Then the bell rang. But now it was different; and even the maddened crowd sensed that. Deke Hayes looked over at the slowly rising Tiger with real fear in his eyes. Why, the man wasn't human! No one could take a blow like that and keep coming!
Eyes red with hatred, the Tiger came out in a steelcoiled crouch. Hayes, wary now, had come to the end, and he knew it. He advanced slowly to the center of the ring, and the Tiger met him-met him with a sudden, berserk rush that drove the now frightened champion to the ropes.
There he hung, while the Tiger ripped punch after vicious punch to his body, pounded his ears until they were swollen and torn, cut his eyebrows with lightning-like twists of hard, smashing gloves.
A bloody, beaten mess, marked for life, the champion slipped frantically away along the ropes. Trembling with fright, he set himself desperately, shot a steaming right for the Tiger's chin.
But the Tiger beat him to the punch with an inside right cross that jerked Hayes back on his heels! Before the blood-covered champion could weave away, the Tiger--
Bart Malone-whipped up a lethal left hook that started at his heels. Spinning completely around, the champion toppled to the canvas, out like a log, his jaw broken in three places!
The referee dismissed the formality of a count as the crowd went wild. Without a word, the referee raised the Tiger's hand in victory, as the rafters shook with the roaring of thousands of frenzied voices.
Ruby Ryan was beside himself with joy. "You made it, kid!" he yelled. "You made it! I never saw such nerve in j j my life! The greatest fight I ever seen! Damn, how did you I! do it?"
| " The Tiger looked down at him, grinned, though his body was a throbbing pain from the punishment he had absorbed.
"Somethin' I learned in the jungle," he growled.
*
POLICE BAND
". . . Car 134 ... 134 ... cancel your last call, 135 will handle...."
Tom Sixte stopped turning the dial and listened. He was far over on the right side of his radio and was for the first time aware that it could pick up police calls. The book he was reading had failed to hold his interest. He put it down and lit a cigarette.
"42, station call . . . 1047 South Kashmir . . . 218, MT, Clear ..." The signal faded in and out.
Sixte leaned back in his chair, listening with only half his attention. He had been in town to study a plan for moving an industrial plant to San Bernardino and the study was complete, his report written. At thirty-two he was successful, single, and vaguely discontented.
With only hours remaining of his stay in town, he was profoundly bored. His work had given him no time to make friends, and he had seen too many movies. Waiting got on his nerves, and he was leaving in just forty-eight hours for Bolivia.
"All units ... stolen truck... commercial... Charles ...
Henry. ..." The voice trailed off again and Sixte turned in his chair and poured his glass half full of Madeira, then relaxed.
The dispatcher's voice came in suddenly. "179 . . .
Redondo and San Vincente, neighbor reports a man hurt, a woman screaming...."
Tom Sixte sat up abruptly. That was only two blocks away! He sat still for a moment but boredom pulled him to his feet. He shrugged into his coat and, hat in hand, stepped out the door.
Upon reaching the street, he hesitated. What was he rushing for? Like a ten-year-old kid after a fire truck!
But, why not? He was doing nothing and the walk might do him good. He went to the corner. He could hear no screaming, although far off he heard the wail of a siren approaching.
He turned the corner and started for Redondo, but just before he reached it, he saw a girl cutting across a lawn, coming toward him. Her coat was open, hair flying, and she was running.
She was in the middle of the street when she saw him.
She slid to a stop and in the light reflected from the corner her face seemed set and strained. Her right hand was in her pocket.
"What's the trouble?" he asked. "Do you need help?"
"No!" She spat the word. But a glance over her shoulder and her manner changed. She came up to him quickly.
"Sorry, I do need help, but you frightened me. I just got away from a man."
"The police are coming. There's nothing to worry about now."
She paused, listening to the siren. "Oh, but I can't meet the police! I simply can't! They'd . . . my parents would hear..." She caught his arm impulsively. "Help me, won't you? Daddy and Mother didn't know I was out "
They were walking back toward the corner he had turned. A siren shrilled to a stop somewhere behind them.
