Still keeping to the shadows and walking now, I turned the corner and started down the street that led directly to the town. A faint haze hung over the town from the lights of the all night neon signs: they seemed a long way off. I peered at my strap watch. It was coming up for three o’clock. It wouldn’t be long now before it was light.
At the bottom of the street, bright lights suddenly cut up the darkness as a car swung out from a side turning. I was passing a house when I saw the lights. I put one hand on the low garden wall, vaulted over and crouched down. The car roared up the street: its headlights raking the wall, making me duck lower. I heard the car brake violently, then turn into Cannon Avenue.
I straightened, vaulted back on to the sidewalk and started to run again. I was breathing like an asthmatic by the time I reached the bottom of the street which led into the outskirts of the shopping centre. Here I knew was danger: this was the territory of the patrolling cop, and every one of them would have my description. Keeping to the back streets I made my way past the dark faces of small shops, dingy eating houses and apartment houses. This was the district, tucked away as if ashamed of itself, that housed the workers who were at the beck and call of the rich of Tampa City.
Ahead of me a shadow moved, bringing me to an abrupt stop. I silently stepped into a shop doorway as a bulky patrolman walked to the edge of the sidewalk and balanced himself on the kerb while he swung his nightstick and stared up at the grey-black canopy of the sky. He rested his feet for five minutes or so while I watched him, then he moved on, going away from me.
At the next intersection I turned right. Across the road a yellow light shining through a glass panelled door made a rectangle pattern on the greasy sidewalk. A neon sign above the door read: Good Eats. Open All Night.
I crossed the street, made sure no one was in sight before I stepped into the rectangle of light and looked through the glass panel of the door.
A fat man with black greasy hair, his chin bristly with black stubble, his hairy arms resting on the counter, stared vacantly at a newspaper spread out before him. There were no customers and most of the lights were off.
I pushed open the door and walked in.
The fat man glanced up, his eyes heavy with boredom.
‘May I use your phone, bud?’ I asked.
He jerked a dirty thumb to the end of the room.
‘Go ahead and help yourself,’ he said and yawned, showing big white teeth.
I shut myself in the pay booth and leafed through the telephone book. I found Sam Benn’s number and I dialled. While I waited, listening to the calling tone, I stared through the glass panel of the door at the fat man.
A voice heavy with sleep said, ‘Hello?’
‘Is Sam Benn there?’
‘You’re talking to him. What do you want?’
‘Captain Bradley told me to call you. I have a flock of buttons hunting for me and I’ve got to get under cover fast.’
The man at the other end of the line sighed.
‘Well, okay, if Cap Bradley said so, who am I to object? Where are you?’
‘At an eating house on Sherratt Street.’
‘Know where I am?’
‘No. I’m walking and dodging cops as I go.’
The man groaned.
‘That means I’ve got to come and fetch you, does it?’
‘It would be an idea.’
‘Yeah; an idea for you, but not for me. Well, okay. The things I do for Cap Bradley! Stick where you are. I’ll be along in half an hour; maybe sooner.’
‘Thanks.’
The line went dead. I replaced the receiver. As I turned to open the booth door I saw a shadow fall across the rectangle of light on the sidewalk. A moment later the door pushed open and two big men came in. They walked heavily over to the fat man who looked up. He slowly straightened and placed two big, hairy hands on the counter. His face was expressionless.
Faintly through the glass panel of the pay booth I heard one of the men say, ‘Police. We’re looking for a guy. Anyone been in?’
I felt a cold dampness on my face as I squeezed myself into the darkness of the booth.
‘No one’s been in for the past two hours,’ the fat man said woodenly.
‘You sure?’
‘I’m telling you, aren’t I?’ the fat man said curtly. He put a cigarette between his lips and began to search for a match.
The policeman who had spoken leaned forward and smacked the cigarette away, catching the fat man’s cheek with his thick fingers as he did so.
‘Don’t smoke, punk, when I’m talking to you,’ he snarled.
