An artificial leg, even a light one constructed of cork and aluminum instead of wood and steel, inclines toward cumbersomeness when used as a back-scratcher. But when you have just decided to get up, have managed to summon enough energy to throw off the covers and sit erect, but not quite enough to get out of bed entirely, and an itch develops in the small of your back, you cannot be choosy. It was awkward, but it felt good.
The door buzzer accomplished what would have required at least another five minutes of mental struggle to accomplish had it not sounded: it got me up.
Swinging my good left foot to the floor, I hopped to the bedroom door, shouted, “It’ll take me five minutes!” and hopped back to the edge of the bed again. I used the five minutes to strap on my leg, throw a handful of water in my face and dress to the extent of shoes, trousers and a colored T-shirt.
When I finally opened the door, I said to the man I found standing in the hall, “Sorry to keep you waiting. I sleep late on Tuesdays.”
I also sleep late on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, but felt it unnecessary to mention this.
The man probably weighed two thirty, and not an ounce of it was fat. He had a granite jaw and slow, sleepy eyes, and stood so straight he nearly leaned backward. The way he kept both hands in his pockets while he looked me over startled me for a moment, for my first thought was that he was training a concealed gun on me. But his pockets obviously contained nothing but hands. Apparently he was merely more comfortable that way.
He looked me over without saying anything for so long a time, I might have thought he was stunned with admiration had I been vain about my appearance. But years back, before I learned to fight just as dirty as the next guy, I once attacked a set of brass knuckles with my face, with the result I have a permanently bent nose and one eyelid which droops lower than the other. My face has never caused anyone to faint, but with my hair uncombed and my jaws unshaved, as they were now, I could make a sensitive woman scream if I put my mind to it.
When he had examined me in silence for what I considered a sufficient length of time unless he wanted to buy a ticket, I asked, “How did you ring the bell with your hands in your pockets? Use your nose?”
“You’re Mr. Manville Moon?” he asked, ignoring my wit.
I said I was.
“I’m Laurence Davis.”
If his name was supposed to mean something to me, I missed the cue. A few more moments of silence ensued, and I began to suspect he was going to sleep.
I said, “I could sublease you that spot, but I would have to charge high rent to compensate for the inconvenience of having to use the back door. It would be hard to get in and out the front way with you standing there all the time.”
“You’re a very funny man, Mr. Moon,” he said, slowly moving toward me with his hands still in his pockets.
There was nothing belligerent in his movement, but there was an air of inexorability about it. He had decided he wanted to come in, and the fact that he had to walk over me unless I moved didn’t deter him any. I stepped aside to avoid collision; he went past me with a kind of lazy ponderousness and took my personal easy chair. When he sat down, his hands came out of his pockets, he took off his hat and held it in his lap.
Right behind him came a tall, narrow man who must have been standing in the hall to one side of the door all the time, for this was the first I knew of his presence. He was about thirty-five and had a doughy face and teeth so bucked he could not quite bring his lips together. His build was along the lines of Abe Lincoln’s, and though he wore an obviously expensive blue serge, his gangling boniness made him look like a backwoods farmer dressed for church.
By the bulge under his arm I judged he was not a farmer, however. I tagged him as a bodyguard, and when he closed the door, leaned his back against it and simply waited, I was sure of it.
I waited too.
After a time the big man said, “Apparently my name didn’t ring a bell, Mr. Moon. I’m from across the river. Carson City, Illinois.”
It rang a bell now. The Laurence had thrown me, for in the newspapers he was generally referred to less formally as Laurie Davis. The political boss of Illinois he was reputed to be, though he had never personally held a higher public office than state representative. According to rumor his business interests were so varied and his political influence so wide, he could have ruled Illinois as a benevolent dictator in the manner of Huey Long, had his ambitions run along those lines. However, he was supposed to be square, concerned more with the welfare of his party than with personal aggrandizement, as demonstrated by his remaining in the state legislature for twenty years when presumably he could have gone to Congress, or even become governor.
Nevertheless he managed to collect enemies, and twice attempts had been made on his life. After the second attempt, about a year before, he had acquired his bucktoothed bodyguard.
Now that I had Laurie Davis placed, I also recognized the bodyguard. “Farmer” Cole was an ex-FBI man who was supposed to be so tough just his addition to the payroll decided the underworld group gunning for Davis to cancel their homicidal plans. The Farmer didn’t look particularly tough. With his startling white teeth in constant evidence, your first impression was that his mouth was open in awe. But the expression on his face was completely blank, and his eyes were as flat as those of a dead fish.
Some people you instinctively like, and some you instinctively dislike. I experienced neither emotion over Farmer Cole, but I did feel a strange watchfulness, as though we were two suspicious dogs examining each other with raised hackles. He must have got the same feeling almost at the same instant I did, for a flicker of cold interest appeared in his flat eyes. Apparently to demonstrate his superior muscular co-ordination, his hand suddenly flashed from his pocket, a cigarette was in his mouth and a lighted match was under it so rapidly the entire stunt was a blur of motion.
