with These Hands (Ss) (2002) (7 page)

"No, it wasn't that. He looked serious, and was awful anxious to see you. He left this address here."

I took the visiting card he handed me, noted the address at a nice apartment away up on Wilshire, and the name Randolph Seagram.

That made me think of the pin again, so on a hunch, I left the bar and started up the street. There was a fancy jewelry store in Beverly Hills, just west past Crescent Heights and Doheny but a million miles away. I went there first, taking a gander at the stuff in the window.

Glass or not, this pin in my pocket made the rest of that stuff look like junk. Walking around to the door, I went in.

The floor was so polished, I hated to walk on it and everything seemed to be glass and silver.

A clerk walked toward me who looked as if he might consider speaking to either the Rockefellers or the Vanderbilts and asked what he could do for me. I think he figured on taking a pair of tongs and dropping me outside.

"Just give me a quick take on this," I said, handing him the pin, "and tell me what it's worth."

He took a look and his eyes opened like he was looking at this great big beautiful world for the first time.

Then, he screws a little business into his eye and looks the pin over.

When he looked up, dropping his glass into his hand, he was mingling extreme politeness and growing suspicion in about equal quantities.

"Roughly, twenty thousand dollars," he said.

The night before, I'd been in a poker game and my coat had hung on a hook alongside of a dozen others, with all that ice loose in my pocket! I took it standing.

"I'd like to speak to the manager," I said quickly.

The manager was a tall, cool specimen with gray hair along his temples and looked like he might at least be Count von Roughpants or something.

"Listen' I said, "and while I'm talking, take a gander at this." I dropped the ice on the table.

He looked at it, and when he looked up at me, I knew he was thinking of calling the cops.

"I'm not going to tell you how I got this," I said. "I think maybe the party that owns it may be in trouble. I don't have any way of finding out where the party to whom it belongs is-unless you can help me. Isn't it true that pins like this are scarce?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "I would say very rare. In fact, I believe this to be a special design, made to order for someone."

"All right. I want you to make some discreet inquiries.

Find out the name of the person it belongs to and where they live. I don't want anybody to know why we're asking.

This party may have some relatives or friends who would be worried. When I find out who, what, and why, then I'll know what to do."

"You have some idea to whom it belongs?" he asked.

"I think so. I hope to find out for sure. Meanwhile, do this for me. Take down an accurate description of this pin, then my name and description." I could see the suspicion fading from his eyes. "Then if anything goes haywire, I'll be in the clear."

"And the stone?" he asked.

"I'll see it gets to a safe place."

Leaving the store, I turned into a five-and-dime and after picking up a box several times larger than the pin would need, I wadded the pin in paper, stuffed it in the box, and then had the box wrapped by their wrapping service.

Then I addressed it to myself and dropped it in a mailbox.

Emery, the Casino bartender, had said the kid was worried.

He might have something.

I caught a cab and gave the address that was on the visiting card the kid had left for me.

None of this was my business. Yet I could not leave it alone. The girl had measured up to be the right sort, yet somehow she was tied up with Blubber Puss, who was a wrong G from any angle.

No girl wears jewelry like that when she's willingly working with a strong-arm guy. There was something that smelled in this deal, and I meant to find out what.

The kid lived in a swank apartment. I stopped at the desk and when the lad turned around I said, "Which apartment is Mr. Seagram in?"

He looked at me coolly. "He lives in C-three, but I don't believe he's in. His office has been calling and hasn't gotten an answer."

"His office?"

"Asiatic Importing and Development Company."

"Oh? Then if they are calling him maybe he didn't go to work this morning."

He frowned. "I'm sure nothing is wrong. Mr. Seagram is often out of town."

"I'll go up," I said.

He was watching me as I started for the elevator. I found C-3 around the corner of the hall, out of sight of the foyer.

There was no answer to my knock, and then I saw that the door wasn't quite closed. I pushed it open and stepped in.

Randolph Seagram lay on the floor near an overturned chair. He was dead, half of a knife sticking from his chest.

The lights were on, although it was broad daylight and one whole side of the place was windows.

"Got him last night," I told myself. I took a quick gander around, then stepped to the phone. "Get me the police,"

I said.

In about a minute, the clerk downstairs is on the phone.

I'm still looking the place over.

"What's the trouble?" the clerk asked. "We mustn't have the police."

"Listen, brother," I cut in quickly. "You've got to have the police. This guy is stone cold dead on the carpet. Get them on the phone, I'll do the talking."

When he got them, I asked for Homicide.

"Mooney talkin'," a voice said. "What's up?"

"There's a guy down here in apartment C-three of the Cranston Arms," I said, "who came out on the wrong end of an argument. He's lying here on the carpet with a knife in his ribs."

I heard his feet come off the desk with a thud. "Where's that again? Who are you?"

"My name is Morgan," I told him, "Kipling Morgan.

Kipling as in Gunga Din."

"Don't let anybody leave," he said. "We'll be over."

Kneeling beside him, I gave the lad a hurried frisk. He didn't have any folding money, and his wallet was lying on the floor. They had nicked him for his dough, too. But it wasn't what I was looking for.

Knowing my own habits, I took a chance on his.

There were three addresses on a worn envelope, three addresses and a telephone number. I stuck the envelope in my pocket.

When the police came in, I was sitting in the chair by the telephone like I hadn't moved.

"Detective Lieutenant Mooney." The guy who said it was short and square-shouldered, but looked rugged enough for two men. He gave the body a quick looking over, picked up the empty wallet, then looked at me. "Where do you fit?" he asked.