The fat man stiffened; his deepset eyes glittered, but he didn’t say anything nor did he move.
‘This guy’s tall, dark, around thirty-three or four,’ the policeman went on. ‘He’s wearing a dark grey suit and a matching slouch hat. If you spot him call headquarters - understand?’
‘Yes,’ the fat man said.
‘You’d better understand.’
The two policemen turned and walked out, leaving the door open. They went on down the street. The fat man came from behind the counter, crossed to the door and looked out, then he shut the door and went back to the counter. He didn’t look once in my direction.
I took out my handkerchief and wiped my sweating face, then I opened the pay booth door and came out.
The fat man said, ‘They may be back. There’s a cop at the corner. Go in there,’ and he jerked his thumb to a door near the pay booth.
‘Thanks,’ I said, opened the door and walked into a comfortably but shabbily furnished sitting room. A big black cat lay sleeping in an armchair. It opened its eyes to examine me, decided I was harmless and went back to sleep. I took out my pack of cigarettes, lit one and drew in a lungful of smoke. My knees felt as if I had been running hard for a couple of miles and my breath was laboured.
The fat man came in with a cup of coffee which he put on the table. He opened a drawer in the table and took out a half pint bottle of Haig.
‘You got friends?’ he asked, pushing the bottle towards me.
‘Someone’s coming to pick me up. Thanks for what you did.’
‘That’s nothing. I wouldn’t help the cops in this town even if it cost me money.’ He moved back to the door. ‘You’ll be okay here. Stick around,’ and he went out.
I poured a slug of whisky into the coffee and drank it. I felt a lot better for it. Then I sat down. This was the first moment of quiet that I had had since I had found Hartley shot to death. Even now my mind was still too uneasy by my own predicament to give much thought to the reason why he had been murdered. I remembered his last words to me: ‘I have a theory that might interest you.’ He knew I was hunting for information about Fay Benson and it seemed
reasonable to assume that the theory he had mentioned had to do with Fay Benson. Had he been killed because of this theory?
Unless the killer had been with him when he had telephoned to me, how could the killer have known Hartley was going to talk? It looked as if the killer was someone Hartley knew. I took out the .38 automatic and examined it. It looked either new or else it had been well looked after. Its serial number was 3347890. I took out the clip. Only two shots had been fired from the gun. The killer was either a first class shot or else the killing had been done at close quarters.
No doubt Creed would be able to get some information from the gun. As soon as I could I would send the gun to him. I put the gun, carefully wrapped in my handkerchief, back in my jacket pocket.
What was my next move to be? The solution of Fay Benson’s kidnapping and murder was to be found in Tampa City: I was sure of that. But every hour I remained in the city increased the risk of my being arrested. I was now Suspect No.1 for Hartley’s killing and unless I found the killer, there would be no town in the country where I would be safe.
The thought made me sweat. It seemed to me whatever happened I had to stay in Tampa City. It looked as if I would have to dream up some kind of disguise if I was t
o have any freedom of movement. If I dyed my hair a darker shade, wore dark glasses and a change of clothing I might get by. Tampa City was teeming with visitors. I should be able to lose myself in the crowd.
I was still making plans when the fat man put his head around the door.
‘Benn’s out here asking for you - okay?’
I got up.
‘Sure. Can he come in?’
The fat man nodded and went away. A moment or so later Sam Benn came in.
He was a little man, small boned, with a shock of iron-grey hair, a thin pointed face and deepset, expressionless eyes. He was wearing a leather windcheater, zipped up to his chin and a pair of dirty grey slacks. He came over to me and shook hands.
‘Just how bad is it?’ he asked. How hot is the heat?’
‘I was caught in a house with two dead men in it,’ I said. ‘The police are convinced I did the killing.’
Benn grimaced.
‘That’s nice. What do you want me to do? Get you out of town?’
‘No. I want somewhere safe where I can operate. I’ve got to find the killer if I’m to beat the rap.’
