Authors: Louis Trimble
T
HE PHONE
went dead. I was conscious of Toby Jessup standing in the doorway between the offices.
I said into the mouthpiece, “I’ll have my partner contact you.”
I hung up and walked back to Toby Jessup. She edged toward the reception room door as if she thought I might make another pass at her.
She said, “I have to go. I know Bonita thinks I suspect her. If I’m gone too long she’ll be sure of it. I won’t get home until afternoon as it is.”
I figured that if it was going to take her until afternoon to get home she must live at least a hundred miles away. I angled toward the door to block her. After the redhead’s call, I was in no mood for any more of Toby Jessup’s games.
I said, “You took the time and trouble to drive up here to warn me about this Bonita. You can stay long enough to finish what you started.”
“I told you,” Toby said. “She sent Turk Thorne to find out how much you knew about her. He must have been the one who made such a mess in here.”
I tried to keep my patience. I said, “And who is Turk Thorne?”
“The night traffic manager at Jessup,” she said. She sounded like a third grade teacher talking to the class dunce. “And I’m sure he’s her latest boyfriend.”
I said, “And after Turk found out—if he did—then what?”
Toby said, “Then Bonita will know how to handle you when you have your meeting with her.”
The way she said “meeting” warned me that I was supposed to know what she was talking about. I tried to look as if I did.
I said, “Just what’s your stake in this? Did Bonita steal Turk from you?”
It was meant to be nasty and to get a reaction. It succeeded. Toby Jessup’s cheeks flamed. She said stiffly, “That was unnecessary, Mr. Ditmer. I’m just trying to protect Jessup Company, and keep you from getting into bad trouble.”
I remembered what she had said earlier about having a way for me to make an investigation without anyone knowing I was a detective. I said, “And you want me to do some undercover work for you, is that it?”
“Yes,” she said. “How else can you find out what Bonita’s up to before you have your meeting with her?”
I wanted to yell,
What meeting, damn it?
But I said, “Let’s hear your idea.”
She opened her purse and pulled out a thick envelope. She said, “Every busy season we have to hire a lot of extra girls for the office. It just doesn’t seem to work out very efficiently, and I said so in a board of directors meeting. Uncle Chester told me to see what I could do about the problem, so I wrote to West Coast Industrial Advisors.”
She pushed the envelope at me. She said, “This is the information they sent back. It came yesterday. I thought you could pretend to be their representative. Then you could talk to everybody without arousing any suspicion.”
I took the envelope. She said, “Now, please let me go. You can call me as soon as you get to town. I’ll be in the office until nine o’clock tonight, except between five and six-thirty.”
I stepped aside. She skittered for the door and got it open. She said, “And use another name, of course. At least until after your meeting with Bonita.”
She paused and stared at me. The ice was gone from her eyes now. They were pleading. She looked very young. She said, “You will help, won’t you? You won’t tell Bonita I came to see you?”
I was looking at the envelope she had handed me. It was addressed to
Mr. T. Jessup, Office Manager, Jessup Trucking and Industrial Supply, Ramiera, Arizona
.
I thought about Art Ditmer and about the redhead being in Mexico, across the river from Ramiera, Arizona. I said, “Yes, I’ll help you. I’ll call you sometime tonight. I’ll use the name Joseph Brogan.”
She said softly, “Thank you.” Then she went through the doorway. I stood and listened to the click of her footsteps fade down the hall.
I opened the envelope. I found a letter and a thick pamphlet inside. The letter advised T. Jessup that the enclosed material would answer all questions pertaining to West Coast Industrial Advisors’ methods of operation.
Toby Jessup had given me a pretty good cover, I thought. But there was one hitch. If the rugged boy I had dragged in here last night was named Turk Thorne, he would spot me as soon as I showed up at Jessup.
I decided I would take that up with Toby Jessup when I got to Ramiera. Right now something else was nagging at my mind. The redhead had said that Art hadn’t reported for two days. That could only mean he had been on a job for her—a job connected with Jessup Trucking.
