The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction (55 page)

“You don’t buy it?” Slabbe asked.

“We-ell, I don’t know. It could have happened, but she’s a type – was, huh? – that would sue, or threaten to, and she didn’t. She was willing to let it pass, said she wouldn’t even have mentioned it if another guest hadn’t heard her scream and reported it.”

“What was the story, Barney?”

McPhail’s neat shoulders moved a deprecating quarter inch. “She was on her way into her suite Monday afternoon about five. She opened the door and a guy’s fist smashed her. She screamed, didn’t see the guy clear. He ran. Another guest coming from his room saw the guy’s back, called for help. I went up. Nothing missing from the Reed kid’s room. She said let it go. Should
I
argue?”

“How about mail for her?” Slabbe pressed.

“I’ll check.”

McPhail did it again. There had been no mail for Miss Reed. There might have been a telegram, a desk clerk thought. The records would show it. The records showed it. Miss Reed had received a telegram Monday afternoon. There was no copy of it on file here. There would be one in the telegraph company’s office. Slabbe left and went to his office and used the telephone to call the New York office of the Zenith Detective Agency.

Late though it was – nine o’clock – the purring voice of Mr Enoch Oliver over the wire assured Slabbe that he was not being inconvenienced, that it was his custom when working with less experienced investigators than regularly employed by Zenith to remain at the office in case the less experienced investigators needed moral support and/or the aid of a more experienced investigator.

Slabbe grunted under his breath, “You and the President!” Into the phone, he said: “Was there a woman involved in the last trick Max Lorenz went over for?”

“I have the file on my desk,” Mr Oliver said. “I’ll summarize the information it contains. There were eight people involved. The ring leaders were Max Lorenz, Walter Evans and his wife, Ruby Reed Evans, a night club singer who contacted wealthy women who wanted nylons and who may have married Evans for the express purpose of enticing him to divert the necessary materials from the silk company for which he worked. Lorenz was apprehended. Evans and his wife vanished. Lorenz refused to implicate them, and they were considered small fry and not traced.”

Slabbe licked his lips sanguinely. “Maybe they’re not small fry today. The girl was just shot. The guy was with her. He’s using the name of William Teel now, and with the wife dead he can marry money and have his own silk company.”

Mr. Oliver was polite about this, but purringly reminded Slabbe once again that the person whom Zenith considered it worthwhile to spend money on was one Max Lorenz. Was he dead or wasn’t he?

Slabbe grimaced. “I’ll tell you that after you have your Wheaties in the morning, Ollie, old kid. Sweet dreams.”

Slabbe telephoned City Hall and had an interesting conversation with the laboratory technician who had examined the burned Chevvy, and then got connected with the detective bureau and used Carlin’s name to instruct them to find out this and that about the telegram which Ruby Reed had received at the Carleton Arms Hotel Monday afternoon.

Having done this, he felt he should also tell Carlin about it. First, he called Abe Morse and Charlie Somers, boys who took his money occasionally, and ordered them to idle away a few hours in the vicinity of the Nola home. He then got Carlin on the wire there, gnawed off the cap of a quart of beer and enjoyed it leisurely while Carlin bawled him out.

“OK, I was a bad boy,” Slabbe said, finally. “There were just enough miles on Lorenz’s Chevvy for him to have got here from Lewisburg, with maybe eight or ten over for riding around town. Lilac Lake is a dozen miles out, so Lorenz’s car wasn’t up there and can’t be the one Ike Veech was using. By itself, that doesn’t sound like much, but here’s another thing: there was no ignition key in Lorenz’s Chevvy and the switch was off. The car was started by fiddling with the wires on the distributor, get it?”

Carlin’s voice altered. “Which means that Lorenz wasn’t the guy who rolled the heap into Bleeker’s Canyon, because if he did it, since the car was his, the ignition would be switched on and the key would be on hand.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s dandy.”

“Isn’t it, though? Can you make anything stick on Teel, Pat? Did you find the gun Ruby was shot with so that he could have done it like you said – shot her and himself and heaved it?”

“No, dammit. I still got guys searching the grounds for it. Teel sticks to his story. They got the family lawyer on hand, and he told them all to clam up – as if he had to. There ain’t no reason why Teel would kill Ruby that I see. Prentice either, or anybody else, though they could have. Any one of ’em could have sneaked out of the house by a back or side door and let her have it and then said they were in their room, or something. Only Prentice swears he only knew Ruby from Saturday night when he picked her up at Fudge Burke’s.”

