To Keep or Kill

Five

An inbound streetcar clanging its way through the moderately heavy traffic of Main Street joggled his memory.

Horne continued on to the next corner, waited for a break in traffic and dashed across the street. The car was yet a block away. A clock in a jeweler’s window behind him registered a few minutes of noon. He wondered idly if it was the right time.

Swinging aboard the rear door of the streetcar he gave the conductor a dime and asked him a question.

“Oh, God!” the conductor groaned, “you too?”

“Whaddya mean, me too?”

“Look, bud,” the weary conductor growled, “all morning its been the same thing: did you see her, where did she get on, where did she get off, did she get a transfer? If I told ’em once I told ’em a thousand times, I did not see any redheaded dame get off at Wilsey Street last night. Now, does that answer your question?”

“Nope,” Horne shot back. “She might have been wearing a wig.”

“That’s what they thought, too.”

“Who?”

“The rest of the cops. Say — how come you’re asking me questions? Ain’t you a cop? How come you don’t already know?”

Horne shook his head. “I’m not on the force.” He pulled out his wallet to display the badge. “I’m a private investigator. Handling the insurance angle. My name is Charles Horne.”

“Oh, yeah — I read about’cha in the paper.” He pointed to the bandage. “That where you got nicked? Does it hurt much? Hey, lady, how old is that boy?”

“He’s only eleven. He won’t be twelve ’til next September nineteenth. He’s just big for his age.”

“Well, all right this time, but he’s gotta pay a dime when he’s twelve, see?” The conductor passed the woman and the boy in. He turned back to Horne. “How’d it feel to get blowed up?”

“Like hell,” the detective returned feelingly. “Can’t you remember any woman getting off at Wilsey last night? Maybe someone who acted suspicious?”

“Naw. Look, bud. I work from six at night until after midnight, and I come on again the next morning at five-thirty and work until noon. I see too damned many people to remember one woman!”

“Even a pretty one? With red hair?”

“Even a pretty one with red hair. I heard that boom last night. We was only a few blocks away. The cops asked me if I didn’t remember a woman getting on at Wilsey just before the big bust. I didn’t even remember that.”

“You’re a lot of help!”

“Well, that’s how it is. Step aside, let the lady in. Hold it lady, wait for your change.” He dropped fifteen cents in the girl’s hand and she passed inside. “Now see there, I gave her fifteen cents five seconds ago and right now I can’t tell you what she looked like. See, fella? I just see too many people.”

“How about the motorman? How’s his memory?”

“Big Forry? They asked him lot’sa questions, too, but he couldn’t help them. All he looks at is legs.”

“Legs?”

“Yeah, legs. When he stops and opens the door for ’em to get off, he looks down at their legs to make sure they get off before he starts again. Safety first, y’know.”

“I see what you mean. Well, thanks, anyway.”

“Okay, fella. But next time there’s an explosion you can bet I’ll watch! The cops razzed me plenty.”

Horne got off the streetcar at the safety island and looked back to see if Big Forry was watching his legs. Big Forry wasn’t. The crew was changing shifts with the afternoon men and Big Forry was diligently searching under his seat for an evasive thermos bottle.

The detective turned in at the first public telephone sign and called Dr. Saari’s office.

“Hullo, hard worker. Had lunch?”

“Hello, Chuck. It would be a pleasure.”

“Be there in five minutes. But you’ve got to make a promise...”

“What is it?”

“That you won’t order more than fifty cents’ worth. I’m almost broke.”

“I’ll be glad to pay for it, Chuck.”

“Oh, no you don’t! I have pride. I’ll borrow money from a woman but I won’t let one buy my meals.”

“You’re silly. Come on over.” She hung up.

He found the police still active on Wilsey Street. They had barricaded the street at the far end and were preparing to do the same at the Main Street end. Most of the stores along the block were closed to business, their interiors vacant. All the parking spaces along the entire block were unused; he was one of the very few persons there not in uniform.

Climbing the stairs to Dr. Saari’s office he puzzled over it. She called out to him from the inner room.

“In here, Chuck. Make yourself at home. I’ll be ready in a jiffy.”

“Hi, Elizabeth. What’s going on down in the street?”

She shook her head and continued clearing the desk. He stood beside her, toying with the telephone.

“The cops are roping it off,” he explained more fully. “And the stores are closed.”

“Oh, that. The sergeant said something about making some tests. In secrecy. He’s clearing the block. I imagine business is closed for the remainder of the day.”

“The chamber of commerce won’t like that. But why?”

