Obit Delayed (15 page)

Mitch gradually became aware that Norma’s eyes were on him, interested and eager, but he didn’t want to talk about it now. It was too easy for wishful thinking to ruin everything at this stage. Besides, the room was beginning to seem a bit crowded and anybody could see that Mitch Gorman was the extra man.

The Duchess had gone to sleep with her head under the steering-wheel and tangled with the horn on her way up. That was because of the way Mitch jerked open the door—like a policeman making a search. “Can’t we bury this thing?” she groaned. “I’m tired of playing nursemaid to a hot doll!”

She expected some sort of answer, a grunt if nothing else, but Mitch was busy. He slid under the wheel and sat staring at the silent street running questions and answers through his weary mind. Two and two made four, all right, but he didn’t want four murderers; he wanted one.

“What’s the matter,” asked The Duchess. “Is it Wales?”

“He’ll make it,” Mitch said.

“That’s nice to know. What about you?”

She was dying to know what was behind all that heavy thinking, but it still wasn’t a topic for conversation. It was too late now to make mistakes. But The Duchess had been thinking, too. “That was neat the way you let Hoyt prove your point for you,” she reflected, “but you made a slight error.”

“Did I?” Mitch challenged.

“That wasn’t the liquor store entrance you ran from.”

“Hoyt didn’t seem to notice.”

“How could he? He was coming from the opposite direction and that other doorway is right next—”

The Duchess came to a full stop. The other doorway! The other doorway led to the apartment over the liquor store at B Street and Fremont.

“My God,” she said. “Pinky!”

PINKY. It always came back to Pinky. From the moment he ripped open that first parcel of dream dust, Mitch had known there was something strange about that attempted burglary. With such a haul even Mickey Degan would have been cautious, and a man doesn’t take chances on looting a lousy cash register when he’s carrying a fortune in hot cargo. But if Mickey really had been calling on Pinky, Mitch had a whole new crop of questions to puzzle over through a long, sleepless night.

It would be tough enough if switching doorways narrowed the field down to one—identifying a murderer and making the identification stick were two different things—but Mitch could think of several people who could have known Mickey’s plans that night up to and including an appointment with Pinky. And, of course, everybody knew how quickly Kendall Hoyt could draw a gun. The longer Mitch puzzled, the wilder the possibilities became. How far afield could a man go in search of murder? And what was he doing, a man who liked his sleep long and untroubled, wrestling the sheets to a draw that was called on account of daylight?

And all the time a headless doll perched on the dresser top like a grim reminder of another dancing lady, also beautiful, also gay, and also with a broken head. Mitch took the doll with him when he left for the office—wrapped like a couple of shirts bound for the laundry. She was a bit valuable to be treated so casually, but sometimes a hunter needs a decoy.

After four days of furor the
Independent
was beginning to look like its old self again. Even Peter was subdued this morning, sort of a reflex action from oversustained excitement. But since it appeared that Frank Wales would recover, he could at least look forward to the trial.

“He denies killing the woman,” he was saying, as Mitch walked past his desk, “but he refuses to explain his actions until he sees a lawyer. If that’s not the attitude of a guilty man I don’t know Bluebeard from Oliver Twist!”

“Aw, somebody must have told you,” murmured The Duchess, and so Mitch took her along with him to avoid bloodshed.

Inside his own office, he ripped the paper from the doll and set about finding a drawer large enough to hold her. “You might file her,” The Duchess suggested, “under S for San Quentin. Don’t you think it’s about time to take the wraps off this development? The authorities rather like to handle these things themselves.”

She was right, of course. The Duchess was always right. But the authorities in this instance would mean a federal narcotic squad, and what Mitch had in mind was more in the line of a local homicide detail. “Where’s your sense of adventure?” he chided, slamming the bottom desk drawer shut on a heap of crumpled satin. “Why should I cut the law in on my piece of pie?”

“Your what?”

“My piece of pie. A big, juicy pie. Do you have any idea of what this doll must be worth? She’s already cost three lives. Somebody must want her pretty badly.”

“And what are you doing, trying for four?”

That kind of kidding wasn’t meant to be funny. Mitch glanced up and caught her grim expression, and again The Duchess was right. But that was something he didn’t dare think about now.

“Stop preaching!” he snapped. “If the game’s getting too rough why don’t you pick up your marbles and go home?”

He waited for her to slam out of the office—The Duchess didn’t take kindly to being snapped at—but she just stood there looking puzzled and worried, and then she threw him one of those powerful winks and grinned.

“Secret agent X-9 reporting for duty,” she said. “Where do you want the dirt shoveled today?”

