The Golden Gizmo (14 page)

"That part I don't get. Why would you want to bump him off?"

"Because that's the way I'd have to feel about him. When a man's killed"-Toddy caught himself-"when a man's tried to kill you, you want to get back at him. He'll talk. He'll spill everything he knows in attempting to get off the hook."

"Yeah. Maybe," said McKinley.

"But I've got to be left alone. No tails. Nothing that might possibly lead him to think I was working with you… You see that, don't you? It's got to look like I'm giving you the double-cross. Otherwise, he won't talk and you'll never find out how he manages to get pounds of gold every week-you won't be able to prove that he has got it. And if you can't prove that-"

"But suppose," said McKinley. "Suppose you are giving us the double-cross?"

Toddy shrugged and leaned back in his chair. McKinley sat blinking, staring at him.

"I'd be crazy to do it," he said, at last. "I give you a car and a gun and a clear field with a man that's loaded with dough. I give a guy like you a setup like that. It doesn't make sense any way you look at it."

He pressed a button on his desk and stood up. Toddy stood up also. It was all over. There was no use arguing.

"Only fifteen years in this game and I've gone crazy," said McKinley. "Chief, take this man back to jail and dress him out. I'll send over an order for his release."

He said one other thing as Toddy headed for the door. Something that made Toddy very glad his back was turned: "We'll spring your wife, too, Kent, as soon as you pull this off…"

With deliberate slowness he unpacked the suitcase, the clean shirts, socks and underwear, the toilet articles, cigarettes and bottle of whiskey. He knew what the back-issue newspapers would tell him. He had seen an evening paper headline, BAIL RACKET PROBE LOOMS, but without that he would have known. Miracles didn't happen. Elaine couldn't be in jail.

Still, he didn't really
know
, until he read the papers. He spread them out at last, a drink in his hand, and read. The foolishly unreasonable hope collapsed.

Only two of the papers carried the story; one gave it a paragraph, the other two. The latter paper also carried her picture, a small, blurred shot, taken several years ago. The former "character actress" had surrendered at a suburban jail. She'd worn sunglasses and was "apparently suffering from a severe cold." Somebody was filling in for Elaine.

Toddy sighed and poured himself another drink. It was about as he'd figured it.

He ordered dinner and put in a call to Airedale. The bondsman arrived just as the waiter was departing.

His derby hat was pulled low over his eyes, and his doggish face was long with anxiety. His first act was to step to the window and draw the shade.

"Can't you smell that stuff, man?" he rasped. "That's gas. It's driftin' all the way down from that little room in Sacramento!"

Toddy poured a glass of milk, handed it to him, and gestured to the bed. Airedale sat down, heavily, fanning himself with the derby.

"Where'd you go," he said. "And why ain't you still goin'?"

"Save it," said Toddy, taking a bite of steak. "Now tell me what happened."

"Me? I tell you what happened?"

"They cracked down on your connections. You had to produce Elaine. Take it from there."

"I go to your hotel and get ahold of lardass. We go up to your room. We can't raise no one, so we break in. You ain't there, Elaine ain't there. Period."

"Comma," said Toddy. "How'd the room look? I mean was it torn up?"

"You ought to know… No," Airedale added hastily, "it wasn't."

"There weren't any cops around? No detectives?"

"Just me and the house dick, but-"

"What time were you there?"

"Eleven-thirty, maybe twelve."

"Oh," said Toddy, "I get it. You were there when…"

"When," Airedale nodded. "When Elaine was going up in smoke. Jesus, Toddy, did you have to draw a picture of it? Couldn't you have done it outside somewheres? You're up there raising hell-everyone in the joint hears her screamin'-and then-"

"That doesn't mean anything. She was always doing that."

"She won't anymore," said Airedale. "I honest to Gawd don't get it, Toddy. Getting rid of the corpus delicti won't make you nothing. Not with that incinerator stack running right through your room."

Toddy abruptly pushed aside his steak and poured a cup of coffee. "I didn't kill her, Airedale. Let's get that straight. I didn't kill her."

