He was ahead in one respect, Johnny decided. Dick Lowell at least had not shown a passionate desire to remove Johnny from the scene. Dick Lowell on the contrary seemed eager for help. If Micheline Thompson had actually been in New York with her husband then coercion was about the only way you could explain her Manhattan suite appearance with Daddario.
Coercion. Or collusion—
Johnny stirred himself. He had to get some sleep. The adrenalin-charged excitement of the card game was gone. He set out for Mrs. Peterson’s. He ought to call Sally in New York tomorrow, he mused. To find out if there were any developments at that end of the line. Find out, too, if a date had been set for that inquest. Joe Dameron could get a little sticky at Johnny’s non-appearance at that affair even if it was cut-and-dried.
He turned into the street leading to Mrs. Peterson’s, whistling tunelessly to himself. Maybe the whole thing would make more sense in the daylight. Perhaps he could—
Fifty feet from Mrs. Peterson’s Johnny’s quick eye saw a shadow across the street move soundlessly and blend with the deeper shadow of a tree trunk. Someone was watching the rooming house. There was only one reason anyone would be watching the rooming house. Conscious suddenly of the sound of his own footfalls in the pre-dawn quiet he repressed the instinctive urge to soften them. He swung on past the Petersons’ without a pause, never missing a beat in his tuneless whistle. In the middle of the next block he changed gears and crossed the street, the whistle gone, the footsteps quieted.
He came back down the quiet street as silently as a windblown leaf. In the middle of the block across from the Petersons’ there was no street light. If he hadn’t known the man was there Johnny might easily have gone past him. The silent shadow behind the tree with his eyes on the darkened rooming house heard or saw nothing until Johnny’s hands closed down from behind on his throat.
Johnny dug once with his tumbs, hard. The man in his hands went “Ur-r-kk!” and sagged. It would be the last sound he would make except with the greatest difficulty for two or three days. Then he would be able to whisper. Johnny picked him up and lugged him across the sidewalk onto the grass beyond, feeling the shoulder holster under his hands. He’d made no mistake. He dumped his burden and with silent ruthlessness stripped the wildly threshing man, tearing off handfuls of clothes. The belt snapped. The holster snapped. Johnny tore off the shoes and socks.
The naked man came up on his knees making gobbling noises. He was barely audible as he scuttled sideways to escape the unseen demon attacking him. He bounded to his feet and started to run. Johnny was able to fetch him one solid swat of the holster harness from behind before he sprinted across the lawns and disappeared between the houses.
Johnny made a. little pile of the shredded clothing, making sure he had it all. He added belt, harness, shoes, and socks to it, bundled it all up and carried it across the street. He let himself in with his key. He was surprised to see Valerie Peterson, swathed shapelessly in a man’s bathrobe, standing in the hall in the dim night-light.
“There’s someone watching the house from across the street,” she said in a low tone. “I’ve been waiting up to tell—”
“You mean there was,” Johnny said. “Put on a light so I can get a look at this stuff.” She looked at the bundle under his arm. “Not out here. Somebody else might be watchin’.”
“Come out into the kitchen. The shades are drawn.” Johnny followed on her heels and pushed aside a plate of crackers and cheese to dump his booty on the oilcloth-covered table. He didn’t have far to look. In the wallet in the ragged trousers he found a badge clipped to a photograph. He showed it to Mrs. Peterson.
“Will Tolliver,” she said grimly. “One of Jack Riley’s hot young sparks. You’re up to your ears now, man. What happened? I didn’t hear a sound.”
“I got to his throat first.”
Her eyes gradually absorbed the totality of the strips of clothing on the table. She picked up a shoe. “My God, didn’t you leave him anything?”
“Buck naked,” Johnny said. “He won’t be back for a while. There’s somethin’ psychological about it, no clothes an’ unable to communicate. It does somethin’ to a man. The carabinieri in Italy are specialists at it. ‘Course they add a couple of refinements. Before they turn their man loose after thumbin’ his vocal chords they set up an obstacle course. You’d be surprised how a man can tear himself up runnin’ a quarter mile in the dark. An’ the ever-lovin’ carabinieri ‘d rather do it to a woman.”
