apple.
He bought a paper at a corner newsstand. He had already decided he didn't want to stay at a hotel and he was in the process of folding the paper back to the classified section when the caption beneath a front page picture caught his eye. “Mayor Richard Lowell turns first shovelful of earth in groundbreaking ceremonies for new-”
It surprised him. Lowell. Mayor Richard Lowell. And Jefferson was Toby Lowell's home town. Johnny looked closely at the picture of a big, openfaced hearty-looking man smiling into the camera, an expensive-looking shoe atop a silvered shovel. There was no resemblance that Johnny could see, but a man might go broke in a hurry bucking the odds on it's being a coincidence.
Toby Lowell. Toby hadn't said a word about a Richard Lowell. After Johnny's Washington phone call, Toby Lowell had known where to find Carl Thompson. And someone had very definitely found Carl Thompson not so long afterward. Had Toby made a call to the man who had found Thompson? Had he made another to Dameron? Something certainly seemed to have frozen the lieutenant to his hotel thief theory.
Johnny took another look at the smiling face of the big man on the front page of the paper and put the paper under his arm. He turned off the main street and walked cross-town, away from the solid business district. As soon as he nested in someplace he intended to pay a call at City Hall. Mayor Richard Lowell might be able to contribute something to the picture.
In eight or ten blocks he had moved out of the banked lineup of stores. In the new neighborhood only an occasional corner grocery appeared among houses and apartments. A sign in a downstairs window across the street caught his eye. ROOMS. He crossed the street. It was close enough to downtown without being downtown. He climbed five stone steps fronting an old-fashioned Georgian house and rang the bell.
He had to ring it again before it was opened by a thin-faced woman with a mass of red hair loosely knotted atop her head. She wasn't young but the hair looked natural, Johnny decided. She had on blue jeans and a man's white shirt. She carried a dustmop in a work-reddened hand and shrewd blue eyes took Johnny in from head to foot. Her eyes came back to the silver-studded jacket and finally to his face. “I'd like to see a room,” he told her.
She let him in. “Construction worker?” she asked over her shoulder, leading the way through the front hall.
“I've done it,” Johnny said. He followed her up the front stairs. He noticed that if her face was sharply-angled her figure was not. She moved lightly, with grace.
He set down his bag with his suit draped over it in the room to which she took him. He walked to the bed and sank both hands into it, deeply. The mattress was all right, not too soft, firm without being rigid. The room had two windows and the light was good. The carpeting was worn. The furniture was just furniture. He turned and crossed the hall to the bathroom he had seen on his way in. He looked for an outlet for his electric shaver and tested the shower. Everything looked clean. He returned to the bedroom. “How much?” he asked her.
She had been standing leaning on her mop, her eyes following his inspection. “I allow no liquor in here,” she said. Her tone was matter-of-fact. “And positively no women.” The dust mop lifted itself from the floor and pointed itself in Johnny's direction. “And if you think I'm talking just to hear myself talk you can think again.” Her glance brushed over by the leather jacket again. “Fifteen a week.”
“Twelve,” Johnny said.
“Twelve it is,” she said amiably. “I'm Mrs. Peterson.” She held out her hand.
Johnny gave her twelve dollars. “Johnny Killain,” he said before he thought. He shrugged mentally. It probably didn't make too much difference. He took the paper from under his arm and showed her the picture on the front page. “I used to know a Lowell in Washington whose home town was Jefferson,” he said casually.
“Dick's got a brother in Washington, but he's a big shot in the State Department.” Mrs. Peterson's intonation clearly expressed her belief that Johnny couldn't be expected to know a big shot in the State Department. “Dick's not the man Toby was, or their father, either. It's probably just as well old Mr. Lowell passed on.”
“Actually I came up to visit your chief of police, Carl Thompson,” Johnny said.
“You must have been out of touch, Mr. Killain. Carl hasn't been chief for four months. They ran him-” She hesitated. “I think he's left town,” she finished lamely.
“That's too bad. He told me once he'd put in a word for me around here if I thought I needed it.”
“A word from Carl Thompson in this town wouldn't get you far.” The statement was positive.
