The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (3 page)

“That’s right,” the man said hastily. It was the same Latin-looking man he had seen in Eddie’s. “Give me the sawbuck and I’ll get out of here—but fast.”

Gracie’s eyes flared, her lips curled. “What do you think you’re pulling, anyway? How’d you find me? Who told you?”

Fordyce forced himself to smile. “What’s difficult about finding you? You’re not very clever, Gracie.” Suddenly, he saw his way clear and said with more emphasis, “Not at all clever.”

The idea was so simple that it might work. He was no murderer, nor was he a thief. He had only been a fool. Now if he could assume the nerve and the indifference it would take, he could get safely out of this.

“Look,” he said quietly, “like Chafey, you walked into this by accident. He misunderstood what he saw and passed it on to you, and neither of you had any idea but making a fast buck.

“Bill”—and he knew it sounded improbable “—stepped into a trap baited for another guy. You know as well as I do that Bill was never very smart. He was neither as smart nor as lucky as you. You’re going to get out of this without tripping.”

“What are you talking about?” Gracie was both angry and puzzled.

“The wallet I picked up”—Fordyce made his voice sound impatient “—was dropped by agreement. We were trying to convince a man who was watching that I was taking a payoff.” The story was flimsy, but Gracie would accept a story of double-dealing quicker than any other. “Bill saw it, and I paid off to keep him from crabbing a big deal.”

“I don’t believe it!” Her voice was defiant, yet there was uncertainty in her eyes. “Was murdering Bill part of the game?”

He shrugged it off. “Look Gracie. You knew Bill. He was a big, good-looking guy who couldn’t see anything but the way he was going. He thought he had me where the hair was short when he stopped me outside my garage. Once away from that track, I was clean, so he had no hold over me at all. My deal had gone through. We had words, and when he started for me, I hit him. He fell, and his neck hit the bumper. He was a victim of his own foolishness and greed.”

“That’s what you say.”

“Why kill him? He could be annoying, but he could prove nothing, and nobody would have believed him. Nor,” he added, “would they believe you.”

He picked up his hat. “Give this man the ten spot for his trouble. You keep the rest and charge it up to experience. That’s what I’d do.”

The night air was cool on his face when he reached the street. He hesitated, breathing deep, and then walked to his car.

A
T THE
C
HARLTON’S PARTY
, one week later, he was filling Alice’s glass at the punch bowl when George Linton clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Art!” It was the first time, he thought suddenly, that anybody had called him Art. “I got my money back! Remember the money I lost at the track? Fourteen hundred dollars! It came back in the mail, no note, nothing. What do you think of that?”

“You were lucky.” Fordyce grinned at him. “We’re all lucky at times.”

“Believe me,” Linton confided, “if I’d found that fourteen hundred bucks, I’d never have returned it! I’d just have shoved it in my pocket and forgotten about it.”

“That,” Art Fordyce said sincerely, “is what you think!”

Police Band

C
ar 134…134…cancel your last call, 135 will handle….”

T
OM
S
IXTE STOPPED
turning the dial and listened. He was far over on the right side of his radio and was for the first time aware that it could pick up police calls. The book he was reading had failed to hold his interest. He put it down and lit a cigarette.

“42, station call…1047 South Kashmir…218, MT, Clear…” The signal faded in and out.

Sixte leaned back in his chair, listening with only half his attention. He had been in town to study a plan for moving an industrial plant to San Bernardino and the study was complete, his report written. At thirty-two he was successful, single, and vaguely discontented.

With only hours remaining of his stay in town, he was profoundly bored. His work had given him no time to make friends, and he had seen too many movies. Waiting got on his nerves, and he was leaving in just forty-eight hours for Bolivia.

“All units…stolen truck…commercial…Charles…Henry….” The voice trailed off again and Sixte turned in his chair and poured his glass half full of Madeira, then relaxed.

The dispatcher’s voice came in suddenly. “179…Redondo and San Vincente, neighbor reports a man hurt, a woman screaming….”

Tom Sixte sat up abruptly. That was only two blocks away! He sat still for a moment but boredom pulled him to his feet. He shrugged into his coat and, hat in hand, stepped out the door.

Upon reaching the street, he hesitated. What was he rushing for? Like a ten-year-old kid after a fire truck!

But, why not? He was doing nothing and the walk might do him good. He went to the corner. He could hear no screaming, although far off he heard the wail of a siren approaching.

He turned the corner and started for Redondo, but just before he reached it, he saw a girl cutting across a lawn, coming toward him. Her coat was open, hair flying, and she was running.

She was in the middle of the street when she saw him. She slid to a stop and in the light reflected from the corner her face seemed set and strained. Her right hand was in her pocket.

“What’s the trouble?” he asked. “Do you need help?”

“No!” She spat the word. But a glance over her shoulder and her manner changed. She came up to him quickly. “Sorry, I do need help, but you frightened me. I just got away from a man.”

