Tell It To The Birds (17 page)

"Sure," Harmas said, "but you're not suggesting that we pay out on a phony claim, are you?"

"Is it phony? Just because you've found out this woman has a police record, does that make her a murderess. What proof have you got?"

"I've caught her out in two lies," Hamas said. "It was she who persuaded Barlowe to go out to Jason's Glen and I have a witness who'll swear to it, but she claims it was Barlowe who wanted to go ... to be romantic. I have proof they slept alone. Barlowe wasn't the romantic type ... he was a pervert. It's my bet that her boy friend was waiting at the Glen for them. There's a telephone record at the road-house where they spent the evening that a call was put through to a call box near the glen. I can't prove she actually made the call, but it certainly looks as if she did. I think she was alertting her boy friend that she and Barlowe were on the way to the glen."

"Pretty circumstantial, isn't it?" Anson asked, staring at Harmas.

"Oh sure, but it turns on the red light. There's an impression of a car tyre by the call box and we found the same impression up at the Glen. If we find her boy friend has a tyre that matched the impression, he'll have a lot of explaining to do."

Anson kept his face expressionless, but there was a sudden chill around his heart.

"The impression could have been made any time, couldn't it? What else have you got?"

Harmas sat forward.

"This is the topper," he said. "Barlowe was a crack pistol shot: he owned two guns; .38's. Both these guns are missing.

Mrs. Barlowe told us Barlowe had given one gun away, but Harry Seamore, the secretary of the Target Club, is certain, Barlowe would never have parted with these guns. Now there's something ... Barlowe was shot with his own gun. We have been able to check the slugs. And here's something really sensational; the same guy that killed Barlowe, killed the cop in the Caltex hold-up. How do you like that?"

"You've certainly been busy," Anson said as he bent to adjust his shoe string. He felt he had lost colour and he cursed himself for using Barlowe's gun. At the time it had seemed so easy and convenient ... what blind spot had led him into making such a stupid, dangerous mistake? He straightened. "What does Lieutenant Jenson think ... does he think Barlowe did that holdup? Could explain how he got hold of the money to pay for his premium. Come to think of it, it could be the answer. He was desperate to start up on his own. He probably hadn't the money to pay for the premium and staged this hold-up. Could explain why he paid up in cash."

Harmas stroked his nose.

"Yeah; you have an idea. All the same, I'm still convinced Mrs. Barlowe has a boy friend and he and she cooked up Barlowe's murder."

"Just who is this boy friend you keep talking about?" Anson demanded.

"We're looking for him. He shouldn't be all that hard to turn up." Harmas finished his coffee. "Well, that puts you in the picture. I'm alerting Maddox. He'll love it! I don't think Mrs. Barlowe is going to get paid. She could end up in the gas chamber."

Anson got to his feet.

"You have still to prove it," he said. "Until you do prove it, I'm going along with my client. This kind of situation could put me right out of business here. See you," and he walked out of the lounge.

Harmas watched him go, a sudden, puzzled expression in his alert grey eyes.

Harmas had just finished breakfast and had moved into the lounge of the hotel to read the newspapers when Jenson came striding in.

"That finger print idea of yours has paid off," Jenson said. "I think we're on to her boy friend. There are two sets of men's prints in her bedroom. One set we have no record of, but the other belongs to a guy named Sailor Hogan. He was one time light-heavy weight champion of California and he lived in Los Angeles. He works now in Brent for Joe Duncan, a bookmaker. As Hogan lived in L.A. and Mrs. Barlowe worked there as a prostitute could be he was her pimp."

"Get any prints from the gun-box?" Harmas asked.

"Yeah, but they aren't Hogan's; they belong to the other guy," Jenson told him. "I'm going to talk to Hogan now. Do you want to come?"

Harmas climbed to his feet.

"I'd like to see you stop me," he said.

Sailor Hogan lounged back in his chair, a sneering grin on his battle scarred face.

"Look, fellows, snap it up," he said. "I have things to do. What's biting you?"

"Where were you on the night of September 21st?" Jenson demanded.

Hogan's grin widened.

"What's this? What am I supposed to have been doing?"

"What were you doing and where were you?"

"I don't know," Hogan said, shrugging. "That's over two weeks ago, isn't it?"

