reading a newspaper. He had cop written all over him.
As I passed the house dick, who was decorating the reception desk, looked at the thickset man and then at me, then he closed one eyelid slowly. He raised two thick fingers to scratch his neck and looked at me again, slightly nodding his head towards the street.
That told me there was another of them outside. The five bucks was earning its living. For a man who could tell a story without words, this house dick was in a class of his own.
I returned his wink and took the elevator up to my room. I put a phone call through to Suzy. There was a very faint click on the line just before Suzy’s receiver was lifted. That told me that someone was listening in on my line. Suzy’s maid said Suzy was out, and she wouldn’t be back until late. I thanked her and hung up.
I wondered how long the line had been tapped, and tried to remember if I had heard the click when I had called Captain Bradley. I didn’t think I had, but I couldn’t be sure. Maybe Lassiter had only just got around to tapping my line; I hoped so. I didn’t want him to know I was calling on Bradley this night. With two trained cops waiting for me downstairs, my trip to Bradley’s house wasn’t going to be easy. I decided to make a start now to be sure I had plenty of time in which to lose them before I reached Lincoln Drive.
I had a shower and changed. My strap watch told me it was ten minutes past seven as I let myself out of my room and walked to the elevator.
I gave up my room key to the desk clerk.
‘Will you be in for dinner, sir?’ he asked as he took the key.
‘No, I’ll eat out,’ I said, loud enough for the thickset man to hear. He still sat in the basket chair near the revolving doors. I crossed the lobby, pushed my way through the doors and paused at the top of the steps. I looked at the crowded promenade, but I couldn’t spot the other dick.
‘Cab, sir?’ the doorman asked.
I shook my head and strolled down the steps and along the promenade. I walked for some minutes, then turned off into the town. I went into a bar and ordered a highball.
The bar was nearly empty. The barman looked intelligent so I leaned forward and said to him in an undertone, ‘My wife’s having me tailed. Any way out the back way, pal?’ and I showed him a dollar bill.
He grinned cheerfully.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Go through that door. It’ll take you to the back entrance on Dorset road.’
The buck and I parted company. I was throwing Fayette’s money away like a drunken sailor.
‘Thanks,’ I said, finished the highball at a swallow, then walked quickly across the bar, opened the door he had indicated and stepped into a passage. On the right was a big cupboard. Ahead of me was a door. I opened the cupboard. It contained brooms and mops, but there was room enough for me, and I stepped inside, closed the door and waited.
I didn’t have to wait more than a few seconds. I heard the door leading from the bar jerked open and heavy feet pound down the passage. I opened the cupboard door a crack and peered through.
The thickset cop, his face red and his eyes gleaming, was opening the street door. He stepped outside, looked up and down, then started off to the right.
I leaned against the wall of the cupboard and waited. I was in no hurry. There was the second cop to think of. He might be covering the bar. I waited twenty long, weary minutes, before I opened the cupboard door and peered out. Hearing nothing, I tiptoed over to the street door and eased it open.
Right opposite me was a cab. The driver was lighting a cigarette before moving off. I jumped across the sidewalk, jerked open the cab door and got in.
‘Take me to the station,’ I said, ‘and snap it up.’
He drove me to the railroad station that was on the far side of the town: Captain Bradley’s side. When I saw the station ahead of me, I told him to stop and I paid him off. I looked at my watch. I still had an hour before I could call on Bradley. A movie theatre nearby offered the solution. I went in and sat in the back row and watched Jane Russell display her curves for the next three quarters of an hour.
When I came out, it was dark. As far as I could remember Lincoln Avenue was only a five minute walk from the station. I started off keeping my eyes open. Fifty yards from the movie house I spotted a patrolman, and I ducked into a tobacconist store to let him pass. I bought a pack of Camels, took my time getting out a cigarette and lighting it, then I went out on to the street again.
A four minute quick walk brought me to the corner of Lincoln Avenue. I paused and examined the long road before starting down. It was as deserted and as silent as a graveyard at midnight.
CHAPTER TEN
I
I’ve got Lassiter’s boys on my tail,’ I said as soon as I had sat down in one of Bradley’s worn armchairs, ‘but I shook them off before coming here.’
‘You managed to get on the wrong side of him fast, didn’t you?’ Bradley asked as he fixed two whiskies. ‘How come?’
I told him what had happened at the Golden Apple. He stood, holding his glass, looking at me, his face hard.
‘What do you know about Cornelia Van Blake, Captain?’ I asked when I had finished my tale.
‘She got me slung off the force,’ Bradley said, sitting down. ‘At least, it was through her, and I’m pretty sure it was on her say-so.’
‘To do with her husband’s murder?’
‘You’ve been getting around since last we met, haven’t you? Who told you about the murder?’
‘A gilded lily. Care to tell me more?’
He stretched out his massive legs and made himself comfortable.
‘Don’t think it has anything to do with your case, because it hasn’t,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you: do you want the outline or details?’
‘I want the details. It may not have anything to do with my case, but some of the characters appear in both cases, and there may be a hook up. Tell me about it.’
He screwed up his eyes and stared up at the ceiling while he marshalled his facts.
‘Van Blake was shot on August 6th of last year. He went riding over his estate early in the morning. After a while his horse came back to the house without him. The staff searched for him and found him on the top of a hill in open country. He had been killed by a shot gun.’ He paused to look at me. ‘It was a big shakeup. Van Blake was rich and well known. The press and the political boys raised all hell. I knew I had to make good fast or lose my job.’ He sucked at his pipe reflectively. ‘As it turned out, I lost my job.’
I didn’t say anything, and after a pause he went on, ‘Van Blake’s wife was in Paris at the time of the murder. Van Blake had business in Paris, and a month before he died, he had made arrangements to go over there with her. At the last moment he had to attend two important board meetings which delayed his departure, but his wife went on ahead of him. Van Blake’s secretary cabled the news to her and she flew back.’
‘Who’s the secretary?’ I asked.
‘His name’s Vincent Latimer. He quit after the funeral and he’s working with the Hammerville Engineering works now. If you’re planning to talk to him, save your breath. He’s tighter than a clam.’
‘Did you come across any clues?’
‘It was an odd murder. The shotgun puzzled me. If it was a planned killing, why a shot gun with only a killing range of thirty yards? I’ve always thought it was a planned murder, and the explanation of the shot gun pointed to the killer being known to Van Blake. He was murdered out in the open: he wasn’t ambushed. He must have known the killer or he wouldn’t have got within range. Anyway, that’s how I figured it.’
‘My gilded lily said it was a poacher.’
‘I know. They all said it was, but I wasn’t sold on the idea.’
‘You thought it was the wife?’ I said, looking at him.
He shrugged.
‘I work on motives. She had a hell of a motive. She was twenty-two years younger than he was. They couldn’t have had anything in common. Before she married him she was a model and lived in a two room apartment. She came in for most of his money. Maybe she got impatient. You’ve seen her, haven’t you? She isn’t
