I'll Get You For This (21 page)

  "So what?"

  "It's a dud."

I stared at the note again. It still looked fine to me.

"Sure?"

"Yeah. I had it checked by my bank. They say it's a first-class job, but it's a dud all right."

"I'll say it's a first-class job," I said. "You got it from the Casino?"

He nodded. "It was with two other fives I won. They were all right; this a phoney."

"W ell, that's something," I said, and slipped the note into my pocket.

  "Hey, I want a good one in return," Davis said, alarmed. "And while we are on the important subject of money, you also owe me a hundred bucks."

  "I do?"

  "Yeah. I've been spending your money. Guess what. I've hired a private dick to dig up dirt on your pals. Howja like that?"

  "You did? That's a smart idea. Did he find anything?"

  "Did he—hell!" Davis rubbed his hands gleefully, "it wasn't such a dumb idea. One thing he did find out was that cat-house you're interested in bums five times the electricity it did two years ago. That anything?"

  "Only if it means there's been some electrical equipment installed."

  "That's the way I figured it. It'd be a swell hide-out for a coining plant, wouldn't it?"

  "All right," I said. "What else?"

  "Don't rush us," Davis said, grinning. "This dick ain't been on the job a couple of days. He's turned up something on Gomez if he interests you."

  "Gomez?" I said, frowning. "I don't know where I can fit him in."

  "Well, let's skip Gomez then."

  "What did he find out?"

"Gomez runs human freight into Cuba."

I studied my finger-nails. "Go on," I said.

  "That's it. He does it in a big way. He has three boats, a . bunch of boys working for him, and he gets a thousand dollars a head."

  "Who's he carrying?"

  "The revolution boys. There's a lot of traffic going on between this coast and Cuba. He's smuggling in guns as well. From what I hear there'll be another bust-up in Cuba before long."

  "Too bad for him if Killeano pinched one of his boats," I said, thoughtfully.

  "He ain't likely to," Davis said. "He must be giving Gomez plenty of protection."

  "But suppose Killeano in a fit of zeal pinched Gomez's boat, what do you think Gomez would do?"

  "I know damn well what he'd do. He'd take a crack at Killeano," Davis said, eyeing me doubtfully. "Why should Killeano have a fit of zeal?"

  "He's just taken over the police department; the election is close. It'd be a good publicity stunt to make a sudden clean-up on that racket—especially if the press gave him a spread."

  Davis's fat face creased. "Now what the hell are you cooking up?"

  "Where does Gomez keep his boats?"

  "Search me," Davis returned, looking at Tim and then at me. "This dick—Clairbold's his name (hell of a name, ain't it?)—fell over the dirt accidentally. He wasn't looking for it. He was sniffing around in Lois's apartment trying to find any letters Killeano might have written to Lois. It was my idea. I reckoned we could crucify Killeano if we could get hold of some of his mushy letters and print them. Clairbold was digging around in Lois's bedroom when Gomez and another guy marched into the outer room. Clairbold ducks behind a curtain and hears Gomez planning to run a bunch of nationals over to Cuba tonight, and to bring another bunch back the night after."

  I nodded. "Nice work." I said. "Did he find any letters?"

  "No. He skipped out as soon as Gomez quit. He didn't think it was too healthy to hang around."

  "This might develop, Jed," I said. "It's worth going after. Can you get hold of the dick?"

  "Yeah. Can get him now if you want him."

  "Do that. Tell him to hook himself on to Gomez and follow him wherever he goes. I want to find out where Gomez keeps his boats, and where he'll land those Cubans tonight. Tell him to call back here. We'll wait."

  Davis nodded, went over to the telephone.

  Tim eyed me thoughtfully. "Can't see where this is getting you," he said.

  I moved impatiently. "I'm getting soft," I said. "Know what that kid of mine made me promise?"

  He shook his head.

  "I wouldn't kill Killeano. Imagine. She thought I was going straight into his office and was going to fill him full of lead. Can you beat that?"

  "Well, weren't you?" Tim asked, a sly grin in his eyes.

  "That was the general idea," I said, scowling, "but how was I to know she'd know?"

