Authors: Louis Trimble
I said, “Let the cleaning woman find it. There isn’t anything else we can do now. You waited too long to call the cops. They’d be sure to hold you.”
I took a deep breath and tried my punch line. “You should get out of here and go home and make like you never left Tucson.”
The redhead didn’t like that idea. She told me clearly what I could do with it. She said, “I sent Art down here and now he’s in trouble. I called you and you’re in the same trouble. And you want me to go home and dust my desk or something.”
I sat down on the bed beside her. I said, “You pay Art and me to handle trouble and to keep your clients out of it. You’re not responsible for what happens to us.”
She looked at me with her enormous green eyes. She said with sudden sadness in her voice, “Jojo, I’m scared. I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life!”
The redhead and I had never been much for being tender with one another, but I couldn’t help giving her shoulder a pat. It was the kind of gesture that usually brought out all the crusty armor she hid herself under. But now she gave me a weak smile and burrowed her head into my shoulder.
She said, “I thought it would be so damn simple. You would bring the camper and we’d find Art and hide him out in it.”
I said, “What makes you so sure he needs hiding out? You don’t think he killed Turk and ran in panic?”
“Art isn’t the kind to panic,” she said flatly. “But you know the cops. As soon as they spot this body, they’ll look for him. This is his room, and he was working for Jessup.”
I said, “At least he’s under an assumed name. That helps.”
She said, “And you had a fight with Thorne. If the police can’t find Art, they’ll dig around and learn that.”
I gave her another pat and took her head off my shoulder. I got up. I said, “I’m going to park the camper. You write me a note as my boss so I can get the Mercedes across the border. And pack your bag. I’ll take it with me.”
“It’s still in my car,” she said.
I took Art’s bag and went outside. I ran the camper down to the honky-tonk district. I found the parking lot where I expected it to be. It was one of those where you feed a meter for as many hours up to twenty-four as you want. I bought the full treatment. I hid Art’s bag under the bunk.
I hiked back to the motel. I moved slowly because of the heat. It was fully dark by the time I arrived. I rapped and the redhead let me in.
She said worriedly, “That cleaning woman came again. She said she was going off duty and would I let her in. I gave her a dollar and told her the place was fine until tomorrow.”
She paused to take a drink from the glass in her hand. “That wasn’t very smart, was it? Now she’s bound to remember me.”
I said, “Forget it. At least she won’t find the body until tomorrow. That gives us a good twelve hours. Maybe a little more.”
I did what I should have done before. I slid the body into the closet and shut the door. I carried the towel that had been over Turk’s face to the bath and tossed it into the shower. I brought out a hand towel and gave it to the redhead.
I said, “Amuse yourself by wiping up prints—hit every place any of the three of us might have touched. Art’s and mine are on file in Phoenix, so it’s better to play this safe.”
She held the towel and looked at me. “What does this Toby Jessup look like?” she asked suddenly.
Her voice was a little thick. The rum was beginning to get to her.
I said, “Short but very well distributed. Terrific legs. Silver-blonde hair with a pony tail.”
“An office manager with a pony tail!” the redhead snarled. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go call her up. Go make passes at her while I sit with that—that thing in the closet.”
I hid a grin. She was in no mood to be laughed at. I took the key out of the door and pocketed it. I said, “When you leave, punch the night latch so the door’ll be locked.”
I picked up my suitcase and went out to her car. I stowed the suitcase alongside hers and warmed up the motor. I backed out of the stall and started driving.
There’s no sensation on earth like that of handling a car with enough horses under the hood to give it a crusing speed of a hundred and forty. But with evening, the traffic between Lozano and Ramiera was thickening fast. I had six gears to play with and I only got out of second once.
The border cost me fifteen minutes. I left U.S. Customs and Immigration and crawled up a hill into Ramiera’s plaza. I found the American style main street a few blocks to the east. The City Center Motel was located at the far end of the three block string of neon lights. It was the off-season and I had no trouble getting a room.
I parked in the private garage and climbed a flight of private stairs to the unit located above the garage. It was a great place for privacy, I thought. Perfect for a guy with another man’s wife. Or for someone wanting a hideout.
I had the feeling that someone might be me by morning.
I carried both suitcases into the room. I locked the door and picked up the phone book. My watch read six-forty. Toby Jessup should be back at the plant by now according to the schedule she had given me. I turned to the
J’s
in the book.
