The outside light shining through the windows furnished enough visibility so that he didn’t have to switch on the kitchen light. Pulling open the drawer where he had hidden his gun and harness, he slipped out of his coat and strapped it on. Shrugging his coat back on, he moved on into the barroom.
The padlock key was on a nail next to the register where Ginny had said it would be. Lifting it from the nail, he moved to the front door and carefully examined the street. Seeing no one, he unlocked the front door and slipped outside.
He held the hasp of the padlock between thumb and forefinger when he unlocked it, so as not to disturb any possible fingerprints on the barrel. It was a heavy Yale lock which would be difficult to pick, he was gratified to note.
Still carrying it by thumb and forefinger, he went back inside and relocked the front door. He went out the back way, locking the door behind him.
In the station wagon’s glove compartment he found a road map. Opening it to about a foot square, he spread it on the right side of the front seat and gently lay the lock on it.
As he pulled from the alley and turned right, a police radio car crossed the intersection in front of him. Braking, he watched as it pulled to a stop before the tavern. Two policemen got out and approached the glass front to peer inside.
Sands drove on across the intersection. A frown creased his forehead. Was that just a routine check, he wondered?
He decided it must have been. No one but Ginny and Carroll knew he intended to visit the tavern, and he couldn’t conceive that either would tip off the police.
Nevertheless it was an unnerving coincidence. Five minutes earlier they would have caught him in the act of removing the padlock.
He made it back to the Hotel Centner parking lot without incident. It was just one thirty when he let himself into Bridget’s apartment. A single lamp burned in the front room and the rest of the apartment was dark.
Carefully laying the folded map with the lock on it on an end table, he walked to the bedroom door. By the reflected glow of light from the front room he could see Bridget asleep, her red hair fanned out on the pillow like a flaming halo.
Undressing, he hung his clothing and gun harness over a chair and padded barefoot to the front room to switch off the light. When he slipped beneath the covers next to Bridget, she stirred, then sat up with a gasp.
“Who is it?” she demanded in a frightened voice.
“Who were you expecting?” he inquired.
He heard her release breath. Then she giggled. Rolling into his arms, she found his lips in the darkness.
“I’m not used to a bedfellow,” she told him.
His hand touched her bare hip. “You always sleep like this?” he asked.
“Only when I’m awaiting company.” One arm slid about his neck. The other hand slid down his chest, across his stomach and came to rest on his hip. “How about you?”
“I don’t even own a pair of pajamas.”
His hand moved from her hip and she began to tremble. “What time is it?” she whispered.
“Do you care?”
Her other arm slid about his neck. Instead of answering, she crushed her mouth against his.
Moments later she groaned, “Oh God!” and then there was no sound except her rapidly accelerating breathing, spasmodically punctuated by low moans. Her back arched as her body grew stiffer and stiffer, until she finally emitted an incoherent little squeal and abruptly went limp.
They lay still in each other’s arms for a long time. Eventually she breathed a contented little sigh.
“Still want to know what time it is?” he asked.
“Who cares?” she inquired sleepily, nuzzling her nose against his neck.
CHAPTER XX
IN THE morning Sands had Bridget find him a small box and some surgical cotton. Carefully but tightly he packed the padlock in cotton, wrapped the box and addressed it to Solomon Swartz at a Miami, Florida, address.
“Will you mail this for me?” he asked Bridget. “I want it to go air-mail special.”
Examining the box curiously, she nodded. Knowing that Sands wanted her involved as little as possible in his plans, she didn’t ask any questions. She merely said, “I’ll run it down to the post office before I take over the desk from George.”
About a half hour after she left, she called him on the phone from the desk to report that she had gotten the package off.
“Those men aren’t parked across the street this morning,” she told him.
“I figured they’d give up,” he said. “Thanks, Bridget.”
He stayed in the apartment all day, Bridget bringing him meals. At dusk he lifted the phone.
When Bridget answered at the switchboard, he said, “I’m going out for a few minutes. Is the lobby empty?”
In a brisk tone she said, “Can you hold the line a moment, sir? Or would you rather I’d call back?”
“Call back,” he said, and hung up.
Five minutes later the phone rang. When he picked it up, Bridget said in a low voice, “A man was registering when you called, Jud. And a tenant was waiting for me to give him his key. It’s all clear now.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I won’t be gone long.”
“Won’t it be dangerous to go out this early?” she asked.
“I have to make a long-distance call. If I wait any longer, the guy will be out for the evening.”
“Can’t you make it from here?”
“And risk some operator listening in and tracing the number?” he said. “A pay phone is safer.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Please be careful, Jud. Will you ring the desk when you get back, so I can stop worrying?”
“Sure,” he said, and hung up.
He was starting for the door when he thought of something. Checking his pocket change, he discovered he had only eighty cents in coins. He returned to the phone.
When Bridget answered, he said, “Can you leave the desk for a minute?”
“Sure,” she said. “No one’s around.”
