Hard Case Crime: Shooting Star & Spiderweb (17 page)

“Why get into trouble? Let them do their own figuring.”

“Even if they suspect
you?
That doesn’t make sense.” I sat down and leaned forward. “Because they
do
suspect you, now. This business of disappearing after Polly Foster’s death looks mighty suspicious. Everybody else showed for questioning and gave an alibi. Everybody but you. Why?”

“I got my orders to lay low. Changed my territory on me; I don’t work the studios any more.”

“You’re sure it isn’t because you know who killed Polly Foster?”

“I haven’t any idea.”

“Then why did you phone Tom Trent and warn him to get out of town?”

“I—I was worried. I liked Tom. He was on the stuff, sure, and I used to get it for him. Then I was told to hide out here and that cut off his supply. From something he said to me after Ryan got killed, I got a hunch he might know who did it. I think he must have gone back that night, just like Polly Foster. Maybe he just guessed. But I figured he knew, and after Polly Foster died, I was scared for him. I called him up and told him maybe he’d better get out of town for a while. We figured maybe he’d be safe then.”

“We?”

“I mean,
I
figured.”

“Uh-uh. You were told to warn him, weren’t you?”

“You’re getting me all confused.”

“You’re confused plenty, if you ask me. You’re shielding somebody who’s put you on the spot.”

“I’m not on the spot.”

“Yes you are.” I talked right into her face. “Whoever this party is, he’s got you right where he wants you, the perfect suspect. You disappear the minute Foster gets murdered. You call Trent the night before he’s killed. Somebody came out to his place in a car and bumped him off—couldn’t that be you? The cops think so. They know about that call.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Don’t tell me. Tell them. Tell them when they come for you.”

“Nobody knows where I am. I’m safe. Unless you double cross me.”

“I’m not going to double cross you,” I answered. “I don’t have to. Because you’re not safe here. I found you in fifteen minutes. I used my head, and an old City Directory. Got your apartment number from that tea peddler downstairs. She sold you out for twenty bucks. I’ll bet you another twenty the police will be knocking on your door before tomorrow morning.”

“I won’t be here,” she said. “I’m getting out of town.”

“Suit yourself. But you’re a sucker if you keep on trying to protect somebody who’d line you up for a rap like this. Who is it, this guy you’re running for?”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

“Suppose you tell me his name?”

“No. I couldn’t do that—”

“Give you my word. I won’t say anything about it for twenty-four hours. You’ve got time to clear out of here.”

“I couldn’t.” She dug her fingers into the arm of the sofa. “He’d come after me.”

“I doubt that. Because if you ask me, he won’t have a chance. The police will grab him right away. Don’t you see? This guy’s the killer.”

Her fingers stopped clawing.

“Haven’t you figured that yet? It has to be that way. I’m not playing brilliant; it’s just simple elimination. He’s the only one left who’s linked to all three of the victims: Ryan, Foster and Trent.”

She stared at the wall behind me.

“Come on,” I said. “Is it Kolmar?”

“No.”

“Tell me his name.” I reached over and shook her. “Don’t be a fool. Do you want to end up like the others did?”

Estrellita Juarez stared.

“All right,” she said, tonelessly. “It isn’t Kolmar. The name is Hastings. Edward Hastings. He works for—”

She wasn’t staring at the wall any more. I realized that now. She was staring at the door, because it was opening, fast. I turned in my seat, my hand searching for the gun Bannock had given me. I felt the butt in my fingers, started to tug it out as I tried to get up.

I never got the gun out, never reached my feet.

Joe Dean came in right behind my chair. “Here’s what I owe you,” he said.

What he owed me was something hard, something that cracked down to split my skull and leave me sprawling on a floor that went spinning and spinning around. It was like one of those outfits you ride in the Fun House of an amusement park, where centrifugal force finally throws you off to the edge. It was throwing me off now.

I hit the edge and dropped into darkness.

The rungs were slippery, but I kept climbing. That was the only way to get out of the darkness again. I had to keep on climbing. It took years.

Then I was up, back on the floor, lying there with my face pressed into the rug. My mouth was open and I wheezed.

