“Now,” he said with some anxiety, “what is this matter of importance which concerns me?”
“I’m afraid it’s much too important to discuss here.”
“In that case, we’ll go to my office.”
Fiala nodded and both of them arose and went out the door. A few minutes later they faced each other across Quevedo’s ornate hand-carved desk. Quevedo offered a cigarette. Fiala refused it and presented his case, bluntly informing him that the Chief of Police had murdered Rosa Belmonte.
“A very serious charge,” Quevedo said, turning pale. “But can you prove it?”
Fiala nodded and described how he’d gone to see Luis Espina, the fibre-gatherer who’d discovered the body of the dead girl. With a series of tactful questions he’d finally gotten the old man to admit that he’d actually witnessed the murder.
“If this is true,” Quevedo put in, “why didn’t Espina come forward and say so?”
“He couldn’t,” Fiala replied, “because at the time of the murder he didn’t recognize Santiago. All he knew was that the killer drove off in a blue and white Cadillac. That was significant. I continued to question him and he produced a vivid description of the driver, but not his identity. That came later when I pressed him.
“He then admitted that he’d watched the spectacle last night. The lights drew him from his house, and he saw Santiago gun down Manuel Domingo. That’s when he recognized him as the murderer of Rosa Belmonte.”
Quevedo nodded and said, “The word of a confused old man. His story won’t hold water. Besides Domingo admitted his guilt at the scene of the crime by attempting to escape.”
“Admitted his guilt?” Fiala smiled and shook his head. “That was the one fact I knew from the beginning, that he wasn’t guilty. You see, Manuel Domingo couldn’t have killed Rosa Belmonte, he wasn’t in the city that day. I know. I trailed him to San Rafael with the expectation of catching him in one of his activities, dealing in marijuana.
“He remained at a bar in San Rafael till evening, and his contact never appeared. Perhaps he knew I’d trailed him. At any rate, the deal didn’t come off. At nine he headed back to the city. By that time Rosa Belmonte was dead.”
At this point Quevedo was convinced of the truth of Fiala’s charge, but one thing was unclear. “Why did Santiago pick Domingo for a victim?” he wanted to know.
Fiala smiled again and clarified the point. “One,” he said, holding up a finger. “Domingo’s reputation was bad; the charge appeared to suit his character. Two: Santiago and Domingo were partners. Domingo controlled the red light district, with the help of Santiago. They quarreled over money. Santiago claimed that Domingo was holding out on him. He probably was, so Santiago found it doubly convenient to eliminate him.”
Quevedo nodded. It was all clear now, too clear. He frowned and his face paled. If revealed, Santiago’s terrible act would threaten his own position. Frightened, his eyes met Fiala’s.
The detective had read his thoughts, understood his predicament and said, “Of course, Santiago should be brought to justice, but to arrest him would prove most embarrassing to you.”
Badly shaken, Quevedo nodded, but he was still alert. Fiala’s statement implied more than it said.
“What do you suggest?” Quevedo asked.
Fiala moistened his lower lip with his tongue. “Speak to Santiago,” he answered. “Give him the facts.”
“And if he denies them?”
“If he does, tell him he’ll be placed under arrest. After what has taken place—” Here Fiala shrugged. “You can not guarantee his safety from the mob. I think he’ll understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Call him and see.”
Quevedo glanced at the phone and hesitated, giving Fiala the opportunity to rise from his chair. “I’m going for coffee. I’ll be back,” he said and left Quevedo to deliver his terrible message.
Ten minutes later he returned to the mayor’s office. Quevedo was still troubled. He said nothing. Fiala sat and reached for his cigarettes. At that moment the phone rang. Quevedo picked up the instrument, listened briefly, and placed it back on its cradle.
“Santiago just shot himself,” he announced.
Having foreseen this, Fiala merely shrugged and said, “But of course. He had no alternative.”
At this point, Quevedo saw Fiala in a new light. The fellow was devilishly clever and had saved him from his enemies. “I am in your debt,” he said.
