Tell It To The Birds (18 page)

"Why, sure ... any particular salesman?"

"A little runt... Johnny Anson."

Harmas put down his drink. He kept his face expressionless.

"What about him?"

Her face suddenly vicious, her eyes glittering, Fay leaned forward and began to talk.

It was Harmas's idea, and as soon as he put it to Jenson, the Lieutenant agreed.

"Mrs. Barlowe will be returning home tomorrow," Harmas said, "this is our last chance. Let's go cut there and really look the place over. Okay, your fingerprint boys have gone over the place, but now let us go over it together?"

"Just what are we looking for?" Jenson asked as he got into his car.

"The guns. They could be hidden somewhere in the house. They bother me."

Arriving at the house soon after midday, Harmas and Jenson got out of the car and surveyed the garden.

"You know, Barlowe had genius," Harmas said "It's odd, isn't it, how this land of talent and artistic ability can go hand in hand with rottenness."

Jenson wasn't interested. He grunted and then walked over to the front door. He had no difficulty in slipping the lock.

The two men wandered into the lobby. The stale smell of stuffiness and dirt made them wrinkle their noses.

"Let's go and look at Barlowe's bedroom first," Harmas said and led the way up the stairs.

Systematically, the two men searched the room. It was while Jenson was grimacing with disgust at a pack of photographs he had unearthed, that Harmas, pushing aside the bed, found one of the floorboards loose.

Taking out his pocket knife, he carefully lifted the board and shot his flashlight beam into the cavity.

"Here it is," he said, "and what the devil's this?"

Jenson peered over his shoulder at the .38 automatic that lay on the plaster. Harmas fished out a white bathing cap and two rubber cheek pads. Jenson inserted a pencil into the barrel of the gun and lifted it carefully from its hiding place.

Harmas was staring with interest at the bathing cap.

"The bald-headed man," he said and looked at Jenson. "It jells. All this muck ... now this ... I'll bet a hundred bucks that this is the Glyn Hill murder weapon."

Jenson stroked his thick nose.

"Yeah? I never throw money away. Well, come on, now we're here, let's look at the rest of this hole."

They remained in the stuffy little house all the afternoon, but they didn't find the other gun. Jenson had called police headquarters and a couple of cars, loaded with technical men, had arrived. Two of them had taken the .38 down to the Ballistics department at Brent. By the time Jenson and Harmas had returned to Brent, the experts were able to tell them that the gun was the Glyn Hill murder weapon.

Anson was sensitive to atmosphere.

When Harmas walked into the office soon after six o'clock and just when Anson was preparing to go home he was immediately aware that Harmas was hostile.

Harmas came abruptly to the reason of his visit. He described his interview with Merryweather, his grey, steady eyes probing and suspicious.

When Harmas had finished talking, Anson said, "I can't imagine what he means. I never offered Barlowe a five per cent discount. Why should I? Are you sure Merryweather has his facts right?"

"I'm not sure about anything," Harmas said in a tone that belied his words. "Barlowe told him you told Barlowe if he paid the first premium in cash, we would give him a five per cent discount. What's more, he drew out one hundred and fifty dollars from his account to cover his first premium ... nearly every dollar he owned."

Anson picked up a pencil and began to draw aimless designs on his blotter.

"The premium was twelve twenty two," he said, without looking at Harmas. "Some mistake here."

"Originally, Barlowe intended to take out a five thousand dollar policy," Harmas said. "Merryweather is certain of that.

Barlowe only wanted to borrow three thousand dollars."

Anson shifted uneasily. He paused for a moment while he lit a cigarette.

"All I can tell you," he said finally, "is that Barlowe filled in one of your coupon inquiries. When I called on him, he asked for a fifty thousand dollar policy ... you've seen the policy ... it was signed by him! He might have talked the deal over with Merryweather before he saw me. When he got home and thought about it, he must have decided to go for the bigger policy."

"Ten times as big?" Harmas said quietly, "where did the money come from to pay for such a premium?"

"He had the money ... he gave it to me," Anson said.

"Could I see the inquiry form?" Harmas asked. "I would like to be sure we have proof that Barlowe talked to Merryweather before he saw vou."

