Fall Girl

by Deming, Richard

  Trouble comes in bright packages. Like Velda.

  Jim Horton knew she was trouble the minute he saw her. Maybe it was the way she swung her body when she walked. Or maybe it was the way she ran that little red tongue around her lips when she looked at him.

  And maybe it was the way she flirted with other men in front of her husband—as if he weren’t even there—as if he were already dead …

  FALL GIRL

  Richard Deming

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Edge of the Law

  Also Available

  Copyright

  for Birch

  CHAPTER I

  THE TALL man signed the registration card with a flourish, then examined the signature, “James Horton,” with satisfaction. It was a pleasant experience to be using his own name in a strange town.

  The girl behind the hotel desk picked up the card, entered the room number 414, and glanced up at him with what started out to be an impersonal smile. As often happened when women took their first thorough look at him, the smile didn’t remain impersonal. It broadened into a surprised grin of real welcome.

  James Horton was used to this reaction, though he had never quite understood it. While he had a pleasant enough face, he wasn’t at all handsome in the conventional meaning of the word. For one thing his broad, wide-nosed face was splashed with freckles. For another his coarse, sandy hair was so resistant to comb-and-brush discipline, he had given up the battle and wore it in a quarter-inch crew cut. For a third, his ears stuck out. But he was six feet three with unnaturally wide shoulders and a slim waist, and that alone was enough to make most women look twice.

  The girl asked, “Will you be staying with us long, Mr. Horton?”

  He studied her for a moment before answering. She was an attractive redhead with clear, milky skin and wide-spaced green eyes. In deference to the Hotel Lawford’s conservative atmosphere, she wore a severely-tailored gray suit, but it failed to conceal that she had a body designed to be shown off in low-cut evening gowns. He guessed her age at about twenty-five, five years younger than he was. She looked as though she might be worth cultivating.

  With a pleasant smile, he said, “I’m not sure, miss. Depends on how soon I find a permanent place to live.”

  “Oh, you’re moving to Rice City?” she inquired.

  “Just as a summer resident,” he said. “Hope to buy a home along the beach. I have an appointment with a real-estate man tomorrow to look at some places.”

  “Well, we’ll certainly be glad to have you here,” the girl said. Then, realizing there was an unnecessary amount of enthusiasm in her voice, she blushed.

  To cover her confusion, she looked toward the bell captain’s desk and called, “Front!”

  A bell-hop came over and picked up Horton’s bags.

  It was nine o’clock, Friday morning on June sixth when James Horton checked into the Hotel Lawford. By ten he had showered and changed to a freshly-pressed suit, and had descended to the lobby again.

  He was on his way to the front door when a startled feminine voice called, “Jim Horton!”

  Stopping, he turned to see a woman approaching him from the door of the coffee shop a few yards away. She was a tall, perfectly-formed brunette in her late twenties with jet-black hair framing delicate features in a pageboy bob. She was dark, with full, sensuous lips and almond eyes which gave her a slightly oriental look.

  He waited until she neared, gave her a warm but wary smile and said, “Hello, Belle.”

  She came to a halt a foot from him and examined him with a mixture of pleasure and speculation. “What in the world are you doing in Rice City?” she asked.

  “Thinking of making it my summer home,” he said. “I’ll return the question. The colonel with you?”

  She ignored the inquiry. “You staying here at the hotel?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  She touched the backs of fingers to her lips. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have yelled your real name across the lobby like that.”

  Horton grinned. “Why not? It’s the one on the register.”

  “Oh. You’re not here on business then?” Her voice sounded relieved.

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact. Legitimate business.”

  “You?” Belle asked with raised brows. “That I’ll believe when the colonel starts giving to charity.”

  “Fact, Belle. Thinking of buying a home on the river and settling down to a life of fishing.”

  The speculative look returned to Belle’s eyes. “A real estate deal, eh? Who’s the mark?”

  “I told you it’s strictly legitimate,” Horton said patiently. “I’ve retired.”

  She gave a disbelieving little chuckle. “Still as close-mouthed as ever, aren’t you? Do you think the colonel and I would try to chisel in?” She added quickly, “Don’t answer that.”

  Horton grinned at her.

  Belle laid a hand on his arm. “Honestly, Jim, you know I wouldn’t, even if the colonel wanted to. You don’t have to pretend with me. Don’t expect me to believe the top bunco artist in the profession is going legit.”

  He shrugged. “If it pleases you to think evil of your fellow man.”

  She dropped her hand from his arm. “Well, if you don’t trust me—”

  Horton interrupted dryly. “Where’s the colonel?”

  “Over at the Rafferty House. Only he’s demoted himself for the business at hand. He’s Major Herbert Walsh, U.S. Army, retired.”

  Horton gave his head a reproving shake. “Can’t you get him to drop the military titles, Belle? His M.O. sticks out like a chorus girl’s bust after every score. He might as well use his own name.”

