Red Harvest (22 page)

I said I hadn’t, of course, that much money on me.

“Naturally, my dear sir. Naturally. But that is of not the least importance in any degree. None whatever. Any time will do for that, any time up to ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“At ten tomorrow,” I agreed. “Now I’d like to know why I’m supposed to need legal representatives.”

He made an indignant face.

“My dear sir, this is no matter for jesting, of that I assure you.”

I explained that I hadn’t been joking, that I really was puzzled.

He cleared his throat, frowned more or less importantly, said:

“It may well be, my dear sir, that you do not fully comprehend the peril that surrounds you, but it is indubitably preposterous
that you should expect me to suppose that you are without any inkling of the difficulties—the legal difficulties, my dear sir—with which you are about to be confronted, growing, as they do, out of occurrences that took place at no more remote time than last night, my dear sir, last night. However, there is no time to go into that now. I have a pressing appointment with Judge Leffner. On the morrow I shall be glad to go more thoroughly into each least ramification of the situation—and I assure you they are many—with you. I shall expect you at ten tomorrow morning.”

I promised to be there, and went out. I spent the evening in my room, drinking unpleasant whiskey, thinking unpleasant thoughts, and waiting for reports that didn’t come from Mickey and Dick. I went to sleep at midnight.

I was half dressed the next morning when Dick Foley came in. He reported, in his word-saving manner, that Bill Quint had checked out of the Miners’ Hotel at noon the previous day, leaving no forwarding address.

A train left Personville for Ogden at twelve-thirty-five. Dick had wired the Continental’s Salt Lake branch to send a man up to Ogden to try to trace Quint.

“We can’t pass up any leads,” I said, “but I don’t think Quint’s the man we want. She gave him the air long ago. If he had meant to do anything about it he would have done it before this. My guess is that when he heard she had been killed he decided to duck, being a discarded lover who had threatened her.”

Dick nodded and said:

“Gun-play out the road last night. Hijacking. Four trucks of hooch nailed, burned.”

That sounded like Reno Starkey’s answer to the news that the big bootlegger’s mob had been sworn in as special coppers.

Mickey Linehan arrived by the time I had finished dressing.

“Dan Rolff was at the house, all right,” he reported. “The
Greek grocer on the corner saw him come out around nine yesterday morning. He went down the street wobbling and talking to himself. The Greek thought he was drunk.”

“Howcome the Greek didn’t tell the police? Or did he?”

“Wasn’t asked. A swell department this burg’s got. What do we do: find him for them and turn him in with the job all tacked up?”

“McGraw has decided Whisper killed her,” I said, “and he’s not bothering himself with any leads that don’t lead that way. Unless he came back later for the ice pick, Rolff didn’t turn the trick. She was killed at three in the morning. Rolff wasn’t there at eight-thirty, and the pick was still sticking in her. It was—”

Dick Foley came over to stand in front of me and ask:

“How do you know?”

I didn’t like the way he looked or the way he spoke. I said:

“You know because I’m telling you.”

Dick didn’t say anything. Mickey grinned his half-wit’s grin and asked:

“Where do we go from here? Let’s get this thing polished off.”

“I’ve got a date for ten,” I told them. “Hang around the hotel till I get back. Whisper and Rolff are probably dead—so we won’t have to hunt for them.” I scowled at Dick and said: “I was told that. I didn’t kill either of them.”

The little Canadian nodded without lowering his eyes from mine.

I ate breakfast alone, and then set out for the lawyer’s office.

Turning off King Street, I saw Hank O’Marra’s freckled face in an automobile that was going up Green Street. He was sitting beside a man I didn’t know. The long-legged youngster waved an arm at me and stopped the car. I went over to him.

He said:

“Reno wants to see you.”

“Where will I find him?”

“Jump in.”

“I can’t go now,” I said. “Probably not till afternoon.”

“See Peak when you’re ready.”

I said I would. O’Marra and his companion drove on up Green Street. I walked half a block south to the Rutledge Block.

With a foot on the first of the rickety steps that led up to the lawyer’s floor, I stopped to look at something.

It was barely visible back in a dim corner of the first floor. It was a shoe. It was lying in a position that empty shoes don’t lie in.

I took my foot off the step and went toward the shoe. Now I could see an ankle and the cuff of a black pants-leg above the shoe-top.

That prepared me for what I found.

I found Mr. Charles Proctor Dawn huddled among two brooms, a mop and a bucket, in a little alcove formed by the back of the stairs and a corner of the wall. His Vandyke beard was red with blood from a cut that ran diagonally across his forehead. His head was twisted sidewise and backward at an angle that could only be managed with a broken neck.

I quoted Noonan’s “What’s got to be done has got to be done” to myself, and, gingerly pulling one side of the dead man’s coat out of the way, emptied his inside coat pocket, transferring a black book and a sheaf of papers to my own pocket. In two of his other pockets I found nothing I wanted. The rest of his pockets couldn’t be got at without moving him, and I didn’t care to do that.

Five minutes later I was back in the hotel, going in through a side door, to avoid Dick and Mickey in the lobby, and walking up to the mezzanine to take an elevator.

In my room I sat down and examined my loot.

I took the book first, a small imitation-leather memoranda book of the sort that sells for not much money in any stationery store. It held some fragmentary notes that meant nothing to me,
and thirty-some names and addresses that meant as little, with one exception:

Helen Albury
1229A Hurricane St.

    That was interesting because, first, a young man named Robert Albury was in prison, having confessed that he shot and killed Donald Willsson in a fit of jealousy aroused by Willsson’s supposed success with Dinah Brand; and, second, Dinah Brand had lived, and had been murdered, at 1232 Hurricane Street, across the street from 1229A.

I did not find my name in the book.

