The Death of Lorenzo Jones (11 page)

“How cozy were Amanda and Rodney, Stinky? Tell me, man to man.”

“Gosh, you’re jealous. Don’t feel bad, Hook. She was always needing help on her engine. Dames aren’t too good at turning wrenches,
like we are. Rodney thought he was getting someplace with her, but she was just friends because she needed help. One day he
came right out and accused her of that. She said it was true. She only wanted him as a friend and to talk shop. Boy, did he
get mad. He threw a wrench at Freddie Freestrut—that’s her plane, you know. Then he stalked off. They never talked again.
But I heard him telling the other guys how she was real
easy
and all.”

“Lying?”

“Yeah, a dame like that, Hook. She’s a good pilot, so I respect her, right? She can have a good-looking guy like you. Why
would she want fat ugly Rodney?”

“Sure!” Lockwood said. But he wasn’t so sure. Here was an angle he had never counted on. Rodney and Amanda. Until you knew
for sure, it wasn’t wise to eliminate
anybody
as a suspect, even someone you were sleeping with. He wondered if it had been
Amanda’s
curling iron that had burned Doc’s feet.

Stinky filled him in on a few of the other people. Nothing new there. All bets were still on Wade or Cynthia. They had the
motives.

Wade had the disposition of a sneaky killer, Cynthia Jones the disposition of an angry lush.

Yeah. But maybe Hook didn’t know much about the dame he was bedding down with either. Could Amanda have done it? She had had
opportunity but no motive. Jesus, the kid
could
have done it. Naw, what the hell kind of cynic am I anyway? Hook felt ashamed for a moment. Stinky wouldn’t have done it,
would he?

There
had
been a bit of mayhem in Stinky’s eyes a few times when they had been talking. Maybe his hero had crossed him.:..

Hook put on his hat, gave Stinky his number, and left.

Stinky said he would be on the case.

Maybe I’m blinded by my desire to pin the whole thing on Wade and Mrs. Jones, Hook thought. Maybe the thermos doesn’t mean
anything.

He had a funny feeling in his gut as he drove to his next stop. As if he was slowly sinking in quicksand and there was no
one around he could trust to pull him out.

Doug Sheer and Lockwood poured over the data they had collected from the files and from Sheer’s private sources. Wade kept
three mistresses in apartments on the East and West Side.

“And get this—Jones had once seen a doctor in Philadelphia,” Sheer said. “Maybe he saw him again. After he saw Doc Carruthers.”

Lockwood called the Philadelphia doctor Sheer mentioned for an appointment. The long-distance operator put the plug in the
wrong circuit, and Hook couldn’t get through. Then, the Philadelphia circuits were all full. He tried again in ten minutes
and had no trouble getting through. Except that there was such a buzz on the line he had to yell to be heard. The doctor was
reticent about speaking over the phone, so Lockwood was on the road again.

Philadelphia was only ninety miles from the Holland Tunnel. And much of the ride was through pleasant fields and farms, once
you got past the factories and dumps near the city. It was a sunny day, and Lockwood let down the top. There wasn’t much traffic,
so he decided to let the Cord out a bit. He would have to pick up some speed if he was going to catch the Philadelphia doctor
in his office.

Once he got past the gas stations and motels along Route 46, he eased up to 95. That wasn’t much for the Twin Packard engine,
but the roads in Jersey were pitted. Although the shocks were special, he didn’t want to tear a Silvertown tire and spend
half an hour changing a wheel.

For about ten miles a souped-up Studebaker gave him a pretty good run for his money, or so the teenage driver thought. Then
Lockwood tired of teasing the youth and took off, as if the Studebaker was standing still.

Lockwood made it before the rush hour. He parked on Constitution near the Liberty Bell Monument and walked to 190 Dean Avenue,
the address of Dr. Dallas, a three-story colonial style professional building. There was a three-foot-high cast-iron jockey
statue next to the flagstone walk. Lockwood rubbed its head as he passed it. He could use some good luck on this case. The
head was well worn. The black-faced jockey had probably been rubbed a few thousand times by anxious patients.

There was a set of six bronze plates on the entrance door, Dr. Dallas the sixth. “Third floor,” a walk-up. If someone can
walk those flights, they don’t need a doctor, Hook thought.

