Traps Need Fresh Bait

Chapter 4

I rang the Travertine Hotel at eight o’clock the next morning.

“May I speak to Daphne Creston?” I asked.

“Just a moment, please,” the operator said; then, after a moment, said, “We don’t have a Daphne Creston registered here.”

“Does she have a reservation?” I asked.

“Apparently not.”

“Can you give me the bell captain or whoever is in charge of the baggage room? I want to see if she’s left baggage and intends to check in later.”

“Just a moment.”

The operator plugged me in on a new connection; a masculine voice said, “Hello”; and I said, “Are you in charge of the baggage room?”

“That’s right.”

“Has Daphne Creston called and picked up her things? She left some baggage and...”

“No, sir, the baggage is still here.”

“All right,” I told him; “I guess she’ll be in later then. Thank you. Goodbye.”

The Finchley murder had taken place too late for the early editions, but the radio broadcasts had some details.

Finchley, a very prosperous attorney living in a swanky house in the Hollywood-Beverley Hills district, had been engaged in an argument with someone who had shot him through the heart with a .38 caliber revolver and escaped.

A neighbor had heard voices raised in argument, had heard the sound of the shot, and had notified police. Police, in turn, had notified patrol cars by radio, and police were in the house within a matter of minutes. They had found Finchley lying dead on the floor of his second-floor study. There was no sign of his assailant.

Finchley was described as being a wealthy widower, somewhat retiring although his company was much sought by hostesses.

There were no servants in the house at the time of the shooting.

Police found the back door unlocked and standing partially open. The door was equipped with a spring lock, so that it would only have been necessary for anyone leaving the house to have pulled the door shut and the spring lock would have snapped into place.

Since the house was in a quiet residential neighborhood, with houses separated from the street by well-kept lawns, neighbors were not inclined to snoop. The sound of the argument and the pistol shot had been about the only clues unearthed by the police.

One of the neighbors, however, had thought that a car containing one man had been parked for about two minutes in front of the Finchley house with the motor running. This neighbor was walking his dog and wouldn’t have paid any attention to the car if it hadn’t been for the fact that the motor was running. As it was, he glanced at it casually. He couldn’t be certain of the make or model of the car but had gathered a general impression of a youngish-to-middle-aged, well-dressed man sitting in the front seat.

Police felt that Finchley, at the time of his death, had been talking over business matters while seated at his desk in the second-floor study.

The lawyer had been shot at close range, and the absence of any struggle indicated that it was someone the attorney knew, who had been admitted to the house probably in accordance with a prior appointment.

The neighbor who had heard the altercation told police he thought Finchley had said, “I’m calling your bluff and the pol—”

And then came the shot.

The neighbor thought Finchley was going to say he was calling a politician, but it could have been he was about to say he was calling the police.

After the sound of the shot, there had been the sound of a woman’s single short scream.

The neighbor hadn’t been certain the noise he heard was a door slamming, but the sound, coupled with the woman’s scream, had made him decide to call the police.

I went to the office, casually dropped in on Bertha Cool.

“What’s new?” I asked.

“Nothing. Did you get in touch with Barney Adams?”

I shook my head.

Bertha’s face showed irritation. “He wanted you to call him just as soon as you came in.”

Bertha opened her desk, took out the card with the telephone number Adams had given her, and gave the number to our switchboard operator. “Get Mr. Adams at that number,” she said.

After a while, Bertha’s phone rang.

Bertha gave her hair a quick pat, put a conciliatory smile on her face, picked up the telephone and said, “Yes, hello,” in her most dulcet voice.

Her expression underwent a swift change. “The hell he doesn’t,” she said. “You sure you dialed the right number? Yes, that’s right.

“Well, he may be out to breakfast. Try him again in about half an hour.”

I said, “Well, we called. He can’t ask for anything more than that.”

“Of course,” Bertha pointed out, “we don’t know what this number is. It’s his private apartment, for all we know. We’ll try it again in half an hour. You going to be in?”

“I’ll be in and out,” I told her.

“How’re you coming on the investigation?”

“So-so.”

“What have you uncovered?”