Two amateur sleuths and a headless doll, that was the batting order for the Wales team, and somehow Mitch had the feeling that his was the last inning coming up. He knew what had to be done—that was all mapped out during the wakeful night—but it was a slow, deliberate business that must be accomplished the same way as walking a picket fence, one step at a time. The first step was getting the paper along to that stage where the headaches fell to the circulation department, and it was midafternoon before he was able to get away. The Duchess was still out on her mopping-up mission but Mitch couldn’t wait. He had to see a lot of people before nightfall.

The first interview on the schedule was with the manager of that liquor store, where business was slow at such an hour and the standard smile for prospective cash customers was broad and warm. Even when Mitch started asking questions the smile didn’t die out completely. Did he recall the attempted burglary when Mickey Degan was slain? He certainly did! Look what happened to the door!

“Maybe you don’t think it was a job sweeping up all that glass!” he reflected.

“Was that all you swept up?” Mitch asked.

This was a question that drew a blank stare until he explained himself. “I was wondering what Degan used to break the glass—a rock, maybe?”

“I didn’t see any rock.”

“What about outside?”

The man shook his head. “All I saw was broken glass. Where would you find a rock around here?”

That was about the size of what Mitch had been thinking. This was a business street, not a cluttered alley, and merchants like this store manager swept and hosed down the sidewalks every day. But it still had to be something pretty heavy that had shattered that plate-glass panel, and the man behind the counter beat him to the answer.

“He probably used a gun, anyway it sure was a mess. I think I’ve had my share of that kind of trouble for a while.”

Mitch already had the little he’d come for and was turning toward the doorway, but he couldn’t walk out on a suggestive remark like that. “I take it this wasn’t the first time,” he said.

“The first time! Listen, you won’t believe this but three different times within the week before Degan got it he was around here tampering with that door. The crazy fool! He might have known I’d report it to the police and they’d be watching the place.”

“How do you know it was Degan?” Mitch asked, and got a toothy grin along with his answer.

“I don’t know, of course, but since that shooting I’ve had no more trouble. It kind of adds up, don’t you think?”

It added up. It added up to a trip down to police headquarters where Mitch found a man in charge of answering stupid questions from curious citizens. By this time the whole department knew about Mitch Gorman’s vivid imagination, but he had to be humored like taxpayers’ committees and councilmen.

“You’ll find everything we took off Degan itemized in this list,” the officer said, handing over a sheet of paper from the files. “Of course, the stuff’s been turned over to his mother by this time.”

Mitch didn’t even glance at the list. “Even his gun?” he suggested.

“Oh, naturally—for sentimental reasons,” chided the officer.

“Then he was carrying a gun?”

“As a matter of fact, no. The gun was found in the glove compartment of his car.”

There was a big fat-faced clock on the wall ahead of Mitch and it made quite a noise when there was no competition. After a bit he smothered his excitement and asked, “Are you sure of that?”

“Sure, I’m sure! I was right here.”

“And you never gave it a thought, I suppose. The glove compartment! That’s a hellova place to leave a gun when you’re out to pull a burglary!”

Mitch slapped the list down on the desk and spun on his heel, but sometime during this little chat he’d picked up an audience. Ernie Talbot was filling the doorway—Ernie and a troubled frown. He didn’t seem in the mood for clearing the passage, either. “What’s this about going out to pull a robbery?” he queried. “Anybody I know?”

“Knew,” Mitch corrected. “Mickey Degan is strictly past tense.”

“Am I supposed to be in mourning?”

“Not yet. That comes later when the chief wants to know why you arrested an innocent man for murder.”

It was hard to tell about Ernie. His face was always red and flabby and his eyes always looked a little bloodshot. That emotion he was struggling with could be almost anything from anger to bewilderment, but it definitely wasn’t indifference. Not any more.

“I’m trying,” he muttered, “I’m trying hard, but sometimes I think I’m developing an allergy to newspapermen. I wonder if you know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure I do,” Mitch said. “I’ll explain it to you when I have more time.”

“You’ve got time right now, son. All the time in the world. And while you’re explaining, what was the idea of that cute business at the hospital last night? Frank Wales’s lawyer! I bet you don’t even own a briefcase.”

That accounted for the anger in Ernie’s tone. He didn’t like being tricked even if it was a minor trick, and the way he was looking at Mitch suggested nothing less than high treason.

“I was curious,” Mitch said. “After all, I’ve been getting front pages out of the man all week—I wanted to see what he looks like.”

“And now that you’ve seen him?”

“I’m more positive than ever—the man’s innocent.”

