E. Hoffmann Price's Two-Fisted Detectives

by E. Hoffmann Price

  That Wayland was not mentioned suggested that the police had their doubts as to the anonymous call. “I gained time, all right, turning him in,” Carver grumbled to his image in the mirror as he shaved. “But time for whom?”

  He had breakfast with Alma and Cornelia. He should have, but he did not relish the waffles. What killed his appetite was the glances they exchanged, glances he caught from the very corners of his eyes. Both women had read the paper, and both were a bit too bright to be convincing. There was no telling what manner of hell Cornelia might raise, by way of springing Wayland.

  “You sit tight, honey,” he said to the lovely blonde. “The cops are playing double foxy, pretending they’re not interested in Denny. I’ll get him a mouthpiece who’ll go to bat with a habeas corpus or something. And then I’ll see Barstow, the tax expert; your husband had to tell him a lot of details to keep the score straight. And after enough talk, he’s bound to have told a few things that didn’t pertain to deductions. Just sit tight, don’t worry, and don’t poke your chin out. If you land in the pokey, who’s going to help me carry the ball?”

  She went saucer-eyed, and looked up with an expression that predicted the words which followed: “Jeff, you’re wonderful! I don’t know what I’d do if Alma hadn’t known you.” But Carver knew what he would be doing if Alma had not known Cornelia: he would not be working on a murder case to save his own hide, and he might even be having breakfast alone with Alma, in that apartment where white marble lions guarded the patio archway.

  CHAPTER 4

  As he hoofed toward Canal Street, the boundary-line between the Vieux Carre and “uptown“, he pondered somberly on the way Alma had kissed him after breakfast: the under-cover wince, he called it, for lack of better words. She suspected him, or what was almost as bad, she was trying not to suspect.

  He stopped first to see Pierre Livaudais, his attorney, whose “Creole” viewpoint would be useful. Creole meant native born, home grown, and not “mulatto.” By extension, Creole beef was meat that came from Louisiana, not from the northern packing plants; and there was Creole lettuce, and a good many tomatoes similarly tagged.

  “Pete,” he began, “here’s a retainer, in the name of Cornelia Lowry.” Then, outlining the lady’s position, he continued, “Go see her boyfriend. Tell him to dummy up and say nothing; don’t set the town afire to spring him. The way I’m working on this case, it’ll be no help having him on the loose right this minute. With him in the pokey, she’ll cooperate better, and we’ll all move faster.”

  Livaudais’ chubby face beamed with amusement and knowingness. “You’re my client too, Jeff; don’t be afraid to tell me you’re working mostly in your own interest, you hear me?”

  “You harpooning me!”

  The attorney chuckled, and looked up from writing a receipt for the retainer. “It’s pretty plain to anyone who knows you by sight. I mean, reasonably well. Call me back every two hours. In case you don’t buzz me, I’ll come looking for you. You know where.”

  “Third Precinct?”

  “First there, but no telling where you might land. Good luck, Jeff, and don’t cut too many corners.”

  As long as Carver kept moving, there was not too much risk of being picked up because of the description. Relatively few people can translate printed words into images that match up with life.

  He found Bradford Barstow in the old, two-story Salter Building. The place had dusky halls, and the comfortable drowsiness of old time New Orleans. In flavor as well as shape, it was quite unlike the towering Hibernia Bank and the other modern buildings of the financial district.

  Barstow himself was big enough to fill the acre of emptiness that would have been utilized efficiently in a modern place. He was not fat: he was simply large, muscular, and solid, with a tanned and angular face that bespoke strength. His was not hatchet-faced angularity; it was that of stone squared for the masons.

  Barstow wore an imported plaid, brown with red check. His shirt harmonized, and his tie contrasted. His breast pocket handkerchief was just right. He was too consciously well-groomed for the comfortably outmoded office, and too dynamic. Carver sensed the jet-propelled energy of the man who greeted him, and clinched his words with a bone crushing handclasp which ended by planting Carver in a chair by the broad desk. It was too small to be a polo field, and too large for anything else: yet, it fitted the office.

