Collection 1983 - The Hills Of Homicide (v5.0) (8 page)

He got through the afternoon without a hitch. He and Alice drove out along the ocean drive, parked by the sea, and then stopped for dinner. It was shortly after ten when he finally dropped her at her home.

He remembered what the police had said about Bill Chafey. They had known about him and they had mentioned that he had been one of several known criminals who frequented a place called Eddie’s Bar. If Chafey had gone there, it was possible his girl did, too.

It was a shadowy place with one bartender and a row of leather-covered stools and a half-dozen booths. He picked out a stool and ordered a drink. He was halfway down his second bourbon and soda before the first lead came to him.

A tall Latin-looking young man was talking to the bartender. “Gracie been around? I haven’t seen her but once since Chafey got it in the neck.”

“You figuring on moving in there?”

“Are you crazy? That broad gives me the shivers. She’s stacked, all right, but she’d cut your heart out for a buck.”

“Bill handled her.”

“You mean she handled him. She was the brains of that setup.”

“Leave it to Bill to try to pick up a fast buck.”

“Yeah, and look at him now.”

There was silence, and Fordyce sipped his drink unconcernedly, waiting. After a while it started again.

“She’s probably working that bar on Sixth Street.”

“Maybe. She said the other day she was going to quit. That she was expecting a legacy.”

“I’ll bet. She’s got a take lined up.”

A few moments later, Fordyce finished his drink and left the place. He went to Sixth Street, studied the bars as he drove along. It might be any one of them. He tried a couple but without luck.

The next morning he slept late. While he was shaving, he studied his face in the mirror. He told himself he did not look like a murderer. But then, what did murderers look like? They were just people.

His face was long, his cheekbones high, and he had a quick, easy smile. His hair was straight and brown, his eyes a light blue. He was nearing thirty and had the assured manner of any young professional man. Despite the fact that he had always held good jobs, he had saved no money to speak of, had always looked ahead for a better position and better chances at money.

He dressed carefully, thinking as he dressed. To get the money, Gertrude Ellis would have to go to the box. She would not expect him to be watching, since she would probably believe he would be at work. Even so, he would have to be careful, for she would be careful herself. She might walk by and merely glance in at first. He would have to get her to open the box. He considered that, then had a hunch.

Shuffling through his own mail, he found what he wanted. It was an advertisement of the type mailed to Boxholder or Occupant. He withdrew the advertising matter to make sure his own name was not on it. Then he carefully removed the address with ink eradicator and substituted the number she had given him.

Her true name would probably be not unlike Gertrude Ellis, which was obviously assumed. The first name was Gracie, and it was a fairly safe bet the last would begin with an E. Unless, as sometimes happened, she used the name of a husband or some friend.

Considering the situation, he had another idea. Eddie’s Bar and Sixth Street were not far apart. Hence, she must live somewhere in that vicinity.

H
E RETURNED TO Eddie’s that night, and the bartender greeted him briefly. They exchanged a few comments, and then Fordyce asked, “Many babes come in here?”

“Yeah, now and again. Most of ’em are bags. Once in a while, something good shows up.”

He went away to attend to the wants of another customer, and Arthur Fordyce waited, stalling over his drink, listening. He heard nothing.

It was much later, when he had finished his third drink, and was turning to look around, that he bumped into someone. She was about to sit down, and he collided with her outstretched arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry! Pardon me.”

“That’s all right.” She was a straight-haired brunette with rather thin lips and cool eyes. But she was pretty, damned pretty. Her clothes were not like those Alice wore, but she did have a style of her own.

She ordered a drink, and he ignored her. After a minute, she got up and went to the ladies’ room. The bartender strolled over. “Speaking of babes,” he said, “there’s a cute one. Should be about ready, too. She’s fresh out of boyfriends.”

“Her? How come? She’s really built.”

The bartender shrugged. “Runs with some fast company sometimes. Her boyfriend tried to make a quick buck with a gun and got killed. Chafey. Maybe you read about it.”

“Chafey?” Fordyce looked puzzled, although inside he was jumping. “Don’t recall the name.” He hesitated. “Introduce me?”

“You don’t need it. Just buy her a drink.” Then the bartender grinned. “But if you go home with her, take your own bottle and pour the drinks yourself. And don’t pass out.”

“You mean she’d roll me?”

“I didn’t say that, chum. I didn’t say anything. But you look like a good guy. Just take care of yourself. After all,” he added, “a guy can have a good time without making a sucker of himself.”

The girl returned then and sat down on her stool. He waited out her drink, and as she was finishing it, he turned. “How about having one with me? I feel I owe it to you after bumping you like that.”

She smiled quickly. “Oh, that’s all right! Yes, I’ll drink with you.”

Her name was Gracie Turk. She had been divorced several years ago. They talked about dance bands, movies, swimming. She liked to drink, she admitted, but usually did her drinking at home.

“I’d like that,” he said. “Why don’t we pick up a bottle and go there?”

She hesitated, then smiled. “All right, let’s go.”

Fordyce glanced back as he went out. The bartender grinned and made a circle of his thumb and forefinger.

Not tonight, Fordyce told himself. Whatever happens, not tonight. He will remember this. They got the bottle and went to her apartment. It was small, cheaply furnished with pretensions toward elegance. Bored, he still managed to seem interested and mixed the drinks himself. He let her see that he had money on him and suddenly, recalled that he was expecting a business call at night.

“From back East, you know,” he said by way of explanation.

He left, but with a date for the following evening. An hour later, he called back and canceled the date. His call had come, he said, and he would be out of town.

He made his plans with utmost care. He drove out of town and deliberately wound along dusty roads for several hours, letting his car gather dust. In town, at the same time, he carefully chose a spot at which to dispose of the body.

