The Golden Gizmo (13 page)

His voice trailed off into silence. Angry, desperate. Someone might not be there. Not soon enough. They might- but they might not. She was right on the edge. A little longer and she might be over it.

He dropped her hand-almost flung it from him-and raced into the front room. His shoes grated against the broken glass, as he snatched up the brandy carafe. He let it slide from his fingers, fall gurgling to the floor.

He knew better than that, after all the talks he'd had with Elaine's doctors. Alcohol wasn't a stimulant but a depressant. An anesthetic. Taken on top of the chloroform it would mean certain death.

Running to the kitchen, he yanked open the cupboard doors. No ammonia. Nothing that would act as a restorative.

He glanced at the stove. A coffee pot stood on the back burner. It was half full.

As soon as the coffee began to simmer, he grabbed the pot and a cup and hurried back to the bedroom. He got down on his knees at the bedside, filled a cup and set the pot on the floor, and raised the girl's head.

Her head wobbled and coffee ran from her lips, down over her chin and neck.

He put an arm around her, under her left arm, and rested her head on his shoulder. He poured more coffee in the cup.

This time she swallowed some of the liquid, but a shuddering, strangled gasp made him suddenly jerk the cup away. Too fast-he'd given it to her too fast. She'd smother, drown actually, if he wasn't careful.

He waited a minute-an hour it seemed like-and again placed the cup to her lips. Mentally, he measured out a spoonful, and waited until her throat moved, swallowed. He gave her another spoonful, then waited, and another swallow.

Slowly, a little color was returning to her face. Maybe it would be all right now if he… He felt her pulse. Sighing, he refilled the cup.

He had almost finished doling it out to her, a spoonful at a time, when her heart began to pound. He could feel it against his hand, skipping a little, still a little irregular, but going stronger with every beat.

He started to remove his hand, but her arm had tightened against her side. Her eyelids fluttered drowsily, and opened.

"You're all-" he began.

"You… all right… Toddy…?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, somehow shamed. "Now, look, I've got to beat it. Alvarado's dead. The cops'll be here any minute. I-"

"They do not know about…"

"They'll find out!" Toddy didn't know why he was arguing. He didn't know why the hell he didn't just beat it. "Anyway, there's plenty without that. I'm wanted in half a dozen-half a dozen-"

Her arm had gone around his neck. Her other arm held his hand against her breast. The beat of her heart was very firm now. Firm and fast.

"I tell you, I've got to-"

Her lips shut off the words. She sank back against the pillows, drawing him with her… Faintly, then louder and louder, a police siren moaned and whined. Toddy didn't hear it.

He knew he was being held at the instance of the federal authorities. Which meant that, since a murder charge would take precedence over others, Elaine's death hadn't been discovered. That seemed impossible; Alvarado himself had seen detectives in his and Elaine's hotel room. But the fact remained. He wasn't-couldn't be-wanted for murder. Yet.

He also knew that Milt Vonderheim was the smuggling ring's gold-supplier, and, more than likely, the man who had had Elaine killed. Why the last, he didn't know; but the first was indisputable. It was no wonder that Milt had wanted him disposed of quickly. Since Toddy's original visit to the house of the talking dog, he had held most of the clues to the little jeweler's real identity.

He had presented Milt's card that day and mentioned being sent by a friend. And Alvarado, not knowing what might be in the air, had admitted him. He had discovered almost immediately, of course, that Toddy knew nothing of Milt's illegal activities-that he had simply stumbled onto the house. But Alvarado had been prepared for that eventuality… His eyes were "bad." He hadn't been able to read the card. In other words, Toddy's entry had not been obtained through Milt.

It was a shrewd subterfuge, but it had one great weakness. It could only be explained, if explanation became necessary, on one basis. Milt was the ring's key man: the gold-supplier. Since he was operating in the open and was confined to his shop, he could handle no other end of the racket.

Toddy's fingers strayed absently to the shirt pocket of his jail khakis, and came away empty. No cigarettes. No dough. And he'd hardly been able to touch the jail chow except for the coffee. The lack of comforts, however, troubled him much less than the reason for the lack. He'd never been able to do time. He couldn't now. And he was going to have to do a lot unless-

They'd have his record by now. They'd know where he was wanted and for how much. Sixty days. Ninety. A hundred and ten. Six months. A year and a… And Elaine. Why think about those other raps when they were certain to pin a murder on him?

He tried to accept that fact and salvage what he could from it. He'd killed her, say, but not with premeditation. She'd slugged him with a bottle, and he'd blanked out and killed her. Not intentionally. In a fit of temper. That was manslaughter; second degree manslaughter, if he had the right lawyer. If he was lucky, he'd get off with five years.