  In the few paces Barstow had walked, his shoes had squeaked. The tweet-queek-tweet, not loud, had jarred a silence broken only by the muted tick-tick of a typewriter in the inner office. The shoes did not fit the rest of the man’s gear.

  “Yes, Mr. Carver. What can I do for you?” Carver pointed at the morning paper lying on Barstow’s desk. “This business about Herb Lowry. Mrs. Lowry is badly shaken up about it all—I mean, the second Mrs. Lowry. She asked me to handle a few details for her. Such as tax information.”

  “You her attorney?”

  “Power of attorney, yes. Lawyer, no. Give her a buzz if you have to check up.”

  “Let’s hear what you want to know, first. Terrible thing, terrible. Though he was my client; she was not.”

  “That is right where you come in.” Carver outlined the tax angles, income and inheritance; he touched on mortgages and interest payments. He concluded, “She is short of cash, and has a lot of immediate expense; she wants to know how she stands, and what liens there are against the estate. Bank statements would get her nowhere. A tax consultant has it all, right on tap, assembled.”

  “She’d better consult her attorney, don’t you think?”

  “That’s something she doesn’t have at her beck and call. How many of us do? Anyway, what’s the score on Lowry?”

  “Off hand, with so many clients, I’ll have to look it up.”

  “Well, now,” Carver retorted, pleasantly yet pointedly, “I was talking to Lowry just yesterday evening, a couple of hours before he was killed. He was all up in the air about his second installment.”

  The paper had given this only scanty mention, yet it did seem that Barstow should have noted the reference to his specialty. He snapped back, “If you’re so well posted, why ask me?”

  “As I said, you have the details.”

  “I’ll call you back when I’ve looked it up.”

  “Anyway, give me the law on it, the general picture. Maybe I didn’t make that clear.”

  “I’ll have to look that up.”

  “An expert ought to have that much at his finger tips. How come you don’t?”

  For a moment Carver, seeing the anger flare in Barstow’s eyes, estimated his own ability at toe to toe slugging, and knew he would be a very poor second. Though he had means with him for leveling the odds, he did not want to use them needlessly. Then Barstow said, smoothly, “An expert is one just because he doesn’t guess. Since you are in such a hurry, I’ll take a look. Wait a moment.” Barstow, shoes squeaking, made for the office beyond the dark paneling. The shoes were brand new. The well-groomed man had not taken time to give them the first polishing they should have had before being worn. Carver followed on into the office where a black haired girl was transcribing dictation.

  Barstow was reaching for the extension phone when Carver said, “Hell, man, do you farm your business out, or do you have to consult a consultant?”

  “Take a seat out front. I’ll tell you everything I can when I have looked it up.”

  “What I meant to tell you,” Carver continued, “is that the widow is not at home.” He gave Alma’s phone number. “Call her where she’s staying and get her OK, so you can talk freely and answer any questions that I might bring up.”

  Barstow eased up at once. “What was that number again?”

  He made a memo when Carver repeated; and then Carver, turning to the door, gave him a final word: “Go to it, pal, I’ll be waiting.” Once in the front office, he went to the desk and lifted the hand
set. He got it to his ear before Barstow had done spinning the dial.

  Carver was not surprised by what he heard. Barstow had police headquarters, and was saying, “I’ve got the man you’re looking for in the Lowry case. Answers the description perfectly. Sure, I’ll detain him.”

  No sooner had Barstow hung up when Carver followed suit.

  Instead of clearing out, Carver stuck; and it was sticky work; he had a fine case of the shakes. For an instant, he was tempted to go back to the inner office and settle matters. He glanced at the clock. Less than a minute had passed, when he heard Barstow’s solid footsteps.

  The man stepped out. He had a leveled automatic. “You’re under arrest, Carver. Don’t start anything. The police are on the way.”

  “Arrest—what for?”

  “Murder of Herbert Lowry. You answer the description perfectly.”