And Turk Thorne had tried to swap me information about Art for something he called the Jessup file. It was my guess that before he had picked me up at the airport he had ripped apart our offices looking for it. So it seemed pretty obvious that the file wasn’t here and probably never had been.
That left the redhead’s office. If we were lucky, rugged boy probably didn’t know the connection between Ditmer and Coyle and E. Lucas, Industrial Insurance.
I picked up my suitcase and hurried down to the second floor. I used my special key on Ellie’s door—her whole name was Elisa Lucas, but she didn’t like it. So Ellie it was.
Her office was as neat and immaculate as the redhead herself. It consisted of one room containing a filing cabinet, a desk, and a table that held a telephone with a private number and a tape machine hooked up to record the telephone conversations. Art and I always put our reports on tape for her when we worked away from the city.
She was an insurance broker. She had a handful of good-sized industrial firms for clients and she placed their business with a number of major companies. She fought off the pressure from the high-powered insurance representatives by providing her clients with a good deal of service. That’s where Art and I came in. If the redhead thought there was going to be trouble some place, she sent one of us to check it out. As a result, she stopped a lot of problems before they could get into high gear. She had pipelines all over the state.
I sat down in her chair and took the cover off the tape recorder. I turned on the machine and listened to the tape on the spindle. It gave nothing but soft sighing sounds. I set it aside and opened a drawer in the table. I pawed through the cardboard cartons each holding a used tape. I located one marked
Jessup, July
17, 18, 19.
I was pretty sure that the redhead had sent Art to Ramiera to do some undercover checking on Jessup Trucking. And if Turk Thorne’s visit meant what I thought it did, Art hadn’t been far enough undercover.
I put the tape on the machine and pressed the
Listen
button. Art’s rusty voice came booming out at me. “Baby, this is ye olde operative broadcasting from the hubs of hell, better known as Ramiera, Arizona.”
The redhead’s recorded voice said tartly, “I’m paying long distance rates for your guff, remember?”
Art said, “Here goes. Report one, date July 17th, time 9:45
P.M
. I just wound up my first day as a warehouseman for Jessup. And I’m charging you for a visit to a muscle doctor. I can’t get my biceps unkinked.”
After that he settled down. He reported how he had applied for a truck-driving job and had been put in the warehouse temporarily. He figured a driving job would come up soon. Jessup was in the middle of the busy season and running around the clock. He said that he had picked up a lot of gossip but no rumbles as to any trouble.
I wondered what kind of trouble the redhead was expecting when she sent Art to Ramiera.
His report didn’t help me. He said, “This Bonita Jessup is a living dynamo. She took over the presidency of the company when her husband, Thaddeus, was killed two years ago. Since then she’s doubled the volume of business, built a new terminal and a new office, and bought a lot of new equipment. According to the rumors I picked up in the bar and grill across the street from the plant, she works her boy friends as hard as she works the help. They tell me it’s just like the army. You stand in line and wait your turn.”
The redhead snarled, “Keep your pants zipped and get on with the business.”
Art laughed. He said, “Here’s a rundown on the others who count at Jessup. Chester Healy is a little dried-up guy who looks like he was left too long in the sun. But he has a lot of power at Jessup. He owns thirty per cent of the stock. He calls himself the comptroller. And when Bonita has a decision to make, I hear she bounces him on her knee while they talk it over. But I don’t buy that. Not when she has all these big-chested truck drivers built like Joe Coyle to play with. And Healy couldn’t wear over a size thirty-four coat. And he’s running somewhere in the fifties. Bonita is a gorgeous thirty-five.”
He paused. He said, “Then there’s Toby Jessup. That’s a female name, by the way. She’s a blonde dish of twenty-four. Looks like a scatterbrained sorority girl. But they tell me she’s only hot for company efficiency. Inside she’s stuffed with ice cubes. She’s old Thaddeus Jessup’s niece. She’s Chester Healy’s niece too, on her mother’s side. She owns ten per cent of the stock. Bonita owns the sixty per cent that’s left. Toby Jessup runs the girls in the office. I hear that she and Bonita don’t make music together. Toby is always running to Uncle Chester and crying.”
The redhead said, “What’s the trouble between the two women?”
