I'll Get You For This (28 page)

  It was what I hoped she would say, but for all that, I had an uneasy feeling that our spell of peace was coming to an end.

  We read in the morning's newspaper that Clem Kuntz, the shrewdest criminal lawyer on the Pacific Coast, was handling Lydia Hamilton's defence. I expected he'd call on us. He did.

  He arrived as I was going off duty. I thought he was a customer when I saw the big Lincoln roll up the driveway, but I soon found out different.

  "I want to talk to you," he said, getting out of the car. "I'm Kuntz. Maybe you've heard of me."

  I had heard of him all right, even before he had taken charge of the Gray Howard Slaying, as the newspapers called it. Gray Howard was the name of the man in the white dinner-jacket. He turned out to be a big-shot movie director.

  I eyed Kuntz over. He was a squat square man with a mulberry coloured face. He had the hardest eyes I'd ever seen in a man's face, and he gave me the full benefit of them. I stared right back at him, said: "Go ahead. I can give you a couple of minutes, then I want my supper."

  He shook his head. "A couple of minutes won't do," he said. "Let's go somewhere where we can talk. You'd better play with me, Cain. I could put you in a hell of a spot if I felt that way."

  I hesitated, decided that maybe he could put me in a spot, jerked my head to the house.

  "Then you'd better come in."

  We went into the house, and I showed him into the front room. He looked round, grunted, took up a position by the window. I sat in the easy chair, yawned, pulled my nose, said, "Shoot."

  "You married?" he asked abruptly.

  I nodded. "What of it?"

  "I'd like to meet your wife."

  I shook my head. "Not before you tell me what's on your mind," I said. "I'm particular whom she meets."

  His eyes snapped. "Scared to let me see her?" he barked.

  I laughed at him. "You're wasting time," I said; "come off your high horse."

  The door opened and Clair came in. She was wearing a cute frilly apron over a simple little frock in sky blue. She looked a kid, and a pretty one at that.

  "Oh, I'm sorry . . ." she said, backing out.

  "Come in," I said. "This is Mr. Clem Kuntz. Th
e Mr. Kuntz.
" I looked at the mulberry coloured face. "This is my wife. Satisfied?"

  He was looking narrowly at Clair. There was an expression of startled dismay in his eyes.

  I suddenly got what he was driving at. I grinned.

  "Not what you expected?" I said. "I bet your client told you she was hard, brassy, and on the make."

He drew in a deep breath, bowed to Clair.

  "I merely wanted to know, Mrs. Cain, if you spoke to Gray Howard on the night of his death," he said, clinging to the shreds of his dignity.

  She looked at me, shook her head.

  "Look, Mr. Kuntz," I said, "I know what you hope to establish. It's to your client's advantage if you can prove that Clair was trying to make Howard. She wasn't, and I don't think, however hard you try, you'd ever convince a jury she was. Howard was propositioning her. I wanted to fix him, but Clair didn't want a scene. We had been working hard for three months, and it was our first night out together. It was our hard luck that we should run into Howard. Clair didn't encourage him. Your client was sore because Howard couldn't keep his eyes to himself. But that didn't cause the murder. It touched it off, but it had been coming to a head for some time. A guy doesn't punch a   woman in the lace unless he's sick to death of her. It was the punch that killed Howard . . . not Clair."

  Kuntz cleared his throat, grunted.

  "I wonder if you always look like that," he said to Clair, speaking his thoughts out aloud.

  "She'll look like that at the trial, if you decide to call her," I said. "And she'll hurt your client's case if you try to make out she's a vamp."

  He passed his fat hand over his bald head, frowned. He knew when he was licked.

  "I don't think I'll call her," he said. "All right, Cain, I guess I 'm wasting time. I thought your wife would be a different type." He looked wistfully at Clair, shook his head, went.

  We breathed again. Maybe it was going to work out all right. Maybe we weren't going to get any publicity.

  The District Attorney's man was the next to call. He had a report from the State Highway cop who had arrested Lydia on the drunk while driving charge. As soon as he learned that Lydia had tried to wreck the Cadillac with me in it, he hotfooted over to see me. He said it was just the kind of evidence he wanted. It proved that Lydia was a dangerous drunk, and it'd carry a lot of weight with the jury. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was too burned up with the idea.

