The McBain Brief (27 page)

“Maybe not. But that adds another murder to it. Are they paying you enough for a homicide rap, MacGregor?”

“Little Miltie, we've talked enough.”

“Maybe we haven't talked enough yet. Maybe you don't know that the Feds are in on this thing, and that the Army . . .”

“Oh, come on, Miltie. Come on now, boy. You're reaching.”

“Am I? Check around, MacGregor. Find out what happens when sabotage is suspected, especially on a plane headed to pick up military personnel. Find out if the Feds aren't on the scene. And find out what happens when a big-time fools with the government.”

“I never done a state pen,” MacGregor said, seemingly hurt. “Don't call me a big-time.”

“Then why are you juggling a potato as hot as this one? Do you yearn for Quentin, MacGregor? Wise up, friend. You've been conned. The gravy is all on the other end of the line. You're getting all the cold beans, and when it comes time to hang a frame, guess who'll be it? Give a good guess, MacGregor.”

MacGregor said seriously, “You're a fast talker.”

“What do you say, MacGregor? How do you feel, playing the boob in a big ante deal? How much are you getting?”

“Four G's,” MacGregor said. “Plus.”

“Plus what?”

MacGregor smiled the age-old smile of a man who has known a woman and is reluctant to admit it. “Just plus,” he said.

“All right, keep the dough and forget you were hired. You've already had the ‘plus', and you can keep that as a memory.”

“I've only been paid half the dough,” MacGregor said.

“When's the rest due?”

“When you drop the case.”

“I can't match it, MacGregor, but I'll give you a thou for your trouble. You're getting off easy, believe me. If I don't crack this, the Feds will, and then you'll really be in hot water.”

“Yeah,” MacGregor said, nodding.

“You'll forget it then?”

“Where's the G-note?”

Davis reached for his wallet on the dresser. “Who hired you, MacGregor?” He looked up, and MacGregor's smile had widened now.

“I'll take it all, Miltie.”

“Huh?”

“All of it.” MacGregor waved the gun. “Everything in the wallet. Come on.”

“You
are
a jackass, aren't you?” Davis said. He fanned out the money in the wallet, and then held it out to MacGregor. MacGregor reached for it, and Davis loosened his grip, and the bills began fluttering towards the floor.

MacGregor grabbed for them with his free hand, turning sideways at the same time, taking the gun off Davis.

It had to be then, and it had to be right, because the talking game was over and MacGregor wasn't buying anything.

Davis leaped, ramming his shoulder against the fat man's chest. MacGregor staggered back, and then swung his arm around just as Davis' fingers clamped on his wrist. He did not fire, and Davis knew he probably didn't want to bring the apartment house down around his ears.

They staggered across the room in a clumsy embrace, like partners at a dance school for beginners. Davis had both hands on
MacGregor's gun wrist now, and the fat man swung his arm violently, trying to shake the grip. They didn't speak or curse. MacGregor grunted loudly each time he swung his arm, and Davis' breath was audible as it rushed through his parted lips. He did not loosen his grip. He forced MacGregor across the room, and when the fat man's back was against the wall Davis began methodically smashing the gun hand against the plaster.

“Drop it,” he said through clenched teeth. “Drop it.”

He hit the wall with MacGregor's hand again, and this time the fingers opened and the gun clattered to the floor. Davis stepped back for just an instant, kicking the gun across the room, and then rushed forward with his fist clenched.

He felt his fist sink into the flesh around MacGregor's middle. The fat man's face went white, and then he buckled over, his arms embracing his stomach. Davis dropped his fist and then brought it up from his shoe-laces, catching MacGregor on the point of his jaw. MacGregor lurched backward, slamming into the wall, knocking a picture to the floor. Davis hit him once more, and MacGregor pitched forward onto his face. He wriggled once, and was still.

Davis stood over him, breathing hard. He waited until he caught his breath, and then he glanced at his watch.

Quickly, he picked up the .38 from where it lay on the floor. He broke it open, checked the load, and then brought it to his suitcase, laying it on top of his shirts.

