Man-Trap

VIII

I made four calls the next day, none of which added to my knowledge of who killed Walter Lancaster, or why. The first was to Headquarters, where I signed formal charges against Percival Sweet — yeah, that was the goon’s name — and Barney Seldon.

The second was to the Jones and Knight Investment Company, where I learned from Matilda Graves she had been unable to unearth anything whatever about Willard Knight’s personal financial transactions. I found Harlan Jones in, but he seemed as remarkably uninformed about his partner’s private affairs as was the secretary-bookkeeper.

My third visit was to Knight’s home where I bullied Mrs. Knight into letting me go through his private papers. And again I drew a blank. If Knight ordinarily kept personal financial records at home, he had removed them along with himself, I decided.

Although from our previous conversation I was reasonably sure Knight did not make a habit of confiding anything at all to his wife, I asked her if she knew what stocks he owned. She didn’t. Then I asked her for a picture of her husband, only to learn Lieutenant Hannegan had beat me to the request and the only two photographs she had of him were now at Police Headquarters.

My fourth visit was back across the river to Carson City, where I spent the rest of the afternoon in the morgue of the Carson City Herald. When I finished I had a chronological record of Walter Lancaster’s public life, including all the welfare fund drives he had headed during the past twenty years, all the speeches he had made and the community projects he had engaged in, but none of it pointed to anything interesting. If he had ever been involved in anything unsavory, his influence had been great enough to keep it out of the papers.

At six I quit for the day, had a leisurely dinner and went home to shower and dress for my date with Fausta.

When I arrived at the apartment over El Patio I found Fausta prepared for an evening of riotous gaiety. Her gown, an affair of flaming red which sedately hid her legs clear to the ankles, was not quite so sedate from the waist up. It had no back, no shoulder straps, and so little front she would have been arrested had she appeared in it on a stage. Since obviously it was held up solely by chest expansion, and would embarrass us both the first time she exhaled in public.

At the car, I slid under the wheel. “I like your dress,” I said. “Particularly the bottom half. But don’t come around for sympathy when you get pneumonia.”

“With the temperature eighty — five? Where are we going?”

“I planned making the rounds. A drink here, a drink there. Maybe a floor show later on. But in that gown I think I’d better take you to the Coal Hole.”

“That dark place?” Fausta asked indignantly. “I want to go to the Plaza Roof.”

So we went to the Plaza Roof. After that we went to the Jefferson Lounge, the Casino Club and the Barricades. About eleven-thirty we drifted into the Sheridan Hotel.

The Sheridan’s head waiter stopped us just inside the door to inform us in a regretful voice there were no empty tables. He spoke to me, but his eyes remained on Fausta’s shoulders.

“We will sit at the bar,” Fausta decided.

At the bar seven men simultaneously vacated their stools for Fausta. Rewarding them all with a sweeping smile, she chose the center one. I decided to stand, and after a moment six of the men reclaimed their seats.

After ordering a rum and coke for Fausta and a rye and water for myself, I turned to look over the house. Almost instantly I spotted George Smith and Isobel Jones at the same table we had used the previous evening, their heads bent together in such earnest conversation, they were oblivious to everything around them. When neither glanced up, I shrugged and turned back to face the bar.

But as Fausta and I sipped our drinks, periodically I glanced over at Isobel and George. For a long time they remained unconscious of anything but each other. Finally a waiter stopped to clear glasses from their table and George looked up. His eyes hardened over when he saw me, then moved on indifferently and stopped on Fausta. I saw him give a visible start.

He shook his head at the waiter, said something to Isobel and slid from his chair. Casually he moved toward the lobby entrance. At the same time Isobel rose and started toward us, a wide smile of greeting on her face.

She said, “Hello, Manny,” and Fausta swung around on her stool to look her over.

Possibly it was one too many drinks that dulled my reactions, but George was out of sight into the lobby before it registered on me that Isobel had nicely diverted our attention while he made a quiet exit. Remembering his sudden start when he glimpsed Fausta, it looked very much as though the diversion was for her benefit, and George had no desire to be seen by her.