I said, “I’m not prepared to make a report right now, but I think they aren’t interested in getting a witness to the accident mentioned in the ad.”

“What!” Bertha exclaimed.

I nodded.

“Don’t be silly, Donald! They have to be interested; they’re paying three hundred dollars for information leading to the location of a witness.”

“A witness,” I said, “who will testify that the Ford went through a stop signal and hit the Cadillac.”

“Well, naturally, they aren’t going to spend money for an unfriendly witness.”

“Actually,” I said, “the case is the opposite. The Cadillac went through the signal and hit the Ford.”

Bertha’s eyes blinked rapidly while she digested that bit of information. “No wonder they’re willing to pay three hundred bucks,” she said at length.

“And,” I said, “the case was all settled before the ad was put in the paper.”

Bertha’s chair squeaked as she abruptly leaned forward. “What?”

“The case was settled,” I said, “before the ad was put in the paper.”

“Then what in the world was the idea of putting that ad in the paper?”

“Someone wants a patsy.”

“A patsy?”

“That’s right,” I said. “They want someone who is willing to make a false affidavit for three hundred bucks.”

“Then if the case has been settled, what are they going to do with the affidavit?”

“Probably nothing.”

“I don’t get you.”

“What they want is someone who is willing to commit perjury for three hundred bucks; then they’ll get an affidavit in which this person swears to things that didn’t exist and didn’t happen and use it as a club to hold over the individual.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Fry me for an oyster!” Bertha Cool said, half under her breath. “So that’s it!”

“I don’t know,” I told her. “I wouldn’t want to report that to our client at the present time because I don’t know. But what evidence I’ve been able to uncover seems to indicate that’s the case.”

“Did they proposition you to make an affidavit, Donald?”

“Not directly. I was a little too sophisticated for them. They’re looking for someone a little more shifty or a little more down on his luck.”

“And then what are they going to do?”

I made a little gesture of spreading my hands apart. “Write your own ticket,” I told her.

Bertha’s eyes glinted with enthusiasm. “That’ll be swell, Donald! I’ll bet that’s what Adams suspected all along, and he just wanted some confirmation. It’s just like you said: he’s probably representing a coalition of insurance companies who are intent upon breaking up a ring of people who are getting witnesses to commit perjury.”

“Let’s not tell Adams anything until we’re sure,” I said.

“Why not?”

“We don’t want him to think the job was too easy.”

Bertha digested that bit of information. “Yes, sir,” she said; “I see your point.”

“Let me know if you hear from Adams,” I told her, and walked down to my office.

Elsie Brand gave me a warm smile. “How’s the case coming, Donald?”

“So-so. I want some help on it.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Can I count on you?”

“For anything.”

“Got a very loud scarf anywhere around?”

“I... yes. I have an orange and red scarf.”

“Get it,” I said; “run down to the drugstore and get yourself a pair of dark glasses, put on very vivid lipstick, and let’s go.”

“Bertha won’t like it if we leave your office without anyone and...”

“Bertha won’t like it anyway,” I said. “And there’s no one else I can trust. We shouldn’t be gone too long.”

“O.K.,” Elsie said.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” I told her.

I looked over the morning mail. There wasn’t anything particularly important. While I was studying the mail, Bertha rang the phone.

“I finally got an answer from that new number Adams left. Guess what?”

“A love nest?” I asked.

“An attorney’s office — and they’re very vague about Barney Adams. They asked me if I cared to state my business with Mr. Adams and leave my name.”

“So what did you do?” I asked.

Bertha said, “I had to play things close to my chest, Donald. I said it was a personal matter and hung up.”

“Didn’t leave any message — any number, any name?”

“No, I left nothing.”

“Good girl!” I told her. “We’ll probably be hearing from him later on in the day.”

I couldn’t prove that there had been any connection whatever between Adams and Finchley or Harper and Finchley; and I certainly hoped there hadn’t been any connection between Daphne Creston and Finchley. But I was in a delicate position.

Elsie came back with the dark glasses, put on the scarf and the lipstick, and looked a knockout.

