“Oh, I forgot again. You not able to tell by how you walk.”
“You not able,” I said. “But I able. Cocktail?”
“Martini.”
Flagging a waiter, I ordered drinks, with supper to follow. Over our drinks I brought out the real reason for our date, unsuccessfully trying to be tactful about it.
“I’m working on the Randall murder, Fausta. And I’m stuck. How would you like to help?”
“So! Even our date is just business!”
“No, it isn’t,” I said quickly. “Do you think I’m that cold-natured?”
“Yes,” she said resignedly. “It is not a heart you have, but a time clock. What you desire I do?”
“Just give me some information.”
“What you want to know?”
“I’m not sure. The case is so fishy, I can’t get a decent start. But I have a feeling that gambling at El Patio is somehow tangled in the murder. You knew Randall, and through your association with El Patio, probably knew most of the people he dealt with. If I tell you I everything I’ve learned so far, maybe you’ll be able to fill in the gaps.”
“Fill gaps?”
“Yes. Tell me about deals of Randall’s I haven’t uncovered, relationships he had. Anything at all you may know about Randall or the people involved in the case which you think may be new to me.”
“I try,” she said dubiously.
The waiter brought our supper.
While Fausta ate I talked and let mine grow cold. Starting with Alvin Christopher’s phone call to my apartment, I told her everything that had happened, regardless of apparent relevance. I finished as the waiter brought coffee.
“You not eat anything,” she said.
“I wasn’t hungry. Can you add to my story?”
“Maybe. This Gerald McDonald I have see, but of him I know nothing except he gamble very much. Of Miss Zell and Alvin Christopher I know something you do not tell.”
“What?”
“The father of Mathilda Zell is ruin at gambling by Lawrence Randall. He commit suicide for it.”
This was news. “Where’d she get her money if her father went broke?”
“From an uncle who died. Her mother’s brother.”
“What about Christopher?”
“Three year ago he gamble quite heavy for two, three months at El Patio. Then he stop and never come back. I bet Miss Zell be very angry if she knew.”
“He certainly wouldn’t tell her,” I said, remembering the look on Mathilda Zell’s face when I mentioned gambling. “That’s interesting, but hardly important. Lots of people have gambled at El Patio. I once lost fifty dollars there myself. Know anything else?”
“No, so I suppose you send me home.”
I grinned at her. “Right. Young girls need sleep.”
“You going to take me right to my door and kiss me goodnight,” she declared sternly.
“Of course. Don’t you think I’m human?”
“No. You are a big pain in my neck.” I called for the bill…
During the ride back from Fausta’s I lay back in the cab, closed my eyes and thought. Somewhere I must have overlooked some item, some exposed thread on which the whole solution hinged. I don’t believe in perfect crimes. There had to be something among the facts assembled which would give me a handhold if I could only recognize it. And once I found that hold, I could follow through the solution.
One by one I matched the statements made by people involved against each other in an attempt to find contradiction. When I paid off the taxi I was still nowhere.
As I climbed the steps to my apartment, I mentally matched what evidence I had collected through observation against the stories of everyone I had questioned. From the back of my mind a feeling that something failed to jibe began to push itself forward.
I paused with my key in the lock as an inconsistency in observation suddenly loomed large. In that moment I knew the answer, and a flood of jubilation took the edge off my alertness.
I didn’t sense anyone in the room with me until after I pushed the light button. Then it was too late. Instead of light filling the room, it burst in my head in one mammoth flash, then grayed to blackness…
The rhythmic beat of a surf sounded off in the distance. It kept coming closer, then fading in regular pulsations. I lay still, listening to the beat in puzzlement, and trying to decide where I was from the sound. There was no sea within a thousand miles of the city.
I opened one eye and the surf localized itself to the inside of my head. I closed it again, which reduced the pounding in my brain to a steady throb. A minute later I tried opening both eyes and, finding this felt no worse, cautiously sat up.
For a blinding moment pain surged back into my head, then subsided to a dull, pulsing ache.
CHAPTER IX
New Client
On a couch in Louis Bagnell’s office, I sat with my hands bound in front of me. Bagnell’s expressionless eyes contemplated me from behind his desk. Vance Caramand sat at his right, his jaw twice its normal size. Mouldy Greene relaxed in a corner, his straight-backed chair aslant against the wall.
“You’ve had a nice nap,” Bagnell said.
I looked at Mouldy Greene without answering.
“I didn’t sap you,” he said. “I don’t even know what’s going on.”
“You probably wonder why you’re here,” said Bagnell.
I continued to remain silent and after a questioning pause he continued:
“My relationship with the police is amicable, but guarded. Club El Patio is tolerated, but a little unfavorable publicity might decide the police to close it. Naturally that would not please me. To get directly to the point, I don’t like you prying into my affairs.”
“Was it over the McDonald deal you had Caramand kill Randall?” I asked conversationally.
Bagnell’s expression remained unchanged, but Caramand darkened and rose to his feet.
“Shall I belt him one, Boss?”
