And 47 Miles of Rope (Trace 2) (13 page)

“Some ups, some downs, mostly downs. I couldn’t find out anything about his passport, so that’s a dead end. But I found the woman who was working at the car-rental desk that night. She remembered Jarvis when I showed her the picture. I got a copy of the contract.”

“Okay That’s all right.”

“How’s your night been?” Sarge asked

“Pretty much a blank. There wasn’t anything in Jarvis’ room and the countess doesn’t know anything about why he was flying in and out of New York like that.”

“Let me work on that some.” Sarge said “I’ve got some ideas.”

“Good.”

“I’ll be over at ten?” Sarge asked…

“Sure. Get some sleep. I’ll see you then. By the way, have you talked to Mother?”

“Not all day.”

“If the right occasion arises,” Trace said, “you might tell her that I don’t want her redecorating my apartment.”

“That occasion will never arise,” his father said.

Trace had barely hung up the telephone when it rang again. This time it was Bob Swenson.

“Trace, I’m in trouble.”

“What happened?”

“It’s all your fault for getting me near that National Anthem.”

“What has she got to do with it?” Trace asked.

“Everything. It’s her fault and yours.”

“You’d better explain yourself,” Trace said. “I’m losing my tolerance tonight for being wrongfully accused.”

“Hah,” he heard Chico chortle from the bedroom.

Swenson said, “I told you how I spent last night, virginal and pure, lying next to that woman.”

“I envied you your restraint,” Trace said.

“Sure. But I wasn’t going to make that same mistake tonight. So I picked up this hooker at the lounge downstairs and I brought her up here.”

“How much did she get?” Trace asked.

“Three thousand dollars in casino chips. All in hundreds. I had them in a sock and she stole the sock. I was in the bathroom and she lifted the sock and beat it out the door.”

“Do you know her name?” Trace asked. “What was she wearing? What’d she look like?”

“She was wearing this zebra outfit, tight pants and top. She was a big blonde. I went downstairs and asked the bartender, but he played mummy on me and said he never saw her before.”

“It’s all right,” Trace said. “I have.”

“Good,” Swenson said.

“And you want your three thousand dollars back,” Trace said.

“No, I want my sock back. It’s a particularly beautiful argyle, handwoven by Scottish peasants out of peat moss. Of course I want my three thousand back.”

“You haven’t called the cops or done anything dopey, have you?”

“Trace, I’d rather be broke than dead. I get my name in the paper, right? Insurance-company president swindled by hooker. Swell, my wife sees that, I’m a dead man. Of course, I trust your discretion.”

“Leave it with me,” Trace said.

“Thank you. I knew I could count on you. I just want you to know that no matter how badly Walter Marks’ foreign detective embarrasses you, you’ll always have a job with Garrison Fidelity…if you get my money back for me.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“That won’t do,” Swenson said. “You must succeed.”

“Bob?” Trace said.

“What?”

“Please stay away from hookers at the bar.”

“You have my word. I’m going to bed now. Alone.”

Trace pressed down the phone button and got out the telephone book. There was only an office address listed for R. J. Roberts, so he called it, expecting a tape machine or an answering service. Instead, Roberts answered.

“R. J. Roberts,” he announced.

“This is Devlin Tracy. Are you in the office?”

“Did you call the office number?” Roberts asked.

“Yes.”

“Then naturally I’m in the office. I answered the phone, didn’t I?”

“Why is everybody so full of glib repartee tonight?” Trace said. “Wait there. I’m coming right down. I have to talk to you.”

“It sounds important,” Roberts said.

“It is. Wait for me.”

Trace hung up and went into the bedroom.

“I’m ignoring you,” Chico said.

“Why?”

“When I was a kid, I was always afraid that there were ghosts in the room. When I told my mother, she said if I ignored them, they’d go away.”

“Did it work?”

“It didn’t work with the ghosts, but I’m hoping it works with you,” she said.

“You want me to leave, I’m leaving,” Trace said.

