Red Harvest (25 page)

I took them out of my pocket, dropped them on his bed, got up from my chair, put on my hat, and said:

“I’d give my right leg to be able to believe that the girl was
killed by somebody you sent to get the letters. By God, I’d like to top off the job by sending you to the gallows!”

He didn’t touch the letters. He said:

“You told me the truth about Thaler and Pete?”

“Yeah. But what difference does it make? You’ll only be pushed around by somebody else.”

He threw the bedclothes aside and swung his stocky pajamaed legs and pink feet over the edge of the bed.

“Have you got the guts,” he barked, “to take the job I offered you once before—chief of police?”

“No. I lost my guts out fighting your fights while you were hiding in bed and thinking up new ways of disowning me. Find another wet nurse.”

He glared at me. Then shrewd wrinkles came around his eyes.

He nodded his old head and said:

“You’re afraid to take the job. So you did kill the girl?”

I left him as I had left him the last time, saying, “Go to hell!” and walking out.

The chauffeur, still toting his billiard cue, still regarding me without fondness, met me on the ground floor and took me to the door, looking as if he hoped I would start something. I didn’t. He slammed the door after me.

The street was gray with the beginning of daylight.

Up the street a black coupé stood under some trees. I couldn’t see if anyone was in it. I played safe by walking in the opposite direction. The coupé moved after me.

There is nothing in running down streets with automobiles in pursuit. I stopped, facing this one. It came on. I took my hand away from my side when I saw Mickey Linehan’s red face through the windshield.

He swung the door open for me to get in.

“I thought you might come up here,” he said as I sat beside
him, “but I was a second or two too late. I saw you go in, but was too far away to catch you.”

“How’d you make out with the police?” I asked. “Better keep driving while we talk.”

“I didn’t know anything, couldn’t guess anything, didn’t have any idea of what you were working on, just happened to hit town and meet you. Old friends—that line. They were still trying when the riot broke. They had me in one of the little offices across from the assembly room. When the circus cut loose I back-windowed them.”

“How’d the circus wind up?” I asked.

“The coppers shot hell out of them. They got the tip-off half an hour ahead of time, and had the whole neighborhood packed with specials. Seems it was a juicy row while it lasted—no duck soup for the coppers at that. Whisper’s mob, I hear.”

“Yeah. Reno and Pete the Finn tangled tonight. Hear anything about it?”

“Only that they’d had it.”

“Reno killed Pete and ran into an ambush on the getaway. I don’t know what happened after that. Seen Dick?”

“I went up to his hotel and was told he’d checked out to catch the evening train.”

“I sent him back home,” I explained. “He seemed to think I’d killed Dinah Brand. He was getting on my nerves with it.”

“Well?”

“You mean, did I kill her? I don’t know, Mickey. I’m trying to find out. Want to keep riding with me, or want to follow Dick back to the Coast?”

Mickey said:

“Don’t get so cocky over one lousy murder that maybe didn’t happen. But what the hell? You know you didn’t lift her dough and pretties.”

“Neither did the killer. They were still there after eight that
morning, when I left. Dan Rolff was in and out between then and nine. He wouldn’t have taken them. The—I’ve got it! The coppers that found the body—Shepp and Vanaman—got there at nine-thirty. Besides the jewelry and money, some letters old Willsson had written the girl were—must have been—taken. I found them later in Dawn’s pocket. The two dicks disappeared just about then. See it?

“When Shepp and Vanaman found the girl dead they looted the joint before they turned in the alarm. Old Willsson being a millionaire, his letters looked good to them, so they took them along with the other valuables, and turned them—the letters—over to the shyster to peddle back to Elihu. But Dawn was killed before he could do anything on that end. I took the letters. Shepp and Vanaman, whether they did or didn’t know that the letters were not found in the dead man’s possession, got cold feet. They were afraid the letters would be traced to them. They had the money and jewelry. They lit out.”

“Sounds fair enough,” Mickey agreed, “but it don’t seem to put any fingers on any murderers.”

“It clears the way some. We’ll try to clear it some more. See if you can find Porter Street and an old warehouse called Redman. The way I got it, Rolff killed Whisper there, walked up to him and stabbed him with the ice pick he had found in the girl. If he did it that way, then Whisper hadn’t killed her. Or he would have been expecting something of the sort, and wouldn’t have let the lunger get that close to him. I’d like to look at their remains and check up.”

“Porter’s over beyond King,” Mickey said. “We’ll try the south end first. It’s nearer and more likely to have warehouses. Where do you set this Rolff guy?”

“Out. If he killed Whisper for killing the girl, that marks him off. Besides, she had bruises on her wrist and cheek, and he wasn’t strong enough to rough her. My notion is that he left the hospital, spent the night God knows where, showed up at the girl’s house after I left that morning, let himself in with his key,
found her, decided Whisper had done the trick, took the sticker out of her, and went hunting Whisper.”

“So?” Mickey said. “Now where do you get the idea that you might be the boy who put it over.”

“Stop it,” I said grouchily as we turned into Porter Street. “Let’s find our warehouse.”

We rode down the street, jerking our eyes around, hunting for buildings that looked like deserted warehouses. It was light enough by now to see well.