Bagnell, his cold gray eyes unmoving, remained silent. Seeming to interpret this as tacit consent, Vance started toward me, an anticipatory grimace quirking his lips. I stood up. Bagnell’s expression changed to curiosity.
“Here we go again,” Mouldy Greene said.
Caramand swung a roundhouse right which barely missed when I cocked my head backward an inch. Before he could recover, I brought up my false limb in a perfect gavot which exploded under his jaw.
“What a punk!” Mouldy said in disgust.
Bagnell gazed down at the sleeping figure of his henchman, a glint of amusement behind the coldness of his eyes.
“Some day he’ll be smart enough to tie your feet.”
I started at him, intending to kick him through the wall, but stopped short when the muzzle of my own pistol appeared over the edge of his desk.
“Do have a seat,” he suggested.
Returning to the couch, I relaxed with my back against the wall. The gun muzzle disappeared as swiftly as it had appeared.
“I’m a reasonable man,” Bagnell said. “In spite of your remark a few minutes ago, I don’t think you believe I had anything to do with Randall’s murder. But your investigation could stir up enough unpleasant publicity to ruin me. One newspaper surmise that Randall’s connection with El Patio has a bearing on his murder would start an editorial campaign against gambling which could run me out of business.”
“Why do you think I’d stir up anything?” I asked.
“You might not purposely, but you ask questions. You tried to pump Inspector Day about me this afternoon.”
“How’d you get that?” I asked, surprised. “Does Day keep you posted on events at Headquarters?”
“I have ways to learn things.”
Vance Caramand twitched one leg, but continued to rest. I thought a moment.
&
nbsp; “The new blonde steno,” I said suddenly.
Bagnell remained expressionless. “To return to the subject, I want to hire you to solve this case for me.”
“Having me knocked over the head is a fine way to get me to work for you,” I said sourly.
Bagnell let his lips form a rueful smile, without changing his eyes.
“That was an unfortunate mistake. I told Vance to bring you in. I meant peacefully, not by abduction, but he misunderstood. Having sapped you, he couldn’t undo it, and remembering your tendency for violence, I thought it best you awaken with your hands tied. I’m sorry about the sapping and am willing to apologize.”
“That makes my head feel much better.” I got up and started at him with my hands outthrust. “Untie them.”
He shifted in his chair and I knew the pistol was in his hands again, just below the desk edge.
“Put it away,” I said. “I only sock people who pass at me.”
He weighed me with his gambler’s eyes, decided the odds were good, and slipped the gun into a drawer. I laid my hands on the desk and let him pick loose the knot. Then I held out one hand, palm up.
“The gun.”
His eyes flickered, but he opened the drawer and produced my pistol. After checking the chamber, I slid the P-38 under my arm and returned to the couch. Lighting a cigar, I leaned back.
“Start talking,” I said.
“I already have. I want to hire you to solve Randall’s murder.”
“Why?”
“Because I want it solved.”
“I’m working on it now. Why should you pay me for something I’ll do for nothing?”
“I want to be your client.”
I thought that over for a minute. “I see. You want to make sure anything I turn up about you or El Patio is squelched?”
“Something like that.”
I stood up. “No dice. See you around.”
“You misunderstand me,” Bagnell said. “I have nothing to cover, because I had nothing to do with the murder. I want the case solved because as long as it remains unsolved the danger of publicity hangs over El Patio. All I ask is that anything you discover not bearing on the murder go no farther than me.”
“Suppose I discover El Patio has some bearing on it?”
“You won’t.”
I studied him for a long time, mentally measuring his bank roll.
“I’ll take you on my conditions,” I finally said. “The fee is five thousand dollars if I solve the case and nothing if I don’t. I’ll release to the police everything I know bearing directly on the case, regardless of who it affects. Anything not concerned with the case, I’ll forget.”
“Sold.”
I sat down again. “That was the quickest five thousand I ever made. I have it solved.”
Bagnell almost let himself look startled. It was the merest change of expression and was gone again in the blink of an eye. He didn’t comment, but waited quietly.
“This is one of those cases that’s not finished when it’s solved,” I continued. “I know who committed the murder and how, but it’s all in my head. I couldn’t prove it in court and the police wouldn’t believe me if I had told them.”
“How long have you known?”
I looked at my watch. It said three-thirty.
“About two hours. The whole thing fell into place just as your stooge slugged me.”
Vance Caramand groaned and rolled over on his back. One hand reached groggily for his chin. The movement put an idea in my head.
“Does your stooge there do everything you tell him?”
“Within the limits of his intelligence,” Bagnell said dryly.
“Suppose you told him to tell the truth to the police?”
“About what?”
“About what he was doing at the University Building when Randall was murdered.”
“We’ll forget that.”
“We’ll forget nothing,” I said. “Suppose you told him?”
“He’d tell the police the truth.”
“Then have him at my apartment about two this afternoon with instructions to answer truthfully anything I ask him in front of police.”