He thought about that, those five years. He thought about Dolores, then thrust her firmly out of his mind. Jail was hard enough to take without thinking about her, knowing that she'd come into his life too late, that never again… never again…

All day long an oval of men circled the bullpen, moving around and around in silent restlessness. When one man dropped out, another took his place in the oval. Its composition changed a hundred times, and yet it itself never changed.

"Kent!"

The oval stopped moving. Every eye was on the door.

"Todd Kent! Front and center!"

Toddy got up, dusted off the seat of his trousers, and pushed his way through the other prisoners.

Clint McKinley, bureau chief of investigation for the Treasury Department, was a stocky mild-looking man with thin red hair and a soft, amiable voice. He wasn't a great deal older than Toddy, and, in his first brief sizing up, Toddy decided that he wasn't too sharp a character. He wasn't long in revising that opinion.

McKinley seated him in a chair in front of his desk, tossed him a package of cigarettes, and even held a match for him. Then he folded his hands, leaned his elbows on the desk, stared straight at Toddy and began to talk. About Dolores, or, as he called her, Miss Chavez.

"We have a lot of admiration for her," he said. "She did the right thing at great personal risk and without hope of reward. We're going to do the right thing by her. She's in this country on a student's visa. We're going to pave the way for her to become a citizen. We're going to do everything else that's in our power to do. That can be quite a lot."

Toddy nodded. "I'm glad for her. She's a nice girl."

"Now we come to you," said McKinley. "We've gone into your record pretty thoroughly. We find it remarkable. You've preyed on your fellow citizens with one kind of racket or another ever since you went into circulation. You get a chance in the Army to redeem yourself, and you throw it away. You sell out. You help to tear down the prestige of the flag you swore allegiance to. You've never been any good. You've never done a single unselfish, honest deed in your whole life."

The soft, amiable voice ceased to speak. Toddy pushed himself up from his chair. "Thanks for the sermon," he said. "I don't think I'll stay for the singing."

"Sit down, Kent."

"Huh-uh. You people can't make a charge stick against me. You've had no right to hold me this long."

"We can see that you're held by other authorities."

"Hop to it, then."

"What's the hurry?" said McKinley. "It always gets me to see a man throw himself away. Maybe I said a little too much. If I did, I'll apologize."

Toddy sat back down. He had intended to from the beginning. It had simply seemed bad, psychologically, to let McKinley crack the whip too hard.

"As a matter of fact," McKinley continued, "I think my statement was a little sweeping. If you hadn't tried to help Miss Chavez there in San Diego, you might have escaped. That's something in your favor. Of course, you may have had some selfish motive for staying. But-"

"Try real hard," said Toddy. "You'll think of one."

"Don't coax me." McKinley's eyes glinted. "You want to get along with me or not, Kent? If you don't, just say so. I've got something better to do with my time than argue with two-bit con men."

Toddy swallowed harshly and got a grip on himself. He'd been kidding himself about that psychology business. A little, anyway. He was losing his temper. He was letting a cop get his goat.

"You're trying to do a job," he said, "but you're going about it the wrong way. You're not softening me up. You're getting nowhere fast. Now why don't you drop it and start all over again?"

"Who supplied the gold to this outfit, Kent?"

"I don't know."

"You've got a good idea."

"Maybe."

"Let's have it, then. Come on. Spit it out."

"No," said Toddy.

"You want a deal, huh? All right. You play square with me, and I'll do what I can for you."

"That," said Toddy, "isn't my idea of a deal."

"I'll give you one more chance, Kent. I don't believe you know anything, anyway, but I'm willing to give you a chance. Turn it down and you'll be touring jails for the next three years."

Toddy grinned derisively.
Three years, hell!
McKinley misunderstood the grin. He jabbed a button on his desk, and the deputy jailer came back in.

"Take him out of here," said McKinley. "Lock him up and throw the key away. We won't want him anymore."

The jailer took Toddy's elbow. Toddy got up and they started for the door. He was sick inside. He'd played his cards the only way he could, but they just hadn't been good enough. Now it was all over.

"Kent."

The jailer paused, gave Toddy a nudge. Toddy didn't turn around. He didn't say anything. He was afraid to.

"This is your last chance, Kent. You go through that door and you'll never get another one."

Toddy hesitated, shrugged. He took a step toward the door and his hand closed over the knob. He turned it. Behind him he heard McKinley's amiable, unwilling chuckle.

"All right. Come on back. I'll talk to Kent a little longer, Chief."

The jailer went out the door. Toddy, the palms of his hands damp, went back to his chair.

