Hit and Run Read online

  Then going to my wardrobe, I put on a tie and jacket and changed my shoes. By the time I had finished dressing, she began to move.

  I went into the kitchen and got a length of clothes line, returned to the bedroom and fastened her securely to the bed.

  I went over to her and looked down at her.

  After a moment or so, she opened her eyes and stared up at me, her eyes dazed.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you asked for it,’ I said. ‘I’m also sorry to leave you like this, but there is no other way. You may have a long wait. I’ll get back as soon as I can. Just lie quiet and you won’t come to any harm!’

  ‘Let me go!’ she said furiously, struggling to get her hands free. ‘I’ll make you pay for this! Let me free!’

  I watched her for a moment or so to make sure she couldn’t break loose, then, satisfied, I moved to the door.

  ‘Don’t leave me!’ she screamed out, struggling frantically. ‘Come back!’

  ‘Take it easy,’ I said. ‘I’ll try not to be too long.’

  I went out and shut the bedroom door.

  As I hurried down the passage and into the hall, I heard her scream out after me: ‘Ches! Don’t leave me! Please, don’t leave me!’

  Ignoring her cries, I locked the bungalow and then ran down the path where I had left the Buick.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I

  WHEN I reached town, I bought a couple of Sunday newspapers and took a quick look at the headlines as I walked back to the Buick. I expected to find the murders of Dolores and Ed Nutley plastered over the front page, but there was, as far as I could see, no mention of them.

  I got into the car, and as I was in a no-parking zone, I drove fast to Slim’s bar where I could examine the papers and have a sandwich and a beer before deciding on a plan of campaign.

  The bar was nearly empty, but sitting in one of the booths with a man I didn’t know was Joe Fellowes. Both were drinking beer and eating hamburgers. Joe spotted me before I could duck out of sight.

  ‘Hey, Ches! Come on over.’

  There was nothing I could do but to wave to him and say I’d be with him. I ordered a sandwich and a beer from Slim, then carried the drink and food over to Joe’s booth.

  ‘I thought you were playing golf,’ Joe said. ‘Sit down. Meet Jim Buckley. He’s the star man on the Inquirer.’

  ‘Only the Inquirer doesn’t know it,’ Buckley said and grinned. He was short, fat and middleaged with a pair of probing ice-blue eyes.

  He stared pointedly at the scratches on my neck.

  ‘Boy!’ he said in wonder. ‘She certainly sold her honour at a high price.’

  Joe too was staring.

  ‘Don’t get ideas.’ I said. ‘One of those things. There was a guy bothering a girl, and like a dope, I interfered. It turned out she liked him bothering her and didn’t like me interfering. It’s a wonder I got away with my life.’

  They both laughed, but Joe looked wonderingly at me, his eyes puzzled.

  ‘What are you doing here on a Sunday?’ I asked him, to change the subject.

  ‘I had arranged to spend the day on the beach with this louse,’ Joe said, jerking his thumb at Buckley, ‘and now he tells me he has to work! So we eat together and I go on the beach alone unless you have nothing to do and will keep me company.’

  ‘I’d like to, Joe, I said, ‘but I’m tied up.’

  ‘So long as she’s tied up too, that’ll make a pair of you,’ Buckley said and bellowed with laughter.

  I thought of Lucille lying on my bed. He was unconsciously getting a little too close to the truth.

  ‘Is that the Inquirer you’ve got there?’ he went on, looking at the paper I’d laid on the seat.

  ‘Yes. You want it?’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to see what they did with the stuff I filed last night.’ He reached out, took the paper, shook it open and glanced at the front page. He snorted, opened the paper, turned several pages, then paused. Finally, he refolded the paper and handed it back to me. ‘Three thousand words, written in blood and Scotch, and the black-hearted punk cuts it down to two hundred. Why I work for this rag beats me.’

  Joe said: ‘Jim’s covering this hit-and-run case.’

  I bit into my sandwich and chewed.

  ‘Is that right?’ I said. ‘I haven’t had time to read the paper this morning. Anything new?’

  Buckley took a long swig from his glass, sat back and lit a cigarette.

