Shakedown
Page 15
I went back over it, step by step. That I had been framed into doing these things I’d done was clear enough. And I’d been framed by the Rolands. Sitting there, in the stink of insecticide, stale sweat and dust, I realized that I had been a perfect mark, full of larceny, and I had been manipulated all the way. Only a master confidence man could have staged anything this theatrical and foolproof.
And Jean using her body to divert my suspicions, to keep me lulled. Little Phil must have been on their team. Looking at it now, I realized his name should have been the tip-off. That’s a con man’s handle. He was probably a retired master. An old friend of Roland’s probably. I guessed that then, and learned it was true later.
But what did he have to gain, along with the Rolands? He’d lied about Rickett, which would never be proved, but I knew it now. Getting Rickett into a reckless frame of mind so he would have guts enough to do what he wanted to do, kill Target, who was probably milking him.
And then the pattern of it began to come to me. This thing had been staged to satisfy some madman’s lust for justice. All the people who had contrived to kill and defame the memory of Bea Condor were involved in this last case, and they were all in trouble. Or dead. Deutscher, Target, Rickett, Jennings, and yours truly.
But not Josie Gonzales, not yet.
So, it still didn’t figure. I couldn’t see a con man and his tramp of a daughter framing and manipulating people for some stupid ideal of justice. That didn’t add. There wasn’t a dollar in it for them. But what else was there to see? Think, I told myself, you’ve never been in a hotter spot in your life. I had better count my aces: my next play could be my last.
I wasn’t lost. I’d be damned if I was lost. I had the letter to Willi, which they’d relieved me of. I had the letter they’d find in Deutscher’s apartment. The letter made a beautiful case for me, the letter to Willi. It explained everything.
I took a deep breath and actually smiled. I was ready for the turnkey now. Sure, Roland had set up an elaborate theatrical frame to snare me. But the frame itself was going to clear me with that letter I’d written to Willi Clifford. That gave the letter meaning. And wouldn’t I put Roland and his tramp daughter in the soup with that?
I figured what I’d tell them. How I’d doubted from the beginning that the Nevada Investment Company was a legitimate concern, how I’d investigated and learned they were a confidence ring which included Deutscher. How I pretended to play along in order to get the evidence I needed in a court of law; how I’d written to Willi, but had to rush to save her money and hadn’t had time to mail the letter.
A turnkey didn’t come but Rodriguez did. About seven hours after I’d been picked up. I told him, “I want to speak to McGill as soon as possible.”
“What a coincidence,” he said. “He wants to talk to you too.”
He was smiling, and I asked him, “How’s your jaw?”
“It works. We had to get some material together. That’s why we didn’t get to you sooner. Were you planning a trip, Joe?”
“Mmm-hmmm. But tomorrow will be just as good, get an early start in the morning. Or maybe late tonight, get through the desert while it’s cool.”
“Let’s go,” he said. “The Captain’s waiting.” McGill sat in his office alone, behind the desk. He looked tired and sad and ugly. He nodded to the chair in front of his desk and I took it. Rodriguez stood somewhere behind me. McGill said, “We found Deutscher’s body. We’d overlooked the obvious, hadn’t we, Puma? You gave us the tip when you talked about the house to Roland.”
“Body?” I asked. “Is Deutscher dead?”
Behind me, Rodriguez said, “I’d be glad to get him into a more sensible frame of mind for you, Captain. The guy’s a pathological bar.”
McGill made a weary gesture with his hand. “The Department has never found brutality effective or humane, Sergeant. I don’t want to hear any more about that. We’ve got Joe cold.”
”For what?” I asked.
“Well get to that,” he said. “Let’s hear your story first, Joe.”
I said, “I was merely protecting an innocent girl from a gang of confidence men.”
McGill shook his head. “You’ll have to do better than that. Is that what you were trying to prove in that letter to a Miss Clifford?” I nodded.
“Miss Clifford has no complaint to make. “She said you were trying to blackmail the Rolands.”
That’s why Roland had used the word “blackmail” in the showdown. Smooth bastard, knowing the law was listening. I said, “A hundred and forty thousand dollars in blackmail? He would have something to hide, wouldn’t he?”
“There was no money in the grip, Joe. Let’s have your story right from the beginning.”
I gave him the whole deal, leaving out the trip to Deutscher’s, the important trip to Deutscher’s, and framing it all to make it sound as though I’d been thinking of Willi Clifford’s protection throughout.
When I’d finished McGill asked, “What made you think Miss Clifford would have a hundred and forty thousand dollars?”
“Her family’s one of the biggest in America,” I said. “You’ve heard of the Cliffords, back east, haven’t you?”
“I’ve heard of them, but this girl isn’t one of them. She’s just a small contract player, making a hundred and fifty a week, a friend of Miss Roland’s.”
“So I’ve been conned,” I said. “That isn’t something you jail people for, is it?”
“No. You tried to blackmail Little Phil too, didn’t you? Didn’t he give you fifty dollars to lay off him?”
I shook my head. “Not a dime.”
Rodriguez chuckled, and McGill almost smiled as he looked at him. McGill said, “He gave you fifty dollars in marked money, Joe. We’ve picked up most of it. You see, we’ve had a man on you since you left the hospital, a purely precautionary measure.”
Little Phil, one of the team. Sure, the bastard, a con man. I took a deep breath.
McGill reached over and took something from a drawer and put it on the desk. It was the knife I’d killed Deutscher with.
He asked, “Ever see it before, Joe?”
I shook my head.
He said, “It’s been identified as yours. It was seen in a drawer of your bureau the day before Deutscher was killed with it.”
“By whom?” I asked.
“By Josie Gonzales, by Jean Roland. You sure tried to frame poor Josie, didn’t you, having her copy that letter you wrote out for her, taking her dress up to Deutscher’s with you.”
“That’s insane,” I said. “If she wrote a letter, it was no copy of anything I wrote.”
“We have your copy, Joe. She picked it up and put it away after she copied it. Just for insurance, she tells us now. I guess Miss Roland kept in touch with Josie after you’d tried to get her out of town. Miss Roland doesn’t hold anything against Josie. She’s a lamb, she said.”
What a web they’d woven. What a tight, foolproof chain of evidence. But why, why, why?
I said, “I’d be glad to hear the Roland’s version of this mess. You know he’s a con man, don’t you?”
“He was, years ago. He’s been a responsible citizen for years now, though. His daughter is kind of a high flyer, but you can’t have everything.”
I said, “Did they give a reason why I should blackmail them?”
He shrugged. “It’s a bit weak, inasmuch as we know Rickett killed Target. They claim you were trying to blackmail them because you had witnesses who would lie, would claim Roland had been seen going into Target’s just before the murder. They said it scared them because they knew you could pay witnesses to lie.”
“Great,” I said. “And why would Roland go to see Target? What grudge would he have against Target?”
McGill stared at me for seconds, uncomprehending. And then he said, “Why not? You know who Roland is, don’t you? You knew the relationship?”
I shook my head, and then McGill gave me the why of it, the reason I couldn’t understand fo
r the whole damned frame. He said, “Why, Roland is Bea Condor’s father. Condor was only her theatrical name, you know. And Jean Roland is Bea’s sister. As she worded it, Bea was the virgin sister. Bea was the lamb and Jean the wolf.”
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