A Fatal Glass of Beer (28 page)

“But it did,” I said.

Knox shook his head and opened his eyes. There was nothing in them but tears.

“I’ve seen them get away with murder and I’ve seen them caught by bad luck and dumb mistakes,” said Knox. “Gus said we knew enough to get away with it. I didn’t expect the killings. He was just going to go after the money. I flew from Philadelphia to Chicago to Denver to here yesterday. I was on the job in Philly when Gus killed those guys.”

“You want a deal?” I asked. “My brother’s a cop. You met him. Pevsner. I’ll call him and see what he can work out with the district attorney’s office.”

“I got a choice?”

“None I can see,” I said.

“Gus is in the car,” Knox said with a sigh and a cough. “In the next driveway, next door, that way, waiting for me. If I got caught, I was to stick with my FBI cover, say I had orders to confiscate the bankbooks, but …”

That was as far as he got. The window exploded. Glass crashed and Knox slumped forward. Jeremy grabbed him. Knox had a large wide red blotch of blood coming out of the bullet hole in his back.

There was a second shot. I think it was aimed at Fields, who was dropping to the floor when it came. Jeremy calmly laid the body down on the table as I took out my .38 and fired in the general direction of the broken window. I hit the wall about three feet above the sash. One of my better shots.

“He’s running,” said Jeremy.

“Knox?”

“Dead.”

“Let’s get the bastard,” shouted Fields, grabbing his shotgun and digging a shell out of his robe.

I went for the window, hearing Fields behind me say to Jeremy, “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know a cheap decorator, would you?”

I opened the pane and climbed out, careful with my back, begging it to stay with me. Belcher had a big start, but I saw him about thirty yards away in the dim light as he ran behind a row of bushes. I went after him in a half run, gun as ready as it would ever be in my hand.

Around the bushes, I stood in an open patch of grass. It looked like the green of a golf course, complete with a cup which caught my heel. I went down. My gun fired into the sky. A shot came from the shadows of three dark trees about forty yards away. Fields’s lawn was the size of a small golf course. Belcher’s shot took a deep divot near my head.

I lay flat, panting, and heard him running again. I got up and followed, crouching, moving a little slower, and headed for the three trees and then past them. Belcher or a figure that looked like his was down the slope, over a low gate, and heading for a dark car. I took aim with two hands, but before I could shoot, he spotted me and came within a couple of fingers of taking off my left ear. It was becoming quite clear that he was a hell of a lot better shot than I was.

He got in the car, started it as I made my way down the hill, and backed out of the driveway. I crashed into the fence at the bottom of the slope but managed to hold on to my gun. The lights came on in the big house at the end of the driveway. Getting over the fence was a big problem. My back told me it had had enough. It had cooperated so far, but this was it. I eased my way slowly and gently over the fence, knowing Belcher was getting away. On the other side of the fence, a man suddenly appeared, a big man, barefoot, without a shirt, and in a deep voice he said, “What the hell is going on here?”

I could have sworn the man was Anthony Quinn, but I didn’t have time to take a close look or carry on a conversation. Jeremy’s car screeched into view and halted at the driveway.

“No time now,” I said, panting, as I tried to hurry to join the chase. “Fields will explain later.”

“Fields? I should have known that old lunatic had something to do with this,” said the man, who I think was indeed Anthony Quinn.

The passenger-side front door of Jeremy’s car was open. I jumped in and closed it. Fields, still wearing his kimono and carrying his shotgun, was in the backseat.

Jeremy put his foot to the floor and shot forward. We kept Belcher’s car in sight going down to the valley, and Fields said, “If you can just get close enough to the weasel, I’ll explode his dreams of spending my money—with both barrels.”

We went on for about four minutes and then Jeremy pulled over in front of an apartment building and stopped. “We have lost him,” he said. “Too many streets to turn in to. Too many places to pull over on them and turn off his lights. I tried to watch the streets and keep pace, but …”

“I know where he’s going,” I said.

“Then what are we sitting here for?” asked Fields. “This damned vehicle doesn’t even have a bar back here and I didn’t have time to grab my thermos.”

I told Jeremy where to go, hoped I was right, and hoped we got there before Belcher was gone. He was a cop, a detective. He had the experience and had worked out the plan. If we missed him, he could be on his way to Mexico, Brazil, Canada, or who knows where, probably a place where he could live cheaply and comfortably for the rest of his life on Fields’s quarter of a million dollars.

