Invitation to Violence (14 page)

    He passed the tavern again and this time he ducked in and ordered a quick beer. At seven-ten he was back in the lobby of the building and pushing the bell. He was surprised when he heard the answering click of the door lock.

    

    

    At eight-twenty-eight, Maryjane Swiftwater returned to the taxi in the parking lot for the last time and dismissed the driver. She was so mad that she failed to ask for change from the second twenty-dollar bill which she had given the man.

    As far as the driver himself was concerned, he didn't waste any time hanging around. He was anxious to get back to Long Island and get home and have his dinner. And he didn't want any more of his present fare, in any case. He knew an irate female when he saw one and there was no doubt in his mind about his latest fare. He was glad to be well out of it. Forty bucks for a few hours' work was all very well and good, but he didn't want to get mixed up in any sort of hassle. Not when a girl with a jaw like that girl had, was involved.

    She found a phone booth and it took her several minutes to make it clear to information just what it was she wanted. The stupid girl seemed to think that the only Police Department in the world was in New York. But finally she got it clear and within another minute or two, Maryjane had the right number. She was in luck. This man Hopper, the detective who had called her at her home in Connecticut, was in the office. It took her a couple of minutes to make him understand just who she was.

    "Don't you remember," she said, her voice high-pitched in irritation. "Miss Swiftwater, Miss Maryjane Swiftwater. You called me about a Mr. Gerald Hanna."

    There was a pause and then the man's voice came back to her.

    "Yes, yes of course, Miss Swiftwater. And just what…"

    "You wanted to know all about him. At least you seemed awfully curious about him. Remember, you wanted to know why he broke our appointment. Well! I can certainly tell you. It was because he has another girl. Can you imagine…"

    Hopper cut in with a long-suffering voice.

    "I see, Miss Swiftwater. So, he has another girl…"

    "He has. And not a word, not one single blessed word about it to me. I don't know why you were interested in him, but I can certainly tell you this. If ever a man was deceitful, if ever a man was a downright cad and liar…"

    "Of course, Miss Swiftwater," Hopper said. "You mean that when he was supposed to come and visit you, you've discovered he was with this other woman…"

    "I wouldn't know about that," she cut in shortly. "But I can tell you this. He's with her right now. Sitting with her and guzzling…"

    "And where is Mr. Hanna right now?" Hopper asked in a bored voice.

    "Some place here in New York. A place called Cavern On The Green. And that woman has just come in and joined him."

    "Perhaps a relative…"

    "It certainly is not," Maryjane said in indignation. "I know all of Gerald's relatives and business acquaintances. This girl is a blonde, a painted-up blonde. Her name's Dunne. I heard her give it to the waiter when she came here and asked for him. I heard…"

    "What did you say?" This time the voice at the other end of the line was hard and sharp. "What did you say the girl's name was?"

    "Dunne. I heard her very distinctly. She came in a taxi and she told the headwaiter Mr. Hanna was expecting her. She said her name was Dunne. Mr. Hanna is my fiance and I want…"

    It took Hopper another three minutes to get her off the wire and hang up. It took him a little less than two minutes to reach Detective Finn.

    

    

    They'd been together for more than half an hour now, sitting across from each other at the small, round-topped table in the secluded corner of the terrace. She hadn't touched the Martini which the waiter had brought and put down in front of her and he himself had let the gin and tonic grow lukewarm in the tall glass.

    She wore a cheap little cotton suit, but well cut as though she might have made it herself, and her makeup was smeared. Her slender-fingered hands beat an insistent tattoo on the edge of the table and when she spoke there was a note of controlled hysteria in her voice. When she looked at him, the azure eyes were filled with loathing.

    But in spite of her expression, he could tell that she was very pretty. Her eyes were really beautiful. He only wished he could see them without the anger. Nothing, of course, could detract from her slender, perfect figure.

    Looking at her, Gerald's mind unconsciously went to his fiancee, Maryjane. She would never have approved of this lovely golden girl. Maryjane didn't like women who wore their hair free and careless, who…

    She reached across the table suddenly, jerking him by the sleeve of his jacket and interrupting his thoughts.

    "You wanted to talk to me, Mister," she said, fury in her low, husky voice. "What kind of man are you, anyway? Don't just sit there staring at me. Tell me…"

    "I'm sorry," he said, refocusing his eyes on her.

    "I don't understand you," Sue Dunne said. "I don't understand you at all. I have to believe you, but I simply can't understand you. You don't look like a hoodlum-and God knows, I've seen enough of them to know. You don't look like a thief or a crook. Maybe you are an insurance man like you say. Maybe you are legitimate.

    "And yet you come here, or rather bring me here, and tell me about my brother. Tell me about his getting into your car. You say that he had the jewels and that now you have them. Or that you know how to get hold of them.

    "Why? Why in the name of God do you come to me?"

    "It's like I explained," Gerald said. "There was nothing I could have done for your brother. He died within minutes of the time he got into the car. There was nothing I could have done for him. But, I want to know who else is mixed up in the thing. If anyone else was involved in the robbery. I want to know how they planned to get rid of the stuff once they had it."

    "But why? Why do you want to know? Say, are you some kind of cop or something? You said you were an insurance man. Is that why…"

    Gerald slowly shook his head.

    "No," he said. "No that isn't why. And I am not any sort of cop or anything like that. It's like I have told you. Five men have already died because of these jewels. One of them was your brother. Nothing can be done about that part of it any longer. But you have to be sensible, be realistic. It doesn't make the jewels any less valuable."

    He hesitated a second and watched her closely.

