Strip for Murder (17 page)

I went up to the fourth floor, to the door lettered “Yates Detective Agency.” Sergeant Billings was inside, seated in a swivel chair with his feet on the desk. He was a husky, good-looking young bachelor with six years in the department. He got up and stretched as I walked in.

“Hi, Shell. The Captain gave me a call, said you'd be in.”

“How long you been on this kick, Bill?”

“Since they found Yates. Just sitting on things.”

“Anything happen? Such as gorillas wandering in like clients?”

“Deader than Forest Lawn. No clients even. This Yates must've been taking life easy.”

“He is now. That's why I'm here. I've got a big sympathetic spot in me for dead detectives.” I pointed to a gray filing cabinet against the wall. “That all of it?”

“All the paper.” He yawned. “You gonna be here very long?”

“Half hour anyway. Maybe more. Depends.”

“I'll grab a fast hamburger.”

“Grab a slow one. This will take me quite a while, I imagine.”

He stretched again, then went out. I looked around the office. It was small, about eight by twelve feet, with a desk and swivel chair, two other wooden chairs, and a threadbare rug on the floor. Cigarette burns marred both sides of the desk. One of the windows was open and I looked down at Eighth Street and the little figures moving around four stories below. Then I went across the room to the files. There was only the single cabinet, but all four of its drawers were nearly full. Index tabs marked with the letters of the alphabet separated groups of paper-filled manila folders. I grabbed one at random, just to compare the style of the report with the one Yates had given Mrs. Redstone. It was dated ‘54, but the form was the same in most respects.

Under “R” I found a folder labeled “Redstone” and pulled it out. There were only the same three sheets I'd already seen, carbons of the report to Mrs. Redstone. There wasn't any substantiating data about Poupelle in the folder; but I hadn't expected any. Since Yates had apparently made all of that one up, there'd be no information to substantiate it, but one of the things I wanted to know was why he'd faked it.

There wasn't anything else about the Redstones in or near that folder. I looked, without luck, for the names Poupelle and Norman. And then I spotted a funny one.

I was squatting on my heels before the filing cabinet, flipping through the folders, just glancing at them, when a name caught my eye. At the same time I heard footsteps outside in the hall—Billings coming back with his hamburger. I didn't turn around. I fumbled through the papers to find that name again.

The footsteps outside came up to the door and I heard the knob turn. Then I had the paper in my hand. It was actually a sheaf of papers, two or three pages held together with a clip, with just “Client” written across the top.

The door opened and somebody came inside. I said, hardly aware of the words, “You'll get indigestion,” looking for that name again. I found it—Fairview. I was excited, but through the excitement it occurred to me that Billings hadn't answered. The footsteps were coming toward me fast when I straightened my legs under me, started up, and tried to turn at the same time. I didn't make it. I didn't even come close to making it.

I got my head turned far enough so that I saw the guy, saw a blur of movement and one arm swinging fast toward my face. I tried to jerk my head away, but something crashed hard against my skull. My knees suddenly turned to water, and roaring pain ricocheted inside my head. I felt myself falling forward and grabbed at the legs before me, wrapped my fingers in cloth, and tried to pull. My head exploded into redness, and then into blackness.

Everything was moving. I couldn't see, but there was movement, and I could feel pressure underneath my armpits. Vaguely, through an ocean of pain, I remembered what had happened. I didn't know how long I'd been sapped; I didn't even know if I were in Yates's office anymore. But I knew I had to move, had to make my muscles and my eyes work.

There was that sickening swirl of movement again, and something hard pressed against my arm, then against my chest. The redness behind my eyelids grew brighter. Cooler air brushed over my face and dimly I heard the sounds of traffic below.

My mind cleared and suddenly I knew what was happening. My skin turned cold; my heart thudded. Yates's office was on the fourth floor of this building; whoever had slugged me had hauled me across the room to the open window I'd looked through earlier. And that shocked me into the first movement.

