Believed Violent (12 page)

Lepski started to climb the stairs. His temper was considerably frayed by the time he had reached the fifth and last landing. He hammered on the door facing him, waited, then banged again. He heard sounds of movement, then the door opened. The big Jamaican, wearing only a shirt, blinked at him, then recognizing a cop when he saw one, backed into the small, neatly kept room.

Lepski followed him in, looked around, approved of what he saw, then sat down on an upright chair.

“Relax,” he said. He knew the waterfront people. When you would, you treated them with kid gloves. You got more out of them that way. “Sorry to wake you, fella. We’ve got trouble. You could help.”

Tin-Tin gave a great gaping yawn, rubbed his eyes, groaned, then shook his head.

“Man! You’ve got nothing like the trouble I have . . . I’m dead right here on my feet.” He shook his head again, then walked over to a hot plate on which stood a blackened coffee pot. “You want coffee? I keep it always hot. Man! Do I want coffee!”

“Why not?” Lepski said and lit a cigarette.

As Tin-Tin poured two cups of black coffee, he said, “What’s the trouble, mister? Lemme see . . . you’re Tom Lepski, ain’t you? Use to pound a beat down here four-five years ago?”

“That’s right,” Lepski said. “But I’ve moved up in the world.” He grinned as he accepted the cup of coffee. “Detective 2nd. Grade . . . I’ll be Chief in another five years.”

Tin-Tin sat on the bed. He drank some of the coffee, sighed, then putting down the cup, he began to scratch his bony knees.

“Yeah . . . could be. Old Mike speaks well of you. He knows.” Then he stopped scratching and looked inquiringly at Lepski. The drink of coffee had brought him awake. “I’ve got to be at the Club by one o’clock this afternoon. I’d like some sleep. You want something from me, Mr. Lepski?”

“You know Drena French?”

Tin-Tin stiffened.

“Sure, I know her. She and me are good friends. Is she in trouble?”

“You could call it that. Would you say she was drunk last night?”

“Drunk? Well, no. A little high, but not drunk. Has something happened to her?”

“She was picked out of the harbour: smashed head . . . dead as an amputated leg.”

Tin-Tin wilted.

“You mean she’s dead?”

“Yeah . . . dead.”

A sadness came into the Jamaican’s enormous black eyes that made Lepski look away. Tin-Tin sat for some seconds staring down at the threadbare mat on which his splayed, naked feet rested. Then he drew in a long breath. “Well, that’s the way it is, mister. Here, one day . . . gone, the nest. I guess Jesus will take care of her.”

“I guess,” Lepski finished his coffee. “What do you know about her boy-friend . . . Fred Lewis?”

“Not much. He was a non-drinking man. He just came and sat. I do know he was crazy about the girl . . . you watch a man . . . you see how he reacts . . . there’s that light in his eyes. Yes, Man, he sure was crazy about her.”

Lepski pushed his empty cup towards Tin-Tin.

“Can you spare any more . . . it’s damn fine coffee.”

This pleased Tin-Tin. He got off the bed and refilled Lepski’s cup.

“Glad you like it, Mr. Lepski . . . I reckon it’s pretty good myself and I reckon I’m a pretty good judge.”

There was a pause, then Lepski said, “Odd combination . . . these two . . . a male nurse and a whore.”

“You think so?” Tin-Tin shook his head. “Not to me. Folks find each other: they get together: they click. I’ve seen it time after time.”

“She had been drinking?”

Tin-Tin hesitated, then nodded.

“Well, I guess. It’s a real tough life for a girl at the Club. She has to keep on the ball. Yeah, sure . . . she had been drinking.”

“She wouldn’t have tossed herself into the harbour? She wasn’t unhappy?”

“Unhappy?” Tin-Tin showed his big white teeth like piano keys in the overhead light. “Nothing like that . . . she told me she was going to own a restaurant. Okay, she must have been high, but she was happy. No, mister, she didn’t jump. That I’ll swear.”

“What’s this about a restaurant?”

“Well, you know how these girls shoot with the mouth. She told me she was buying the Seagull. You know it? It’s a dead beat joint on Eastern Point. She said she and her boy-friend were buying it. She said last night was her last night at the Club. Women! They shoot with their mouths. I guess she was a little high.” Tin-Tin sighed. “Now, she’s dead.”

Lepski knew The Seagull Restaurant. He knew the owner, Jeff Hawkins. He also knew that Hawkins wanted to sell and why. Here was an interesting lead. He got to his feet.

“Okay, Tin-Tin,” he said. “Sorry to have woken you up. You get back to bed.”

