I let a grin form on what I use for a face.
“You’re nice when you grin,” she said. “Sort of like a friendly Saint Bernard whose face has been chewed by a bulldog. Do you mind my saying that? You must know you’re not exactly handsome. But of course with those shoulders, you don’t have to be.”
As she seemed to require only occasional answers when carrying on a conversation, I contented myself with merely continuing to grin.
“Are you interested in me?” she asked suddenly.
“How do you mean? As a detective?”
“How else?” Then her eyes widened and she let out a healthy, spontaneous laugh. “Are you interested some other way? That might be fun.”
“I came to see your husband about his partner,” I explained.
All laughter faded from her eyes. “Willard?” I nodded, mildly intrigued by her use of Knight’s first name.
“What’s he done?” Her tone was intently serious.
I shrugged. “Nothing I know of. Except disappear.”
She studied me estimatingly and a faint trace of amusement reappeared in her eyes. “Going out of town on business is hardly disappearing.” Then she frowned. “At least Harlan said he was away on business.”
I remained silent.
“Harlan never lies. To me, anyway. I’d catch him in a minute.” Continuing to eye me, her tone gathered impatience. “What do you want to know about Willard?”
“Where he is.”
“Why?”
“Want to talk to him.”
She gripped one side of her lower lip between even teeth and watched me vexedly. “Is it a secret?” she asked finally.
“No, but I’d just as soon hold it till your husband comes home and not have to repeat myself.”
She fell silent and thought wrinkles momentarily marred the smoothness of her brow. Then, lifting her shoulders deprecatingly, she said, “Will you have a drink?”
I nodded assent. “Been waiting for an offer.”
Her good humor returned at once. “You should have asked.” She rose and moved toward the hall, stopping in the doorway long enough to remark, “I forget everything else when I’m talking. I talk too much, don’t I?”
“Probably,” I said. “But it’s fun listening.”
She laughed and continued toward the back of the house. Immediately she returned.
“What do you drink?” she asked.
“What do you have?”
“Beer. Bourbon. Scotch.”
Without rye as a choice, I have no preference. But for some reason, possibly because the whole atmosphere surrounding Mrs. Jones was slightly mad, a slightly mad mixture I had not tasted for years popped into my mind. Once overseas I fell heir to a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of Scotch at the same time, and talked myself into thinking a mixture of the two tasted like rye. Probably a palate attuned to raw cognac and a three-year-dimmed memory of rye helped the delusion, but I liked the mixture. I hadn’t tried it since.
“Half a shot of bourbon, half a shot of Scotch, and plain water,” I said.
Her eyes widened. Then she laughed delightedly like a child with a new toy and returned to the kitchen. She had been gone about two minutes when I heard the front door open and close again.
A round little fat man carrying a carton of cigarettes came in from the hall. He stopped short when he saw me, then advanced diffidently.
I got out of my chair. “You Mr. Jones?”
“Yes.”
“Manville Moon,” I said, sticking out my hand. “I phoned earlier.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Moon.” He pumped my hand delightedly, and I got the impression he was quickly appraising the cut of my clothes in an attempt to size up my bank-roll.
Apparently my attire pleased him, for he beamed at me happily. But since the hundred and fifty dollars I paid for the suit I was wearing bore no resemblance to the size of my bank account, I decided to deflate his optimism before he sold me a block of General Motors.
“I took advantage of you over the phone,” I said. “I’m not in the market for stocks. I just wanted some fast information about Willard Knight.” For the fourth time I passed over my license.
His eyes grew round. “Private investigator.”’ he said uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand.”
Mrs. Knight came back into the room, bearing a tray with two glasses. “Are you back, Harlan? This is Mr. Moon. He’s a private eye. Isn’t that exciting?”
I winced, as I always do when anyone calls me a private eye.
“Yes,” Jones started to say. “We’ve — ”
“We’re having a new drink,” she interrupted. “Scotch and bourbon mixed. Go make yourself one.”
“I don’t want a drink,” Jones said petulantly.
“Suit yourself.” She handed me one of the glasses, took the other herself and curled up in a chair with her legs under her.
Easing myself back into my own chair, I said, “Luck,” and tried a sip of the drink.
It did not taste like it had overseas. In fact it tasted lousy.
“That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Jones thrilled after her first sip. “Wherever did you discover it?”
“It was invented on the Continent,” I said with a straight face.
“See here,” Jones put in suddenly. “What’s all this about?”
His wife looked at him in surprise. “I told you. Scotch and bourbon. Why don’t you sit down? You make me nervous.”
“I mean this private investigator business. Mr. Moon here.”
He looked at us both in pouting uncertainty, then laid down his carton of cigarettes and seated himself on the couch. Immediately he picked up the carton again, broke it open and stripped the cellophane from a pack.
“Cigarette?” he asked.
“No thanks,” I said, then to Mrs. Jones, “Mind cigar smoke?”
“Love it. I like to see a man smoke a cigar.”
After politely holding a match for Jones and lighting up myself, I abruptly got to the point of my visit.
I said, “I’m here about the murder that took place last night, Mr. Jones.”