  “You know Colonel Bob,” she said with a grin. “He’s not happy unless he’s playing the old soldier, prematurely put to pasture because of his honorable wounds. Incidentally, I’m Mrs. Belle Whitney here at the hotel. Room 727, in case you’re interested.”

  Automatically he threw her an intimate smile. Belle gave a mock tremble.

  “Don’t do that,” she said. “Even knowing you don’t mean it, it gives me shivers.”

  “Maybe I do mean it,” he said. “You know why I’ve always steered clear of you.”

  “The story was that the colonel’s a friend of yours,” she said petulantly. “And you don’t encroach on friends’ territories. But you must know by now that my relationship with Colonel Bob is strictly business. I always thought you just didn’t want to waste your talent on a colleague. Professional ethics would make it repugnant to you to skip with my life savings after you’d made me fall madly in love with you.”

  He frowned at her. “Hey, that’s not fair. When did I ever cheat a woman by making love to her?”

  “I guess it was below the belt,” she admitted. “You usually only take them as ask for it. But did it eve
r occur to you that you can cheat a woman by not making love to her?”

  Horton grinned. “Maybe I’m afraid you’d abscond with my life savings.”

  “Take a chance,” she urged. “Try living dangerously.”

  “Perhaps I will sometime,” he said non-committally. “Maybe I’ll ring you.”

  “Room 727. And don’t forget the name. Mrs. Belle Whitney.”

  “Sure, Belle. I’ll remember.”

  With a smile of good-by, he moved on toward the street door.

  He hadn’t asked what sort of con game Belle Jarvis and “Colonel” Robert Desmond were planning to pull on some unsuspecting Rice City mark. Not because he didn’t have a natural curiosity. He just knew it would have done no more good to ask than it had done Belle to inquire about his plans.

  CHAPTER II

  AT A car-rental agency Horton rented a 1958 Plymouth Belvedere for the day. He spent the rest of the morning examining the town.

  Rice City had a population of nearly a half million. From his study of Chamber of Commerce material, Horton knew that it had a diversity of small industry, but no large industrial plants. It was an attractive city, without much great wealth, but without much slum area either. It was a city of neat, middle-income homes in the outlying areas and neat, moderate-rental apartment houses in the downtown area. There were a few downtown streets near the riverfront where tenement houses looked a little run-down, shops were a trifle shabby and taverns catered to an overalled clientele, but on the whole, it seemed to be a clean, well-ordered community.

  The surface appearance was a fraud, Horton knew. He hadn’t blindly picked Rice City for his present operation. Before choosing it, he had done careful research on a dozen communities of similar size. He had deliberately selected Rice City because it had the sort of police department which could be counted on to mistreat arrested out-of-towners, or anyone else, for that matter, who was not in on the local fix. He meant to get himself arrested, and to endure as much mistreatment as he could heckle the police into giving him.

  The summer-home area lay north of the town along the river’s edge. Here the bank was dotted by cottages and homes which grew progressively larger and more expensive the farther they got from the hub of town.

  Horton stopped for a time in a small park perched atop the river bluff, and took in the view. Extending from both sides of the park, brightly-painted cottages lined the base of the bluff. A wide sand beach ran as far as he could see in both directions. Numerous people in swimming suits lay in the early June sun, or splashed in the clear, slowly-moving water of Rice River. A number of fishermen trolled from boats with outboard motors. A half-dozen sails glistened whitely in the sunshine.

  Horton sighed. It was such a pleasant scene, he almost wished he really meant to buy one of the beach homes the Acme Realty Company thought it was going to show him the next day. Driving back to the downtown area, he found a public phone and from the yellow pages of the phone book he made a list of all the used-car lots in the center of town. He then proceeded to make a careful check of the lots.

  He didn’t stop at any of them. He merely drove slowly past each, eyeing the cars lined up on display.

  On the eighth lot he passed, he was gratified to spot a 1955 Jaguar. He checked the huge sign over the entrance to the lot. It read: HONEST JOHN QUINCY’S USED CARS. LOWEST PRICES, HIGHEST TRADE-INS, EASIEST TERMS IN TOWN.

  He drove past another half-dozen used-car lots before he was satisfied that there probably wasn’t another used Jaguar in town. There were few sports cars of any make on the lots, as a matter of fact, and he saw none driving the streets. Rice City wasn’t a sports car town.

  He picked one other lot as the place to start his operation. A billboard on its street side announced that it was run by TRUSTING JOE GANNON, and that it too offered the lowest prices, highest trade-ins and easiest terms in town. Horton picked it because it didn’t have a single sports car on display.

  By now it was past noon. He stopped for lunch at a small café, then drove to the Rice City National Bank.

  Horton encountered no difficulty in getting in to see the bank president. He merely mentioned to the president’s secretary that he wished to open a couple of accounts and also discuss a mortgage loan. He was shown in at once.

  Hanford Maytum, President of Rice City National, was a plump, balding man of fifty with the benign manner of Friar Tuck. He shook Horton’s hand with reserved enthusiasm and asked him to have a seat.