“She said everything was on the house if I came around,” Tin-Tin said sadly. “Well, Mr. Lepski, she could have been drunker than I thought.”

“Yeah. You get back to sleep and thanks for the coffee . . . best coffee I’ve had in years,” and Lepski meant just that.

He left the room, took the stairs two at a time and walked out on to the sunlit waterfront. Already amateur yachtsmen were getting their boats ready for a morning sail. Lepski went over to Patrolman Lawson who was standing guard by the bloodstained dinghy.

“Homicide will be down any moment now,” he said. That boat doesn’t move until they’ve looked at it. Understand?”

Awed by Lepski’s reputation, Lawson saluted.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Lepski got into his car and drove along the waterfront. Eventually, he arrived outside The Seagull Restaurant. He got out of the car and stared at the run-down building, then walked to the locked door. He hammered on the door panel until, after a long delay, the door swung open.

Jeff Hawkins, elderly, wearing a dirty white bath-robe, his big feet in sandals, gaped sleepily at him.

“For the love of Mike! It’s Chief of Police Lepski!” he exclaimed.

“Not yet,” Lepski said, pleased. “How are you, Jeff? Long time no see.”

“Yeah. I was asleep. Anything wrong?”

“Always trouble,” Lepski said and shouldered his way past the big man into the dark, shabby restaurant. “Let’s have a light.”

Hawkins flicked on an overhead light. A woman’s shrill voice bawled down from upstairs to know what was happening. Hawkins bawled up, telling her to shut her mouth. There was silence.

Lepski leaned on the small bar, looking at Hawkins who looked around rather helplessly. He was still stunned by sleep.

“Do you want coffee, Captain?”

“Nothing. You selling this dump?”

Hawkins brightened.

“It’s sold. That little tart from the Go-Go Club: Drena French. She’s paying me seven thousand bucks. Boy! Am I glad to get rid of it!” Seeing Lepski’s cop expression, he stiffened and asked, “Something wrong? Hasn’t she the money? I kept asking myself how a whore like her could find that amount of money, but she swore by her mother’s grave she was signing the papers today.”

“Well, she won’t,” Lepski said. “It’s your hard luck, Jeff. We’ve fished her out of the harbour.”

Hawkins’ big, sweaty face sagged.

“Dead?”

“Yeah.”

The big man sank on to a stool. He rubbed his fleshy, work-hardened hand over his face.

Well, that’s the way it is,” he said. “I really thought I had got, out.”

Lepski took out his notebook.

“Let’s have all the details, Jeff,” he said. “Right from the rime she propositioned you.”

CHAPTER FOUR

It was by the merest chance that Jonathan Lindsey was in the lobby of the Belevedere Hotel when a secretary, calling from Washington, asked for a reservation for Mervin Warren.

Lindsey was feeling pretty satisfied. The first stage of the operation had succeeded. They now had Paul Forrester. They had his one time assistant, Nona Jacey. There were no loose ends. Silk and Keegan had done a smooth, efficient job. He had already sent a Telex to the Alcron Hotel, Prague, where Radnitz was staying, alerting Radnitz in code of the progress so far.

Now he was waiting to hear that Dr. Alex Kuntz had been safely taken to the cave hideout. While he was waiting, he examined the Stock list in the New York Times, and it was while he was trying to decide whether or not to increase his holdings in Com Sat that he heard the receptionist talking on the telephone, say, “Mr. Mervin Warren? Yes, of course. A cuite? Yes, certainly. We’ll be happy to have Mr. Warren. Yes . . . I understand. At midday? Certainly. Everything will be ready for him. Thank you . . . you’re welcome,” and she hung up.

Lindsey glanced at his watch. The time was ten minutes after ten. His brain worked swiftly. Folding his newspaper, he got casually to his feet. He walked to the reception desk. The tall, slim girl, wearing a neat, sky blue dress, smiled at him.

“Good morning, Mr. Lindsey.”

Lindsey returned her smile. Charm radiated from him, making her eyes sparkle. Lindsey had this trick. Few women could resist that suave, admiring gaze.

“You are looking delightful, Miss Whitelaw,” he said. He had always made it a rule to know the names of the important members of the staff of all the hotels he frequented: something that baffled Radnitz who never bothered to remember anyone’s name. “That dress matches your eyes beautifully.”

The girl laughed, delighted. What all the girls working at the hotel liked about Lindsey was his charm and his kindness. They knew he would never make a pass, never take advantage of their position. They considered him to be quite the nicest client in the hotel which was what Lindsey wanted them to think.

