Steve Harmas walked into the office, put his hat on the peg behind the door, then lowered his long frame into his desk chair.
He and his wife, Helen, had been to a party the previous night which had turned out to be a marathon drinking spree and Hannas was now suffering from a hangover.
He rubbed his forehead, grimaced, then looked with glazed eyes at the mail neatly laid out on his blotter.
There didn’t seem to be anything that needed his immediate attention and he relaxed back and closed his eyes. He thought enviously of his wife still asleep.
The sudden sound of the intercom buzzer made him wince. He flicked down a key, said, “Harmas. Yeah?”
“I want you.”
There was no mistaking Maddox’s voice.
“I’m on my way,” Hannas said, flicked up the key, pushed himself out of his chair and started the long tramp down the corridor to Maddox’s office.
Patty greeted him with a bright smile that made Harmas wince.
“You’re looking like a man with a hangover,” she said. “Do you feel that way?”
“Yeah.” Harmas held his head. “What’s he want?”
“I don’t know. I took the newspaper into him about five minutes ago. There was an explosion, then I heard him yelling for you.”
“I have an idea that this isn’t going to be my favourite day,” Harmas said entering Maddox’s office.
Maddox was smoking furiously. Although it was only a quarter after nine a.m., from the state of his desk and floor, he might have been working throughout the night.
“Look at this,” he said and tossed the newspaper at Harmas.
Harmas sank into a chair and read the banner headlines.
He glanced at Maddox who was watching him, then he began to read the small type under the headline. Suddenly, he stiffened.
“Philip Barlowe? He’s a client of ours, isn’t he? Isn’t he the one…?”
“He was our client!” Maddox said, a snarl in his voice. “He was insured for fifty thousand dollars… now he’s dead!”
“Shot through the back of his head… his wife raped!” Harmas looked shocked. “It’s time they caught this nut. She sounds in a bad way.”
“I can read,” Maddox said, “Steve, I don’t like this. There’s a smell to it. This guy took out a life coverage ten days ago… now he’s dead. I don’t like it.”
“I guess she doesn’t like it either,” Hannas said a little impatiently. “It’s one of those things.” He looked sharply at Maddox. “You don’t think he was killed for the insurance money?”
“I don’t know, but when a two bit salesman insures his life for fifty thousand dollars and then he dies before the ink’s scarcely dry on the policy, I don’t like it.”
“It says here she was raped and is suffering from a dislocated jaw. She gets the money, doesn’t she? Don’t tell me….”
“For fifty thousand dollars I’d be raped and have my jaw dislocated,” Maddox said grimly. “I’m a head start on you. You haven’t seen the dossier the Tracing Agency turned me on this woman… I have. It’s some story. A woman life that could do anything.”
“Where’s the dossier? Let me see it, then I can look and act as clever as you,” Harmas said.
“Never mind about the dossier. We’ve got to move fast. I want you to go to Brent right away. See leutenant Jenson. Tell him I don’t like the set-up and that I want you to work with him. He’ll be glad to have you. I want you to be there when Jenson talks to this woman. Keep your eyes and ears open. See Anson. Warn him I’m going to fight her claim when she puts it in. I don’t want him shooting his mouth off to the press. Go to Jason’s Glen or whatever it’s called and look around.” He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. “And Steve, while she’s in hospital, go out to her house and look around. Don’t tell Jenson you’re going".
“What am I supposed to be looking for?” Harmas asked. “I don’t know. Get the feel of the place. You might find something. Get out there and look.”
“Well, okay,” Harmas got to his feet. “I’ll see Jenson first.”
“Get the doctor’s report about this woman. I want to be satisfied she was raped and attacked.”
“It says so here, doesn’t it?” Harmas pointed to the newspaper.
“Do you believe everything you read in papers?” Maddox snapped. “Get the doctor’s report!”
A few minutes to nine o’clock, Anna Garvin arrived at the office. She was surprised to find Anson already at his desk.
“You’re early,” she said, then looked at her watch. “Or am I late?”
Anson had arrived some thirty minutes ago. He had come to the office early to disconnect the time switch clock and remove the tape on the recorder before Anna arrived.
“I’m early,” he said. “Seen the paper? Barlowe’s dead… you remember… the guy I sold that big policy to.”
“Yes, I saw it. It’s awful, isn’t it, Mr. Anson? I’m scared to go out at night.” Ancon dailed the Pru Town Gazette. He asked to speak to Jeff Frisdee.
When the reporter came on the line, Anson said, “This guy Barlowe… I sold him a fifty thousand dollar life coverage only a few days ago. I thought you might want that bit of news.”
“Why, sure", Frisbee said. “Thanks a lot. Fifty thousand, huh? That’s quite a hunk of dough. Well, his wife will welcome it. I’m glad you told me.”