I closed the book. I had thought of something better than telephoning. I took the West Coast Industrial Advisors’ pamphlet out of my pocket. I gave it fifteen minutes of my time.
I put the pamphlet away. I used a piece of motel stationery and scribbled a note for the redhead. I put the note on the outside of the door. I went out to the street and signaled a taxi.
I climbed in. I told the driver to take me to Jessup Trucking. I used the five minute ride to review myself on what I had learned from the pamphlet. I decided I could pass as an efficiency expert—at least for as long as I needed to.
And that wouldn’t be very long at all. It was fine for Toby Jessup to plan for me to start my snooping tomorrow. But I wasn’t in the mood for waiting.
Not when Art Ditmer was missing. And not when Turk Thorne was dead with my fist mark on his jaw.
T
HE
J
ESSUP PLANT
wasn’t easy to miss. It was on the main highway east, about a mile from town. It occupied a full block, with a big, sprawling warehouse and a wide turnaround area taking up most of the space. The low, white stucco building that held the office was at the near end of the warehouse. A line of cars was parked alongside the office building.
Every part of the plant was lit up. Three big semirigs were backed up to the loading platforms. Men moved briskly under the glare of floodlights. I wondered how they could generate so much energy in the heavy heat.
The taxi driver swung to a stop at the curb. I read the meter and paid him off. I said, “The joint looks like it’s jumping.”
The driver put the fare in his pocket. “It always is at this season,” he said. “Especially since there isn’t any other trucking outfit around.”
I climbed out. He whipped his cab in a wide turn that carried him to the far side of the street. He drove into a gravel lot in front of a new-looking building with a sign
Bar and Grill
flashing in red and blue neon. I watched him go inside the building. I envied him. I could use some food and a long cold beer myself.
But that could wait. I walked through an open gate in a high wire fence and across a wide concrete apron to the Jessup office. The windows were covered with venetian blinds slanted so that bits and pieces of people working could be seen.
A glass door said
,
Jessup Trucking and Industrial. Office. Walk In
.
I walked in. The building was air conditioned. I shut the door and stood a moment, looking around and letting the cool air draw some of the heat out of me.
I was in the front end of a room that ran the length of the building. A few feet away a counter blocked me from three rows of desks that ran lengthwise to the rear. Girls sat at the desks, working over typewriters, billing machines, calculators, and other assorted office equipment. To the right of the counter a doorway led into a hallway with one wall of glass. I could see cubbyhole offices opening onto the hallway. The door to the first office was open. Toby Jessup was standing by a desk, talking to a short plump man with curly black hair.
I started for the hallway door. Some of the girls lifted their eyes from their work long enough to look me over. They didn’t spend much time at it. I thought they would be more interested in finishing their work and getting out of here than in looking over a strange male.
I opened the hallway door and walked to Toby Jessup’s office. Her title,
Office Manager
, was on the door in black paint. I could see a closed door at the end of the hall. It had
President
painted on it in gold leaf. I wondered if Toby resented the difference.
I stopped in her doorway and rapped on the wall lightly. She turned away from the plump man and saw me.
She was a fair actress. She didn’t flicker an eyebrow. She said, “Yes?” in that cool tone she handled so well.
I said, “I’m Brogan from West Coast Industrial Advisors.”
She said, “Oh, yes.” She nodded at the plump man. “Señor Lerdo, our Lozano representative. He arranges our produce pickups with the Mexican farmers.” He bowed and looked me over with interest. She frowned slightly. “But we weren’t expecting you so soon, Mr. Brogan.”
I said in a brisk, salesman’s voice, “I had time on my hands. That is an inefficient condition. West Coast is the foe of inefficiency.”
She said to Lerdo, “We can finish these invoices later.”
He bowed again. His dark eyes continued to show interest in me. Then he picked up the invoices reluctantly and went out. I followed Toby Jessup into her office. She sat behind her desk. She looked angry.
“Why didn’t you call before you came?” she demanded.
I said, “I meant what I said. I had time on my hands. Jessup Trucking seems to be operating under a full head of steam. Why should I wait until tomorrow?”
I wondered if I had upset some plan of hers. She picked up a pencil and rapped the rubber tip on her desk blotter. She said with annoyance, “I haven’t had time to prepare anyone for your visit.”
I said, “Isn’t that better—for what you want me to do here?”
She thought that over. She said reluctantly, “I suppose so.”
