Man on a Rope (13 page)

With the help of a chair he looked on top of the wardrobe and found it bare and dusty. The drawers of the bureau revealed the normal accouterments of a traveling man and nothing more. The table-desk held a half-empty bottle of rum and two glasses. There was only one drawer and this contained a leather writing-portfolio. There were no letters in this, but there were airmail envelopes and paper. There was also a pocket in back of the pad of paper, and it was here that Barry found the clippings.

There were two of these, one a full-column story under a Hartford, Conn., heading and dated nearly three months earlier. The second was smaller, apparently cut from a weekly news magazine, and was a résumé of the first piece.

Barry read them both, and when he finished he knew that Arthur Hudson—if that was his real name—had shown unusual interest in what was announced as the largest bank robbery in Connecticut history. $420,000 was the figure given. The money had just been delivered by armored car and the cash was needed as payroll funds for the local aircraft company, and as additional currency for the expected cashing of checks for two large insurance companies who were also paying off two days later.

The holdup had been carried out with a speed and precision that spoke of detailed knowledge of procedures and careful preparation. Five men were believed to have taken part, but only four had actually been seen. As yet no arrests had been made, but the F.B.I. was working with local authorities and a seven-state alarm had been broadcast…. The magazine piece added one detail not mentioned in the newspaper account—that some of the currency was in new bills, the serial numbers of which had been recorded.

Refolding the clips as his mind experimented with the facts he had read, Barry started to replace them and then changed his mind. For some reason as yet not clear even to him, he put the portfolio back where it came from and thrust the clippings into his inside pocket. When he had snapped off the light and opened the shutters to their original position he got out of the room fast.

The cable office, on the second floor of a downtown building, was locked when Barry got there, but there was a man visible through the glass panel. He motioned that the place was closed, but Barry's continued pantomimed gestures finally brought him to the door. When he learned that Barry wanted to send a cable to New York he said he guessed he could handle it. He went back behind the chest-high counter, indicated a pad and pencil, and returned to his desk.

Barry wrote:
New York Bulletin, New York,
and then he paused to get his thoughts in hand. A college roommate named Walter Lanning worked for the
Bulletin
—as a reporter on general assignment, the last Barry had heard. He was not sure Lanning was still with the
Bulletin,
but it was his only chance now and so he composed his message as briefly as he could.

Please research recent Hartford bank robber. Need information suspects, arrests, amount recovered. How much traceable? Present status of case. Urgent. Request reply noon tomorrow. Best. Barry Dawson. Hotel Windsor
.

While he reached for his money, the clerk counted the words and marked them down. “Delayed?” he asked.

Barry hesitated but not for long. The
Bulletin
was a morning paper and this was the time when Lanning should be working.

“Straight,” he said. “Can you get it right off?”…

There was an entrance to the dining-room of the Windsor at the top of the main stairway leading from the street, and Barry walked in that way. Across the room Hudson and his blonde had finished their dinner and were having what looked like brandies with their coffees. Hudson waved casually as he saw Barry, but he was obviously more interested in Ruby Noyes, so Barry sat at his usual table and began to consider the American in a somewhat different light.

He had finished his soup and fish and was working on the small portion of roast allotted him when a bellboy stopped at his side.

“There was a message for you, sir.”

“A message?”

“A telephone call. I tried your room. I didn't see you come in.”

Barry said that was all right. He gave the boy a coin and said he would stop at the desk on his way out. Later, when he did so, the clerk confirmed the statement.

“A Mr. Thaxter telephoned,” he said.

“Did he leave any word?”

“He said just to tell you that George Thaxter called.”

It was about quarter after nine—he was never quite sure of the exact time—when Barry Dawson turned into the entrance of the Murray Hotel and started up the stairs. It was only a five-block walk from the Windsor and after his dinner he had felt he needed the exercise, and now, as he approached the landing, he could hear music coming from the long room at the right.

There was no one using the little lobby and no one behind the desk. An inspection of the rows of keys on the wall board showed that number twelve was there, and Barry accepted the conclusion that Thaxter was out. The knowledge was disappointing, and so he turned and wandered aimlessly into the bar.

The room was considerably more crowded than it had been that afternoon. More women were in evidence in the booths and although no one was dancing at the moment a three-piece aggregation—guitar, bass, and a cornet—was bearing down on some unknown melody with a calypso beat. When he saw that there was room at the bar he moved up and waited until a shirt-sleeved Negro bartender approached.

“Brandy, please,” he said.

“No brandy, sir,” the barman said. “We got whisky or gin or I could give you a five-year-old rum.”

Barry said he'd take the rum, with a little water on the side. When it came he sipped the rum and found it good. He got a cigarette going and took his time, aware that he was one of the few light-complected men in the room and the object of some interest. But no woman approached him, and. when a glance at his watch told him it was twenty-five minutes after nine he took the last sip of rum and walked back toward the lobby.

There was still no clerk at the desk, and he stood a moment, wondering if he should wait any longer. Then, not even aware that he was doing it, he glanced again at the key rack. He had to look twice to be sure that number twelve, which had been there ten minutes ago, was now missing.

Thus encouraged, he wheeled and went quickly up the stairs to the third floor. He saw the tag hanging from the keyhole as he drew near the room at the end, but even then he had no premonition that anything was wrong. Assuming that Thaxter had forgotten the key, he knocked, waited, knocked again.

When he turned the knob he knew that the door was already unlocked, and now he stepped into a room that was hot, stuffy, and empty. He noticed the smell of cigarette smoke at once and knew that someone must have been here recently. The window was open but no. air was stirring, and this told him that the tide was going out and that there would be no relieving breeze until much later.