My associate doesn’t know the meaning of the word “capitulation,” but few do.

The desk clerk was alone in the lobby. He was thin, with neatly trimmed black hair, wearing a slightly shopworn hotel maroon jacket, dark slacks, a bow tie, and a bewildered look. He was also wearing double-thick glasses.

Before him stood a trio he would have had trouble describing without people thinking he had dropped out of Alcoholics Anonymous. There was no one in the lobby to help him. The Coltrain Arms Hotel was not the home away from home of movie stars, the wealthy, or politicians. It had always been a slightly out-of-the-way refuge for those who were confident that they’d soon write that great script, land the lead opposite Gable or even Roy Corrigan, or direct Garbo in her comeback. There were still a few like that, but the Coltrain was fast losing its reputation and its willingness to buy new maroon jackets for its desk clerks.

Fields was wearing his bedroom slippers, silk robe, and a shotgun. I was powdered with plaster dust and looking like trouble, and Jeremy stood huge in dusty dignity, the bruise slightly purple on his cheek.

“Augustus Belcher,” I said. “Did he just come in?”

“Yes,” said the clerk. “Five-twelve.”

“We’re the law,” I said. “Don’t call him and tell him we’re coming up.”

“But he’s a police officer,” the clerk said.

“And we are escaped lunatics,” said Fields. “To defy us is to seal your certain doom.”

“I won’t call Mr. Belcher’s room,” the clerk said.

“I shall remain here,” Fields said. “Brandishing my faithful musket to hold this myopic traitor to insure your safety during the apprehension of the varlet and the rescue of my cash.”

Rocco Allen had told me about Belcher, told me that Belcher had been at his desk at noon. Belcher had given him his real name, said he was tracking a fugitive and that he might need help. He also told Rocco the hotel he would be staying at. I didn’t think Belcher would lie to Rocco, in case Rocco tried to call him.

Belcher’s mistake had been in trying to cover everything—the FBI, his own presence in Los Angeles, the threats. I had come to the conclusion that if Belcher got his hands on those bank-deposit books, he planned to kill me, Fields, and Gunther, and maybe his own partner, but not as soon as he had. He planned to get rid of everyone who might be looking for him so he could extend his vacation and quickly make another round of banks across the country. He could have walked off his job with a million or more, but now he had to figure that the nearly three hundred thousand would do.

Jeremy and I got in the elevator and, as the doors closed, Fields said, “Adios, auf wiedersehen, and get the bastard.”

“What do we do when we get to the room?” Jeremy asked reasonably.

“We have options,” I said, trying to sound confident. “We can knock, identify ourselves as Rocco Allen, and hope he opens the door.”

“Unlikely,” said Jeremy. “We have just chased him. He is certainly preparing to abscond. Identifying ourselves as the police would in all likelihood not deceive him.”

“Right,” I said as the elevator crept up. “We say we have a telegram?”

“Is he a fool?”

“No,” I said as we passed the third floor. “I shoot the lock off. We rush in and make a citizen’s arrest.”

“He shoots far better than you, Toby,” Jeremy said, eyes front, calmly thinking.

“You have any ideas?” I asked.

“We quietly approach the door. Listen. And then I break the door down. You come through right behind me, gun drawn, and aim it at him before he can obtain his weapon. The breaking of the door and the element of surprise should give you an extra second or two.”

“What if you can’t break down the door on your first try?”

“I will break it,” said Jeremy, closing his eyes and folding his hands in front of him. “I’m visualizing the door. I’m watching myself hurl my shoulder against it. I see it breaking open, open wide.”

I nodded, though Jeremy couldn’t see me, as the elevator stopped at the fourth floor. We didn’t want to take a chance on Belcher hearing it stop on his floor. We found the stairway, made our way up without talking, and opened the hall door on five. The hallway was empty. The doors we passed were wood and looked pretty thick to me. The real question was whether the locks were strong. The possibility also existed that Belcher had put something—a dresser, chair—in front of the door.

