by Henry, Kane,
Smight sank slowly into a soft chair. “Facts,” he said lugubriously. “Conclusions.” His chins danced.
“There was enough food ordered for two people,” said Gunn.
“True,” wailed Smight.
“And the drinks—bourbon; and now a guess—a gin drink.”
The pale gray eyes came up staring. “A double bourbon, and a double dry Martini. But how could you possibly—”
“There’s a girl up there, and she’s still there.”
Smight made one last effort at bravado. “There’s nothing wrong with a lady calling on a gentleman at a proper hour and having a meal—”
“The girl up there is Steve Bain’s daughter, Alice Bain. The guy up there is a suspect in his murder, a guy the police are looking for, Sam Lockwood, alias Sidney Last. Now which way do you want it, Mr. Smight?”
All the chins trembled together with all of Mr. Smight. “I… I… I… don’t understand.”
“Do you want me to call the cops? And you’ll have sirens, and excitement, and reporters and headlines in tomorrow’s papers?”
“No! If that can be avoided—no! These things are horrible for a hotel, this type of publicity—”
“I think I can bring him out quietly, Mr. Smight, without furor, without publicity, without any mention of this hotel.”
“I’d be eternally grateful, Mr. Gunn.”
“Glad you finally see it my way, Mr. Smight.”
“How do you propose to do this, Mr. Gunn?”
“With your co-operation but without any interference on your part. How do your room-service people dress?”
“The waiters?”
“The waiters.”
“Like waiters.”
“Fine. In a few minutes a young man will come calling on you. His name is Fred O’Connor. He’ll know what it’s all about. You’ll take him down to room service and dress him as one of your waiters. He’ll bring back the dishes from 1203. Period. How does the stuff come out?”
“As it went in. On a rolling serving-table.”
“He’ll bring back the rolling serving-table, get back into his own clothes, and that’ll be the last of it for you. Is everything paid, Mr. Smight? If not, I’ll pay it right now.”
“Everything is paid,” said the astonished Mr. Smight.
“Then that’s it. Thank you very much for your co-operation.”
Peter Gunn waited at the bar of the cocktail room until Fred O’Connor, in waiter’s garb, returned, and together they rode up to the twelfth floor. The corridor was deserted. As O’Connor knocked on the door of 1203, Gunn, pistol in hand, was flattened against the wall parallel to the door. O’Connor knocked again and the reply came, “Who’s there?”
“Room service,” said O’Connor.
The door opened a crack against the inside chain-latch. “Room service,” said O’Connor. “For the dishes.”
The door closed, there was the sound of the chain-latch being unhooked, the door opened, O’Connor entered and Gunn pushed in after him, pistol in hand.
chapter 14
The silence was unbroken despite the pop of eyes and the crackle of expectancy. Fred O’Connor stood rigid and ready. Gunn’s pistol-hand was cocked. Alice Bain’s eyes were popped like corks. Sam Lockwood was poised like a statue of a discus-thrower. Gunn regarded him steadily and it was Gunn who broke the silence.
“Will I need this?” he said and raised the pistol.
“No,” said Sam Lockwood wearily.
“You didn’t go home, Sam?”
“No.”
“You came here directly?”
“Yes.”
“So you don’t figure to have a gun here.”
“I don’t.”
Gunn shrugged elaborately and made an elaborate procedure of placing the pistol on the rolling serving-table. “Because I have faith,” he said, “I am now entirely unarmed. Waiter, you may go.”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter.
“And remember to send your bill.”
“Oh, I shall not forget, sir.”
Gunn opened the door, O’Connor rolled out the table, Gunn closed the door and leaned on it, surveying the room. Alice Bain was curled within the clasp of a large easy chair in a corner of the room. She was dressed as he had seen her earlier that day except that the jacket of her white gabardine suit was off and crushed behind her on the easy chair and her white skirt was wrinkled. The blue blouse was sleeveless, revealing her soft, round, attractive, somehow sexually alluring arms. Her makeup was caked on her face and there was a shine to the lids of her hooded dark eyes. Lockwood was without jacket, without tie, without shirt; his athletic-type undershirt clinging to his athletic-type muscular body; his red hair unruly and clotted by sweat; circles beneath his blue eyes that were patently frightened.