“What does Teel say?” Slabbe asked.

“Nothing.”

“He’s your boy, Pat. Ruby Reed was his wife.”

Carlin evidently had no expletive on tap strong enough for the occasion. He was silent while Slabbe explained.

Then he said softly: “I’ll face up to him with it. It ought to be good.”

“Watch how Ione takes it,” Slabbe advised. “Teel could have got hold of the Caddy to drive up to the lake Monday night, too. Let him know that.”

“Yeah. This is going to hold. Maybe it’s going to put Teel and Max Lorenz in it together. Why not? We already got Teel and the old lady on record as saying it was Lorenz who shot Ruby. OK, they’re stuck with it. Teel found out that Nola was bringing Lorenz here to upset his apple cart. Teel got to Lorenz first, told him to ride with him instead of Nola and there’d be more in the end. Maybe Lorenz didn’t sign on the dotted line right off, but as soon as Nola was dead in the plane wreck he teamed up with Teel. Sure. Lorenz contacted Ruby when he was sprung, told her to come here and he’d meet her. She was the clincher, Teel’s wife. Only when Lorenz threw in with Teel, then Ruby wasn’t needed.”

“See if the DA thinks it’s enough,” Slabbe encouraged.

“I’ll do just that,” Carlin promised.

“Check. I’ll see you downtown. You bringing him right down?”

“Soon as I can,” Carlin said. “This gang gives me the willies.”

Slabbe hung up and opened the refrigerator by his desk, treated himself to another quart of beer, waiting. When the phone rang again and a detective said, “Here’s what that telegram said,” Slabbe reached for a pencil and scratch pad. It wasn’t necessary, however. The message was short enough to remember easily.

The detective quoted: “ ‘See John Nola for your end.’ No signature. The thing was handed in at the airport Monday afternoon at three-fifty.”

Slabbe’s gray eyes were opaque. He put the telephone back into its cradle and sat without taking his hand off it for five minutes. When he was ready again, he used it to call the airport. He learned that the wrecked plane had been cleared by the control tower on last Monday at exactly 3:50 p.m., and that John Nola had made his reservation two days in advance. He called Jake George’s secretary, Susie Caston, who lived within a half dozen blocks of his office.

Ten minutes later she was there, a small blonde woman, no longer young, her face limp as the dyed rabbit fur on the collar of her three-year-old cloth coat.

Slabbe got up and fathered her into a chair, making grunting, sympathetic sounds. He studied her empty brown eyes, avoided them as he said: “I guess there’s not much doubt about Jake, honey. He wouldn’t want you to take on, though”

“Did you – find him?” Her voice was dead.

“I don’t think so. Not yet. It could be him in a car that burned up, but maybe not. It depends on you a lot, honey.”

“Me?”

“On your memory, anyhow,” Slabbe nodded, “Just relax. You want to help, don’t you?”

“I want to see the man who killed Jake.”

Slabbe squeezed her shoulder, returned to his reinforced chair. Casually he said: “Remember what time John Nola called Monday afternoon to tell you he’d be putting a check in the mail?”

Her hands were together in her lap. She sat stiffly, lips ragged. “It’s important, isn’t it? Then I can’t say for sure. It was about an hour after Jake went out with the blond man who limped. I think they went out about three. That would make it about four, but I can’t be sure.”

Slabbe slid his spittoon out from under his desk, dropped his gum into it. “You’ll be sure, honey,” he promised. “We’re going to make you sure. We’ll do a complete coverage, but take it easy. Don’t strain. This has to stand up in court.”

“All right,” she said dully.

Slabbe got a scratch pad handy. “Just to get organized, we’ll start with Sunday night. Where were you, honey? What did you do? What time did you get home? What time did you go to bed? Did you read or something before you fell asleep? Go ahead now. Don’t leave anything out, but don’t hurry.”

She started. There was no emotion in her voice, little interest. Slabbe was patient.

“Now for Monday morning,” he said. “Everything you did, honey. What time did you get up? Did you get right out when the alarm went off, or did you turn over for another minute?”

“I got right up. My alarm is set for seven o’clock.”

“What did you do first? What do you always do?”

“Wash—”

“OK, then what? Make your own breakfast? What did you have? What bus or streetcar did you take? Remember the driver? Remember the elevator boy at Jake’s office building who took you up? Did he say good morning? Take it, honey. You can remember every single second if you work it right.”

