Man-Trap

II

I was munching on the sandwich when the police arrived. I took my sandwich in one hand and my coffee in the other and followed Fausta out to the dining room.

We arrived just as Inspector Warren Day, trailed by his silent satellite, Lieutenant Hannegan, and two uniformed cops, entered. Day’s spare figure, attired in a shapeless seersucker suit, halted just inside the archway. Ducking his skinny head to peer over thick-lensed glasses, he slowly swept his eyes over the assembled hundred or so diners until all conversation stopped. Then he suddenly jerked off his flat straw sailor to disclose a totally bald scalp.

In a booming voice he announced, “I’m Inspector Warren Day of Homicide! Anybody here know anything at all about this?”

When a half minute had passed without any volunteers stepping forward, he said, “You’ll find a cop at the door with a half dozen note pads so several of you can write at once. Sign your names, addresses and telephone numbers and go on home.”

Then, belatedly realizing there were probably innumerable influential people in the crowd, he turned on a fierce smile which apparently he meant to be ingratiating. “Sorry if anyone was inconvenienced,” he said grudgingly. “We got here as fast as we could.”

As the crowd began to file past the inspector and his party, Day turned to snap something at Hannegan. The inscrutable lieutenant merely nodded, never being one to waste words where a gesture would serve, and left the room. I guessed Day had instructed him to repeat the performance in the other two rooms.

Then the inspector began to work his way through the crowd toward us. But halfway he stopped and grasped a dinner-jacketed man by the sleeve. The accosted man, a handsome fellow of about thirty, shrugged off the inspector’s hand impatiently.

“Not so fast!” Day roared, then said something to one of the uniformed cops with him.

Scowling at the man belligerently, the cop dropped a meaty hand on his shoulder and pushed him over toward, the far wall, where he fixed him with a watchful eye and simply waited.

“Who’s that?” I asked Fausta as the inspector again began his approach.

“Barney Seldon.”

“The gangster from across the river?”

“I believe Mr. Seldon is a businessman,” she said with odd primness.

Before I could pursue the subject any further Warren Day stopped before us and eyed me moodily.

I said, “Evening, Inspector,” put the last bite of sandwich in my mouth and chewed with enjoyment.

Day turned his gaze at Fausta. “Miss Moreni, isn’t it?”

There was none of the usual strain in his manner which appears when he is faced by a beautiful woman. Ordinarily he exhibits traces of psychotic terror when he has to speak to any woman at all. Possibly because he had met her on a number of previous occasions, but more probably because he refused to be in awe of any woman who would associate with me, she was the one woman I knew with whom he was able to be almost entirely natural.

When Fausta admitted she was Miss Moreni, Day said, “May we use your office for questioning?”

“Certainly,” Fausta said, turning to lead the way.

Back in the office I sipped a quarter of my coffee, then set the cup in the saucer I had left on Fausta’s desk. The inspector watched me with irritation.

“May I interrupt your meal long enough to ask what happened, Moon?” he inquired acidly.

“Sure, Inspector. I’ll even skip my dessert. Somebody hiding in the bushes right across from the club entrance shot Walter Lancaster just as he started to climb into a taxi.”

I explained in detail just what I knew, including my argument with the taxi driver and his apparent assumption I had been shooting at him and missed.

“The doorman thinks I shot him too,” I said.

“Did you?” he asked.

I gave him a pained look. “You think I’d miss and get the wrong man at a distance of four feet?”

“Maybe it was Lancaster you meant to get.” He turned to the cop who still remained with him. “Bring in that cabbie and the doorman. And tell Lieutenant Hannegan I want him.”

The moment the little cabbie was ushered into the office by the cop Day had sent after him, he pointed a finger at me and said in a shrill voice, “There he is! He done it!”

“What’s your name?” the inspector asked in a bored tone.

“Caxton. Robert Caxton. This guy tried to kill me, but he hit that other character instead. You take away his gun?”

“Just tell your story, Caxton,” the inspector suggested.

Except for implying he had left plenty of room for any normal driver to pass when he parked his cab, and stating I had no business to move his cab, the little man’s story corroborated mine up to the point of the shot. From there on we were miles apart.