Smothering an impulse to applaud, I turned back to his boss. “I recognize you now, Mr. Davis. Out of your territory a little, aren’t you?”
“All the way out of it. Sit down, Mr. Moon. I dislike gazing upward.”
Accepting his invitation to sit in my own apartment, I examined him interestedly. There was a curious air of latent power about him, in spite of his sleepy appearance. While his expression was placid, there was no humor in him, and it would not have strained the imagination to visualize him nodding casually to his bucktoothed bodyguard, then sleepily watching the Farmer kill a man.
He said, “I came to you because I am out of my territory, Mr. Moon. I understand you were pesent when Walter Lancaster was killed last night.”
I admitted I had been. “As a matter of fact I was a suspect for a few minutes,” I added calmly.
“So I understand. However, I am just as satisfied as the police that you had nothing to do with the killing.
I’m not here to question you about last night, but to engage your services.”
I looked at him blankly.
“If this had happened in Illinois, I wouldn’t have to bother with private investigators, Mr. Moon. But over here my influence is nil. Walt Lancaster was a protégé of mine, and I want his killer caught. But if the police catch him, I won’t be able to control the situation. I want to get to the killer before they do.”
I said, “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
His eyes drooped half closed in his sleepy face. “I’m simply taking insurance, Mr. Moon. As far as I know Walt was an honest man and hadn’t an enemy in the world. But people don’t get murdered for nothing. If there was anything unsavory in Lancaster’s background, it will come out in the open the minute the police crack the case. That might reflect both on me and the party. I want to know the killer’s name and his motive before the police do, so I can plan some kind of action to counteract the unfavorable publicity, if any.”
I frowned at him. “You mean have Farmer Cole here rub him out and save the state a trial?”
Slowly his lids raised until his eye
s were wide open. “I don’t operate like a gangster, Mr. Moon,” he said in a soft voice. “And I don’t like the suggestion that I would.”
I don’t scare easily, or at least I like to imagine I don’t, but the big man’s quiet air of invincibility gave me the willies. And as usual when anyone begins to give me a sense of inferiority, I had to convince myself I was twice as tough as he was.
I said, “Quit making like Edwin G. Robinson and tell me what the hell you want.”
At a slight cough from the door, I turned my head to glance at the bucktoothed bodyguard. He simply looked at me, steadily and without expression. Had he advised me to show more respect for his boss, or made any remark at all, the effect would have been less deadly. But he simply looked, and I knew any time I wanted I could have any kind of fight I wanted: fists, guns or Bowie knives while we each held one end of a handkerchief in our teeth.
As though he hadn’t heard my remark, Davis went on. “I have no intention of doing anything to the killer. Not even turning him over to the police. I simply want to know what’s behind the killing before the public does. At least twenty-four hours before. After that you may turn the killer over to the police or let him go, whichever suits your fancy.”
“You suspect what’s behind it?” I asked.
He shrugged slowly. “Suspect is too strong a word. There is a bare possibility it may be something I wouldn’t want made public unless I announced it myself. If Walt was involved in anything shady, I want to be the one to unearth it. Unless it comes from me, it will be hard to convince the public the party didn’t know about it all along.”
“What is this thing you’re afraid of?”
He shook his head. “You’ll have to work in the dark. I wouldn’t even want it rumored unless I was sure. As a matter of fact I’m almost sure Walt Lancaster was scrupulously honest. But I don’t run risks.”
I said, “Let me get this straight. You simply want the killer’s name and motive? You don’t want him delivered to you?”
Again he shook his head. “I don’t even care to know where he is. I’m not after revenge, but simply taking a political precaution.”
Somewhere I sensed more than just that. I had an idea he had given me all the information he intended to, which amounted to exactly nothing, but I tried once more.
“Before you hired Farmer Cole to guard your body, a couple of people took pot shots at you, as I remember. Any chance Lancaster’s killer might be one of those people?”
“It’s a possibility,” he admitted without enthusiasm.
“Ever figure out who those people were?”
He shook his head.
“Ever suspect who they were?”
He regarded me from beneath sleepy lids. “You’re a persistent questioner, Mr. Moon. No evidence was ever turned up concerning the two attempts on my life. However, at the time I was bringing my influence to bear on cleaning up certain illegal rackets operating in my county. I managed to make it so uncomfortable for the racketeers involved, they finally moved to an adjacent county, where they’ve been operating ever since. If my plans work out, eventually I’ll run them right across the river to bother you people.”
“That will be nice for us,” I said. “Would you know the names of any of these racketeers?”
“The supposed ringleader is mentioned in the papers occasionally. Nothing has ever been proved.”
I admired his caution. He was not going to defame anyone’s character in front of witnesses unless he had documentary proof the guy had no character. But I am not so sensitive about slandering known hoods.
“Barney Seldon is sometimes mentioned in the papers,” I said.
“Yes. I’ve read about him.”
“Barney Seldon was also at El Patio last night. I saw the cops put the collar on him for later questioning.”