Art said, “If Toby wasn’t a perfect specimen of frigidity in action, I’d say the trouble was men. Two men in particular—Rod Gorman and Turk Thorne. But I don’t think Toby has found the boy who can thaw her out yet.”
He paused again. He said, “Gorman is the traffic manager. Bonita brought him from San Francisco a little over a year ago. That’s where she came from too. Old Thaddeus met her there five years ago at a convention when she was working for some high-powered trucking outfit. He married her and took her to Ramiera. She worked as his assistant until he got killed in a plane crash. Then she took over. She reorganized the whole operation. Gorman is one of the new key men. So is his assistant, Turk Thorne. I haven’t found out where he came from. But I’m working on it. Get your contacts in San Francisco to check out Bonita Jessup, Gorman, and Thorne. Okay?”
That ended Art’s first report. The second one added nothing new except that he had established a hideout at the Frontera Motel in Lozano, Mexico, under the name of Carl Parker, but he was still keeping a room in Ramiera at 412 Smelter Avenue. In Ramiera he used the name Chuck Parks.
The third report was different from the other two. Art wasted no time. He said in a machinegun voice, “I’m calling this one in from Lozano. Last night and tonight I was tagged by somebody. And listen to this, both nights I’ve seen Chester Healy making like a tourist in the Lozano honky-tonks. I’m going after him again tonight. Tomorrow I hear I get a relief job, so maybe I’ll have something concrete to report.”
A pause for breath. “This being tagged is bugging me. I don’t know how much longer I can keep under wraps. I figure two or three more days at the most. I tried coppering my bets by making an anonymous contact with Bonita Jessup. I told her I had some information about her company that she could buy cheap. She agreed to meet me at ten Thursday night at a spot about fifteen miles east of town on the river. So my Thursday night call will come in late.”
There was a click, indicating that he had hung up. The tape rolled silently for a minute and came to the end. While I rewound it, I kept busy counting days. July 17th, the date of the first report, was last Friday. That dated the third report Sunday. Today was Wednesday, so there should have been reports for Monday and Tuesday nights.
Only the redhead had told me that Art hadn’t reported for two days. I could feel nervous sweat working loose under my armpits. What had happened to Art that he couldn’t make his Monday and Tuesday reports? He had said in his third report he was being followed, and that he was starting a driving job the next day—Monday.
And why had the redhead suddenly left town to go to Art’s hideout in Lozano? For that matter, who had put the mickey in my rum? If the rugged character I had almost decided was Turk Thorne had done it, what was he trying to gain? Assuming he really had thought I could get him the Jessup file, that is. And if it hadn’t been him—then who?
I didn’t like the answers I gave myself to those questions. I liked even less the answers I couldn’t give.
I wasted a minute, swearing at the redhead for not filling me in better on the telephone. I wasted another minute trying to figure out Toby Jessup’s real purpose in coming to Tucson to see me—well, actually to see Art Ditmer. I didn’t get anywhere with that, either.
I got up and prowled the redhead’s filing cabinet. I found the insurance policy file on Jessup. I let out a surprised whistle. I could understand the redhead’s concern with the account. The policy was comprehensive and big. It covered fire and theft in the plant and office, and it protected Jessup trucks and their drivers against everything from motor breakdowns to ingrown toenails. The size of the premium the redhead took a percentage on made my wallet feel very flat indeed.
I made a fast trip through the rest of the file. The redhead had carried the policy for six years, since before I met her. A year and a half ago the coverage had been increased sharply. Six months later there was another increase.
I was about to close the file when I spotted the small slip of pale green paper. I recognized it as coming from the redhead’s desk notepad. She had a habit of writing memos to herself. It helped her operate without a full-time secretary.
I looked at the slip of paper. The writing was the redhead’s. It was dated six weeks before. I read:
Check rumor Jessup might sell. If so, try to carry account over to new owner
.
Under that remark she had added in heavy pen strokes,
Lose this account and you’re dead
.
I
SPENT THE
first hour on the road trying to pretend that the scrap of paper the redhead had written to herself meant nothing. But I couldn’t shrug it off. Not after the visit of the character I was pretty sure was Turk Thorne. Not after Toby Jessup’s visit today. And not after the redhead’s telephone call and her despairing words:
I think it’s murder
.
