Too Many Crooks (10 page)

I glanced over the rest of the story, put the car into gear, and drove to the
Star
building. I went inside with the paper half crumpled in my hand. Betty was seated at her desk. I walked to it, spread the paper before her.

"Who the hell wrote this stupid story?"

She glanced up. "Oh, Shell," she said. Her soft face looked drawn and tired. "I wrote it. E. C. Lane—Elizabeth Lane."

"Don't you know Dane wasn't the kind of man to kill himself?"

She bit her lip. "I know. I didn't enjoy writing the story. That's the information I was given by the police. I only know he's dead, Shell, not how he died. I . . . wasn't there."

"Well, I was."

Her light brown eyes widened slightly behind the harlequin glasses, then she stood up and led me to one of the offices at the rear of the room and inside it. She shut the door and we were alone. "What do you mean?" she said.

"You got this story from the cops?"

"Yes. I saw them this morning, right after I heard."

"You mean they didn't say anything about me? I found his body. I got to Dane's home right after he was killed."

She shook her head, frowning. "The police didn't mention your name. Shell, what happened? Do you
know
he was killed?"

"He was murdered." I started at the beginning and gave her the story, all of it, including my session with the cops later.

When I finished, Betty had taken off the dark-rimmed glasses and was tapping them gently against her cheek. She said, "It's . . . it's odd."

"You bet it's odd. This is the first you've heard about what I just told you?"

She nodded. "Yes. I talked to Chief Thurmond. He couldn't tell me much, but he said he might have much more for me later, and that they were still investigating."

"They'll be investigating in the year two thousand if I know the cops in this town. I could stick the local Boy Scout chapter in the station and get more done. I wonder why the hell they gave out this bunch of guff."

"They must have a reason."

"Yeah. And I'm going to find out what it is." I thought a minute. "Betty, I think Emmett wrote out a will several years ago. Do you know who inherits his property now?"

She frowned. "Funny, I hadn't even thought about that yet. I imagine his ex-wife and daughter get it. They're living in Illinois now. I don't know for sure, but I'll check on it." She paused a moment. "Ferris Gordon is—was Emmett's lawyer. He should be able to tell me."

"Good. Thurmond said he might have a lot more for you later. He say what he meant?"

"No. Just that he'd keep the
Star
informed of any developments."

I turned and started for the door.

"Shell," she said.

I had my hand on the doorknob. She walked up to me and said, "Are you all right? I haven't seen you since that night you drove me home. I stopped by the hospital, but they wouldn't let me in."

I smiled at her. "Thanks for dropping by. Guess I haven't even said hello, have I? Hello."

She smiled. "Hello. I understand, though."

"I guess I was more . . . relaxed last time we talked."

"More crazy, too. You know, you got me so flustered I let you drive me home—and I had my own car here at the office."

I'd forgotten about the car she'd driven to Dane's that first day. "That brown Ford?"

"Uh-huh. Isn't that silly? I left it parked out in front all night." She'd been smiling, but her face sobered as she asked, "Were you badly hurt?"

"They hurt more than my feelings, but I feel pretty good now." As a matter of fact, I did feel well enough physically. My side was somewhat tender and I had a dull headache most of the time, but I was in the best shape I'd been in since I left the hospital. I said, "I'm in much better shape than Norris will be if I get my hands on him."

"Norris? All I heard was that you'd been hit by a car."

"I was. By a car and some punks belonging to Jim Norris."

I gave her the story, briefly, and she looked angry when I finished. "Do you know what I'm going to do, Shell? I'm going to write the story, all of it, everything you've told me, and I'll get it printed if I have to mimeograph it."

"Somebody ought to print it. Maybe I'll have some more for you when I get back."

"You going to see Chief Thurmond?"

"Yeah. And a couple of pinheads named Carver and Blake."

I told her good-by and drove to the police station. I just barged down there and walked inside, and it never occurred to me that I couldn't have done anything more completely stupid.

I got a glimpse of Patrolman Blake talking to the desk sergeant as I went in, but I kept on going to the chief's office. The door was partly open so I barged inside. The chief was behind his desk and Sergeant Carver sat in one of the chairs before it. That suited me; I wanted to talk to both of them.