‘You’re kidding yourself. You’d better get out of town.’
‘Not for a day or so. Captain Bradley said you could take care of me. Can’t you?’
‘Oh, I guess so. The things I do for that man.’ Benn suddenly grinned. ‘I’ll hide you up for a while, but not for long. I’m sticking my neck out. Now listen, my car’s parked at the end of the street. I’ll go and fetch it and come past here slowly. Fats will give you the tip when to move. I’ll have the car door open. Dive in quick. Okay?’
I said it was okay.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I
It was after eleven o’clock before I rolled out of the wall bunk in Benn’s hideout, and walked, yawning, to the toilet basin to sluice water over my face.
The hideout was a professional job and I wondered what its history was. Located under Benn’s barroom and made of concrete and steel, it had an elaborately concealed entrance, an emergency exit that led to an alley behind the bar, a refrigerator full of food, a radio, a television set, a telephone, a table, three armchairs and a comprehensive stock of liquor.
While I shaved I had the radio on to the short wave police signals, but the routine stuff that came out of the speaker wasn’t concerned with me.
Benn came in as I was cleaning the razor. He had a couple of brown paper parcels which he put on the table. From his pockets he produced four small packages and a folded newspaper.
‘I guess I haven’t forgotten anything,’ he said, wandering over to plug in the electric kettle.
I unfolded the newspaper. The double murder had been given a spread. Lieutenant Carson said in his statement that the police had a number of important clues and they were anxious to interview a tall, dark, well-built man, wearing a dark grey suit and dark hat who they thought might be able to give them information that would lead to the solution of the murders. They didn’t mention my name, and I was surprised that the description was so vague.
‘That you?’ Benn asked as he put two eggs in a saucepan.
‘Yeah,’ I said and taking the hair dye he had got me over to the toilet basin I started to tone my hair down to a darker shade. By the time he had soft boiled the eggs, made some coffee and toast I was through. The extra shade made a difference. He had brought me a twist of black hair and a small bottle of spirit gum, but before I made myself a moustache I sat down to breakfast.
Benn leaned against the wall, a cigarette between his fingers and watched me eat.
‘Have you known Captain Bradley, long?’ I asked him as I decapitated an egg.
‘Twelve years. He was my commanding officer during the war. He saved my life twice, talked me out of a court martial, got me three weeks leave when my wife was dying and when the General said no one was to have leave,’ Benn said, staring at the glowing end of his cigarette. ‘I’d cut my right arm off for him if it would do him any good.’
‘Some place you have here.’
He grinned.
‘Don’t get wrong ideas, Bud. This was here when I bought the joint. It used to be one of Capone’s liquor dumps. Now and then someone wants to cool off and it comes in handy. When Cap Bradley was in charge I kept it shut, but now these skates are running the police force I oblige where I can.’ He took a drag from his cigarette. ‘It’ll cost you twenty a day. I’m saving up for a trip to Europe, otherwise I wouldn’t charge you.’
I grinned at him.
‘That’s okay. Make it thirty. I run an expense sheet.’
He sighed enviously.
‘That’s something I’ve always wanted to do. You’ve got nothing to worry about as long as you stay here.’
I decapitated the second egg.
‘Take the weight off your feet.’
He reached for a bottle of beer, levered off the cap with his teeth, then sat down, nursing the bottle.
‘I can’t stay long. I’ve work to do.’
‘How do I get hold of you when I want you?’
‘Use the telephone. I’m the only one who answers it.’
‘Have you got anyone to run messages for me? There’s a package I want taken to Welden.’
‘I’ve got a boy, but he might talk. Can’t you mail it?’
‘It’s got to get there today.’
‘Safer to mail it.’
‘Okay. Now can you get me some writing paper? A lot of it?’
‘There’s some in the table drawer.’
‘Fine. I guess for the moment that covers it.’
He took a long pull at the bottle of beer, sighed, wiped his lips on the back of his hand and stood up.