“Yes. I can, can’t I?”

“You bet you can,” Slabbe said. “If you get ahead of yourself don’t be afraid to go back. I’m writing it all down in order. Spit it out, honey, spit it out.”

Susie Caston went on. She spoke faster now. She began to wrinkle her brow. Her eyes got life back into them. She talked over Monday morning, every minute of it. Her voice gathering strength and interest. “It’s like living it over again, Benjie,” she said. “I can almost feel the temperature of the office that day. It was cold, I remember. There was something wrong with the radiator. I called the superintendent three times. He said he’d send a plumber up. The plumber came about three-thirty—”

“Uh-uh, not too fast,” Slabbe cut in. “We’re only at the morning yet. Don’t jump ahead. Don’t try to tell something that happened before something else. One at a time, honey, one at a time. What about lunch?”

“Twelve-thirty to one-thirty,” she responded promptly. “I walked downstairs. The elevator was on the top floor. I went out the front door, went east down Main Street, north on Fifth. I went to the Acme lunchroom. I had a grilled cheese sandwich, two olives with it, lemon sponge pie, a cup – no, two cups of cocoa. I smoked two cigarettes. Going back to the office . . .”

Slabbe filled in his chart. As nearly as possible, every minute was accounted for in chronological order.

“Yes,” Susie cried, “it was just three o’clock when that man came in, a few seconds before. I can hear the City Hall clock sometimes when the wind is right. He came in and said, ‘Where’s the boss?’ and I got up and went into Jake’s office, and the clock was striking three times. Jake looked past me into the outer office and saw the man and jumped up and yelled: ‘Come in, Lorenz; come right in. Beat it, Susie.’ But they weren’t together more than five minutes when they came out again, headed for the door. That was when Jake whispered to me: ‘I’m taking him to Nola’s home and we collect.’ ”

“On the ball now, honey,” Slabbe warned. “Keep it coming. Were you standing up or sitting down when they left? Did you look at your watch? How did you pass the time?”

“I was typing when they went out. I finished four letters. It was after three then. I wanted to get done to hear Marty and Hazel on the radio. That’s that program that’s on every day at three-thirty.”

Slabbe cut in. “How long is the program?”

“Fifteen minutes. They advertise a soap powder.”

“Did you get it on?”

“Yes. I remember, I turned it on while I was still typing, and I kept going till the announcer was done with the first commercial. Then I leaned back and listened.”

“And Nola hadn’t called yet?”

“No. The program was over. The plumber came before Mr Nola called. He came just at the end of the program with tools. And I said, ‘Don’t you start making noise till I hear this.’ He said, ‘Lady, I knock off at four o’clock, so I’ve got fifteen minutes to stop you squawking about how cold it is.’ ”

Susie’s eyes were intent now. She wasn’t in Slabbe’s office. She was back in Jake George’s office Monday afternoon at 3:45. She said: “Then the commercial started again and I told the plumber to bring the roof down if he wanted to. He went to work. I typed another letter, that took at least ten minutes. Then the telephone rang and it was Mr Nola. I yelled at the plumber: ‘Stop that for just a second please.’ And he stopped, and I talked to Mr Nola and—”

Slabbe had stopped listening. This was what he wanted. The plumber would be another witness.

“How am I doing, Benjie?” Susie asked.

“You
did
, baby,” Slabbe assured her. “There’s no doubt it was him, is there? You know his voice?”

“Oh, yes, I talked to him often. I’ll swear it was him.”

“And a jury will believe you, honey,” Slabbe said grimly.

“But Benjie, what’s it all about?”

“Just that it must have been five minutes to four when John Nola called you, honey, and the plane that cracked up took off at ten minutes to four.”

Susie goggled. “Well, then . . . he . . . I mean.”

“You bet.” Slabbe sat down again. “He was never on that plane.”

Slabbe was again alone in his office at eleven o’clock when Charlie Somers called to say: “That big chauffeur took off in the Nola Caddy as soon as Carlin pulled his boys out. Abe Morse is tailing him.”

“That’s your shift in, then,” Slabbe said. “I’ll pay you in the a.m.”

He got City Hall on the wire, told Carlin: “Come on over, Pat. We’re gonna go places.”

Carlin arrived promptly. His dark eyes were glittering. “You told me to take Teel down just for monkey business, didn’t you?”