I thought the chief looked startled when he saw me, but I walked to him and spread my crumpled copy of the
Star
before him. "Thurmond," I said, "didn't you hear a word I told you last night? What kind of stupid play is this?"

The door clicked shut behind me and I glanced over my shoulder to see Blake inside the room, his back against the door. He wasn't looking at me, but at Carver, an odd expression on his lean face.

Chief Thurmond said quietly, "Sit down, Mr. Scott. You seem upset."

"You're damned right I'm upset. What about this idiotic story? And have you even talked to Norris yet? What about that Zimmerman guy? The car—"

He interrupted. "Sit down. One thing at a time, Mr. Scott."

I sat down, but I was so hot I almost popped right back out of the chair. "All right, then. One thing. Why doesn't the paper say Dane was murdered."

"Listen, Scott, we know it wasn't suicide—at least from what you told us. But this way, the killers—if there are any, will figure they're clear. Give us more chance to get something definite on them."

"What the hell do you mean, if there are any?"

There was something funny in the air here in the room, a kind of tension or suppressed excitement that I could almost feel. The chief looked at Blake, then at Carver, and finally fixed his gray eyes on my face. "Frankly, we haven't got a thing. No proof, that is, except what you told us."

"What about that license number?" I snapped. "That stolen car? I told you it was a pro job. What more do you need? Car stolen from Santa Ana, plates lifted from Laguna, man waiting at the wheel, car ditched on the getaway route. For God's sake, there was every part of a professional kill except a crash car!"

I stopped so suddenly that I knew they'd all be looking at me. I'd had it now; oh, brother, I'd had it. In almost every well-planned professional murder the getaway car is followed by another automobile, the "crash car," which has only one purpose: to block off or delay pursuit, stop any civilian or police car that might give chase, thus letting the killers get away. And all along, clear up till here and now, I'd assumed there hadn't been that element of the pro job, simply because the killers had utilized the crash car of the century, a crash car to end all crash cars. It had been, naturally, a police radio car. With Sergeant Carver and Patrolman Blake in it.

In one instant a dozen related ideas flashed into my mind, but the biggest one was that I had opened my mouth and put both feet into it. I had dug my grave with my mouth.

The genial chief wasn't genial any more. He didn't even look soft and flabby now. All of a sudden he looked cold, hard, dangerous.

Chapter Ten

I let out my breath. A lot of things were clear now. Blake and Carver, and undoubtedly Chief Thurmond, too, were in with Norris and the hoods. The crooked cops explained why the few legitimate complaints about Seaco had been suppressed or ignored, and also how Norris could operate so boldly. And I was up that well-known creek, in leaking water wings, unless I could keep them thinking I was still as stupid and unsuspecting as I'd been until now.

Only a second or two had elapsed, and now Chief Thurmond leaned toward me.

"What's the matter, Scott?"

I pasted on a grin and said quickly, "It just occurred to me, Chief, that I guess I didn't mention Mendoza and Seaburn before now. Maybe you're wondering how come I knew about them."

His face relaxed a bit. "What about that?" he said.

"Well, you remember I said last night that the killers probably used a stolen car and plates. The way you talked, frankly, I wasn't sure you believed me." I couldn't cool off too quickly—not if I was going to make these guys think I was still being conned by them. So I glanced at Carver, who was seated on my left, and said, "I doubted that the good sergeant could think that straight with that hole in his head, so I took a look for the getaway car myself."

Carver got halfway out of his chair and said, "Hey, I'm not gonna—" but the chief cut him off with a word and told me to go on.

I said, "I spotted the car on Walnut, and I checked the registration and license. Found out from the Motor Vehicle Department who the plates had been issued to, and that settled it."

"Why didn't you report this, Scott?"

"Radio car was there at the Chevy before I looked it over. I figured you had the dope, or would have in a few minutes." I paused. "There's proof enough that Dane's murder was planned, and quite a while in advance, too. You still haven't given me any good reasons for this suicide story."