“Isn’t he dramatic?” his wife asked. Then her face stiffened and she said in a strangely hushed voice, “Not Willard?”
“He means Walter Lancaster, I presume,” Jones told her with mild impatience. To me he said, “I’ve already told the police everything I know about the man. What is it you want with me?”
“I want you to tell me where Knight is.”
He looked surprised and a little relieved. “I don’t know. Our secretary phoned his wife this morning when he didn’t come in, and Mrs. Knight said he left town to see a prospect. She didn’t seem to know where he went. Why don’t you ask her?”
“I did. She doesn’t know either.”
Mrs. Jones said, “No doubt he will wire in tomorrow. Can’t you wait?”
“No, he won’t wire,” I said. “He’s run.”
Nervously Jones punched out his cigarette. “I don’t understand this, Mr. Moon. Is Knight suspected of the crime?”
I shrugged. “Not exactly. But a few hours before the murder he threatened Lancaster, and now he’s dropped out of sight. When his wife last saw him, he was in a peculiar hurry. And he definitely was not where he told his wife he was last night. You established that on the phone.”
Mrs. Jones said, “Willard couldn’t have. Why he was …” Her voice trailed off and she finished lamely, “You have mentioned he has a temper though, haven’t you, Harlan?”
Abruptly she rose, excused herself and left the room.
Jones said, “This is all a great shock to me, Mr. Moon. But I’m sure my partner wouldn’t kill anyone. There must be some other explanation for his absence.”
“I haven’t accused him of murder,” I said. “I merely want to find him. And since you know his habits, maybe you can give me a lead. Where would he go to hide out?”
“Hide out? I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“He have a summer camp or
a cottage anywhere?”
He moved his head back and forth slowly. “No. I’m sure he hasn’t.”
“Have friends in other cities?”
He screwed up his forehead and thought for a while. “No one special I can think of,” he said finally. “But I suppose he has some out-of-town friends.”
Mrs. Jones came back into the room carrying a single drink. “I fixed you one of the new drinks,” she told her husband, handing him the glass.
He accepted it as though he didn’t want it, but didn’t know how to refuse before company. As Mrs. Jones passed between us on the way back to her chair, she casually dropped a note in my lap, her body hiding the movement from her husband. Without looking down, I let one palm fall across it.
“You seem to know Knight as well as your husband does,” I said to Mrs. Jones. “Any idea where he’d hole up if he didn’t want to be found?”
“I’m sure Harlan knows him much better than I,” she said in a suddenly prim tone. “I know him only as my husband’s partner.”
“All right. As your husband’s partner, where would he go to hide?”
“I’m sure I have no idea.”
I got out of my chair, slipping the note in my pocket as I rose. “I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for the drink.” The drink stood, practically untouched, on the little cocktail table.
Jones said, “I’m afraid we haven’t helped much.”
“You’ve been fine,” I said politely, and bowed my way out.
9
A block from the house I pulled my car over to the curb, switched on the dome light and read the note Mrs. Jones had dropped in my lap.
It said: “Meet me at the Sheridan Lounge at eleven P.M..” Nothing more, not even a signature.
My wrist watch said a quarter of nine, and the Sheridan Lounge is in the basement of the Sheridan Hotel, just two blocks from where I was parked. If I hurried I could make it by eleven, I thought dourly.
I frowned down at the note, mildly irritated by its terseness. I was in no mood for clandestine romance, if that was what the woman had in mind. But if she had some information about Knight, I could hardly afford to stand her up. Her tone had seemed over-insistent when she said, “I know him only as my husband’s partner,” which might indicate she knew something she was unwilling to disclose in front of Mr. Jones, or might merely be one of the oddly vapid utterances she routinely made without apparent thought.
Resignedly I decided the only way to find out was to be at the Sheridan Lounge at eleven. And since I had not taken time to so much as wash my hands and face since I left my flat at one, I decided to employ the two and a quarter hours before my date to wash and change my shirt.
As no garage comes with my flat, I keep my Plymouth at a public garage up the street. At nine I put my car away for the night and started to walk to my apartment, deciding to take a taxi for my date. I can only drive a car so long before the strain on my thigh muscles caused by operating the accelerator with my false foot begins to cause my thigh to ache.
As I passed the areaway between my place and the building next door, a dim figure stepped from between the buildings and a hand flash shone in my face. Immediately it flicked out again.
“Night watchman,” explained a cheery voice.
Peering through the gloom, I made out a big, chunkily built man with a battered but good-natured face.
“You must be new. What’s the matter with Jim?”
“Sick. You’re Mr. Moon, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Idly I wondered why he wasn’t in uniform, since the block’s regular night watchman was a deputized member of the force. I should also have wondered how he knew my name, but his cheery manner threw me off guard.
The man touched his cloth cap. “Bit dark tonight. Evening, sir.”
“Night,” I said, and walked on two steps.
What felt like a baseball bat, but was probably the flashlight, caught me behind the ear.
I didn’t black out; I only lost the ability to control my arms and legs. Falling forward, I landed on hands and knees, and when a big hand grasped my collar and dragged me into the areaway, I was powerless to do anything about it.
Leaning me against the side of the building in a sitting position, the big man peered down at me with a grin. I gazed up at him stunned, unable to move either arm.
