Too Many Crooks (13 page)

Nothing had happened during last night or the long day just past, except that I got sick of baloney sandwiches and got enough sleep so that I was reasonably well rested. But if I stumbled into one of the roadblocks, plenty would happen. I drove half a mile and parked, trying to remember the countryside. I'd driven all around here as a kid in school, and I'd spent some time in this area during the last few years, and I knew there ought to be at least one road without cops blocking it.

There was. I remembered a dirt road that would take me almost to the city limits of Seacliff, and I found it. I drove to the city limits and into town without being stopped, but it was 10 p.m. before I was on the familiar streets again. And I'd told Betty I'd be in by nine. If I got in.

On Pepper Street, five blocks from Lanny's Restaurant, I took the Cad's registration slip off the wheel and shoved it under the seat, then pulled into a well-lighted parking lot on the corner just as if my name were Bill Brown, instead of mud, accepted the pasteboard check from an attendant and told him I might be gone an hour, and it might be a day or two. Then I walked out of the lights like a man with boils on his feet. I was sweating, literally and profusely, by the time I reached Lanny's.

Standing outside, I peered in through the window at the restaurant's dimly lighted interior. Candles burned on half a dozen tables and at least one couple was having dinner. Four booths lined the right wall, but I couldn't see if any of them were occupied.

I wasn't at all happy about walking in there. If Betty were waiting, all would be well, but in case anything had gone wrong, in case some friends of Carver or Norris were planted, I simply wouldn't last through the soup. I'd be in it. The hat was on my head, the .38 was in my coat pocket, and my hand was on the gun. I swallowed some air and walked in.

Chapter Twelve

I stood inside the door for a while but nothing happened. Nobody shot me, nobody hit me on the head. Then I walked past the tables and along the row of booths looking for Betty. She wasn't here.

I stopped by the last booth and looked toward the front of Lanny's as the door opened and somebody came in, walked toward me. It was Betty. She peered at my face in the dimness as she got closer, then she walked to me, put her arms around me, and hugged me for a moment. She dropped her arms and stepped back, as if suddenly embarrassed.

"Where have you been?" she asked me breathlessly. "I was so worried I was almost sick." She took my hand and pulled me to one of the booths, sat down opposite me. "I couldn't stand it, just sitting here," she said. "I kept going outside, looking around. When you came in, I wasn't even sure it was you."

I grinned at her. "It's me. Betty, you're wonderful. Thanks. Any trouble?"

"No. How about you? Why are you so late? I thought maybe they'd caught you."

"They slowed me down, that's all. You know, don't you, that you're sticking your neck out a mile?"

"No farther than yours, and it's my neck. I've got quite a bit to tell you, Shell." She put a hand to her lips, glancing around, then she asked softly, "What shall I call you?"

"Just call me stupid."

"Be serious."

"You think I'm kidding? Look, I'm agog with curiosity, but gagged from baloney sandwiches. Let's order a hearty something and you can tell me the score while we eat."

We both ordered rare steaks and before they arrived Betty peered at me and said, "You look—well, you actually
look
like a hunted man."

"That's me." I knew what she meant, though. I hadn't thought much about it till now, but I definitely needed a shave, I'd slept in my clothes, and I must have looked pretty dismal.

She reached to the seat alongside her and held up a large paper-wrapped package. "I got the things you wanted," she said.

"Thanks, honey. Well, what new lies have the cops dreamed up?"

She hesitated, then handed me a newspaper. "Here's a copy of today's
Star
," she said. "I went as easy on you as I could without getting myself fired, or tipping Thurmond and the rest off about what you told me." She frowned and added, "The first story I wrote wound up in the wastebasket, anyway, and another article I did yesterday about Seaco was killed too."

"Josephson again?"

"Uh-huh. I was wondering why he pays so much attention to anything written about Seaco or Norris—or you, for that matter. Harry, the editor, told me he has to clear anything like that through Josephson."

"Josephson's the
Star
's publisher, isn't he?" She nodded and I said, "Maybe he could stand a little looking over."