She clutched his arm. "Do you live close by? Can't we go there? Just until the police are gone? I... I fought him off, and he fell. He may be hurt. Take me to your place .. . oh, please!"
Tom Sixte shrugged. No use letting the kid get into trouble, and it would be only for a few minutes. He could not see her face well, but her voice and her figure indicated youth.
He led the way upstairs and unlocked the door. The room was small and simple. Aside from the clothes and his bags the only things in it that belonged to him were a half dozen books.
When he saw her face under the light, he felt his first touch of doubt. She must be ... well, over thirty.
She saw the bottle. "Can I have a drink?" Without waiting for his reply, she picked up his own empty glass and poured wine into it. She tossed it off, then looked startled.
"What was that?"
"It's wine. It's called Malmsey."
"It's good." She picked up the bottle and looked at it.
"Imported, isn't it?" She glanced swiftly around the room, and saw the telephone. "May I make a call?"
She moved the phone and dialed. He heard the phone ringing, then a hard male voice. "Yeah?"
"Kurt? This is Phyllis. . . . Can you come and get me?"
Sixte heard a male voice asking questions. "What d'you think?" Her voice became strident with impatience.
"Rhubarb? I'll say! The place is lousy with cops.
"No, I'm all right . . . some guy invited me up to his place." The male voice lowered a little. "How do I know who he is?" Phyllis grew more impatient. "Look, you're in this as deep as I am! You come an' get me!... Sure, I'll stay here, but hurry!"
Worried now, Sixte turned on her as she hung up the phone. "I didn't bargain for this," he said, "you'll have to go. I had no idea you were running from the police."
"Sit down." There was a small automatic in her hand.
"I'm not fooling. That man out there is dead."
"Dead? " Sixte was incredulous. "You killed him?"
Her laugh was not pleasant. "He was a drunken fool. It was that woman spoiled it all."
"Woman?"
"Some dame who came up while I was going over him.
She started to scream so I hit her."
Tom Sixte sat down, trying to focus his thoughts. Fifteen minutes ago, he had been reading, faintly bored. Now, he was mixed up in a murder and robbery. Kurt was coming to take her away, and then ... his good sense intervened.
That would not, could not be the end. They could not afford to let him go. And if she had killed a man ...
She poured another glass of the Madeira. Steps sounded outside the door. There was a careful knock. Keeping her eyes on Sixte, the gun out of sight, Phyllis opened the door.
The man who stepped in was cadaverous, but handsome.
He could have been no more than thirty, and he wore a dark suit. The eyes that measured Sixte were cruel.
Phyllis pulled him to one side and whispered rapidly.
Kurt listened, then shook out a cigarette. "Who are you?" he said then. "What are you?"
"My name is Sixte. I'm an architect."
"Get up and turn around."
Sixte felt practiced hands go through his pockets, remove his wallet, some letters.
He was told to be seated and Kurt went through his billfold. There was seventy dollars in cash, some traveler's checks-and the tickets were with his passport
.
"Bolivia, huh? Whatya know about that? I got a guy wants to leave town. He'd pay plenty for this passport and these tickets."
Sixte tried to sort out his thoughts. For the first time he began to appreciate his true danger.
Kurt smiled, and it was not a nice smile. "This is sweet, Phyl, real sweet. This joker has stuff here I can sell for a grand, easy. Maybe two. Rubio has to get out of town and this is it. Rubio pays, takes the ticket-this guy is gone and nobody even looks for him."
Tom Sixte sat very still. His mind seemed icy cold. He was not going to get out of this ... he was not going to ... he reached over to his radio and adjusted the hands of the clock, then the volume....
Detective Lieutenant Mike Frost walked back to the lab i truck. "Roll it, Joe," he said, "nothing more you can do here."
Suddenly the radio lit up. "179 . . . you up the block : from the coroner's van? If so turn your radio down. We're getting complaints." j Frost picked up the microphone. "Dispatch ... ? What's | this about my radio?" |
After a brief conversation Mike Frost got out of the car, spoke to Joe, and walked up the block. The sound was rolling from the hallway of a rooming house and Frost went up the steps two at a time. The door was open, and as people were emerging from the rooms and staring, Frost shoved through the door and went in. The blasting sound filled an empty room, with the light switch off.