“There’s been no arrest yet?” Anson asked.
“No. Jenson’s going round like a zombie… he hasn’t a clue.”
“How’s Mrs. Barlowe?”
“Pretty bad. The doctor won’t let anyone talk to her.”
“If you hear anything, let me know. I’m interested as Barlowe was my client.”
“Sure will. How soon will your people pay the claim?”
“Shouldn’t take long.”
“Let me know when they do. It’s news. I’ll let you know anything of interest from my end.”
Anson said he would and hung up.
“How is she?” Anna asked.
“Pretty bad. This is a horrible thing. I think the least I can do is to send her some flowers. Call up Devons and tell them to send a dozen roses right away to the hospital, will you, Anna?”
Lieutenant Fred Jenson of the Brent homicide squad was a chunky, fair man with alert grey eyes and a brisk manner. He wasn’t much of a policeman, but he did try and sometimes, but not often, his efforts were rewarded.
He was flicking through a file when Harmas walked in.
“Hello,” he said. “What do you want?”
He had worked with Harmas in the past and the two men got along well together. Harmas sat astride a straight back chair.
“Maddox sent me down,” he said. “Barlowe… we have him covered for fifty thousand and Maddox is laying a square egg.”
Jenson who knew Maddox grinned.
“Fifty thousand! I’ll say the egg’s square! So what? Don’t tell me he’s trying to make a mystery out of this one! It happened five days ago… it’s happened again. We have a sex killer in the district: it’s as simple as that. Catching a punk like this isn’t easy. I’m planning to plant a police officer and a girl out at Glyn Hill in the hope of trapping him.”
“Maddox thinks this is a lot more complicated than that,” Harmas said. “He’s even thinking Mrs. Barlowe shot her husband and raped herself to collect the fifty thousand.”
Jenson moved impatiently.
“Maddox is crazy!” he exclaimed. “You don’t mean this seriously, do you?”
Harmas shrugged.
“When can you talk to Mrs. Barlowe?”
“Doctor Henry at the hospital said I could call him around six o’clock. He thought she might be ready to be interviewed by then.”
“I’d like to come along. I won’t be in the way. Maddox wants me to be around and help where I can. Fifty grand is lots of folding money.”
“Okay. You help me… I’ll help you, but Maddox is just shooting at the moon.”
“Yeah… I’ve said time and time again that he’s shooting at the moon, then what happens? The sonofabitch hits the moon!”
Jenson looked sharply at him.
“You don’t really think Mrs. Barlowe is involved in this killing?”
“I’ll tell you after I have talked to her,” Harmas said “I’ll be happier too, when I have talked to Doctor Henry.”
“This is wasting time. This killer hit her so hard that he dislocated her jaw. Don’t tell me…”
Harmas lifted his shoulders.
“Maddox says for fifty thousand bucks, he would let anyone dislocate his jaw.”
Jenson stubbed out his cigarette.
“Maddox! The fact is he doesn’t want to meet Mrs. Barlowe’s claim! That’s the long and short of it! He’d believe any story so long as he doesn’t have to pay out and you know it.”
“I guess you’re right,” Harmas said. “Well, I’ll get along. I’ll look in again around six o’clock. I want to be there when you talk to Mrs. Barlowe.”
Leaving police headquarters, Harmas drove over to Anson’s office.
He had met Anson once before, but had only a vague recollection of him. He knew him to be a smart salesman but that was about all he did know about him.
He found Anson at his desk. As soon as he saw him, he remembered him: a man of middle height, blond, slimly built with grey, rather staring eyes.
“Remember me?” he said, offering his hand. “Why, sure,” Anson said. “It’s Steve Harmas, isn’t it?” He got up and shook hands, “Glad to see you. You’ve come about this shocking murder of Barlowe?”
Harmas was aware of the fat, homely looking girl at the other desk who was staring and listening.
“That’s it,” he said. “Look friend, I’ve just arrived from “Frisco". How’s about you and me going some place for a cup of coffee?”
“Why, sure,” Anson said, “There’s a place right across the road.” To Anna he went on, “I’ll be back in about an hour… if anyone wants me.”
A few minutes later, seated in a quiet comer in a cafe, Anson said, “Maddox on the warpath?” Harmas grinned. “That’s an understatement. He thinks Mrs. Barlowe shot her husband and raped herself!”
Anson dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee. “The man’s pathological. Well, he’ll have to pass this claim! What’s fifty thousand dollars to the National Fidelity? The press know about it. If he tried to block payment, he’s going to get some rank publicity.”
Harmas stroked his nose. He looked thoughtfully at Anson. “How come the press know about it? Did you tell them?”