I was sweating hard, from nerves and from the heat. I had left Tucson at noon and started southwest across the desert. I took the microbus camper as the redhead had instructed. It wasn’t fast transportation, but I figured she had a reason for insisting I bring it. I kept the little rig to use on weekends when the redhead wanted to go prospecting or sight-seeing. It was always equipped for travel with a cupboard full of food and the icebox stuffed with beer.
I followed her instructions and dropped down through the broiling desert to Sonoyta on the border. I crossed there and picked up Mexico Highway 2. I turned west into the glare of the slanting sun. Finally I saw the barren mountains that marked the beginning of the Lozano-Ramiera country. I reached a stretch of desert that spread flatly north to a line of willows revealing the river that marked the U.S.-Mexico border. After the desert, I climbed low hills. I dropped down then to green fields under heavy irrigation. I could see men and trucks moving about in the near distance. I wondered if any of them were Jessup trucks.
I began to climb into the mountains. I left Highway 2 and took a narrow branch road that wound up to the four thousand foot valley in which both Lozano and Ramiera were located on their respective sides of the border. The altitude took little edge off the blistering heat. I was seeing spots when I came to Lozano’s main drag.
It was a typical Mexican town. An international bridge ran over a deep gully with the river almost out of sight at the bottom. Ramiera was at the north end of the bridge. Lozano stretched a dozen blocks south from the bridge. The first block was strictly tourist stuff—honkey-tonk cafes, bars, floor shows. Then there was a run down, semi-industrial belt. Beyond that was the real city with its cathedral built on the plaza, and its handsome homes hidden behind high adobe walls.
Signs in English directed the tourist to the Frontera Motel. It lay two blocks east of the honky-tonk strip. It perched on the lip of the gorge with a view of Ramiera and its big smelter to the north. The decor told me that the Frontera was strictly for the
norteamericano
tourist; few Mexicans would be able to pay the tariff.
The motel was built in a sweeping crescent with the cottages separated by carports. The office was at the west end of the crescent. I could see Unit 7 up along the curve of the driveway. The tail end of the redhead’s bright magenta Mercedes stuck out of the carport.
I started to turn into the crescent and then swung away. The redhead hadn’t wanted me to drive the camper openly through Ramiera. And she might not want me to advertise myself by parking it openly at the motel. I went on up the street, made a U-turn, and parked at the curb a quarter block from the east end of the motel driveway. I locked up, got my suitcase and hiked through the dizzying heat to Unit 7.
I found a bell and put my finger on it. I heard chimes go off, but no sound followed them up from inside. A car went by in the near distance. Its motor racket faded and I pressed the button again. I heard more chimes but nothing else.
I glanced at the windows of the cottage. They were covered with drawn draperies hanging quietly. I glanced at the carport. I couldn’t mistake that magenta monster. There was nothing else like it closer than Las Vegas.
I rapped a quick tattoo on the door panel. I counted three and rapped again. I got a response this time. There was a sound as if somebody had fallen off a bed. Then the redhead’s voice belted out thirty seconds of high grade swearing in a mixture of Spanish and English.
I heard footsteps. They moved slowly and carefully toward the door. “Jojo?”
I said, “Right.”
The night latch rattled back. The door opened about an inch. One green eye framed itself in the gap. There was a deep sigh of relief. The door opened wider.
“Get in here fast,” the redhead said.
I carried my suitcase into air conditioning that felt like a walk-in meatbox after the heat outside. The room was dusky with the draperies drawn. It turned duskier as the redhead shut the door.
She said, “What did you do, walk?” Her voice was brittle with nerves.
I scarcely heard her. I was staring at the pale green rug on the floor. At the far end of the room was a closet with its sliding doors open. Half in the closet and half on the rug was a man. He was lying on his back. His eyes were wide open and staring at nothing. He wore a knife sticking out at an angle just below his breastbone.
I recognized him. He was the hard-faced boy I had tangled with last night.
I set my suitcase down. I said, “What did he do, pinch you?”