“Good.”

He put on his jacket.

“Where are you going? That cow need another milking?”

“No. I have to see Roberts and it’s all your fault,” Trace said.

“Why me?”

“If you had stayed on the job tonight instead of surrendering to your base animal desires, you might have been around to keep Swenson out of trouble. But, no, you had to come home here to harass me, and that left him free to get in trouble with a hooker and she clipped him for three grand.”

“Oh, crap,” Chico said. “Do you know who it was?”

“Yeah. One of Roberts’ girls. I’ll be back as soon as I get the money. Then we’ll talk.”

“I’ll be asleep. Don’t wake me. We’ve got nothing to talk about,” Chico said.

“Then you’ll never know, will you?”

“I hate you, Trace.”

“I love you, Chico.”

“You don’t look happy,” Roberts said.

“Maybe you like working these hours, but I don’t. I like to get some sleep,” Trace said.

“Go to sleep. Who’s stopping you?”

“You are. Now just listen, Roberts. I’m going to go through this just once. I’m not going to negotiate and I’m not going to play cat and mouse. I’m just going to tell you what I want and you’re going to give it to me.”

“I don’t think I like your tone,” Roberts said.

“Wait until you hear the content,” Trace said. “It’s even worse. Here it is. Your hooker, Lip Service, nabbed a John tonight at the Araby. She clipped three thousand dollars in casino chips from his room. He’s a very important man and I want his money back now. I don’t want any blackmail threats, or any hints that we’ll tell the wife, or any of that. All I want is three thousand dollars.”

“What do you mean, my—”

“See,” Trace interrupted. “There you go. You’re going to want to deny that you’re running hookers. You’re going to try to play games with my head. You’re going to waste my time and I’m going to get mad and fry your ass. Three thousand dollars. That concludes this unfortunate piece of business.”

“I don’t—”

“No. You’re going to do it again, aren’t you? Three thousand. No conversation, please. I’m very tired. I’ve had a rough day.”

Roberts looked at him for a full five seconds before answering. “You think I keep three thousand in cash around here?”

“R. J., old buddy, your check’s good enough for me. Because I know where to find you.”

Roberts looked at him some more, then nodded and drew a checkbook from a drawer.

“All right,” he said. “Who do I make this to?”

“Make it to me. Devlin Tracy. I’ll see that my man gets the money.”

Roberts wrote the check and handed it to Trace.

“Thank you.”

“Now will you get out of here?” Roberts said.

“Consider it done,” Trace said.

Chico was making believe she was asleep when Trace climbed into the bed and slid under the light cover.

He rolled toward her and whispered in her ear as if he believed she was asleep.

“Good night, Chico. I love you very much.”

“You know I’m awake, don’t you?”

“I thought you were asleep. Honest.”

“Tell me the truth, Trace. Purely professional interest, since I know we’ve got nothing and we’re going nowhere. Was she good?”

“Who?”

“Miss Stars and Stripes Forever,” Chico said.

“Chico, I want you to know how much you hurt me tonight. I want to tell you one thing: I didn’t make love to National Anthem. I didn’t go near that woman. I didn’t so much as touch her.”

Chico rolled over toward him and seemed to examine his face in the dark, then said, “Hey, you’re telling the truth, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never been more truthful,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Trace.”

“It’s all right. Forget it.”

“I can’t just forget it. How can I make it up to you?”

“You’ll think of something,” he said.

Trace’s log:

Tape Recording Number Two, 5:30 A.M., Wednesday, in the matter of Early Jarvis, late of Las Vegas. I, Devlin Tracy, am becoming a conglomerate. I have added an assistant. My father. So, if I’m so smart and now so thoroughly staffed, why am I up at 5:30 in the morning talking to this stupid machine while Chico sleeps?

I know why and I’m not saying, but tomorrow I’ll bring Chico flowers. Women are suckers for flowers. Give me enough flowers and I can get over on the world. Maybe I’ll send some to National Anthem.