“The police are coming. There’s nothing to worry about now.”

She paused, listening to the siren. “Oh, but I
can’t
meet the police! I simply can’t! They’d…my parents would hear…” She caught his arm impulsively. “Help me, won’t you? Daddy and Mother didn’t know I was out….”

They were walking back toward the corner he had turned. A siren shrilled to a stop somewhere behind them. She clutched his arm. “Do you live close by? Can’t we go there? Just until the police are gone? I…I fought him off, and he fell. He may be hurt. Take me to your place…oh,
please
!”

Tom Sixte shrugged. No use letting the kid get into trouble, and it would be only for a few minutes. He could not see her face well, but her voice and her figure indicated youth.

He led the way upstairs and unlocked the door. The room was small and simple. Aside from the clothes and his bags the only things in it that belonged to him were a half dozen books.

When he saw her face under the light, he felt his first touch of doubt. She must be…well, over thirty.

She saw the bottle. “Can I have a drink?” Without waiting for his reply, she picked up his own empty glass and poured wine into it. She tossed it off, then looked startled. “What was that?”

“It’s wine. It’s called Malmsey.”

“It’s good.” She picked up the bottle and looked at it. “Imported, isn’t it?” She glanced swiftly around the room, and saw the telephone. “May I make a call?”

She moved the phone and dialed. He heard the phone ringing, then a hard male voice. “Yeah?”

“Kurt? This is Phyllis…. Can you come and get me?” Sixte heard a male voice asking questions. “What d’you think?” Her voice became strident with impatience. “Rhubarb? I’ll say! The place is lousy with cops.

“No, I’m all right…some guy invited me up to his place.” The male voice lowered a little. “How do I know who he is?” Phyllis grew more impatient. “Look, you’re in this as deep as I am! You come an’ get me!…Sure, I’ll stay here, but hurry!”

Worried now, Sixte turned on her as she hung up the phone. “I didn’t bargain for this,” he said, “you’ll have to go. I had no idea you were running from the police.”

“Sit down.” There was a small automatic in her hand. “I’m not fooling. That man out there is dead.”

“Dead?”
Sixte was incredulous. “You killed him?”

Her laugh was not pleasant. “He was a drunken fool. It was that woman spoiled it all.”

“Woman?”

“Some dame who came up while I was going over him. She started to scream so I hit her.”

Tom Sixte sat down, trying to focus his thoughts. Fifteen minutes ago, he had been reading, faintly bored. Now, he was mixed up in a murder and robbery. Kurt was coming to take her away, and then…his good sense intervened. That would not, could not be the end. They could not afford to let him go. And if she had killed a man…

She poured another glass of the Madeira. Steps sounded outside the door. There was a careful knock. Keeping her eyes on Sixte, the gun out of sight, Phyllis opened the door.

The man who stepped in was cadaverous, but handsome. He could have been no more than thirty, and he wore a dark suit. The eyes that measured Sixte were cruel.

Phyllis pulled him to one side and whispered rapidly. Kurt listened, then shook out a cigarette. “Who are you?” he said then. “What are you?”

“My name is Sixte. I’m an architect.”

“Get up and turn around.”

Sixte felt practiced hands go through his pockets, remove his wallet, some letters.

He was told to be seated and Kurt went through his billfold. There was seventy dollars in cash, some traveler’s checks—and the tickets were with his passport.

“Bolivia, huh? Whatya know about that? I got a guy wants to leave town. He’d pay plenty for this passport and these tickets.”

Sixte tried to sort out his thoughts. For the first time he began to appreciate his true danger.

Kurt smiled, and it was not a nice smile. “This is sweet, Phyl, real sweet. This joker has stuff here I can sell for a grand, easy. Maybe two. Rubio has to get out of town and this is it. Rubio pays, takes the ticket—this guy is gone and nobody even looks for him.”

Tom Sixte sat very still. His mind seemed icy cold. He was not going to get out of this…he was not going to…he reached over to his radio and adjusted the hands of the clock, then the volume….

D
ETECTIVE
L
IEUTENANT
M
IKE
F
ROST WALKED
back to the lab truck. “Roll it, Joe,” he said, “nothing more you can do here.”

Suddenly the radio lit up. “179…you up the block from the coroner’s van? If so turn your radio down. We’re getting complaints.”

Frost picked up the microphone. “Dispatch…? What’s this about my radio?”

After a brief conversation Mike Frost got out of the car, spoke to Joe, and walked up the block. The sound was rolling from the hallway of a rooming house and Frost went up the steps two at a time. The door was open, and as people were emerging from the rooms and staring, Frost shoved through the door and went in. The blasting sound filled an empty room, with the light switch off.