  The next morning the press had the story.

  They began arriving before we had breakfast, and they crawled all over us. The little guy who had tried to photograph us on the night of the murder was well in the forefront. He snarled at me, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  "Hello, wise guy," he said. "So you don't like publicity? My editor will sure fix you for smashing that plate."

  Flash-lights exploded around us for the next hour. We tried to duck out of sight, but it was like a siege. When they had gone, I went upstairs, hunted out Bat's .38. I sat on the bed, cleaned, oiled and loaded it. It seemed odd to have a gun banging against my side again. I didn't like the feel of it any more. I was worried too that I was so much slower on the draw than I used to be. It was nearly four months since I pulled a gun, and I knew I'd have to get in some practice if I was going to match Bat.

  Clair found me practising.

  I pulled her down on the bed beside me.

  "I think I'll send you away," I said. "If Bat's going to start anything, he'll get at me through you. We'll have to think where you can go."

  She shook her head. "It's no use running away, darling," she said. "They may never come after us, and we'd be separated for months, waiting. Besides, they want me at the trial and things could happen then if they're going to happen at all. Let's stick together. I'd never have a moment's peace without you." She flung her arms around my neck. "I don't care what you say. I'm not going to leave you."

  I thought for a moment, decided she was right.

  "We'll wait for them," I said.

  I was expecting something pretty bad from the newspapers, but nothing as bad as the front page of the
Clarion,
the paper my friend the photographer worked on. They had dug up the whole story of Paradise Palms and had smeared it all over the front page with photographs of myself, Clair, the service station, Killeano and even Clairbold, the boy wonder.

I took one look, cursed.

  As the weeks went by and nothing happened, we gradually relaxed. But we still took precautions. I carried a gun, I continued to practice, and I regained my speed. We had a couple of fierce police dogs around the house, but no one can continue to be keyed up all the time waiting for trouble if trouble doesn't come.

  At first, we both had the jitters, catching each other listening to any unusual sound, breaking off our conversation at an approaching step, looking uneasily at each other whenever the telephone rang. But that kind of tension doesn't last. After the fourth week we were almost back to normal, although I took care never to approach any car that came into the station unless I could see the driver. If I couldn't see who was driving, I sent Bones. I never did a night shift either.

  Lydia Hamilton's trial was a three-day sensation. Kuntz knew she hadn't a chance to beat the rap so he pleaded her guilty, but insane. The D.A. was after her blood, and he didn't call me, as my evidence would have helped establish the fact that she was insane.

  Kuntz got his verdict after a terrific battle, and after the usual ballyhoo from the press the story died a natural death.

  A week after the trial, and five weeks after the newspapers had first discovered me, Lois Spence showed her hand.

  I had finished for the night, and had handed over to Ben the old guy who handled the night shift, when the telephone in the office rang.

  "I'll answer it," I said to Ben as a car came up the driveway.

  I returned to the office, lifted the receiver.

  "Cain?" a woman's voice asked.

  I knew at once who it was. I felt my lips lift off my teeth in a mirthless smile. So it had come at last.

"Hello, Lois," I said. "I was expecting you to call."

"Like the wait?" she asked, a jeer in her voice.

"All right. It gave me time to prepare for you. Coming to see me?"

  "You bet I am," she said, "but it'll have to be a surprise. Don't be embarrassed, we won't expect you to dress."

  I laughed, although I didn't feel like laughing.

  "How's Bat?" I asked.

  "He's fine. I shouldn't laugh, Cain. You won't like it when we do come."

  "Why don't you grow up?" I said. "You always were a dumb red-head. Do you think I care what you do? I can handle Bat and you. Tell him. And don't forget, Lois, if you slip up, you'll have a nice stretch in jail ahead of you. Bat's wanted for murder and that makes you an accessory after the fact. Thought of that?"

  "Listen, you heel," she said, losing her smooth tone. "I've waited too long to even things up with you. It's been fun making you sweat, but I'm through with waiting now."