We found the door. I listened and definitely heard movement inside. I nodded at Jeremy, who closed his eyes again, breathed deeply, and moved against the wall opposite Belcher’s door. He suddenly, silently lunged forward, hitting the door with all his weight and whatever his visualization had come up with. The door didn’t pop open at the lock. It exploded into the room right off its hinges. I could see as I followed Jeremy into the small room that Belcher
had
put a chair under the doorknob. The chair had splintered into flying pieces of wood.

Belcher, or at least a leg, was just going out the window. He paused long enough to lean back and take a shot at us. The shot went through the front of my right shoe. I didn’t feel anything. I hoped it had just barely missed my toes. I fired back, hitting a lamp near the bed a good four feet from the window.

Jeremy moved to the window as Belcher disappeared.

“Fire escape,” said Jeremy, careful not to expose himself. “He’s going up.”

I went to the window. I could walk, but there was a strange feeling in my right foot. I looked down. The hole in my shoe was turning red with blood. I didn’t have time to think about it. I took a deep breath and stepped out onto the fire escape, hoping Belcher would be in too big a hurry to take the time to try to deal with us. I was wrong.

Belcher was standing on the narrow, iron fire escape about five feet up, his gun trained on my chest. Before he could shoot, there was a loud boom from below us. Belcher hesitated and I went down on my knees. From below us in the alleyway, I heard Fields’s voice shouting, “Churl. Assassin. Thief.”

Fields fired another blast from his shotgun. He was probably too far away to hit anything except a few innocent windows on the second floor, but Belcher started up the fire escape fast before Fields reloaded and another fusillade came. I flattened myself against the brick wall.

While it wasn’t likely that a shotgun blast would carry up five floors, Belcher and I weren’t taking any chances. I knew Fields must now be reaching into the pocket of his kimono to reload for a second assault and that, if he decided to climb the fire escape and get a little closer, it might be as dangerous to me as to Belcher.

“Hold your fire,” I shouted, getting up and listening to the sound of Belcher’s footsteps hurrying up the fire escape. “Don’t shoot.”

“Drat,” shouted Fields from the darkness below.

I got up, gun in hand, and started up after Belcher. I glanced back but Jeremy didn’t follow me through the window. I had no time to wonder why. I climbed. My foot was definitely hurting by now. I thought it was my toes, or one toe. I couldn’t tell. Up I went.

I could hear Fields cursing and muttering loudly in the darkness below, and I could hear Belchers footsteps suddenly stop as he reached the roof. I ignored the throbbing of my foot and kept going, slowly. Belcher might simply be standing there waiting for my head to pop over the edge of the roof.

With no plan other than to keep going and ignore the pain, I went up another two floors to the roof, took a deep breath, held my gun up, and stuck my head over the edge, aiming in all directions.

Belcher was running toward the door to the interior stair. I fired. My shot went into the night sky. He turned to fire back. He came a hell of a lot closer than I had, even though he was running and I was standing still—well, as still as my wounded foot would allow.

Belcher was at the door now and I was hobbling forward. He turned, stopped, saw that I was alone, and took the time to aim more carefully. I had the feeling that he would hit something more vital than my foot this time.

Suddenly, the door behind Belcher popped open. He turned to see what was happening, and Jeremy Butler took a step forward, grasped Belcher’s gun hand, and slammed it against the open door. In the light of the open door behind Jeremy, I could see Belcher’s weapon fly into the stairwell and then heard it bouncing down the stairs.

Belcher was big, tough, fighting for his life, and more than twenty years younger than Jeremy. He didn’t have a chance. He threw an elbow at Jeremy’s face. Jeremy turned his head aside. Jeremy released Belcher’s hand and turned him around as he had turned Knox. Belcher threw a punch. Jeremy blocked it with little effort. Belcher winced and took a step back.

“Stop,” I shouted, gun leveled.

Belcher paid no attention. There were only three ways down for him—past me, through Jeremy, or over the side of the building, eight stories down. He made a lunge at Jeremy, who ducked. Belcher folded over Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy stood, and Belcher, trying to catch his breath and looking like an insane ape, punched at the back of Jeremy’s head. Jeremy ignored the punches, lifted Belcher, who came in, at least, at two hundred and twenty pounds, over his head. Belcher didn’t give up. There was too much riding on this. He banged his fists against Jeremy’s arms and tried to lean over far enough to bite the wrists of the huge bald silent man, who walked past me with his catch.