“Yes, I know. He was released after questioning, which means he at least satisfied the police he had nothing to do with Walt’s death.” He changed the subject by saying, “I’m willing to pay two thousand dollars plus expenses. One thousand now and one thousand if you deliver me the information at least twenty-four hours before it becomes public.”
“It’s a deal,” I said quickly, before he could change his mind. Then I said, “You mentioned you’re just as satisfied as the police that I didn’t shoot your protégé, but you don’t impress me as the type of person who makes snap judgments. What convinced you?”
“I talked to the eyewitness who saw the killer,” he said calmly.
I felt the hair rise along the back of my neck. In a cautious voice I asked, “Who was that?”
For the first time he almost smiled. “You know as well as I, Mr. Moon. And you don’t have to fear my making it public so the killer will know whom to eliminate. I’ve been a regular customer of El Patio for years and feel as friendly toward Miss Moreni as you do. Incidentally, it was Fausta who recommended you to me.”
I closed my eyes for a minute, wondering how many other people Fausta had told her story to in an effort to protect me, for knowing how Fausta’s mind worked, it was obvious to me she had deliberately placed me above suspicion in Laurie Davis’s eyes in order to make me safe from possible vengeance. At least she was consistent in her perjury, but if she continued repeating herself often enough, there was a fair chance the so-called “key witness’s” identity would get back to the killer.
I decided I had better speak firmly to Fausta.
4
I don’t think I have ever encountered a client as unwilling to impart information as Laurie Davis. The worst of it was, I had a feeling he could tell me exactly what he wanted me to look for, but preferred that I start the investigation cold without benefit of whatever theory he himself had. He reminded me of the kind of guy who refuses to tell his symptoms to the doctor because he wants the doctor to earn his money without help. Only the size of his fee prevented me from tossing his check back at him and advising him to solve his protégé’s murder himself. But two thousand dollars can compensate for a lot of temperament in a client.
About all I got from Davis was a little background material on Walter Lancaster, and even that contained nothing I could not have dug from a newspaper morgue had I wanted to take the time.
Prior to entering politics Lancaster had been legal advisor and vice president of the Illinois Telegraph Company at a salary of fifty thousand dollars a year. He had served no political apprenticeship, jumping from business into a key political position much in the manner of Wendell Willkie. He left a widow, a college-age son and an estate Laurie Davis estimated might run into two million dollars. Most of this, Davis believed, was in corporate stocks, as Walter Lancaster had been on the board of directors of four small corporations in addition to his primary job with the Illinois Telegraph Company, and presumably he would not have been elected to these boards unless he had substantial investments in the companies.
The only point on which Davis seemed willing to impart detailed information was the lieutenant governor’s business connections. He told me the four corporations on whose boards Lancaster had served were Rockaway Distributors (a wholesale magazine and news company), Ilco Utilities, Eastern Plow Manufacturers, Inc. and the Palmer Tool Company. All were Illinois firms.
Deciding I could get more information than my client had to offer from almost anyone I asked, including the shoeshine boy on the corner, I took Davis’s private phone number in Carson City and told him I would report the minute I had anything definite. After he and his gangling bodyguard departed, I shaved, dressed and cooked myself a combination breakfast and lunch, it then being nearly one P.M.
Instead of breaking my back going over ground already covered by the police, I decided the best place to start my investigation was to learn what they knew. And the best source for that was Warren Day.
While it would be padding the truth to say I ever look forward with pleasure to an interview with the inspector, I do derive a certain stimulation from our encounters. For eight years Inspector Warren Day
and I have maintained a co-operative agreement: I get in his hair and he gets in mine. A casual observer would think he hated my guts, which he probably does part of the time, but on the few occasions other division heads of the local police department have started pushing me around, Day has shooed them off like a mother hen protecting her young. I have never quite decided whether this phenomenon is due to some spark of affection for me he conceals under his crusty exterior, or whether he simply has me marked off for pushing around by the chief of Homicide only, and resents others poaching on his private game.
I found my scrawny friend in his office hunched over a sheaf of written reports. When I entered, he raised his skinny bald head to peer at me over his glasses and snarled, “Can’t you knock, Moon?”
I had anticipated finding him in a sour mood, for I guessed from his pixie attitude the previous night he did not realize what was in store for him in investigating Lancaster’s murder. But by now he would have received phone calls from the commissioner, the mayor, the governor, a couple of congressmen and a dozen other assorted public figures, all urging him to catch the assassin posthaste. He was used to pressure and usually could shrug it off, but a mere police inspector can’t shrug off that kind of pressure.
Had I not been convinced he was playing some kind of dangerous game with Fausta, I would have felt a little sorry for him, for since Day had become chief of Homicide, no one approaching Lancaster’s importance had been murdered in the city, and the amount of pressure he was already beginning to feel certainly must have appalled him.
But thinking of the radio release he had made caused me to snarl back at him, “What are you trying to pull on Fausta Moreni?”
The inspector only growled and returned to his reports. Sinking into a chair, I regained his attention by pinching a cigar from his desk humidor.
Tweak the Devil's Nose Page 3