The rug tasted awful, so I rolled over. Still the same taste. It wasn’t the rug after all; it was something else. Something that clung to my mouth no matter how I turned my head. A gag.

Now I could feel the pressure of the cords on my hands and legs. They’d trussed me up, too. I opened my eye, but there wasn’t much to see. Quite dark in the room now. Dark, and lonely.

My head throbbed. Those Dean brothers were great ones for rapping you over the skull. Did an efficient job, too. I wasn’t bleeding, but I could tell I had been hit hard. When I rolled over onto my side, the room spun for a moment, then steadied.

I stared in the dimness. They were gone, all right. The closet door was open, and there weren’t any clothes on the hangers. The vacuum cleaner was right there on the floor. Thoughtful of them to leave it. Maybe they thought I’d want to clean a few vacuums. Such as the one inside my skull.

They’d opened the dust bag, of course, and emptied it. And I knew they had taken the package of muggles from my pocket. Estrellita probably did it while Dean tied me up. I even knew what they’d used to tie me with. I could see the rumpled sheet in the corner from which the strips had been torn.

I tried to move my arms and legs. It wasn’t easy. Maybe if I rolled over to the wall I could brace myself enough to stand up.

I tried. Just raising myself made my head ache. And standing on my numbed legs was almost impossible. After a few minutes of effort it became possible, though.

Now what?

I worked my wrists. The knots held. Maybe I could follow the wall into the kitchen, get a knife out of the drawer. Better roll into there, though.

I rolled. Once again there was the business of raising myself up. I found the cupboard and the drawer, inched my way upright alongside it, stood with my back to the drawer and got the edge under one hand. I tugged. The drawer opened, then fell to the floor with a thud.

A thud, not a crash. There was no tinkle. I stared down through the shadows on the kitchen floor. The drawer was empty. They’d thought of everything.

I started to roll back, passing the bathroom on my way. Too bad this wasn’t a hotel. In hotels they usually have that dojinger on the door for opening bottles and stuff.

Wait. Maybe...

I rolled back into the kitchen. I forced myself upright again. Then I saw what I was looking for on the far wall. I edged around towards it, hopping a step at a time and keeping my balance by sticking close to the wall. Then I reached the spot. There was a wall can opener and it had a bottle-opening attachment.

So far so good. But the rest was awful. The thing was set up too high for me to reach easily with my hands tied behind my back. I had to bend my arms. For a little while I thought I’d have to break them before I could make contact. Then I managed by twisting my left arm almost out of its socket.

I began to run my wrists back and forth against the knots. Of course there was no way of seeing what I was doing, and I had to be careful. The bottle opener was sharp; I didn’t want to puncture my wrists. A few gashes were to be expected, but that didn’t make them hurt any less when I felt them.

It took time. Quite a long time. Then I felt the knots giving. I pulled away and worked my hands. Something came loose. My hands were free.

I sat down, wrung a little circulation back into my fingers, and took the gag out of my mouth. Then I untied my feet. I rubbed my ankles, stood up again, felt the top of my head just for luck.

Then I looked at my watch.

No wonder it was dark. Almost nine o’clock. I’d been out for over five hours.

That was a long time. Long enough for the two of them to get a long, healthy head start.

I wondered where they’d run off to.

Switching on the lights, I made a brief tour of the apartment. They’d packed, all right. Taken everything, and left. I found a few ties in the bedroom, though; all were striped patterns. Dean had worn a striped tie. Which meant Estrellita had probably lied about not seeing him any more. The two of them were in this together.

All of which didn’t matter now. There were other puzzlers.

My gun, for instance, or rather Bannock’s gun. It was still in my pocket, I discovered. Thoughtful of them. Or thoughtless.

Well, there was nothing I could do about that. Nothing except go to the police and tell them what I knew. About Dean, Juarez, and this man Hastings. Edward Hastings. So he had to turn out to be the killer. Like those old-fashioned mysteries where everybody is suspected and it ends up that the butler did it. A fine thing. And I was a fine amateur private eye, too.

No sense looking any further. They wouldn’t have left anything around that might help.