“That’s out,” said Bagnell. “I don’t want the police or anyone else to know about Vance being at the University Building.”
“I’ll keep you and El Patio out of it. Remember I’ll be asking the questions, not the cops.”
I could see him weighing the odds in his mind while examining my face.
“He’ll be there,” he said…
* * * *
It was four-fifteen when I got to bed, and I slept till noon. By the time I had shaved, showered, dressed and eaten late breakfast, it was one o’clock. I phoned Inspector Warren Day.
“You have a stool in your office,” I said.
“Yeah? Who?”
“Your new blonde.”
The phone was silent for a minute. Then it said, “You’re crazy.”
“Okay. But Louie Bagnell knew about our conversation yesterday as soon as it was over.”
The Inspector laughed. “Is that all?”
I began to get sore. “Isn’t it enough?”
“Telling her brother a private dick inquired about him isn’t letting out Department secrets. She’s Bagnell’s sister. And you’re no secret around here. I don’t care who talks about you.”
I felt slow red creep up the back of my neck. All I could think of to say was, “Oh.”
“The girl’s all right. You’re the one who’s wrong—for talking in front of strangers.”
“Okay. It’s your laugh. That’s not what I phoned about, anyway. I’ve cracked the Randall case.”
“Yeah?” I sensed his interest quicken.
“But I can’t prove it.”
“You mean you have a theory,” he said disgustedly. “So have I, and my theory’s in jail.”
“I mean I can’t prove it without your help. If you’ll bring Joan Garson and her mother to Randall’s office about two-thirty, I’ll hand you the real murderer.”
One of our normal arguments ensued then. Twice he threatened to hang up. When I finally told him to go to the devil and that I’d turn my story over to the Dispatch instead of him, he went into his quick-change act and wheedled me back to good humor. In the end we agreed to meet at two-thirty, Day to bring Joan and her mother along.
Vance Caramand arrived at my rooms promptly at two, his jaw bloated as though he had mumps, and his eyes sullen. Before we left I phoned the University Building and got Alvin Christopher on the phone.
“Anyone else there?” I asked.
“Mattie. She’s helping add figures.”
“Fine. Stay there. I want to see you.”
When we arrived at Randall’s office, Warren Day slouched in the settee where I had waited on my first visit there. He glared sourly at me over his glasses. Joan Garson sat in a corner, flanked on one side by a watchful policeman and on the other by her mother. Mathilda Zell was arched in a straight-backed chair, her feet thrust out in front of her. Alvin Christopher was behind his desk as usual, and Hannegan leaned his back against the door jamb.
I introduced Vance as “Mr. Caramand,” which drew an acid grin from the Inspector. The others murmured the usual polite formalities. Then I got right down to business.
“I asked the Inspector over in order to demonstrate to him what really happened the other day,” I announced. “You’ve all read in the papers or heard in police court what seemed to have occurred, but what actually took place was quite different. This was a clever murder. As clever as a stage illusion. The murderer had a lot of luck, but successful illusions require luck.
“Before starting the demonstration,” I said to Day, “I’ll bring you up to date on some testimony I haven’t mentioned before.”
; “You’ve been holding out, have you?” the Inspector challenged.
“Of course. If I told you everything I knew, you’d be as smart as me.” I turned to Caramand. “Tell the Inspector where you were when Randall was killed.”
“In the back hall men’s room.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the inner office.
Mrs. Garson said, “Oh! That’s the man!”
“What man?” Warren Day asked.
“We’ll come to that later,” I said. “Isn’t it true, Vance, that you rode up here on the same elevator I did, that you went straight to the men’s room and stayed there watching Randall’s rear door until this young lady”—I pointed to Joan—“came out and went toward the elevators?”
“Yeah.”
“Take Inspector Day back and show him the room we’re talking about.”
“I’ve seen it,” Day said.
Turning, I faced the Inspector.
“Caramand waited in the men’s room because he wanted to see Randall alone, and he knew Randall wouldn’t see him if he could avoid it. Everyone goes to the bathroom eventually, and Caramand knew if he waited long enough Randall was sure to walk in. When he did, Caramand intended to stick a gun on him and force him to write a check for twenty-five thousand dollars right there.”
“What’s that?” Day asked sharply.
“It’s nothing. If he’d carried it out, it would have been extortion, but you can’t charge a man for his thoughts. Why Caramand wanted the check has nothing to do with this case, and I’ve promised him we’d forget it if he testified. The important thing is that he was in a position to see that no one went in or out of Randall’s back door until Joan Garson came out. Right, Vance?”
“Right.”
I looked over at Mrs. Garson. “It’s time to tell your story,” I said.
“You promised,” she said shakily.
“I promised to keep confidential anything that would hurt Joan. Your story won’t hurt her any more.”
“For heaven’s sake, Mother, if you know anything, tell it!” Joan said.
“You needn’t explain your motive for being here that day,” I said, in order to save her embarrassment. “Inspector Day is interested only in where you were and what you saw.”
The Juarez Knife Page 6
