Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories (18 page)

Roper hesitated.
Nobody down there either
, he thought. Nobody in the house after all? The feeling that he wasn't alone kept nagging at him—but it could be nothing more than imagination. All that business about devil-worshiping and ghosts and demons and Garber being murdered and psychotic killers on the loose might have affected him more than he'd figured. Might have jumbled together in his subconscious all week and finally come out tonight, making him imagine menace where there wasn't any. Sure, maybe that was it.

But he had to make certain. He couldn't see all of the cellar from up here; he had to go down and give it a full search before he'd be satisfied that he really was alone. Otherwise he'd never be able to get back to sleep tonight.

Playing the light again, he descended the stairs in the same wary movements as before. The beam showed him nothing. Except for the faint whisper of his breathing, the creak of the risers when he put his weight on them, the stillness remained unbroken. The odors of dust and decaying wood and subterranean dampness dilated his nostrils; he began to breathe through his mouth.

When he came off the last of the steps he took a half dozen strides into the middle of the cellar. The stones were cold and clammy against the soles of his bare feet. He turned to his right, then let the beam and his body transcribe a slow circle until he was facing the stairs.

Nothing to see, nothing to hear.

But with the light on the staircase, he realized that part of the wide, dusty area beneath them was invisible from where he stood—a mass of clotted shadow. The vertical boards between the risers kept the beam from reaching all the way under there.

The phrase from when he was a kid repeated itself in his mind:
Peekaboo, I see you. Hiding under the stair.

With the gun and the flash extended at arm's length, he went diagonally to his right. The light cut away some of the thick gloom under the staircase, letting him see naked stone draped with more gray webs. He moved closer to the stairs, ducked under them, and put the beam full on the far joining of the walls.

Empty.

For the first time Roper began to relax. Imagination, no doubt about it now. No ghosts or demons, no burglars or lunatics hiding under the stair. A thin smile curved the corners of his mouth. Hell, the only one hiding under the stair was himself—

"Peekaboo," a voice behind him said.

I
went to the rear window, lifted the shade, and looked out. Then I pulled the shade down in a hurry and spun around to glare at Herbie.

"You fathead!" I yelled.

"What's the matter, boss?"

"The police station is across the street!"

"I know," Herbie said calmly.

"You know. Well, that's nice, isn't it?" I waved my hand at the telephones, the dope sheets, the rolls of flash paper, and the other stuff we had just unpacked. "Won't the cops be ever so happy when they bust in here? No long rides in the wagon. Just down the back stairs, across the street, and into a cell. Think of the time and expense we'll be saving the taxpayers. You fathead!"

"They aren't going to bust in here," Herbie said.

"No, huh?"

Herbie shook his head. "Don't you see? The setup is perfect. It couldn't be any better."

"All I see is a cold cell in that cop house over there."

"Didn't you ever read 'The Purloined Letter'?"

"The which letter?"

"Purloined," Herbie said. "The Purloined Letter.' By Edgar Allan Poe."

"Yeah?" I said. "Never heard of him. What is he, some handicapper for one of the Eastern tracks?"

"He was a writer," Herbie said. "He died over a hundred years ago."

"What's some croaked writer got to do with this?"

"I'm trying to tell you, boss. He wrote this story called 'The Purloined Letter,' see, and everybody in it is trying to find a letter that was supposed to have been swiped, only nobody can find it. You know why?"

I shrugged. "Why?"

"Because it was under their noses all the time."

"I don't get it."

"Everybody's looking for the letter to be hidden some place," Herbie said. "So they never think to look in the only place left—the most obvious place, right in front of them."

"So?"

Herbie sighed. "We got the same type of thing right here. If the cops get wind a new bookie joint has opened up in town, they'll look for it everywhere except under their noses. Everywhere except right across the street."

I thought about it. "I don't know," I said. "It sounds crazy."

"Sure," Herbie said. "That's the beauty of it. It's so crazy it's perfect. It can't miss."

"What'd you tell the guy you rented this place from?"

"I said we were manufacturer's representatives for industrial valves. No warehouse stock; just a sales office. I even had some sign painters put a phony name on the windows, front and back."

"This landlord," I said. "Any chance of him coming up here when we ain't expecting him?"

"None, as long as we pay the rent on time. He's not that kind of guy."

"What's downstairs?"

"Insurance company. No bother on that end, either."

I did some more thinking.
Herbie might be right
, I decided.
Why would the cops think of looking out their front door for the new book in town? No reason, none at all
.

"Okay," I said, "we stay. But you better be right."

"Don't worry," Herbie said. "I am."

"All the contacts lined up?"

"I took care of everything before I called you, boss. I got eight guys—five bars, a cigar store, a billiards parlor, and a lunchroom. Phone number only, no address."

I nodded. "Put the word out, then. We're in business." Herbie smiled. "Of making many books there is no end," he said.

"Huh?"

"I read that somewhere once."

"Keep your mind off reading and on the book," I said. For some reason Herbie thought that was funny.

A
t nine the next morning, the first contact phoned in his bets. The other seven followed at ten-minute intervals, just the way Herbie had set it up. From the size and number of the bets, I figured this town was going to be a gold mine.

We split up the work, Herbie taking the calls and putting the bets down on the flash paper, and me figuring odds and laying off some of the scratch with the big books in Vegas and L.A. The flash paper is thin stuff, like onionskin, and the reason we use it is that in case of a raid you just touch a match to it and the whole roll goes up in nothing flat. No evidence, no conviction.