“As soon as he seen what he’d done, he put away his rod, jumped in his car and tried to escape by backing out the drive,” he said. “But another car was coming in, and when he saw he couldn’t make it, he come back to brazen it out.”

“You saw him put away the gun?” Day asked.

“Sure I seen him. He wasn’t five feet away from me.”

“What kind of gun was it?”

“Geeze, I don’t know. Everything happened too fast. I heard the shot, turned around, and there he was with this gun in his hand...”

“Turned around,” I interrupted. “Catch that, Inspector? He was opening the door for his customer and had his back to both of us. When the shot went off, he took one look at me and dived in front of his cab. Ask him how he saw me put away a gun when he had his face in the gravel under his radiator.”

“Shut up, Moon,” the inspector said without anger. He looked up as the doorman Tom was ushered into the room by Hannegan. “What’s your name?”

“Thomas Henning, sir.”

“What’s your story?”

The doorman, though less definite about it, generally verified Robert Caxton’s accusation. He refused to say right out I had done the shooting, but said that was his impression. His eyes had been on Lancaster when the shot came, and a lance of flame seemed to come from where I was standing. He cheerfully admitted it could have come from the bushes, however, and his assumption that I had done the shooting could have been based on the fact no one else was in evidence.

“Hmph,” the inspector said. He stared at me with relish. “Guess we’ll have to book you overnight at least, Moon.”

I glared at him. “You know damn well this little twerp is talking through his hat, Inspector.”

“He sounds like a reliable witness to me, Moon. I hate to drag in an old friend, but I can’t let friendship interfere with duty.”

He beamed at me piously as I tried to decide whether to kill him right then, or wait till I had a chance to plan out the crime.

Fausta said suddenly, “Nobody asked me who the killer was.”

Everybody in the room turned to look at her.

Finally Day asked, “Do you know?”

“I know it was not Manny,” she said positively. “I was just coming around the corner of the building from the side door to the ballroom when the gun went off. It was a man behind a bush right next to Manny. I could see his face in the light from the neon sign.”

“Wait a minute, Fausta,” I said. “You don’t have to...”

“I cannot describe him,” she said firmly, “because I could only see his head. I do not know whether he was thin or fat, or how tall he was, because I think he was crouched a little. But I would recognize his face if I saw it again.”

After a moment during which no one said anything, Day growled, “You’re making that up to save your boy friend’s skin. You didn’t say anything about it when Moon was telling his story.”

“You did not ask me, Inspector.” She looked at him calmly. “Many customers who saw me can testify I stepped from the ballroom door a few minutes before the shot came. I wish to make a formal statement, and I would like a copy to show the judge when he asks you why you arrested Manny.”

The inspector gave up. Had he held the slightest belief in my guilt, probably he would have thrown Fausta in the cooler as an accessory along with me. But since he had only been exercising his perverted sense of humor in the first place, he decided to let it drop.

“Take her statement, Hannegan,” he growled. “O.K., Moon. You can shove off. But stay in town. Understand?”

“I was thinking of a Canadian fishing trip,” I growled back at him.

By the time I got home the news of Walter Lancaster’s death was on the radio and special bulletins were coming over every few minutes.

Shortly after one I grew tired of listening and was reaching for the radio switch just as another bulletin began. At the moment I was tuned to a local station, and my hand was already on the switch when the announcer’s words froze it there.

“We have just received the first official statement from Inspector Warren Day of the Homicide Department,” the disc jockey who ran the Dawn Patrol said. “According to the inspector a witness has been located who saw the assassin’s face just as the shot was fired. The name of the witness is being withheld. An arrest is expected within twenty-four hours.”

Switching off the radio, I phoned Fausta at her apartment on the second floor of El Patio Club. The club closes at one, and she was already in bed, but not yet asleep.

“After I left, you actually wrote out and signed that statement about seeing the killer, didn’t you?” I said.

“Of course,” she told me cheerfully. “I could not see you go to jail, Manny.”

“For cripes sake, Fausta. You know Warren Day didn’t believe you, don’t you?”

