Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories (33 page)

"I'm free and clear the rest of the day," I said. "But instead of you phoning him, why don't I just wait until he gets home and surprise him face to face? That is, if you wouldn't mind."

"Of course I wouldn't, Mr. Byers—"

"Larry."

"Peggy."

"Now that that's settled," I said, "you don't suppose I could talk you into a cup of coffee, do you?"

She put a hand to her mouth. "Well, will you look at me! I'm sorry, Larry, please come in. I didn't mean to make you stand out there all this time like a brush salesman or something."

We went into the living room with a beamed ceiling and a big fieldstone fireplace. The furniture was newish, tasteful, on the expensive side. Ornate glass-doored cabinets contained what looked to be genuine jade figurines and other gewgaws.

"You know," Peggy said, "Glen just won't believe you're back in California. He thought when you turned down that professional baseball contract to go globe-trotting for oil, he'd never see you again."

"He probably wouldn't have if I hadn't found out he married this nice blonde lady who also happens to be a terrific cook. I haven't had a good home-cooked steak dinner in years."

She laughed again. "Steak later, coffee now. I put some fresh on just before you came. How do you take it?"

"With cream, no sugar."

"I won't be a minute. Make yourself comfortable."

I wandered around the room, listening to her make domestic noises in the kitchen. After a couple of minutes she came back with two cups of coffee and handed me one. It was good coffee.

"Nice place you have here," I said. "Glen must be doing pretty well these days."

"Yes, he is. A home like this is what we've always wanted, so as soon as we could afford it, we bought it."

"Is the rest of the place as impressive as this room?"

"Would you like to take the guided tour?"

"That I would."

She conducted me through the house. In addition to the living room and kitchen, there was a dining room, three bedrooms, a den, a family room, two and a half baths, and a garage workshop. The master bedroom impressed me the most; it was full of all sorts of interesting furniture and things.

When we were back in the living room, Peggy said, "Now then. Suppose you sit down and tell me all about South America."

"I'll do that very thing. But first, why don't I run down to that shopping center I noticed and pick up some wine and three fat steaks for supper?"

She started to say something, but I put up a staying hand. "No arguments, now," I said. "I insist." And I started for the door.

Peggy lifted the bottom of her bulky sweater and reached underneath. What was in her hand when it reappeared stopped me in my tracks. It was a little pearl-handled automatic.

"That's far enough," she said coolly.

"Hey! Hey, Peggy, what's the idea?"

"You know what the idea is."

"No, no I don't—"

"Let me see your wallet."

"What for?"

"Put it on the coffee table. Right now."

I didn't have much choice; the little automatic was steady in her hand. I put my wallet on the table, and she picked it up and flipped the card section open to look at my driver's license.

Then she set the wallet down again and said, "Now empty your pockets, Mr. Reardon. All of them."

No choice in that, either. The jig, as they say, was up.

Her eyes were glacial as she watched me transfer what was in my pockets to the table. "Four of my best jade pieces," she said. "And my emerald pin and birthstone ring. And the fifty-dollar bill from my dresser. Well, I thought so. You slipped all of these things into your pockets while I made coffee and while I showed you the house."

I sighed and said nothing.

"Sit down on the couch," she said. "Put your hands in your lap where I can see them."

I did as I was told. "Okay, Mrs. Curwood. But tell me this: How did you know?"

"The real Larry Byers was never offered a professional baseball contract. He never even played baseball."

"You set me up?"

"Let's just say I had a good idea what your game was."

"But how? I thought I followed your lead on this Byers long-lost pretty well. How did you figure what kind of con I was putting on you?"

She moved across to her telephone. "I'm very close to my husband's work," she said.

"Huh?"

She dialed a number with her free hand. After a moment, watching me and smiling a little, she said into the receiver, "Yes—I'd like to speak to Captain Glen Curwood, please. Of the Bunko squad."

I closed my eyes.

It was one of those days.

H
arry was slicing lemons behind the bar when the kid came in and told him it was a stickup.

Carefully, Harry put down the saw knife he'd been using and wiped his hands on his apron. He looked at the kid standing in front of the cocktail slot, his hands in the pocket of his thin cotton jacket, his white face pinched and sweating.

"I don't see any gun," Harry said.

"I've got one, all right." But there was no conviction in the kid's voice.

"You better show it to me," Harry said, "and you better do it quick. Because if you ain't got one, I'm going to come around and kick you out of here on your ass."

The kid tried to stare Harry down. He had funny eyes, bright and murky at the same time. But Harry didn't flinch; there wasn't much that he was afraid of.

"All right," Harry said after a few seconds, and he started over to where the flap was up at the near end of the bar.

The kid turned and ran.

Harry watched him run out through the door and off down the street. Then he grinned to himself and went back to slicing lemons.

A little while later one of his regular customers, a retired shoemaker named Irv, came in. Irv sat at the bar and ordered a beer. Harry poured it for him.

"Little commotion down the street," Irv said.

"That so? What happened?"

"Kid held up old man Dowd at the liquor store."

"What kid?"

"How do I know what kid? Some kid, that's all."

"They catch him?"

"Not yet."

"How much did he get?"