“Why not?” Anson asked and sat back looking at Harmas, his grey eyes mildly inquiring. “Here we have a front page murder. Everyone in the district knows me. I sold Barlowe the policy. It’s great publicity not only for me but also for the Company. It is this kind of publicity, providing the claim is paid, that sells policies.”
“Maddox didn’t want you to talk to the press,” Harmas said.
“Why not?”
“He thinks the set-up stinks.” Anson smiled as he stirred the coffee.
“You work for him,” he said. “I work for the Company. If I worked the way he wants a salesman to work, the Company would go broke. Come on… you know that’s right. Maddox should have retired years ago. He never gives a salesman a chance.”
“When you turned in that policy,” Harmas said, “Maddox didn’t like it. He got a Tracing Agency to dig up some facts about Barlowe and his wife. He has a dossier on them both. I haven’t seen it, but from what he tells me the wife hasn’t anything to shout about. He told me a woman of her reputation could be capable of anything.”
Anson suddenly slopped his coffee. He put down the cup and looked at Harmas, the grey of his eyes darkening.
“What’s this dossier?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it yet; that’s what he says. He thinks she is capable of anything.”
“He’s crazy!” There was sudden doubt in Ansons voice. “This woman was attacked and raped! Hasn’t he any feelings?”
“Jenson thinks the way you do,” Harmas said quietly, “but I’ve worked with Maddox now for ten years. He has never been wrong when he claims a policy is off colour…”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Anson asked. Harmas winked. “You know, Maddox is something very special. He told me to come out here and look around. He had no idea what I was to look for and nor did I, but he told me to get the feel of the place.” He tapped his pocket. “Believe it, or not, here is an outline for a short story of a woman who swindles an insurance company. She and her lover… he is a ticket officer of an airline company… it’s a nice idea. Maddox will love it. If she wrote it, it shows she has had the idea of swindling an insurance company and when she puts in the claim, we can use this story to show the state of mind she’s in.”
“Look this is ridiculous,” Anson said angrily. “Plenty of people write stories about…” He stopped as he saw Harmas wasn’t listening. Harmas had got to his feet and was now wandering around the room, whistling under his breath. He paused and peered at something hanging on the wall. “Well, seen this?” he said. “Barlowe was a pistol shot champion.
He won first prize at the Pru Town Small Arms and Target Club.”
“So what?” Anson said, an edge to his voice. “We’d look a couple of jerks if someone found us here.”
“Relax,” Harmas said. “Who’s likely to come? Now a guy who is interested in pistol target shooting is likely to have a gun. I wonder if he did own a gun?”
“What does it matter if he did?” Anson said. Harmas began moving around the room. He paused to open cupboards and drawers and finally he came to the ugly heavy, sideboard. He pulled open a drawer.
“Here we are… a gun box.” He took the wooden box from the drawer and opened it. For a long moment there was a heavy silence, then he said “Cartridges, cleaning material, but no gun, and yet here’s a place for the gun. Where’s the gun?”
“Are you asking me or are you talking to yourself?” Anson demanded. Harmas grinned at him.
“I was talking to myself. Look, why not go and admire the garden. I’m going to be here quite some time. This place fascinates me.”
Anson went over to the settee and sat down.. “I’ll stay here. If there is anything I can do…” Harmas, humming under his breath, wasn’t listening. He walked from the room and Anson listened to him climb the stairs.
An hour and a half later, Harmas and Anson drove away from Barlowe’s house and towards Pru Town.
Harmas was silent, for some time during the drive, then as they approached the outskirts of Pru Town, he began to talk.
“Maddox may seem to you to be a deadbeat always looking for trouble,” he said, “but he’s far from that. He’s practically clairvoyant, and I’m not kidding. Here we have a situation: a man working as a small time clerk, insures himself for fifty thousand dollars. Maddox was right to raise his eyebrows. Now I’ve seen this guy’s home, I also ask myself why he should have insured himself for such a sum.”
Anson hunched his shoulders.
“He wanted the policy to raise capital so he could start up on his own as a horticulturist,” he said tonelessly. “I’ve already explained all this to Maddox. I didn’t persuade Barlowe one way or the other if that worries you at all.”
“He must have been planning something big,” Harmas said, noting the irritation in Anson’s voice. “Fifty grand is a hunk of dough for a little man like Barlowe.”
“You’ve seen his garden,” Anson said. “Why shouldn’t he have big ideas? He was able to pay the first premium, so why should I worry?”
“He paid in cash?”
“Yes.”
“From the look of the house, you wouldn’t have thought he had that much money in cash.” Anson shrugged impatiently.
“Okay… go ahead: make a mystery of it. He had the money: he gave it to me: do I have to get worried about a man giving me cash?”
Harmas glanced thoughtfully at the small, blond man at his side and then looked away.
“You’re right,” he said soothingly. “Tell me about Mrs. Barlowe. What kind of woman is she?”