“Miss Bain told you that I played ball?” said Gunn.
“And I appreciate it,” said Lockwood.
“The ball game is over,” said Gunn.
“How do you mean that?”
“The ball park is closed down. New game tomorrow.”
“How do you mean that?” said Lockwood.
“Look, buster, I played ball, but I’m here, aren’t I? No more ball playing. Now we play like life or death. Melodramatic? Maybe. But it’s your life or your death. And I’m here to help, either way. You want help?”
“Yes, yes,” said Alice Bain.
“You going to talk it up?” said Gunn.
“Yes, he will,” said Alice Bain.
“Shut up,” said Gunn.
“Me?” said Bain.
“You,” said Gunn. “You brought him a thousand bucks. That’s co-operation, but the wrong way. That’s running money, not talking money. And your own father—I don’t care if you liked him or not—your own father murdered.”
“How do you know?” said Bain.
“What?” said Gunn.
“A thousand dollars.”
“I’m omnipotent,” said Gunn. “If you’re not omnipotent, you’re not a private eye.”
“He called me for money.”
“Naturally,” said Gunn.
“I was desperate,” said Lockwood.
“Naturally,” said Gunn. “But she didn’t have to bring it. How enamored can you get?”
“This has nothing to do with being enamored,” said Alice Bain. “I’d have done it for a dog.”
“A dog who killed your father?”
“He didn’t kill my father.”
“Did you?” said Gunn to Lockwood.
“No,” said Lockwood.
“Then why are you running? And where are you running?”
“I… I don’t know,” said Lockwood.
“Now listen and listen hard,” said Gunn. “You’re a professional guitar player but if you’re a killer, you’re an amateur killer, and running won’t help you. You don’t know where to run or how to run, in these circumstances. There’s a vast machinery of law that’s only beginning to go into motion, but when it gets started, man, it’ll slap you down so fast and so hard, you’ll think you’re a cockroach on a kitchen sink. Now once more, loud and clear, did you kill him?”
“No!”
Lockwood sat on the edge of a couch, one foot tapping, his fingers scraping through his wet hair.
“Then why did you run?” said Gunn.
“I was scared,” said Lockwood.
“Tell him,” said Alice Bain.
Lockwood looked up, toward Gunn. “Will you help me?”
“I’ll do my damnedest, if it’s possible to help.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“So you’ve said, three times. But we found you there, with a gun in your hand, like a murderer, and you ran like a murderer, didn’t you?”
“I came there to talk to him.”
“With a gun?”
“I didn’t come with a gun!” The blue eyes looked up, begging; the foot tapped its nervous drumroll; the eyes came down and the head drooped, fingers rubbing at the wet hair.
Gunn produced cigarettes, brought one to Alice Bain, tapped Lockwood and gave him one, took one for himself, and lit all three. “All right,” he said, “let’s have it. Truth or fiction, let’s have it straight, from the beginning.”
“I was teed off,” said Lockwood. “I was burning. I went there to have it out with him, once and for all.”
“Without a gun?”
“Without a gun, I swear.”
“But we saw you with—”
“I’ll come to that.”
“Your gun. There’s proof.”
“I’ll come to that.”
“Well, start coming, will you?”
Lockwood pressed out his cigarette, stood up, clasped his hands and wrenched them across his chest as he marched about. “I parked way out, on a shoulder of the road.”
“Any reason for that?” asked Gunn.
“Very good reason,” said Lockwood. “The entrance roadway was blocked.”
“Blocked?” said Gunn. “We didn’t see any block. Blocked by what?”
“A car. It was facing out, if you know what I mean. Like it had been backed in. It was in a position so no other car could get in. That’s why I parked on the road.”