"Fifty bucks," Irv said. "Big deal."

Harry started to laugh.

"What so funny?" Irv asked him.

Harry told him what had happened earlier.

Irv drank some of his beer. "Must have been the same kid.

"Sure," Harry said. He was still laughing. "I'll bet he scared the shorts off of old man Dowd. And he didn't even have a gun."

"Not everybody's big and brave like you, Harry."

"No," Harry said, "and that's a fact."

Harry had a nice crowd that night, but it thinned out shortly after ten. By ten-thirty, the place was empty.

He didn't hear the front door open. He was washing glasses in the stainless-steel sink and the water splashing made a lot of noise. So he wasn't aware anyone had come in until he looked up and saw the kid with the white face standing there in front of him.

A slow grin stretched Harry's mouth. "Well, well," he said.

The kid didn't say anything. He had both hands in the pocket of his cotton jacket, as he had that afternoon. His funny eyes were even brighter and more murky now.

"I see you had a little better luck down the street today," Harry said.

"That's right," the kid said in his high-pitched voice. He was watching Harry intently.

"What'd it do? Give you enough guts to come back and try me again?"

"Not exactly."

"I hear you got fifty bucks off old man Dowd," Harry said. He started to laugh again. "Don't spend it all in one place."

"But I already did," the kid said. "I spent it all in one place, all right."

"That so?"

"I spent it on this," the kid said.

He took the gun from his jacket pocket and shot Harry three times in the chest. Harry didn't have time to stop laughing before he died.

The kid was sitting on the floor, cradling the gun in both arms, crooning to it, when the beat cop came running in a minute later.

A "Nameless Detective"/ Sharon McCone Story

(With Marcia Muller)

"H
ello?"

"'Wolf'? It's Sharon McCone."

"Well! Been a while, Sharon. How are you?"

"I've been better. Are you busy?"

"No, no, I just got home. What's up?"

"I've got a problem and I thought you might be able to help."

"If I can. Professional problem?"

"The kind you've run into before."

"Oh?"

"One of those things that seem impossible but that you know has to have a simple explanation."

". . ."

"'Wolf,' are you there?"

"I'm here. The poor man's Sir Henry Merrivale."

"Who's Sir Henry Merrivale?"

"Never mind. Tell me your tale of woe."

"Well, one of All Souls' clients is a small outfit in the Outer Mission called Neighborhood Check Cashing. You know, one of those places that cashes third-party or social-security checks for local residents who don't have bank accounts of their own or easy access to a bank. We did some legal work for them a year or so ago, when they first opened for business."

"Somebody rip them off?"

"Yes. For two thousand dollars."

"Uh-huh. When?"

"Sometime this morning."

"Why did you and All Souls get called in on a police matter?"

"The police were called first but they couldn't come up with any answers. So Jack Harvey, Neighborhood's owner and manager, contacted me. But I haven't come up with any answers either."

"Go ahead, I'm listening."

"There's no way anyone could have gotten the two thousand dollars out of Neighborhood's office. And yet, if the money is still hidden somewhere on the premises, the police couldn't find it and neither could I."

"Mmm."

"Only one of two people could have taken it—unless Jack Harvey himself is responsible, and I don't believe that. If I knew which one, I might have an idea of what happened to the money. Or vice versa. But I don't have a clue either way."

"Let's have the details."

"Well, cash is delivered twice a week—Mondays and Thursdays—by armored car at the start of the day's business. It's usually five thousand dollars, unless Jack requests more or less. Today it was exactly five thousand."

"Not a big operation, then."

"No. Jack's also an independent insurance broker; the employees help him out in that end of the business too."

"His employees are the two who could have stolen the money?"

"Yes. Art DeWitt, the bookkeeper, and Maria Chavez, the cashier. DeWitt's twenty-five, single, lives in Daly City. He's studying business administration nights at City College. Chavez is nineteen, lives with her family in the Mission. She's planning to get married next summer. They both seem to check out as solid citizens."

"But you say one of them has to be guilty. Why?"

"Opportunity. Let me tell you what happened this morning. The cash was delivered as usual, and Maria Chavez entered the amount in her daily journal, then put half the money in the till and half in the safe. Business for the first hour and a half was light; only one person came in to cash a small check: Jack Harvey's cousin, whom he vouches for."

"So Chavez couldn't have passed the money to him or another accomplice."

"No. At about ten-thirty a local realtor showed up wanting to cash a fairly large check: thirty-five hundred dollars. Harvey doesn't usually like to do that, because Neighborhood runs short before the next cash delivery. Besides, the fee for cashing a large check is the same as for a small one; he stands to lose on large transactions. But the realtor is a good friend, so he okayed it. When Chavez went to cash the check, there was only five hundred dollars in the till."

"Did DeWitt also have access to the till?"

"Yes."

"Any way either of them could have slipped out of the office for even a few seconds?"

"No. Harvey's desk is by the back door and he was sitting there the entire time."

"What about through the front?"

"The office is separated from the customer area by one of those double Plexiglas security partitions and a locked security door. The door operates by means of a buzzer at Harvey's desk. He didn't buzz anybody in or out."

"Could the two thousand have been removed between the time the police searched and you were called in?"