Despite the bulky bathrobe Valerie Peterson shivered. “I won’t ask you how you know,” she said dryly. She looked at him eyeing the crackers and cheese. “Would you like a beer?”
“I would, thanks,” he said promptly. She opened the refrigerator door as he swept the bundled clothing off onto the floor. The thump with which the holster hit the floor reminded him of something. He removed the police special and placed it on the table beside the wallet. “I’ll drop these in the nearest mailbox before I go upstairs,” he remarked to Mrs. Peterson. He wiped each carefully with his handkerchief and wrapped them in it. “I’ll burn the rest in your incinerator.”
Her eyes rested on him speculatively. “You think they don’t know where they sent him?”
“No sweat,” Johnny said. “Let them try to prove something.” Valerie Peterson sat down across the table from him. He looked up from his painstaking construction of a four-decker cracker-and-cheese monument to find her staring across at him, her chin in her hands. “I get it,” he said resignedly. “You’re thinkin’ of askin’ me to leave.”
“I’m thinking of it.” Her tone was level. “You didn’t tell me Carl Thompson was dead. And you’re getting an awful lot of attention for a stranger in town.” Her steady gaze took in his hands and shoulders and returned to his face. “You bother me. Without that silly looking jacket you’re different, but you come into town looking like something out of a comic strip—”
He waited until he was sure she wasn’t going to continue. “You figure Jim Daddario’s the wheel in this neck of the woods?” he asked her casually.
“Of course not.” She seemed surprised. “Dick Lowell runs this town.”
“You sure you’re up to date?”
“You think that because Thompson is out and Riley is in it makes Daddario top dog? I don’t think so. And anyway, they’ve never had any trouble getting along.”
“Sometimes a bug bites a man. Daddario might be plannin’ on movin’ up. How would Lowell like that?”
Valerie Peterson’s mouth pursed thoughtfully. “Knowing him, he wouldn’t like it.” Her steady gaze rested on Johnny’s face. “Are you hiring out to one side or the other?”
“I’m here on a little business of my own.”
“I don’t intend to have your business bringing trouble to my place,” she warned him. She pushed back from the table. “If it does—”
“See me then,” Johnny told her. He picked up his handkerchief-wrapped little package and walked to the door. “Be right back.”
Five minutes after he had dropped the revolver and wallet in the mailbox at the corner he was in bed, and thirty seconds after he was in bed he was asleep.
• • •
He came instantly awake in bright sunshine at a knock at the door. “Telephone, Johnny,” Jingle Peterson’s voice called.
He rolled out of bed and slid into his pants. He padded barefoot to the door, opened it, and thrust his head out. “Man or woman, Jingle?” he inquired.
“Woman. Like definitely, see?” She eyed his bare arms and shoulders. “‘What big muscles you have, grandma,’ Little Red Ridinghood said to the wolf.”
“You should see the ones in my head.” Johnny returned to the chair beside his bed for an undershirt, pulled it on and, not bothering with shoes, brushed past Jingle and ran downstairs. He expected to hear Jessamyn Burger’s voice when he picked up the dangling receiver of the wall pay phone in the front hall. Micheline Thompson’s surprised him.
“Is this Johnny
Killain?”
“Yeah. Hey!” he exclaimed. “Where are you? I been tryin’ to reach you.”
“I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you. I don’t know what you’re doing here. I think you’d better leave town.”
“Just answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” Johnny said rapidly. “Is someone standin’ right beside you while you’re reelin’ that off?”
He counted to five before she replied. “No,” she said.
“Someone’s listenin’ in on an extension?”
Again the hesitation. “You’re going to get yourself in a lot of trouble,” her voice said finally. It sounded flat, without emphasis. “You’d better listen to—”
“Micheline,” he broke in, “qu’est-ce que c’est que vous voulez dire? Quand—” The loud click of the broken connection in his ear cut him off. “Damn it all,” he said softly, and hung up the receiver. He stood looking blankly at the phone for an instant before turning to go back upstairs. Before he had taken three steps a sharp ring spun him around again. He had started for the telephone before he realized it was the front-door bell.
