Sir Lancelot’s Crime Wave

Chapter Three Smoke Screen

Corrine looked haggard and worried, and she had no appetite. Jamison pushed his coffee cup aside and lit a cigarette. She said, “Why don’t you let me in on what you are guessing?”

“How do you know I’m guessing anything?”

“At first you were casual, and even... amused. Now you’ve tightened up. You must be thinking something.”

“Tell me what you know about Gardener.”

“Mr. Gardener? He’s nice to work for. He manages the office as well as being sales manager. He’s married and has a nice house outside of town. He isn’t a slave driver.”

“What does he look like?”

“Fiftyish. Tall and a little heavy. Youthful clothes. Suntan all year round. Don’t ask me how.”

“Do the men like him? The salesmen?”

“Oh, yes.”

“He seems well off?”

“I guess he makes a very good salary, and also he owns some of the firm, you know. But why are you asking me all this?”

“Corrine, if you have a haystack and you suspect there’s a needle in it, the best method I know is to keep rolling around in the haystack until something sticks you.”

“Felt anything yet?”

“Not yet. Does Gardener seem interested in his work?”

“Very, Jamie. A long time ago he was a pharmacist, before he got into sales work. I guess he’s clever. He maintains his own lab down at the warehouse and makes up a special product called Gardener Headache Powders. He’s so anxious for the product to catch on that he does all the sales work himself.”

Jamison had the cigarette between his thumb and first finger. He looked steadily at Corrine. Slowly he became conscious of having squeezed the cigarette so tightly that the paper tore.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“The needle, honey. The needle.”

“Is there enough... to refer the case to one of your divisions?”

“Not quite enough.”

“Can we get more?”

“If I’m right, we can get a lot more.”

“When, Jamie?”

“Ballou and Stark is closed now. Can you get back in there?”

“Why, yes. I have a key. But—”

“Let’s go...”

Gardener’s office door was locked. Jamison cursed softly. He told Corrine what he wanted. She went to the supply cabinet, found extra desk pads that had been printed for Mr. Gardener’s use. “From the Desk of A. William Gardener.”

She rolled it into her typewriter. Then she had to go and look up the name of the night warehouse man.

Her fingers were brisk on the keys as he dictated.

She found Gardener’s signature. Jamison turned the sheet upside down and carefully drew the signature.

“I don’t get it,” Corrine said plaintively.

“Just be a good girl and do as I say...”

The entrance to the warehouse was at the blind end of an alley, with a high loading platform. Jamison backed his car to the loading platform, helped Corrine out, jumped up, gave her his hand, pulled her up.

A feeble light shone through the wired window of the office door at the side.

Corrine said, “Shouldn’t I go in alone?”

“I’m just a guy to carry the box, Corrine.” He hammered at the office door. He paused and listened, heard the slow steps coming toward the door. The bolt was shot back. The door opened and a sleepy, elderly man looked out at them.

Corrine said, “I’m Miss Dobbs from the office.”

“Oh, sure. Didn’t recognize you. Come on in.” They stepped into the office and the man shut the door. He yawned, took the note which Corrine handed him.

He moved his lips as he read. Then he looked at Corrine angrily. “Wish he’d make up his mind. Keeps a man confused all the time. Gave me hell a while back for giving out them pet powders of his and told me that no one gets ’em but him, and then he goes and writes this.”

“The ones you gave to Kiern?” Jamison asked softly,

“Yeah. How the hell did I know the lad was lying to me when he said Mr. Gardener asked him to get them? How did I know the lad was trying to be a ball of fire on the job by muscling into the boss’s private product?”

“He seems to have changed his mind again,” Jamison said.

The man cackled. “Little forgetful, though, ain’t he? Had that wire cage built and never did give me the key for it. Let’s see what he says.”

The man went over to the narrow stairway, leaned into it and yelled up, “Mr. Gardener! Hey, Mr. Gardener!”