  ‘New? Listen, bud, this is going to be one of the major sensations of the year. This is going to be something that could get the whole of our beautiful Administration tossed out on its fat neck.’

  ‘Suppose you skip the build-up and let’s have the dope,’ Joe said. ‘If it’s all that hot, why isn’t it hitting the headlines?’

  ‘Because we’re not ready yet,’ Buckley said. ‘Wait until tomorrow. We reckon to bust this thing wide open tomorrow if we have any luck.’

  ‘What thing? What are you talking about?’ Joe asked impatiently.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ Buckley said. ‘If O’Brien hadn’t been killed no one would have got on to him for maybe years. All that crap Sullivan gave out about what a fine guy O’Brien was sounded all right until we started to investigate him. Then the cloven hoof came to the surface. Know what? O’Brien had a bank balance of a hundred and twenty-five thousand bucks, and he owned a bungalow out on Palm Crescent that is about as fancy as any movie star could wish to own. When a cop lives like that, there’s only one explanation—graft. There were two people who might have known what his racket was. The woman he planned to marry: a nightclub singer, and her agent, a guy named Nutley. Know what happened to them last night?’

  Joe was staring at him with round eyes.

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘They were both knocked off. Nutley was found in the Washington Hotel, shot through the heart and the night clerk bashed over the head. The killer walked in, persuaded the night clerk to tell him in which room Nutley was, then killed him. He then walked upstairs and shot Nutley to death. He killed the girl as she was leaving her apartment.’

  ‘It’s not even in the paper,’ Joe said indignantly.

  ‘Yes, it is. It rates ten lines; but boy! it’s going to hit the front page tomorrow. We’re working on it now. We’re trying to get a line on O’Brien’s racket. The police commissioner thinks he was hooked up with some gang. Sullivan thinks he was a blackmailer.’

  ‘How about the guy who ran over him?’ I asked. ‘Haven’t they found him yet?’

  Buckley shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘They have twenty-three damaged cars at police headquarters and they’re checking every driver’s alibi. They reckon they’ll find the killer among these twenty-three drivers, and I guess if they do find him, they should give him a medal. If O’Brien hadn’t been killed, this would never have come out.’

  ‘This girl who was killed last night: didn’t she sing at the Little Tavern?’ I asked as casually as I could.

  ‘That’s the one: a nice-looking wren who couldn’t sing for dimes.’

  I asked an inspired question.

  ‘Who’s behind the Little Tavern?’

  Buckley lifted his shoulders.

  ‘That’s something I’ve tried to find out when I have had nothing better to do. It’s registered in the name of Art Galgano, but no one seems to know who he is. I don’t reckon he lives in town. The joint is run by Jack Claude, who is no better than he could be. What makes you ask?’

  ‘I heard last night there’s a roulette table upstairs and the stakes are high.’

  Buckley stared at me, then shook his head.

  ‘That’s just talk. Gambling is out in this town. A number of smart operators have tried it, but the commissioner has slammed them shut before they have had a chance to wear the shine off the ball. The Little Tavern has been going now for three years. We’d have heard about it if they had a table there.’

  ‘Would you? Sure? I was in there last night, a
nd a guy told me there was a table upstairs.’

  Buckley stroked his thick nose. His eyes showed his interest.

  ‘Now wait a minute,’ he said, staring fixedly at me. ‘O’Brien covered that sector. He could have kept them in the clear. Say, this could be something! Maybe that’s where he got his money from! You go there often?’

  ‘I don’t go there often,’ I said. ‘I go there sometimes.’

  ‘You couldn’t find out for sure if there is a table upstairs, could you?’ Buckley asked, squirming forward on his seat.

  ‘Hey!’ Joe broke in. ‘You have a nerve, haven’t you? Why should Ches do your dirty work for you?’

  Buckley waved his hands impatiently.

  ‘I have as much chance of finding out if there’s a wheel up there as a cop has,’ he said. ‘This guy goes to the place. If he feels like it, why shouldn’t he help me?’

  While they were arguing, I did some quick thinking.