I put her in the agency car and drove around to the Travertine Hotel, parked in front of the place, and tapped the horn.

A bellboy came out.

“You’ve got some baggage you’re holding for Daphne Creston,” I said. “We’ll take it now.”

He gave Elsie a quick look; then his eyes shifted to the two dollar bills I was holding.

“We’re in a hurry,” I told him. “Have to catch a plane. Make it snappy, will you?”

“It’s under the name of Daphne Creston?”

“That’s right,” I said, and then looked at Elsie. “It is under your name, isn’t it?”

Elsie nodded.

The bellboy entered the hotel and, within a matter of minutes, came out with the suitcase and the overnight bag.

“Don’t you have a claim check on these?” he asked

“They were just put under the name of Daphne Creston,” I said. “Load them right in the back, if you will.”

He said, “There’s supposed to be a check.”

“Forget it,” I told him. “We’re in a hurry, and those are the right things, so let’s skip the red tape.”

“That’s all of it?” he asked.

“That’s all of it,” I told him, and jumped in behind the wheel.

By the time he had the bags loaded, I was driving away. I didn’t think he bothered to check the license number.

“Now what?” Elsie asked.

“Off with the scarf,” I said. “Off with the dark glasses; subdue the lipstick; back to the office and ride herd on what’s happening.”

I dropped Elsie at the office and said, “Don’t tell anybody when I’ll be in, because it’s indefinite. Say I’ll be in and out all day; take messages; I’ll be in touch with you.”

I drove to the bus depot, put the baggage in a locker, and took stock of the situation.

Daphne Creston was somewhere in the city, penniless. I had eliminated her back trail by picking up her baggage. She just might be mixed up in a murder case. A man by the name of Rodney Harper had a false affidavit signed and sworn to by Daphne.

The kid could be in a pack of trouble.

I decided to take a look at my new apartment, drove there, parked the car, and went in.

The curtains were pulled, the place was dark. I switched on the lights and noticed what seemed like a long bundle on the davenport.

I took another, closer look and could see a few wisps of hair straggling out from under the blanket.

A tousled head came up, frightened eyes blinked at me, and then there was a smile as Daphne said, “Hi, Donald. You’re getting in pretty late.”

“Hi, yourself,” I said. “What’s cooking?”

She said, “I had to accept your hospitality, Donald. I didn’t have a dime. I didn’t have a place to stay. I left the bed for you. There was an extra blanket in the closet and I rolled up in it. I hope you don’t mind.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Donald,” she said, “it was the craziest thing, and I guess I’m in trouble.”

“I have an idea you are.”

She said, “I closed the windows and left the heat on last night. And it was cold about three o’clock this morning. They turned the heat off then.”

I said, “You should have got into the bed and used the extra blanket on the bed if you got cold.”

“I didn’t want to usurp your domain, Donald. If you had come home about three o’clock this morning, however, I’d have been strongly tempted. A cold girl can be very easily persuaded. Where were you? I’ve got no right to ask, but — Donald, there is somebody, isn’t there?”

“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “I didn’t sleep here. That much is obvious. But what I’m interested in is what happened to you.”

She said, “I went to the Monadnock Building. That man was there.”

“You mean Harper?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he do?”

“He had a big automobile. I think it was a Lincoln. He was impatient; he told me to get in, and we drove rapidly out past Hollywood. Then he suddenly made a left-hand turn and then he made another left-hand turn, then a right-hand turn, and then turned back toward the boulevard again and drove in at a home. I think no one was there. The house was dark. It was in the seventeen-hundred block on Hemmet Avenue.”

“What side of the street?”

“The north side.”

“Did he go in?”

“No. We just sat there in the car.”

“Where was the car?”

“Parked way back in the driveway.”

“Then what?”

“Then after ten minutes or so we went on down to this house.”

“The Finchley house?”

“I think it was.”

“Then what?”