The redhead said in a tight, thick voice, “Don’t make funnies, Jojo. I found him this way. I’ve been sitting here with him since nine o’clock this morning.”
I stared at her. She was a handsome, streamlined woman, with a flare for being sleekly groomed and businesslike without losing her femininity. She had a narrow face with a fine nose and eyes and a strikingly mobile mouth. She wore her red hair in two carefully shaped braids on top of her head. I had never seen her looking any way but immaculate, cool, and completely in charge of all situations, even when she was excited.
But now she wasn’t immaculate. Her cream-colored suit was rumpled. Her eyes had a red, gritty look about them. She needed a good workout with lipstick and a powder puff. She was as close to being haggard as her natural good looks would allow.
And she was close to the shakes. I could see hysteria crawling into her green eyes.
I glanced around the room. It was like any other first class motel room. Except that it had a corpse on the floor.
And it had a bottle of 151 proof rum sitting on the stand beside the bed. There was a glass beside the bottle. I took a close look and decided the redhead had taken about three good shots. But it took more than that to give her an edge. She had a head as hard as a sun-baked desert rock.
I said, “You got here at nine and found—this? Why didn’t you call the police?”
She said, “Because Art rents this place. His clothes are in the dresser. His suitcase is in the closet.”
I saw what she meant. I took her arm and led her to the bed.
I said, “Did you find out why he didn’t report Monday and Tuesday nights?”
“That’s what I wanted
you
to tell
me,”
she snapped. “Why do you think I came here—to play footsie with him? I came because he hadn’t reported. I called here and I called his rooming house in Ramiera. I even called Jessup. They told me he didn’t work there any more. So I came here.”
I said, “How did you get in?”
“The door was unlocked,” she said. The key’s still on the inside of the door. I barely beat the cleaning woman.” She made a face. “I told her to go away, that I was busy in here. So she probably thinks Art and I were making it in the hay. And I don’t dare leave or she’ll come in to clean up—and find that.”
I took another look at the body. I got a towel from the bath to drape over the still face. I would feel better when I couldn’t see those eyes staring at nothing.
I took a good look at him before I dropped the towel. Suddenly I didn’t think hiding him would make me feel better. I could see a bruise on the skin over his hard jaw. I lowered the towel and turned away.
I said, “His name is Turk Thorne, right?”
The redhead sat up straight. “How did you know that?”
I told her how I knew. I gave her a blow by blow from the time Turk met me until I drank the rum and passed out.
I said, “There’s a bruise on his jaw. I put it there. And Mrs. Gomez saw me dragging him down the hall.”
The redhead said, “So what? You didn’t kill him, did you? You were in Tucson all night, weren’t you?”
I felt cold air along my spine. I said, “As far as I know I was.”
She said in a frantic voice, “Were you or weren’t you?”
I said, “How would I know? I was out cold until ten this morning.”
“What kind of an alibi is that, for God’s sake?” she demanded.
I reached for her rum bottle. I said, “That’s a good question. The cops will certainly ask it.”
I took a deep pull at the dark, powerful rum. It didn’t do a thing for me. I said, “It looks as if Art isn’t the only member of Ditmer and Coyle who’s going to be in trouble.”
The redhead and I just looked at one another for a few minutes. I knew we were both thinking the same thing—somebody had slipped a frame around Art and another one around me.
I said, “You’d better tell me the whole thing—when it started and how.”
She said, “About six weeks ago, I heard a rumor ‘that Jessup Trucking might be selling out. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time. Then last week I got a phone call. It tied in with the rumor I’d picked up, so I sent Art down here to check out Jessup.”
I said, “A phone call from whom?”
“The usual anonymous voice strained through a handkerchief,” she said. “And it came from here, not from Ramiera. I think the speaker was male, but I can’t be sure. He didn’t talk very long. All he said was, “If Jessup keeps on having trouble and has to sell out cheap, you’ll still be stuck with a big insurance claim.”
“A claim for what?” I said.
“That’s what I asked,” she replied. “All I got for an answer was a dead line.”
I said, “What kind of trouble is Jessup having?”