Or maybe straw.

I had to put Pop on this job. Christ, going to police headquarters just to talk to cops. You know you’re desperate when you want to talk to cops.

I’ve spent a lot of time today and wasted a lot of tape and I don’t know any more, I guess, than when I started. Well, maybe a couple of things. Like when I told Groucho that nonsense about the ritual murder, he went right to a phone to call Hubbaker. So there’s my insurance detective, the baron, sneaking around. And probably burgling Spiro’s apartment while that landlady was out having her hair fried.

Roberts said there was nothing on the street about the jewels and Herman backed him up. I trust Herman. How can you not trust a chess player? But he’s right: if those jewels wind up in New York, they’re gone forever. They’ll sink without a trace.

Well, that’s not my problem. My problem is murder. I wish I knew where Jarvis’ passport is. Felicia couldn’t find it and maybe, reluctantly, I’m going to have to agree with her point that maybe the killer stole it. But it just doesn’t jell. If I had a million in jewels in my hand, would I stop to steal a passport? And an ashtray too? No sense.

I wonder. I wonder if the baron is back at the plotzo right now, talking to a tape recorder, asking the same stupid questions that I always ask.

Aaaah, screw the baron. Back to business. So I got Roberts on tape and he checked out Spiro’s police record and he’s definitely the petty-thief kind, so scratch him. Anyway, his place was burgled, and that’s got to mean the baron looking for the jewels. When I talked to Spiro tonight at Felicia’s, he wasn’t lying to me. He doesn’t know anything more than he said he does. I know; I’m an expert on lying. Except I don’t think he was home to find out yet that his place had been looted. Maybe he’ll think it was the landlady cleaning.

So Jarvis went to New York every Thursday before he died, and he traveled under the name of Edward Stark. Now, why is that? That was, by the way, a good find for Sarge. Whatever I wind up paying him, he’ll have earned it right there. Anyway, Jarvis goes to New York and comes back the same day. Why?

And Sarge found the woman at the car counter who rented Jarvis the car. It’s not really anything new, but at least he nailed it down. So Jarvis calls Spiro and says, ‘Pick me up,’ and then rents a car. Why? Another illogical loose end. Why isn’t the world as logical as I am?

There was nothing in Jarvis’ room. Felicia said she cleaned it up for me and that was stupid. I wish she’d clean up her own room ’cause my toe hurts where I stubbed it on that goddamn unpacked luggage of hers. Get a maid and clean your room, Countess. Why did Felicia expect the jewel thief to be calling her? That doesn’t ring quite right, but I don’t know why.

There’s a lot of things I don’t know, except Jarvis ought to have had a checking account. Everybody does.

So that’s that. Except for what Sarge found out, today was pretty much of a blank, and I did a personal thing for Bob Swenson that I’m not going to talk about in case anybody ever hears this tape and I’ve got to remember to go to the bank in the morning.

Anyway, that was my day. I’m not going to make one single comment about my mother trying to redecorate our apartment. All it did was put Chico in a bad mood and she was unjustly on my case all night because of that bad mood. Are you listening, Chico? Feel guilty. You ought to.

Expenses. My usual one hundred and fifty dollars. I’ll be adding Sarge’s expenses in when I get done, but that’ll wait until later. I’m glad I got him away from my mother. Now if only I can get me away from my mother. Jesus, one more day and I’m forty.

I’m going back to bed.

Trace slept late and was awakened by a buzz from the doorman.

Naked, he padded to the speaker box in the kitchen.

“A man here says he’s your father.”

“He’s my father. Send him up.”

“I just didn’t want to take any chances after yesterday,” the doorman said.

“Look again. It’s not my mother in disguise, is it?”

“No. It’s a man.”

“Send him up.”

He tossed on his bathrobe and found a note on Chico’s pillow. “Dear Trace, Sorry for not trusting you. Love you, Chico.”

Great. Just what he needed to start the day. More guilt.