Anson stiffened. The ash from his cigarette fell into his lap.

"I destroyed it," he said.

Harmas now paused to light a cigarette. He stared prob-ingly at Anson who forced himself to stare back.

"Do you usually destroy your coupons?" Harmas asked.

"Only when I have made a sale. As I sold Barlowe a policy there was no point in keeping the coupon."

Harmas considered this, then shrugged.

"Yeah ... I see that." He let smoke drift from his nostrils for a long moment, then suddenly leaning forward, he asked,

"Just for the record ... where were you on the night of September 30th?"

Anson felt a sudden cold stab of fear go through him.

"What do you mean?"

Harmas smiled.

"You know Maddox. He loves alibis. He wants to know where everyone was, remotely connected with Barlowe on the night of his death," Harmas's smile broadened. "It wouldn't surprise me if he doesn't ask me for an alibi as well. It doesn't mean a thing and if I'm treading on thin ice say so and we'll skip it."

"Of course not."

Anson opened a drawer in his desk and took out an engagement diary.

"I was working late, right here," he said in a cold, fiat voice. "I didn't leave here until eleven. The janitor downstairs will tell you if you want to check."

"Relax," Harmas said, waving his hands. "I don't want to check." He leaned back in his chair. "You know, I've been thinking about this case. I'm inclined to agree with you. Even if this woman isn't on the level, it might be wiser to pay her. As you say, in this district, we might easily lose a lot of business by fighting her claim. Maddox is coming here this evening I'm going to try to talk him into paying up."

Anson stiffened and leaned forward. "Maddox is coming here?"

"Yeah. He wants to talk to Jenson. I'll let you know if I persuade him to meet the claim. Will you be home tonight?"

Anson nodded.

"Up to around nine o'clock but I know Maddox; he won't pay up."

"He could do. Old man Burrows doesn't like bad publicity. The newspapers could have a go at us. I'll see what I can do." Harmas pushed back his chair. "Getting away from business, do you know anything about that antique shop at the corner of the block? I picked up a paperweight there. They swore it was a genuine antique." He took from his pocket a plastic bag and slid out an ornate glass paperweight. He pushed it across the desk towards Anson. "Helen is nuts about antiques, but I am now wondering, if it is a fake ... could be Japanese, 1960!"

Without thinking, Anson picked up the paperweight and examined it, then he shrugged.

"I don't know; looks nice. If you tell her it's a hundred years old, she'll be happy."

He handed the paperweight back and Harmas carefully returned it to its plastic bag.

"Yeah: you have something there." He stood up. "If I can talk Maddox into paying up, I'll call you. So long for now."

When Harmas had gone, Anson lit a cigarette and stared thoughtfully at the opposite wall. He had an uneasy feeling that this murder plan of his was slowly coming unstuck at the seams.

He tried to assure himself that although the situation was tricky, it wasn't dangerous. Not for one moment did he believe that Maddox would pay up now. He was sure that the insurance money was as good as lost. What he had to be careful about was not to be involved. It was Meg's fault, of course. If she hadn't told him all those lies about her past life, he wouldn't be in this spot now.

He was still sitting at his desk, probing the situation, still wondering if he had made some fatal mistake, when some thirty minutes later, there came a gentle tap on his door.

"Come on in," he called.

The door opened and Jud Jones, the night guard wandered in.

Surprised, Anson stared at him.

"Hello, Jud," he said. "I was just going home. Is there something I can do for you?"

Jones moved his fat body further into the office. He closed the door. There was an uneasy, smirking expression on his face Anson hadn't seen before and which he didn't like.

"I wanted a word with you, Mr. Anson," he said.

"Can't it wait?" Anson said a little impatiently. "I want to get home."

Jones shook his head.

"I guess not, Mr. Anson. This is important... to you as well as to me."

Anson moved over to the window so his back was to the fading light.

"Go ahead ... what is it?"

"This guy Harmas ... you know him?"

Anson's hands turned into fists.

"Yes ... what about him?"

"He has been asking questions about you, Mr. Anson."

With an effort, Anson kept his face expressionless. So Harmas had checked his alibi. Well, that would get him nowhere.

