Loot for the Unlucky Lady

Chapter Three That Killer Man

Steve Harris spent three fruitless days in Jacksonville, made a discouraged phone call to New York, and went down to Daytona. His jaw was set in a grim line, because he saw eighteen thousand dollars slipping away.

At Daytona he got a room in a relatively inexpensive hotel. He set about finding Gloria Gerald-Quinn. After three days in Daytona, he began to wonder if Gloria had ever arrived there. No rental office claimed any knowledge of renting a cottage or apartment or even a room to anyone answering her description.

Yet he had a hunch that she was there. He sat in his room on the edge of his bed and slammed his fist into his palm, trying to think of some better way of tracking her down.

Gloria liked the high wooden windbreak that jutted from the corner of the cottage toward the blue ocean. Behind it she could sun bathe with no fear of being seen by the people that seemed to spend so much time walking aimlessly up and down the broad expanse of Daytona Beach.

She had been exhausted when she had arrived, her mind filled with cluttered memories of winding narrow roads, the drone of bus motors, the midnight streets of Tampa.

By all odds, Harris should still be up in Jacksonville. And yet she knew that she had to proceed on the basis that Harris knew that she would be in Daytona. She had checked the new suitcase in the Daytona bus terminal, had walked out into the morning sunshine.

Three hours later she had walked out of the beauty shop, her pale face achieving a new fragility under the blue-black of her hair. As she walked back to the bus station, she kept repeating the new name she had selected. Glenna Quarles.

The ad in the paper for the beach cottage had been the easiest part. She had found the right sort of man in the bus station. She approached him, saying:

“Could I talk to you for a moment?”

The man had looked startled and cautious. “What do you want?”

She had selected him because he looked clean and decent, but not flush. He followed her over to the bench and sat cautiously beside her.

In a quick, flat tone she said, “A man is trying to make trouble for me. He will follow me here. I want you to go and rent this cottage and pay three months’ rent in advance. Rent it under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Quarles. Charles Quarles. I’ll give you a hundred dollars for your trouble.”

He had hesitated and she had looked directly into his uneasy eyes, and, with lips parted, had said, “Please help me!”

“I won’t get in any trouble?”

“No trouble at all.”

Two hours later he returned with the receipt, the door key and the address. She gave him five worn twenties and he had put them away quickly as though it shamed him to take money for helping her.

Yes, the cottage was perfect. She had found a store which would deliver groceries, and the delivery boy was willing to pick up magazines and books for her. There was a small radio in the cottage, and she had had it repaired.

Each evening the Times was delivered, and each evening, pulses thudding, she opened it and looked eagerly at the help-wanted column.

The shoe box, sewed in oilcloth, was buried in the sand near the windbreak. The money she had allotted herself she kept on her person. The sun gradually tanned her delicate skin, and, except for the constant, biting worry, she was almost content.

Wesley Gibb, his tiny brown eyes set into the pads of gray sweating flesh like currants in an unbaked cookie, sat alone on one side of the booth. On the other side, Steve Harris was against the wall. Gibb’s ‘assistant’ was sitting on the outside edge.

The waitress had brought a wicker basket of large pieces of greasy chicken, wrapped in a starched napkin. Wesley’s fingers were shiny with grease, as were his ripe lips. The ‘assistant’ was a completely bald young man named Harry. His melting blue eyes stared upward in a half trance and he beat his knuckles against the edge of the table in time to the music, ignoring the conversation between Steve and Wesley Gibb.

Steve took a deep drag at his cigarette, mashed it out in the chipped glass ashtray. “So this is a checkup on me?” he said.

“Don’t be difficult, Stevie,” Wesley said in a gentle and oily manner. “You know how these things are. Fourteen days and no report and I guaranteed your expenses. You can’t blame me for thinking maybe you have cleaned it up down here and you’re letting the expenses ride.”

“I don’t operate that way,” Steve said.

“Don’t be annoyed, Stevie. Lots of people would. Everybody tries to take advantage of me because I’m generous. Besides, I own a piece of property in Miami and I always check on it this time of year and get them set for the big season.”

“You’re generous. Is that why you brought Muscles, here along to see me?”

Harry stopped drumming on the table, half turned and gave Steve a long look. “Watch your mouth, Harris.”

Steve turned back to Gibb. “Do I have to listen to your cheap imitations of a Hollywood-type hood?”

“Go for a walk, Harry,” Gibb said.

Harry snorted, stood up and wandered off.

Gibb said, “If it isn’t asking too much, Stevie, could you let me in on what I’m paying for?”

