You've Got It Coming

IV

When the telephone bell rang, Ben Delaney got quickly to his feet, leaving Fay pouting and surprised on the settee, crossed the room and picked up the receiver.

He had listened to the broadcast about the robbery. He had been shaken out of his usual calm by the news of the slaughter.

If the diamonds were traced back to him, there would be trouble, he thought, as he had listened to the excited voice of the commentator. The guard dead and Lewin and Meeks killed! This was going to cause a sensation. If his name got hooked to the robbery, Chief of Police O'Harridan would have to move against him, and that was the last thing Ben wanted. He had been waiting for Borg to ring; cursing him for keeping him waiting. He had been waiting now for two hours, and the sound of the telephone galvanized him into life.

“Yeah?” he said into the mouthpiece. “Who's that?”

“Borg.” The fat, breathless voice came over the line like treacle.

“It's a gyp. He hasn't shown.”

Ben felt a hot wave of rage run through him.

“Keep talking!” he snarled.

“I've been waiting here for two hours and there's no sign of him,” Borg said. “We had arranged to meet at nine-thirty. It's close on twelve now. He's run out on us.”

“Maybe not,” Ben said, sitting on the edge of his desk. “He may be in trouble. The radio said he and Franks went off in the car. Franks was wounded. The police may have got him.”

“The police haven't got him, but they've found Franks. Green dumped him by the roadside; left him to bleed to death. When the cops picked him up, he'd been dead at least half an hour. No, Green's skipped all right; skipped with the diamonds.”

Ben thought of the fifty thousand dollars he had paid Green.

He thought of the two million dollars he could have got for the diamonds. He thought of the yacht.

“If that punk thinks he can double cross me, and get away with it, he's got another thing coming,” he said, his voice shrill with rage. “Get after him! Do you hear! Get after him!”

“He doesn't exist,” Borg said, unconsciously echoing Harry's words. “He never was Harry Green. By now he's got rid of his limp and that scar and he's someone else. I told you how it would be.”

Ben slid off the desk into his chair. His face was white and glistening. His eyes looked like river-washed pebbles.

“Do you know the number of the car?”

“LMX—999007. How's that help you?”

“Shut up asking questions!” Ben's hand gripped the telephone so tightly, he drove the blood out of his nails. “Listen, you're to find this guy. I don't care how long it takes or how much it costs. Find him! And listen, I don't want to set eyes on you again until you do find him. Understand? You've got no other job until you've found him, and if you don't find him you haven't got a job.”

“I'll find him,” Borg said placidly. “It’ll take time, but I'll find him.”

“That Glorie Dane woman might know where he is. Get after her,” Ben said. “I don't have to tell you how to find him, just find him!”

He slammed down the receiver and sat for a long moment staring down at the desk blotter.

“What is it, honey?” Fay asked, raising her lovely head to stare blankly at him. “You sound angry.”

“Shut up!” Ben shouted. “Keep out of this.” He picked up the receiver, said, “Give me police headquarters.”

Fay made a futile face and sank back on to the settee. She reached for a chocolate from the box at her side and studied it with interest. It was a bore that Ben was cross, she thought.

She wanted him to take her to the movies tonight. Now, he would rant and rave until bedtime. She lifted her shoulders. Of course he would be sorry in the morning. He'd give her a present to make up for his rudeness, but it was a bore. She put the chocolate in her mouth and thought how good it tasted.

Ben said, “Give me O'Harridan.” He waited, then when the Chief of Police came on the line, he went on, “Pat? This is Ben. How are you? Swell. Yeah, I'm fine. Look, Pat, I've some inside dope you might be able to use. One of my boys tipped me off. The guy who pulled that aeroplane robbery is Harry Green. No, I don't know anything else about him except I heard he had his photograph taken at the Photomat on Essex Street. My man seems to think the limp and the scar's a fake. His car is a Pontiac, number LMX—999007.” He listened, a fixed wolfish grin on his thin lips. “Why sure, Pat. You know I always do what I can. Yeah; hope you catch him. This type of hold-up is bad for trade.”

He laughed. “Let me know if you get him. Yeah. Be seeing you. So long for now.”

He hung up.