It was a small movement, not enough to make any difference, but at least I was coming out of it. I got one arm underneath me, pressed against the wall beneath the window, and forced my eyes partly open. I was looking down. Looking down the sheer side of a building, down four stories to the street below. Looking down a dizzy, frightening distance at blurred movement, and now there were hands on my ankles. He lifted, pulled both my feet off the floor. I heard him grunting and I tried to yell but I couldn't make a sound. I strained my right arm against the wall and tried passionately to kick with my heels.

I heard him swear filthily, surprise in his voice. Then I was spreading my arms, reaching back for the wall at either side of the window, kicking harder with my feet. I got my head turned away from that sickening vista below and caught a glimpse of the man as he wrapped both arms around my legs and squeezed them together.

There was sound at the other side of the room, something slammed into the door beyond him, and a voice cried out. The man holding me jerked his head around and I saw his face. One of his hands left my legs, slapped his chest, and moved outward again. I jerked my leg as a gun roared, but I was still looking at his face. One side of it seemed to leap away from his skull. His head snapped around as the gun boomed again and I felt the impact myself, jarring my flesh where he touched me.

Blood splashed against one of my hands, and then someone was pulling at me, jerking me back inside the room. It took me a while to get my eyes focused and air in my lungs. Sergeant Billings squatted in front of me, still hanging onto my coat with one of his big hands.

“Christ,” I said. “Bill. Bill, I never...”

“Sit tight for a minute. That was a close one.” He was sweating heavily. So was I.

Finally I got out a whole sentence. “I thought that was it. I thought I was going to fly four stories. Sweet Christ, Bill. What does a guy say? Thanks?”

“That's good enough. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Yeah.” I was sitting on the floor inside that damned window. I said, “The bastard was going to air-mail me to Eighth Street. Man, it was touch and go there till you showed up. He touched me, and I was supposed to go. And I would have gone if you hadn't gulped that hamburger.” I felt my head tenderly, wincing over two lumps.

I slid away from the window on my fanny, then managed to get to my feet. My knees felt a little as if they might bend the wrong way, but I was in reasonably good shape. Compared to what I might have been, I was in dandy shape. Then I saw the guy on the floor.

His face was pretty much unrecognizable now, but I knew it was Kid. I'd recognized him when I'd got that one clear glimpse of him, but it hadn't meant anything to me then. “Only name I know for him is Kid, but he'll be easy to run down. Part of the crowd that works for Norman.”

My own words stopped me. I remembered the report I'd been looking at when the Kid had come in and walloped me. But Billings was saying, “He must not have expected anybody else to come in. And he'd probably have been alone in here if he hadn't stopped to burn something before taking, care of you.”

“Burn something?”

“Yeah.” He pointed to a heap of black ashes on the floor in the center of the room.

The worn carpet still smoldered and now I noticed the smell. I wondered how Kid had known so quickly the report was something that had to be destroyed.

I went to the swivel chair behind the desk, sat down, and lit a cigarette “Bill, I said thanks once, but let me—”

“Knock it off, Shell. You can shoot somebody for me next time.”

“Name a couple. I'll get them today.” He grinned and I asked him, “How did it look from your end?”

“I barged in and—you know what I saw. He had you half out the window. Tell the truth, I didn't know who had who out the window, but I pulled my gun and yelled. The guy jerked around and reached for his gun, and—well, I shot at him a couple of times.”

“You didn't shoot at him, you shot in him. Thank my lucky stars. And your marksmanship.”

He grinned. “You know what I was thinking? When I plugged him, I mean? I thought: If I hit him, he'll drop Scott out the window.” He started laughing.

It seemed sort of funny and I started laughing with him and yelled, “So did I,” and he shouted, “I hit him anyway!” and we whooped it up for a bit there. Long enough, at least, so that most of the strain left us both.

We were still yakking when I heard footsteps, in the hallway and Laurel came through the door.

She smiled a big relieved smile. “Shell. I was sort of worried. There's a whole gang of people down on the street pointing, up here and—ah—”

She'd just seen Kid. Her face got pale under the deep tan and for a couple of seconds I thought she was going to faint. I got her by the arm and turned her around and guided her out into the hall again.