“Not at all,” replied Fiala.
“Ah, but I am,” Quevedo insisted. “Besides, I have no Police Chief now. Would you consider the office?”
Fiala grinned and, to the consternation of Quevedo, shook his head.
“But why not?” said Quevedo. “I don’t understand. Think of what it means to be Chief of Police.”
“In this city,” Fiala replied, “it means to have much power, and power corrupts.”
“It would corrupt you?” Quevedo asked.
“I am of flesh and blood. Perhaps it might, but I doubt it.”
“Then why refuse?”
“Because the job doesn’t interest me. It’s as simple as that,” Fiala answered and rose from his chair to light a cigarette. With that, he walked to the door.
Still puzzled, Quevedo watched him, then said, “But you must want something. What do I owe you?”
His hand on the doorknob, Fiala turned. “Nothing,” he answered. “Just be more careful when you pick the new Chief of Police.”
MAN ON THE RUN
by Dennis Lynds
DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT FREDERICK Jacoby lighted a cigarette and watched the white-uniformed attendants carry the body from the dingy hotel room. Then Jacoby looked to where the coroner was still working on the other man. The second man had a bullet in his chest and had a hard time breathing or talking. Jacoby had just finished listening to the man.
“He almost made it out the door,” Detective Sergeant Allers said to Jacoby.
“He almost made it all the way to Rio,” Jacoby said.
“I still don’t get it all, Fred,” Allers said. “I mean, how come Maxie came back to New York anyway. He should of known he’d get it here.”
“He had a plan,” Jacoby said. “A smart man, Little Maxie. The careful type, never worked without a plan.”
Allers looked puzzled. “This was a plan? Some plan!”
“A hot tip, Sergeant, real inside information. Maxie probably paid plenty to check it out. The only trouble was he didn’t get the whole picture, you know?”
Jacoby had the wounded man’s story, and the Lieutenant could imagine the rest without much trouble. Jacoby smoked his cigarette and thought about Little Maxie and his hot tip.
Little Maxie Lima had been on the run for three months when he decided to work on Walter Midge. That was something new for Maxie, being on the run. It was usually the other way around. Since he had killed his first man with an icepick when he was sixteen, it had been the other men who ran while Maxie chased. Maxie got one hundred dollars for that first killing—a man had wanted his wife out of the way and Maxie went into business.
Since then his methods had improved and so had his pay. Maxie could kill you any way you could think of, and do it expertly, quietly, without a trace of evidence.
That kind of talent does not go to waste. Little Maxie was twenty when he filled his first contract for the Syndicate. The trouble was that Maxie liked his work too much. He filled private contracts on the side, the cops came down on him hard, and the Syndicate decided that Little Maxie Lima was no longer a safe property to have around. They put out a contract on Little Maxie himself, and Maxie started to run.
It was new to Little Maxie, running. Not from the cops, he was used to having the cops after him. There were a lot of places to run and hide from the cops. But there was nowhere for Little Maxie Lima to hide from a contract. So he ran.
He was a careful man, Maxie. He had some money put away in selected locations. That gave him the price of three mo
nths running. But Little Maxie would not have taken a lead nickel for his chances. He was a practical man, a realist, and he knew how much chance a man had when there was a contract out on him. No chance at all. Unless he could get far out of the country with enough money to hole up in some quiet place where the local police could be bought. And that was when Little Maxie Lima thought of Walter Midge.
There were only five ways Maxie knew to get money, the kind of money he would need to go far enough and be safe enough: killing, stealing, borrowing, gambling, and blackmail. No one would hire him to kill a fly now, and the small-time stealing he could do safely on the run would not get him to Brooklyn from Manhattan. He had no stake for gambling, and if he had ever had any friends, he didn’t have any now, so borrowing was out. That left blackmail.
The little killer was in Los Angeles at the time he thought about Walter Midge. In his room he actually smiled. Next to murder Maxie liked blackmail the best, especially the blackmailing of a fellow crook. There was more risk, more brains were needed, when you blackmailed a fellow criminal, and that gave Little Maxie a lot of pleasure. Outsmarting them was almost as much pleasure as killing them.