Jingle answered the door. There appeared to be no conversation as she was shunted aside by two uniformed police who barged right in. “Here!” Jingle said indignantly. “What do you think you’re doing?”
They paid no attention. The leader stopped at sight of Johnny. “That him?” he asked his companion.
“Yeah.”
The front man addressed Johnny directly. “Let’s take a little walk, pal.”
“Yeah? Whose invitation?” Through the small-paned window beside the front door Johnny could see the Black Maria at the curb and a third cop standing on the sidewalk.
“Our invitation. Let’s go.”
“You got a warrant?” Johnny wished he had his shoes on. He wasn’t going willingly in the police van, and a roughhouse barefoot was like driving a racing car with a couple of cylinders missing.
The second man glanced at the wide-eyed Jingle taking it all in. “Take a walk, kid,” he said gruffly.
“This is my house!” the girl retorted. “Don’t you try to tell me what to do in my own house!”
Johnny laughed. The second man looked at him. “We don’t need a warrant for you to come along for a quiet little talk, now, do we?” he asked.
“You sure as hell do,” Johnny told him.
The leader spoke up again. “You could be making—”
“Get it out of your head I’m goin’ with you voluntarily,” Johnny interrupted. His voice was flat and hard. “Take it any damn place you please from there.”
The second man said something in an undertone to the leader. The man looked undecided, started to reply, shrugged, and strode to the wall phone. He dug out a dime from a handful of change and dialed.
“What’s the hard time for?” the second man asked injuredly. Johnny thought the question was asked to cover the rapid, low-voiced phone conversation. “You’d think someone was going to eat you.”
“Someone ate your ex-boss. Whose side were you on?”
The policeman’s face darkened but he was saved from the necessity of a reply by the first man’s turning away from the phone. “He’s coming over,” he announced to no one in particular.
“Good,” Johnny said briskly. “I’ll get dressed. I’d like to look my best for Chief Riley.” He walked to the stairs.
“Go with him, Charlie,” he heard from behind him. He didn’t know which of them had spoken. He heard the solid thump of boots on the stair treads behind him. When he was in his own room he went immediately to his shoes beside the bed. He slipped into socks and shoes, lacing and tying them carefully. He straightened and flexed his knees. He felt like a new man.
“Cigarette me, Jack,” he said expansively to the patrolman who had followed him into the room. It was the man who had made the phone call. His eyebrows climbed in surprise but he produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Johnny took one, lit it, winced at the before-breakfast taste, and sat down in the room’s only chair. The man in uniform eyed the bed, but it would have put him at a disadvantage since he wanted to keep between Johnny and the door. He stayed where he was.
They waited in silence.
CHAPTER VII
CHIEF OF POLICE Jack Riley’s entrance into Johnny’s room was impressive. Johnny was reminded of a younger, heavier Dameron. Another twenty pounds might reduce him to fat-man status but he still carried himself well. Johnny looked at the heavy gold badge on the blue uniform jacket, a badge identical in appearance to the torn one Carl Thompson had showed him in the hotel room.
“All right, Stewart,” the chief said. “Take the van and the others on back.”
“A change of plans?” Johnny inquired when the patrolman had left the room.
Chief Riley was in no hurry to reply. Without moving from where he stood, he examined the room deliberately. In some intangible way his manner irked Johnny. The chief finally returned his heavy-lidded gaze to Johnny. “You’d better leave town, Killain.”
“Yeah?” The measured pompousness of the pronouncement raised Johnny’s hackles. “Like for what?”
“One of my men is in the hospital. I’m prepared to prove you led the gang that put him there. If I have to, that is. It might be a little less wearing all around if you just moved on.”
“This happen last night?”
“You know it happened last night.” Chief Riley’s heavy features darkened in remembrance.
“I happen to have a pretty good alibi for last night.”
“You have no alibi for last night that will do you the slightest good.” The chief rapped out the words. “Am I making myself clear?”
“You mean your man will identify me?”