“I don’t know,” Anson said curtly. “I only saw her once… she’s good looking, youngish. I didn’t pay her much attention.”
“Did they get along together?”
“Yes, they did,” Anson said. “They got along very well together.”
“Is that a fact? What makes you say that?”
Anson suddenly stiffened. Careful, he told himself, this guy isn’t flapping with his mouth for the sake of making noises.
He is the top investigator and Maddox’s stooge.
“I don’t know… an impression I got. The way Barlowe spoke about her.”
“He must have been smart to fool you,” Harmas said, putting a cigarette between his lips. “You been upstairs and looked the set-up over?”
Anson’s hands tightened on the steering-wheel.
“Fool me? What do you mean?”
“They didn’t sleep together. You should have seen his room. The sheets hadn’t been changed in months.” Harmas grimaced. “Our little pal was a pervert. I found some books in his room that would make your hair stand on end. There were other things too. Those two didn’t live as husband and wife. I’m ready to bet a hundred bucks.”
“Well, that’s as it may be,” Anson said tonelessly. “I had the impression that they were happy together.”
“She kept the house like a pig sty. If a woman really loves her husband, she makes an effort to keep his home decent.”
“That your idea?” Anson said indifferently. “It doesn’t mean that to me. It just means she doesn’t know how to run a house… some women just can’t.”
“Well, we’ll see. I just can’t wait to read her dossier,” Harmas said, lighting his cigarette.
“Just what is this dossier?” Anson asked, his voice sharpening.
“I haven’t seen it yet, but Maddox is worked up about it.”
“I’d like to see it,” Anson said.
“You don’t have to worry your head about all this. It’s your job to sell insurance and you do it damn well. It’s my job to make sure the policy is okay.”
Some five minutes later, Anson pulled up outside the Marlborough hotel.
“I’ll leave you here,” he said. “I have still a lot of work to do.”
“Fine,” Harmas said, getting out of the car. “I have to see Jenson at six. We’re calling on Mrs. Barlowe. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Yes,” Anson said, and waving his hand, he drove away.
Fay Lawley watched Harmas get out of Anson’s car and walk over to the Marlborough hotel. She watched Anson drive away. She waited a moment, then crossing the street, she entered the hotel in time to see Harmas pick up his key from the desk and cross the lobby to the elevator.
She walked over to the desk where Tom Nodley, the clerk in charge, was busy sorting mail.
“Hi, Tom,” she said and gave him her wide professional smile.
“Hello, baby,” Nodley said, letting his eyes run over her lush body. “What do you want?”
“Who is the handsome Romeo who just picked up his key?” she asked, taking a dollar bill from her bag.
Nodley eyed the bill and grinned.
“He’s no good to you baby,” he said and accepted the bill. “He’s Steve Harmas: chief investigator National Fidelity Insurance.”
Fay lifted her plucked eyebrows.
“Chief Investigator? Does that mean he is a cop?”
“Along those lines. He’s checking on the Barlowe murder.”
“But he is a cop?”
“You could call him that.”
Fay smiled.
“Thanks… be seeing you.”
Nodley watched her duck-tail walk to the exit with an appreciative stare.
Dr. Henry, the house surgeon of the Pru Town hospital received Lieutenant Jenson and Harmas in his office. He waved them to chairs.
“This is Mr. Harmas of the National Fidelity Insurance Corporation,” Jenson explained. “Barlowe was insured by his company. He…”
“Just a moment,” Harmas broke in. He didn’t want the doctor to get a wrong impression. “I’m an investigator and I’m working with the Lieutenant. My job is to check all claims made on our company. So far no claim has been made regarding Barlowe. There hasn’t been time, but we want to be prepared when it is made. Barlowe was covered for fifty thousand dollars. He took out the policy about ten days ago. The circumstances are exceptional, but naturally, with such a sum involved, we don’t want to pay it out if there is any doubt about the genuineness of the claim.”
Dr. Henry, a tall, balding man, lifted pale eyebrows.
“What exactly do you mean by that and what has it to do with me?”
“We will need to be convinced that Mrs. Barlowe was really attacked and raped,” Harmas said. “We will need a certificate and details from you.”
“I’ll be happy to give you a certificate,” Henry said. “The woman was most certainly attacked… her jaw was dislocated, and there is no doubt she was brutally raped. I can give you details that must satisfy your people that she has been through a horrible and harrowing experience.”
Harmas and Jenson exchanged glances. Harmas shrugged.
“Thanks, doctor, that’s all we’ll need. Can we talk to her now?”
“Yes. I’ll take you to her.” Henry looked at Jenson. “Make it as short as you can. She really is in a bad way, and she is still suffering from severe shock.”
“Sure.” Jenson got to his feet. “All I want at this stage is a description of the attacker. The rest of it can come later.”