“He said, ‘Now, you’re supposed to go in there. Take this key and use it to open the front door. As soon as you’ve opened the front door, walk quietly up the stairs. There will be a small table at the head of the stairs, just to the right. Pick up the brief case which is there on the table. Go back down the stairs, out the front door, and walk to the curb. Turn either to the right or to the left — whichever you choose. Keep walking. Don’t stop for anything or anybody. If anybody is following you, pretend you don’t see them. Keep on walking, I’ll be cruising somewhere in the neighborhood, sizing up the situation. When I make sure you aren’t being followed, I’ll slide in the curb, call to you and tell you to get in. Then I’ll drive you back to the city. You’ll be given the three hundred dollars and your job will be finished.’”

“That all?” I asked.

“That’s about it. Of course, he said a few things by way of explanation. He said, ‘I can’t pay you the three hundred dollars the way things are now. As long as there’s this question of your good faith and whether you actually saw the accident, my hands are tied!’

“Then he went on to say that that was what came of doing business with a lawyer who is just too darned ethical.”

“All right,” I said, “what happened? You went in the house?”

“I used the key and opened the door. I felt misgivings, but I started upstairs and heard two people having a terrific argument. All I heard was the man. He was shouting epithets and was terribly angry.”

“Could you tell what the man was talking about?”

“No, I could only make out a word here and there, such as ‘traitor’ and ‘crook’ and something about betraying a confidence, and I think he said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m calling your bluff.’ And then, all of a sudden, there was the sound of this shot. Only I didn’t realize what it was at the time. I thought it was somebody slamming a door real hard; but as soon as I heard that sound, things became silent except for someone running down what sounded like back stairs.”

“What did you do?”

“I ducked into a little closet at the foot of the stairs, a cloak closet, and closed the door almost all the way.”

“And then what?”

“Then I heard this person run out of the back door and I opened the closet door. I went up the stairs. When I got far enough up to see the upper hallway, I could look through an open door and into a lighted room. I saw the table with the brief case. Only there were two brief cases. I didn’t know which one to take. I decided to take the top one. Then was when I peeked into the lighted room. I saw a man’s feet. I took a couple of more steps so I could get a better view. A man was sprawled out on the floor.

“It was then I realized that what I had heard must have been a shot. I was petrified.”

“So what did you do?”

“I think I screamed at least once. I know I turned and ran through a corridor and out of the house. It wasn’t until after I got out I realized I was still carrying the brief case.”

“Then what?” I asked.

She said, “I went out and stood by the front of the house looking to see if the automobile was going to come back for me. I waited two or three minutes in the deep shadows for Mr. Harper to come by, but, of course, he didn’t show up. He had told me he would be cruising in the neighborhood. I would have been reassured if I could have seen him go by, but there wasn’t any car, so I moved into the shadows and stayed there, shaking like a leaf.

“Then I heard two people out on the porch of the adjoining house, and one of them said, ‘Did you think that could have been a pistol shot we heard?’ And the other one said, ‘I guess it could have been. I’m going to call the police right now.’”

“Just where were you standing?” I asked.

“Under an orange tree on the front lawn. That is, I think it was an orange tree. It was very dark and the foliage was quite thick.”

“Then what?”

“The people next door went inside to telephone the police, and I lost my head. Mr. Harper had said that if I would walk down the street, he would make certain that I wasn’t being followed and then would cruise by and pick me up. So I ran out to the sidewalk, looked up and down the street, didn’t see any headlights, and started walking; and as I walked I began to get frightened. I guess I had covered about a hundred yards when I came to a house which looked deserted. It was all dark and I guess the people were out for the evening someplace. Anyway, I felt I should get off the street, so I walked around to the back of that house and sat on the steps of the back porch for quite a while — it must have been half an hour. I heard police cars and the sounds of sirens and I was good and frightened.”

“Then what?”

“Then I got into circulation again. I was afraid to stay there too long for fear the people who owned the house would come home. So I walked and walked and walked and came to a side street that I took back to the boulevard, and there was a bench and a bus stop there. I didn’t know how often buses were running at that time of the night, but I just went over and sat down. Remember that I had only about thirty-five cents to my name.”

“And then?” I asked.