I read the headlines on today's
Star
, then began the story. The head above the article stated: "Private Detective Sought in Slaying of Police Officer," and I skimmed over the story until I was stopped roughly by one line of print. "Detective Carver, who stated that he and Blake were attempting to place Scott under arrest for the murder of prominent local realtor Emmett Dane, accosted the suspect on Vincent Street."

As the words sank in, I looked up at Betty. "What?" I said. "Murder of
Dane
?"

Betty nodded slowly. "That's the chief's story. I got it straight from him."

I swore. "How in hell can they pull this after giving out that suicide line?"

"It's in there. The chief claims that you were under suspicion then, and the 'hint of suicide,' as he called it, was given the press so you wouldn't become alarmed while they continued the investigation."

I stared at her. I said slowly, "But there's no motive. They can't possibly dream up any motive for my killing Dane."

"Finish reading it all."

I did. And, as I read, I remembered Carver's saying they could undoubtedly find a motive if they dug deep enough. Possibly, he'd been digging even before then. It went clear back to that first case I'd handled for Dane, the one in which I'd cleared Dane of any suspicion of murder—I thought—and helped put the killer in San Quentin. The guy, William Yorty, confessed, then repudiated his confession in court and pulled life—and that was what the cops had jumped on. Their story, mostly in hints and innuendoes rather than outright statements of fact, was that Dane and I together had helped railroad Yorty to prison in order to clear Dane. The implication was that Dane himself had been guilty. Thus Dane's knowledge of my part in the frame and possible jury-bribing—which was being investigated—might well have been part of my motive for murdering him. Only part, though, because the chief stated that other incriminating evidence was in his hands.

The steaks arrived then, and although I'd lost much of my appetite, the thought of baloney brought most of it back. We started in on the steaks as I finished the newspaper story.

I was quiet, thinking about what I'd read, when Betty said, "I was a busy girl today, checking things. And I came up with an idea. Maybe it isn't much, but it might be important."

"Give."

"The Lilith Manning Foundation. I looked up a copy of Miss Manning's mother's will today. She left a lot of property to the city."

"I know. Park, public beach . . ."

"Uh-huh. She left the property to the city, but on condition that it be used solely as she directed in her will. If the property wasn't used by the city the way she declared it must be used, title to that property would pass from the city to the Lilith Manning Foundation."

"What conditions?"

"No concessions could be built on the beach. No hotdog stands, bars, amusement places. It was supposed to be just a pleasant public beach, place for swimming. And a few months ago the park commission granted permits for two sandwich-and-soft-drink stands to be built there. One of them is finished already, in business now."

"Doesn't sound like much. But it might be enough to switch title from the city to the foundation, huh?"

"It would be. I talked to a lawyer, and it's perfectly legal. He'd forgotten there was anything like that in the will. It's been several years since anything's been said or printed about the Manning bequests, and she made the will over a year before she died. Probably almost everybody's forgotten them."

I shook my head. There was too much to think about all at once. I glanced at the
Star
again, then said, "Not good. But right now it's this damn story that worries me. The chief and his chums have me tied up pretty tight. Except for one thing—my motive. That's pretty weak."

"There's more." She bit her lip, then said, "I finally found out about Emmett's will—at least part of it. Most of it, I believe. Chief Thurmond knows about it, too."

I said, "There was a will, then. Well, that should help."

"It doesn't."

"He must have left his holdings to his ex-wife and kid."

She shook her head. "No. Just small bequests to both of them. And one other specific legacy, a house and lot on the south side of town, worth maybe twenty-five thousand, were left to . . ." She stopped. She was looking at me, biting her lip.

My mouth sagged slowly and I said, "Wait a minute. You don't— you can't mean—"

"Yes. To you. I imagine that's part of the other 'evidence' Chief Thurmond claims he has. The motive." She paused for a moment and went on, "All the rest of his property, including
all
the beachfront land, was left to Dorothy Craig."

I stared at her. "What? What kind of damn fool talk is this?"

"I talked to Chief Thurmond, to Dane's lawyer, and to Miss Craig. I didn't actually see the will, but they all agree that's what was in it."