Turning the lights on, he stepped to the radio and turned it off with a snap. Joe had come into the door behind him. "What is it, Lieutenant?"
"Oh, some crazy fool went off and left his radio turned on." He scowled. "No, it's one of those clock radios. Must have just switched on."
"Who'd want that volume?" Joe wondered. "And on a police band, too."
Mike Frost looked at Joe thoughtfully, then turned slowly and began to look around the room. It was strangely bare.
No clothes, no personal possessions. The bathroom shelves were empty, no razor, shaving cream, or powder.
No toothbrush.
The simple furniture of a furnished room, towels, soap ... a clock radio and some books. The clock radio was brand spanking new ... so were the books.
Frost stepped back into the bathroom. The sink was still damp. Whoever had been here had left within a very few minutes. But why leave a new radio and the books? The only other thing remaining was an almost empty bottle of Madeira. The glass on the table was still wet. . . and there was lipstick on the rim. In two places . . . some woman had taken at least two drinks here.
And not twenty minutes ago, a woman had fled the scene of a killing just two blocks away.
Somebody had left this room fast. . . and why was that radio set for a time when no one would want to get up and tuned for a police band with the volume control on full power?
"Get your stuff, Joe. Give it a going-over."
Joe was incredulous. "This place? What's the idea?"
"Call it a hunch, Joe. But work fast. I think we'd better work fast."
The landlady was visiting somebody in Santa Monica.
Yes, she had a new roomer. A man. Nobody knew anything about him except that he was rarely in, and very quiet. Oh, yes! A neighbor remembered, Mrs. Brady had said he was leaving in a^ couple of days . . . this room would be vacant on the fifth. This was the third.
Frost walked back up to the room and stared around him. Was he wasting time, making a fool of himself? But why would a man leave a perfectly new clock radio behind him? And why leave the books?
There were six of them, all new. They represented a value of more than thirty dollars and given the condition of the spines three of them had not even been opened.
Two were on South America. On Bolivia. One was a book on conversational Spanish.
Frost picked up the telephone and rang the airlines. In a matter of minutes he had his information. Three men were scheduled for La Paz, Bolivia, on the fifth . . . another : check ... at that address. Thomas Sixte. Frost put the phone back on the cradle.
He was no closer to an answer but he did have more of a puzzle and some reason behind his hunch. Why would a L man, leaving within forty-eight hours, anyway, suddenly ?< leave a comfortable room? I
Where did he expect to spend the next forty-eight ' hours? Why did he leave his books and radio? He glanced at the dial on the radio. The man had his clock radio set to ; start blasting police calls within a matter of minutes after ] he had left his room.
Why? j Frost picked up the Madeira bottle .. . forty-eight years old. Good stuff, not too easily had ... he checked the telephone book and began ringing. Absently, he watched Joe going over the room. His helper was in the bathroom.
The liquor store he called replied after a minute. Just closing up. "Yes, I knew Mr. Sixte. Very excellent taste, Lieutenant. Knows wines as few men do. When he first talked to me about them, I believed him to be a champagne salesman.
"That brand of Madeira? Very few stores, Lieutenant. It would be easy to ... yes? All right."
He glanced at his watch. He had been in the vicinity so had gone to Redondo and San Vincente. That had been at 9:42 ... twenty minutes later he heard the blasting of the radio ... it was now 10:35.
"Only three sets of prints," Joe told him. "One of them a man's. Two are women. One of them is probably the maid or the landlady, judging by where I found 'em."
"The others?"
"Only a couple . . . some more, but smudged. Got a clear print off the wine bottle, one off the glass."
"Anything else?"
"Soap in the shower is still wet. He probably took a shower about seven or eight o'clock. Some cigarettes, all his ... and he'd been reading that book."
Joe rubbed his jaw. "What gives, Lieutenant? What you tryin' to prove?"