“Well, a couple of cars stopped and people tried to get me to ride with them, but they were the flashy kind and it was easy to see what they were after. But a rather elderly gentleman stopped his car and seemed very nice. He said, ‘I beg your pardon, if you’re waiting for a bus, it’s going to be quite a while before one comes along. I’m going back to Hollywood and then down to Los Angeles. If I can be of any assistance, I’d be glad to have you ride with me.’”

“What did you do?”

“I was getting a little cold and nervous and — well, I accepted.”

“Have any trouble?”

“Not a bit. The man was just wonderful.”

“Did he,” I asked, “take you here?”

“No,” she said, “I gave him an address a couple of blocks down the street. He dropped me off there and wanted to see me up to my apartment to make sure that I was all right. But I laughed at him and told him I came home late at night lots of times and there was nothing to worry about. So I ran up the steps to an apartment house, stood there at the door for a moment, then turned the knob and pushed on the door. It was open and I went in. There was no one in the lobby; I waited there for about a minute and then came back out. My nice man had driven away. So then I walked back here to your place. I knocked on your door and got no answer. I used my key and came in. I decided I was going to have to take advantage of your hospitality; but I didn’t want to... well, you know. I didn’t want to seem to... to be in your bed when you came in, so I looked around and found this extra blanket in the closet and took my clothes, put on a pair of pajamas and rolled up in the blanket.

“Donald, I must be a mess; I haven’t a comb, hairbrush, toothbrush, no creams — I haven’t anything. I’m just a forlorn waif and I must look like the tragic end of a misspent life!”

“Where is the brief case?” I asked.

“Under the couch,” she said.

She swung back the blanket.

The action was perfectly natural; there was no coyness about it, no self-consciousness; she just flung back the blanket and sat up. She was wearing a pair of my pajamas. The top two buttons were open. She bent over to reach under the couch and dragged out the brief case. The pajamas stretched tight around her hips.

“There it is, Donald,” she said, sitting up on the davenport.

It was an expensive brief case. There were no initials on it, no sign that it had ever been used. It looked brand new.

I tried the catch. It was locked.

She laughed and said, “I did that last night, Donald. I wanted to see what was in it.”

I said, “Just a minute,” and walked over to my own brief case, where I kept a small piece of stiff wire, which properly used is about as efficient a lock pick as anyone could ask for.

It took me less than a minute to get the brief case open.

It was full of money.

I heard Daphne say, “Good heavens, Donald! It’s... it’s...” Her voice trailed away into startled silence.

I pulled out the money and said, “We’re going to have to count this so we can both be protected, Daphne.”

She nodded, spread the blanket out over her knees, and I dumped the packages of currency on to the blanket.

There was an even forty thousand dollars in the brief case.

I put it back, closed the brief case, and slid it under the couch.

“Now what do we do?” she asked.

“Now we have to try to beat the police to the punch,” I said. “We’ve got to find out where we stand before they find you.”

“Donald, it was a pistol shot I heard, wasn’t it?”

“It was a pistol shot,” I said, “and the man who lived in that house — an attorney named Dale Finchley — is very dead. It shouldn’t need any great stretch of the imagination to tell you that you’re in something of a spot.”

“Donald, could I... could I take my three hundred dollars out of that brief case and...”

“You don’t touch a cent!” I said.

“But, Donald, I can’t — I’m absolutely broke and I’ve got to get out of here and get where the police can’t find me.”

“You’ve done some fool things in the last few days,” I said, “but running away right at the present time would be the worst mistake you could possibly make. In California, flight is an evidence of guilt. You’ve already resorted to flight once.”

“When?”

“When you ran from the house. You should have waited and told the police your story.”

“They wouldn’t have believed me.”

“They might not have disbelieved you,” I said. “You could have cited certain facts by way of corroboration. I could have vouched for part of your story.”

“You could?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

I said, “I was driving the car that was following Harper when you left the Monadnock Building.”

“You were?”

“That’s right.”

“Good heavens, why?”

“I wanted to find out what was up and wanted to give you some measure of protection if possible. I had an idea you might be headed for trouble.”

“Why, Donald? How did you know?”