  "Watch your elastic, sister," I said. "There's no need to get excited. Tell me, what do you plan to do, or is that a secret?"

  "What do you think? We'll get that girl of yours, and then we'll invite you to call and see her. Bat still wants to match his skill against yours."

  "With an empty gun, of course," I said.

  "Not this time," Lois returned. "He's been getting ready for you. He's wise to that loose holster trick now. You won't pull another gag like that. Well, so long, Cain. We'll be around, so make hay while there's a sun." She hung up.

  I stood thinking, then I went out, climbed into the Buick. "Tell Mrs. Cain I won't be twenty minutes," I said to Ben, drove on to the highway.

  I paid a visit to the police-station, asked to see Lieutenant Mallory.

  Mallory and I knew each other well. He was always passing the service station, and he knew where he could get iced beer with a smile from Clair whenever he wanted it.

  "What's on your mind, Cain?" he asked, offering me a cigarette.

  I took it. We lit up. "I want protection," I said.

  He gaped at me, burst into a roar of laughter. "That's rich," he said. "You want protection. I don't believe it. Why you're the original tough egg."

  "I know," I said, "but this is different. My shooting days are over. Take a pew, Lieutenant, I want to tell you a story."

  I gave him the story, told him Bat was after us, and that Lois had just called me.

  "You're not scared of a punk like Thompson, are you?" he asked, blankly.

  "I didn't say I was scared of anyone," I said patiently. "I'm respectable now. My wild days are over. I own a wife and a service station. I'm not risking being sent to jail or the chair because you boys can't do your job."

  He eyed me thoughtfully. "Well, we'll keep an eye on your place," he said. "Will that do?"

  "That's what I want, and suppose Bat turns up when your eye isn't on the place. What then?"

  "You deal with him. You'd be within your rights."

  I shook my head. "I've killed about six men now and pleaded self defence. That plea is wearing a little thin. A bright lawyer might sway a jury and rail-road me to the chair. I'm through with that stuff. Have me made a deputy sheriff. I haven't even a permit for this rod."

  "Don't show me," he said, hurriedly closing his eyes. "I don't want to know about it. I can't make you a deputy sheriff. Maybe the D.A. might play."

  I had an idea. "Say, Bat's wanted by the Federal Office. Maybe . . ."

  "Try them," Mallory said. "In the meantime I'll detail a patrolman to keep an eye on your place."

  I thanked him, drove over to the Federal Bureau, asked to see someone in charge.

  It took me an hour, but I came out with a gun permit, and a piece of paper which stated that I was temporarily attached to the Federal Office as special investigator. A long distance call to Hoskiss had got me that.

  I was late back for supper, and Clair was worried, but as soon as she saw the light in my eye, she brightened.

  "Where have you been?" she asked, leading me into the dining-room where supper was waiting.

  I told her about Lois; showed her the gun permit and my authority.

  "I'm a G-man now," I said. "How do you like that?"

  She looked a little scared, but tried to hide it.

  "I like it fine," she said. "There's a cop in the kitchen eating apple pie. He said he had been detailed to keep an eye on me until you returned."

  I laughed. "Swell idea," I said. "Well, I'm ready for Bat now. I don't think they'll come after you, honey. Lois wouldn't have told me if that was their idea."

  Three days went by, and still nothing happened. Every three hours a patrolman would look in, wink at Clair, say "No trouble?" shrug and go on his way.

  I didn't relax this time. I was sure something would happen before long, and if I didn't keep on my toes, I'd be surprised.

  It happened the following night.

  We had gone to bed about eleven. I had locked the bedroom door, bolted it. I had fixed the mesh-wire screen over the open window. No one could get in our room without waking us.

  It was a clear moonlight night, and the night air was hot. Ben had been busy up to ten-thirty, and now trade had slackened off.

  Clair and I lay side by side in the big double bed. I was half asleep when I heard a car drive up. I thought nothing of it, relaxed, began to drift off. Then suddenly I was wide awake, listening. Clair also sat up, looked at me in the dim light, whispered, "What is it?"