“I ain’t gonna kill you,” the man said. “Just make you even uglier than you are. And when you wake up, remember to stay out of Barney Seldon’s hair. Got that?”
I tried to shake my head, but it only lolled forward.
“I guess you got it,” he decided. “Now I’ll learn you how to kick a field goal.” Tentatively he swung his right foot to limber it up, and added, “Your head is the ball.”
Apparently he was satisfied that he was in kicking shape. With a kind of morbid fascination I watched his foot swing back and his body lean forward to balance it.
My eyes were fixed on the foot, and as it reached the peak of its backswing, a hand snaked from the darkness and clamped about the ankle. The foot went even higher than it intended, the fake watchman’s mouth popped open in surprise and he fell flat on his face.
Before he could scramble as far as his hands and knees, a long lanky form settled in the middle of his back and the new arrival slashed downward with the edge of one palm.
Farmer Cole arose, ran his tongue along the edge of his buckteeth and regarded me without expression. “He got you with a rabbit punch,” he said. “Paralyzed, aren’t you?”
I managed a thick, “Yes.”
“It’ll pass in a minute.”
He stood watching both of us without any particular interest until feeling began to return to my limbs. When my arms and legs would again work, I felt the lump behind my ear and shakily climbed to my feet. Unreasonably I felt irritation rather than gratitude at the Farmer’s sudden appearance.
“You been tailing me?” I asked.
“How do you think I got here?” he said in a bored voice.
This only increased my unreasonable anger. I had always been proud of possessing almost a sixth sense about being tailed, but I had not had an inkling of a suspicion that the Farmer was within miles. Suddenly remembering the equally timely appearance he had made in Carson City, I realized he had been right behind me all day.
“When I need a nursemaid, I’ll let you know,” I said between clenched teeth.
He glanced down at the still unconscious strong-arm man, raised one eyebrow and shrugged. “Boss’s orders, Bud. Personally I don’t care who busts you up. Wouldn’t mind doing it myself.”
“That I’d like to see,” I said, staggering forward and thrusting out my jaw.
“Okay,” he obliged, planting either a right or a left hook on it.
I am not sure which because I didn’t see it.
When I was able to get to my feet the second time, Farmer Cole was nowhere in sight. Shaking the cobwebs out of my brain, I frisked my first assailant, who had progressed to the point of groaning and rolling over on his back.
The guy had come prepared for any contingency. Removing from his pockets a gun, a clasp knife, a set of brass knuckles and a sap, I stacked them in a neat pile a dozen feet away. When I returned, he was sitting up rubbing the back of his neck.
I waited until he had fully recovered his faculties and was on his feet. I figured the blow from Farmer Cole’s edged palm had about the same effect on him the flashlight had on me, and his head must be throbbing with about the same intensity as mine. The right (or left) hook I had taken from the Farmer made the punishment I had absorbed more than the fake watchman’s, however, a matter I felt it necessary to rectify.
He glanced around carefully and asked, “Where’s the other guy?”
“Gone,” I said. “There’s just you and me.”
He allowed a delighted smile to form on his battered lips. “How come you didn’t take off too?”
“Curiosity,” I told him. “I want to see if you can do it w
hen my back isn’t turned.”
He shook his head wonderingly. “I’m almost ashamed to do it, Bud. I got thirty pounds on you, and I used to be a professional.”
“So was I,” I admitted modestly.
“Aw, let’s call it off,” he said. “Shake on it.”
He stuck out a huge right, I grinned and pretended to reach for it. Instantly his left whistled toward my head, I stepped inside, pushed a right jab into his belly, followed with a left uppercut and right and left hooks to the jaw in rapid succession.
In his prime he couldn’t have been more than a tanker, and now he was getting soft. On the other hand I had once been fairly hot in the ring. Not nearly as hot as I thought at the time, now that I look back on it, but nevertheless better than the average club fighter. In spite of a false leg I still have most of my co-ordination, and it was no match. He was staggering like a drunk after the first flurry.
Ordinarily I am not sadistic, but Barney Seldon had ordered his goon to leave permanent marks, and I felt the least I could do in return was leave temporary ones. I could have put him away with the second hook, but I kept him awake and deliberately cut him to ribbons.
When he was ready for the hospital, I went up to my apartment and called a police ambulance. Then, while waiting for the ambulance to arrive, I phoned Warren Day again.
“Are you going to keep this up all night?” he demanded. “I don’t work on the night shift.”
“How does this strike you?” I asked, ignoring his complaint. “This evening before I called you the first time, I questioned Barney Seldon about the Lancaster killing. A little while ago one of his goons tried to beat me up.”
“How do you know it was his goon?”
“He took pains to inform me before he went to work. It was supposed to scare me out of Barney’s hair.”
“Hmm,” the inspector said. “Think I’ll talk to Barney again. Where’s the goon?”
“Outside waiting for an ambulance.”
“You preferring charges?”
“You’re damn right,” I said. “Against both the goon and Barney. We have enough local hoods to worry about without letting a couple of out-of-town punks get away with anything.”
Tweak the Devil's Nose Page 7