I could almost see her shrug. “But he let you go free.”

“You hear the radio bulletin just now?”

“No.”

“Day released your statement. Withholding your name, of course. But knowing how the inspector’s mind works, I smell the beginning of a killer trap, with you as the bait. Does Mouldy still sleep downstairs off the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him to keep his gun handy. I’ll be around to see you sometime tomorrow.”

After I hung up and climbed into bed, it was another hour before I was able to get to sleep.

The next noon I had just sat up in bed and was contemplatively scratching the small of my back when the door buzzer rang.

Swinging my good left foot to the floor, I hopped to the bedroom door, shouted, “It’ll take me five minutes!” and hopped back to the edge of the bed again. I used the five minutes to strap on my leg, throw a handful of water on my face and dress to the extent of shoes, trousers and a colored T-shirt.

When I finally opened the door, I saw a man who weighed probably two-thirty, and not an ounce of it was fat. He had a granite jaw and slow, sleepy eyes, and stood so straight he nearly leaned backward.

He looked me over without saying anything for a long time, then asked, “You’re Mr. Manville Moon?”

I said I was.

“I’m Laurence Davis.”

I said, “I could sub-lease you that spot, but I would have to charge high rent to compensate for the inconvenience of having to use the back door. It would be hard to get in and out the front way with you standing there all the time.”

“You’re a very funny man, Mr. Moon,” he said, slowly moving toward me with his hands still in his pockets. I stepped aside to avoid collision, he went past me with a kind of lazy ponderousness and took my personal easy chair. When he sat down, his hands came out of his pockets, he took off his hat and held it in his lap.

Right behind him came a tall, narrow man who must have been standing in the hall to one side of the door all the time, for this was the first I knew of his presence. He was about thirty-five and had a doughy face and teeth so bucked he could not quite bring his lips together. His build was along the lines of Abe Lincoln’s, and though he wore an obviously expensive blue serge, his ganling boniness made him look like a back-woods farmer dressed for church.

By the bulge under his arm I judged he was not a farmer, however. I tagged him as a bodyguard, and when he closed the door, leaned his back against it and simply waited, I was sure of it.

I waited too.

After a time the big man said, “Apparently my name didn’t ring a bell, Mr. Moon. I’m from across the river. Carson City, Illinois.”

It rang a bell now. The Laurence had thrown me, for in the newspapers he was generally referred to less formally as Laurie Davis. The political boss of Illinois he was reputed to be, though he had never personally held a higher public office than state representative. According to rumor his business interests were so varied and his political influence so wide, he could have ruled Illinois as a benevolent dictator in the manner of Huey Long, had his ambitions run along those lines. However, he was supposed to be square, concerned more with the welfare of his party than with personal aggrandizement, as demonstrated by his remaining in the state legislature for twenty years when presumably he could have gone to Congress, or even become governor.

But nevertheless he managed to collect enemies, and twice attempts had been made on his life. After the second attempt, about a year before, he had acquired his bucktoothed bodyguard.

Now that I had Laurie Davis placed, I also recognized the bodyguard. “Farmer” Cole was an ex-FBI man who was supposed to be so tough just his addition to the payroll decided the underworld group gunning for Davis to cancel their homicidal plans.

I turned back to his boss. “I recognize you now, Mr. Davis. Out of your territory a little, aren’t you?”

“All the way out of it. Sit down, Mr. Moon. I dislike gazing upward.”

He said, “I came to you because I am out of my territory, Mr. Moon. I understand you were present when Walter Lancaster was killed last night.”

I admitted I had been. “As a matter of fact I was a suspect for a few minutes,” I added calmly.

“So I understand. However, I am just as satisfied as the police that you had nothing to do with the killing. I’m not here to question you about last night, but to engage your services.”

I looked at him blankly.

“If this had happened in Illinois, I wouldn’t have to bother with private investigators, Mr. Moon. But over here my influence is nil. Walt Lancaster was a protege of mine, and I want his killer caught. But if the police catch him, I won’t be able to control the situation. I want to get to the killer before they do.”