She continued to rap the pencil. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something. She said suddenly, “I have to see you after I’m through here. It’s very important that we talk alone. I …”
She didn’t get the rest of her remark said. Her voice dried up. She was staring at the door. I turned. A man’s figure was silhouetted on the other side of the glass panel. The man lifted his hand and rapped.
She said, “Come in.”
The door opened. A man looked in at us. He was somewhere in his thirties, heavy-shouldered, narrow-waisted, shorter than I but tall enough to carry his big shoulders easily. He was blunt featured with a little too much jaw. His eyes were a pale blue and without much warmth in them. He had a blond butch haircut that barely hid a thin line of scar running up his left temple and over his skull.
He looked right through me. He said, “Did you locate Turk yet?”
Toby Jessup said stiffly, “If I had, I’d have told you. The switchboard girl has tried all the usual places he goes. He’s probably found a new hole to crawl into.”
Her voice said that she had no time for Turk. The expression of the blond man said that he had no time for Toby Jessup. He said roughly, “Turk hasn’t touched anything for six months and you know it.”
There was something between them. Something neither one was putting into words. It showed in their eyes very briefly. And then, as if they suddenly remembered I was in the room, their expressions blanked out.
Toby Jessup said, “Mr. Brogan, this is Rod Gorman, our traffic manager. Mr. Brogan is from West Coast Industrial Advisors, Rod. He’s here to see if we can’t increase the efficiency of our office operations.”
She did it as slickly as if I were the genuine article. And Gorman seemed to buy what she had to say. He gave me a quick rundown with his hard blue eyes and then put out a hand. I took it. His grip was good. His hands were rough inside. Apparently he could take a turn at pitching crates when he had to.
He said, “West Coast—that’s in San Francisco, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s quite a tan you’ve got,” he said. “I didn’t know San Francisco had that much sunshine.”
It took me long seconds to realize that he wasn’t tossing pleasantries. His eyes were still taking me in. And they weren’t liking what they saw.
I said, “I work out of San Francisco, not in it. Lately I’ve been in the hot country.” I waited for him to toss another challenge.
He didn’t. He merely looked past me at Toby, turned on his heel and marched himself out of sight. I said, “What’s with him?”
“He’s been on the go since seven o’clock this morning,” she said. “He’s tired.”
“He sounded more suspicious than tired,” I said.
Her lips tightened. “The door’s open,” she said in a whisper. Her tone suggested that I was the next thing to an idiot.
She rose abruptly. “I’ll introduce you to the others.”
I said, “You had something more to say to me?”
“Later,” she said. “And please be careful when we’re together.”
She was more nervous than the setup warranted, it seemed to me. Her door might be open, but the other doors in the hall were closed. And it was empty. The racket from the machines behind the glass wall was enough to drown out our words five feet from where we stood.
I just said, “Lead me to the slaughter.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
She was the kind of person that made me want to shock her, to take some of the tight, disapproving expression from her face. I said, “I hear the boss lady has terrific knees.”
She said with cold savagery, “Bonita is terrific all over. Ask any able-bodied male in Ramiera.”
I didn’t answer that one. Bitchiness is one thing I can’t match. Like most men, I just pull back into my shell when it’s thrown at me.
I followed Toby Jessup down the hall to the door with the gold leaf on the frosted glass panel. She knocked briefly. A voice that was cool and brisk, yet somehow warm and exciting at the same time, said, “It’s unlocked.”
Toby opened the door. I looked over her head. A woman was framed in the entrance to another office. She wasn’t just standing. There was too much regality to her for that. I didn’t think she was the type who would just stand or sit or lie down—or do any of the things we commoners do.
I began to understand Toby Jessup’s bitchiness. I could feel the impact of Bonita Jessup before she ever lifted her head and touched me with her eyes. And once she did that, I was gone. In orbit, far, far out.
I remembered to close my mouth as Toby Jessup said formally, “Mrs. Jessup, this is Mr. Brogan.” She went through her routine.
Bonita Jessup detached herself from the doorway and floated toward me. She was as tall as the redhead, but she wasn’t quite so streamlined. She was what old-fashioned novels
called
a full-blown woman.
She was a brunette. Her eyes were dark and sooty behind cheek-brushing lashes. Her nose was high-bridged, almost Spanish in its arrogance. Her mouth had all the languorous warmth of a tropical night.