“I don’t know why I should, but here it is. I think she came here and got undercover fast. I think she’s sitting tight somewhere in this town waiting for word from Barnard. I think Barnard is somewhere between here and New York, working his way down here, being very, very cautious about throwing people off the trail. When he gets here, I figure they’ll leave the country by private plane or boat. I’ve spread a little dough around so that I can find out quick when they try to hire something. In the meantime, I keep my eyes open.”

“And suppose you’re wrong? Suppose they’ve already gotten out of the country?”

“Then you toss a little more money after bad money. Remember, you’re not paying for my time. This is on spec. You’re only paying my expenses, Gibb.”

“Maybe I’ll leave Harry here to help you.”

Steve smiled tightly. “I could stand him for maybe twenty minutes, and then I’d float him out with the tide.”

“Harry’s a good boy.”

“He’s maybe okay handling drunks at the Candor Club. Maybe.”

Gibb finished the last piece of chicken, wiped his mouth and his hands on the empty napkin. He smiled. “I guess, Stevie, I meet too many angle boys. I keep thinking you are one.”

Steve looked steadily at him. “Gibb, it makes me feel dirty to have you as a client. Twenty minutes after I accepted the case, I began to regret it. But I’ll follow through and play square. But I wouldn’t have anything more to do with you after this is over for five times the potential profit on this one. Understand?”

Gibb’s smile was undisturbed. “Perfectly, Stevie. As long as we’re being personal, I might add that I don’t believe I’d hire you again anyway, not after the way you let a simple girl slip through your fingers.”

Steve glanced at his watch. “Two buses and a train due. I’ve got to cover them.” He stood up, walked out of the place. The night was warm. At the corner he turned sharply and looked back, caught a glimpse of someone melting into the shadows. He smiled tightly. That much was obvious. Gibb was anything but a trusting soul. It wasn’t worth the trouble to shake Harry.

The man who looked like Al Barnard hurried diagonally away from the bus terminal. Steve got one quick glance at his face. All of the uncertainty faded away. The face of Al Barnard was engraved on the surface of his mind. The man who had passed under the street light matched that image — and the new mustache, the rimless glasses were a feeble smokescreen for Barnard’s real identity.

The man carried a small brown suitcase. Steve glanced at the suitcase and his smile was tight. There goes eighteen thousand bucks for Harris! Hosanna!

Barnard was difficult to tail. He walked quickly, selected the quieter streets. Steve kept a good block behind him, cursing himself for not having shaken off Harry.

Barnard made a left turn and, as Steve got to the entrance to the block, he looked up and saw Barnard making another left. That made it a lot simpler to figure. Steve doubled back on his own tracks, grinning as he saw Harry pause, turn and scurry away. Steve hurried to the next street, looked up the block and waited.

In a few minutes Barnard went by. Stretching his long legs into what was almost a run, Steve went back to the brighter section of town, passing the familiar bus terminal. The street Barnard was on joined the street he was on just beyond the terminal. At the junction there were two cheap hotels.

A drugstore was opposite. Steve found a stool at the counter where he could watch the entrance to both hotels. Barnard went into the first one, pausing to give a long look back up the quiet street. He had walked ten blocks to get to a point only a hundred yards from the bus terminal. Twenty minutes later Steve had moved over to the same hotel. Fortunately the management made it simple by using a register book rather than cards.

The previous arrival was a Mr. Stanley Webster of Providence, Rhode Island, assigned to Room 412.

The desk clerk was an old man with the sallow bleary look of the backwoods native.

“Something on the fourth,” Steve said to the old man.

He obtained Room 417. He carried his own bag up, marked the location of Room 412, diagonally across the hall and three doors nearer the elevator.

With the room light out, he sat in a chair and looked through the inch-wide gap of his open door down toward Barnard’s room. At last the thin line of light under Barnard’s door clicked out. On shoeless feet Steve tiptoed down the hall, listened with his ear against Barnard’s door. The man was breathing heavily. He was evidently sound asleep.

Steve went back to his room, went to sleep quickly, telling himself that he should awaken at six, knowing that some unknown factor in his mind would awaken him within a few minutes of that hour...

At nine o’clock, Barnard left his room, locking the door behind him. At nine five, the cheap lock responded to the lock pick, and Steve let himself in. The brown suitcase was in the corner by the window. A long ash from a cigarette significantly rested on the top surface of the suitcase. Steve squatted, memorized the general countour of the cigarette ash, blew it away and quickly searched the bag. Except for clothes, it was empty. He shut it, lit a cigarette, waited until the ash was the right length and then carefully placed it on the suitcase where the other one had been, touching it gently with his finger to move it into the exact position of the former one.