The two men followed the doctor up to the first floor. They entered a room in which was a bed and the usual hospital equipment. In the bed was a woman with auburn hair.
Motioning them to stay where they were, Henry went over to the woman.
“Mrs. Barlowe, Lieutenant Jenson would like to talk to you. I’ve asked him not to bother you too much. Do you feel you can talk to him?”
While he was speaking, both Harmas and Jenson were looking curiously at the woman. Harmas was shocked to see that the left side of her face was heavily bruised and her left eye was half closed and swelling. There was split skin near her mouth. It was obvious she had taken a violent blow on the side of her face… there was no fake about that… In spite of this disfigurement, Harmas saw that this woman was sensationally handsome… beautiful he decided wasn’t the right word.
“I’m all right,” she said in a shaky whisper. “Yes, of course I’ll talk to him.”
Jenson came forward.
“You’re not all right, Mrs. Barlowe,” he said. “I’m sorry to have to bother you at this time, but I want a description of the man that attacked you. Can you help me?”
Meg closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them. On the table by the window was a vase holding a dozen blood red roses.
If you get roses, you will know our man hasn’t been arrested, Anson had said.
“He was short and thickset,” she said, “and he was completely bald.”
“That’s the punk!” Jenson exclaimed, looking at Harmas. “The same one who…” He paused, controlling his excitement.
To Meg, he went on, “How do you know he was bald, Mrs. Barlowe?”
She closed her eyes. There was a pause, then she said “In the struggle… his hat fell off… he had no hair at all.”
“Can you remember what he was wearing?”
“A black coat and a black slouch hat.” Jenson nodded, satisfied.
“Okay, Mrs. Barlowe, you take it easy. I won’t worry you again for a while. You just relax.”
Moving forward, Harmas asked, “Mrs. Barlowe, there’s just one thing that could help us. Why did you and your husband go out to Jason’s Glen?”
The cobalt blue eyes suddenly snapped open. Meg looked intently at Harmas.
“Why? Why… Phil wanted to… it was our wedding anniversary. He took me to the Court roadhouse… he was in a romantic mood…” She broke off and hid her face in her hands.
Dr. Henry said, “That’ll do for now, gentlemen. I want Mrs. Barlowe to rest.”
He shepherded Jenson and Harmas to the door. Harmas paused at the door and looked back at Meg. She lay motionless, her hands hiding her face.
As they walked down the corridor, Jenson said, “It’s the same guy. The hell of it is he could be anywhere, and he could do this again.”
“Let’s take a look at Mr. Philip Barlowe,” Harmas said. “At least we won’t be disturbing him.”
“What do you want to look at him for?”
“I want to look at the man who managed to persuade that lush dish to marry him… he should be quite a guy,” Harmas said.
The morgue attendant, a burly Negro, flicked back the sheet.
“Here he is mister… ain’t much to look at.”
Jenson, who had seen the body before, remained where he was, away from “the table, his hand cupping a cigarette, his face showing impatience and irritation.
Harmas, his hat at the back of his head, surveyed what remained of Philip Barlowe. He stared for a long moment, then he nodded to the Negro and turned to Jenson.
“Got a report on the slug that killed him?”
Jenson squinted at him.
“Not yet… why?”
“How long will it be?”
“Could be ready now.”
“I have a hunch,” Harmas said. “Let’s find out if it is ready.”
They walked to the Coroner’s office and Jenson put a call through to the Ballistics department. While he was waiting, Harmas said thoughtfully, “What magic did a little punk like Barlowe have to persuade a sexy piece like that woman to marry him?”
“Women do odd things,” Jenson said, then as the connection came through he waved Harmas to silence. He asked for the report on the bullet. There was a pause, then some talk, then Jenson said, “Okay, Ted. Thanks. I’ll be right over,”
He hung up. He stared at Harmas, his eyes puzzled. “Now what do you know? The two men were both shot with 38’s, but the guns are different. The slugs don’t match. How did you know?”
“I didn’t,” Harmas said. “I told you… it was a hunch.” He stood up. “It needn’t mean a thing. Our bald headed pal could own two .38 automatics… but somehow I don’t think he does.”
A little after six o’clock, Anson completed his list of calls and then drove back to the Marlborough hotel. Right at this moment, he was thinking as he locked the car, Jenson and Harmas were seeing Meg. He would have given a lot to have been there. He had to trust her to keep her nerve. He wished he could call her later and find out what had been said, but that was far too dangerous.
This dossier, Harmas had spoken about… what could be in it? Had Meg lied to him when she said she hadn’t a record: nothing to hide? Had Maddox found out that she had had lovers? The more Anson thought about Meg, the more sure he was she couldn’t have lived with Barlowe without having a lover. He had made a slip telling Harmas Meg and Barlowe had been happy together. He had forgotten they had had separate rooms.
