“No, the lawyer found it in his effects. I kept it in the desk just in case I ever wanted to use the safe again. However, that never happened.” She paused, took a step toward me and laid a hand on my arm. “Is there some significance to all this?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. It was a thought and not a very new one. Like I told you, this was only a wild supposition at best. All I can say is that it might have established an M.O.”
“What?”
“A technique of operation,” I explained. “Your husband’s killer really could have gone after those jewels. The other man he killed was operating—well, was a small-time jewel smuggler. There’s a common point here.”
For a moment I was far away in thought. I was back in the hospital with a dying man, remembering the reason why I wanted to find that link so badly. I could feel claws pulling at my insides and a fierce tension ready to burst apart like an overwound spring.
It was the steady insistence of her voice that dragged me back to the present, her “Mike—Mike—please, Mike.”
When I looked down I saw my fingers biting into her forearm and the quiet pain in her eyes. I let her go and sucked air deep into my lungs. “Sorry,” I said.
She rubbed her arm and smiled gently. “That’s all right. You left me there for a minute, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“Can I help?”
“No. I don’t think there’s anything more here for me.”
Once again, her hand touched me. “I don’t like finalities like that, Mike.”
It was my turn to grin my thanks. “I’m not all that sick. But I appreciate the thought.”
“You’re lonely, Mike. That’s a sickness.”
“Is it?”
“I’ve had it so long I can recognize it in others.”
“You loved him very much, didn’t you?”
Her eyes changed momentarily, seeming to shine a little brighter, then she replied, “As much as you loved her, Mike, whoever she was.” Her fingers tightened slightly. “It’s a big hurt. I eased mine by all the social activity I could crowd in a day.”
“I used a bottle. It was a hell of a seven years.”
“And now it’s over. I can still see the signs, but I can tell it’s over.”
“It’s over. A few days ago I was a drunken bum. I’m still a bum but at least I’m sober.” I reached for my hat, feeling her hand fall away from my arm. She walked me to the door and held it open. When I stuck out my hand she took it, her fingers firm and cool inside mine. “Thanks for letting me take up your time, Mrs. Knapp.”
“Please—make it Laura.”
“Sure.”
“And can you return the favor?”
“My pleasure.”
“I told you I didn’t like finalities. Will you come back one day? ”
“I’m nothing to want back, Laura.”
“Maybe not to some. You’re big. You have a strange face. You’re very hard to define. Still, I hope you’ll come back, if only to tell me how you’re making out.”
I pulled her toward me gently. She didn’t resist. Her head tilted up, she watched me, she kissed me as I kissed her, easily and warm in a manner that said hello rather than good-bye, and that one touch awakened things I thought had died long ago.
She stood there watching me as I drove away. She was still there when I turned out of sight at the roadway.
CHAPTER 6
The quiet voice at Peerage Brokers told me I would be able to meet with Mr. Rickerby in twenty minutes at the Automat on Sixth and Forty-fifth. When I walked in he was off to the side, coffee in front of him, a patient little gray man who seemingly had all the time in the world.
I put down my own coffee, sat opposite him and said, “You have wild office hours.”
He smiled meaninglessly, a studied, yet unconscious gesture that was for anyone watching. But there was no patience in his eyes. They seemed to live by themselves, being held in check by some obscure force. The late edition of the
Rickerby waited me out until I said, “I saw Laura Knapp today,” then he nodded.
“We covered that angle pretty thoroughly.”
“Did you know about the safe? It had an alarm system.”
Once again, he nodded. “For your information, I’ll tell you this. No connection has been made by any department between Senator Knapp’s death and that of Richie. If you’re assuming any state papers were in that safe you’re wrong. Knapp had duplicate listings of every paper he had in his possession and we recovered everything.”
“There were those paste jewels,” I said.
“I know. I doubt if they establish anything, even in view of Richie’s cover. It seems pretty definite that the gun was simply used in different jobs. As a matter of fact, Los Angeles has since come up with another murder in which the same gun was used. This was a year ago and the victim was a used-car dealer.”
“So it wasn’t a great idea.”
“Nor original.” He put down his coffee and stared at me across the table. “Nor am I interested in others besides Richie.” He paused, let a few seconds pass, then added, “Have you decided to tell me what Richie really told you?”
“No.”
“At least I won’t have to call you a liar again.”
“Knock it off.”
Rickerby’s little smile faded slowly and he shrugged. “Make your point then.”
“Cole. I want to know about him.”
“I told you once—”
“Okay, so it’s secret. But now he’s dead. You want a killer, I want a killer and if we don’t get together someplace nobody gets nothing. You know?”
His fingers tightened on the cup, the nails showing the strain. He let a full minute pass before he came to a decision. He said, “Can you imagine how many persons are looking for this—killer?”
“I’ve been in the business too, friend.”
“All right. I’ll tell you this. I know nothing of Richie’s last mission and I doubt if I’ll find out. But this much I do know—he wasn’t supposed to be back here at all. He disobeyed orders and would have been on the carpet had he not been killed.”
I said, “Cole wasn’t a novice.”
And for the first time Rickerby lost his composure. His eyes looked puzzled, bewildered at this sudden failure of something he had built himself. “That’s the strange part about it.”
“Oh?”
“Richie was forty-five years old. He had been with one department or another since ’41 and his record was perfect. He was a book man through and through and wouldn’t bust a reg for any reason. He could adapt if the situation necessitated it, but it would conform to certain regulations.” He stopped, looked across his cup at me and shook his head slowly. “I—just can’t figure it.”
“Something put him here.”
This time his eyes went back to their bland expression. He had allowed himself those few moments and that was all. Now he was on the job again, the essence of many years of self-discipline, nearly emotionless to the casual observer. “I know,” he said.
