Tell It to the Birds Page 7

  “You wanted me?” Harmas asked as he folded his long lean body into the client’s chair.

  Maddox tossed him the Barlowe policy.

  “Look at that,” he said, then spilling ash over his papers he selected yet another policy and began to examine it suspiciously.

  Harmas looked through the policy handed to him, then he put it on the desk.

  “Nice work,” he said. “Anson is a smart cookie.”

  Maddox bent his chair back until it creaked under the weight of his massive shoulders.

  “I’m not so sure he is so smart,” he said. “Take this policy. Barlowe is a ten-a-dime salesman at Framley’s stores, Pru Town. What’s he doing taking out a life policy for fifty thousand dollars?”

  Harmas shrugged.

  “I don’t know…. you tell me.”

  “I’d like to,” Maddox said. “If Barlowe suddenly drops dead, we’re in the hole for fifty thousand bucks. The story is he has taken out this policy so he can raise enough capital to set up as a gardener. What would he want fifty thousand for to set up as a gardener?”

  Harmas scratched the back of his neck. He knew Maddox. He knew Maddox wasn’t asking for information. He was talking to himself.

  “Go ahead… I’m here to listen,” he said.

  “That’s about all you’re good for,” Maddox said bitterly. “I have hunches. I don’t like this policy. I have a hunch about it.

  It gives off a smell.”

  Harmas grinned.

  “Is there any policy that comes to you that doesn’t give off a smell?”

  “A few do… but not many. Here’s what you do. I want to know everything there is to know about Barlowe and his wife: repeat his wife. Get a Tracing Agency on to them and have them send everything they can dig up direct to me.

  Understand?”

  “Okay,” Harmas said, getting to his feet. “If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.”

  “Why didn’t this guy take out a five thousand dollar insurance?” Maddox asked. “Why fifty thousand? Why did he pay the first premium in cash?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Harmas said, “but if you’re all that interested, I guess, I’ll have to find out.”

  Maddox nodded.

  “That’s it… find out,” and reaching for another policy, he settled down to examine it.

  Late back from his trip to San Francisco, Anson was thinking about going to bed when his door bell rang. Wondering who could be calling at this hour, he went to the door.

  A woman, wearing a black coat and a green and yellow scarf over her head, hiding her face, moved quickly past him into the room.

  “Shut the door!” she said sharply.

  “Meg!”

  Anson hurriedly shut and locked the door as Meg Barlowe took off the scarf.

  “What are you doing here?” Anson asked, alarmed.

  “I had to come.” She took off her coat and tossed it on a chair. “I’ve been trying to contact you all day.”

  “Did anyone see you come in?” Anson asked. “Don’t you realize if we are seen together…”

  “I was careful. No one saw me. Anyway, even if they did see me they wouldn’t recognize me.” She came over to him and slid her arms around him. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

  The feel of her body as she pressed herself against him lessened Anson’s alarm. He kissed her with mounting passion until she broke away.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, moving away and sitting on the arm of an armchair. “I tried to telephone you.”

  “I’ve just got back from ’Frisco,” Anson said. “Look, Meg, I warned you we have to be careful. You must never telephone me. Our plan stands or falls on the fact that we are practically strangers. You must understand that!”

  She made an impatient movement.

  “What’s been happening?”

  He told her about his interview with Maddox. She listened, her cobalt blue eyes worried.

  “There’s nothing to be worried about,” he said. “Maddox won’t take it further. He’s satisfied.”

  She looked down at her hands as she asked, “When do you… get rid of Phil?”

  “Not yet. We must wait. Four or five months at least.”

  She stiffened.

  “Four or five monthsl”

  “Yes. If we don’t wait, we’ll be in trouble. Imagine how Maddox would react if your husband died within a few weeks of insuring himself. It’ll be bad enough if he dies to four or five months’ time, but sooner than that would be out of the question.”

  “How will you do it?”

  The intensity of her stare began to irritate him.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t even thought about it yet. This idea I had of him falling and drowning in the pond won’t work. I couldn’t be sure someone might come up the road while I was fixing it. It’ll have to happen in the house.”