“So?”
“I was burning. I’ve got a temper. I was going to straighten out this Mr. Bain once and for all. I was going to say my piece, come what may. I jogged up that pebbled driveway to the house. I went past the car. It’s motor was running, but I didn’t pay it any attention.”
“Anybody in that car?”
“Nobody. But the motor was running.”
“What kind of car?”
“A black sedan. I don’t know what make. I didn’t actually look. I had my own problems. Just as I got to the door of the house, it opened. A man came out in a hurry. A tall, dark man with curly hair. He was wearing gloves.”
“Did you get a good look?”
“No. He was in a hurry, and so was I. I saw him get into that black car and it pulled away. I had no interest. My interest was inside. The guy had left the door open, and I went in.”
“Leaving the door open?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“You did.”
“Inside I found Mr. Bain, on the floor… just as you saw him. You could see from the look of him he was dead, he was gone. I put my ear against his heart to make sure. He was dead. I was scared stiff. I was in the middle of something. There was a gun on the floor, a revolver. I picked it up. It was a Colt revolver, caliber .38, I recognized it. It was mine.”
“Is it that easy to recognize a gun, Mr. Lockwood?”
“It’s easy for me, yes. I’m not a novice. Guns are part of my pleasure, my recreation, my hobby. Kennel people, people with many dogs, can recognize any one of them even though strangers would be confused. I recognized this Colt. There are nicks and notches. It was mine. As a matter of fact, this one had my own initials stamped on its butt. Oh, there was no question in my mind. It was my gun. That’s when you people burst in, you and Alice.”
“So you ran,” said Gunn.
“Please hear him out,” said Alice Bain.
“I was scared, man, can’t you understand that?” Lockwood punched his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “I was frantic. The guy was dead, the gun was in my hand, and it was my gun. And it was you who busted in.”
“Me?” said Peter Gunn.
“You triggered it. A private detective who knew I was on the outs with the guy—that triggered it. My gun, motive, everything. I ran, I bolted, what else? Panic, man, that was it—panic!”
“But you had time to cool off,” said Gunn.
“Cool off to what?” said Lockwood. “This was a mess and I was in the middle. What do I do? How do I get out?”
“What did you do?” said Gunn.
“I drove my car to a parking lot, parked it, took a cab to the first hotel I could think of, this one. I was afraid to go home, that gun could be traced to me pronto, it was licensed to me. I hoped against hope that Alice would keep you, even temporarily, from mentioning my name, but you’d have to turn over the gun, and they’d know who to look for. So I came here, and I sat and squeezed and pondered.”
“And what did you figure out?”
“Almost the way it worked. I figured Alice would convince you. Man, I’m no murderer. My temper’s gotten me into trouble plenty of times, but the trouble came at me not from me. Sure, I’ve belted a guy here and there, but murder, man, that’s not in me. I hoped against hope that Alice would convince you. After all, you’re not the law. You’re a guy, you’re human. So I took a chance and called her. If the wire was tapped, I was dead.”
“Seems it wasn’t tapped. What did you want from her?”
“First to tell her where I was, and then money. You’re trapped without money. I had perhaps thirty-forty bucks in my kick. I certainly couldn’t go to my bank. I wanted Alice, and I wanted… money.”
“For what?” said Gunn.
“I don’t know… I don’t know…”
Silence. Heavy. Pregnant, as is the term. The blond girl with the strong eyes small in the huge chair. The red-haired young man, pumping fist into palm, sinking exhausted, loose-handed, into a corner of the couch. Gunn, studying one then the other, saying finally, “All right. What now?”
“I’ve been begging him to turn himself in,” said Alice Bain.
“What about that, Lockwood?”
“I… I’m afraid.”
“It’s your one possible chance—if you’re telling the truth.”
“I’m telling the truth!”