“Hello, Johnny…”
Anson started and looked round.
Fay Lawley stood by his side. She smiled at him, her eyes hard and glittering.
“Hello,” Anson said curtly. He wasn’t in the mood to be bothered with this overblown tart. “Excuse me. I have a business date… I’m late already.”
She caught hold of his arm.
“Skip it. Don’t give me that line. I’m expecting you to take me out tonight and to spend some of your new-found money on me. It’s time you unbuttoned your wallet.”
Anson shook her hand off his arm.
“Beat it!” he said viciously. “Go, peddle it elsewhere,” and pushing past her, he crossed the street and entered the hotel.
Fay stood motionless watching him disappear into the hotel, then with a hard little smile on her over-painted mouth, she started down the sidewalk to the nearest bar.
Maddox shoved aside a pile of papers that fell on to the floor. He lit another cigarette, ran his fingers through his hair and picked up yet another insurance policy from his in-tray. Patty Shaw looked in. “Steve’s here,” she announced.
Maddox said nothing for several seconds, then he put the policy down and stared at Patty. For some moments he didn’t seem to register her, then his eyes became alert. “Steve? Sure… shoot him in.”
Patty said to Harmas, “The Maestro is coming out of his trance. He’ll see you.”
Harmas entered the office and sat down in the client’s chair. The time was nine fifteen a.m. He had driven through the night back to San Francisco and he was feeling jaded. Maddox pushed back his chair. “What’s cooking?”
“Plenty,” Harmas said, “but I haven’t had the time yet to get it all straightened out. I thought I’d better come back here and talk it over with you. For a start: Barlowe and his wife didn’t live as man and wife. They had separate rooms. He was a queer: a sick man. You should have seen the muck I found in his room: sadist stuff… really rotten. Mrs. Barlowe was attacked and raped. I have the doctor’s certificate. Here are all the sordid details.” He dropped a paper on the desk.
“There’s no fake about that. I’ve seen her. She’s certainly been beaten up. I went over the house. She keeps it the way a self-respecting pig would hate. I’ve seen Barlowe. He’s a shrimp of a man… I can’t think why she ever married him.”
Maddox relaxed back in his chair. His red rubbery face creased into a benign grin.
“Go on… keep talking.”
“She writes short stories. Awful stuff, but one of them deals with an insurance swindle.” Harmas took more papers from his pocket and dropped them on the desk. “Have a look at this when you have time. She has an idea.”
Maddox nodded.
“Barlowe was a champion revolver shot,” Harmas continued. “He owned a gun: a .38, but the gun is missing. Barlowe was shot with a .38. The other guy was also shot with a .38, but the slugs don’t match. Mrs. Barlowe gave out a description of the killer: a word for word description that appeared in the newspapers of the guy who attacked the other couple.”
Maddox was practically purring. He opened his desk drawer, took out a file and pushed it towards Harmas.
“There it is, Steve. Take it away and read it. Then come back and we’ll talk again… you are doing fine.”
Harmas picked up the file.
“There’s one other thing,” he said, getting to his feet. “Anson has already alerted the press that this woman is going to make a claim. If we block the claim without good reason, we’re in for a lot of rank publicity. She has the sympathy of the public.”
Maddox grinned wolfishly.
“You read that dossier. We can’t get bad publicity once that dossier becomes public reading. This is a phony claim. I knew it was as soon as it came to my desk. You keep going… you’re doing fine!”
Joe Duncan, a large man with a great sagging belly and a whisky complexion put down one of his six telephone receivers and looked questioningly at Sailor Hogan as he came into the office.
“Park your butt,” Duncan said. “Have you any idea what the date is?”
Hogan settled himself in the big arm-chair opposite Duncans desk. He struck a match to light a cigarette.
“Why should I care?”
“In five days you come across with twenty-five grand or you and me part company,” Duncan said. He leaned his gross body back into his chair, reached thick fingers for a cigar, nipped off the end with his small yellow teeth and spat the end into the trash basket. “How’s it coming? I want the dough…”
Hogan grinned at him.
“You’ll get it, even if I have to borrow it.”
Duncan sneered.
“Who’s going to lend you money?”
“You’d be surprised,” Hogan said and winked. He was feeling very confident. “I’m a guy with prospects now.”
Duncan tapped a copy of the Pru Town-Gazette lying on his desk.
“From this rag, your meal ticket has been raped. Are you telling me you can still find twenty-five grand?”
Hogan’s grin widened.
“Read it again. Who cares if she was raped? Her husband is dead and he was insured for fifty grand. Now put that in your gizzard and chew it over.” He lounged to his feet. “Be seeing you, Joe. Relax. It’s working out fine for me… just relax.”