Mike Frost shrugged. He was not quite sure himself. "A man is killed and a girl is slugged by a woman. We know that much. Two blocks away a man suddenly leaves his room, with no reason that figures, and minutes later his clock radio starts blasting police calls.
"A woman has been in this room within the last hour.
My hunch is it was the woman who killed that guy on Redondo. I'm guessing that she got in here somehow to duck the police, and when she went away, she took him with her."
"And he turned on the radio to warn us? How does he know we're near?"
"Maybe the girl told him. Maybe he saw the murder.
Maybe she followed him. It's all maybe."
"Maybe he was in cahoots with her."
"Could be ... but why the radio?"
"Accident... twisted the wrong dial, maybe."
Frost nodded wearily. "All right. Check those prints. All three sets ... or whatever you got."
Had the girl taken the. Man away from here by herself?
They had a call out, the area blanketed. Any girl alone would have been stopped. But if she had been with him?
She might have been stopped, anyway. She was a blonde, about thirty, someone had said, slight figure ... in a suede coat.
When Joe was gone Mike Frost sat down in the empty room and began to fiddle with the radio. After twenty minutes he had learned one thing. You just didn't turn this : on to the police band. You had to hunt for it, adjust it care- I fully. :
Heavy steps on the stairs . . . "Got something for you, *
Lieutenant." It was an officer from a radio car. "A girl ) across the street. She was parked with her boyfriend ... high school kids ... they saw two men and a woman come out and go to a car. Dark sedan of some kind."
"Two men?"
"Yeah ... the car drove up while they were sittin' there.
The guy who went upstairs was tall. Big in the shoulders."
It was something, but not much. There was the phone.
Had the girl gotten in here she could have called her boyfriend, and he might have been waiting nearby. The murdered man had been drinking, that was obvious.
Probably quite drunk . . . and probably in a bar not a dozen blocks away. ,i If they could find that bar they might get a descrip- | tion . . . be
at officers were looking but it might not be fast I enough ... a man's life might be at stake. '
Mike Frost stood quietly gnawing gently at his lower | lip. He was a big man, wide in the shoulders, with a rather | solemn, thick-boned face. His fingers dug at his reddish- "- brown hair and he tried to think.
This Tom Sixte ... he was no fool. In a tight spot he had thought of the clock radio and the police calls. It had been a chance, but he had thought of it and taken it. He might think of something else but they could not depend on that.
The bank. They might try to get some money out of Sixte. Suddenly, Frost was hoping Sixte would think of that. If he did, if he could play on their greed ...
The wine bottle ... he had liquor stores alerted for possible purchase of the Madeira. It was a wild chance, but the girl had tried a glass of it, and to get money they might humor Sixte. "Boy," Frost said, half aloud, "I hope you're thinking, and I hope you're thinking like I am."
Forty-eight hours. They would have the flight covered long before takeoff time.
Mike Frost went back to his office and sat down at the battered, scarred old desk. He ran his fingers through his rusty hair and tried to think ... to think....
Tom Sixte sat on the divan in a quaint, old-fashioned room. The sort of furnishings that were good middle-class in 1910. It gave him a queer feeling to be sitting there like that, the room was so much like his Aunt Eunice's.
Kurt was leafing through the paper and he was smoking.
Phyllis was irritable. She kept looking over at Sixte.
"You're a fool, Kurt. Get rid of him."
"Take it easy." Kurt leaned back in his chair, lighting another cigarette with his left hand. With his coat off, his shoulders were not as wide and he was a little pigeon chested. "I've got a call out for Rubio. Let him do it."
Sixte's feet were tied, but his hands were free. There was no way he could move quickly, and nothing to use with his hands. He was trying to put himself in the position of the police and getting nowhere.
Suppose some neighbor had just turned off the radio?
Suppose the police had become curious, that would make them look around? How smart were they?
All right. Suppose they had come, and suppose they had examined his room. Suppose they decided he had been kidnapped, all of which was a lot of supposing. But, if they had? What would they do?
with These Hands (Ss) (2002) Page 14
