.
‘With a check.’
‘Every hear anything about the penalty for issuing bum checks?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said.
He said, ‘Well, buddy, you’re going right back across the bridge into Yuma. The man that sold you this car wants you to answer some questions about that check. You thought you were being pretty cute, but you were just about fifteen minutes too early. They managed to get the check down to the bank before it closed.’
‘Well, what of it?’
He grinned. ‘They’ll tell you about that when you get back there.’
‘Back where?’
‘Back to Yuma.’
‘For what?’
‘For issuing a bum check, for obtaining property under false pretenses, and probably a couple of other charges.’
‘I’m not going back to Yuma,’ I said.
‘I think you are.’
I reached down and twisted the ignition key. ‘I know my rights,’ I said. ‘I’m in California. You can’t take me back across into Arizona without extradition.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Like that, is it?’
‘If you want to make it that way.’
He nodded. ‘All right, brother. You want to go to El Centro. Go ahead. We’re going there. Keep within the legal limit. I’ll be right behind you. Forty-five’s the legal limit. I’ll allow you fifty. At fifty-one I start shooting your tires. Do you get me?’
‘You can’t arrest me without a warrant,’ I said.
The Bigger They Come Page 16