“I need some phone change. Will you bring me five dollars in quarters, dimes and nickels?”
“Of course,” Bridget said.
When she brought the handful of change, he gave her a five-dollar bill. “This is safer than getting it from some drugstore clerk,” he told her. “They broadcast too accurate a description.”
“There’s an outdoor phone booth only about six blocks from here,” Bridget said. “At Second and Collins.”
“Good. I’ll use it.”
Second and Collins was in the heart of the downtown section and, as stores were open until nine, the streets were crowded with pedestrians. No one glanced at him when he parked and got out of the car, however, even though he had to walk nearly a full block from the nearest available parking place to the booth.
From inside the booth he could see a uniformed policeman directing traffic at the intersection not twenty feet away from him.
He gave the operator a Miami number and fed the required number of coins into the slots.
He listened to the other phone ring four times before a deep male voice said, “Hello.”
“Evening, Solly,” Sands said. “You alone?”
“Uh-huh,” Solly said cautious tone. Then tentatively, “Jud?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been reading about you. What are you doing? Trying to take over Ridgeford?”
“It was a frame, Solly. My friend Amatti tried to kill two birds with one grenade. Do me a favor?”
Solly said warily, “If Mark doesn’t have to know about it.”
“Nobody has to know,” Sands told him. “You should get an air-mail special package tomorrow. There isn’t any return address on it, but it’s from me.”
“Yeah? What’s in it? A bomb?”
“You should have your own comedy show,” Sands said dryly. “Isn’t some relative of yours a state cop?”
“My cousin Abe.”
“There’s a padlock
in the package, Solly. Think you could arrange a lab check of it through your cousin without having to make a lot of explanations?”
“Sure. I’m his kid’s godfather. What you want to know?”
“First I want it dusted for fingerprints. If there are any prints, I want them checked against FBI files. Better not open the box when it comes, or you may smear the prints. Just deliver it to your cousin intact.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“I want the interior of the lock examined to see if there’s any evidence that it was picked. I think I read somewhere that a picklock sometimes leaves marks you can see under a microscope. I may be wrong, but you can ask.”
“All right. How do I get the results back to you?”
“Mail them to Bridget O’Rourke at the Hotel Centner. She’s the hotel manager. Don’t put my name on the package. Just address it to her.”
Solly chuckled. “How do you do it, Jud?”
“What?”
“Line up women that way you do. No matter what kind of a jam you’re in, you always seem to find some quail who will fight like a tiger to help you out of it.”
“This one is an old friend,” Sands said coldly.
“I’ll bet. I never heard you mention knowing anyone in Ridgeford. This may take a little time, Jud.”
“I know. But tell your cousin it’s urgent. Ask him to send the prints to Washington air-mail special and request a reply by wire.”
“Will do. Heard from Henny Ault yet?”
“He’s made a couple of tries,” Sands said casually.
Solly emitted a short whistle. “You sidestepped him twice? You’ve got a charmed life, brother.”
“I need one for the jam I’m in. Thanks for the help, Solly.”
“Don’t mention it,” Solly said. “Particularly to Mark.”
“I know what you mean,” Sands told him. “But I’m not planning any conversations with Mark during the next few years.”
When he opened the booth door, Sands came face-to-face with the policeman who had been directing traffic. The man was waiting in front of the booth.
Sand’s right hand made an involuntary movement toward his shoulder holster, then stopped when the officer asked phlegmatically, “Got change for a quarter, mister?”
Sands glanced at the center of the intersection, where a different officer was now directing traffic. The officer holding the quarter out to him wore the tired expression of a man Who has just completed a full tour of duty on his feet, and is interested in nothing but getting home and out of his shoes.
“Sure,” Sands said, fishing two dimes and a nickel from his pocket.
Without glancing at his face, the policeman dropped the quarter into Sand’s palm.
“Thanks,” he muttered. “Now if the damn line ain’t busy—I got two teen-age kids.”
Sands gave a sympathetic cluck and started to move around the man.
“Just a minute,” the policeman said to his back.
Sands stiffened, then turned slowly, his right hand caressing his coat lapel.
“This thing won’t fit in the slot,” the officer said fretfully, thrusting out a Canadian nickel. “It’s got square corners.”
“Sorry,” Sands murmured. He fished out another nickel, examined it to make sure it was American, and exchanged it for the Canadian one.
“Thanks,” the policeman said gruffly. He turned into the booth.
Sands walked on. Behind him he heard the booth door creak shut. He didn’t look back, but the hair at the base of his neck stood straight out until he reached the station wagon and had pulled away from the curb.
As he drove past the intersection, he saw the policeman angrily slam the receiver back on its hook. His expression was that of a man who has just listened to a busy signal.
Safely back in the apartment, Sands lifted the phone and said to Bridget, “Okay. I’m back.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Will you be going out again tonight?”
“Probably not for days.”
“Really?” she said, pleased. “That will be nice.”
“You’ll get bored with me underfoot all the time.”