I put the book aside and began unfolding and reading the papers I had taken with it. Here too I had to wade through a lot that didn’t mean anything to find something that did.

This find was a group of four letters held together by a rubber band.

The letters were in slitted envelopes that had postmarks dated a week apart, on the average. The latest was a little more than six months old. The letters were addressed to Dinah Brand. The first—that is, the earliest—wasn’t so bad, for a love letter. The second was a bit goofier. The third and fourth were swell examples of how silly an ardent and unsuccessful wooer can be, especially if he’s getting on in years. The four letters were signed by Elihu Willsson.

I had not found anything to tell me definitely why Mr. Charles Proctor Dawn had thought he could blackmail me out of a thousand dollars, but I had found plenty to think about. I encouraged my brain with two Fatimas, and then went downstairs.

“Go out and see what you can raise on a lawyer named Charles Proctor Dawn,” I told Mickey. “He’s got offices in Green Street. Stay away from them. Don’t put in a lot of time on him. I just want a rough line quick.”

I told Dick to give me a five-minute start and then follow me out to the neighborhood of 1229A Hurricane Street.

1229A was the upper flat in a two-story building almost directly opposite Dinah’s house. 1229 was divided into two flats, with a private entrance for each. I rang the bell at the one I wanted.

The door was opened by a thin girl of eighteen or nineteen with dark eyes set close together in a shiny yellowish face under short-cut brown hair that looked damp.

She opened the door, made a choked, frightened sound in her throat, and backed away from me, holding both hands to her mouth.

“Miss Helen Albury?” I asked.

She shook her head violently from side to side. There was no truthfulness in it. Her eyes were crazy.

I said:

“I’d like to come in and talk to you a few minutes,” going in as I spoke, closing the door behind me.

She didn’t say anything. She went up the steps in front of me, her head twisted around so she could watch me with her scary eyes.

We went into a scantily furnished living room. Dinah’s house could be seen from its windows.

The girl stood in the center of the floor, her hands still to her mouth.

I wasted time and words trying to convince her that I was harmless. It was no good. Everything I said seemed to increase her panic. It was a damned nuisance. I quit trying, and got down to business.

“You are Robert Albury’s sister?” I asked.

No reply, nothing but the senseless look of utter fear.

I said:

“After he was arrested for killing Donald Willsson you took this flat so you could watch her. What for?”

Not a word from her. I had to supply my own answer:

“Revenge. You blamed Dinah Brand for your brothers trouble. You watched for your chance. It came the night before last. You sneaked into her house, found her drunk, stabbed her with the ice pick you found there.”

She didn’t say anything. I hadn’t succeeded in jolting the blankness out of her frightened face. I said:

“Dawn helped you, engineered it for you. He wanted Elihu Willsson’s letters. Who was the man he sent to get them, the man who did the actual killing? Who was he?”

That got me nothing. No change in her expression, or lack of expression. No word. I thought I would like to spank her. I said:

“I’ve given you your chance to talk. I’m willing to listen to your side of the story. But suit yourself.”

She suited herself by keeping quiet, I gave it up. I was afraid of her, afraid she would do something even crazier than her silence if I pressed her further. I went out of the flat not sure that she had understood a single word I had said.

At the corner I told Dick Foley:

“There’s a girl in there, Helen Albury, eighteen, five six, skinny, not more than a hundred, if that, eyes close together, brown, yellow skin, brown short hair, straight, got on a gray suit now. Tail her. If she cuts up on you throw her in the can. Be careful—she’s crazy as a bedbug.”

I set out for Peak Murry’s dump, to locate Reno and see what he wanted. Half a block from my destination I stepped into an office building doorway to look the situation over.

A police patrol wagon stood in front of Murry’s. Men were being led, dragged, carried, from pool room to wagon. The leaders, draggers, and carriers, did not look like regular coppers. They were, I supposed, Pete the Finn’s crew, now special officers. Pete, with McGraw’s help, apparently was making good his threat to give Whisper and Reno all the war they wanted.

While I watched, an ambulance arrived, was loaded, and
drove away. I was too far away to recognize anybody or any bodies. When the height of the excitement seemed past I circled a couple of blocks and returned to my hotel.

Mickey Linehan was there with information about Mr. Charles Proctor Dawn.

“He’s the guy that the joke was wrote about: ‘Is he a criminal lawyer?’ ‘Yes, very.’ This fellow Albury that you nailed, some of his family hired this bird Dawn to defend him. Albury wouldn’t have anything to do with him when Dawn came to see him. This three-named shyster nearly went over himself last year, on a blackmail rap, something to do with a person named Hill, but squirmed out of it. Got some property out on Libert Street, wherever that is. Want me to keep digging?”

“That’ll do. We’ll stick around till we hear from Dick.”

Mickey yawned and said that was all right with him, never being one that had to run around a lot to keep his blood circulating, and asked if I knew we were getting nationally famous.

I asked him what he meant by that.

“I just ran into Tommy Robins,” he said. “The Consolidated Press sent him here to cover the doings. He tells me some of the other press associations and a big-city paper or two are sending in special correspondents, beginning to play our troubles up.”

I was making one of my favorite complaints—that newspapers were good for nothing except to hash things up so nobody could unhash them—when I heard a boy chanting my name. For a dime he told me I was wanted on the phone.

Dick Foley:

“She showed right away. To 310 Green Street. Full of coppers. Mouthpiece named Dawn killed. Police took her to the Hall.”

“She still there?”

“Yes, in the chief’s office.”

“Stick, and get anything you pick up to me quick.”

I went back to Mickey Linehan and gave him my room key and instructions:

“Camp in my room. Take anything that comes for me and pass it on. I’ll be at the Shannon around the corner, registered as J. W. Clark. Tell Dick and nobody.”