"Am I a cop?" said Airedale. "I don't care what you did. I ain't even seen you. I ain't even telling you to get away from here as far and as fast as you can before they put the arm on you."

"There hasn't been any rumble yet."

"There will be," Airedale assured him grimly. "It's building up right now. That little hustler, the ringer that's standing in for Elaine, don't like jail."

"So?" Toddy shrugged. "She's in up to her ears. It would be easier for her if she liked it."

"She don't like it," Airedale repeated, "because she's on the dope. She's a heroin mainliner."

Toddy gulped. "But why in the hell did she-"

"Why do they do anything when they're hitting the
H
?" growled Airedale. "She spent so much time in the hay she was starting to moo, but she still couldn't pay for her habit. So she stands in for Elaine, and then she gives me the bad news. I'm over a barrel, see? I've got to take care of her. I got to put in a fix and see that she gets the stuff. Either that or I'm out of business. She'll squawk that she ain't Elaine."

Airedale paused to light a cigar. He took a disconsolate puff or two, and sat staring at the glowing tip.

"Well… I've had a doctor in every day. Cold shots, y'know. But that can't go on more'n a few more trips. Even if no one wised up and I was getting those shots for a buck instead of a hundred, I'd have to break it off. I wouldn't play. I've got my own kind of crookedness. It don't drive people crazy. It don't kill 'em."

He paused again, and gave Toddy an apologetic glance. "Not," he said, "that some of 'em don't need killin'. It's just a manner of speaking."

"Skip it," said Toddy. "Will she keep quiet as long as she gets the stuff?"

"Why not? She ain't a bad kid. She doesn't want to cause any trouble. She's beginning to see that I can't keep her fixed, and she ain't kickin'. She'll just go out on her own again."

"She won't be able to do that. They'll stick her on a conspiracy charge."

"Huh-uh." Airedale wagged his head. "She'll get out. She'll get all the stuff she wants. You've read them papers? Well, that little gal's worth her weight in white stuff to certain parties."

The bondsman stubbed out his cigar, sighed, and reached inside the pocket of his coat. He brought out a railroad timetable and proceeded to scan it. After a moment, he looked up.

"What do you think about Florida this time of year?"

"I'm not going anywhere," said Toddy. "Not yet, anyway."

"I am," said Airedale. "I like my fireworks on the Fourth of July. Here's hoping it'll be safe to come back by then."

He waited, as though expecting some comment, but Toddy only nodded. Naturally, Airedale would have to get out of town. The scandal would die down, eventually, be superseded by other and livelier scandals. Meanwhile, Los Angeles would be made extremely uncomfortable for the bondsman and his various political connections.

Airedale rose, looked into the crown of his derby, and emitted a bark of pleasure. "Well, look at that," he said, pulling forth a roll of bills. "And just when you'd changed your mind about leaving!"

"Thanks." Toddy pushed back the roll. "It isn't that. I've got money."

"So? What else do you need?"

"Nothing you can help me with."

"I can help you a little," said Airedale. "I can tell you to forget it if you're figuring on copping a plea. Juries don't like these cases where the body is disposed of. It shows bad faith, see what I mean? You try to cover the crime up and then, maybe, when you see you can't get away with it, you ask for a break. They give you one. Up here."

"But-Yeah," said Toddy, dully, "I suppose you're right."

Airedale slammed on his derby and started to turn away. "I don't get it," he snarled. "What are you hanging around for? Why ain't you on your way?"

"I want to find out who killed Elaine."

"Brother," said Airedale, "that does it!"

"If I run," said Toddy, "I've got to keep running. A few hundred or a few grand won't be enough. I've got to be squared for life."

"You've got something good lined up, huh?" said Airedale. "Why didn't you say so in the first place? What-never mind. Can you pull it off by yourself?"