    "You see," he said, "I don't know anything about mobs, or gangsters, or fences, or anything like that. I just assumed that maybe you, being the sister of one of the men who took the stuff…"

    She pushed back her chair and angrily got to her feet, leaning down with her hands on the table and staring into his face.

    "My brother's dead," she said. "I don't say that he didn't get what was coming to him; I don't even blame the policeman who fired the bullet which killed him. But the very thought of those jewels makes me sick. Makes me want to vomit. Do you understand? I hate the jewels and I hate the men who helped Vincent steal them."

    Her slender body suddenly began to shake and Gerald himself leaned forward, taking her by the arms. In a moment she again sat down, half collapsing in the seat.

    He leaned forward, still holding her.

    "Please," he said. "Please. Just take it easy. I'm not trying to hurt you. I don't want to…"

    She swallowed a sob and looked up at him. The hatred was still there, but there was a difference. He could tell that the hatred had nothing to do with him personally. He was no longer important.

    "If there is anything I could do to see that the man who got Vince into this thing was arrested," she said in a low, choked voice, "anything I could do at all, why I'd give my life."

    She lifted her eyes again and stared at him intently. "And you expect me to help you contact him? You expect me to help you make money out of the very thing which killed my brother? You must be a fool as well as a scoundrel!"

    She leaned back in her seat in sudden tired resignation and he could see the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

    "Vince was weak," she said, her voice soft and barely above a whisper, as though she were speaking to herself and had forgotten his very presence. "Yes, Vince was weak. I always knew that he wasn't much good. But if they'd let him alone, if they'd only left him alone! He could have turned out all right. I would have seen to that. I could have helped him, protected him."

    She looked up again and once more her mood changed.

    "Yes," she said, bitterly. "Yes, I could have helped him. But they didn't. They didn't leave him alone. They need kids like Vince to do their dirty work-take the chances they are afraid to take themselves."

    Suddenly she reached for the Martini and lifting it to her lips, swallowed it in one long draught. She made a wry face as she replaced the glass.

    "As far as you're concerned," she said, looking into his face and not bothering to conceal the repugnance in her voice, "as far as you're concerned, if you have the jewels like you say you do, then keep them. Or, if you aren't just a cheap thief, give them back to the people they belong to.

    "I wouldn't help you if I could. I don't even know why I'm stupid enough to sit here talking to you. I think maybe you are as bad as Fred Slaughter himself. There's something darned funny about you and I think maybe I should just go to the telephone and…"

    "Slaughter? Was this Fred Slaughter the man-the fence or whatever it is?"

    For a long moment she stared at him and then quickly looked away.

    "If you are smart," she said, "you'll forget that name. Forget that you ever heard it."

    This time when she stood up there was no doubt about what her intentions were.

    "I don't know what your angle is, Mister," she said. "Maybe you are just a screwball after all. You certainly don't look like a thief and you don't look like a cop. But if you should by any chance know anything about those stolen jewels, I would advise you to get rid of them just as quickly as you can. I'd advise you to go right to the police and tell them everything you know."

    She hesitated a moment and for the first time as she looked at him, there was no longer the disgust and the dislike in her expression.

    "You are older than Vince was," she said. "You should be a lot smarter. Maybe you are and maybe you're not. Maybe, you too just have to be told what is right and what is wrong."

    She moved a step away from the table as he started to stand up.

    "I'm going now," she said. "We've had our talk. I'm going home now and I don't think I ever want to see you again."

    She swung on her heel and stalked out into the night and Gerald stood there.

    Somehow he felt a sudden sadness, a sudden odd sense of loss. It didn't matter how she felt about it. He knew that he himself would want to see her again. Would like to see her soon and often and…

    

    

    He didn't notice the man several tables away who also sat watching the girl leave. The man himself, for a moment, made as though to get up and follow her. Then, after a moment, he once more sat back and his eyes returned to Gerald.

    It was a decision he had to make on the spur of the moment. There was no time to call in and find out which one of the two they wanted him to keep his eye on in case they split up. Well, he couldn't, very obviously, tail both of them. And he guessed that the man would probably be the most important one. The man usually was.

    It is more or less of a shame that he reached this particular decision, because, if he hadn't and had decided to follow Sue Dunne instead of stay with Gerald Hanna, he might have been able to do something about what was to happen a few moments later.

    At least he would have seen the car which was waiting at the curb, in front of Sue's apartment house when she arrived. He would have seen the man who leaped to the dark street and crossed over and accosted her and a second later threw a strangle hold around her neck and pulled her to the edge of the gutter. He would have seen the other hands reach out and drag her into the machine as it left the curb to speed off into the night.

    But instead, this man who had to make the decision stayed on as Gerald sat and finished his warm drink and called the waiter over and asked for his check. He followed him when Gerald went out and got into his car. He was behind him, in his own unmarked police car, all of the way out to Long Island. He was parked across the street, watching, as Gerald closed the garage doors and went on up to his apartment.

    

    

    He wasn't prepared for it. It was funny how that was the first thought that passed through his mind as his hand reached out and he flicked on the wall switch in the living room.

    Even before the sense of surprise, of fear, reached his brain, that was the thought. He should have known or at least have guessed. But he hadn't. That was the trouble with having no experience. Experience was always valuable. Gerald could only assume the rule applied to almost any given situation.

    A criminal, a man who operated outside the law, would have had that experience and would have known. Would have sensed it the moment he entered the room. But he, Gerald Hanna, was without experience and that is why, as the yellow brilliance filtered through the dark room and he saw the two of them, one on the couch and the other standing by the door, he reacted as he did.

    The hand which had found the fight switch went to his mouth and his eyes, in the sudden glare of the light, were wide and almost hysterical. He gasped and instinctively he turned and took a step back toward the hallway.