“Yeah? Carl's in trouble, huh? Sorry to hear it. I like Carl.”
“I like him, too.” Mrs. Peterson paused as if considering the admission. She sat down on the bed and lowered her hands to half-mast on the mop handle. “It's kind of unfashionable to like him around here right now,” she confided. “I think he got a raw deal. Not that Carl was any angel. My husband was a sergeant under Carl and he used to tell me things sometimes-” She shook her head. “Charlie-my husband-was killed in a holdup stake-out three years ago.” Johnny nodded sympathetically as she continued. “This is a queer kind of town, as you'll find out if you stay.”
“Oh, I guess every town's got its dirty washing,” Johnny suggested.
Mrs. Peterson's mouth drew down at the corners. “God help 'em if they're as dirty as this place,” she said grimly. “The mayor shacked up with his girl friend for anyone to see who's got eyes, the president of the city council throwing over his fiancee to chase after the ex-police chief's wife, the biggest lawyer-”
“Thompson's wife runs around? Hell, I thought they got along.”
“She seems to get along with anyone who wears pants.” Mrs. Peterson bit the words off viciously. She rose to her feet. “I talk too much. Stop off in the kitchen and I'll find you a key.”
“Sure thing.” When the woman had gone Johnny mulled over her information. One bit he should be able to use. He dumped the contents of his bag into a drawer and a half of the bureau and descended the stairs. He found his way to the kitchen in back and his landlady handed him a front door key. “This fiancee of Jim Daddario's,” he asked her. “Was her name Gilmore?”
“No,” she answered, surprised. “It was the assistant librarian, Jessamyn-” Her mouth snapped shut. “Daddario's name wasn't mentioned upstairs. You seem to know a lot for a stranger in town.”
“I don't like him, either,” Johnny grinned.
“If you're egging me on, you can have your twelve dollars and the back of my hand,” she warned him. “I can't stand that man expecting everyone to kiss his foot. I remember him when-” Her mouth closed again, this time with finality. “I said it before. I talk too much.”
“Not for me,” Johnny said as an exit line, and departed. He ran down the front steps and headed downtown. It was no problem to locate his target. The Jefferson Public Library was a long, low, fieldstone building on an expanse of green lawn in the city square. Inside, Johnny walked to the central check-in desk. “The assistant librarian, Jessamyn-” He snapped his fingers at his forgetfulness.
“Miss Burger?” the girl behind the desk asked brightly. “I believe she's in the rear.”
Despite his best effort to walk quietly Johnny's footsteps echoed in the hushed atmosphere. Two or three people in the magazine room appeared to be the only seekers after knowledge. At the far end of the vaulted arch, so low it barely left room for a mezzanine, Johnny stopped at a table presided over by a gray-haired woman in a severely tailored suit. “Miss Burger?” he asked, instinctively throttling down his heavy voice.
The woman looked over her shoulder to an alcove behind her. “Jessie? Are you in there?” She spoke in a normal tone that to Johnny sounded distressingly loud.
“Up in the stacks,” a hidden voice replied.
“The stairway on your left,” the gray-haired woman said to Johnny. He climbed a short, spiraling flight of iron steps and moved tentatively down a narrow passage that bisected row upon row of shelved books. An unshaded light bulb at the far end drew him onward. In the last row a heavy work-table nearly blocked the right-hand passage. Armsful and boxes of books were dumped on it indiscriminately. Beyond the table a girl trotted up a short ladder and deposited books on the top shelf over her head. In the process her skirt ascended enough to reveal very good legs. “Miss Burger?” Johnny asked again.
“Yes, it is.” She turned on the ladder to look down at him. She had a pretty face, round, with dimples. Her hair was dark and fluffed out about her small head in a short bob curled at the ends. Johnny could see that despite the good figure, the dimples, and the round face, Jessamyn Burger was no longer a girl. He decided that maturity hadn't hurt her a bit. “May I be of help?” she asked when he showed no sign of saying anything. She came down the ladder and reached for more books.
“Let me do that,” Johnny said. “Those boxes goin' up there?” He hoisted one up to his shoulder. “Clear the gangplank.” From the top of the ladder he looked down at her. “Any place in particular?”