When he had gone, Duncan scratched the back of his thick neck, shrugged and reached for the telephone.
Harmas arrived back in Pru Town late the following evening. He had spent all the morning with Maddox, and now briefed, was ready for action.
He dumped his bag at the hotel, then drove out to the Court roadhouse.
The roadhouse was situated a few miles outside Pru Town. It was one of those showy, neon covered places that attracted the car trade and the young in search of a reasonably good dinner with a reasonably good band at a not too exorbitant price.
He walked into the bar, which, at that time, was nearly empty. He asked the barman, a big, jolly looking Negro, if he could have a table in the restaurant. The Negro said he would fix it. In the meantime, how’s about a drink?
Harmas said he would have a large Scotch on the rocks and he sat at one of the high stools at the bar. He asked for the evening newspaper.
The Negro got him the drink and the paper and then went to the far end of the bar to phone the restaurant. The front page of the Pru Town Gazette was given up to the Barlowe murder.
The barman came back to say a table would be ready in ten minutes.
“That’s a horrible thing,” he went on seeing Harmas was reading about the murder. “These two were out here a couple of hours before it happened.”
Harmas put down the newspaper.
“Is that right? It surprises me they went out to Jason’s Glen. After the first murder you would have thought they would have kept clear of such a lonely place.”
The barman rolled his eyes.
“That’s just what he said. He didn’t want to go. They argued about it for nearly twenty minutes, but she wanted it. Man!
When a dame like that wants something, she gets it!”
“So he didn’t want to go out there?”
“That’s a fact. They came in here for a final drink. It was around half past nine. At one time I thought they would blow up, they got so heated. Finally, he said the hell with it: if she wanted to go that bad, then he would take her. Then she went to the Ladies’ Room and kept him waiting for more than ten minutes. I saw he didn’t go for that either!”
“Too bad she didn’t take his advice,” Harmas said, his mind busy. He finished his drink. “I guess I’ll go and eat,” and tipping the barman generously, he went in towards the restaurant.
He crossed the lobby and paused outside the ladies’ room.
The doorman glanced at him, then stiffened to attention as Harmas beckoned to him.
“Would there be a telephone in there?” Harmas asked and took out his wallet. From it he selected a five dollar bill.
The doorman eyed the bill the way a gun dog eyes a falling grouse.
“Yes, sir.”
“Automatic or does it go through a switchboard?”
“A switchboard, sir.”
“I’d like to talk to the operator,” Harmas said. He took out his card and let the doorman examine it. Then as he took the card back, he handed over the five dollar bill.
“I can fix that,” the doorman said. “Come this way.” He took Harmas to a small office where there was a switchboard and a blonde thumping a typewriter. The blonde was young and pretty and she looked at Harmas as the doorman said,
“This gentleman wants a little help.” He winked. “You help him… he’ll help you.” To Harmas, he said, “You go right ahead, sir. You’ll find May ready to help helpful gentlemen,” and he went away. Harmas sat on the edge of the desk. “Is that right, beautiful?” he asked and took out his wallet. He felt this was the right time to be extravagant. He knew Maddox would willingly meet any expense to save the company paying a phony claim.
The blonde, snugly curved, with big baby blue eyes looked with alert interest as Harmas fished out a five dollar bill.
“For that, handsome,” she said, “you could go a very long way.”
“That’s good news,” Harmas said, grinning, “but right now all I want is a little information. Do you keep a record of the out-going calls you handle?”
“Yep.” She looked him over. “Are you a private eye?”
“I’m private,” Harmas said. “I’m trying to trace a call made from here on September 30th around half past nine… made by a woman.”
The blonde got to her feet and swung her neat hips over to the switchboard. She consulted a notebook.
“Here we are… must be the one I can’t remember if it was made by a woman, but on that night I wasn’t busy. I had only four calls. Three of them between seven and half past eight… the other was around nine forty. Elmwood 68009.”
“Could I have the other numbers?”
She gave him the numbers and he wrote them down, then he thanked her and passed over the five dollar bill.
She smiled happily as she tucked the bill away. She was pretty, pert and sexy and for a brief moment Harmas regretted he was married, then he waved away such thoughts and went into the restaurant.
Later, he called police headquarters. The desk sergeant told him Lieutenant Jenson was still out.
“You could help me,” Harmas said and introduced himself. “I want to know who operates on Elmwood 68009.”
The desk sergeant told him to hold on. After a delay he came back on the line.
“That’s a public call booth on highway 57. If you have a Survey map of the district, the call box is in zone A.3.” Harmas thanked him, and hung up.
Around ten o’clock the same evening, Harmas walked down the long corridor that led to Jenson’s office through the usual smell of disinfectant and sweat of a cop house.