Forcing his voice to sound natural Anson said, "I know all about that. It's to do with this murder case. The police want to check everyone's alibi; everyone remotely connected with Barlowe. I happened to have sold Barlowe an insurance policy so I'm involved. It's just routine. Don't let it worry you."

Jones took a half smoked cigarette from behind his ear, stuck it on his lower lip and set fire to it.

"It's not worrying me, Mr. Anson. I thought it might be worrying you. You see, I told him you were right here in this office between nine and eleven. I told him you were using the typewriter."

There was a sneering tone in his voice that made Anson's eyes move intently over the fat, sly face.

"That's right," he said. "I told him the same thing. Just as well I didn't have company that night, isn't it?" He forced a smile.

"Yeah," Jones said without returning Anson's smile. "Well, I told him you were here, but he's only a private dick. What if the cops should ask me?"

"You tell them the same thing, Jud," Anson said, his voice sharpening.

"You can't expect me to tell lies to the cops, Mr. Anson," Jones said, shaking his head. "I can't afford to get into trouble ... they could make me an accessory ..."

Anson felt a chill growing around his heart.

"What do you mean? Accessory? What are you talking about?"

"You weren't in your office that night, Mr. Anson."

Anson sat abruptly on the edge of his desk. His legs felt as if they wouldn't support him.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, his voice husky.

Jones dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and trod on it.

"I had run out of cigarettes," he said. "I thought I might borrow a couple from you. I knocked on the door. No one answered, but the typewriter kept going. I knocked again, then I thought something must be wrong. I opened the door with my pass key. You weren't there, Mr. Anson. There was a tape recorder playing back the sound of a typewriter working and very realistic it sounded ... it had me completely fooled "

Anson felt cold sweat run from his armpits down his ribs.

Sunk! he thought, now what am I going to do?

His immediate impulse was to take Barlowe's gun from the locked drawer in his desk and murder Jones. The thought was scarcely in his mind before he dismissed it. He would never have the strength to move this great hulk of a body from his office once Jones was dead. He had to gain time to think.

"That's right, Jud," he said. "I wasn't in my office but I had nothing to do with the murder ... nothing at all."

Jones, who had been watching Anson closely, smirked. Anson could smell the sweat of excitement and fear coming from the fat man.

"I'm sure, Mr. Anson ... never crossed my mind you did have anything to do with it. I just thought I'd better let you know if the cops asked me. I'll have to tell them the truth." He cocked his head on one side, and went on, "it wouldn't do any harm, would it, Mr. Anson?" Anson said slowly, "Well, Jud, it might." Jones managed to look sad.

"I wouldn't like that. You've always been good to me. What sort of harm would it do?"

"I could lose my job," Anson said. "I set up this alibi because I was fooling around with a married woman and her husband is on to me. I wanted to prove I was right here instead of being with her." Even to him, this sounded pretty feeble, but he had no time to think up something better.

"Is that right?" Jud said and leered. "You were always sharp with girls." He paused to scratch the back of his fat neck.

"Well, maybe I could forget it if that's all it is. Maybe I could ... I'll have to think about it."

Anson smelling blackmail, said quickly ... too quickly, "If a hundred dollars would be of any use to you, Jud ... after all, although I have nothing to do with it, this is a murder inquiry. How about a hundred bucks and you keep me in the clear?"

Jones lolled his massive frame against the wall. "Well, I don't know, Mr. Anson. It worries me. To tell the truth, my wife is far from well. The doc says she should go away. The climate here doesn't seem to agree with her. Moving is an expensive business. You couldnt run to a thousand, could you? For that I'll forget everything and you will be doing us a good turn."

Anson suddenly became calm. He realized the situation. He told himself he would have to kill this fat, hulking blackmailer, but he would have to stall him until he got him where he could kill him in safety.

"A thousand!" he exclaimed. "For Pete's sake, Jud! Where do you imagine I'd find that kind of money? Two hundred is the best I could do."

Jones shook his head. His expression became more sorrowful. "I'd like to help you, Mr. Anson, but suppose the cops found out I had lied to them? What would happen to my wife? They could put me away for. a couple of years. Two hundred bucks is no good to me."