Believed Violent (13 page)

There was applause, then Warren looked at Roger Williams, a short, lean man with thinning blond hair and a heavy sun-tan.

“What do you think?”

“I go along with Hamilton,” Williams said. “This is much too slick. Yes . . . I’d say the chances are Forrester has been kidnapped.”

Warren turned to Terrell.

“And you?”

Terrell rubbed his unshaven jaw. Since he had left home, he hadn’t had a minute to spruce himself up.

“I don’t know about kidnapping,” he said, “but I’m sure there was outside help.”

Warren looked at his watch.

“I think Dr. Hertz should be here by now. We’ll ask him in.”

His secretary left the room. A few moments later, he returned with Hertz.

“Come in, doctor,” Warren said, getting to his feet. He introduced each man, then waved Hertz to a chair. “It would be helpful if you tell us about how Forrester was last night. ., if he was behaving oddly and so on.”

Hertz sat down. He looked harassed and uneasy.

“His condition hasn’t changed since he has been with me. He is always placid, refusing to mix with anyone, scarcely speaking. He is like a man in constant shock.”

“You had no hint that he could become violent?”

“No . . . but that doesn’t mean he could not become violent at any moment. To put it simply, he is like a hand grenade with a faulty pin. Any kind of vibration could make the grenade explode. Both Lewis and Mason, his personal attendants, were well aware of this condition. They always approached him with caution.”

“How do you imagine he would react once he was out in the open?” Warren asked.

Hertz hesitated, frowning.

“That is hard to say. However, knowing his case history, it is likely he would try to find his wife. I have always known this brooding calm of his was connected with the memory of his wife. Here could be considerable danger. If he found her, the grenade could explode.”

Warren turned to Terrell.

“Do you know where his wife is?”

“She lives in a rented beach bungalow on Seaview Avenue,” Terrell told him.

Warren thought for a moment, then got to his feet.

“All right, doctor, we won’t keep you any longer. This affair is now out of your hands.” He smiled. “You can resume your normal duties and leave it to these gentlemen.”

Hertz stood up.

“I would like to say this has never happened before. I must, of course, accept responsibility . . .”

“That’s all right, doctor,” Warren said quietly. “No one is blaming you. Thank you for coming.”

His secretary edged Hertz out of the room. As soon as the door closed, Warren said, “We must put a guard on Airs. Forrester’s bungalow at once.”

Terrell nodded and going over to the telephone, he called headquarters. When he got Beigler, he said, “We want a night and day guard on Mrs. Forrester’s bungalow on Seaview Avenue. Get two good men down there right away. There’s a chance Forrester might go there . . . warn them to keep on their toes.”

Above, in the penthouse, listening to all this and recording the conversation, Lindsey grimaced. So it hadn’t been the slick, smooth operation he had planned. It seemed to be coming slightly unstuck at the seams. He reached for a boiled sweet, put it in his mouth, then sat forward in his chair as Warren began to talk again.

Warren said, “If Forrester was kidnapped we don’t want it known. This must be regarded as Top Secret. It is still possible someone helped him to escape and he wasn’t kidnapped. It is possible he will try to find his wife. All this is something we must keep from the press. We could be lucky and use his wife as a trap to catch him. On no account is the press to be told about his wife or where she is. The press is only to be told that Forrester has escaped. In this way, if he has been kidnapped, his kidnappers will believe we don’t suspect what has happened and they will be less on their guard.” He looked around the table. “Do you all agree?”

Terrell said quietly, “If we say Forrester has escaped, the press will naturally assume he killed his nurse. Do you want it that way?”

“For the moment it doesn’t matter,” Warren said. “We know that it is most unlikely he did kill Lewis. All this can be taken care of when we have found Forrester. What is important is for the people who have arranged his escape to believe we have accepted the scene as they have set it.”

“I don’t think that quite hooks up with Terrell’s point,” Williams said. “Suppose Forrester is on the run . . . hasn’t been kidnapped . . . and he reads in the papers he is suspect number one for Lewis’s killing . . . how is he going to react?”

Terrell nodded to Hamilton. That was just the point he was making.

Warren frowned.

“I still think it is important that the press should believe Forrester escaped without help,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “It is better for the public not to know that this could be a major international incident.”