"It's the only way I can do it. But I'll need more time, Airedale. A couple of days, anyway. I really wanted three, but-"

"Two," said Airedale. "I'd figured on twenty-four hours-enough time for me to clear out. But I'll fix the gal for two; I'll pay for that much. She may not get the stuff if I'm not here, but… Oh, hell. I guess it'll be all right."

They shook hands and Airedale left. A drink in his hand, Toddy sat down on the bed and mulled over the situation. Some of his normal fatalism began to assert itself. He grinned philosophically.

He undressed and climbed into bed. Lying back with his eyes open, he stared up into the darkness.

McKinley had promised not to have him tailed. It wouldn't be necessary. Placed at strategic points, a mere handful of men, with the license number and description of a car, could follow its movements even in a city as large as Los Angeles. So there was only one thing to do- rather, two things. Change the license, change the description.

Milt would be stubborn. He'd do nothing unless he was made to-so he'd be made to. There'd be no spot-check, no tails, no T-men to interfere.

"You haven't seen Miss Chavez?" he asked.

"Seen her? Why the hell would I? I don't even know where-"

"Good," said McKinley, in a milder tone. "She's been after us to find out what happened to you. Wanted to see you in jail. Wanted to send you a note. I finally told her we'd turned you loose, and you'd left town."

"That's-that's fine," said Toddy.

"Yeah. You've got a job to do, Kent. You've got a wife. And Miss Chavez is as straight as they come."

"And I'm not."

"You're not," agreed McKinley. "You took the words right out of my mouth."

He hung up the phone. Toddy slammed up his receiver, and finished dressing.

He was irritated by the conversation, but more than that, worried. Dolores knew about Elaine's death. She'd be wondering why, after holding him, Toddy, three days, McKinley had suddenly freed him. She'd be sure that instead of merely leaving town, as McKinley had told her he had, he'd try to leave the country. She'd know that he'd need plenty of money to leave on and that he could only get it in one way.

As long as he was in jail, her deal with the government was safe. They wouldn't care, when the news of the murder broke, whether she'd known about it or not. But if he skipped the country and committed another crime in the process of skipping…

No-Toddy shook his head. That wasn't like her. She wouldn't be concerned for herself, but him. She'd want to help him. And that, in a way, was as bad as the other. He couldn't tell her anything. This had to be a one-man show.

Toddy took a final glance around the room, left it, and headed for the elevator.

The car was parked a few blocks away. He almost laughed aloud when he saw it. It was a medium-priced sedan, exactly like thousands of others of the same make to a casual observer. But Toddy was not observing casually, and neither would the T-men.

They'd hardly need to look at the license plates. The gray paint job, the white sidewall tires and the red-glass reflector buttons by which the plates were held would be sufficient identification. They'd be able to spot him two blocks away.

He slid under the wheel, and opened the dashboard compartment. The keys and the gun were there, and-he checked it quickly-the gun was loaded. Everything was as it should be.

He drove north and east, winding back and forth through a maze of side streets, avoiding anything in the nature of an arterial thoroughfare. He didn't think McKinley would have his spot check set up so soon, but he might; and there wasn't any hurry. He had the whole day to kill.

The houses he passed grew shabbier, fewer and farther apart. Many of them stood empty. Most of the streets were unpaved. It was one of those borderline, ambiguous areas common to most cities; an area surrendered to industry but not yet made part of it.

Toddy pulled onto a brick-paved street, and rounded a corner. On the opposite side of the street was an abandoned warehouse. On the right, the side he was on, was an automobile salvage yard, its high board fence set back to allow room for the dingy filling station at the front. A four-wheel truck trailer, all its tires missing, stood between the street and the closed-in grease rack.

Toddy drove into the inside lane of the station. He spoke a few words to a cold-eyed man in greasy coveralls and a skullcap made of an old hat. The man leaned against the gas pump. He looked up and down the street, said "Okay, Mac," and jerked his head. Toddy drove into the greasing tunnel; then, as the rear wall slid up, into the yard beyond.

The job took two men three hours. When it was over Toddy himself, if he had not watched the transformation, would not have believed it was the same car.