He snapped the suitcase shut, called the police to tell them he'd just subdued a burglar in his apartment, and then left to catch his Las Vegas plane.

He started with
the hotels. He started with the biggest ones.

“Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Radner,” he said. “Are they registered here?”

The clerks all looked the same.

“Radner, Radner. The name doesn't sound familiar, but I'll check, sir.”

Then the shifting of the ledger, the turning of pages, the signatures, largely scrawled, and usually illegible.

“No, sir, I'm sorry. No Radner.”

“Perhaps you'd recognize the woman, if I showed you her picture?”

“Well . . .” The apologetic cough. “Well, we get an awful lot of guests, sir.”

And the fair-haired girl emerging from the wallet. The black and white, stereotyped photograph of Alice Trimble, and the explanation, “She's a newlywed—with her husband.”

“We get a lot of newlyweds, sir.”

The careful scrutiny of the head shot, the tilting of one eyebrow, the picture held at arm's length, then closer.

“No, I'm sorry. I don't recognize her. Why don't you try . . . ?”

He tried them all, all the hotels, and then all the rooming houses, and then all the motor courts. They were all very sorry. They had no Radners registered, and couldn't identify the photograph.

So he started making the rounds then. He lingered at the machines, feeding quarters into the slots, watching the oranges and lemons and cherries whirl before his eyes, but never watching them too closely, always watching the place instead, looking for the elusive woman named Alice Trimble Radner.

Or he sat at the bars, nursing along endless scotches, his eyes fastened to the mirrors that commanded the entrance doorways. He was bored, and he was tired, but he kept watching, and he began making the rounds again as dusk tinted the sky, and the lights of the city flicked their siren song on the air.

He picked up the newspaper by chance. He flipped through it idly, and he almost turned the page, even after he'd read the small head: FATAL ACCIDENT.

The item was a very small one. It told of a Pontiac convertible with defective brakes which had crashed through the guard rail on the highway, killing its occupant instantly. The occupant's name was Anthony Radner. There was no mention of Alice in the article.

Little Alice Trimble,
Davis thought.
A simple girl. Shy, often awkward. Honest.

Murder is a simple thing. All it involves is killing another person or persons. You can be shy and awkward, and even honest—but that doesn't mean you can't be a murderer besides. So what is it that takes a simple girl like Alice Trimble and transforms her into a murderess?

Figure it this way. Figure a louse named Tony Radner who sees a way of striking back at the girl who jilted him and coming into a goodly chunk of dough besides. Figure a lot of secret conversation, a pile of carefully planned moves. Figure a wedding, planned to coincide with the day of the plotted murder, so the murderers can be far away when the bomb they planted explodes.

Radner gets to see Janet Carruthers on some pretext, perhaps a farewell drink to show there are no hard feelings. This is his wedding day, and he introduces her to his bride, Alice Trimble. They share a drink, perhaps, but the drink is loaded and Janet suddenly feels very woozy. They help her to the airport, and they stow the bomb in her valise. None of the pilots know Radner. The only bad piece of luck is the fact that the fire-warning system is acting up, and a mechanic named Mangione recognizes him. But that's part of the game.

He helps her aboard and then goes back to his loving wife,
Alice. They hop the next plane for Vegas, and when the bomb explodes they're far, far away. They get the news from the papers, file claim, and come into two hundred thousand bucks.

Just like falling off Pier 8.

Except that it begins to get sour about there. Except that maybe Alice Trimble likes the big time now. Two hundred G's is a nice little pile. Why share it?

So Tony Radner meets with an accident. If he's not insured, the two hundred grand is still Alice's. If he is insured, there's more for her.

The little girl has made her debut. The shy, awkward thing has emerged.

Portrait of a killer.

Davis went back to the newsstand, bought copies of all the local newspapers and then went back to the hotel.

When he was in his room, he called room service and asked for a tall scotch, easy on the ice. He took off his shoes and threw himself on the bed.

The drink came, and he went back to the bed again.

