Authors: Wade Miller
T
HE GIRL
had a little more color in her face now. Her low voice was forcibly level as she talked to Walter James. Between sentences, she neatly touched up the areas of her wide mouth where she had chewed the lipstick away.
Clapp sat down ponderously by the pair. “Well, Mr. James,” he said, “you seem to have distinguished yourself in our behalf tonight.”
“It seemed the thing to do,” the smaller man replied. “Do I get a merit badge?” He lit more cigarettes for the redhead and himself. Clapp pulled out a pipe and began preparing it for use.
“Naturally,” he considered, “I should be very grateful. However, being of a suspicious nature, I’m gonna reserve our city’s thanks for a while. What’s your angle, Mr. James?”
“No angle, Mr. Clapp,” Walter James said, an amused glint in his blue eyes. “I acted within my rights as a citizen.”
“Police background?”
“Taught functional law three years at the Cincinnati police school.”
Clapp waved at the remaining members of the audience by the runway, lined up to talk to the elderly detective. “You pull a gun on those other citizens?”
“No.”
“You got a gun?”
“Of course.”
“The brethren down there see it?”
“My coat was unbuttoned. Maybe some of them saw it.”
“Suppose I see it.” Clapp held out a big hand. From far under his left lapel, Walter James extracted a pistol and handed it to him. It was a .38 on a .32 frame. The shells showed shiny brass caps in every chamber.
“Got a license for this?”
“Not here — Atlanta.”
“Oh.” Clapp’s heavy eyebrows pushed up. “A stranger in town. You like our little city?”
Walter James’s eyes flicked toward the second seat, last row, center section. His lower lip twitched. “You put on this show every Saturday night?”
Around the edge of his tight collar, Clapp flushed. “How long you been here?”
“Thursday morning, nine o’clock. Serra Apartments, 3B. Talbot 11211. How about a receipt for that gun?”
With a quick smile, Clapp began writing it out. There was a sound of a scuffle in the foyer. Clapp was on his feet and three steps up the aisle when the hanging drapes were tossed aside and a black-shirted cop pushed a man wearing a plaid suit into the theater.
Clapp stood with his legs apart. “What’s the trouble, Bryan?”
The black shirt jerked a visored head at the man in the plaid suit. “He’s the trouble, Lieutenant. He tried to sneak out the door while I was talking to the cashier.”
Clapp frowned. “Name?” he snapped.
The man straightened his coat with an indignant jerk and looked at the big man sullenly. “John Brownlee,” he said. “And tell your boy here to quit pushing people around, will you?”
“Sure,” agreed Clapp. “But first you tell me why you were sneaking out of the theater just now.”
“I tried to tell the cop,” Brownlee said in a flat tone. “I wasn’t sneaking out. I work here.”
“What kind of work?”
“I — well, I kinda do a lot of things. I sell popcorn before the show and I change the marquee once a week and stuff like that.”
“Goon.”
Brownlee shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, I — well, I was just going to bring in the signboards from in front of the theater.”
The patrolman broke in, “Don’t believe him, Lieutenant. He was trying to sneak out without being noticed. I think there’s something funny there.”
Brownlee shot him a venomous glance. Clapp said gently, “We’ll see, Bryan. Meantime, make sure that Crane gets him on the list, will you?” The patrolman grabbed Brownlee’s arm, but the odd-jobs man shook it off viciously and walked down the aisle toward the thinning crowd at the runway with Bryan close behind him.
Walter James said, “You’re a lucky man, Lieutenant. You nab your murderer fleeing from the scene of his crime.”
Clapp grinned at him. “You’d be surprised, Mr. James, how particular the grand jury is about such things as motives and alibis.”
The last of the audience tramped hurriedly up the aisle into the lobby. A moment later, the elderly detective came up and sat down by Clapp, slapping his notebook against his leg.
“Get anything, Jim?”
“Not much. There sure were a lot of different occupations in this bunch tonight, though, Austin. Ones you wouldn’t expect.” He flipped the pages of his notebook. “Doctor, lawyer — ”
“Merchant, chief,” Laura Gilbert finished softly and subsided in embarrassment as the men turned their glances on her.