“I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying just now,” Lindsey said with an apologetic smile. “Mr. Warren is a very old friend of mine. I hope you are giving him a good suite?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Lindsey. He’ll be in suite 875. It is the best, after Mr. Radnitz’s suite.”

“I know it. Good . . .” Lindsey smiled, nodded and moved slowly away. He took the elevator to the penthouse suite, entered, walked to a desk and opened a drawer. From it he took a small square-shaped box. From the box he took what looked like a black plastic button. He dropped it into his pocket. Leaving the suite, he went down the stairs to the next floor and walked slowly along the corridor.

In the Service room he found Josh, the Negro valet who looked after the penthouse suite.

“Good morning, Josh,” Lindsey said, pausing in the doorway. “I would like to look at suite 875. Is it vacant?”

Josh turned, his black face beaming.

“Yes, sir . . . right now it’s vacant, but someone’s moving in after midday.”

“A friend of mine is coming this way next month,” Lindsey said smoothly. “I just want to make sure he will be comfortable.”

“Yes, sir. You come with me. You see for yourself, sir.”

Lindsey followed the Negro down the corridor, waited until the Negro had unlocked the door to the suite, then as the Negro stood aside, Lindsey entered.

He looked around the big living-room with its terrace. At one end of the room was a long, rectangular table with eight chairs set around it. This would be where Mervin Warren would hold his conferences, Lindsey decided. He walked over to the table as Josh began to pull up the sunblinds, his back turned to him. Lindsey took the black button from his pocket and his hand disappeared under the table. The adhesive back of the button ― a high powered microphone ― stuck to the underpart of the table. The movement was made so quickly that the Negro was completely unaware of what had happened.

Lindsey casually inspected the three bedrooms, the three bathrooms, then returned to the living-room.

“Yes, this will do, Josh. Couldn’t be better. Thank you.” A five dollar bill exchanged hands; then smiling, Lindsey left the suite and returned to Radnitz’s penthouse. Once there, he opened a closet where, on a shelf, stood a
Revox
tape recorder. He put on a reel of tape, then satisfied with his preparations, he walked out on to the terrace. He stood in the sunshine for some time, watching the distant helicopters circling vainly in their search for Paul Forrester.

Mervin Warren was a tall, massively built man with a shock of white hair, a dimpled chin and alert, penetrating black eyes. He had arrived at the Belevedere Hotel at twenty minutes past noon and fifteen minutes later was seated at the head of the table in his private suite.

Chief of Police Terrell was on his left, Jesse Hamilton of the Central Intelligence Agency on his right, Roger Williams of the Federal Burea of Investigation further down the table and Alec Horn, his secretary at the far end of the table, taking notes.

“Well, gentlemen,” Warren was saying, “you have all read Captain Terrell’s report. I would like your conclusions. Hamilton? What do you think?”

Jesse Hamilton, thin, balding, his eyes shrewd, his mouth revealing the determination and ruthlessness of his character said without hesitation, “This all points to a conspiracy. There are a number of facts in this report that prove that Forrester did not escape without outside help. The set-up, as Captain Terrell found it when he arrived at the sanatorium, looked as if Forrester had murdered his nurse, stolen the master key and had got away. Now we have had time to examine the report, it seems to me that the facts don’t jell with what we are supposed to believe.” He leaned back in his chair and raised a finger. “Fact one: the chair leg could not have killed Lewis. A much heavier weapon must have been used. Fact two: there were no fingerprints on the chair leg which was not wiped clean, showing the person handling the chair leg wore gloves. We know Forrester didn’t have any gloves. Fact three: the gate-man claims to have heard a car start up some time during the night. This isn’t evidence as he can’t swear to it, but it adds to the picture. Fact four: we now learn that the male nurse, Fred Lewis, was infatuated by a woman, working at a night club. Lewis went often to the Club. Suddenly this woman tells the barman at the Club that she is about to buy a restaurant. Fact five: the owner of this restaurant admits the woman made an offer of seven thousand dollars for the place. How could she find such a sum? Was this money coming from Lewis? Did he get the money as a bribe? Fact six: both Lewis and the woman are dead. The woman is supposed to have fallen into the harbour. But did she? her head was smashed against a boat. If she had fallen naturally, could she have received such an injury? Dr. Lowis thinks she was thrown into the harbour with considerable violence. Lewis had his skull split by a very heavy weapon . . . this weapon hasn’t been found. So, looking at the evidence, I am inclined to think that Forrester had outside help and an attempt has been made to make us believe that he escaped on his own. As Forrester was our top Rocket scientist, I would say that he has been kidnapped.”