  Carver answered, calmly, “Put up that gun, or I’ll sue you blind for this. You’re asking for a slug for false arrest, and I’ll see that you get it. Better look up your law first.”

  And then he whisked the inkstand he had snared while holding Barstow’s attention, catching him off guard with his casual voice. The fluid blinded the expert; the shot he jerked went wild.

  Meanwhile, Carver had followed through. He bounded inside Barstow’s reach and smashed down with his blackjack. The impact staggered him. The second wallop crumpled him.

  Barstow had barely hit the deck when Carver knelt and yanked off his shoes. Once in the hall, he strolled toward the stairs. He was in the lobby, standing on a weighing machine, when two cops barged in. They ignored him, and the stairs; instead, they stepped into the elevator.

  Carver, captured shoes nestled under his coat, made for the waterfront. Two of his nightwatchmen had quarters over a restaurant in the area that fringed the L&N tracks. Since the newspaper had described his suit and added “well-dressed,” Carver decided upon an immediate cure. He went up to borrow some clothes.

  Waking up the watchman, Carver lost no time in changing, and wasted none on explanations. When, half an hour later, and probably long before Barstow could remember his own name, Carver began his prowl of South Rampart Street, he wore a suit that matched the district. He carried a metal tool kit, such as service men take when going to fix household appliances; in addition, he had Barstow’s shoes.

  At each loan office and second hand store, the specialty of the first couple blocks of the street, he unwrapped the shoes and began his spiel.

  “Look, you sold me these last night, and now I don’t need ’em. I promoted a pair, for free.”

  “Give you a dollar.”

  “Dollar, hell! You just sold ’em to me last night, how about a refund?”

  “I sold ’em? Not those shoes, and not to you.”

  In honest indignation at chrome-plated nerve, the trader would produce a sample from his odd lot of new shoes, to prove his point.

  After several attempts in other places, Carver got a new reaction. “Sure, I sold these, but not to you.”

  “If you didn’t sell ’em to me, who didja sell ’em to?”

  “To a fellow twice your size. I never saw you before.”

  “Sure you saw me. It was about ten o’clock last night,” Carver hazarded. “You waited on me when you got done with him.”

  “What you think this is, huh? It was eleven, and there wasn’t anyone but that customer. I lose money keeping open nights, I don’t know why I do it. I’m just too obliging. Now listen, I’ll give you something else in trade. Hat? Shirt? Socks?”

  “Trade, go shove it; I want my money back.”

  “What for? Ain’t they good shoes?”

  Ignoring that point, Carver continued his griping, “You couldn’t sell anything like these to that well-dressed guy in here before you waited on me—the well-dressed guy that wasn’t here. I was.”

  “What’s the matter with those shoes?” The man snatched a box from a heap of perhaps half a dozen. “Factory seconds. Nationally advertised where it ain’t sandpapered off clean. There’s a broker on Gravier Street buys these whenever I get some, you hear me?”

  “Well, they squeak.”

  “Ah…they squeak? Now, I tell you a fellow what’ll fix that for a half a dollar.” He gave Carver the name of the cobbler. “I didn’t sell you anything; I never saw you before but I’m doing the best I can for you. And I got some sneakers with gum rubber soles that don’t squeak. Maybe you need something quiet in your work.”

  * * * *

  That settled, carver phoned Alma’s apartment, expecting to talk to Cornelia. Alma herself answered, saying, “I’m taking the day off. Last night was too much of a beating. Good Lord, Jeff, you are in for it; there’s a plainclothesman down in the patio, pretending to be a new tenant. Where are you?”

  “I’m getting all fixed to put the clamps on Barstow so he’ll tell me more about Lowry’s enemies and business deals. Instead of talking to me, he called the cops. Didn’t you hear?”

  “It’s not on the radio.”

  “How’s Cornelia doing?”

  “She’s half frantic, and she swears she’ll get another lawyer if yours doesn’t do better, and soon. How are you going to see more of Barstow, after the way he acted? And where could I see you?”

