“Maybe you should. Warn him, I mean.”
“Maybe I should. But what if he
“That’s what you told this Zarkovich guy—that you wanted no more part of this.”
“You bet. When I found out that son of a bitch was involved, I
“You say he’s a smooth character, though.”
“Very. A real ladies’ man, too. They call him the ‘Police Sheik,’ back in Indiana.”
“What’s his relationship with this Anna person…Anna, what was it?”
“Sage. Well, like I said, he’s a bagman. He picked up money from her and other madams to pass along to the big boys, keeping some for himself.”
“Do you trust Anna Sage?”
“Not particularly.”
“But you don’t suspect her of anything, either.”
“No.”
“You don’t think maybe she talked to this Zarkovich
“I suppose that’s possible…but why would she talk to me about her suspicions, if she’d already talked to Zarkovich?”
“I been in show business since I was about nine. And I can tell you from experience, things are rarely as they seem.”
“I don’t get you.”
“This whole thing seems…orchestrated, somehow. Don’t you think?”
I didn’t answer.
“You were led to Jimmy Lawrence. By your traveling-salesman client—who you have no way of contacting, right?”
I nodded.
“In fact, you can’t even check up on the guy. The only address you have is that flat in Uptown where Polly Hamilton lives.”
I nodded again. “And since they aren’t married, that’s not really his address. Right. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Did he tell you what company he worked for?”
I shook my head. “Just a feed and grain company. No name.”
“So you can’t check up on him.”
“I can’t check up on him. Well—he said the firm was out of Gary. That would be a start.”
“So this client, who lied to you, leads you to Polly Hamilton and Jimmy Lawrence. Now, Polly Hamilton knew you through Anna Sage, so if Polly was in on this—just bear with me, Heller—if she was in on this, she could well assume you’d check up on her with—or try to warn her through—Anna Sage.”
I started nodding again. “And Anna Sage fed me the Dillinger story.”
“And Anna Sage led Zarkovich to you.”
“No denying that much.”
“Maybe you’re being used to set this guy up—whether he is or isn’t Dillinger.”
“But why? A simple anonymous phone call would do the trick just as well—they could call the cops or the feds and say, ‘I think I saw Dillinger at such and such,’ and accomplish the same thing.”
“I can’t explain it, Heller. You’re the detective. You’ve got to figure the motives out. Me—I just know theater when I see it.”
We took the dishes out to the kitchen, and soon she was snoring peacefully beside me while I lay with wide- open eyes staring into how smart she was.
C
OWLEY
11
I spent the next morning, Friday, sitting in my office running phone checks on the credit ratings of half a dozen would-be borrowers. This I was doing for the Retail Credit Company in Jackson Park, the single account that was keeping me afloat these days. The thought of a piece of the Dillinger reward money coming my way hung in the hot air in front of me, like laundry on a line.
Just around noon, when I was thinking about going downstairs to the deli for a pastrami sandwich, a big moonfaced man of about thirty-five in a gray hat and a gray suit and a gray tie came in. His complexion was a little gray, too—that hot ball of sun that had been baking Chicago for days upon end hadn’t got to him yet, it would seem.
“Mr. Heller,” he said, taking off his hat. His dark brown hair was longer on top than on its graying sides.
“Yes?” I said, half-rising.
“I’m Sam Cowley. With the Division of Investigation.” He moved forward with a tight, somber expression and