  “You wished to discuss a mortgage loan, Mr. Horton?” he asked, tactfully not mentioning the accounts Horton had told his secretary he wished to open.

  “First things first,” Horton said with a genial smile. “I’d like to open a couple of accounts before we talk business.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Horton. Interest or checking?”

  “One of each,” Horton said. “I’d like to put five thousand in the checking account and ten thousand in savings.”

  He handed Maytum a certified check for fifteen thousand dollars drawn on a St. Louis bank.

  “Fine, Mr. Horton, fine,” the bank president said. He examined the check, pressed a buzzer and handed the check back. “If you’ll just endorse it, I’ll have my secretary set up the accounts right away. You prefer the personalized checking account, or the regular?”

  “By personalized, you mean with my name printed on the checks?”

  “Yes, sir. Only thing is, we wouldn’t be able to give you a check book before Monday. They have to be printed, you see.”

  “Then I’d better settle for the regular account,” Horton decided. “I planned to buy a used car tomorrow.”

  The secretary entered in answer to Hanford Maytum’s buzz. The bank president gave her instructions on setting up the two accounts. Horton endorsed the check and handed it to her. When the girl had gone out again, Maytum said, “Now what was it about the mortgage?”

  “Well, I’m planning on establishing a summer home here, Mr. Maytum. My work permits me pretty free summers, and the fishing and boating available in your community appeals to me. My investment business in St. Louis will keep me there during the winter months, of course, but I mean to live here during most of June, July, and August.”

  Maytum nodded understandingly.

  “I’ve been in correspondence with the Acme Realty Company,” Horton went on. “Know it?”

  Maytum nodded again. “Highly reputable firm. Keep their account here.”

  “Well, they know the type of beach home I wish. Nothing too elaborate. Something in about the twenty-thousand-dollar class. I have an appointment with a Mr. Weller over there to see some places tomorrow.”

  “I see. I know Weller. Very wide-awake real-estate man.”

  “If I find the place I want, I plan to make a down payment of ten thousand and finance the balance on a five-year mortgage.”

  Maytum smiled benignly. “That will be easy enough, I’m sure, Mr. Horton. Just drop in to see us when you’re ready to sign the papers. And if there’s any way we can be of service meanwhile, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “There is one minor way, as a matter of fact, Mr. Maytum. As I said, I plan to pick up a used car tomorrow. Can you recommend a reputable dealer?”

  “Why, I believe all our local merchants are reputable,” Maytum said cautiously.

  “What I had in mind was a Jaguar,” Horton said. He gave the banker a sheepish smile. “My sole vice.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Sports cars. I’m rather a nut on the subject. Rarely drive anything else. The Jaguar’s my favorite.”

  Maytum smiled. “Afraid you won’t find many sports cars in Rice City, Mr. Horton. It’s a pretty conservative town. Offhand, I can’t think of a lot where you might find a Jaguar.”

  Horton stood up. “Well, I’ll just have to look around. Thanks for your time, Mr. Maytum. It was nice meeting you.”

  Maytum rose too and shook hands. “My pleasure, Mr. Horton. Just see the girl on the way out. She should have your account
s ready by now.”

  A few moments later Horton walked out of the bank with a bank book and check book in his pocket. He was well pleased with the way things had gone. Hanford Maytum would make an excellent witness for the plaintiff, if he remembered the details of their conversation.

  It would have been inconvenient if he had happened to know where a Jaguar was for sale, but fortunately he hadn’t.

  Having no more immediate use for a car, Horton returned the Plymouth to the rental agency. He spent the rest of the afternoon at a movie. He got back to the Hotel Lawford shortly before six.

  The red-haired girl was still on duty at the desk, he noticed as he crossed the lobby. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no plans at all for the evening, and that the girl might make a pleasant dinner companion. He started toward the desk, then changed his mind when three arriving guests suddenly converged on the girl at the same time, all wanting to register.

  Horton decided to give her ten minutes to dispose of the new guests, then phone her from his room.

  At five after six he lifted his phone and said, “Desk, please.”

  After a moment’s wait, a man’s voice said, “Front desk.”

  “This is four fourteen,” Horton said. “May I speak to the red-haired girl who works the desk? I don’t know her name.”

  “Sorry, Mr.—” There was a pause, obviously during which the man glanced at a room chart. “—Horton. She goes off duty at six. May I help you?”

  “Thanks, but it isn’t important,” Horton said.

  The man might have mentioned her name, he thought, mildly irked that he hadn’t. He was surprised to realize he was deeply disappointed at missing the girl. The prospect of dining alone suddenly loomed bleakly.

  He started to reach for the phone again to call room 727, then halted the movement. He was in no mood to settle for second choice.

  Instead he stripped, took his second shower of the day, carefully redressed and descended for a lonely dinner.

  CHAPTER III

  THE HOTEL dining room was only about half full. Horton paused in the doorway and glanced around as he waited for the headwaiter to move toward him.