"I explained that," the chief said. "As a matter of fact, there's still no proof you didn't kill Dane yourself. A real smart fellow like you, Scott, could have swiped the car and plates himself, and planted them on Walnut there just in case something went wrong. Then you could swear you were chasing a Chevy with half a dozen guys in it—and what do you know, the police find a Chevy. So naturally you couldn't have made the story up."

"That takes the cake," I said. "That's the silliest—"

The chief went on, "I'm not saying it was anything like that, but it could have happened that way."

"OK. I killed him. I confess. I used a bazooka chambered for dry ice. My motive—well, I just didn't have any."

Carver broke into the conversation. "Not funny," he said. "I don't doubt we could find a motive if we looked a while. Maybe you think I'm kidding?" He scowled at me. "There's plenty to hold you on, Scott." He glanced at Thurmond. So did I.

They didn't need anything to hold me on. All they needed was a dark cell to hold me in. It all depended on the chief. If he felt like it, if he thought the smart play would be to lock me up, there'd be no phone in my cell so I could call the marines.

I stood up, not knowing whether they'd let me go now or not. And I didn't like the look on Thurmond's face.

"Sit down," he said. "Carver's right, there's plenty to book you on. You haven't got a client, now Dane's dead, but you been causing nothing but trouble here."

It sounded as if the chief were wondering if I'd cause him more trouble in jail than out. I added my bit to the double talk, not believing a word of it, just trying to act my part. "You can't be serious. You book me and I'd be out on bail in an hour, then slap you with a fat false-arrest suit. Besides, I've got a client. Two of them, as a matter of fact. Lilith Manning and Clyde Baron. I, uh, think." I would have said Father Divine was my client if I'd thought it would help.

That phrase slowed the chief down, though, and I wondered why I hadn't mentioned Lilith and Baron before. No matter how crooked the chief and these two cops were, it seemed to me they'd be damned careful about antagonizing two people who pulled as much weight as Baron and Lilith—unless they figured I was onto their play.

"Oh?" he said. "Since when is this? And what do you mean, you think?"

"Well, I'm working for them, but I haven't seen them much lately. Too many things happening."

The chief started to say something, then stopped and glanced at Carver and Blake. He pursed his lips, frowning for half a minute, then said, "We'll see, Scott," and pulled his desk phone over to him and dialed.

In a moment he spoke, his voice unctuous, his tone respectful. "Clyde? Wallace Thurmond. We have this Shell Scott down here. Says he's working for you. What about that?"

He listened a few seconds, then said, "We were . . . questioning him in connection with Emmett Dane's death . . . What? . . . Well, we thought we might hold him a while . . . I see. All right, Clyde. Thanks." He hung up, fingers drumming on top of the phone while he looked at me.

"Mr. Baron is coming down," he said.

I swallowed. "Naturally."

It took Baron fifteen minutes to get to the police station, and in the meantime I asked the chief if they'd got anything out of Norris, or found the guy who called himself Zimmerman. Naturally the answer was that they had not, and that they'd even been unable to get in touch with Norris, who hadn't been seen around town for a few days, according to Thurmond. I didn't expect any other answer, I was just making conversation. Finally Baron arrived and barged into the chief's office. He shook Thurmond's hand, talking rapidly and loudly. When the chief asked if he was my client, Baron looked at me for a couple of seconds and said, "That's right." And when Baron and I started to leave, Thurmond made no objection. We went out of the room and I shut the chief's door behind us, breathing unevenly.

At the main entrance to the building Baron stopped me for a moment and said, "I'm afraid I didn't understand all that, Mr. Scott. Why were they holding you?"

Nobody else was nearby, but I wasn't going to say very much until I was clear out of the police station. "They thought they had reasons," I said. "I'll tell you about it. First, let's get out of here."

He nodded, but he didn't move. "What's this about Dane's suicide? Why were they questioning you?"

"I found his body. And it wasn't suicide. Norris sent some of his thugs to kill Dane."

He grimaced. "I was afraid of that. I'm worried. Are you sure?"

"Damn right I'm sure."

He shook his head, frowning deeply. "If they'd kill Dane, what about me? And Lilith? Have you seen her?"

"Not since last night."

"She was trying to reach you. Phoned me this morning, wanted to know where you were. I didn't know, of course."