S
PECIALIST
, it said on the heavily varnished door. The bell went ding-dong, and a pleasantly built, middle-aged blond nurse opened the
door.

Lockwood flashed his badge. “Investigator Lockwood of New York City.” That was the truth, wasn’t it, insurance investigator?

The nurse showed him into an impressive, well-lit, oak-paneled office where a man in a white coat sat. He had gray temples
and a distinguished nose. Lockwood felt he was about to be examined for the size of his wallet. So it was with these fancy
specialists; doctors and lawyers were miles above safecrackers when it came to inspired larceny.

Lockwood waved his badge again as the nurse announced, “Detective Lockwood from the New York City Police.”

“Sit down, please,” gestured the doctor, pointing at a dark green leather chair. “I know I must open my files to the police.
So I already have the file out on Lorenzo Jones.”

He picked up a manila envelope and handed it to Lockwood. The investigator pulled out a Camel, and the nurse lit it. She probably
lights spuds for this rich doctor all the time, he thought. Nice.

The doctor smoked Chesterfields. “Better for the lungs,” he said, “as the advertisements say.” He inhaled deeply, the smoke
swirled out, and he looked Lockwood over.

“I can translate anything you might have trouble reading there.”

So I look like an idiot, Lockwood thought. He opened the envelope and flipped the pages of graphs and charts. Well, the medical
jargon
was
a bit deep.

“Okay, doctor. Succinctly, what was the matter with Jones?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Oh, a moderate strain. I gave him some liniment. Nothing serious. Still, he was concerned. He was a baseball pitcher. I gave
his arm a few heat treatments.”

“Could he still pitch?”

“As well as ever—after a month or so without strain on that arm. My diagnosis was just ‘muscle strain.’ ”

Lockwood’s head swam as if he had been knocked with a sock full of nickels. Nothing wrong with Lorenzo’s arm! Gray wouldn’t
like this at all. For days, he’d been following a false lead. All his thinking had centered around a damaged throwing arm.

He didn’t show his chagrin. He took a slow draw on the Camel while pretending to read the rest of the doctor’s notes. His
eyebrows went up when he found out what the doctor charged for a visit. There ought to be a law.

“Mind if I keep this?” Lockwood asked.

“Oh, definitely not, Detective Lockwood. But there’s a photostat service up the street. They can make a copy for you. While
it dries you’re welcome to wait in my outer office. Miss Eastland will go make the copies for you.”

Lockwood waited in the comfortable reception room for about twenty minutes while the nurse wiggled out to make the copies.
He looked through a stack of
Life
magazines.

The waiting room, empty when Lockwood entered, was filling with women in feather hats rattling their jewelry. Miss Eastland
returned and handed him his copies. She gave him a big smile. If there was only more time in this life, Lockwood thought.
He thanked her and left.

It was chilly outside and Lockwood had left his scarf at home. The trip back would be cold. He walked over to a department
store—Fowlers, a classy place, and bought a Merino brown wool scarf. As he was leaving the store, guilt set in. He should
get Amanda something.

What?

Perfume. He couldn’t go wrong with that. He went back through the revolving door to the perfume counter. He was overwhelmed
by the variety of little bottles. His eyes found the cheapest item, “Lamour—65¢. It wouldn’t do. That was why they had perfume
ladies at the counter, to sell men the stuff a woman liked.

The counterwoman said her name was Heidi, and could she help? She was scarcely eighteen. He smiled. She selected “Revele,”
a tiny bottle—at $3.75.

“Why can’t I buy that big bottle for $1.25?”

She smiled sympathetically. “Believe me, sir, the quality of the scent is important. Here, smell. It’s much better than the
big bottle. Madame will love this.”

He smelled. It did smell nice. Sort of like lilacs. He bought the perfume.

As she was wrapping it, he grew uneasy. He knew why. “Say, have you got another scent, as good as that, but different?”

Heidi understood at once and beamed. “Ah, the gentleman has two ladies in mind? Yes, this is ‘Essence L’Arberge.’ Also $3.75.
Should I wrap it, too?”

“Yes.” Now he felt better.

In the cover of darkness, it was easier to get back without being chased for speeding. The little light that lit up the Cord’s
license plate had gone out a few days before, and Lockwood hadn’t replaced it. But he drove slower anyway on the trip back.
Night driving could be tricky.