Jim looked at the girl speculatively. “The guy to her left was a grocery clerk, says she was here when he came in before the show started, didn’t see her do anything strange, says she sat and looked straight ahead during the whole show. He thought she might be a good dish so he kept an eye on her. He says the Filipino came in just before the last strip number. Doesn’t remember anyone in the aisle seat. Seems like a nice enough kid.”
Clapp’s eyes and voice flowed kindly toward Laura Gilbert. “That check with what you know, miss?”
“Mostly,” she said soberly. “I think somebody was sitting to that Filipino’s right for awhile. I seem to remember.”
“When was this?”
“It was right after those two men were on the stage with that sausage.” Her cheeks picked up a red reflection.
“That was the blackout before Shasta Lynn’s strip,” said Jim.
“Then the lights went out and that band began a sort of bluish number.” She pressed a slim knuckle against her teeth and tried to remember. “Somewhere along in there I think somebody sat down in the aisle seat. But when the curtain went up and it got a little lighter, I don’t think anybody was there.”
“Did our Filipino friend make any move during that time?” asked Clapp.
“I didn’t notice. I didn’t notice anything until the show was over and I tried to go out and I asked him to let me by and he didn’t move.” She bit her lip.
“Well, that checks with what the sailor said,” Clapp sighed. “Jim, see if they got the stuff in the body’s pockets tagged, and bring me a list.”
“Okay, Austin.” Jim went out into the lobby.
“Mr. James,” asked Clapp, “where did you sit?”
Walter James nodded his head toward the other side of the theater, down front. “Right where that blackshirt of yours is cleaning his nails. Fourth row, aisle seat, inside of the right section. I came in just before Shasta Lynn’s number.”
“Why?”
“I’m a music lover. Ah’m from Atlanta and Ah just luhve the blues.”
The girl giggled. Walter James winked at her. Clapp said, “You should work here. What is your work, by the way, Mr. James?”
“I’ve retired for awhile.”
“From what?”
“Lantz-James Agency, Atlanta.”
“What make of cars?”
Walter James extracted a paper from his trim black wallet and handed it to the big man. “That I want back,” he remarked. Clapp read it through, running his tongue between his teeth and his heavy upper lip.
“Well, by God,” he said, “I should have known.” He returned the paper. “Now what are you really doing here?”
“Resting,” said Walter James, “I have enough money for quite a while, so I’m resting. You can check it easily with Atlanta.”
“You anticipate me, Mr. James,” said Clapp drily. “But let me give you a tip, son. Don’t think of opening an agency in this town. During the war we had more private cops than city and county police combined. And most of them haven’t gone home.”
Interest widened Laura Gilbert’s eyes. “Are you a private detective?”
“He was,” corrected Clapp. “He’s resting now.” The girl exchanged smiles with Walter James.
“I thought you acted like you knew what you were doing tonight,” she said warmly.
“I always know what I’m doing,” said the slender man. His soft voice made it a compliment.
Jim hurried in from the lobby, his face wreathed in smiles. Clapp looked at him questioningly. The detective tossed a lightweight green and white sport coat on the empty seat in front of the big man.
“Felix missed this in the lobby. It was hanging behind the door.”
“The Filipino’s?”
Jim nodded. The girl’s eyes widened. She looked quickly at Walter James, who returned her gaze blandly, and then away.
“What do you have?” Clapp probed. “You’re not grinning about a coat.”
“No,” agreed the older man. “But take a look at this.” He handed a small, flat tin box to Clapp. The big man opened it and sat staring at the brownish powder inside. He exchanged glances with Jim.
“I don’t know why you’re grinning,” Clapp said. “This is likely to kick the hell out of a simple murder. Any prints?”
“None except his own. Same for his seat and the arm to his right. Everything on the right-hand seat is pretty badly smudged.”
Clapp sighed. “You might know.”
“Nothing much in his pockets except a couple pictures of that blonde strip dancer. No great amount of money, some jewelry and a flashy knife. Looks unused except maybe for picking teeth.”
“Anything else?”
Jim picked up the sport coat and ran his fingers into the pockets. “I didn’t look in all of the pockets. I got excited when I found that box. Wait a minute, here’s something.” He pulled out his hand, a small square of white between his fingers. “What do you make of this, Austin?”