Steps were heavy on the stairs. Jamison bit his lip. A bad tactical error. They should have asked first if Mr. Gardener was in his private lab. Gardener appeared, first neatly shined shoes, then stained white smock, then a puzzled, heavy face.

“Miss Dobbs!” he said. “What’s wrong?”

Seaton answered for her. He held the note out and Gardener took it. Seaton said, “Mr. Gardener, I got to know just how much authority I got here. You give me hell for letting Kiern take them powders and then you send me these orders.”

Jamison moved two careful steps back toward the door, watched Gardener’s face as the man read the note. It was a heavy, unreadable face, evenly coated with an almost metallic tan.

“You didn’t give me no key for that stuff,” Seaton said, his tone querelous.

Gardener gave Corrine a keen look.

“I don’t understand all this,” he said evenly. “This certainly looks like my signature. But I didn’t write this order. Who is your friend?”

Jamison turned quickly to Seaton. He said, “Where did Mr. Gardener send you Sunday night two weeks ago when he came here with Kiern?”

Seaton had backed toward the oak rolltop desk. There was a slow accumulation of tension in the small room. Seaton said, “He sent me to the office to get his cigar case from on top of his desk. But it wasn’t there.”

Seaton, with surprising speed, snatched open the desk drawer, pulled out a heavy .45 automatic, held it with unwavering steadiness pointed directly at Jamison’s chest. Without taking his eyes from Jamison, he said, “If you didn’t write that note, Mr. Gardener, then they come here to steal something. We’ve got a lot of valuable drugs here. I’ll cover him and you use the phone to call for the cops.”

Gardener stepped down into the room from the last step. He said gently, “Before I bring the police in on this, Miss Dobbs, possibly you could tell me what it’s all about.”

“And when you came back without the cigar case, Seaton,” Jamison said, “Mr. Gardener was here alone. He told you that Kiern had to leave, didn’t he?”

“So what, mister?”

“So you have a small private pier at the other end of the warehouse. How deep is the water off the end of it?”

“Thirty feet,” Gardener said. “Who are you, sir? You don’t look the type to be mixed up in a drug theft. Nor does Miss Dobbs.”

Jamison realized that it wasn’t going well. Gardener was too self-contained, too careful to strike exactly the right note. Jamison looked steadily at Seaton and said:

“Mr. Kiern is at the bottom of that thirty feet of water, and Mr. Gardener put him there.”

Corrine gasped, turned so that Jamison saw her strained face, her staring eyes. He hadn’t wanted to do it that way.

“Quite a smoke screen, sir,” Gardener said easily. He moved to Seaton’s side, gently took the weapon from Seaton’s hand. “You walk up to Chambers Street, Seaton, and see if you can locate a policeman. I’ll watch these two.”

Seaton scratched his head. “Now why in hell would he say that about Kiern? Seemed funny to me that Kiern would take off on foot from here. He didn’t like walking much.”

“Do as I tell you!” Gardener said, a note of strain creeping into his voice.

“Why not use the phone?” Seaton asked mildly. “And what made you act like a crazy man just because I let Kiern take a case of a dozen bottles of those powders of yours?”

“Do as I tell you, or you go off the payroll as of right now,” Gardener said. A certain firmness about Gardener’s mouth had fled. His underlip sagged loosely and Jamison saw the pinch of nostrils as Gardener breathed heavily.

“These people make more sense than you do—”

Seaton was standing at Gardener’s left. Gardener pivoted, his arm straight, the heavy automatic like a stone in his big hand. It smashed full against Seaton’s mouth. Seaton fell back against the convex curve of the desk, his knees buckling, sliding without haste down to the floor.

Jamison made a quick step toward Gardener, halted, off balance, as the muzzle of the gun swung back to cover him.

The polished front had cracked, had fallen away. Gardener stood in an atavistic crouch, hate and desperation in every thick line of his face.

Corrine Dobbs said, her voice oddly placid, the voice of a person who talks in the midst of sleep. “Then you did do it, Mr. Gardener. You killed Johnny. I don’t know why you’d do a thing like that, but I knew he was dead. All along I’ve known it.”