“I hope you are because you’re way down deep in,” said Gunn. “Your fingerprints are on the gun, it’s your gun, and the bullet in Bain is from that gun. Alice and I described the guy that bolted, and that fits. The only thing the cops don’t have yet is motive, and that’s not unknown. For instance, Mike York—from the union—knows there’s been animosity between you and Bain. Others, I’m sure, must also know, and they’ll inform the police.”
“Then why should I turn myself in?” demanded Lockwood.
“Because that would be the one thing that wouldn’t fit. Look, cops are not ogres; good cops try to do the job; and the guy in charge of this mess, Lieutenant Jacoby, is the best. You walk in and tell your story, you’ll get the best possible break they can possibly give you. If you’re telling the truth, they’ll dig; if you’re lying, they’ll dig that out too.”
“Animosity,” said Alice Bain. “What does that mean? York knows there was animosity? Well, I know, and many others, that there was animosity between him and my father too. What does that prove?”
“What about it, Lockwood?” said Gunn.
“What do you advise, Mr. Gunn?”
“If you’re telling the truth, by all means, give up. At least that’ll be one point in your favor. Running, they’ll catch up with you, and then you’re so dead, man…”
“I’ll get my father’s lawyer,” said Alice Bain.
“Who’s that?” said Gunn.
“Harold Smith.”
“As good as they come. Not the greatest criminal lawyer, but a respected, honorable man. Yes, by all means get Smith.”
She stood up and went to the phone. “All right, Sam?” she said.
He did not answer.
“That’s another break in your favor, Lockwood,” said Gunn. “The murdered man’s daughter believes you. His own lawyer will represent you. True, they’re psychological angles, but police aren’t impervious to psychological angles.”
“All right, Sam?” asked Alice Bain.
Lockwood rose, tore a cigarette from a wrinkled package on a table, lit it with shaking fingers, said, “All right, God help me. All right. Call.”
“Tell Smith to meet you at Homicide, Lieutenant Jacoby’s office,” said Gunn.
The girl made the call, talking softly.
Gunn, took Lockwood aside. “Any idea how that gun came there?” he asked. “Any idea? Your gun?”
�
�No. I’ve been rattling my brain like hell.”
“Didn’t you miss it?”
“Man, you saw the guns in my cabinet. I must have fifty of them. They’re not laid in neatly, each in place. They’re just there. No, I didn’t miss it.”
The girl hung up. “Mr. Smith will meet us downtown,” she said.
“Fine,” said Gunn. “You’d better start getting your things on, Lockwood.” He went to the phone. “I’m saving this hotel a lot of bad publicity. I suppose they can spare us a couple of phone calls.” He called Mother’s, got through to Barney. “Any luck on Willie Koko?” he said.
“Willie Koko?” said Alice Bain.
“Just a minute, Barney,” said Gunn. He put his palm over the mouthpiece. “Do you know a Willie Koko?” he asked Alice Bain.
“I don’t know him, but I know the name.”
“Just hang on to everything,” he said to Alice and returned to Barney. “Anything, Barn?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Barney. “Can I talk?”
“Sure.”
“A young punk hoodlum, Benny Maxwell by name, gave me the horse laugh when he saw the picture on my mirror. I’ve taken it down, by the way.”
“Yes, yes?” said Gunn.
“Wanted to know if I’m running a rogues’ gallery behind my bar, did Benny. He knows this Willie Koko, they’re like pals. I told him, confidential, that Peter Gunn wanted some information on Koko and he said if Peter Gunn would pony up he’d be glad to furnish information.”
“How much?”
“He said he’d talk for a C-note, if it wasn’t something that would put Koko away in the can.”
“Is he there?”
“No, he cut out. He was with a date. He said he’d be back at midnight, alone.”
“Very good. Barney. I’ll see you at midnight.” Gunn hung up. He looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to eleven. “What do you know about Willie Koko, Miss Bain?” he said.
“There’s a Willie Koko that works for Mike York. A ruffian. A hoodlum. You know?”