In that Los Angeles hotel room Maxie started to work on outsmarting all of them: Syndicate, cops, and Walter Midge. He rolled a cigarette of cheap pipe tobacco in a strip of torn newspaper and began to think.
There was a risk in going back to New York. Maxie had to weigh that against the safety of, say, $20,000 and a ticket to Brazil. That was the first step for any good businessman—weigh the gain against the risk. Maxie was a good businessman and this time there was no question. Without money they would get him within two weeks—the cops would if the Syndicate didn’t. But Maxie had to be sure Walter Midge was his man.
All he had was one piece of information—inside information. A very hush-hush rumor said that big, dumb Walter Midge, a hanger-on at Big Frank Arcarti’s crap game in New York, had driven the get-away car of the big Newark armored car robbery four months ago. Only a rumor, but Walter Midge was just the kind of man Little Maxie himself would have used to drive a get-away car.
But Maxie was the careful type; he wanted to check it out. The only man the little killer could think of who would know and who might still talk to him was Manny Gomez in Chicago. Maxie put his .38 in his pocket and headed for the airport.
Manny Gomez seemed glad to see Little Maxie. But not glad enough to forget that talk is cheap and information costs money. Manny smiled, but it cost Little Maxie a twenty-dollar bill.
“Yeh,” Manny said as he checked the twenty to be sure it was good, “I heard about Walter. I tell you, Maxie, it’s a hard one to figure. Word says he drove the car. He spilled to a broad, told her all about how he worked on a big job, told her what a great driver he was. She told some people Walter said stick with him and she’d be big. He’s spending, but not spending much. Not real loud, you know, but more then he ever had. He moved to a better pad. He gets his suits pressed now, and he walks big.”
“A dame?” Little Maxie said. “Walter never had a real dame in his life. They laughed at him.”
“One ain’t laughing,” Manny said.
“Maybe she just likes him,” Maxie said. “What kind of dame?”
“Not cheap, not high-price, you know?”
“The cops?” Maxie said.
“I heard they talked to him, but I ain’t sure. If he didn’t talk himself, I wouldn’t know nothing,” Manny said.
“Walter always did have a big mouth,” Little Maxie said. “Okay, Manny, and thanks.”
“What’s a pal for?” Manny said.
Back in his Chicago hotel room Little Maxie thought it all over. It was still only a tip, hot information, but it fitted, it made sense. Walter was just the kind of bum for a job like that. Walter was the kind who would spill to a dame, and Walter had money now. It was logical. Little Maxie liked logic. He was going over it again when he heard the noise.
A noise like a button hitting metal. Outside the window on the fire escape. Maxie held his breath, then took out his .38 and flipped off the safety. He glided like a ghost across the room to the window. Flattened against the wall beside the window, Maxie waited. He did not have to wait long.
The man was in the room almost before Maxie realized that the window had been opened. Little Maxie admired professional work; the man moved almost as silently as Maxie himself. The man was good, but not quite good enough.
Little Maxie hit the man expertly behind the ear, and the man went down and out. Maxie thought about his “pal” Manny Gomez.
Maxie checked the fire escape. It was empty. Maxie dragged the man into the light. A stranger. It was always a stranger. He searched the man. Not a cop. Maxie sat back in a chair and waited for the visitor to revive. He rolled another of his newspaper cigarettes and smoked until the man groaned, rolled over, and started to get up. Little Maxie waved his .38.
“Stay down, friend. Against the wall, hands flat on the floor. Right. Now don’t move and maybe you’ll live.”
“You won’t, little man,” the man said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Maxie said. “You’re pretty good, but the fire escape was a dumb play. You get this close to a mark, you got no business blowing the play. How come you tried a dumb move, friend?”
“We all ain’t as good as you, Maxie,” the man said.
“You got a point, friend, only you ain’t that bad either, right? Now the way I figure it is you tailed me to Manny Gomez. When you talked to my pal Manny, you figured I was working some angle and maybe I’d get away, right?”