The easy part was over, of course. The hard part was still ahead. He still had to tell Anne about it, and he'd give his right arm not to have that task ahead of him. Alice Trimble? The police would find her. She'd probably left Vegas the moment Radner piled up the Pontiac. She was an amateur, and it wouldn't be too hard to find her. But telling Anne, that was the difficult thing.

Davis sat upright, took a long swallow of the scotch, and then swung his stockinged feet to the floor. He walked to the pile of newspapers on the dresser, picked them up, and carried them back to the bed.

He thumbed through the first one until he found the item about Radner's accident. It was a small notice, and it was basically
the same as the one he'd read. It did add that Alice Trimble was on her honeymoon, and that she had come from San Francisco where she lived with her sister.

He leafed through the second newspaper, scanning the story quickly. Again, basically the same facts. Radner had taken the car for a spin. Alice hadn't gone along because of a headache. The accident had been attributed to faulty brakes, and there was speculation that Alice might have grounds for suit, if she cared to press charges, against the dealer who'd sold them the car.

The third newspaper really did a bang-up job. They treated the accident as a human-interest piece, playing up the newly-wed angle. They gave it the tearful head, “FATE CHEATS BRIDE,” and then went on to wring the incident dry. There was also a picture of Alice Trimble leaving the coroner's office. She was raising her hand to cover her face when the picture had been taken. It was a good shot, close up, clear. The caption read:
Tearful Alice Radner, leaving the coroner's office after identifying the body of her husband, Anthony Radner.

Davis did not notice any tears on Alice Trimble's face.

He looked at the photograph again.

He sat erect and took a long gulp of his scotch, and then he brought the newspaper closer to his face and stared at the picture for a long time.

And he suddenly remembered something important he'd forgotten to ask Anne about her sister. Something damned important. So important he nearly broke his neck getting to the phone.

He asked long distance for Anne's number, and then let the phone ring for fifteen minutes before he gave up. He remembered the alternate number she'd given him then, the one belonging to Freida, the girl next door. He fished the scrap of paper out of his wallet, studying the number in Anne's handwriting, recalling
their conversation in the restaurant. He got long distance to work again, and the phone was picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Freida?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Milt Davis. You don't know me, but Anne said I could leave a message here if . . .”

“Oh, yes. Anne's told me all about you, Mr. Davis.”

“Well, good, good. I just tried to phone her, and there was no answer. I wonder if you know where I can reach her?”

“Why, yes,” Freida said. “She's in Las Vegas.”

“What!”

“Yes. Her brother-in-law was killed in a car crash there. She . . .”

“You mean she's here? Now?”

“Well, I suppose so. She caught a plane early this evening. Yes, I'm sure she's there by now. Her sister called, you see. Alice. She called and asked Anne to come right away. Terrible thing, her husband getting killed like . . .”

“Oh, Christ!” Davis said. He thought for a moment and then asked, “Did she say where I could reach her?”

“Yes. Just a moment.”

Freida put the phone down with a clatter, and Davis waited impatiently. By the time she returned, he was ready to start chewing the mouthpiece.

“What's the address?” he asked.

“It's outside of Las Vegas. A rooming house. Alice and Tony were lucky to get such a nice . . .”

“Please, the address!”

“Well, all right,” Freida said, a little miffed. She read off the address and Davis scribbled it quickly. He said goodbye, and hung up immediately. There was no time for checking plane schedules
now. No time for finding out which plane Anne had caught out of Frisco, nor for finding out what time it had arrived in Vegas.

There was only time to tuck MacGregor's .38 into the waistband of his trousers and then run like hell down to the street. He caught a cab and reeled off the address, and then sat on the edge of his seat while the lights of Vegas dimmed behind him.

When the cabbie pulled up in front of the clapboard structure, he gave him a fiver and then leaped out of the car. He ran up the front steps and pulled the door pull, listening to steps approaching inside. A white-haired woman opened the door, and Davis said, “Alice Radner. Where?”

“Upstairs, but who . . . ?”