Rapidly I recited, “Mrs. Jones, Miss Moreni,” then said, “Pardon me. I see a friend,” and followed quickly after George Smith.

Just inside the lobby I stopped and swept my eyes over the room. George stood diagonally across from me in front of the elevator bank.

A few paces to my right was the bell captain’s desk and Johnny Nelson, the Sheridan’s bell captain. Once I had unscrambled a case that cleared Johnny of a felony rap, so he owed me a favor. I stepped over to his desk.

“Quick, Johnny. Take a look at the man by the elevator.”

Johnny glanced toward George just as the cage doors opened. George stepped in and disappeared to the rear of the car.

“What about him?”

“He a guest here?”

“Yeah. Came in yesterday morning. Name’s Roger Nelson.”

“No,” I said. “You must have looked at the wrong man. The one I meant is named George Smith.”

“Oh. I thought you meant the guy who got on the elevator. Tall gink with a sloppy haircut.”

“I did. Isn’t he George Smith?”

Johnny shook his head emphatically. “Roger Nelson. He’s in room fourteen-twelve.”

“What else you know about him?”

“Nothing. Never saw him before yesterday.”

“Do me a favor,” I asked, “See what the desk knows.”

“Sure,” said Johnny. “Wait right here.”

In a few moments he was back. “It’s Neltson, not Nelson,” he informed me. “Roger Neltson. With a ‘t’. Registered just before noon yesterday. Home town’s Cleveland and firm is Arkwright Typewriter. That’s all our check-in form asks. Is he hot?”

“Not that I know. I was just curious.” I slipped him a dollar and returned to the cocktail lounge.

Fausta and Isobel were still at the bar.

Fausta looked at me questioningly, and I asked, “Know a Roger Neltson? Tall, shaggy-haired fellow. Looks like Abe Lincoln with a shave. From Cleveland and in the typewriter business.”

She looked blank. “I do not know such a man.”

Turning my attention to Isobel, I watched her speculatively as she sipped a newly made drink with simulated disregard for our conversation. Feeling my gaze on her, she slid me a glance from eye corners.

“Bourbon and Scotch,” she said, indicating the mixture in her glass. “I’m completely converted.”

I said to Fausta, “Pardon us. I want a few private words with Mrs. Jones,” took Isobel firmly by the arm and led her back to the table she had vacated.

When we were seated I said, “All right, Isobel. What’s the pitch?”

“Pitch?” Her tone was one of bewildered innocence.

“Who’s Roger Neltson, and why’d you palm him off as George Smith?”

She raised her nose. “And what business is it of yours who my friends are, or what I choose to call them?”

“None,” I admitted. “Except when a guy swings at me, I like to know his right name.”

An amused light danced in her eyes for a moment. “Roger told me about that. Did he really knock you down?”

I stared at her, surprised, then worked up a dry grin. “I still ache all over. But let’s stay on the subject. Why the fake name? And while you were picking one, why didn’t you make it John Smith? That’s the common alias.”

“None of your business.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll tell you. He’s your extra-marital boy friend and you didn’t know he was in town till he walked in here last night. You got all flustered, partly because Mr. Smith-Neltson is the jealous type and partly because you suddenly remembered reading about private cops being blackmailers. So you did a little muddy thinking and sprang the first name that entered your head. How come you didn’t give me a fake name too? Something equally original, like Richard Roe?”

She tried to summon forth an offended frown, but her sense of humor got the best of her and she laughed aloud. “You’re a mindreader. Satisfied now?”

“Did I hit it?”

She nodded sardonically. “Fairly close, in your blunt, uncouth way. I’m glad my husband hasn’t your powers of deduction.” She frowned suddenly and added, “Or your dirty mind?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Dirty?”