In a minute she'd calmed down somewhat and said breathlessly, “Shell, what happened? That m-man—”

“Police officer shot him. He was in the act of breaking and entering. Breaking and entering my skull. Don't worry about him, he's a hoodlum. He was.” I stopped. “What brought you here, honey?”

“I told you on the phone I couldn't stay at the house. I tried, but I couldn't, so I took one of the cars out of the garage and drove down. I wanted to see you. Shell, and you'd said you'd be here.” Her face got a sort of green look again.

“Wait out here a shake,” I told her, then went inside the office and closed the door.

Bill shook his head. “Who was
that?
”

“Laurel Redstone.”

“Now, there's a beautiful hunk of woman ... Redstone, did you say?”

“Yeah. The same.” I grinned at him. “She's following me.”

“Wish she was following me.” He sighed. “Well, back to work.”

While he put in a call to headquarters, I took a good look at Kid's body. The slug that had caught him in the face would have been enough; the second one had plowed into his chest. What was left of Kid's face, though, had a couple of deep scratches along the cheek. The knuckles of his right hand were skinned.

I looked up and said, “Bill, who you got on the phone?”

“Captain.”

“Tell Sam the latest corpse is probably the guy who pushed Three Eyes. The coroner must have scraped some skin from under the little guy's nails by now.” I pointed at Kid's cheek. “I imagine it came from there.”

He nodded and relayed the info. I already could hear a siren in the street below whining to a stop. I turned back to Kid's body and an idea slapped my brain almost as hard as he had. I knew damned well I hadn't been tailed here. So how had Kid known where to find me?

I figured he'd been in that gray Ford at the Manor Hotel, then later near Offenbrand's suite of offices. I'd ducked him, then come here. I knew I'd ducked him and any other tail. And I hadn't told anybody I was coming to Yates's office except Sam. Then I remembered, there was another person I'd told.

There was Laurel.

Chapter Seventeen

Billings said, “What's the matter?”

He'd hung up and was looking at me curiously. I said, “I just thought of something.”

“You look like you swallowed a fly.”

I got to my feet, trying to think. After a moment I went into the hall again, and ran it down for the cops who were pouring down the hallway. They went on into the office and I walked over to Laurel, who was leaning against the wall.

“Honey,” I said, “a funny thing just happened. That punk in there was tailing me earlier, then I shook him. But he showed up here right after I did. Almost as if he knew I'd be here. I didn't tell anybody I was coming here except the police and you. You didn't mention it to anyone, did you?”

She shook her head. “Of course not. I haven't even seen anybody. You know I wouldn't do anything like that.”

“Yeah, I suppose so. But I can't figure how the guy knew I was here.”

She looked at me hard out of those bright blue eyes. “Shell, you don't think I had anything to do with what happened, do you? Even accidentally?”

I hesitated only a moment, but that was too long. “No,” I said. “I'll take your word for it, Laurel. It's just—”

“That's twice,” she said flatly. “Twice you've made a remark like that, Shell. Once by the pool at Fairview, and now this.” She was quiet, blue eyes narrowed and her face unsmiling. “All right, Shell.” She turned and started walking away from me.

“Wait a minute, honey.” I caught up with her and put my hand on her arm.

She shrugged it off. “Shell, you don't trust anybody, do you? Not even me.”

“Of course I trust you. Maybe you're about the only one in this mess I can—”

“Don't, Shell!” Her face was angry. She turned and walked away from me again, reached the head of the stairs.

“Where the hell are you going?” Crazy damn women, I was thinking. Stupid, sensitive damn women. “What in Christ's name's got into you?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Don't yell at me, Mr. Scott. I'm going to Fairview.” She paused, lips pressed tightly together. “And I don't want to know where you're going.”

She started down the stairs, hurrying. Somebody behind me yelled, “Hey, Scott. C'mere a minute.”

I started after Laurel and the guy called from the office, “Samson's on the phone, wants to talk to you.”

Something was buzzing in my head, trying to get through to me. Something about Fairview and the guy that had taken the shot at me there. Laurel's words about my “suspicious” remark to her then had jogged something in my brain, but with the cop yelling at me it wouldn't fall into place. I looked around, then walked back to him.