“Never,” she said definitely. “I like you underfoot. See you at ten.”
“Yeah,” he said, and hung up.
CHAPTER XXI
AFTER HIS call to Miami, there was nothing to do but wait For a full week Sands didn’t leave the apartment.
For a day or two he continued to remain in the news, though in the papers he moved to the inner pages and on television he drew only incidental mention. Finally, when there were no new developments in the police search for him, other news crowded attention from him altogether.
Although it was a relief to know he was safe at least temporarily, the inactivity irritated him. Day by day his temper grew shorter.
Bridget blossomed under the honeymoon-like atmosphere, however. She went around humming all the time, fussing over Sands’ comfort and thoroughly enjoying the extra work he caused her. When his temper flared, she merely retreated and patiently waited for his spirits to mend.
Sometimes she made him ashamed of himself. The evening she brought in his dinner as usual, for example, and he blared at her, “Doesn’t that idiotic restaurant serve potatoes any way but mashed?”
Bridget blinked. “I’ll take it back and get French fries,” she said equably.
“Never mind,” he growled, ungraciously plopping into a kitchen chair and glowering at the offending potatoes.
“I’ll be glad to change them,” she said. “You have so little pleasure cooped up here, at least you ought to get what you want to eat.”
Sands scowled at her, then the scowl faded to a shamefaced smile. “Know what?” he inquired.
“What?”
“If the potatoes were French fries, I was going to yell about that.”
“Oh?” she said.
“I guess I’m getting like my Uncle Herb.”
Bridget gave him an inquiring look.
“He used to pick fights deliberately with my Aunt Sarah. Uncle Herb confided to me once that when he came home drunk, he always stopped at the front gate to make a resolution. He resolved that if dinner wasn’t ready, he’d raise hell; if it was, he wouldn’t eat it.”
Bridget smiled at him. “You’re not that bad.”
“I’m getting there. I’d go nuts in a penitentiary.”
“You’re not going to one,” Bridget said firmly. “Not if I have to hide you here for the next ten—”
She stopped at the expression on his face. “I’d better get back to work,” she said quickly.
“Yeah,” he said. Rising from the table, he tilted her chin and gave her a light kiss. “I’ll try to be less of a bear, redhead.”
“I don’t mind, Jud. I know what you’re going through. And most times you’re sweet to me.”
“You’re easy to be sweet to.” Holding her at arm’s length, he ran his gaze up and down her trim form.
Bridget blushed. “Don’t look at me like that. It makes me all shivery.”
“It makes me shivery to do the looking. Better head back for the desk, or you won’t get there.”
Spinning her around, he started her to the door with a light slap on the buttock.
In the kitchen doorway she paused to say, “Ten o’clock?”
“It’s a date,” he told her.
In the middle of the week Ginny phoned Bridget. She didn’t want anything in particular. She was just worried about not hearing from Sands.
Relating their conversation to Sands, Bridget said, “I told her I knew you were all right, but I couldn’t say where you were or what you were doing. She said to tell you she and Jack Carroll were still prepared to do their part whenever you were ready. What did she mean by that?”
“Nothing important,” Sands said. “If she phones again, tell her to quit checking on my welfare. I don’t want her calling you unless she has something urgent to say.”
Exactly a week after
mailing the lock, an air-mail special-delivery package from Miami came addressed to Bridget. She immediately brought it to Sands without opening it. She stood watching as he stripped off the wrapping paper.
“Don’t you have to get back to the desk?” he asked.
“George is in the lobby. I asked him to listen for the switchboard. You want me to go?”
He shrugged. “It was addressed to you. I guess you have a right to see what’s in it.”
In the package was the lock, a photostat of a single fingerprint and a letter from Solomon Swartz.
The letter, addressed to Sands, read:
Dear Jud:
The enclosed photostat is the best I could do. Abe tells me it was on the back of the lock barrel, and seems to be either the second or third finger of a left hand. Unfortunately it requires the prints of at least three fingers to run a file comparison, so there wasn’t any point in sending it to Washington. However, Abe says that if you have some definite suspects to compare this print with, you won’t have any trouble making a positive identification. It seems that a single print is sufficient for that; it just isn’t enough to make a file run. Abe also says that the manner in which this print was superimposed over previous prints and smudges makes it definite that the last person to handle the lock left it.
According to Abe, it is sometimes possible to tell by microscopic examination of the interior mechanism that a lock has been picked. But only if a picklock was used. A master key would leave no more sign than the lock’s regular key. The lab could detect no evidence of tampering, but they say this in no way rules out the possibility that it was picked.
Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful, but even scientific criminology has its limits.
Best regards,
Solly.
Sands scowled at the photostat. He considered the prospect of obtaining the fingerprints of every one of Renzo Amatti’s sizable army of hoods in order to compare them to the single print. The idea was so preposterous he didn’t dwell on it Folding the letter around the photostat, he dropped both into his inside breast pocket.
Bridget asked, “Was the answer any help?”
Edge of the Law Page 13