Presently I spotted a big square rusty-red building set in the center of a weedy lot. Disuse stuck out all over lot and building. It had the look of a likely candidate.

“Pull up at the next corner,” I said. “That looks like the dump. You stick with the heap while I scout it.”

I walked two unnecessary blocks so I could come into the lot behind the building. I crossed the lot carefully, not sneaking, but not making any noise I could avoid.

I tried the back door cautiously. It was locked, of course. I moved over to a window, tried to look in, couldn’t because of gloom and dirt, tried the window, and couldn’t budge it.

I went to the next window with the same luck. I rounded the corner of the building and began working my way along the north side. The first window had me beaten. The second went up slowly with my push, and didn’t make much noise doing it.

Across the inside of the window frame, from top to bottom,
boards were nailed. They looked solid and strong from where I stood.

I cursed them, and remembered hopefully that the window hadn’t made much noise when I raised it. I climbed up on the sill, put a hand against the boards, and tried them gently.

They gave.

I put more weight behind my hand. The boards went away from the left side of the frame, showing me a row of shiny nail points.

I pushed them back farther, looked past them, saw nothing but darkness, heard nothing.

With my gun in my right fist, I stepped over the sill, down into the building. Another step to the left put me out of the window’s gray light.

I switched my gun to my left hand and used my right to push the boards back over the window.

A full minute of breathless listening got me nothing. Holding my gun-arm tight to my side, I began exploring the joint. Nothing but the floor came under my feet as I inch-by-inched them forward. My groping left hand felt nothing until it touched a rough wall. I seemed to have crossed a room that was empty.

I moved along the wall, hunting for a door. Half a dozen of my undersized steps brought me to one. I leaned an ear against it, and heard no sound.

I found the knob, turned it softly, eased the door back.

Something swished.

I did four things all together: let go the knob, jumped, pulled trigger, and had my left arm walloped with something hard and heavy as a tombstone.

The flare of my gun showed me nothing. It never does, though it’s easy to think you’ve seen things. Not knowing what else to do, I fired again, and once more.

An old man’s voice pleaded:

“Don’t do that, partner. You don’t have to do that.”

I said: “Make a light.”

A match spluttered on the floor, kindled, and put flickering yellow light on a battered face. It was an old face of the useless, characterless sort that goes well with park benches. He was sitting on the floor, his stringy legs sprawled far apart. He didn’t seem hurt anywhere. A table leg lay beside him.

“Get up and make a light,” I ordered, “and keep matches burning until you’ve done it.”

He struck another match, sheltered it carefully with his hands as he got up, crossed the room, and lit a candle on a three-legged table.

I followed him, keeping close. My left arm was numb or I would have taken hold of him for safety.

“What are you doing here?” I asked when the candle was burning.

I didn’t need his answer. One end of the room was filled with wooden cases piled six high, branded
Perfection Maple Syrup.

While the old man explained that as God was his keeper he didn’t know nothing about it, that all he knew was that a man named Yates had two days ago hired him as night watchman, and if anything was wrong he was as innocent as innocent, I pulled part of the top off one case.

The bottles inside had Canadian Club labels that looked as if they had been printed with a rubber stamp.

I left the cases and, driving the old man in front of me with the candle, searched the building. As I expected, I found nothing to indicate that this was the warehouse Whisper had occupied.

By the time we got back to the room that held the liquor my left arm was strong enough to lift a bottle. I put it in my pocket and gave the old man some advice:

“Better clear out. You were hired to take the place of some of the men Pete the Finn turned into special coppers. But Pete’s dead now and his racket has gone blooey.”

When I climbed out the window the old man was standing in front of the cases, looking at them with greedy eyes while he counted on his fingers.

“Well?” Mickey asked when I returned to him and his coupé.

I took out the bottle of anything but Canadian Club, pulled the cork, passed it to him, and then put a shot into my own system.

He asked, “Well?” again.

I said: “Let’s try to find the old Redman warehouse.”

He said: “You’re going to ruin yourself some time telling people too much,” and started the car moving.

Three blocks farther up the street we saw a faded sign,
Redman & Company.
The building under the sign was long, low, and narrow, with corrugated iron roof and few windows.

“We’ll leave the boat around the corner,” I said. “And you’ll go with me this time. I didn’t have a whole lot of fun by myself last trip.”

When we climbed out of the coupé, an alley ahead promised a path to the warehouse’s rear. We took it.

A few people were wandering through the streets, but it was still too early for the factories that filled most of this part of town to come to life.

At the rear of our building we found something interesting. The back door was closed. Its edge, and the edge of the frame, close to the lock, were scarred. Somebody had worked there with a jimmy.

Mickey tried the door. It was unlocked. Six inches at a time, with pauses between, he pushed it far enough back to let us squeeze in.

When we squeezed in we could hear a voice. We couldn’t make out what the voice was saying. All we could hear was the faint rumble of a distant man’s voice, with a suggestion of quarrelsomeness in it.

Mickey pointed a thumb at the door’s scar and whispered.

“Not coppers.”

I took two steps inside, keeping my weight on my rubber heels. Mickey followed, breathing down the back of my neck.