“I really couldn’t say, Chuck. Ask the sergeant.”

He crammed his hands into his coat pockets and considered her answer. It wasn’t satisfactory. She could have told him she didn’t know why, and instead, she had implied that she couldn’t tell him. Wouldn’t tell him, perhaps. A crumpled envelope in his pocket met his fingers.

He jerked it out and looked at his phone number. She glanced down at it.

“Another one? Still searching for the jokester?”

“Another one, and it’s no joke, Elizabeth. This one doesn’t match with the letter, either. Somebody mailed me my own number for a reason, a better reason than just wasting a postage stamp. I think maybe it’s a warning, but if so, it doesn’t make much sense. I’m positive the redhead didn’t see me in the window.”

“You said someone called and pretended to have the wrong number.”

“I wish I knew whether or not it was pretense.”

Idly he picked up her telephone and dialed the number typed on the wrinkled envelope. Across the hall in his office the phone began to ring. He moved to replace the receiver when suddenly there was a click. The other phone continued ringing. Surprised, he held the phone away from his face, staring at it.

Elizabeth Saari was watching him, uncomprehending. He put a quick finger to his lips, motioning for silence.

He placed the instrument in her hand, turned, and sped across the hall to his office. The ringing phone was loud through the door. Pushing it open, he rushed in. The office was empty. The bewildered detective paused, staring down at his phone. Abruptly he turned and walked back to the doctor’s office.

Taking the instrument from her, he placed it on the cradle. His own phone ceased calling him.

“I thought I heard a noise,” Elizabeth said.

“You did hear a noise. Somebody cut in on my wire like it was a party line, which it is not. Elizabeth, phone me when I get back to my office. I’ll hesitate a few moments before I answer. Listen for a click.”

“What shall I say?”

“Say anything you want to, but don’t make a break and tip my hand. Don’t mention anything about clicks.”

He crossed over to his own office for the second time. The phone began to ring as he crossed the threshold. He stood beside the desk until he had counted twenty aloud, and scooped up the receiver.

“Yes?”

Elizabeth’s voice came to him. “I understand fifty cents is the limit?” She said it gravely.

“The absolute ceiling,” he responded in like tone. “I’ll walk out if it’s a penny more.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I am ready.” She hung up.

He waited, but there was nothing. Reaching down, he gently tapped the bakelite receiver against the cradle base.

And was rewarded with a small click.

He hung up and joined Elizabeth. “I heard it, Chuck! The same click.”

He nodded. “Me too. Know what it is?”

It was her turn to nod. “I’ve seen it lots of times in the movies. Your phone has been tapped. But Chuck, that’s against the law!”

He laughed hollowly. “So is killing people. Let’s go eat.”

“I’m ready.” She picked up the inevitable black bag and locked the outer door behind them. “Did you mean that about the fifty cents?”

“Yup. A dollar and forty cents is all I’ve got until payday.”

“Which payday?”

“The twenty-fifth of the month. The insurance company sends me a check once a month.” He grinned without humor. “Thanks to Walter Alfred Channy — the Third — the check will be larger, this month.”

They descended to the street. It was empty of people except for them and three or four policemen. At the corner of Wilsey and Main he held up the rope barrier for Elizabeth to duck under. One of the patrolmen walked over.

“Hello, doctor.” The patrolman looked at Horne and put his tongue in his cheek. “Hello, sleuth. You people can’t come back in this afternoon.”

Elizabeth nodded without question.

Horne said, “Why not?”

“Orders. There’s going to be some investigating.”

“Yeah, but look here, I’m a detective.”

The patrolman regarded Horne carefully. “Well, I wouldn’t brag about it if I were you, sleuth.”

Elizabeth smiled carefully from the corners of her mouth and tugged at his arm.

“Come along, Chuck. You can’t answer that one.”

She piloted him across Main Street and up the block.

“We’ll have to hurry. The noon rush is gathering strength.”

“Take it easy,” he advised. “I know a babe in the Blue Mill. She saves me a table.”

“Charles Horne, I am not eating at the Blue Mill! There is a basement tearoom up this way.”

“What! A tearoom? Not on your life. You don’t catch me in no tearoom! I want something to eat.”

Elizabeth found them a corner table in the basement tearoom. She ordered two “Noon-day Specials” at forty-five cents each. Horne spent his time ogling the women at the adjoining tables until Elizabeth, uncomfortable under the returning frowns, kicked him sharply in the shin.

