“They’ve seen the police leave.”
“Then tell ’em to go to hell. Tell ’em I’ve had a relapse. Tell ’em I’ve developed brain fever. No, don’t tell ’em that. Tell them I’m resting now and that I’ll see them at eight o’clock.”
“Yes, sir. And there is a telephone call for you from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Shall I put it through?”
He hesitated for an instant, waiting for his sixth sense to work; but it lay dead.
“All right, I’ll take it,” he said.
A calm, soothing-type voice said, “Mister Casper Holmes?”
“Speaking,” Casper said.
“I am Herbert Peters from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Mister Grover Leighton has been in contact with us, and he has engaged us to arrange for an ambulance under guard to transport you from the hospital to your home.”
“Why not a baby carriage?” Casper growled.
Peters chuckled faintly. “If you will give us the approximate time you will be checking out, we’ll make all the necessary arrangements.”
“I’ll arrange for my own transportation when I leave,” Casper said. “But I’m not thinking of leaving for two or three days.”
“Then you think you will be checking out on Tuesday?”
“That’s what I think. But I don’t think I need any of you. If I can’t get from here to my own house, I need to go back to the nursery.”
“That’s not exactly the situation, sir,” Peters said. “It is not a matter of your ability to take care of yourself. One of our men has been killed, and, unfortunately, you are a witness to the murder. As long as you are alive, the murderers are in danger of-”
“You ain’t just saying it,” Casper cut in.
“So Mister Leighton feels it is essential that we give you the protection necessary for a public figure whose life is in danger.”
“Mister Leighton has already made one mistake by going ahead on his own,” Casper said.
“That’s why he doesn’t want to make another,” Peters said. “That’s why we are requesting your co-operation in advance.” He paused for a moment, then added, “We will have to cover you in any event, whether you like it or not; but it would be much better all around if we had your co-operation.”
Casper conceded. “All right. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you when I’m checking out. Will you be there?”
“If I’m not, someone else will.”
“Okay, give me the number.”
When he had hung up, he waited for a minute, then dialed the number he’d been given.
An unfamiliar voice said, “Pinkerton Detective Agency.”
“Let me speak to Herbert Peters.”
“Who’s calling, please.”
“Casper Holmes.”
A moment later Peters’ calm voice said, “Yes, Mister Holmes?”
“I’m just checking,” Casper said. “Being as I can’t look through the telephone and see just who really is phoning me.”
“I understand, Mister Holmes. Is that all, sir?”
“That’s all.”
Casper cradled the receiver and sat up in bed, thinking. The trainee had finished and closed the windows and left, but he hadn’t noticed.
He lifted the receiver and told the switchboard operator not to put through any more calls.
“If some one telephones, what shall I say?”
“Say that I am sleeping and ask them to phone back after eight o’clock.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And give me an outside line.”
When he heard the central office buzz, he dialed a number.
A woman’s voice answered. “Hel-looo?”
“Marie?”
“Yes. Is that you, Casper?”
“Yeah. Is Joe in?”
“Yes. I’ll call him. How’s your noggin?”
“Palpitating. Let me talk to Joe.”
He heard her calling, “Jooooe! It’s Casper.”
Joe Green was the biggest numbers banker in Harlem; he had a part of three lotteries.
“Casper, how’s the boy?” he greeted in a husky voice.
“Ain’t nothing that a little sleep won’t cure.”
“Can’t hurt you hitting you on the head,” Joe said. “But snatching all that long green off you must have given you a running fit.”
“It wasn’t mine,” Casper said. “They didn’t hurt nothing but my feelings.”
“And you’ll never forgive the mother-rapers for that.”
“Now that’s for sure. But what I called you for is I want to borrow a couple of your boys for later in the day.”
“For bodyguards or running errands?”
“I’m going to check out here at seven-thirty in one of Clay’s hearses-”
Joe chuckled. “Just don’t go by the way of the cemetery, daddy.”
Casper laughed. “By way of Clay, neither. Naw, I’m going home. I want to dodge the newsboys; I got a pop call to make on the way. I just want them to trail me.”
“It’s done,” Joe said. “How ’bout Big Six and George Drake in the Cadillac? They ought to handle any situation that might jump up. Or do you want another one?”
“Naw, they’ll do. I want them to pick up the hearse at Clay’s and stay with it, but not too close. I don’t want it looking like no procession.”
“I got you, daddy. What time?”
“I’m leaving here at seven-thirty. They’d better get to Clay’s by seven.”
Joe hesitated. “Can’t you make it earlier, daddy? If this snow keeps coming down like it is now, ain’t much going to be moving by seven-thirty.”
“I’m going to be moving,” Casper said.
“Okay, daddy, I got you covered,” Joe said. “Don’t do nothing I wouldn’t do.”
“It’s made then,” Casper said. “I’ll see you in church.”
When the connection was broken, he began dialing another number without putting down the receiver.
A proper male voice said, “H. Exodus Clay’s Funeral Parlor. Good afternoon. May we be of service to you?”
“I don’t want to be buried, if that’s what you mean,” Casper said. “Just let me speak to Clay.”
“Mr. Clay is resting; he’s having his customary after-noon nap. Perhaps I can help you.”
“Wake him up,” Casper said. “This is Casper Holmes.”
“Oh, Mister Holmes. Yes sir, right away, sir.”
A few moments later Clay’s thin, querulous voice came over the wire, “Casper. I was hoping to do some business with you.”
“You are, Hank, but not the kind you want.” Only a few people in Harlem knew that the H in Clay’s name stood for Henry; most people thought it stood for either Heaven or Hell. “I want to hire a hearse.”
“For yourself, or for a friend?”
“For myself.”
“The reason I asked, I have three hearses now. I use the old one for poor folks, the middle one for rich and the new one for celebrities. I’ll give you the new one.”