I was quiet for a full minute, thinking, then I said, "The will's fake, of course. I'll give a hundred to one that Dane never even heard of this Craig wench. And this means that she's obviously in with Norris." I stopped and almost jumped out of the booth. "Good Lord. What about Lilith? If Craig is pals with Norris, that has to mean she's in with Carver, too. Did you mention Lilith to her?"

She nodded. "I asked her if she knew Lilith Manning, and she looked startled, then admitted she did. But she told me she hadn't seen her for a long time."

My heartbeat had speeded up. If Lilith had managed to reach Dorothy Craig's, and walked in hoping for a place to hide, she might have found it—face down in the dirt somewhere. I climbed out of the booth and went to the rear of Lanny's, where there was a pay phone, looked up Dorothy Craig's number, and dialed. In a moment, a woman's voice answered.

"Miss Craig?" I said.

There wasn't any answer, though I could hear her breathing into the mouthpiece. "She— she isn't here," she said finally. "Who is this?"

I wondered what the hell was wrong, then silently swore at myself. If Lilith were there and still all right, she certainly wouldn't give her name to anybody who happened to call. I made up my mind fast and said, "This is Shell Scott."

She let out her breath. "Oh, Shell. This is Lilith. You scared me."

"Listen, is that Dorothy Craig there?"

"Not right now. She should be back soon."

"How long have you been there? I called last night, but couldn't get anybody."

"Just about an hour. I slept all night on the beach. Then I had to wait till dark to come here. It was awful."

"You saw Craig and then she left? About an hour ago?"

"Yes. Where are you, Shell? Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Lilith, you better get the hell out of there. I may be nuts, but I think this Craig babe is thick with Norris and Carver. You know they'll be looking for you, and she might be tipping them right now. If I'm right, you're dead unless you get out of there fast. She say where she was going?"

"Just— just to the store."

"An hour ago?"

"What'll I do? Where'll I go? Shell, where are you? I'll come to you."

"Lanny's, on Ninth. You know where it is?" She said she did and I told her, "OK, then, fly down here. Be careful, but make it fast."

She said she'd run and we hung up. I went back to the table. "Just phoned Lilith," I told Betty. "She's coming down here. If she's lucky." I was so keyed up I could hardly sit still. Lilith's safety was almost as important to me as it was to her. I said, "The Craig dame must have flown right after she reached the place. Probably in another five minutes . . ." I let it trail off.

I tried to eat my steak while we talked, but so many things seemed to be happening all at once that I could hardly taste what I was eating. Betty finished her steak and excused herself, slipped out of the booth, and went to the restroom. I shoved my plate away from me.

I was worried about Lilith, about Betty, too, and damned worried about me. I kept looking at my watch. Lilith should be here by now, if she hadn't run into trouble. If she'd got out of the house in time. Then the front door opened and she was walking toward me.

I jumped out of the seat and we met halfway between the door and the booth. "Oh, Shell," she said shakily. Her hands were cold when she took mine and she looked as if she were going to come apart.

"Take it easy, Lilith," I said. "Relax. You made it, thank God. We'll—"

"Come outside with me, Shell. I think maybe I was followed. I don't know. Come outside, please, I want to show you."

She was pulling on my hands, her face twisted. I said, "Outside? What's—" I stopped, looking at Lilith's face. Her eyes were wide, staring at something behind me. Then she let go of my hands and backed toward the door. I looked over my shoulder. Betty was a few feet from me, an odd look on her face.

She stopped alongside me and I looked back to see Lilith just going out the door. I said to Betty, "What the hell got into Lilith?"

"Who?"

"Lilith. Lilith Manning. You just saw her."

"Don't be silly," Betty said. "That wasn't Lilith. That was Dorothy Craig."

Chapter Thirteen

I stared at betty, uncomprehending for a moment. "Who?" I said. "No, you're wrong. That—"

She interrupted briskly, her voice tightening. "I tell you, that was Dorothy Craig. I talked to her today about the will. I noticed she wasn't a brunette any more, and she doesn't look at all like Miss Manning. I've interviewed Lilith Manning two or three times in the past."