He couldn’t just let it stay that way. Ernie was disturbed, but not enough to follow along without persuasion. “Look, Ernie,” he persisted, “you know damned well that murder doesn’t come easy to most people. It takes an awful lot of pressure combined with opportunity for the average man to kill, and I’d say that Wales is a pretty average man.”

“That’s guesswork,” Ernie protested.

“Not at all. What have you learned about this man in the time you’ve been looking for him? Does he have a record? Does he have a reputation for violence, heavy drinking, or any of the usual things that could turn an ordinary citizen into a murderer? Remember, life is sacred to a guy like Wales. He’s not a professional killer.”

Ernie hadn’t taken his eyes from Mitch’s face all this time, but now he smiled crookedly. “Spare me the chorus,” he said. “I’ve heard it before.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong? Singer, Boyle, Costro—man, you’re not tracking a suspect; you’re tangling with a system!” Ernie wiped a hand across his face as if to blot out Mitch and his troublesome arguments. “Maybe you’re right,” he conceded. “Maybe Wales is innocent as a babe—nobody’s going to convict him without a trial. But I can’t make an arrest just because you think somebody else would look better behind bars.”

That was leaving the door wide open for Mitch to reveal everything he knew, but this thing was a lot bigger than Ernie Talbot. One word about the stuff in that doll and Ernie might do an about-face; but by this time the district attorney was preparing his case, and the public, thanks to eager boys like Peter Delafield, already had theirs prepared. No, it would take more than a sympathetic ear to clear Frank Wales now. The only person who could do that was Virginia’s murderer.

And that meant that Ernie would have to stand there waiting for an argument that wasn’t going to come until finally, and almost reluctantly, he shrugged and stepped out of the doorway.

“Go ahead and have fun,” he muttered. “Everybody should have a hobby.”

“Thanks, I will,” Mitch said. “By the way, have you found any trace of Rita?”

“Rita? Who’s Rita?”

“Rita Royale. I hear she’s jumped bail.”

This time Ernie was really lost. “What the devil are you talking about?” he demanded, but Mitch couldn’t wait to explain now. “I’ll tell you sometime when I’m not in a hurry,” he said, backing through the doorway. “Right now I’ve got to find an undertaker.”

That would give Ernie something new to worry about—that and the crack about Mickey Degan’s gun. Confusion was good for a man suffering from over-confidence. But in the meantime Mitch was driving across town to a dingy building with a pair of dusty velvet drapes covering the front windows. The undertaker he was looking for was easy to locate. All he had to do was find the cheapest prices in town, and there he was—the man who had fixed Mickey Degan up with a funeral.

It didn’t take Mitch five minutes to learn what he’d come after. A corpse with a couple of bullet holes was easy to remember, and the hands? No, there was nothing wrong with his hands. No cuts, no bruises.

“I did a real fine job on the boy, natural as life, and folded his hands across his chest—so. There wasn’t a mark on them.”

That was exactly what Mitch wanted to hear. He thanked the man for his trouble and went out smiling, because it was a big help to know finally why Virginia had been so afraid.

A system, Ernie had said. He was taking on a system, and that was about the size of it. At first thought it seemed a formidable job, but what was this system except a chain of men, some weaker than others, some more easily frightened than others, and none of them big enough to play the game without a marked deck? When he thought of it that way Mitch felt good. The chain was already showing strain in a couple of spots, and he had just the lever that could pry it apart. The trick was in knowing where to apply the pressure.

It was after four when he reached Pinky’s lunchroom, and the high-school crowd was slugging coins into the juke box as if the thing paid off in cash. All those Levi-legged customers could make Pinky a rich man if they used the menu, but this was the Coke and soda society and the way the back booths were rocking made Mitch wonder if anything extra ever found its way into those glasses. The music was nice though; it drowned out all that careful conversation he was going to have with Pinky.

“Draw one,” he said, dropping down on the nearest stool. “Black.”

Angelina was busy with a tray at the rear of the room and that left Pinky himself to do the honors. Pinky had a pair of dark shadows under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept well, as if somebody had been playing games under his window last night and kept him awake.

“Seen Dave today?” Mitch queried.

“Why should I?” Pinky snapped.

“Why not? He’s one of your customers isn’t he?”

“Customers!” Pinky stuck the cup of coffee under Mitch’s face and shoved the sugar shaker forward. “I’ve got no customers. All I’ve got is a lot of noisy kids and an editor who likes to hear himself talk.”

“Is that how you managed to pay off your mortgage so fast?”

This was known as the direct or frontal attack. The shock of red hair always made Pinky’s face seem pale by comparison, but the color of his hair had nothing to do with the way his lips started trembling. “How do you happen to know so damn much about my business?” he demanded.