"Acquaintance," I said. "Met the guy in a bar on Sixth Street. He left word that he wanted to see me. I came up, he was dead."

"When'd you last see him alive?" Mooney was watching me. He had an eye, this dick did.

"About three days ago." I hesitated then told him how I'd followed him from a bar, and what I'd seen. I didn't mention the diamonds.

"Well," he said, "there wasn't anybody around to help him the second time. Looks like they killed him when he made a fuss."

"I don't think so."

Mooney looked up at me. "Why?"

"Seagram thought the girl was on the level. I think maybe he found her again. If I'm any judge, he was going to try when he left me. Well, he must have found her.

Either he learned something he wasn't supposed to know, or they tracked him home and knocked him off."

"Know his family?" Mooney asked.

"Nuh uh."

"Who are you? Your face looks familiar." Mooney was still studying me. I could see he wasn't sure I was in the clear. He was a tight-mouthed guy.

"I used to be a fighter."

"Yeah, I remember." He studied me. "Every once in a while you hear of a fighter turning crooked."

"Yeah? Every once in a while you hear of a banker turning crooked, too, or a cop."

"It doesn't sound right," he said. "You followed them home because you figured it was a heist job. Why didn't you call the police?"

"What world are you living in? You can't walk up to a cop and tell him you think somebody is going to stick up somebody else just because you feel it in here." I tapped myself on the chest. "I knew the signs, and I tailed along."

"You had a fight with the guy?" Mooney asked.

"Yeah." I nodded. "You might check your hospitals.

The guy had a broken nose when he left me, and he lost a couple of teeth. He had at least three deep cuts, too."

"You work 'em over, huh?" Mooney turned. "Graham, get started on that."

Mooney took my address and I left. Me, I had an idea or two. The girl didn't fit. Somehow she had got mixed up with the wrong crowd, and she might be afraid to ask for help even if she got the chance because of her folks or husband or someone hearing about it; women are funny that way. Seagram might have seen her again, followed her, and tried to learn something. That was when he tried to get hold of me. Then, he went home and they got him.

Yet Blubber Puss didn't fit into the killing. He was a gun man or muscle man. He wouldn't use a shiv. Also, he must have his face well bandaged by now. He would be too easily remembered.

Back in my own place, I dug out a .380 Colt that I had and strapped it into a holster that fit around the inside of my thigh under my pants. This one I carried before, and it was ready to use. There was a zipper in the bottom of my right pants pocket, the gun butt just a little lower. I could take a frisk and it would never be found. On my hip, I stuck the rod I took off Blubber Puss.

By nine o'clock, I had eliminated two of the addresses on the envelope. The third and last one was my best bet. It turned out to be a big stone house in the hills above Hollywood. It was set back in some trees and shrubbery with a high wall all the way around.

The gate was closed and locked tight. I could see the shine of a big black car standing in front of the house, almost concealed by the intervening shrubbery. Turning, I walked along the dark street under the trees. About twenty yards farther along, I found what I sought-a big tree with limbs overhanging the wall.

With a quick glance both ways, I jumped and, catching the limb, pulled myself up. Then, I crawled along the limb until I was across the wall; I dropped to the lawn.

My idea of the thing was this: Seagram had run into the girl again. Maybe he had talked to her, probably not. But, mindful of what I'd told him, he might have been uncertain of her, and so maybe he had tailed her. Then, he had tried to come in here. Perhaps he had convinced himself she was okay, or he was planning a Galahad. But he had died for messing with something out of his league.

This setup still smelled wrong, though. The house was too big. The layout cost money. No fly-by-night hoodlums who might use a girl as a plant to pick up some change would have a place like this, or a girl with diamonds like she had.

I did an Indian act going through the trees. When I got close, I dropped my raincoat on the grass behind some shrubbery and laid down on it where I could watch the house.

There was a distant mutter of thunder, growing off among the clouds like a sleepy man you're trying to wake but who doesn't want to get up.

The house was big and the yard was beautiful. A drive made a big circle among the trees. Another drive went past the house to a four-car garage. One of the cars was in front of the house. Another one, facing out, stood beside it.

The last car had a Chicago license-an Illinois plate with the town name-strip above it.

There were two lighted windows on the ground floor, and I could see another on the second floor, a window opposite a giant tree with a limb that leaned very, very near.

Suddenly, a match flared. It was so sudden I ducked. In the glow of the match, as the guy lighted his cigarette, I could see Blubber Puss. His nose was taped up, and there were two strips of adhesive tape on his cheekbones. His lips were swollen considerably beyond their normal size.

Blubber Puss was standing there in the darkness. He looked like he had been there quite a while.

Footsteps on the gravel made me turn my head. Another man, skinny and stooped, was walking idly along the drive.

He stopped close to Blubber, and I could hear the low murmur of their voices without being able to distinguish a word.

After a minute, they parted and both began walking off in opposite directions. I waited, watching them go. I took a quick gander at the luminous dial of my wristwatch. After almost ten minutes, I saw Skinny come into sight ahead, his feet crunching along the gravel, and then Blubber Puss came into sight. This time they were closer to me when they met.

"This standin' watch is killin' me," Skinny growled.

"What's the boss figure is goin' to happen anyway? We're not hot in this town."

"That's what you say." Blubber's mouth shaped the words poorly. "You suppose they won't have word out all over the country? Then knockin' off that kid was a tough break. Why'd he have to stick his nose into it?"