“He will.” Chief Riley said it positively.
“Let’s go see him an’ give him a chance,” Johnny said, knowing Riley had no such intention. “I’ll bring my alibi along. Name of Lowell.”
The chief went red, white, and red again. Anger generated the color changes “You’re nothing but a goddamned agitator, Killain. I told Jim in New York you were—”
“Go ahead,” Johnny said softly as the angry voice ran down suddenly. “You told Jim what in New York?” The chief’s hands clenched at his sides. “It’s mighty funny the attraction New York seemed to have for Jefferson’s officialdom the other day. Maybe you have an explanation for it?”
“The only thing I’ve got for you is a warning,” Chief Riley said between his teeth. “Be out of this town by noon or take the consequences.”
“Would you mind repeatin’ that?” Johnny asked him. “I’m not sure the tape recorder caught it the first time.” He laughed at the chief’s suspicious stare around the room.
At the laugh Riley went scarlet with rage. For a second, Johnny thought he was going to attack. If the thought had crossed his mind he quickly reconsidered. His voice shook. “Killain—”
Johnny gave him no time for threats or anything else. Moving swiftly, he crowded up against the chief who instinctively retreated. Johnny planted a heel deliberately on a well-shined toe and Riley flinched. “Drag it out’ve here, Riley,” Johnny said in a hard tone. He sank a casual elbow into the well-padded ribs and the chief gasped. “I’ve got you on tape now. You may have to roll over like a two-dollar whore for Daddario but I don’t. The whole damn crowd of you are chickenshit to me.” Under the sharp prodding of careless feet and elbows the chief stumbled backward to the door. He landed out in the hallway in demoralized retreat without Johnny ever having laid a hand on him.
From the doorway, Johnny saw Mrs. Peterson standing wide-eyed at one side. Riley saw her, too. He made a pathetic attempt at a dignified exit. He waved a finger at Johnny. “Killain, I—”
Johnny moved toward him. The chief angled hurriedly to the stairs. In mid-flight, he stopped and turned. “Remember what I said. I’ll—I’ll—” His voice shook. He faced about and tramped heavily down the balance of the steps. The lower floor shook from the violence with which he
slammed the front door on his way out.
Valerie Peterson shook her head soberly. “That was a foolish thing to do.”
“The hell it was,” Johnny disagreed. “He’s had me measured for a disappearin’ suit from the minute he laid eyes on me. He just made a mistake figurin’ I’d run the minute he swelled up his chest. Now he doesn’t know whether I had a recorder in the room or not. I’ll fix his wagon good now where it’ll hurt, with his boss. Where does Daddario hang out when he’s not dictatin’ legislation for the city council to rubber-stamp?”
“He has a real-estate office a block off Main on Beacon.” Mrs. Peterson wagged her head disapprovingly. “I’ll predict a building’s going to fall on you. It’s happened to better men in this town.”
“Better maybe, but not as lucky,” Johnny told her. “Beacon off Main. Right. Jimmy boy, break out the Sèvres china. Two lumps. No cream, thank you.” He grinned at his landlady, did an exuberant little time step, and ran lightly down the stairs.
• • •
The real-estate office was larger than Johnny expected. From the sidewalk he could see a half-dozen desks behind a long counter. In one corner a private office with a frosted-glass door was partitioned off from the remaining floor space. There was no sign of Daddario. Two middle-aged women sprang to their feet from behind their desks as Johnny entered. “Yes, sir?” they chorused alertly. “Is there something—?”
A hand fell on Johnny’s shoulder before he could speak. “I’ll take care of it, girls,” Jigger Kratz’s heavy voice said. Johnny shook off the hand as he turned. Kratz had been sitting in a chair to the right of the entrance where he could look at the customers before they could spot him. Johnny noticed that up close there was a yellowish cast to the big man’s eyes. Kratz studied him incuriously. “What’s your business here, Killain?”
“I’m here to talk to Daddario.” Johnny leaned back with his elbows on the counter top cluttered with maps, pictures, brochures, staplers, ballpoint pens and boxes of paper clips.
Shake a Crooked Town Page 9