At eight, he drove around and parked his car near the entrance to the alley behind the girl’s apartment. There was a light in the window, so he went into the front entrance, hoping desperately that he would meet no one. Luck was with him, and he reached her door safely. It was around a corner in a corridor off the main hall. At the end was a door to the back stairs.

He tapped lightly and then heard the sound of heels. The door was opened, and Gracie Turk stepped back in surprise.

“Al!” That was the name he had given her. “I thought you were out of town?”

“Missed my train, and I just had a wild idea you might not have gone out.”

“Come in!” She stepped back. “I was just fixing something to eat. Want a sandwich? Or a drink?”

He closed the door behind him and looked at her shoulders and the back of her head. That coldness was in the pit of his stomach again. His mouth felt dry, and the palms of his hands were wet. He kept wiping them off, as if they were already—He shook himself and accepted the drink she had fixed for him.

She smiled quickly, but her eyes seemed cold. “Well, drink up! There’s more where that came from! I’ll go get things ready, and then we’ll eat. We’ll just stay home tonight.”

She had good legs, and the seams in her stockings were straight. He was cold. Maybe the drink would fix him up. He drank half of it at a gulp. It was lousy whisky, lousy—The words of the bartender at Eddie’s came back to him. “Take your own bottle,” he had said, “and pour your own drinks.” He stared at the glass, put it down suddenly.

Suppose it was doped? He had had only half of it. What would that much do to him? He might not pass out, but would he be able to carry out his plans if—

He sat down abruptly. She would be coming in soon. He glanced hastily around, then took the drink and reaching back under the divan, poured it, little by little, over the thick carpet. When she came back into the room, he was sitting there holding his empty glass. “Lousy whisky,” he commented. “Let me get some for you.”

She smiled, but her eyes were still cold and calculating. She seemed to be measuring him as she took the glass from his hand. “I’ll just fill this up again. Why don’t you lie down?”

“All right,” he said, and suddenly made up his mind. He would not wait. It would be now. She might—

If he passed out, she would open his billfold, and in his billfold was his identification! He started to get up, but the room seemed to spin. He sat down, suddenly filled with panic. He was going; he—He got his hand into his pocket, fumbled for the identification card. He got it out of the window in the billfold and shoved it down in another pocket. The money wasn’t much, only—

He had been hearing voices, a girl’s and a man’s for some time. The girl was speaking now. “I don’t care where you drop him. Just take him out of here. The fool didn’t have half the money he had the other night! Not half! All this trouble for a lousy forty bucks! Why, I’d bet he had—What’s the matter?”

“Hey!” The man’s voice was hoarse. “Do you know who this is?”

“Who it is? What does it matter?”

Fordyce lay very still. Slowly but surely he was recovering his senses. He could hear the man move back.

“I don’t want this, Gracie. Take back your sawbuck. This is
hot!
I want no part of him! None at all!”

“What’s the matter?” She was coming forward. “What have you got there?”

“Don’t kid me!” His voice was hoarse with anger. “I’m getting out of here! Just you try to ring me in on your dirty work!”

“Johnny, have you gone nuts? What’s the matter?” Her voice was strident.

“You mean you don’t know who this is? This is Fordyce, the guy who knocked off Bill Chafey.”

There was dead silence while she absorbed that. Fordyce heard a crackle of paper. That letter—it had been in his pocket. It must have fallen out.

“Fordyce.” She sounded stunned. “He must have found out where I was! How the—” Her voice died away.

“I’m getting out of here. I want no part of killing a guy.”

“Don’t be a fool!” She was angry. “I didn’t know who the sap was. I met him at Eddie’s. He flashed a roll, and I just figured it was an easy take. How did he locate me?”

“What gives, Gracie?” The man’s voice was prying. “What’s behind this?”

“Ah, I just was going to take the sap for plenty, that’s all. Now what happens?” She stopped talking, then started again. “Bill saw him grab a wallet some guy dropped. This guy didn’t return it, so Bill shook him for half of it. He figured on more, and this guy wouldn’t stand for it.”

“So you moved in?”

“Why not? He didn’t know who I was or where I was. What I can’t figure is how he found out. The guy must be psychic.”

Arthur Fordyce kept his eyes closed and listened. While he listened, his mind was working. He was a fool. An insane fool. How could he ever have conceived the idea of murder? He knew now he could never have done it, never. It wasn’t in him to kill or even to plan so coldbloodedly. He would have backed down at the last moment. He would have called it off. Suddenly, all he wanted was to get out, to get away without trouble. Should he lie still and wait to find out what would happen? Or should he get up and try to bluff it out?

“What are you going to do now?”

G
RACIE TURK DID not reply. Minutes ticked by, and then the man turned toward the door. “I’m getting out of here,” he said. “I don’t want any part of this. I’d go for dumping the guy if he was just drunk, but I want no part of murder.”

“Who’s talking about murder?” Gracie’s voice was shrill. “Get out if you’re yellow.”

Fordyce opened one eye a crack. Gracie was facing the other way, not looking directly at him. He put his hands on the floor, rolled over, and got to his feet. The man sprang back, falling over a chair, and Gracie turned quickly, her face drawn and vicious.

Fordyce felt his head spin, but he stood there, looking at them. Gracie Turk stared, swore viciously.

“Give him his ten,” Fordyce told her, “out of the money you took from me.”

“I will like—”

“Give it to him. He won’t go for a killing, and you don’t dare start anything now because he’d be a witness. For that matter, he would be a witness against me, too.”

“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, Gracie,” 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. Something had gone wrong from the start. That was Bill for you. And now the easy money was glimmering. This guy hinted that Bill had blundered into something, which was just like him.