It took another five minutes for him to determine to his own satisfaction that the money was not hidden in the room. He fixed the inside lock, held the latch back with a thin strip of celluloid, pulled the door shut and pulled out the celluloid, letting the latch snap into place, locking the door.

At nine-twelve he rode down to the lobby, glanced into the grimy dining room, walked across the street, saw Barnard at the counter of the drugstore, lifting a coffee cup to his lips. Knowing that Barnard had no way of knowing him, he went into the drugstore, stood at the rack of postcards a mere six feet from Barnard’s back, and began to carefully select cards. He turned slightly sideways so that, out of the corner of his eye, he could watch Barnard’s movements.

In a few minutes, Barnard wiped his mouth, slid off the stool and turned toward the cash register at the front of the store. At the same instant, Steve turned sharply, blundering into him.

“Watch where you’re going!” Barnard snapped.

“Sorry, friend,” Steve said.

Barnard grunted and walked up to the counter, reaching into his pocket for change to pay the check. Steve stooped and picked up the scattered cards, a scowl on his face. In the instant of collision, he had determined that, no where on his person, did Al Barnard carry a bulk which would represent the money he had stolen.

He saw Barnard cross the street and go into the hotel. He sat on the stool at the end of the counter where he could watch the hotel entrance. Of all the damn fools, he thought. That girl had had the money all the time.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bald and sunburned head of Harry. He turned and smiled peacefully at him.

Harry turned away quickly.

Once again Steve scowled. If Harry had seen him blunder into Barnard, then Harry would know the score. If he got eager to take over and cut Steve out, he might upset the applecart, but good. He paid for his breakfast, went up to his room and pulled a chair over where he could once more sit and watch Barnard’s door.

Within twenty minutes a pimply young boy with cornsilk hair knocked on Barnard’s door. When it opened, the kid said, “You wanted an errand run, mister?”

“Come on in.” The door slammed shut. Steve hurried down to the lobby. Five minutes later the kid came whistling out of the elevator, an envelope in his hand. Steve tailed him to the office of the Daytona Times.

Fifteen minutes after the kid had emerged from the office, Steve went in and smiled at the very pretty girl behind the desk.

“Say, I’m Mr. Webster. I sent an ad over here a while ago and I think I made a mistake on it. Mind if I check your copy?”

She smiled nicely. “Not at all, Mr. Webster.” She took the pink duplicate out of a wooden tray and handed it to him. Help Wanted. Competent file clerk. Knowledge Spanish and Portugese. Write Box 81.

He thought fast. It would appear in the evening paper. Gloria would write at once and mail it the same evening. It would be delivered in the morning to the newspaper. It was worth a gamble.

“Good!” he said. “Guess I didn’t make a mistake after all. I’ll be in tomorrow to pick up the answers, if any. What time will they be ready?”

“Didn’t that messenger boy tell you? Quarter after nine.”

“That’s right. I forgot.”

The next morning the girl handed him four letters. He took them over to a table in the corner of the room, trying to guess which one was from Gloria Gerald. The handwriting on all the envelopes was feminine. He held them up to the light. One seemed lighter than the others, and there seemed to be hardly any of the dark blur showing through to indicate a lengthy letter. He took out his pocket knife and, using the dull edge of the blade, ran it under the gummed flap.

The folded slip of paper inside said, Phone 3831.

Quickly he resealed the envelope, walked to the street door. He had five minutes to wait before the messenger came walking toward the building.

He stood in the doorway, gave the boy an official looking smile and said, “I guess you want the Box 81 replies?”

“That’s right.” The boy took the letters without suspicion, turned and headed back toward the hotel...

The girl at the telephone company said doubtfully, “Now if you had the name, or the street address, we could give out the number, but the rules say that...”

“Ever see one of these before?” Steve asked. He showed her his license.

Her eyes widened. “Gosh, are you a private eye?”

He grinned. “Lady, I know who you’ve been reading. The only slang term I’ve ever heard is op, and I haven’t heard that often. I could call on the local cops for help, but it would take too long. This is rush business. How would you like a twenty-dollar hat? Just a present from me to you.”

She came back in five minutes, a conspiratorial whisper in her voice. “Two ten, Beechbreeze Road. About two miles from here. A Mrs. Charles Quarles is using the phone temporarily. It’s actually listed in the name of a Mr. Baker Henrich.”

“I’m lousy at picking out hats. Here. You buy one.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!”

He turned away, left the bill on the desk. When he looked back from the doorway the bill had disappeared and she was smiling after him.