"All right," said McKinley calmly, as though the scene just past had never taken place. "You were saying I was going about my job the wrong way. Could be. I've been in this work for fifteen years, but I learn something new every day. Now tell me where you think I was wrong."

"You want something definite from me," said Toddy. "You haven't offered anything definite in return."

"We can't actually promise anything. Except to use our influence."

"That's good enough for me."

"Call it settled, then. We'll try to wipe the slate clean." McKinley smiled. "You haven't committed any murders anywhere, have you? I don't think we could square those."

Toddy shook his head. "No murders."

"Good," said McKinley. "Now, let's see what we've got. You were buying gold. You accidentally-accidentally on purpose, maybe- picked up a valuable watch-a chunk of bullion-at Alvarado's house. He checked on you, found out you were hot, and offered you a job. If you turned it down, he threatened to-"

McKinley broke off and made a deprecating gesture. "Maybe," he said, "Miss Chavez doesn't have her facts straight. Maybe you'd better do the talking."

"She has them straight," said Toddy.

"Why did you go to Tijuana, Kent?"

"Alvarado told me to. I"-Toddy coughed-"I was to go there and wait for him. He didn't say why."

"Cough a little longer," McKinley suggested. "Maybe you can think of a better one."

"No," said Toddy. "I think we'd better let that one stand. There's something in the rules about impeaching your own witnesses. If I
did
take a little gold across the border, it's just as well that you have no knowledge of it."

"Mmmm," drawled McKinley. "You don't know why he wanted you to go there-you weren't in any position to ask questions. So you went, and you got slugged. And if Alvarado hadn't intervened you'd have been killed."

"That's right. It's this way," said Toddy. "After it was all over, Alvarado told me why he'd wanted me to go to Tijuana. He had it in for the gold-supplier. He was trying to wash him up. So Alvarado let him know I was going to this place in Tijuana, hoping that he'd try to kill me."

He paused, conscious of the pitfall he was approaching. How to tell a plausible story without mentioning Elaine.

"Did you ever try telling the truth?" said McKinley. "The complete truth? You might enjoy it."

"I am trying to." Toddy frowned earnestly. "But it's a pretty mixed-up deal. It's hard to explain something when you don't completely understand it yourself. You see, Alvarado wanted to get this guy but he got orders to leave him alone. So he had to back up. He wouldn't tell me anything. I had to guess why I was slugged."

"You knew who the gold-supplier was, in other words?"

"He thought I did-or could find out; it was the only reason he could have for wanting to kill me."

McKinley ran a stubby hand through his thin red hair. He sighed, stood up, and turned to the window. He stared down into the street, hands thrust into his pants pockets, teetering back and forth on his heels.

"It doesn't figure," he said to the window. "It doesn't because you're holding out something. I don't know why, but I'm reasonably sure of one thing. You know who the gold-supplier is."

"I think I know."

"You thought in the beginning. Then you found out. Something Alvarado did or said-something you saw there in the San Diego house-tipped you off." McKinley sat down again and placed his elbows back on the desk.

"Knowing and proving are two different things. Suppose I gave you his name and address. You go there. You don't find anything. He won't talk…"

"That's our problem."

"Is that a promise? Regardless of whether my tip works out, you'll get me that clean slate?"

"Oh, well, now,"-McKinley spread his hands-"you can't expect me to do that. You might give us any old name and address and- and-yeah," said McKinley. "Mmm-hmmm."

He squirmed in his chair, looking down at some papers on his desk. Fumbling with them absently. Abruptly he looked up. "It's Milt Vonderheim! Don't lie! I've got the proof!"

Toddy laughed. After a moment, McKinley grinned.

"It's a good thing you didn't tell me it was Vonderheim. I'd have known you were trying to throw a curve under me."

"I'd pick a better goat than Milt," Toddy said. "Everyone knows that-"

"We know. I don't care about everyone. How would you go about landing this man, Kent?"

"Nothing's been in the papers about Alvarado or-?"

"Nothing yet. I don't know how long we can keep it quiet."

"I'll need a few things. A gun, some money, a car. I'll need a few days. I've got to see some people."

"Why?"

"To make sure," said Toddy, evenly, "that you don't have a tail on me. At the first sign of one, the whole deal's off."

"Why? If you're on the square."

Toddy explained. He was plausible, earnest, the soul of sincerity. If McKinley wouldn't believe this, he thought, he wouldn't believe anything.

"That's the way I'll handle it," he concluded. "He'll have a lot of dough. I'll go through the motions of taking it, highjacking him. Then I'll put him in the car and head for the country. Someplace, supposedly, where I can bump him off and hide his body."