I said, “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

His eyes drooped half-closed in his sleepy face. “I’m simply taking insurance, Mr. Moon. As far as I know Walt was an honest man and hadn’t an enemy in the world. But people don’t get murdered for nothing. If there was anything unsavory in Lancaster’s background, it will come out in the open the minute the police crack the case. That might reflect both on me and the party. I want to know the killer’s name and his motive before the police do, so I can plan some kind of action to counteract the unfavorable publicity, if any.”

I frowned at him. “You mean have Farmer Cole here rub him out and save the state a trial?”

Slowly his lids raised until his eyes were wide open. “I don’t operate like a gangster, Mr. Moon,” he said in a soft voice. “And I don’t like the suggestion that I would.”

I don’t scare easily, or at least I like to imagine I don’t, but the big man’s quiet air of invincibility gave me the willies. I had to convince myself I was twice as tough as he was.

I said, “Quit making like Edward G. Robinson and tell me what the hell you want.”

As though he hadn’t heard my remark, Davis went on. “I have no intention of doing anything to the killer. Not even turning him over to the police. I simply want to know what’s behind the killing before the public does. At least twenty-four hours before. After that you may turn the killer over to the police or let him go, whichever suits your fancy.”

“You suspect what’s behind it?” I asked.

He shrugged slowly. “Suspect is too strong a word. There is a bare possibility it may be something I wouldn’t want made public unless I announced it myself. If Walt was involved in anything shady, I want to be the one to unearth it. Unless it comes from me, it will be hard to convince the public the party didn’t know about it all along.”

“What is this thing you’re afraid of?”

He shook his head. “You’ll have to work in the dark. I wouldn’t even want it rumored unless I was sure. As a matter of fact I’m almost sure Walt Lancaster was scrupulously honest. But I don’t run risks.”

I said, “Let me get this straight. You simply want the killer’s name and motive? You don’t want him delivered to you?”

Again he shook his head. “I don’t even care to know where he is. I’m not after revenge, but simply taking a political precaution.”

Somewhere I sensed a snake in the grass. I had an idea he had given me all the information he intended to, which amounted to exactly nothing, but I tried once more anyway.

“Before you hired Farmer Cole to guard your body, a couple of people took pot shots at you, as I remember. Any chance Lancaster’s killer might be one of those people?”

“It’s a possibility,” he admitted without enthusiasm.

“Ever figure out who those people were?”

He shook his head.

“Ever suspect who they were?”

He regarded me from beneath sleepy lids. “You’re a persistent questioner, Mr. Moon. No evidence was ever turned up concerning the two attempts on my life. However, at the time I was bringing my influence to bear on cleaning up certain illegal rackets operating in my county. I managed to make it so uncomfortable for the racketeers involved, they finally moved to an adjacent county, where they’ve been operating ever since. If my plans work out, eventually I’ll run them right across the river to bother you people.”

“That will be nice for us,” I said. “Would you know the names of any of these racketeers?”

“The supposed ringleader is mentioned in the papers occasionally. Nothing has ever been proved.”

“Barney Seldon is sometimes mentioned in the papers,” I said.

“Yes. I’ve read about him.”

“Barney Seldon was also at El Patio last night. I saw the cops put the collar on him for later questioning.”

“Yes, I know. He was released after questioning, which means he at least satisfied the police he had nothing to do with Walt’s death.” He changed the subject by saying, “I’m willing to pay two thousand dollars plus expenses. One thousand now and one thousand if you deliver me the information at least twenty-four hours before it becomes public.”

“It’s a deal,” I said quickly, before he could change his mind. Then I said, “You mentioned you’re just as satisfied as the police that I didn’t shoot your protege, but you don’t impress me as the type of person who makes snap judgments. What convinced you?”

“I talked to the eyewitness who saw the killer,” he said calmly.

I felt the hair rise along the back of my neck. In a cautious voice I asked, “Who was that?”

For the first time he almost smiled. “You know as well as I, Mr. Moon. And you don’t have to fear my making it public so the killer will know who to eliminate. I’ve been a regular customer of El Patio for years and feel as friendly toward Miss Moreni as you do. Incidentally, it was Fausta who recommended you to me.”