Chico had already loaded the electric coffeepot. He pressed the ON switch, then opened his front door so his father could just walk in, then went to the bathroom to shower. One nagging problem, he realized, was that he had nothing today for his father to do. Actually he had nothing today for himself to do. Sarge had done well yesterday at the airport, but what was left for him to bird-dog?

“Dev, I’m here,” he heard Sarge call.

“Coffee’s on. I’m taking a shower.”

Later, he sat with his father over coffee in the kitchen and Sarge handed him a copy of the rental agreement Jarvis had signed for the airport car. “His own American Express card,” Sarge said. “And I’m getting the flight manifest for the night he came into town. American Airlines. But his name won’t be on it.”

“You sure of that?”

“Yeah,” Sarge said. “I think he was flying incognito. And you’ve got to ask yourself why.”

“I’ve already been asking myself that.”

“Only one reason why somebody would fly under a false name. So if somebody checks the records, they won’t find his name. I think we’ll find Edward Stark listed in the passengers but no Jarvis.”

“Why wouldn’t he want anybody to know he flew into Vegas?” Trace asked. “He lived here. No big secret about going home, is there?”

“I don’t have an inkling, son,” Sarge said.

Sarge had his big red notebook on the kitchen table, and when he looked at it, Trace remembered that Roberts had a similar notebook on his desk, and it gave him an idea.

“I want you to go see that detective named Roberts today,” Trace said. “Find out if he’s holding anything back from us.”

“Can I lean into him?” Sarge asked.

“Well, not to excess. I don’t want him squawking to anybody. Don’t expect him to be too happy with us, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“You know, he’s a detective, but he’s more of a thief. He’s a pimp and he runs hookers. Last night one of them clipped a friend of mine for three grand. I made him give it back.”

“I can see why he might be annoyed with you,” Sarge said. “I’ll make him first stop, then I’ve got some other stuff that I want to do.”

“Okay. Did you get a chance to talk to Mother about the apartment here?”

Sarge looked around. “She said she came up here just to straighten up. I don’t see anything that she did.”

“We put it all back,” Trace said.

“Oh. Anyway, I told her I didn’t think you wanted her straightening up.”

“What’d she say?”

“She said, ‘Nonsense, what are mothers for?’”

“What, indeed?” Trace said.

Sarge had another cup of coffee, then left to see Roberts. Trace glanced at the rental agreement Jarvis had signed at the airport.

In there somewhere there ought to be a key. Why did Jarvis call Spiro and then rent a car and drive to the house himself? Okay. Simple. He wanted Spiro out of the house. But why? What was the point of all of it? And why had he parked on the road instead of going into the driveway and up to the house?

Trace took his time dressing and hooking up his tape recorder, and before he left the house, the telephone rang.

Sarge’s voice sounded crackly and excited.

“I guess you really got that guy’s money back last night, didn’t you?” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t think you went a little off the deep end?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“’Cause Roberts is dead. Somebody cut his throat,” Sarge said. “You didn’t do it?”

“Of course not. What’d you do?”

“I got here and I knocked. There wasn’t any answer, but the light was on, so I opened the door. It was unlocked and he was at the desk, with his head forward. I thought he was sleeping, but then I saw the blood on the blotter. Ear to ear.”

“Did you call the cops yet?”

“No.”

“Good. Wait till I get there. Lock the door and wait for me. Don’t touch anything.”

“Son, you’re talking to me. How long will you be?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Okay,” Sarge said.

“No, make it fifteen. I have to go to the bank first to deposit a check.”

Trace didn’t often deal with the freshly dead. Most of his work involved people who’d been dead for some time and it was up to him to figure out how they died. So his stomach did an unusual nip-up when Sarge let him into Roberts’ office and he saw the investigator’s blood-soaked throat-cut body slouched forward over his desk blotter.

Sarge, for his part, looked as if he could put death on bread and make a sandwich of it.

“You didn’t touch anything, did you?”

“No. What’s the matter? Your face is a funny color.”