They parted an hour later, Elizabeth going to the garage that housed her car. She informed him that she had to make some calls and would probably spend the balance of the afternoon at the hospital. She had made arrangements with the telephone operator to switch office calls to her.

Horne headed for Wilsey Street at a swift pace. He found a large crowd of curious citizens hanging on the ropes, looking up the street towards the crater. Additional patrolmen stood behind the ropes, facing the crowd.

Peering over the shoulders of those in front of him, Horne was disappointed. Between him and the crater were two automobiles, nose-to-nose in the middle of the street, effectively blocking from sight whatever activity was taking place around the hole in the pavement. On the far side of the hole were parked two more automobiles, similarly placed, blocking the view of the smaller crowd at the upper end of the block. Between the four cars, around the crater, was sketchily seen tense, swift movement. Horne caught sight of men in and out of police uniform.

Edging out of the mob, he struck off for the mouth of the alley in the middle of the block, an alley which ran parallel to Wilsey Street and would allow him to enter by the rear door of his office building. When he reached the alley mouth he took one look at the policeman who stood there and kept right on going. He circled the block and approached the north end of the alley. Another policeman was on guard. Looking down the alley towards his building he saw two others, prowling around.

Once again on Wilsey Street, this time at the opposite barrier which held back the smaller crowd, he met the Finn.

“They won’t let me in my drugstore,” the Finn complained. “I think you should do something.”

“They won’t let me in my office and I’m supposed to be a detective,” Horne shot back. “I think you should do something.”

The Finn sat down on the curbing and propped his chin in his hands. Horne lifted his eyes and searched the roof tops of the buildings on the opposite side of Wilsey. Rapidly he walked west, away from town. There was no alley in this block. Continuing on to the next street, he turned and slowed his pace, searching for second-floor stairways. He found one almost due west of his own office building.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, he searched along the corridor for a way to the roof. There was none, but there was an open window at the far end of the corridor. He put his head out the window and looked up. A steel fire ladder ran from the roof to the ground. The wall of the adjoining building was but two or three feet away, leaving no room for a regulation fire escape.

Without hesitation he swung out the window and climbed the ladder. The rungs were filthy from the weather, soiling his hands. The black coat of tar on the roof was hot and sticky from the baking sun. His shoes made soft indentations as he walked across the roofs towards Wilsey Street. There were three fire walls to hurdle.

The brick front of the building overlooking Wilsey jutted four feet above the roof top. He removed his hat, bent his knees before he reached it, and peered cautiously over the edge.

Below him he saw a bent-over and nearly-bald stranger standing in the bottom of the crater that had been blasted out of the street.

The stranger was clad in a dark gray business suit and was wearing thick, white cotton gloves. Slowly the man moved across the crater and Horne noted his feet were wrapped in heavy canvas boots. Held tightly in the gloved hands was a small thing that looked like a box, apparently made of black metal and glass.

Everyone in the street below him seemed to be staring at the box and listening. Listening intently.

Charles Horne saw a shadow of movement on the street below him, and discovered it was the shadow of his own head, peering over the wall. The sun was behind him. He ducked away from the wall and sped towards the fire ladder.

At five that evening, entering the Blue Mill for supper, he saw the nearly-bald stranger and a companion seated at a table. Sauntering past them, he suddenly paused and stared.

“Why, hello, professor!”

The two men stopped eating to glance up.

“I’m sorry,” said the stranger. “I don’t seem to place you.”

“My fault, really. We’ve never really met. I heard you lecture at Northwestern a couple of times.” Horne beamed what he hoped was a friendly smile.

The stranger returned it.

“Then it must have been some time ago,” he replied courteously. “I haven’t lectured for several years.”

“Oh,” Horne explained glibly, “this was before the war. Excuse me for butting in, will you?”

He left them and pushed his way along the crowded aisle, searching for a table. A waitress grabbed his arm and tugged.

“This way, handsome. I’ve been saving it for you.”

“Remind me to leave you an extra ten-dollar tip, Judy. What would I do without you?”

“You’d keep right on telling lies, handsome. How’d you know those guys were professors? And why did you tell them you went to college?”

He seated himself at the table as she spread napkin and silverware before him.

“I guessed they were professors and I had to find out if they were from Northwestern because that adds up to something hot and I never said I went to college. I only said I had heard him lecture there. So it isn’t a lie, it’s only a stretched truth.”

“I think you’re goofy at times,” Judy pronounced.

“You’d think I was a hell of a lot goofier if I told you what actually happened in Boone last night!”