She stepped toward Gardener. “Back up!” Gardener said, moving the gun toward her. Gardener’s voice was a thick, damp whisper.

“I thought you were a good boss to work for. Isn’t that silly? He bought me this ring, you know.” She held her hand out as she took another step toward him.

Jamison had watched this type before. He saw the tanned finger tightening on the trigger. He knew that Gardener, in spite of fear and panic, was thinking of the percentages. His hope lay in killing all three, trumping up a story of attempted robbery. He saw resolve on Gardener’s face.

In a flat, mechanical tone, Jamison said, “I’m a cop, Gardener.”

The new factor was injected into the boiling equations in Gardener’s brain. The new factor slowed the reflexes, gave rise to momentary hesitation.

As Jamison saw the faint waver of the gun barrel, he drove forward in a long frantic dive, straight-arming Corrine in the shoulder as he passed her, sending her spinning into a far corner of the room.

The deafening smash of the heavy weapon, pivoted down as he dived for Gardener’s knees, drew a white line of fire across Jamison’s left leg, numbed his left foot. His shoulder smashed against Gardener’s knees, toppling the man back.

Once his hands were on Gardener, Jamison worked with quick skill. One slug was slammed up against the ceiling as the small bone in Gardener’s wrist cracked. He thudded a knee up into Gardener’s bulk, heard the gun slide away. Pinning Gardener’s throat with his left forearm he smashed the man heavily and perfectly on the angle of the jaw.

Jamison lay on the hospital bed on his stomach and looked without amusement at the way Ringold shook with muted laughter.

“He couldn’t have shot you in a better place,” Ringold said. “Just where I would have shot you myself.”

“Lay off,” Jamison said softly.

Ringold sobered. “I talked to the girl. She puts up a good fight for you, Jamie.”

“How is she?”

Ringold shrugged. “Shock. Okay now. The report you dictated came out pretty close. He opened up nice. The kid was too eager. He got Seaton to give him a case of the powders. When he went out with them to sell them in his own area, he carries a bottle in his hand. The guy in the store takes the bottle and gives him a fifty. This Kiern catches on quick.

“Seems Gardener was taking standard medicines, cooking out the tiny amounts of dope, accumulating it, bottling it as his private powders and unloading it. Around two hundred bottles a month at fifty per. Kiern got wise and put the arm on him. Gardener told Kiern that with the kid’s help he could expand. He told the kid he wanted him in a better section of town and had an apartment for the kid to look at. He softened him up by giving him some more money.

“At the warehouse he slugged him, rolled him on a dolly onto the pier, wired scrap to his ankles and to the luggage and dumped the works off the end. The kid came to just before Gardener dumped him in.”

“I had to guess the place,” Jamison said. “He didn’t have much time, so it had to be there.”

“If you had enough to go on, Jamison,” Ringold said, “you had enough to refer it to Homicide. What did you have?”

“Gardener being too careful. He wanted the parking lot guy to think that Kiern left from his own car. So he drove in fast. He whistled like Kiern. From the back corner of the lot he threw rocks to draw the attendant away from the gate. Tossing the keys in on the gatehouse floor didn’t sound like Kiern. Then I found the firm was losing money, and yet keeping on one hell of a big staff. Cover up. Tell me, is that enough to take to Homicide?”

Ringold fingered his chin. “No. I guess not. But why break it yourself?”

“I didn’t. Honest, I just wanted to get hold of one of those bottles and turn it in to the lab. When I get out of here, do I have to be receptionist?”

Ringold stood up. “Happy birthday. I’m giving that detail to Carl Case for a while.”

“I don’t know how to—”

“Are you trying to thank me? You’re going into traffic for six months. By then you’ll appreciate being a receptionist again. And you’ll be quicker to ask permission to chase wild geese.”

Jamison was still groaning when he heard Corrine’s soft voice at his elbow say, “Darling, does it hurt that bad?”