  “Nowhere! If they weren’t pig dumb, they’d’ve found out by now about you and me, from somebody around the Quarter, and started searching your place to find me. Or maybe they are not so dumb, and are waiting to follow you when you try to meet me.”

  “How’ll you handle Barstow? Maybe I ought to talk to him?”

  “I’ll tangle with him at his house, and see he gets no calls through. You keep your nose out.”

  He hung up, and made for his next destination, the Garden District, which lay between Saint Charles Avenue and the River.

  CHAPTER 5

  After dismissing his cab, he phoned Barstow’s home. Carver was not using his car; the garage was undoubtedly staked. He got no answer, so he set out afoot with his tool kit, in which he now carried the shoes.

  The Garden District was largely one of two and three-story dwellings, set well back and in the midst of grounds shadowed by tall magnolias and palms. Some were still occupied by the descendants of the original builders; others, however, and many of them, had been subdivided into kitchenette apartments, or converted into rooming houses. This one-time spacious district had become crowded beyond the imagining of those who, perhaps a century ago, had left the French Quarter to live in what then was suburban quiet, seclusion, and dignity.

  Barstow’s place, as nearly as Carver could size it up, was a reconverted carriage house, somewhat apart from the brick red, gingerbread mansion whose grounds included nearly a quarter of a good sized city block. Washlines and their flapping cargo assured him that so many families lived there that he had only to move in boldly. Instead of going down the drive, he opened a side gate, and cut across the grounds.

  Barstow, he noted from the cards at the doorways, occupied half the carriage house. He rang, and after getting no answer, used the thin leaf of spring steel which he carried as a companion to his kit of educated keys. The latch yielded readily. He stepped into a living room from which a bedroom opened on one side, and a kitchenette from the other.

  Reconversion had been going on for some years. In addition to the gas-fired wall-heater, there was a fireplace with a grate for charcoal. The furniture, the wallboard, and the jogs that indicated the ways of remodeling, suggested a French Quarter interior, except that the ceilings were not high enough.

  He noted the oversized camphor chest that some Chinese artisan had carved with infinite elaboration. A paper bag of charcoal was sitting in the scuttle. Two empty bags lay near the rack which supported poker and hearth broom. There were a few sticks of pine kindling, lying within the loop of binder twine that had secured the lot. Though the place was fairly well
dusted and picked up, it had the familiar, comfortable slovenliness of quarters tended by a woman who knew that few bachelors ever snoop around looking for dust on the rungs of chairs.

  The ash tray on the table, not far from the phone, had half a dozen butts that had been ground out when a quarter smoked; none had lipstick on them.

  He got all this in a slowly circling glance; then he stepped into the bedroom, rather than waste time on the camphor chest, or the writing desk, or the kitchen.

  In lieu of built-in clothes closet there was an old fashioned armoire, dark and of a size which came near convincing Carver that it had been custom-built for some lady who needed emergency storage space for a lover biding his chance to jump from a second-story window. And that wardrobe cabinet was what interested Carver.

  It contained two blue suits, and two grays, as well as slacks and jackets, and a tweed. There were no shoes in the bottom of the armoire; there were only patterns in the dust film to show where shoes had been. In the drawer at the bottom of the armoire he found trees for as many pairs as had been sitting on the deck just above.

  He glanced under the bed. No slippers. He opened a small locker. The absence of shoes made one of his hunches take shape. However, the lack of shoes is a fragile argument, unless it leads to something positively existing, and substantial.

  A lot of leg-work confronted him; and then, the problem of not being picked up until he had gone further into things. Right now was a good time to phone Pierre Livaudais, and ask the lawyer how Cornelia had been behaving, and what the police were doing about Denny Wayland. He could wait for a call back if need be, which made this spot very handy.

  Carver stepped into the living room to make the call.

  He had barely touched the handset when a vague sound startled him. The lid of the big chest had lifted, though not enough for it to come to rest against the wall. Barstow, flushed from strain but showing no evidence of air shortage, had his pistol leveled.

  “Nothing you can throw this time,” he said. “Turn your back while I get out where I can talk better.”