As he stood there with the frown warping his brows and his gaze disturbed he did not know whether he should wait or not, and then an explanation came to him. If Thaxtet had gone to the bathroom—wherever it was—he might have left the key in the door, and so, with only the bed and chair on which to sit, he chose the chair and stretched his legs as his eyes made a slow circuit of the room.

He could feel the prickle of perspiration on his body now and his shirt was beginning to stick to his back. He took off his jacket and pulled his shirt away from his chest, flopping the front in and out in an effort to cool himself. The restlessness was working on him now, and finally he stood up and moved to the corner which had been curtained off.

On the floor behind this was a battered imitation-leather suitcase. From the wall hooks hung a white drill suit that was threadbare at the cuffs but clean. There were two pairs of tan cotton trousers; that was all.

When he glanced at his watch again he saw that it was nine thirty-five, and by now he had less confidence in the bathroom theory because he realized that if Thaxter had made such a trip he had done so with his hat on. The minutes began to drag and the perspiration had begun to trickle down his spine. Below him he could hear the beat of the calypso rhythm. Finally, grumbling aloud, he stood up and reached for his jacket. He was standing there with it draped over his arm when he heard the footsteps approaching in the hall outside.

He could hear them slow down as they drew close and it seemed to him that there were more than one set. The key was still in the lock and when the knock came he knew that this was not Thaxter.

“Come in,” he called, not knowing what else he could do.

He did not know what to expect either, so it did not surprise him greatly when the door swung wide and he saw Inspector Cantrell standing there, the black face of a uniformed constable peering over his shoulder.

Cantrell looked as neat and capable as ever, but for once his light-brown face seemed surprised. White rimmed his eyeballs briefly and his lips moved soundlessly. Then his gaze grew narrower as it darted past Barry and probed each corner of the room before he stepped forward.

“Good evening, Inspector.”

“Good evening, sir.”

And that was all Cantrell said until he had looked behind the curtain and opened the suitcase which stood there. Barry was not sure what was in' it because the Inspector's back blocked his view; he only knew that Cantrell closed it again and put it back where he found it. When he straightened he said:

“You were waiting for Mr. Thaxter?”

“That's right. The key was in the door, so I came in.”

“You—had an appointment?”

“He telephoned me at the hotel,” Barry said.

“What time was that?”

“I don't know when he called. I got here about a quarter after nine, I guess, but I had a drink in the bar before I came up…. Why?” he said.

“There's been a bit of trouble, sir,” Cantrell said, taking the key from the lock. “I'll have to ask you to come with me.”

“Now?”

“If you don't mind. I have a car outside.”

He stood aside until Barry and the constable had moved into the hall; then he locked the door and pocketed the key. At the second-floor landing he asked Barry to accompany the constable. He said he would be with them in a minute and turned toward the lobby desk and the clerk who now waited wide-eyed behind it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

B
ARRY
D
AWSON
was not sure just where he was when the police sedan stopped and he stepped from the car along with Cantrell. It was a district similar to the one where Chris Holt's schooner was tied up but not quite so far from town. On the left the land looked empty and uninhabited under the night sky, but the smell of the river was strong with the ebbing tide and he could make out the outlines of several squatlooking sheds or warehouses on the right.

A familiar-looking Landrover was parked just ahead, its headlights illuminating the road and the ambulance which was parked at one side. Other cars were parked beyond, and on the fringes of the area he could see the gleam of faces that seemed only slightly less dark than the night. Not until he had walked past the Landrover did he see the smart, khaki-clad figure of Superintendent Kerby, and as he came closer he saw that Kerby was talking with the doctor who had come to Lambert's house the night before. Close by, with only the upturned shoes showing, lay the ponchocovered body of a man.

“I have Mr. Dawson here, sir,” Cantrell said when Kerby glanced up.

“Dawson?” said Kerby with some surprise. “Where did you pick him up?”

“In Mr. Thaxter's room, sir. He was waiting.”

“Good man,” Kerby said. “Anything more you can tell me?”

“The clerk says Thaxter left the hotel about nine o'clock.”

“Any visitors the clerk remembers?”

“One, sir. This afternoon. Also there was a telephone call that Thaxter made shortly before he left.”

“Nothing else this evening?” Kerby looked at Barry. “How did you happen to be in his room?”

“I was waiting for him,” Barry said. “The telephone call he made was to me.”

“What did he want?”

“I didn't speak to him. The clerk at the Windsor took the message.” And then because he knew it would be a simple matter for the other clerk to identify him as the afternoon visitor, he said: “I was the one who came to see him this afternoon.”

“Were you, now?” Kerby's tone was suddenly speculative. He paused, his face no more than a pale, mustached oval beneath the cap brim. “How did you know where to find him?”

“My taxi-driver located him. Eddie Glynn.”

“What I meant was, how did you know about Thaxter? He's only been out of prison two days.”

Barry could tell he was getting in deeper, but he no longer cared about that aspect of the case. He knew without being told that it must be Thaxter's body that lay under the poncho, that Thaxter had seen a good deal more than he had let on the night before. What worried him now was the thought that if he had told Kerby about Thaxter that morning, the man might still be alive. The thought lay heavily on his conscience and he wondered if it would have made any difference if he had been able to speak to Thaxter on the telephone when the call came.

“He was standing out in front of Lambert's house last night just before I went in and found the body,” he said, and would have continued if Kerby's normally well-regulated voice had not exploded and stopped him.

“He was standing where?” he shouted. “Good God, man! Why didn't you say so? What were you waiting for?”

“I forgot it,” Barry said. “I didn't think of it until this morning.”

Kerby stood with his fists on his hips and legs spread. He waited that way, staring through the darkness, his jaw outthrust. He took time to get his irritation in hand, as though it was important that he keep his tone officially businesslike and make no display of his true feelings. When he had cleared his throat he was ready.