Turning the lights on, he stepped to the radio and turned it off with a snap. Joe had come into the door behind him. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“Oh, some crazy fool went off and left his radio turned on.” He scowled. “No, it’s one of those clock radios. Must have just switched on.”

“Who’d want that volume?” Joe wondered. “And on a police band, too.”

Mike Frost looked at Joe thoughtfully, then turned slowly and began to look around the room. It was strangely bare.

No clothes, no personal possessions. The bathroom shelves were empty, no razor, shaving cream, or powder. No toothbrush.

The simple furniture of a furnished room, towels, soap…a clock radio and some books. The clock radio was brand spanking new…so were the books.

Frost stepped back into the bathroom. The sink was still damp. Whoever had been here had left within a very few minutes. But why leave a new radio and the books? The only other thing remaining was an almost empty bottle of Madeira. The glass on the table was still wet…and there was lipstick on the rim. In two places…some woman had taken at least two drinks here.

And not twenty minutes ago, a woman had fled the scene of a killing just two blocks away.

Somebody had left this room fast…and why was that radio set for a time when no one would want to get up and tuned for a police band with the volume control on full power?

“Get your stuff, Joe. Give it a going-over.”

Joe was incredulous. “This place? What’s the idea?”

“Call it a hunch, Joe. But work fast. I think we’d better work fast.”

The landlady was visiting somebody in Santa Monica. Yes, she had a new roomer. A man. Nobody knew anything about him except that he was rarely in, and very quiet. Oh, yes! A neighbor remembered, Mrs. Brady had said he was leaving in a couple of days…this room would be vacant on the fifth. This was the third.

Frost walked back up to the room and stared around him. Was he wasting time, making a fool of himself? But why would a man leave a perfectly new clock radio behind him? And why leave the books?

There were six of them, all new. They represented a value of more than thirty dollars and given the condition of the spines three of them had not even been opened. Two were on South America. On Bolivia. One was a book on conversational Spanish.

Frost picked up the telephone and rang the airlines. In a matter of minutes he had his information. Three men were scheduled for La Paz, Bolivia, on the fifth…another check…at that address. Thomas Sixte. Frost put the phone back on the cradle.

He was no closer to an answer but he did have more of a puzzle and some reason behind his hunch. Why would a man, leaving within forty-eight hours, anyway, suddenly leave a comfortable room?

Where did he expect to spend the next forty-eight hours? Why did he leave his books and radio? He glanced at the dial on the radio. The man had his clock radio set to start blasting police calls within a matter of minutes after he had left his room.

Why?

Frost picked up the Madeira bottle…forty-eight years old. Good stuff, not too easily had…he checked the telephone book and began ringing. Absently, he watched Joe going over the room. His helper was in the bathroom.

The liquor store he called replied after a minute. Just closing up. “Yes, I knew Mr. Sixte. Very excellent taste, Lieutenant. Knows wines as few men do. When he first talked to me about them, I believed him to be a champagne salesman.

“That brand of Madeira? Very few stores, Lieutenant. It would be easy to…yes? All right.”

He glanced at his watch. He had been in the vicinity so had gone to Redondo and San Vincente. That had been at 9:42…twenty minutes later he heard the blasting of the radio…it was now 10:35.

“Only three sets of prints,” Joe told him. “One of them a man’s. Two are women. One of them is probably the maid or the landlady, judging by where I found ’em.”

“The others?”

“Only a couple…some more, but smudged. Got a clear print off the wine bottle, one off the glass.”

“Anything else?”

“Soap in the shower is still wet. He probably took a shower about seven or eight o’clock. Some cigarettes, all his…and he’d been reading that book.”

Joe rubbed his jaw. “What gives, Lieutenant? What you tryin’ to prove?”

Mike Frost shrugged. He was not quite sure himself. “A man is killed and a girl is slugged by a woman. We know that much. Two blocks away a man suddenly leaves his room, with no reason that figures, and minutes later his clock radio starts blasting police calls.

“A woman has been in this room within the last hour. My hunch is it was the woman who killed that guy on Redondo. I’m guessing that she got in here somehow to duck the police, and when she went away, she took him with her.”

“And he turned on the radio to warn us? How does he know we’re near?”

“Maybe the girl told him. Maybe he saw the murder. Maybe she followed him. It’s all maybe.”

“Maybe he was in cahoots with her.”

“Could be…but why the radio?”

“Accident…twisted the wrong dial, maybe.”

Frost nodded. “All right. Check those prints. All three sets…or whatever you got.”

Had the girl taken the man away from here by herself? They had a call out, the area blanketed. Any girl alone would have been stopped. But if she had been with him? She might have been stopped, anyway. She was a blonde, about thirty, someone had said, slight figure…in a suede coat.

When Joe was gone Mike Frost sat down in the empty room and began to fiddle with the radio. After twenty minutes he had learned one thing. You just didn’t turn this on to the police band. You had to hunt for it, adjust it carefully.