“Figure it out for yourself,” I said. “This man Harper didn’t want any affidavit to straighten out an automobile accident; he was looking for someone he could use as a patsy. He wanted someone who would be willing to execute a false affidavit. Once he had that false affidavit, he had that person in his power. He could show perjury had been committed.

“I showed up and he didn’t like my looks; I was a little bit too sure of myself — perhaps a little too sophisticated. However, he would have done business with me if he had had to.

“Then you came along and you were just exactly what he was looking for — a young woman who didn’t know her way around...”

“Donald, I do know my way around. I’ve... I’ve had lots of experience!”

“Sure,” I said, “you’ve got a certain veneer of sophistication, but you’re still naïve.”

For a moment she seemed disposed to argue the point; then she settled back on the davenport, pulled up the blanket around her chin, smiled at me, and said, “All right, Donald, I guess it’s up to you to complete my education.”

“If what I think is correct,” I said, “you’re already enrolled for a postgraduate course. The police will be looking for you before midafternoon, and by tonight you’ll probably be charged with murder.”

Her eyes popped wide open. “Donald!” she exclaimed. And then after a moment she said, “Are you kidding? Are you trying to get a rise out of me?”

“I’m telling the truth,” I told her. “I don’t know whether they had it all set up or whether you blundered into something; but you can see the sketch. You show up there at the house and...”

“But, Donald, I never knew the man! I never saw him in my life!”

“That’s your story,” I said. “Let’s look at it from the police standpoint. Finchley was murdered; he was having an argument with a woman before his murder. It could have been a woman who was trying to get blackmail. Finchley might not have wanted to have paid the blackmail.

“The woman pulled a gun and shot him. Police think this woman then took the money Finchley had picked up to make a final payment when he got the papers of whatever it was he was being blackmailed about.

“The police find you with the money.

“You tell a story about people giving you a key and telling you to go in the house and pick up a brief case. Why were you to do this? In order to get the three hundred dollars that the people owed you. Why did they owe you three hundred dollars? Because you had made a false affidavit in which you had committed perjury.

“You tell that story on the witness stand. The District Attorney takes you on cross-examination; he jeers at you, ‘So you were willing to commit perjury for three hundred dollars!’ You tell him you were broke and hungry; and you argue and try to evade the point; but the District Attorney keeps putting it up to you. Finally you admit you were willing to commit perjury for three hundred dollars.

“The District Attorney sneers, turns his back and walks away.

“The jury takes a good, long look at you — a girl who would commit perjury for three hundred dollars. What would you do for forty thousand dollars?”

“Donald, stop it!” she said.

“Life isn’t like that,” I told her. “It isn’t like a television show that you can turn off by twisting a dial. It isn’t like a motion-picture machine where you can shut off the flickering images at any time you like.

“Life goes forward — a steady, remorseless procession of cause and effect. Today’s effects becomes tomorrow’s causes. Once you start a chain of events, it’s hard to break the sequence.

“Now you take a bath and get dressed. I’m going down and get your baggage.”

“It’s up at the hotel,” she said. “I’ll stay up there and... Will they be looking for me, Donald?”

“Of course they’ll be looking for you,” I told her. “And if they find you before we have more facts in our possession, they’re going to try us for murder.”

“Us?” she asked incredulously.

“Us,” I said. “I followed you down there. I was fooling around the place waiting to pick you up.”

“But you didn’t pick me up.”

“Try and tell that to the police,” I said. “They find you in my apartment, where you spent the night; they find us with the money in our possession.”

“Donald, they don’t need to know that.”

“Yes, they do,” I told her. “Don’t underestimate the police. They know I was out there last night trying to follow a car. They’ll find out all about the rest of it. Our only hope is to get enough facts together so that, when they find out about us, we can put more facts in their possession — so that we can put all our cards on the table and they’ll give us a clean bill of health. I’m going to get your baggage.”

“Won’t it be dangerous for you to go to the hotel?”

“I’ve already been to the hotel,” I told her. “I have your baggage in a locker. I’ll get it and bring it up.

“There’s a dozen eggs, some bacon in the refrigerator. There’s a coffeecake in that carton. And, remember, I don’t like a ring in the bathtub.”