  Meg shivered.

  “But how?”

  “I don’t know. I have to think about it. When I get the right idea, I’ll tell you.”

  “But must we really wait all that time?”

  “If we rush this, we could ruin everything. Isn’t fifty thousand dollars worth waiting for?”

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  “Yes, of course,” she paused, then went on, “so you have no idea how you’ll do it?”

  “Don’t keep on and on,” Anson said impatiently. “At least I have him now insured for fifty thousand dollars and that’s something you didn’t think I could fix.”

  “Yes… you were clever about that.” She stood up. “I must go,” and she picked up her coat.

  “Go?” Anson’s face became tense, “but why? Now you’re here… he’s not going home tonight, is he? Of course you must stay…”

  “I can’t.” She slipped on her coat and began to put the scarf on her head. “I promised I would go to his class tonight. That’s why I’m here. He drove me down this morning. I’ve been trying to get you all day.”

  He made to take her in his arms, but she avoided him.

  “No, John, I must go.”

  “Then when do we have a few minutes together?” he demanded, his voice edged with frustration. “Now you’re here: oh, come on, Meg… I want you…”

  “No! I have to go! I shouldn’t have come here. I have to go!”

  The sudden hardness in her eyes warned him it would be useless to attempt to persuade her to stay.

  “You can kiss me, can’t you?” he said angrily.

  She let him kiss her, but when he became ardent, she pushed him roughly away.

  “I said no!”

  His face congested, his eyes sullen with frustrated anger, Anson went to the front door, opened it and looked out on to the deserted corridor.

  “I’ll call you,” he said as she moved past him.

  He listened to her heels click on the stairs as she went down the street.

  A dusty 1958 Buick was parked at the end of the street in which Anson’s apartment block stood.

  Sailor Hogan sat at the wheel, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his big hands resting on his knees. His hard eyes moved continuously to his driving mirror to check the street behind him and then through the windshield to check the street ahead of him.

  When he saw Meg come out of Anson’s apartment block, he started the car engine. As Meg reached the car, he leaned across the bench seat and swung open the door. Meg slid in, slammed the door as Hogan shot the car away from the kerb.

  “Well? What did he say?” Hogan demanded.

  “At least four or five months,” Meg told him and flinched away from the explosion she knew would follow.

  “Months?” Hogan’s voice shot up. “You crazy? You mean weeks, don’t you?”

  “He said months. He says they’ll be suspicious, if he does it before.”

  “I don’t give a damn what he says!” Hogan snarled. “It’s got to happen before then! I can’t wait that long! I must have the money by the end of the month!”

&n
bsp; “If you think you can do better than me… then you talk to him,” said Meg sullenly.

  Hogan gave her a quick vicious glance.

  “Okay, baby,” he said. “We’ll see about this.”

  He shoved his foot down on the gas pedal and the car surged forward.

  Neither of them spoke until they reached the Barlowe house. Meg got out of the car and opened the double gates.

  Hogan drove the car into the garage. He joined Meg as she unlocked the front door. They walked side by side into the dark house and into the sitting-room.

  When Meg had lowered the blinds, she turned on the lights.

  Hogan stood over the fire, his big hands thrust into his pockets while he watched Meg get a bottle of whisky and glasses from the cupboard.

  Hogan was above middle- height with the wide muscular shoulders of a boxer. He wore his wavy, dark hair cut short.

  He was handsome in a brutish way. During his professional fighting career his nose had been flattened. There were scar tissues along the ridge of his eyebrows, but this added to rather than detracted from his animal glamour.

  “Listen, doll,” he said, “you’ve got to do better than this.” He took the glass half full of whisky Meg handed to him. “I’ve got to have this money by the end of the month! You’ve got to talk this guy into doing his stuff by then or you and me will fall out.”

  Meg sat on the settee. She was pale and her eyes were anxious.