Clapp took the stiff paper gingerly by the edges. “Looks like half a business card to me.” He held it up to the light and Walter James looked at it over his shoulder. The printed side read:
IFACE, M.D,
hiatrist
Hours
9–A
Clapp turned the card over. On the back something had been scribbled in pencil. There were three lines of interrupted writing.
I nee
oz im
regu
Clapp frowned at it. The men watched him silently. Laura Gilbert said in a small voice, “Does it help any?” The question broke the tension. Clapp put the torn card carefully into his coat pocket and grinned at the serious girl.
“It brings up a lot more questions,” he admitted. He turned on Walter James suddenly. “Why did you kill him, Mr. James?” The redhead gave a startled gasp.
“It’s a long story,” said Walter James. “He raped my grandmother during the Mukden incident. Us Jameses — we never forget a grudge.” Laura Gilbert stared at him, her lips slightly parted.
“Like me,” said Clapp. “I can remember every fly I’ve ever swatted.” He grimaced thoughtfully. “Oh, well — we’ll come back to that question later.” He eyed the girl. “You didn’t notice anything about whoever it was moved in and out of that aisle seat?”
“I’m not even sure there was anybody. I just think there was.”
“You’ll help us a lot if you keep thinking, Miss Gilbert.” He turned to the elderly detective. “You might as well go home, Jim — it’s getting late. You and Felix will have to come down tomorrow.”
“Hell,” said Jim and went away.
Laura Gilbert said, “I’m sorry I can’t remember, Mr. Clapp. I just wasn’t paying attention. This is my first time in a place like this.”
“Why does there have to be somebody in that aisle seat?” Walter James asked quietly.
Clapp said, “You know better than to ask that. The wound indicates that whoever did it would have to be sitting down. Theoretically, the young lady here could have done it with a backhand. If somebody sat to the Filipino’s right, that person could have done it with a lunge stroke. The people in front couldn’t have done it without being noticed.”
“You keep ignoring suicide,” said Walter James.
“Not the right circumstances and no prints on the hilt. As a professional,” Clapp looked thoughtfully at the slim man, “you would appreciate the murder weapon. It’s a store job, cheap, tailored down for a job like this. Thin blade to go in quick, short blade that would make sure of a medium-size or small person, a flat two-inch guard to avoid a mess. The hilt was originally a little longer than it is now — it’s been cut off so it wouldn’t show much, I guess. Yeah, I’d say the knife was ideal for killing a small man, quickly and neatly, in the dark. It could have been made for you, Mr. James.”
Walter James dropped his cigarette. He groped for it with his foot, ground it out. When he looked at Clapp, he was smiling palely. “I’ve only been in town three days and I’ve had no trouble with my landlady.”
Felix stuck his head through the part in the main drape. “Are you coming up here, Austin, or shall I send them home?”
Clapp waved at him. “Coming right away,” he called.
“Okay, they’re getting restless.” Felix withdrew his sleek head. Clapp looked at Walter James and the girl. “You might as well come along. I want to talk to you a little more.” Walter James helped the girl to her feet: Clapp led the way down the aisle, talking over his shoulder as he went.
“Answer me this, Mr. James — what was that card doing in the Filipino’s pocket?”
“You mean half a card,” said Walter James.
“Are they always this confusing?” Laura Gilbert asked. “Murders, I mean.”
Walter James said, “No, most of them are pretty simple. Correct me if I’m wrong, Clapp, but the ones I’ve run up against are usually about as hard to see through as a piece of glass. Just find the motive. That’s what the lieutenant here is trying to do right now.”
Clapp mounted the wooden steps to the stage. “That’s right.”
The girl shook her copper-colored head as she followed him. “I don’t see what possible motive there could be for killing a harmless little fellow like that.”
Clapp parted the heavy curtain, and the three of them eased through the opening onto the main stage. The clamor of voices stopped abruptly as if cut off by a knife. The principals and ensemble of the Grand Theater were lounging casually around the stage, which was still set with the Dutch mill scenery of the finale. The cast had changed into street clothes. From the wings, Greissinger darted forward.
“Lieutenant, my boys and girls are worn out. Three shows tonight and a matinee tomorrow — ”
Clapp waved him silent. “I don’t like staying up late any more than you do, Greissinger.” He looked around at the actors and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “You people know what’s happened here. I want to know why Fernando Solez was killed. Maybe you people can tell me. You knew him best.”