Lindsey got to his feet. He thanked his stars he had planted the microphone in Warren’s suite. He must alert Radnitz. This operation was suddenly becoming complicated. He began to feel uneasy. Was the cave hideout safe enough? Leaving the tape recorder to take care of the conversation still going on, he went to the desk and began to draft a Telex in code to Radnitz.

Sergeant Joe Beigler was once more in charge of the Detectives’ room. Jacoby, with two men, had already left to guard Mrs. Forrester’s bungalow. The search for Forrester was now out of the hands of the police. The F.B.I, and the Army had taken over.

Beigler was handling the usual routine work, a bored expression on his face.

Lepski was rolling at his desk, digging his penknife viciously into the battered desk top, watching Beigler, waiting for a lull. When the lull came, Lepski said, “Joe, I’m a great dick. Look at the way I handled that whore’s death. I should be up-graded. Did you see the Chiefs face when I handed in my report . . . it stood him on his ear.”

Beigler was used to Lepski. He knew he was smart, but he also knew it would be some time before he was moved out of his Grade. Lepski was too much of a hustler . . . too publicity minded to make an early promotion.

“Just plain dumb luck,” he said, lighting a cigarette from the butt of the one he was smoking. “All the same, Tom, you didn’t do a bad morning’s work. I wouldn’t be surprised, once the news breaks, you’ll be on the telly.”

Lepski sat up.

“You think that, Joe?” His lean face lit up. “Sweet Grief! That would kill Carroll! Yeah . . . you’ve got something! Me on television! My goddam neighbours would gnaw at their toe nails with envy.”

“Of course, the Chief might decide to go on instead of you,” Beigler said, keeping his face straight. “He might say, “information from a report received . . .” You know how they word it, then no one would know our Sherlock Lepski was behind the whole
denouement
.”

Lepski gaped at him.

“The whole . . . what, for God’s sake?”

“
Denouement
.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s French.” Beigler looked smug. Baffled by the word he had come across in a paperback, he had looked it up in a dictionary. Now, he forced the word as often as he could into his day-to-day limited vocabulary. “Don’t worry your brains, Tom. What’s a little education between a Sergeant and a 2nd Grade Detective?”

Lepski glared at him.

“Are you taking the mickey out of me, Joe?”

“Who ― me? I wouldn’t do that.”

“Yeah?” Lepski brooded for a moment, his face darkening. “But you could be right. If anyone goes on the telly it will be the Chief. Boy! Does it burn me! I do the work . . .”

The telephone bell rang. Beigler scooped up the receiver, listened, then said, “Okay, I’ll send someone down. Yeah . . . right away,” and he hung up.

Lepski looked suspiciously at him.

“Not me again! I’m supposed to be on the beach with my goddam wife right at this very minute!”

Beigler looked around the big room, deliberately staring at each empty desk until his eyes alighted on Lepski.

“I can’t see anyone else to send,” he said. “That was the State Hospital. Olsen’s just called. Alec Sherman is ready to talk. Olsen wants to know if he should take down Sherman’s statement. Well, you know Olsen: he can’t spell. You’d better get over. The Herald has been screaming blue murder about Sherman. You get a story from him, and they will spread your face bang across the front page.”

Lepski got out of his chair so fast, he knocked it over backwards.

“Yeah . . . you’re right, Joe. I’m on my way. This could be my break into big time!”

With a concealed grin, Beigler watched his hurried departure, then turned back to the mass of reports still waiting his attention. The telephone bell rang. Sighing, he reached for the receiver.

While he was trying to soothe an agitated old lady whose cat had got wedged in a chimney, Lepski drove, with siren wailing, like a released rocket, down to the State Hospital.

He found Detective 3rd Grade Gustav Olsen flirting with a pert, good-looking nurse in the lobby of the hospital. Olsen, vast, with a red, good-natured face, would never make a great detective, but he was sound on routine. Lepski had long ago decided he had a lump of lead in his head for a brain, but when it came to a drag-out and a beat-up, Olsen was the best man on the Force.