  “It’s no use, Jerry,” she said. “You don’t know him the way I do. He scares me.” She shivered. “I can’t handle him. I wish I hadn’t listened to you! I wish…”

  “Aw, shut up!” Hogan snarled. “You do what I tell you or I’ll give you something to remember me by!” Meg looked at him.

  “That policeman who was shot at the Caltex hold-up… Anson did it.”

  Hogan stiffened.

  “Anson? You’re lying, you rotten little…”

  “He did it!” Meg exclaimed, jumping to her feet and backing away as Hogan, his hands now out of hfs pockets began to move threateningly towards her. “He killed him with Phil’s gun!”

  Hogan paused, then he rubbed his jaw with a sweating hand.

  “So that’s how he raised the money!” he said startled. “Joe and me wondered how he had got it. Well! what do you know… a cop killer!”

  “It didn’t mean a thing to him!” Meg exclaimed. “He’s dangerous, Jerry. I’m warning you! Those eyes of his! He scares me. I wish you hadn’t picked on him.”

  “I picked on the right guy,” Hogan said. He finished the whisky and set down the glass. “It was your idea to get Barlowe insured, wasn’t it? How else could we have worked it without having some punk in the insurance racket to fix it? Well, Anson’s fixed it, hasn’t he. He had to: I saw to that. With the money owing to Sam Bernstein and me to put pressure on him, he was a natural.” He sat down beside her. “Get me another drink. Phew! A cop killer!” As Meg came back with another glass half full of neat whisky, he asked, “Has he still got the gun?”

  “No. He brought it back the next day. I’ve been trying to get you for days but you’re never in.”

  Hogan made an impatient movement.

  “If I’d known he was that tough, I’d been more careful how I handled him… a cop killer!” He drank some of the whisky and blew out his cheeks. “Well, what are we going to do? I must have the money by the end of the month. This is a chance in a lifetime. Joe told me this morning he couldn’t wait. There’s another punk waiting to put up the money, but Joe wants me to be his partner. It’s cheap at the price… twenty-five grand and Joe won’t ask questions.”

  “It’s no good, Jerry. You’ll have to wait.”

  Hogan stared into the fire for a long moment while Meg watched him anxiously.

  “What’s wrong with me knocking Phil off?” he asked suddenly. “He’s insured now… that was the tricky part. I could fix him and then we’d have the dough without having to wait for this junk Anson to make up his mind.”

  “No!” Megs voice went shrill. “I won’t let you! You must keep clear of this, Jerry! You must have a cast iron alibi, same as me! That’s the whole trick in my plan to keep us both in the clear and let Anson take the blame if anything goes wrong. You must keep out of this!”

  “Well, we’ve got to do something!” Hogan snarled, suddenly angry again. “Stir yourself. I can’t wait five months!”

  “I’ll think of something,” Meg said desperately.

  Hogan got to his feet.

  “You’d better or I’ll look elsewhere for the dough.” He caught hold of her by the arms and shook her. “Listen, I’m getting sick of this! This was your great idea! Okay!… make it work or you and me will part company! We’ve parted company before. You’ve got nothing another woman can’t give me! Hear me! If we part this time… we part for good*!”

  “I’ll fix it!” Meg said desperately. “Honestly, Jerry… I’ll fix it!”

  “You’d better!” He started towards the door, paused and glared at her. “And fix it fast!”

  “You’re not leaving, Jerry?” She looked pleadingly at him. “I haven’t seen you for so long. He won’t be back tonight…”

  Hogan’s battered face twisted into a contemptuous sneer.

  “You imagine you’ve got something to keep me here?” he asked. “I’ve things to do. You fix Anson!”

  She came to him, but he shoved her roughly away.

  “Keep your paws off me! You use your head instead of your body for a change! I want the dough by the end of the month… or you and me are through for good!”

  He left the house, slamming the front door.

  Meg stood motionless. It was not until the sound of his car had died away that she moved stiffly to the settee. She sat down. A convulsive sob shook her, but she quickly controlled herself. She picked up the bottle of whisky and poured herself a stiff shot. She had thought she had lost Hogan before, but he had come back. This time she could lose him for good if she didn’t do something. The thought of losing him made her feel sick and weak. She drank the whisky and with a sudden desperate gesture, she threw the glass into the fire.