A chromium grille disguised the radiator. The white sidewalls were replaced with plain tires. A sunshade sheltered the windshield. The roof and fenders of the car were dark blue; the rest of the body a glossy black. The red reflector buttons were gone, of course, as were the original license plates. The plate holders, with the substitute plates, had been moved to a new position.

Toddy paid over one hundred and fifty dollars, adding a five-dollar tip for each of the workmen. That left him with a little less than ten dollars, but that was more than enough for what he had to do. He wouldn't be paying his hotel bill. He wouldn't be going back to pay it.

He took one of the main streets back toward town, stopping once at a restaurant-bar, where he passed the better part of two hours, and again at a drugstore where he bought faintly tinted sunglasses. The glasses were disguise enough; not really necessary, for that matter. They'd be looking for a car, not a man.

It was dusk when Toddy reached the city's business section, and a light drizzling rain was beginning to fall. Driving slowly, Toddy turned north up Spring Street.

Milt wouldn't be buying gold, now. Moreover, he wouldn't be receiving his nightly visit from the driver of the beer truck. He wouldn't because there would be no more scrap gold to go out in the empty bottles.

Toddy swore suddenly and stepped on the gas. Almost immediately, he slowed down again. So what? What difference did it make if he passed by the hotel, the one where he and Elaine had lived? They didn't know anything or want to know anything. All they were interested in was the rent which was paid through tomorrow.

He parked on Main Street, and sat in the growing darkness, smoking, listening to the patter of rain on the roof. For a panic-stricken moment he wondered whether Milt had already skipped; then grinned and shook his head. Milt would see no need to hurry. He'd move cautiously, safely, taking his time.

So that was all right. He wished he had nothing to worry about but that.

It was seven o'clock by the time he had finished his third cigarette. He tossed the butt out the window, transferred the gun from the dash compartment to his pocket, and started the car.

He drove up Main a block, swung over to the next street, drove back three blocks. On a dark side street he turned right and cut the motor. He coasted to a stop a few doors above the entrance to the Los Angeles Watch & Jewelry Co., brokers in precious metals.

Luckily, he waited a moment before reaching for the door of the car. For Milt hadn't stopped buying gold. Doubtless he felt that it was too soon, that he had to go through the motions a little longer. Or perhaps he was waiting for a weekend to beat it. At any rate, the door of the shop opened suddenly and a rain-coated figure carrying the familiar square box dashed toward Main Street. A few minutes later, two other buyers came out together and trotted toward Main.

Crouched low in the seat, hidden by the rain-washed windows, Toddy waited ten minutes more. But no one else emerged from the shop, and, he decided, no one was likely to. It was too late.

He slid over on the seat and rolled down the window. He looked swiftly up and down the street. Then he rolled up the window, opened the door, and got out.

He walked close to the building fronts, pausing as he passed the one next to Milt's shop. He could see in from there-see a scene so familiar, so associated with warmth and friendliness, that what he was about to do seemed suddenly fantastic and hateful.

Milt, seated back in his cage, the bright work light lifting him out of the shadows, draping him in a kind of golden aura. Milt… how could he…?

But he had. And his friendliness-his faked friendship- only made matters worse. Toddy reconnoitered the street quickly, strode to the door, and stepped inside. He was halfway down the long dark aisle before Milt could look up.

"Toddy! Iss it you? For days I have been worrying about… about…"

"Yeah," said Toddy. "I'll bet you have."

He moved swiftly through the wicket of the cage, and brought a hand down on the gooseneck of the lamp. It flattened against the workbench, casting its light upon the floor. No one looking in from the street would see anything.

Milt had started to rise, but Toddy shoved him back in his chair. He seated himself, facing the little jeweler.

"That's right," he nodded grimly. "That's a gun. If you don't think I'll use it, give me a little trouble."

"But I do not understand! Trouble? Have ever I-" He broke off, staring into Toddy's cold set face, and abruptly his mask of bewildered innocence vanished. "Stupid Toddy. Oh, so stupid. At last he awakens."

