The Case of the Crime King

Chapter 15

As it was now well past noon, we stopped at a coffee shop for lunch before visiting Harry Strite’s employer. It was 1:15 p.m. when we arrived at the Wilshire Coal and Wood Yard.

The company’s manager was a thin, mournful-looking man with the largest Adam’s apple I ever saw. It moved up and down his long throat whenever he spoke, and sometimes even when he wasn’t speaking, creating the impression that he had swallowed a yo-yo. His name was Manfred Thornton.

We found Thornton in a glass-enclosed office next to the truck entrance to the yard. When we identified ourselves and told him our business, he frowned.

“I hope Harry isn’t in trouble,” he said. “He’s a good worker.”

“We’re just making a routine check, sir,” I told him.

“What’s he suspected of?”

“Nothing yet,” I said. “Maybe he’ll check out clear.”

Thornton’s Adam’s apple rose and fell again. “You mean you’re just checking on him because he’s on parole? Some crime’s been committed that you can’t solve, so you’re hounding Harry. Just because he made a mistake once. I knew it would happen.”

His tone was suddenly so angry, I let my own voice become cautious. “Knew what would happen, sir?”

“You fellows never let a man forget his past. Harry’s paid his debt to society. Why can’t you let him alone?”

I said, “We’re not bothering him. If your answers to a few questions check him out clean, we won’t even talk to him.”

“Well, I resent the whole procedure. I told the parole officer how I felt about it the first time he came to see me. When he came to check on whether I was actually willing to give Harry a job. Harry wasn’t even out of prison yet, and already they were hounding him.”

Frank said, “Verification that Strite had a job waiting was part of the parole officer’s job, Mr. Thornton. Strite couldn’t have been paroled without it.”

The Adam’s apple bobbed again. “That’s what all you people say. It’s part of your job. How’d you feel if someone went to your employer asking questions about you every time some candy store was robbed?”

I said mildly, “You’re pretty fond of Harry, huh?”

“Not particularly. It’s just a matter of common justice. I’m a champion of the underdog.”

I said, “As police officers we appreciate the importance of men like you, Mr. Thornton. Not every employer is willing to take a chance on an ex-con. There’d be a lot fewer repeat offenders if more employers had the same confidence in rehabilitation that you do. But some ex-cons do repeat, which makes it tough on all of them. We have to make this check.”

This seemed to mollify him. He said grudgingly, “I suppose I have as much of a duty to society as I have to my employees. What do you want to know?”

I told him we merely wanted to verify Harry Strite’s movements that morning. Thornton pulled some dispatch slips from a spindle, sorted through them, and separated several.

“Well, he checked out in his truck at seven thirty,” he said. “Had three deliveries of firewood on it.” He read off the addresses, and Frank wrote them in his notebook. “Pulled back in at ten, loaded up again and took off. Should have completed those deliveries about one p.m. Imagine he’s stopped for lunch now, and will be back about two.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“This clear Harry of whatever you suspect him of?”

“It may,” I said.

His Adam’s apple slid up and down a couple of times. “Listen,” he said, with a slight air of embarrassment. “Maybe I sounded off too much when you first came in. But I’ve always resented the police persecuting people.”

Frank said, “We’ve been policemen a long time. And never persecuted anybody yet.”

“Maybe you haven’t. But lots of policemen do. I know.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“They drove my younger brother to his grave.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Kid made a mistake, paid for it, and tried to straighten out. But you think the police would let him? Every time somebody knocked over a filling station, they were around asking where Dave was at the time.”

“That what he took his fall for?” I asked. “Knocking over a gas station?”

“Yeah. But it was just a kid stunt. He was only eighteen the first time.”

“Oh,” I said. “He did it more than once, huh?”

“Sure, when they kept hounding him. Guess he figured as long as he had the name, he might as well have the game.”

“You say he’s dead now?”

Thornton’s Adam’s apple made a mournful bob. “Two years ago. Got shot by a filling-station proprietor.”

2:26 p.m. With the aid of a street map of Los Angeles, we figured out the probable time Strite should have taken to reach his first delivery point. It worked out to about twenty minutes, which should have gotten him there at 7:50. A check with the customer disclosed that the delivery had been made, and that Strite had left the place around 8:00 a.m.

The first delivery point was no more than a five-minute drive from West Sixth and Bixel. It would have been possible for Strite to meet Maurice Wey, slip out of his coveralls and be at Grammon’s Supermarket at the time of the robbery.

A check with the second customer put a hole in this theory. The wood had been delivered at 8:45 a.m., about the time the two suspects were commandeering a car a block from Decameron Lane.

Frank said, “Think maybe they pulled a real fast one, Joe? Like having a confederate drive the truck while Strite and Wey made the hit?”

“Worth checking out,” I said.

We contacted the second customer again. We were unable to prove or disprove Frank’s suggestion. The place was a private home. When ordering the firewood, the customer had left instructions for it to be piled in the yard. His wife had seen the truck back into the driveway and leave again, but had not gone outside. She could give no description of the driver.

Back at the office there was a note in the message book to phone Sergeant McLaughlin. When I called, he reported that the car abandoned at Hollywood and Sunset had been wiped clear of prints.

3:14 p.m. We went into Captain Peters’ office to report what we had.

When we finished, he said, “You really think they’d be cute enough to switch truck drivers?”

I said, “I think so.”

Peters shook his head. “Seems awfully complicated.”

“Why? It’s just the devious kind of stuff a guy who regarded himself as a master criminal would pull. And Big Julie has enough ego to regard himself as a master criminal.”

“You’re convinced he planned this, huh?”

“Not convinced,” I said. “Let’s say strongly suspicious. Behind his polite exterior, he was laughing his head off at us when we visited him today. He’s the kind of guy who would get a lift out of making the police run around in circles.”

“Uh-huh,” the captain said. “Maybe we’d better pull Strite in for a little talk.”

“We wouldn’t get anything,” Frank said. “He probably wants to be pulled in so he can spring his alibi.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Let them think we swallowed Strife’s alibi. And put the stakeouts back on Strife and Big Julie.”

The captain nodded. “I’ll speak to the chief. Maybe one of them will lead us to Maury Wey.”

“Or to something better.”

“What?”

“Maybe we’ll catch them in the act when they try to make their next hit.”