  It was when the whisky began to move through her body relaxing her, that Meg thought back to the time when she had first met Jerry Hogan. It seemed a long time to her, but it was only three years…. much had happened to her during these three years.

  Then she had been a waitress in a small Hollywood restaurant. Hogan had come in with a short, fat elderly man named Benny Hirsch who she learned later was Hogan’s fight manager.

  Hogan had just lost his Californian light-heavy weight title. He had been knocked out with a sucker punch in the first two minutes of the first round. Apart from an aching jaw, he was unscarred. Meg had no idea who he was. She had come to the table, her order pad in her hand and had looked indifferently at the two men.

  Hogan had been in a vicious, frightened mood. His career, long threatened by his sexual excesses and his heavy drinking, had now blown up in his face. He could see Hirsch was no longer interested to him. There were plenty of young keen fighters who could keep Hirsch in the money without him having to bother with a beat-up, womanizer like Hogan, and Hogan knew it.

  “A coffee,” Hirsch said without looking at Hogan.

  Hogan stared at him.

  “A coffee? What the hell? Aren’t you hungry? I want a steak.”

  Hirsch shifted around and looked him over, dislike and contempt on his fat face.

  “Yeah… you sure need a steak,” he said bitterly. “I don’t even need a coffee. The sight of you makes me sick to my stomach. Steak! Some fighter! You do your best fighting in bed with a bottle.” He got to his feet. “I don’t know why I even came here with you. You’re through, Hogan. As far as I am concerned, you’re yesterday’s smell of boiled cabbage!”

  Startled and shocked, Meg watched Hirsch walk out of the restaurant. She then looked at Hogan who sat limply in his chair, sweat beads on his face, and at that moment, seeing him in defeat, she w
as stupid enough to fall in love with him.

  When the restaurant closed, Hogan went with her to her small bedroom above an unsuccessful dry-cleaning establishment. His fierce, brutal, selfish love making was something Meg had never experienced. That first sordid act of so-called love chained her to this man, excusing his viciousness, his cowardice, his cheating and his drinking.

  Early the following morning, Hogan came awake and looked at Meg, sleeping at his side. Here, he told himself was a meal ticket. He knew he was through with fighting. He had to live somehow, and this dish, with her looks, could at least keep him in food, drink and cigarettes.

  It took him a few days to convince Meg that if she really wanted to have him as her lover, she would have to give up her job as a waitress and start hustling. Hogan made it easy for her. He went round to a couple of pimps who controlled a certain, profitable beat and told them his girl was moving in. They regarded him thoughtfully, remembered that he was an ex-light-heavy weight, and decided it would be wise to offer no opposition.

  For the next year, Meg worked the streets, giving her earmings willingly to Hogan who used the money either for backing horses or to finance himself in all-night poker games he and his fellow pimps arranged.

  Then Meg began to realize the poker game was a blind. While she was working, Hogan was chasing other girls. The money she made he now was spending on any woman he happened to run into during the night hours Meg tramped her beat.

  One night, returning drunk, with lipstick on his shirt, Hogan told her that they were parting company. Meg listened to his drunken slurring contempt, with fear clutching at her heart.

  Life without Hogan, no matter how he behaved, was unthinkable to her.

  “You’re chick-feed,” Hogan had sneered. “I’m going to look for a girl who can earn big money… not a run-down street floosie like you. You and me are through !”

  The following afternoon, Meg was in the ladies’ room of a smart hotel. She was about to go up to the fourth floor where a middle-aged business man was impatiently waiting for her. By one of the toilet basins she saw an expensive lizard-skin bag. She stared at it, hesitated, then moving quickly, she opened it. The bag was stuffed with fifty-dollar bills. For a long moment she stared at the money, then grabbing the bills, she transferred them to her own handbag. Her one thought was that with this money, Hogan would remain with her.