“If you’re gonna shoot, shoot,” the man said.
“No hurry,” Little Maxie said. “Yeh, that’s it. You know something and you figured you had to move in fast. I got brains, friend, that’s the score. I ain’t perfect. Manny talked, right?”
“About what, little man?”
“Walter Midge, friend, and my ticket out.”
The man on the floor sneered. “Midge? That loony? How’s Midge gonna get you out? That two-bit bum ain’t even any good on the door of a crap game.”
“I hear he ain’t on the door no more, I hear he’s in the game now,” Maxie said softly.
The man on the floor showed no reaction, maybe a faint blink of the eyes, but Maxie did not expect to see a reaction. The man said, “You hear too much. So Midge ain’t on the door no more, so he rolled some drunks and came up with a few bills.”
Maxie hadn’t been sure Walter Midge wasn’t on the door of Big Frank’s game any more, now he was sure. And the man on the floor had made a dumb move because they were worried. That meant they knew about Walter, too. If Walter was still alive. You had to figure all the angles, weigh the facts. They knew about Walter, but only this guy knew that he, Maxie, knew about Walter. This guy and his partner, he had to have a partner. The partner would be watching the front.
Maxie said, “So Walter’s a loony, eh? He never had any money, he never worked a big job, that’s your story, friend! You never heard of the big job, you don’t know nothing?”
The man laughed. “Walter? A big job? You must be off your rocker, little man.”
“It figures you’d con me, friend, it figures. Only you can’t, see? You ain’t got the brains.”
“You’re runnin’ scared, little man,” the man said. “Go ahead, run! Shoot me, and run, see how far you get.”
“Shoot? You must really think I’m dumb,” Maxie said. “Where’s your partner, out front?”
The man raised his hands and lunged to his feet. Little Maxie brought his hand from his pocket, his left hand, the one that was holding his knife, not his gun. The man gasped once and fell.
Little Maxie moved swiftly. He hauled the man’s body to the window and pushed the man out. Then he turned and ran from the room and down the stairs to the lobby. As he expected, the lobby was empty, the last few people were running into the street.
Maxie slid out and walked silently in the shadow of the building to the edge of the crowd.
Maxie walked close up to the man. He touched the man’s coat under the left arm. The man whirled, his right hand inside his coat. The man saw Maxie and his hand came out and there was a gun in it.
Maxie smiled and stabbed the man expertly. The man slumped into Maxie’s arms. No one in the crowd had seen any of it. Little Maxie staggered away with the man until he reached an alley. Then he dropped the man and ran.
No one saw him arrive in New York. There had been no one waiting at La Guardia. But it was only a matter of time. The moment he checked into the flea-bitten West Side hotel it was even money the cops would know he was in town within three hours, the Syndicate maybe an hour earlier. They would find him tomorrow at the latest.
Maxie figured he had maybe fifteen hours if he changed hotels every five hours and never stayed in the same place more than two hours. That was the way it was; Maxie liked to face facts. He had to move fast. Fast and careful. You had to balance them just right to beat the Syndicate and the cops.
His first stop was Eddie the Wasp’s cigar store. The fat stool pigeon took one look at Maxie and began to sweat. “They’ll kill me for even talking to you! They got the word about Chi.”
“Walter Midge, Eddie,” Maxie said. “The cops after him?”
The fat man sweated in rivers in the cold. “They rousted him two months ago. I don’t know why. I put out an ear but I got no message. Three days they had him inside. Gimme a break, Maxie, that’s all I heard.”
For Little Maxie it was enough, it all fitted now. “Where is Walter?”
“Who knows? He’s been playin’ in Big Frank’s game, you know? And he moved like. Maxie, what’d he do? I mean, once in a while he talks about a big job, how he’s in the know. He’s spendin’, you know?”
“The cops don’t know, how should I know?”
“Cops’re dumb,” Eddie said.
Mink Is for a Minx Page 10