"Get it out," said Toddy. "Every goddamned nickel. And don't ask me what."

"Ask?" Mitt shrugged. "I am not given to foolish chatter. As for it, I have anticipated you. It is already out." He started to reach beneath the workbench, then paused abruptly, arm half-extended.

Toddy nodded. "Go ahead. Just don't try anything."

He took the heavy briefcase that Mitt drew out, laid it on the bench, and slipped the catch. He shook it slightly, his eyes swerving from the jeweler to the bench. There was one packet of scat money-fives, tens and twenties. The rest of the horde was in thousand-dollar bills, dough too hot for the dumbest burglar to touch. Milt couldn't spend it in this country. Abroad, there'd be no trouble. Violation of income tax laws was not an extraditable offense.

"Your visit was most inopportune," sighed Mitt. "A few hours more and I would have been gone."

"You're still going. You're going out to Venice with me, out to the beach. We're going to have a nice long talk."

"We can do that here. We are alone on this street. No one will come in."

"Someone will tomorrow."

"But… Oh," said Milt. "Still, is it necessary, Toddy? You have the money. By tomorrow, you can be very far away. In any case, my hands are tied. I dare not complain."

Toddy jerked his head. "I'll be a lot farther away the day after tomorrow. And you'd talk, all right. Everyone that's had anything to do with me will get a going-over. I've been in jail, and-"

"Yes. I know."

"Then you probably know how I got myself sprung. You know I can't keep my bargain unless I dig up the guy that killed Elaine."

"Which you cannot do," said Mitt. "Not"-he added- "that you have any intention of keeping your bargain. Another, perhaps, almost any other man, but not you." He grinned faintly, his hands clasped over his fat stomach. "You do not want to keep your bargain with the government agents. You cannot keep it. A confession you may extract from me, but it will be worthless. I can prove that I did not kill Elaine or cause her to be killed."

"Maybe." Toddy studied the bland, chubby face. "Maybe," he repeated, "but I'm taking you with me, anyway. No one knows how you worked this setup here. I'm going to find out, just in case I ever get back to this country. If you come clean with me I may just tie you up and dump you somewhere. Some place where you'll be found in a few days. Otherwise…"

He gestured significantly with the gun. Milt laughed openly.

"Yes? You were thinking of the dunes, doubtless? Oh, excellent! It will be a wonderful place to leave a body… or should I say two?"

"Two?" Toddy frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Bodies," said Milt. "Yours and Miss Chavez'."

Toddy's chair grated against the floor. "Damn you! If you've hurt that-"

Behind him the curtains rustled faintly. Something cold and hard pushed through them, pressed into the back of his neck.

Milt nodded to him, solemnly. "That is right, Toddy. Sit still. Sit very, very still. Yes, and I think I shall just take your gun. Miss Chavez"-he glanced at the clock- "should be here at any moment. Your hotel, your former hotel, I should say, was kind enough to refer her to me. I suggested that she return here tonight when you, in your hour of dire emergency, would most certainly come to me for aid. So… So"-the front door opened and clicked softly shut-"she has come."

She came down the aisle, hesitantly at first, then with quick firm steps as she saw the two men in the dim glow of the lamp. "Toddy! I am so glad I-I-"

"Do not scream," said Milt. "Do not move."

He thrust himself up from his chair, moved around Toddy and out through the wicket. Toddy waited helplessly, his hands carefully held out from his sides… This was the one thing he hadn't foreseen-the fact that Mitt might have a confederate. Who the hell could it be, he wondered, and why had Milt behaved as he had? What had he hoped to gain by appearing defenseless, letting Toddy talk?

Toddy didn't know, and there was no time now to think about it. The person behind him came through the drapes, and the gun barrel dug viciously into his neck.

He got up slowly. He looked into Dolores' pale strained face, and tried to grin reassuringly. He heard Milt's chuckle as he pushed her forward through the wicket.

He turned around.

"Hi-ya, prince," said Elaine.