Especially when there was some tricky thinking to do.

Just when he hit the bed the phone rang. Oh, Jesus, now what?

“Lockwood, where have you been?” It was Gray.

“Working.”

“Yeah?”

“Trust me.”

“Well, is your ‘work’ getting Transatlantic off the hook in the Jones’ death?”

“Not yet. My theoretical killer’s motive just disappeared.”

He filled Gray in, mentioning the crash, the thermos, and the Philadelphia doctor. “But I’m not sure now that the thermos
means anything. I’m still looking for it. When I find it, I’ll check it for traces of poison.”

“What happened to this all-revealing thermos bottle?” asked an exasperated Gray.

“Don’t know. If there was a killer, he probably took it.”

“Then how on earth will you find it? It’s probably destroyed.”

“I’ll find it. I have a hunch that the killer didn’t take it.”

“What do you mean? Is it lost in the grass? Did you look around?”

“Thoroughly. No, I think someone’s covering up for someone else here. I know that somebody wants to get rid of me real bad.”

“One of your ‘hunches,’ Lockwood?”

“Maybe. I don’t like the runaround I’ve been getting. Nobody knows anything.”

“Well, find that thermos. Do whatever you have to do, but—what would happen if you bought a thermos and put, say, a trace
of poison in it, and then planted it, Lockwood?”

“Why, Mr. Gray, that would be illegal.”

“It might flush your quarry, Lockwood. Sometimes a gentleman has to rise to the occasion. I expect results—soon. How you get
them is no concern to me. Understand?”

Click, the line went dead.

Lockwood called Amanda. The phone rang only once before she picked it up.

“Bill, there’s been someone outside my building all morning. A big guy. What should I do?” She sounded scared, breathless.

“How big? No, never mind. Lock the door, and—do you have a gun?”

“Yes, but—”

“Load it and use it if you have to. I’m coming right over. Don’t answer the door, and don’t stand near the window. I’m coming.”

He hung up. Women had a way of getting knocked off in his life. Quite a few times he had lost someone he was sleeping with,
and once it had been his fault. He burned rubber.

This time he would have his gun out. He parked a block away and slinked along the hedges up to the house. A dog was barking
in the distance.

No one seemed to be prowling around. No cars were parked nearby. Except for a footprint Lockwood found in the flower bed by
the window, everything seemed all right.

“Open up, it’s me,” he said at the door.

Amanda opened it a crack, then wide. She threw herself into his arms, holding a little silver gun.

“Oh, Bill! They left. A minute ago.”

“Too bad. I had a present for them. Jesus, would you put that nasty little derringer away?”

“Oops, sorry.”

She went inside with him and placed the gun on the coffee table.

“How about yours?” she asked, looking down at his hand.

Lockwood holstered his gun in the spring clip at his waist.

From Amanda’s description, it sounded like Half-Pint and Killer Dumbrowsky had been the mysterious prowlers. Walter-the-Waiter
must have been waiting in the car.

Maybe they had wanted to plant another bomb or throw one in the window but had been scared away. Lockwood checked out the
house from basement to attic. Then they made love. Amanda seemed as aroused by danger as she had been by speeding—or she was
simply the most uninhibited female Lockwood ever met.

They knew each other’s body now. And that made it even better.

Lockwood took Amanda up to O’Malley’s on Swing Street for lunch. The plates weren’t fancy, but the service was quick and the
red-and-white checkered tablecloths were clean. The beer was good, and the glasses weren’t dainty little things. Amanda could
really put it away.

“I’ve been starving all day,” she explained apologetically. “It’s not lady-like to eat like a horse, I know.”

“Nonsense,” Lockwood said. He ate two steaks to her one. They say sex makes you hungry. They were right.

When they had finished, he called Sheer, who had more information. It seemed that neither Wade nor Cynthia Jones needed money;
they were both loaded. Lockwood groaned. This case was getting worse and worse. Sheer had another hot tip: Wade was going
out to the Polo Grounds. If Lockwood wanted to surprise the guy, he’d better get to the stadium around 2
P.M
.

Lockwood asked Amanda if she wanted to go with him to get another look at Cyrus Wade.

“Yes,” she answered. “But why do you like seeing Wade so much?”