"Think about it," Jenson said with his cop voice. "You could be in trouble. Better think hard."

"Well, if it's like that," Hogan said still grinning, "maybe I can do something about it." He took from his pocket a slim red diary and began to flick through the pages "September 21 st?"

"You heard me!" Jenson snapped.

"Well, now yeah ... just as well I keep a diary, isn't it?" Hogan looked at Harmas and winked. "I've been in a spot of trouble in the past, now I always keep a record. Comes in useful when the law gets nosy."

"Come on, Hogan!" Jenson barked. "What were you doing?"

"I was in Lambsville ... I had a job to do for Joe Duncan ... any particular time bothering you?"

"Three to four o'clock in the morning."

"Well, for Pete's sake. I was in bed! Where else would I be?"

"Can you prove it?"

Hogan leered.

"Easiest thing in the world, Lieutenant. I don't often sleep along. I get scared of the dark. I had a babe to look after me."

His sneering grin widened. "She has a reason to remember. You ask her ... Kit Litman. She works at the Casino Club."

"What were you doing on the night of September 30th?"

Hogan again winked at Harmas as he flicked pages in his diary.

"Time?" he asked. "Between nine and eleven p.m."

"That's an easy one," Hogan said. "I was playing poker with four of my pals. We played from eight to midnight at Sam's bar. Check if you don't believe me. I was with Joe Gershwin, Ted Macklin, Frankie Stewart and Jack Hammond." He lolled at ease in his chair. "They'll tell you. We started play at eight and finished at around two o'clock. Is that all? I have work to do. You can't pin anything on me, Lieutenant. I keep my nose clean."

Jenson asked abruptly, "You know Mrs. Barlowe? Hogan was waiting for this question. "I can't say I do ... have I missed anything?" "You know Philip Barlowe?" "The guy who was knocked off? No ... what's all this in aid of?"

"Have you ever been to the Barlowe house?" Hogan's smile began to fade. He didn't like the cold, hard stare Jenson was giving him. "Is it likely?"

"How does it happen then your fingerprints were found in the Barlowe house?" Jenson demanded, leaning forward. For a moment Hogan gaped at him, then he forced a rueful grin.

"You coppers! You been out there getting fingerprints?" "We have yours Hogan," Jenson said. "Let's start again; do you know Meg Barlowe?" Hogan shrugged.

"Oh, sure. What's it matter now Barlowe's dead? She and I used to go around together before she married Barlowe. We met again and she invited me out there from time to time. Barlowe hadn't what it takes!" He had recovered his nerve and he winked at Harmas as he went on, "I was just protecting the lady's honour. But since you know, well, there it is.

Anything else you want to know?"

"There's another set of prints in the house," Jenson said. "A man ... know who it could be?"

Hogan picked a tooth with a dirty fingernail.

"You surprise me," he said. "I thought I was the only one. I wouldn't know ... why not ask her?"

Jenson looked at Harmas and shrugged. This gesture was an admission of defeat.

"Where's your car?" Jenson asked. "Outside ... the blue Buick."

The two men left the apartment, and as they shut the door, Hogan gave a sneering little laugh.

It took Jenson only a few minutes to satisfy himself that Hogan's car hadn't made the tyre track at Jason's Glen. He looked in disgust at Harmas.

"Well that's it," he said. "There's another boy friend. Hogan couldn't have done it. I'll check his alibi, but I know him...his alibis stick." "So we start looking for the other boy friend," Harmas said.

"That's it," Jenson said. "I'll turn the screws on this woman".

"Not yet," Harmas said. "I have an idea I'd like to work on first. When we do start working on her, we want enough facts to crack her."

Anson drove his car into the Shell Service station on the Brent highway.

The manager of the Station, Jack Hornby, came out to shake hands.

"Jack,"Anson said, I'm worried about my tyres. I don't like them. I want Firestone fitted. Will you fix it?" "Happy to do it, Mr. Anson," Hornby said. He walked around Anson's car. "I don't see why you should be worried about this lot.

Could run another 8,000 miles."

"A pal of mine had a burst with one of these. Fit me with Firestone".

"O'kay; I can give you discount on your old tyres if you like?"

"Thanks, but I'll take them. Put them in the trunk. I'll wait. How long will it take?" "Best part of an hour", Hornby said, looking puzzled. "I can lend you a car, Mr. Anson and I'll send ..."