  ‘I’ll find out for you if I can,’ I said. ‘I’ll go out there this afternoon, and if I have any luck I’ll telephone you.’

  Joe stared at me as if he thought I had gone crazy, but Buckley reached forward and patted my arm.

  ‘That’s the boy, and let me tell you, the Inquirer won’t forget. The next time your salesmen come to us for space, I’ll see you get what you want.’ He took a card from his wallet and gave it to me. ‘If I’m not around, ask for Jack Hemmings. He’ll handle anything you give him. If there’s a table up there, then we’ll really start trouble. Listen, suppose you come down to my office and I’ll give you a camera. If you can get a photograph of the table, we’ll really have them on ice.’

  ‘I don’t imagine they’d stand for that,’ I said.

  He closed one heavy eyelid.

  ‘Wait until you see the camera. It fits in your buttonhole. All you have to do is to press a shutter release, hidden in your pocket. The lens and the film will take care of the rest. Get us a picture of the table, Scott, and you’ll practically own the paper.’

  ‘I’ll expect to.’

  He patted my arm.

  ‘I’ll guarantee it. Come on, let’s get the hell out of here. Let’s go talk to my boss.’

  As I got to my feet, Joe grabbed my arm.

  ‘Wait a minute, Ches,’ he said. ‘You could be sticking your neck into trouble. Suppose you and me go? What’s the matter with that?’

  ‘No, Joe,’ I said. ‘Two would be a crowd. Take it easy. I’m not walking into anything. I’ll handle it.’

  ‘Sure he will,’ Buckley said. ‘There’s nothing to it. It’s my bet there isn’t a table in the joint, but if there is—boy! won’t we shake the commissioner right out of his pants.’

  ‘All the same,’ Joe said obstinately, ‘I want to go with you. Two may be a crowd but, in trouble, a crowd is pretty cosy.’

  ‘No, Joe,’ I said. ‘The chances are I won’t even get upstairs. Two of us would be a little too obvious.’ I slid out of the booth. ‘And another thing, the table may not be operating in the afternoon.’

  Joe joined me, his expression still obstinate.

  ‘I’m coming with you, Ches. Even if I have to wait outside.’

  If I were to get anywhere, I knew I’d only succeed on my own.

  ‘I don’t want you around, Joe. I’m combining business with pleasure, and you’ll be in the way.’

  ‘Yeah, go and drown yourself, Joe,’ Buckley said. ‘My pal and me have got business. You go swim in the sea.’ He slapped Joe on the shoulder, then, taking my arm, he hustled me out of the bar to where I had parked the Buick.

  As we drove to the Inquirer’s office I said: ‘Have the police any idea who killed the Lane girl?’

  ‘They don’t know his name, but he’s practically in the bag,’ Buckley said. ‘They have a description of him and they have his fingerprints. I guess he must have been either a nut or a complete amateur. He left prints all over the place. He was seen leaving the girl’s apartment and he was seen leaving the Washington. His prints were found in the girl’s room and also in Nutley’s room. They say he was a big fellow, dark, around your age; good looking. Lieutenant West reckons it’s only a matter of hours before they get him.’

  I felt a sinking sensation inside me.

  ‘Is that right?’ I said, staring through the windscreen, aware my heart was beginning to thump.

  ‘Yeah. They’re driving the girl who saw him around town in the hope she spots him on the sidewalk. Maybe she will. Then all they have to do is to take his prints, and he’ll be sniffing cyanide before he knows where he is.’

  II

  I arrived at the Little Tavern nightclub at a minute or so after two o’clock. The parking lot was crammed with cars and I had trouble in finding a place.

  It was one of those hot, airless afternoons you get sometimes in Palm City when you long for a breeze, when the dust gets under your shirt and makes your skin irritable, and tempers get frayed and quick on the trigger.

  On the big terrace, packed with tables, men and women in gay weekend clothes were working their way through the elaborate menu.

  I walked up the steps. No one paid me any attention, except the doorman, who looked jaded and less impressive in the sunshine than he had done in the moonlight. He touched his cap, recognizing me, and spun the revolving door for me as gently as if it were made of eggshells.

