42 Days For Murder

Chapter Thirteen

There was some connection between the French girl’s murder and Crandall and Mrs. Wendel, and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to figure what it could be. And couldn’t. I could see why Crandall would try to keep the woman in the notion of divorce... that was easy. He made money that way; probably some percentage of what he could wangle for her on a settlement. I could see Rucci in the picture as a friend of Crandall’s. Undoubtedly, Crandall and Rucci had been together in other deals and Crandall had cut him in this.

But I couldn’t see why Rucci had hired me as he had. The firing part was easy; Crandall had spotted me in some way and tipped him off and naturally Rucci didn’t want me around the place.

That was another thing. How had Crandall spotted me? The way things had worked out, or rather hadn’t worked out, it was a cinch that neither Kirby or Macintosh had spilled any information and somehow I just couldn’t imagine the kid had let anything go to his big blonde mama.

Even if he was drunk I didn’t think he’d have talked. He was too proud of playing the secretive private detective part. He dramatized himself too much to let slip anything like that, or I was wrong.

But somebody had found out and done the tipping; there was no doubt about that.

The whole thing was screwy and getting no better fast.

I couldn’t figure why I’d been shot at when I was. That hadn’t been any warning; I still had my sore ear to prove the guy had really tried. It gave me a funny feeling to think that somebody I didn’t know was running around the town and trying to see me over the sights of a gun. It was another reason to think the French maid’s death was concerned in the Wendel affair in some way. People don’t shoot other people over little things. Not that a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar settlement was a little thing, but, after all, Wendel would give his wife the divorce and more than a fair settlement if he was convinced she really wanted it. There was no reason for adding murder to the thing, that I could see.

Crandall had poor Wendel cold, anyway. He’d picked some little bum, probably some once nice kid that had gone to hell, and fixed a solid rap against Wendel if Wendel bucked at the divorce. It must have been a once nice girl or the judge wouldn’t have known her since her childhood. A trick like that would be simple; there’s plenty of good kids go wacky when they’re still too young to realize what it’s all about. I gave Crandall credit; I figured he’d have that part of the frame air tight. He’d take pains with it; he’d have to. It was his ace in the hole, in case Wendel wouldn’t go for the divorce settlement.

There wasn’t a way in the world I could trace down the girl and try to break her story, either. If it wasn’t a frame that would be a cinch; but I had absolutely no way of knowing who he’d pick out to work with on the thing. It probably was some little bum that hung around Rucci’s joint, but that didn’t help; in the little time I’d worked there I’d seen a dozen that would go for larceny like that.

Crandall was smart enough to bring the frame right from the blue sky if he wanted to use it. It was just a question of keeping him from using it.

For that matter, even if Wendell ever got his wife out of the notion of divorce and took her back to New York, Crandall could still go to town on the assault case and make plenty of trouble. Probably enough trouble to make Wendell pay through the nose to keep it hushed. Wendel was in no position to stand extradition for assault on a sixteen-year-old kid... even if the case wouldn’t stand up in court.

And I had the notion Crandall would have it fixed so it would stand up.

I got that far with the figuring when Lester called me. He said: “Gahagan said she didn’t know how they left. Whether by car, train, or plane. Now what do I do?”

“Wire the plane and the train... both Joey and Wendel. Try both, to make sure they get the page. If they’re not on either, it’s a cinch they’re coming by car. That’s probably it; Joey would likely drive it.”

“And then what?”

“Then call me back, stupid.”

My room door was open and I heard my buzzer signal out two long, then one short ring. I said: “Good-by! Call me later!” and scuttled back in the room and left my door open enough to see who passed by.

First came the big bruiser I’d smacked with the ashtray out at the Three C Club. Then came Kewpie Martin.

The two of them acted very friendly. Kewpie was saying, as he passed my door: “Yeah, I remember one time I got smacked in the puss in St. Paul. Jeese, that guy hit me hard. I remember it was...”

They kept on going down the hall and that was all I heard. The big bruiser’s nose was taped and, having had my own schozzle busted once, I knew what they’d done to him. Splinted it up inside so it would heal without leaving too much of a bump.