  "So you're not going to fix Killeano?" Tim said, surprised. "Then why come back here?"

  "I promised I wouldn't kill him, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to fix him," I said grimly. "I have to work it differently now. It'll take longer, but it'll work out the same way- I have to find someone else to do it for me: Gomez, for instance."

  Davis came back from the telephone.

  "Clairbold says Gomez is at the jai alai court right now. He reckons Gomez will make the trip after the game."

  "Okay," I said.

  "He'll come over here after he's seen Gomez off," Davis said. "You'll like this guy. He's good."

  I put my feet on the table. "Stick around," I said. "We may be busy in a little while."

  "Not me," Davis said hurriedly. "I know when you're planning to start something. I smell it in the air. Me—I'm going home."

  I laughed. "Suit yourself," I said, handing him a hundred-dollar note and a five spot. "You'll have a fine spread for your front page in a day or so."

  "Don't tell me," Davis said with an exaggerated shudder. "Let it come as a surprise."

  Clairbold was a young blond man in a brown suit and a cocoa-coloured straw hat with a brown and blue tropical band. He followed Tim into the sitting-room, and looked at me the way a morbid sightseer looks at a messy street accident.

  I eyed him over. He was very young. His face was pink and plump, and the blond beard on his chin was carelessly shaved. His eyes were inquisitive and a little scared. His teeth projected, giving him a look of a young, amiable rabbit. He didn't look a shamus; that, of course, was in his favour.

  "Park your fanny," I said, waving to a chair, "and have a drink."

  He edged into the chair as if it was a bear-trap. Then he took off his hat, held it on his knees. His blond hair was slicked down, parted in the middle.

  "How do you like working for me ?" I asked, pushing the bottle of Scotch and a glass towards him.

  "I like it fine, Mr. Cain," he said nervously; shook his head at the bottle. "No, thank you. I don't use it."

  "You mean you don't drink?"

  "Not in my profession," he returned seriously. "Alcohol dulls one's powers of observation."

  I nodded gravely. "So it does," I said. "How long have you been in this racket ?"

  "You mean how long have I been a private investigator?" he asked, blushing. "Well, not long." He looked at me earnestly. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Cain, I—this is my first big job."

  "Well, you're doing fine," I said. "It doesn't worry you to work for me ?" I grinned to soften the blow, added, "I'm wanted for three murders."

  He stared at his hat, twisted it, put it on the table. "My view of the matter, Mr. Cain, is you've been unjustly accused by an unscrupulous person," he said.

  I blinked. "You really think that?" I said, glancing at Tim whose mouth had fallen open.

  "Oh yes," Clairbold said. "I've studied the facts very closely. You see, i have my reputation to consider. It wouldn't do for me to work for anyone guilty of murder. I have satisfied myself that you are an innocent party to the murders."

  "Pity there aren't more like you around," I said. "Well, you have something to tell me, haven't you?"

  "Yes. I have a full report here," he said, drawing a sheaf of papers from his pocket.

  I hurriedly waved them away. "Just tell me," I said. "Reading isn't my strong suit."

  He squared his shoulders and fixing his eyes on the wall behind my head, he said, "At ninethirty p.m. this evening, I received instructions from Mr. Davis to shadow Juan Gomez, a jai alai player, suspected of running Cuban nationals between this coast and Havana."

  I ran my fingers through my hair, looked at Tim, shook my head.

  Clairbold went straight on. "I took up a convenient position where I could observe Gomez without being seen. He was playing on the jai alai court at the time. At the end of the game, I waited in my car at the players' entrance. Gomez eventually appeared with a red-headed woman I identified as Lois Spence. They drove away in a Cadillac." He paused to look at his report.

  "Never mind the licence number," I said, guessing what he was looking for. "Where did they go?"