“You flat-footedly accuse me of having a lover without knowing the first thing about it, really. Mr. Neltson is not my extramarital boy friend, as you call him, but just a friend. I’ll have you know...”

“...that you’re a respectable married woman,” I finished for her, slightly bored with her belated and illogical virtue. “Tell me, is Roger jealous of your husband too?”

She raised her nose and got up from her chair. With head high, she swept toward the lobby entrance like a martyred queen. Returning to Fausta at the bar, I stared after Isobel thoughtfully as she disappeared from view.

“From the lady’s manner, I would guess you made improper proposals,” Fausta said waspishly.

I let a sensual leer form on my face and Fausta stuck out her tongue at me. It was a cute tongue, pointed and pink as a rose petal. But when Fausta saw me admiring it, she withdrew it and sulked.

I ordered another round from the bartender. A few minutes later Isobel unexpectedly returned. Sliding onto the stool next to Fausta, she held her face expressionless and directed her eyes at the bartender.

“Heard from Knight yet?” I asked her.

For a moment her gaze remained fixedly on the bartender. Then, woodenly, she turned her head at me, said, “No,” in a definite let-em-alone voice, and returned to her study of the drink-mixer.

And at that moment, out of nowhere, something clicked in what I use for a brain. The sudden thought astonished me, not because of its penetration, but because I had been too stupid to see it previously.

“Do you know a Willard Knight?” I asked Fausta.

She frowned thoughtfully. “Knight,” she repeated. “Yes, I think so. He is an occasional patron at El Patio. A tall man with shaggy hair.”

Isobel’s back stiffened and I grinned at her. “Right under my nose,” I said. “I have to see a man, Fausta. Want to come?”

When we got on the elevator, Fausta looked at me curiously. But all I said was, “Fourteen, please.”

We stopped before 1412 and I raised my fist to knock just as the phone inside began to ring. Dropping my hand, I waited for someone to answer. But the shrill peal went on and on.

Finally, when it was obvious no one was going to answer the phone, I tried the knob. Finding the door unlocked, I pushed it open. A quick glance from the doorway showed no one in the room. The phone, on a stand this side of the bed, continued to ring. Crossing to it, I lifted it from its cradle and said, “Yes?”

“Willard?” asked Isobel’s voice.

“Yes?” I said again.

Her voice was breathless. “That Moon man knows who you are. I think he’s on his way up.”

Fausta had moved from the doorway past the foot of the bed to the windows. Something in her manner caused my gaze to jump at her. She was standing rigid, an expression of shock on her face at something on the floor beyond my range of vision.

In a toneless voice I said into the phone, “Thanks,” and hung up.

Then, rounding the bed, I stared down at the body of Willard Knight, alias Roger Neltson, alias George Smith.

He lay flat on his back between the bed and the windows, his eyes wide open but sightless. His mouth sagged open too, and the lips had drawn back from his strong teeth to give him an expression of gaping wonder. The whole front of his shirt was soaked with blood from a wound in his chest. His body and the floor immediately around it was sprinkled with feathers.

At Knight’s feet lay the pillow from which the feathers had come, a powder-blackened hole indicating it had been used by the killer to muffle the sound of the shot.

Taking Fausta by the arm, I led her to the door. “Wait for me at the bar,” I told her, pushed her out into the hall and shut the door in her face.

Then I made a systematic search of the room.

A pigskin travelling bag containing a few changes of linen and toilet supplies was all the luggage I found. There were no papers of any sort in it or anywhere else in the room.

Finally I turned to the body. A wallet contained slightly over a hundred dollars in currency, several lodge membership cards and a driver’s license issued to Willard Knight. His pockets yielded the usual assortment of keys, pocket knife, cigarette lighter and small change, but only one item of any interest.

In his pants pocket I found a duplicate deposit slip issued by the Riverside Bank showing a deposit made only that day to the account of the Jones and Knight Investment Company.

The amount shown was seventy thousand dollars.

Putting everything back the way I had found it, I lifted the phone and asked for the house detective.