Kewpie looked his usual fat, cheerful self and not at all like the rat part he was playing. He had his wide grin working good and seemed to be very pally with the lug, and it burned me to think he’d acted the same way with me all the time. I put it down in the debt book about owing him one sweet slam in the face and decided to pay off if, and when, I had the chance.

The two of them were gone not over twenty minutes and they went by in the same order. The bruiser, and then Kewpie. They were both grinning then.

I waited until they were gone, then called Lester and said:

“I was interrupted. Was there anything else? Did you send those wires.”

“I sent them. And oh yes. Gahagan said that Joey’s check bounced again. She didn’t know whether to tell him about it or not, so she let it go. She said you could talk to him about it when you saw him.”

“I will.”

“And Kewpie came up but that was before I called you before. I forgot to tell you. He asked for you and I said you were out. Should I tell him you’ve left town?”

I said: “Yeah! And if you can manage to stick around with him, without making him think you’re a pest and without him knowing what you’re doing, go ahead on it. I’d like to know who he sees and who he doesn’t. Try and find out names, if you can do it in a smooth way. Don’t come right out and ask; just look interested. He likes to talk and he’ll probably tell you by himself.”

“Sure, Shean. Why?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you,” I said, and hung up.

It seemed very likely that Kewpie might know who’d shot at me and might meet him. I didn’t know whether finding out who he met would do any good but it couldn’t do any harm. It was possible that Kewpie might have been the one that did the shooting. He knew about it and while his story about knowing the news dealer might be all right it might be all wrong.

I had no way of telling and finding a friend in the enemy camp had me bothered plenty. Though I thought there was probably some explanation; Kewpie wasn’t the double-crossing type.

Len Macintosh came up around seven. He knocked once on the door, opened it without waiting for me to do it for him, and came in and said:

“You shouldn’t point a gun at a policeman. It makes ’em nervous.”

I put my gun down on the dresser and he picked it up and looked at it. He latched the cylinder open, took out a shell, and whistled. He said:

“Christ! I’ve seen plenty of forty-fives before but I’m damned if I ever saw a load like this. What d’ya call it?”

“It’s a hand load. It’s a wad-cutter bullet backed with the maximum charge of power. It’s got three times the shocking power of the ordinary load or something like that. I forgot just what. But you crease a guy with that slug and it’ll knock him down quicker than a smaller slug would if it hit him center.”

He put the cartridge back in the gun and closed the cylinder and said: “I can well believe it. You’ve got the right idea; I never could see any sense in shooting a man more than once. What in hell did you do to Crandall? He was down to the station and I’ve seen saner people sent a way-to the goofy house. He was crazy; just stark raving crazy.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. I had to tell him you’d escaped and that you undoubtedly had left town. He couldn’t bring you back in the state for simple assault and so he didn’t file charges. But if he finds out you’re still in town he’s going to blow his cork.”

I said: “He’s going to blow his cork, then. He’s going to find out I’m still in town. And if you think he’s nuts now, wait until he finds out.”

“What you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “The guy I’m working for is on his way here and I’m going to talk to him first. Now for Christ’s sake, tell Kirby not to run him out again until I have a chance to talk to him, anyway.”

“I’ll tell him. But tell him to keep out of Crandall’s sight or it will make it tough for Kirby. You know how it is; Kirby has to live.”

“I will.”

“Kirby took Ziggy Hunter off regular duty and put him on the desk. He won’t see you there.”

I said: “I hope not. I don’t want to go to the station until this is over. And with him there, it’s likely Wendel can stay here for a little while without being recognized.”

Macintosh shook his head. “I don’t know. Him and Free ran around the town with no pants on and half the force saw them then. They played around the spots before that and the other half must have seen them there. I don’t know. Of course all that will happen will be that he’ll be chased out again. Kirby can’t afford to do anything else, at this stage of the game.”

“He could stay here, couldn’t he?”