  The hat-check girl recognized me. She didn’t bother to move out of her station. She gave me a thin smile, then looked away. A guy without a hat was as interesting to her as a man with no arms and legs.

  I moved to the bar, but I didn’t go in. It was packed tight with weekenders, soaking up liquor, talking in voices just too loud, spending their hard-earned money while they tried to make an impression on the blondes, the brunettes and the redheads they had dragged along with them.

  Oscar Ross was behind the bar. The two Mexicans were there too. They were all pretty busy. Ross was concentrating on the female custom. I could see he was making quite a hit with three women who were drinking champagne cocktails.

  I moved back a little. I didn’t want him to see me, and I looked around the bar, hoping to find my rum-and-lime juice pal of last night.

  I finally spotted him as he moved away from the crush at one end of the bar and headed my way.

  ‘Hello,’ I said as he neared me. ‘Remember me?’

  He was a little drunk, but after screwing up his eyes to get me in focus, his friendly smile told me he had recognized me.

  ‘Hello, pal,’ he said. ‘Come to drown your sorrows?’

  ‘I’ve come to see if I can win some money,’ I said and moved with him into the lobby. ‘Could I get into a game upstairs, do you think?’

  ‘Why not? I’m going up now. Come with me.’

  ‘I thought maybe there would be a little trouble.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m known here. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Scott’

  He swayed a little, then steadied himself by taking hold of my arm.

  ‘The same as in Great Scott?’

  ‘The same man.’

  He bellowed with laughter: a guy who was easily and quickly amused.

  ‘Pretty good. Well, come on, Scott, let’s see you lose your money.’

  He led me across the hall to a door which he opened. He moved down a passage and I followed him. We reached an automatic elevator, big enough to hold four people. We stood side by side as the elevator took us up two floors with a movement that was gentle enough to be a caress.

  While we travelled, Welliver breathed rum fumes over me with the benign air of a bishop blessing his flock.

  This seemed a little too easy to me.

  I had the tiny camera Buckley had give me, pinned to the back of my coat lapel. The lens just showed through the buttonhole of the lapel. You would have to have the eye of a Davy Crockett to spot it. I fingered the shutter release that lay in my jacket pocket. Just one photograph, Buckley had stressed.

  There would be no chance to
change the minute film. He had begged me not to rush the job.

  ‘A chance in a lifetime,’ he had said. ‘If we can get a picture of that table—if there is a table—we will tear this city wide open.’

  He seemed to nave overlooked the fact that if I were caught taking the photograph I would be the one to get torn wide open and not the city.

  The elevator came to a silky stop and the doors opened with a whisper of sound.

  Welliver moved out into a hall where two bouncers filled up most of the space, flexing their muscles. They looked as if they could have handled Joe Louis and Rocky Marciano in their prime without having to exert themselves into more than a light sweat.

  They gave Welliver a hard stare, then their eyes moved to me.

  They stared at me the way a Masonic gathering would stare if a bubble dancer had dropped into the middle of one of their most mystic rituals.

  Welliver was walking briskly towards double doors that faced us across the hall, and I kept pace with him. I managed to look as unconcerned as anyone out for a Sunday airing.

  The bouncers were so taken out of their stride, we very nearly made the double doors: very nearly, but not quite.

  One of them said in a voice that could have loosened a rusty nut off the propeller of a liner: ‘Hey! You! Where do you think you’re going?’

  The voice hit us at the back of our necks and brought us to an abrupt stop.

  Welliver turned and scowled. The voice had shaken him, but, after all, he was a member of the club and he didn’t expect to get that kind of treatment.

  ‘You talking to me?’ he asked, but beside the bouncer’s effort, he sounded as harmless as a kitten.

  ‘No—him!’ The bigger of the two moved up to me, making me feel as if I were being crowded by a bulldozer. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘He’s a friend of mine,’ Welliver said with as much dignity as he could muster, which wasn’t much. ‘I’m taking him in. Any objections?’

  ‘Mr. Claude okayed him?’ the bouncer asked.