"I'll wait," Anson said curtly.

Edwin Merry weather, the manager of the Pru Town National Bank, was short, fat and fussily old-fashioned. He wore a neat, well pressed blue suit and a polka dot bow tie. As Harmas shook hands with him, Harmas thought he looked like a character out of a novel by Sinclair Lewis.

"I understand Mr. Philip Barlowe was a client of yours?" Harmas said after he had introduced himself. "We are expecting a claim to be made against us. Mr. Barlowe took out a life coverage with us a few days before he died. We have to check on certain points before we meet the claim."

Merryweather lifted his eyebrows.

"Yes?"

"Did Mr. Barlowe consult you about this policy?"

Merryweather regarded his nicely polished fingernails before saying, "As it happens ... he did."

"I understand he took out the policy as security for a bank loan. Is that correct?"

"Those were his intentions."

"Did he tell you how much he planned to borrow?"

"Three thousand dollars. We would have been happy to have advanced him that amount if he had lodged his policy with us."

Harmas became alert.

"I understand Mr. Barlowe wanted a much larger sum than three thousand dollars."

Merryweather looked prim.

"We couldn't advance him any more than that sum on a five thousand dollar policy."

"Five thousand? Barlowe was insured for fifty thousand dollars!"

Merryweather looked startled.

"Surely not. Are you sure there isn't a mistake?" Looking at Harmas's set expression, he frowned and paused to adjust his bow tie. "No, obviously you would know. Mr. Barlowe told me he was arranging to insure his life for five thousand dollars and as your company offered a five per cent discount for cash, he wanted to pay the first premium in cash. He drew out practically all the money he had in his account to meet the premium."

Harmas felt a prickle of excitement run up his spine. Now he really was on to something, he told himself.

Quietly, he said, "I don't understand. We don't give discount for cash ... what made him say that?"

"Mr. Barlowe told me that your representative gave him this information ... someone ... I think ... it's Mr. Anson, isn't it?"

"He's our representative," Harmas said slowly. "But there is obviously some mistake here. How much did Barlowe draw out of his account?"

"A hundred and fifty dollars."

Harmas rubbed the back of his neck; the amount needed to cover a five thousand dollar life policy.

"There's something odd about all this, Barlowe took out a fifty thousand dollar coverage and he paid the first premium in cash! One thousand odd dollars."

"I can't imagine where he got that amount from, Mr. Harmas. He was often overdrawn."

Harmas thought for a long moment, then he got to his feet.

"Well, thanks for your time."

Merryweather made a gesture with his fat hands.

"Only too happy to be of service," he said.

As Harmas picked up his key at the reception desk, Tom Nodley said, "There's a woman wanting to talk to you, Mr Harmas. She's been waiting some time in the bar."

The smirking expression on Nodley's face made Harmas stare sharply at him.

"Who is she?"

"Her name is Fay Lawley," Nodley leaned forward, lowering his voice. "She's one of the girls." He winked. "I can get rid of her for you, Mr. Harmas, if you don't want to see her."

"I always see everyone," Harmas said and walked across the lobby to the bar.

He spotted Fay sitting in a corner, nursing a whisky and water, and he joined her.

She smiled at him.

"Come and sit down. I've been trying to contact you for days."

"Is that a fact," Harmas said. He signalled to the waiter, then sat down opposite her. "I've been busy. You know me ... I don't know you."

The waiter came over and Harmas ordered a Scotch on the rocks.

"I'm Fay Lawley," she said. "I live around here." Her painted lips twisted into a hard little smile. "You're with National Fidelity, aren't you?"

"That's right."

"Well, I thought you'd like some information."

The waiter came over with Harmas's drink.

"I thrive on information," Harmas said when the waiter had gone away. He offered cigarettes. They both lit up. "What is this ... some kind of deal?"

Fay shook her head.

"I'm just paying off a grudge. Treat me nice and I'm lovely. Treat me rough and I'm the original stinker. I'll do anything for a man who is decent, but the jerk who tries to shove me around gets his throat cut."

"Should this interest me?" Harmas asked, looking at her intently.

"I don't know ... you're an insurance cop, aren't you?"

"That's it."

"Would you be interested in the way your salesmen act?"

Harmas sipped his drink.