Macintosh snorted, said: “Hell, no! It’s all right for you; you understand. You’re kosher. But that guy! Christ! He’d think he was in a den of thieves and meauw his head off about corrupt police and the rest of that crap. Hell, no, and I don’t want you telling him where you are. Nor his friend, this Free. Give me a break.”

I said: “I’ll tell neither of them, though I can’t see the harm in telling Free. He’s been around. And I might have to get in touch with him.”

“Telling your partner is enough,” Macintosh said positively.

I said: “All right then. I won’t.”

We talked for a while, just going over things, and he told me Kirby was checking over every sporting man in town that he thought had ever been around New York. In an effort to tie the French girl’s murder up with that end of things. He said: “Kirby believes like you do; that there’s a connection here with Crandall, but he isn’t missing any chances. She doesn’t fit in this theory of yours in any way that we can see.”

I said: “Listen! You’re supposed to be working out of the Sheriffs office, aren’t you? You’re a deputy. How in hell does it come you and Kirby are so damned chummy? How come you’re mixing up with this City stuff? It doesn’t make sense.”

He said: “Well, I’ve heard of a man having two jobs at the same time, if you know what I mean. I might even just be on the Sheriffs payroll and not really working for him. But I’m not working for the City; there’s no provision for extra help and I couldn’t very well go to the council and ask for a job.”

I said: “I catch.”

He was Government, what branch I didn’t know or care. I had the notion he was probably a deputy-marshal but it didn’t make the slightest bit of difference. It explained why Kirby had dared to go against Crandall as he had. It meant Macintosh was after Crandall and that he thought I might be a help to him. It was the answer to a lot of things that had bothered me.

I went on with: “That’s swell. That’s a break. I want Wendel here when the blow-off comes. I don’t want him chased away. If it has to be done, to keep Kirby and Crandall apart, and Crandall still foxed, let Kirby run him out and you go with him and see he’s brought back.”

“Wendel will have to be here, you think?”

“I don’t think; I know. We’ve got to have him.”

“Why?”

Macintosh had cold grey eyes, set under damned near white eyebrows. The eyebrows were bushy and needed plucking badly. They were mean eyes and he turned them on me and waited for an answer and all I could say was:

“I’m not sure yet. I can’t crack until I’ve got more to go on. If I’m right in what I think, he’s got to be here.”

“Why not spill what you think?”

“I’ve got nothing to go on. Just a notion.”

“Is the French girl mixed in it?”

“She must be. I’m not sure just how.”

“Both Kirby and I have given you every break, Connell. Why not play back?”

I said: “Damn it! I can’t tell you something I don’t know. I’ve missed something and I’m trying to figure what it is. I can’t get it. Why should somebody try to kill me like that? There’s only one answer; I’ve stumbled into something and haven’t brains enough to see it. It’ll come to me. The French girl is mixed in it someway but I don’t know how. She don’t fit in the picture anyway. A murder throws things wide open and this bunch is smart enough to know it. They’d never have done it unless it was forced on them. What forced it? What made them panicky? When I know I’ve got the answer to the whole thing.”

“Suppose I get help and you and I and Wendel demand to see his wife? Would that bring the showdown?”

“How would it? He’d never get a chance to talk sense to her like that. She’d go ahead and get her damned divorce, which is just what Crandall wants. What are you after him for?”

I rang that last in quick, thinking I could possibly stampede him into telling me something. He just grinned, said: “That’s a sort of secret, Connell. But I’ll tell you this; Rucci is mixed in it too.”

“It’s either white-slave stuff or dope.”

“You’ve got a right to guess. I can’t stop you guessing.”

I said: “Let’s call it a draw. I can’t tell you anything and you won’t tell me anything. Let me talk to Wendell and work something out.”

He stared at me a moment, said: “I want to be in at the finish, guy. I’ll talk to Kirby.”

He left, and left me staring at the four blank walls, trying to figure the connection between the murdered French girl, the attempt to kill me, and Mrs. Wendel’s refusal to talk with her husband.

And trying to tie Kewpie and the rest of the complications in with the mess in general. None of it made sense.