  He put his report away regretfully. "They took the coast road, and I had no difficulty in following them. The traffic was heavy and I kept two cars behind them. Three miles beyond Dayden Beach there's a branch road that goes down to the sea. They took this road, and I thought it unwise to follow. My headlights would have revealed my presence. I left my car and followed on foot. At the end of the road I found the Cadillac had been parked, and I observed Gomez and Miss Spence walking along the beach in an easterly direction. There was no cover, and it was impossible to go after them without being seen. Fortunately, they did not go far, and I was able to watch them from behind the Cadillac. They waited for several minutes, then a boat, out at sea, began signalling. Gomez returned the signals with a flash-light, and the boat came in. She was a thirty-footer, painted dark green. She wasn't equipped with outriggers and had no mast. One of the windshields on the pilot house was broken." He cleared his throat, holding his hand before his mouth. "I then observed a concrete ramp, cleverly concealed in the sand, had been built out to sea, allowing the boat to come practically up to the beach. The boat tied up to the ramp. Gomez and Miss Spence went aboard." He paused here, blushed slightly. "My instructions were to find out where the boat was going to. From where I was it was impossible to hear anything. I decided to crawl to the boat, although the risk of detection was considerable. However, I succeeded."

  I stared at him, imagining him crawling over the white moonlit sand towards a bunch of cutthroats who'd've rubbed him out without a thought. My estimation of him went up sharply.

  "That was a nervy thing to have done," I said, and meant it.

  The blush turned to a deep scarlet. "Well, I don't know," he said, rubbing his cheek with his hand. "You see, I've had a thorough training." He hesitated, then blurted out: "Although the Ohio School of Detection teaches through the mail, it doesn't leave anything to chance. They impressed on me that the art of stalking was a pretty useful thing to learn. I'd practised it quite a bit in my room."

  Tim choked, coughed, looked away. I scowled at him.

  "Go on," I said.

  "I succeeded in reaching the concrete ramp, and hid behind it," Clairbold continued, as if it was just another daily task set by the Ohio School of Detection. "After a while Gomez and Miss Spence came on deck, and I heard what they said. He told her he would leave Havana at nine o'clock tomorrow night, drop his cargo at Pigeon Key, and come back here. She arranged to meet him, and then she left the boat. She drove away in the Cadillac. After further delay, another car arrived and four men, obviously Cubans, went on board."

  "What were you doing all this time?" I asked, staring at him.

  "I had dug myself a kind of fox-hole in the sand," he explained, "and buried myself. I kept a newspaper I had with me over my face so I could breathe, see and hear. It was an idea I got from the chapter in my course on watching suspected people in sandy districts." He brooded for a moment, said: "It's a very satisfactory course. I—I recommend it."

  I blew out my cheeks. "It certainly thinks of everything," I said.

  "The boat pulled away from the ramp and headed for Havana. I gave it time to clear and then I came back here to report," he concluded.

  "Well, I'll be damned," I said.

  He looked up. "I—I hope you're satisfied, Mr. Cain," he said anxiously.

  "I'll say I am," I told him. "Now look, young fellow, you ought to be more careful. This is a tough mob, and you're taking too many risks. You've done a swell job, but I don't want to lose you."

  He smiled. "Oh, I can take care of myself, Mr. Cain," he assured me. "I have learned boxing, and I can shoot."

  I looked him over and wondered where he had left his muscles. Probably at home, I thought. He certainly hadn't brought them with him. "Did you learn boxing and shooting through the mail too?" I asked gently.

  He blushed. "Well, yes. I haven't had a chance yet to try any of it out, but I understand the theory pretty well."

  This time I didn't dare look at Tim. I took out my wallet, pushed over two hundred dollar bills, "That's for being a smart guy," I said. "Stick around, and I'll have something more for you before long."

  His eyes lit up and he picked up the notes eagerly.

  "I'm glad you're satisfied, Mr. Cain," he said. "This means a lot to me " He hesitated, plunged on: "If it's all right with you, I thought I might investigate this—er—house of ill-fame. Of course, I don't like going to such a place, but it's part of my job, isn't it?" He eyed me hopefully, seriously.

"It is," I said gravely.

"Then you think I might investigate there?"

  "I think it's a good idea," I said, nodding. "Only be careful some hussie doesn't make a play for you."

  He blushed. "I'm not susceptible to women," he said earnestly. "It's part of my training to resist temptation."

  I pulled at my nose. "Is there a chapter on that too?" I asked blankly.