“That’s what I sent Art down here to find out,” she said. “He didn’t get much chance to find out anything,” she added morosely.
I said, “Why didn’t you ask this Bonita Jessup about the rumors?”
“I wanted to be sure of my ground first,” the redhead explained.
That seemed logical. I got up. I said, “It’s probably a good thing you didn’t.” I headed for the shower. “I’ll fill you in when I get washed up.”
The redhead wasn’t the type to be coy. She followed me right into the bathroom. I stepped into the oversized Mexican shower and drew the curtains. I peeled my clothes off and tossed them over the curtain to the floor.
I said, “Bring my suitcase in, will you?”
A minute later I heard the suitcase thud on the floor. “Anything else, sahib?”
I grinned and turned on the water. It sluiced over me like lukewarm soup. But it was wet and cleansing. The redhead shouted, “Who was in the office when I called, Jojo?”
“Toby Jessup,” I shouted back. She didn’t say anything. I turned down the volume of water so I could talk above the noise. I filled her in on Toby Jessup.
I turned off the water and reached for a towel. The redhead said, “It sounds as if she knew about Art’s plan to meet Bonita on Thursday. But she couldn’t have known Art was working undercover at Jessup or she wouldn’t have mistaken you for him.”
I wrapped the towel around my waist and stepped out of the shower. I said, “Go pack up Art’s stuff.” I waved the redhead into the other room and started to dress.
I said, “Somebody knew or Art wouldn’t have been followed. I wonder if Art’s being tailed while he was following Chester Healy means anything?”
“What difference does it make now?” the redhead called from somewhere near the closet.
I said, “Everything makes a difference. I’m giving Toby Jessup a call tonight. And I’m going to the plant tomorrow. The more we’ve thought this out beforehand, the more I’ll be able to ask sensible questions.”
I finished dressing. I transferred my keys and wallet to my clean suit. I put the one I’d been wearing into my suitcase. I carried that back to the bedroom. Art’s suitcase was near the door.
The redhead was sitting on the edge of the bed and sipping rum. I said, “Lay off that stuff. At least until you do a little more talking.”
She scowled at me. “You try corpse-sitting alone for eight hours and see if you don’t need a drink.” She scowled harder, but she set the glass down.
I said, “Tell me everything you can think of about the Jessup deal—facts, ideas, hunches, the works.”
“What’s there to tell?” she demanded. “You know as much as I do.”
I said, “Did you check out Bonita, Gorman, and Thorne when Art asked you to?”
“I called San Francisco,” she said. “There’s probably an answer waiting for me now. It’s been long enough.”
I said, “I didn’t see any mail in your office this noon.” I lit a cigarette. “How many of the people at Jessup do you know?”
“None of them,” she said promptly. “Why should I?”
“You sold them a lot of insurance.”
She said, “I sold Thaddeus six years ago. He came to Tucson. Everything else has been by mail.”
“Even the extended coverages they got last year?”
“That’s right. Bonita Jessup simply wrote and told me what she wanted done. I made out the policy and sent it to her with a bill.”
I said, “How badly will you be hurt if you lose the Jessup account?”
She said sarcastically, “It pays most of my expenses—including those steaks I’ve been feeding you twice a week.”
I let that remark pass. I went to the telephone book and flipped it open to the yellow pages. The book covered both Lozano and Ramiera. I ran my fìnger down the list of motels in Ramiera.
I said, “Here’s a place that sounds good—the City Center Motel. It advertises privacy. And that’s what we need right now.”
She said, “My God, at a time like this you want to shack up.”
I said, “Behave yourself and listen. It’ll be dark in a few minutes. I’m going to drive the camper to a parking lot. There’s probably one near Mexican customs. There usually is in these border towns. Then I’ll come back and get your car. I’ll take it across the border and register at the City Center Motel as Joseph Brogan. You give me an hour or so and then take a taxi across the border. Get a room at the same place. As soon as I arrive, I’ll call Toby Jessup. Then maybe we’ll learn something so we’ll know what to do next. Give me your car key.”
“And what about the body?” the redhead demanded. She fished in her purse and gave me her key case.