For the past five days, Olsen had been sitting by the bed in which Alec Sherman, star reporter of the
Paradise Herald
had been lying. The
Paradise Herald
had screamed its head off at the inefficiency of the police to allow any citizen ― especially their star reporter ― to have been so savagely beaten-up. Every day, they had nagged and nagged in their columns, demanding action. Under pressure, Terrell had planted Olsen by the unconscious man’s bed to satisfy the newspaper that the moment Sherman could talk, action would be taken.

Seeing Lepski come striding across the lobby, Olsen sighed regretfully.

“Later, babe,” he said to the nurse. “Here comes trouble. You and me will go somewhere, do something, some time soon.”

The girl looked at Lepski as he approached and she gave him a sexy smile. Lepski ignored her. All he was thinking about was a two column picture of himself on the front page of the Herald.

“Is he talking?” he asked, grabbing Olsen’s arm.

“He’s come to the surface,” Olsen told him. “I didn’t want to spoil it for you. Doc says only five minutes . . . no more. The poor bastard is in a bad way.”

Lepski patted his shoulder.

“You did right. You get back to that nurse. You leave this to me,” and he took the elevator to the fourth floor.

Lepski knew Alec Sherman. He made it his business to know all the newspaper reporters in the City. When he entered the small room, he was shocked to see the bandaged wreck that lay in the bed. Most of Sherman’s face was concealed by bandages. One eye peered out of the mask of white lint and Lepski felt a surge of angry indignation run through him.

“Hello, pal,” he said quietly and drew up a chair. “The doc says you can only talk for five minutes . . . don’t let’s waste time. Did you see who did it?”

“No . . . I got in my car and got hit on the head,” Sherman said, speaking with difficulty. His broken jaw was wired and every movement, when trying to speak, hurt him. “Look, Tom, I’m worried sick. I haven’t heard from Nona . . . she’s my girl. Will you check on her? The nurse tells me she hasn’t been here nor even telephoned. She must have heard what happened to me. For God’s sake, Tom . . . please check on her.”

Lepski contained his impatience with an effort. He didn’t want to be bothered with Sherman’s girl . . . what he was after was a story that would put him on the front page of the Herald.

“Sure, sure . . . I’ll check on her. Now, tell me . . . you never even saw who hit you?”

Sherman’s visible eye closed. He lay still for a long moment, then making the effort, he said, “I saw nothing. Tom . . . please. Her name is Nona Jacey. She lives at 1890, Lexington Road. She works at the Rocket Research Station. Will you please find out why she hasn’t been asking after me?”

Lepski stiffened. For a moment he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“The Rocket Research Station?” he repeated, awe in his voice.

“That’s right. She was Paul Forrester’s assistant a couple of years back. I’m worried about her. We are going to be married.” Sherman was breathing heavily. The effort of talking was making him sweat.

Lepski was already on his feet. His eyes alight with excitement.

“1890, Lexington Road . . . right?”

“Yes.”

“Take it easy . . . I’m on my way. I’ll let you know what’s happening,” and Lepski rushed out of the room.

Paul Forrester’s assistant! he thought as he took the elevator down to the ground floor. Could he have stumbled on something? As the doors of the elevator swished open, he started across the lobby. Olsen was still talking to the nurse. Lepski swept past him, rushing down the steps to his car.

Olsen stared after him.

“Now that’s a fink who can’t take it easy,” he said, smiling at the nurse. “But I’m a guy with a big talent.”

She giggled.

“The bigger the better.” She gave him a long, inviting stare, then went on, “I must get back to work. Tonight?”

Olsen grinned happily.

“I’m signing off at eight. You and me will go places and I’ll show you something that’ll surprise you.”

“I can imagine.” She turned and hip-swished her way along the corridor.

Lepski pulled up outside 1890, Lexington Road. He got out of his car and hurried up the steps. He entered the lobby, examined the mail boxes, saw that Nona Jacey had an apartment on the third floor. He checked his watch. The time was twenty minutes to one p.m. The girl wouldn’t be in her apartment. If she was anywhere she would be at work. He looked around, saw the notice with the arrow, pointing to Mrs. Watson’s apartment. He crossed the lobby and rang the bell. There was a delay, then the door opened and Mrs. Watson regarded him with her cold hostility.

“What is it?” she demanded.

In his time, Lepski had interviewed hundreds of landladies. He knew just how to handle them. This old bag, he told himself, had to be handled carefully. He lifted his hat, then produced his badge.