I went out and closed the door behind me. Nobody lurked in the hall. Nobody opened up to peek at me from the Little Gypsy Tea Room. I hit the street and headed for the nearest drugstore.

It was about time I turned sensible and called Thompson. Yes, that was the only thing left for me. Call Thompson and try to work with him, for a change. We could still round up the murderer, if luck only held.

The drugstore wasn’t hard to find. I went in, looking around for a phone. I couldn’t see it, so I walked up to the clerk at the counter.

“Yes?”

“Have you got—?” I stopped. There was a pile of early morning editions on the counter. I picked up the top one and gave the clerk a buck. I started to walk away.

“Hey, mister, you forgot your change!”

I didn’t pick up my change. I kept right on walking. Walking and reading.

It was only a box on the front page; that’s all they had time for when the flash came in. Maybe there’d be an extra later. I didn’t know. I didn’t care.

Everything was over, now.

Hastings was dead. Edward Hastings, 42, of such-and-such an address, found shot through the head late this afternoon at...

I read the address again, read what Hastings did for a living.

Then I turned around and went back into the store.

“Where’s the phone?” I asked.

“Back there, behind the counter.”

“Thanks.”

I didn’t dial the police. I called Bannock, at his house.

“Hello.”

“Yes?” Daisy’s voice.

“This is Mark. Is Harry there?”

“No.”

“Where is he—police?”

“Of course not. Why should he be?”

“Then you haven’t heard?”

“Mark, what’s this all about? Harry ought to be in soon, he had to finish up at the office after the funeral this afternoon.”

I’d forgotten all about the funeral. I’d forgotten about a lot of things, apparently.

“Well, if he comes in, be sure to hold him. I’m on my way out.”

“Mark, is there something—?”

“Plenty,” I said. “Stay right where you are.”

I hung up and went out. I hailed a cab up the street and gave the driver Bannock’s address.

It was a long haul across town and I had plenty of time to think things out. No matter how I put the pieces together, they always fitted.

Over? Nothing was over. Not yet.

The moon was shining bright as we drove up in front of Bannock’s place. There was a light in the window for the wandering boy, too.

I got out and wandered up the walk.

Daisy let me in. “Sarah’s day off,” she told me. “And me with a stinking headache.”

“How was the funeral?”

“I didn’t go. Harry went, though.”

“Did he?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you.”

She looked at me. “What happened to you?” she asked. “Is it the police?”

“No. They haven’t caught up with me yet. I’m going to call them in a little while, though. But first let me tell you the whole deal.”

“Come in. I’ll mix a drink,” I did, and she did. It was pleasant to sit back and relax in the soft lamplight, with an easy chair to rest in, a tall glass in my hand, and Daisy’s presence vibrant before me.

Only I wasn’t relaxing. Not yet.

First I had to bring Daisy up to date. I told her about seeing Kolmar and Joe Dean, about my interview with Billie Trent and the police finding Kolmar’s gun in my car.

Then I went on and gave her a report of my interview with Harry. I told her how I’d found Estrellita Juarez; how Dean had found me again, and finally I told her about what I had just read in the paper.

“But I still don’t understand,” she said. “What does it all mean?”

“It could mean several things,” I said. “It could mean that Juarez and Dean were working together all along; that they killed Dicky Ryan, Polly Foster, Tom Trent. Or perhaps one of them did and the other knew about it.

“And so did this man Hastings, because Juarez was a runner for him in his dope peddling racket. So this afternoon, when things got hot, they decided to bump him off before they left town for good. Cover up the trail.”

Daisy nodded. “But why come to Harry with that? Why don’t you call the police?”

“I will. Only I won’t tell them this theory. Because I don’t believe it’s true.” I took a drink and felt a little better. “There’s one thing wrong with that setup. The motive. You see, there isn’t any. Why should Juarez and Dean, or either one of them separately, kill those three people? No reason.” I sighed. “Besides, both of them have alibis to account for their whereabouts during Ryan’s murder. And Dean has alibis covering him for the other killings, too.”

“But they still could have killed this man Hastings. If they were leaving town, and thought he was the murderer, maybe they went to him and tried to blackmail him.” Daisy took my glass and refilled it.