“Look at it from another angle,” said Harper levelly. “We get hired on a routine job; some outsiders gang me and snatch Dunlap. How's it going to look when the papers break it over the front page? Anyway, if he's alive, we still get our grand.”
Munn got up from his chair, paced back and forth across the floor twice, then stopped in front of the window, his back to the room. Harper's eyes followed his partner, seemed to take in the shapeless hang to Munn's wrinkled brown suit.
“You ought to get yourself a new suit,” he said thoughtfully, “and keep it pressed.”
Munn spun about. He opened his mouth twice before he spoke. “You keep slicked up enough for both of us,” he growled.
“But I'm gonna be away for a few days.” Harper grinned. “It's up to you to keep the firm dressed up.”
Munn came back to his chair, dropped into it and puffed his cigar so hard it began to burn unevenly.
Harper reached into his inside coat pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of paper and tossed it across the desk. Then he took a gold knife from his vest pocket, opened up the file blade, and began smoothing his fingernails.
Munn grunted, took the cigar from his mouth, placed it on the edge of the desk and picked up the piece of paper. He unfolded it, read it. When he finished he looked at Harper; then he read the paper again.
“Special investigator for the district attorney?” he snorted. “How the hell did you wangle that?”
Harper reached out with one hand, took the paper, tucked it away in his pocket, and continued with his nails. “For one month,” he said. “I made a deal.”
“With what?”
“With the Dunlap story.”
“You tipped off the D.A.?” Amazement flooded Munn's weathered features and his eyes went wide. “The cops'll raise hell with this; they raise hell with every kidnapping.”
“No doubt,” said Harper, unruffled. “But this isn't a kidnapping.”
Munn spat out an oath.
“Keep your shirt on!” Harper's voice took on a thin, metallic ring. He put away his knife and sat up. “This job was pulled on the one night the housekeeper was away. While they were ganging me, Dunlap had plenty of chance to run for it. I called the girl this morning. One of his small traveling bags is missing. And since when do they snatch supposedly bankrupt bankers?”
Munn waved his cigar in an arc of jerky impatience. “You think it was a frame?” he snapped. “What'd you tell the D.A.?”
“I told him what happened last night. That's all.” Harper glanced at his wristwatch. “The cops have not a single lead. They won't know about the airport unless they stumble on it. Aileen Reynolds will tell them only what happened to her. They can't put the bee on me because I'm on my way. So if you don't spill things, what'll they have?”
Harper walked over to the desk, took from a drawer what looked like a nickel-plated pencil and clipped it to his vest pocket. He picked up a suitcase and said, “Sit tight till you hear from me.”
HARPER swung out of the red, four-place monoplane at the Boston airport at four o'clock in the afternoon. He shook hands with the pilot, then walked across the runway to the administration building. Without waiting to make any inquiry, he summoned a taxi, piled in and said, “Barker House.”
He rode across the East Boston ferry without leaving the cab, and five minutes later was entering the School Street entrance of the hotel. He registered, asked for a room on the top floor. As soon as he was alone he opened his bag, took out a pint of rye. He poured a drink, tossed it off, stepped into the bathroom for a swallow of water. Then he got busy on the telephone.
He made three calls and sat down to wait. He had two more drinks while he waited, and ten minutes later three knocks sounded on the door. He called, “Come in,” and watched a big, lazy-looking man with a round face and a heavy nose swing through the door.
Harper got up, offered his hand and said, “Hello, Charlie.”
“Hi, Walt.” Charlie pumped Harper's hand. “Last time I saw you, you were with the Feds.”
Harper waved Charlie toward a chair by the window. He got a clean glass from the bathroom, offered this and the half-filled bottle. “How's the agency business in Boston?”
“Rotten.” Charlie poured himself a drink, but set the glass on the windowsill while he lighted a cigar and puffed it into life. He gulped the whisky, sucked his lips a moment, and thrust the cigar between discolored teeth. “Who carved their initials on your face?” he asked.
Harper's dark eyes flashed. “A couple of your local boys.”
“So—”
“Yeah.” Harper leaned forward in his chair. “I've made a couple calls since I been in. A sergeant down at Station No. 3, Joy Street, who I used to know in Washington, has been giving me a little information. He tells me Captain Galpin down at headquarters is a pretty right guy.”
“He's so honest it hurts, and the politicians don't bother him—much.”
“O.K. Now who's the biggest shot in town?”
“Louis Wyman.”
“What're his rackets?”
Charlie waved his cigar idly. “For the public it's restaurants, warehouses, the trucking business. For himself, he cuts in on most everything that's got any gravy.”