She wore her dark hair in a soft bun at the nape of her neck. She had poured her figure into a white suit that on any other woman would have looked ridiculous. But on her it was the right thing. When she moved, I saw that she didn’t have to bind herself into a foundation to make the suit look good. What moved under the jacket and skirt was all uninhibited Bonita.
She said in that cool-warm voice, “I hope you can help us with our problem, Mr. Brogan.” She put out a hand. I took it.
I had a brief moment of dreaming of all the problems I would like to help her with. Then I came back to reality and said that I hoped so too.
She gave her hand a tug. I opened my fingers and let it float away from me. I couldn’t remember regretting the loss of anything quite so much.
She said, “Did you plan an itinerary for Mr. Brogan, Toby?”
“I wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow,” Toby said.
I could feel the antagonism between them. It wasn’t the same type Toby and Rod Gorman shared. That had had a male versus female touch to it; this was pure female on both sides.
Bonita said, “In that case, why don’t I brief Mr. Brogan tonight? You can plan to take over tomorrow.”
Toby took the dismissal with good grace. Probably, I thought, because she didn’t think me worth fighting about. She said to me, “We open the office at eight, Mr. Brogan.” She marched down the hall and out of sight.
Bonita Jessup put her fingertips on my arm, up where the biceps grow. It wasn’t a touch to ask for my attention. It was a probing of my muscle.
She said, “This is my secretary’s office. She’s ill this evening. My office is through here, Mr. Brogan.”
She took her fingers away. I followed her into her office. She took a swivel chair behind an executive desk. I lowered myself into a padded chair.
She said, “Where would you like to begin, Mr. Brogan?”
“I said, “I think I’ll leave that decision up to you.”
She nodded. She said, “Let’s start with Turk Thorne, then, shall we?”
I thought about playing out my hand and saying, “Who is Turk Thorne, Mrs. Jessup?”
But one look into those dark eyes changed my mind. They were laughing at me. And behind the laughter was something less humorous, a wariness, a waiting. And knowledge.
I said, “When you find him, tell him not to telegraph his punches. He’ll last longer that way.”
“And when will I find him?” she asked. “And where?”
I said, “He woke up in my office just in time to watch me pass out from drinking the liquor he fixed with a mickey. I slept for nine hours after that, so I can’t help you much.”
She shook her head. “Turk didn’t dope your liquor, Mr. Coyle, isn’t it?”
I said, “Is that the way you want it? That I’m Joe Coyle? Or do you like Toby Jessup’s idea better?”
“We’ll use Toby’s idea for a while,” she said. Nothing knocked her off beat. She had that magnificent mouth turned up in a light smile as if she was enjoying herself. She had the same kind of laughter dancing on the surface of her eyes. She was in superb control of herself.
She said, “How did Toby get in touch with you?”
“She came into the office and woke me up,” I said. Since Bonita seemed to know all the essentials, I didn’t feel I was betraying Toby Jessup’s confidence.
“And she asked you to come here and spy on me?”
I said, “She asked me to come here to check everybody. That would include you, I suppose.”
“Check for what?”
I said, “We hadn’t gotten that far.” I took out my cigarettes and offered her one. She accepted it. I gave her a light. I was surprised my hand didn’t shake. I was close enough to her to smell her perfume. It was gentle at first, but it had a delayed wallop.
I sat back down and lit a cigarette for myself. I said, “I’m in the dark, Mrs. Jessup. I might as well be frank with you. I came here tonight hoping I could make sense out of a number of things.”
“What sort of things?”
She had a way of asking the kind of questions that left me no room for sparring. I stopped playing word games with her. I said, “Things like my office being torn up by Turk Thorne.”
“Turk didn’t do that,” she said. “He found it that way.”
I said, “I won’t argue the point—yet.”
She showed signs of impatience. “What else brought you, Mr. Coyle?”
I said, “Art Ditmer.”
She drew on the cigarette. She let the smoke trickle from barely parted lips. She said, “Aren’t you a little premature? I’m not to meet Mr. Ditmer until tomorrow night.”
I said, “How did you know it was Art you were to meet? He didn’t give a name when he phoned you.”
She quirked her lips at me in amusement. “You sound terribly like a detective, Mr. Coyle. Am I on trial for something?”
Thinking about Art Ditmer helped take a little of Bonita’s impact from my system. I said, “That doesn’t answer the question.”