So there we were, humming right along, getting ready for the first races at Santa Anita and Golden Gate Fields, when somebody knocked on the door.

Herbie and I looked at each other. Then I looked at my watch, as if the watch could tell me who was knocking on the damn door. It was ten forty-five, one hour and fifteen minutes after we'd opened for business.

"Who can that be?" Herbie said. "The landlord, maybe?"

"I thought you said he wouldn't bother us."

Two of the telephones began ringing at the same time. I jumped. "Muffle those things!"

Herbie hauled up both receivers, said, "Ring back" into each one, and put them down again.

There was another knock on the door, louder this time. "We better answer it," Herbie said. "If it's not the landlord, maybe it's the mailman."

"Yeah," I said.

"Anyway, it's nothing to worry about. I mean, cops wouldn't knock, would they?"

I relaxed. Sure, if it was the cops they would have come busting in already. They wouldn't stand out there knocking.

I got up and went over to the door and cracked it open. And the first thing I saw was a badge—a big shiny badge pinned to the front of a blue uniform shirt. My eyes moved upward to a neck, a huge, red neck, and then on up to a huge, red head with a blue-and-gold cap perched on top of it.

"Hello," the head said.

I saw another blue uniform behind it. "Arrgh!" I said.

"I'm Chief of Police Wiggins," the head said, "and . . ."

I slammed the door. "Cops!" I yelled. "The flash paper. Herbie, the flash paper!"

"Cops?" he yelled.

The door burst open. My backside was in the way, but not for long. It felt like a bull had hit that door, which in a manner of speaking was just what had happened. I flew into the room, collided with a chair, and fell down on my head.

A booming voice said, "What's going on in—" And then, "Well, I'll be damned!"

"Cops!" Herbie yelled.

"Watch it, Jed!" the booming voice boomed. "Flash paper!"

A blue uniform blurred past me as I struggled to my knees. I saw the uniform brush Herbie aside, saw a hand sweep across the desk. Saw all the paper flutter to the floor, intact.

"Bookies," the blue uniform said, amazed.

"Hoo-haw!" the booming voice said. "Hoo-haw-haw!"

"Right across the street," the blue uniform said, still amazed.

I reached up and touched my head. I could feel a lump sprouting there. Then I looked over at Herbie, who was now cowering in the grip of a long arm. "Herbie," I said, "I am going to kill you, Herbie."

"Right across the street," the blue uniform said again, shaking his head in wonder.

"Hoo, hoo, hoo!"

So, down the back stairs we went. Across the street we went. Into a cell we went.

Fortunately for Herbie, it wasn't the same cell.

I sat on the hard cot. The lump on my head seemed to be growing. But it was nothing, I told myself, to the lump that would soon grow on Herbie's head.

A
little while later the blue uniform came back and took me to the chief's office. He took one look at me and broke off into a fresh series of hoo-hoos and hoo-haws. I sat in a chair and glared at the wall.

The chief wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. "Damnedest thing I ever heard of," he said. "Setting up a bookie joint within spitting distance of the police station."

I ground my teeth.

"It's one for the books, that's what it is," he said, and commenced hoo-hawing again.

I ground my teeth some more.

When his latest spasm ended the chief said, "What could have possessed you, son?"

Instead of answering I asked him, "Can I have a couple of minutes alone with Herbie?"

"What for?" Then he nodded his big red head and grinned and said, "Oh, I get it. His idea, was it?"

"Yeah. His idea."

"Damnedest thing I ever heard of," the chief said again. "It really is one for the—"

"All right," I said. "Look, how did you find out, anyway?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, we didn't."

"You . . . didn't?"

"We had no idea what you fellas were doing over there until we busted in."

"Then why were you there?"

"Business license. You got to have one to operate a business in this town."

I didn't get it. "I don't get it," I said.

"Saw some sign painters over there the other day," the chief said, "painting the name of a valve company on the windows."

"So?"

"New company setting up shop in town," the chief said. "Good for the growth of our fair city. But like I said, every business has got to have a license. So I did some checking, on account of it was a slow day, and found out this valve company never applied for one. Technically, they were breaking the law."

Herbie
, I thought,
I'm going to break your head
.

"Wasn't a big deal, but still, the law's the law. So I figured to sort of welcome them officially and then bring up the matter of the license afterwards. Keep from ruffling feathers that way."

"You always go calling in person for something like that? Why didn't you use the phone?"

"Probably would have," the chief said. "Except for one thing."

I sighed. "What's that?"

"Well, son," he said with more hoo-haws lurking in his voice, "you were right across the street."

A "Nameless Detective" Story

W
hen the holdup went down I was sitting at the near end of the Foghorn Tavern's scarred mahogany bar talking to the owner, Matt Candiotti.

It was a little before seven of a midweek evening, lull-time in working-class neighborhood saloons like this one. Blue-collar locals would jam the place from four until about six-thirty, when the last of them headed home for dinner; the hardcore drinkers wouldn't begin filtering back in until about seven-thirty or eight. Right now there were only two customers, and the jukebox and computer hockey games were quiet. The TV over the back bar was on, but with the sound turned down to a tolerable level. One of the customers, a porky guy in his fifties, drinking Anchor Steam out of the bottle, was watching the last of the NBC national news. The other customer, an equally porky and middle-aged female barfly, half in the bag on red wine, was trying to convince him to pay attention to her instead of Tom Brokaw.