‘You’ve got plenty of food. Just help yourself. I’ll be down again.’
I took out my billfold, checked my money, then gave him two fifties. I had already given him the money for the things he had bought me, and when he took the tray and left me, I undid the parcels and put on the brown sports suit he had got for me. It was a good fit without being over smart. I could be one of a crowd in it without attracting attention.
I spent half an hour making myself a moustache. It was a hair-by-hair job, and when I had trimmed it, it looked the genuine article. With the new suit, the toned down hair and the moustache I doubted if even Bernie would recognize me. I had trouble in recognizing myself.
I made a parcel of the .38 automatic, disguising its shape as well as I could. Then I sat down by the telephone and called police headquarters at Welden. When I got through I asked for Police Captain Creed.
‘This is Sladen,’ I said when he came on the line. ‘I’ve got a report and a gun for you. I want you to have them today. Can you send someone over to pick them up?’
‘I could do,’ Creed said. ‘What’s this about Hartley? Who rubbed him out?’
‘Your pals here think I did. That’s my description in the papers. They’re looking for me now. Until I get things straightened out I’m keeping out of sight, and out of your sight too. You’ll get all the details in the report. The gun did the killing. I want it checked for prints and ownership. I’ll leave it with Sam Benn who runs a bar on Maddox Street. Get someone over fast for it.’
‘How do they hook you into the killing?’ Creed asked sharply.
‘I was there a few minutes after it happened. Lassiter caught me nosing around. I ducked out fast.’
‘Look, Sladen, if they want you . . .’
‘I know; I know. I’m not asking for help. I can handle this myself. Get the gun checked for me. That’s all I want. I’ll be calling you again. So long for now,’ and I hung up.
I spent the next hour writing a full report of the situation to date. Benn came in as I was putting the report in an envelope.
He started and stared.
‘For crying out loud!’ he exclaimed, moving around me. ‘I wouldn’t have known you. You can relax, Bud. There’s not a cop in town who’d spot you.’
‘It’s not bad, is it?’ I sai
d, fingering my moustache. ‘I should get by. I’ve fixed for someone to pick up this package and letter. He’ll be from the Welden police and I’ve told him to pick them up from you. Okay?’
‘Sure.’ He took the package and the letter. ‘Feels like a gun.’
‘That’s what it is.’ I tilted back my chair and went on, ‘Have you been in this town long?’
‘Since the war.’
‘Then you’d know most of the characters.’
‘I know some of them.’
I produced Fay Benson’s photograph and showed it to him.
‘Ever seen her?’
He examined the photograph, then shook his head.
‘I don’t think so. These girls all look alike, but I don’t remember her.’
I retrieved the photograph and put it back in my billfold.
‘Know anything about Cornelia Van Blake?’
His face hardened.
‘She’s the one who got Cap Bradley tossed off the force. I know her. What’s she to you?’
‘I don’t know, but I have an idea she’s at the bottom of most of my troubles.’
‘She’s in solid with Doonan’s flock of buttons. If you’re in wrong with her, you’d better watch out. Lassiter’s on her payroll.’
‘Is that a fact? How do you know?’
‘A barman hears things. Lassiter may only be a sergeant, but he’s got plenty of influence. Money talks in this town and he’s got it. You should see the Packard he runs, and his house.’
‘Think he gets it from her?’
‘That’s what I hear. It’s my bet he’ll be Lieutenant next year, and Captain the year after.’
‘Why?’
He showed his teeth in a mirthless smile. ‘She wouldn’t give anything away for nothing. He’s worked for it all right.’
‘Bradley thinks she murdered her husband. What do you think?’
‘I wouldn’t know, but I do know two days after he was shot, Lassiter bought himself the Packard.’
‘They say Ted Dillon did the shooting. Did you ever run into Dillon?’
‘Are you digging into this murder?’ Benn asked, lowering himself on the arm of a chair.
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