“Sarge, you sent me to accounting school. You didn’t raise your boy to be a soldier. Blood in the morning doesn’t exactly thrill me.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Sarge said.

“God, I hope not.”

Trace looked around on Roberts’ desk, carefully not touching the body, but he saw nothing significant. What was he looking for anyway? A message written with a bloody fingernail? “The killer is…”

“I didn’t see anything either,” Sarge said.

“No weapon around?”

“No.”

Trace saw the red notebook on the desk and opened it, after first wrapping a handkerchief around his hand. It contained only one page of numbers with dates along side them, but no names. The numbers were in the three-hundred and four-hundred range, all divisible by ten, and Trace suspected that they may have been a listing of the night’s receipts from Roberts’ small squad of prostitutes. The last date was the previous day’s.

The detective had probably never left the office after Trace had seen him. At least he had not gone anywhere to change his clothes. Still using the handkerchief, Trace opened the file cabinet and found a folder marked Jarvis.

He opened it and looked inside. It still contained the two yellow pieces of paper that it had on the first day Roberts had shown it to him. And the clipping showing Felicia wearing some ofv her jewelry. In the bottom of the file, though, was another piece of paper, small and white. On it was penciled one word: “Records.”

What the hell did that mean?

“Anything there?” Sarge asked. “What are you looking for?”

“His Jarvis file. It’s the same as it was the other day, except for this.” He showed Sarge the piece of paper.

“Records. What does that mean?” Sarge asked.

“Got me.” Trace returned the papers to the folder and put it back in the cabinet. “I guess we’d better call Rosado,” he said.

“We don’t have to, you know,” Sarge said.

“What do you mean?”

“We could just leave here and forget about it. No one’s ever got to know that we found the body. Let the cleaning lady find it.” He looked around the dingy office. “I think she’s due for another pass-through in December. Meanwhile, we can go wherever this guy lives…used to live…and ransack his place. See if we find anything.”

“Can’t do that,” Trace said. “With my luck, it’d go wrong.”

“Just a thought,” Sarge said.

Trace used his handkerchief to lift the telephone. “Sarge, you call me from here?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you get prints on the phone?”

“I used a handkerchief, dummy, like you’re doing.”

“Okay.”

Trace called Dan Rosado at police headquarters.

“Hello, Trace. How’s it by you?”

“By me, okay. By R. J. Roberts, not so good.”

“Why not?”

“I’m at his office. Somebody cut his throat.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be right over. Don’t touch anything.”

Trace hung up the phone and said to his father, “Let’s make it simple, Sarge. They come and we tell them the truth. You came here to talk to Roberts, you found the body, you called me, I came and called the cops.”

“They’re gonna be pissed. I should have called them right away.”

“Tell them I told you not to. You’re a stranger in town. I’ll tell them I thought you were having a senile delusion. If they get mad, they’ll get mad at me. And Dan doesn’t stay mad long.”

“You rotten Irish bastard, Trace, what do you mean you didn’t call us right away?” Rosado’s face was red and the veins in his neck were pulsating, like living snakes he was somehow in the process of swallowing.

“See, Sarge,” Trace said. “I told you he wouldn’t get mad.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Tracy,” Rosado said. “Trace doesn’t know any better because he doesn’t have a brain in his head, but you used to be a cop. You should know how to act.”

“Instead of yelling at my son, you ought to be catching the killer,” Sarge said.

“Give me his name and address and I’ll have my men pick him up on their way back from lunch.”

“Give me some time, maybe I’ll do just that,” Sarge snapped.

“I’ll give you some time. I’d like to give you both some time. Three to five years for meddling, no time off.”

“Dan, I think you’re in danger now of overreacting,” Trace said.

“You really think so?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Let me get a grip on myself.” Rosado gazed off into the distance as if summoning up some mystic spiritual energy. “There we are,” he said calmly. “All together now.”

“Good,” said Trace.

“I should still book your ass,” Rosado screamed.