Jenson, looking dirty and tired, was talking to someone on the telephone. When he saw Harmas, he said, “Well, keep after it… yeah… yeah… call me back,” and he hung up. He frowned at Harmas who was now sitting astride one of the hard backed chairs. “What do you want?”
“I’m just back from seeing Maddox. He sends his love. How are you making out?”
Jenson rubbed the back of his neck. He looked like a man who had been under pressure for more hours than he likes to remember.
“One of my men was shot to death by a hold-up thug who cleaned out the Caltex cash box on the Brent highway a few days back. The same gun that shot my man, killed Barlowe.”
Harmas drew in a long, slow breath.
“So what now?”
“We’re checking on every bald-headed man in the district. We’re hunting for the gun,” Jenson said, his expression grim.
“I have every man I can spare on the job.”
“How much did the hold-up thug get away with?”
“A little over three thousand.”
“Did you get a description of the guy?”
“Yeah… not the same guy who shot Barlowe. This one was tall,” Jenson leaned back into his chair, took a cigar from his desk drawer and lit it. “Here’s something odd. We had a report from the Marlborough hotel that a hat and coat were stolen on the night of the robbery. The hat was Swiss style with a cord and feather… the gunman had the same kind of hat. Could mean something. I had an idea that the gunman was passing through, but now I am beginning to wonder if he wasn’t a local man.”
“Who gave you a description of this guy?”
“The gas attendant.”
“Could be he was in such a panic he has the description wrong. Could be the gunman is our sex killer.”
Jenson blew smoke to the ceiling.
“I guess.”
Harmas brooded for a long moment, then said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d take me out to Jason’s Glen tomorrow morning.
I have an idea… I could be wasting your time, but I don’t think I am.”
Jenson wiped his sweating face.
“I want to go out there myself. Okay, I’ll pick you up. What’s your idea?”
Harmas got to his feet.
“It’ll keep… then see you tomorrow,” and he made for the door.
As Jenson was about to pull into the lay-by at the bottom of the dirt road leading to Jason’s Glen, Harmas said sharply,
“Hold it!”
Jenson trod on the brake and brought his car to a standstill. “Before you muck up the ground,” Harmas said, “let’s take a look.”
He and Jenson went over to the lay-by. On a patch of soft ground they came upon a deep impression of a tyre track.
Harmas stared at it.
“This could be too good to be true,” he said. “If we find the same track at Jason’s Glen, I’d say my hunch is paying off.
Take a look at this… see how the tyre is worn on the left side. It is as good as a finger print. If you saw it again would you recognize it?”
Jenson examined the track for a long moment, then he nodded.
“Yeah… so what?”
“We’ll go up to the glen and see if we can find the same impression there.”
Jenson shrugged and returned to the car. With Harmas at his side, he drove up the narrow road that led to the glen.
It took the two men more than an hour of patient searching before Jenson came across the tyre track.
“Here it is,” he called to Harmas who was on the far side of the glen.
Harmas joined him. The track was clear in the sandy soil. The two men squatted beside it.
“That’s it!” Harrnas’s expression showed his excitement. “Who says I’m not one hell of a detective!” He moved back.
“This guy drove his car between these two shrubs. The car would be out of sight… yeah, that’s it!”
“Will you quit talking to yourself and make with some explanations?” Jenson said. “You think this could be the killer’s car?”
As they walked back to the car, Harmas said, “That’s my bet. Remember I asked Mrs. Barlowe why she and her husband came out here and she said he was in a romantic mood and wanted to?”
“Yeah… go on.”
“She let drop that they had gone to the Court road-house. I went out there last night and got talking to the barman. He says Barlowe didn’t want to come out here and they almost had a stand-up fight before Barlowe finally agreed to bring her here. She went to the ladies’ room and kept him waiting some minutes. I wondered if she had used the telephone.
There’s a record of all out-going calls, and at the time she was in the ladies’ room, there’s a record of a call to Elmwood 68009. I checked and it’s the number of the call box we’ve just looked at. I think Maddox is right as usual.” Harmas shrugged. “He’s always right. I think she and a boy friend murdered Barlowe. The boy friend was waiting for her to call, alerting him they were on their way. He then drove up there, hid his car and when they arrived, he shot Barlowe.”
Jenson looked worried.
“Are you suggesting the boy friend then attacked and raped her? To hell with that for an idea!”
“I’ll quote Maddox. He said he would be happy to be attacked and raped for fifty grand.”
“That’s what Maddox says. A woman wouldn’t….”
“But we are one jump ahead of you,” Harmas said. “We’ve turned a Tracing Agency onto this woman and they’ve come up with quite a dossier. She has not only been in jail for stealing she was also a prostitute before she married Barlowe. I think Maddox is right. A woman like that wouldn’t flinch from rough treatment if it gave her an alibi and earned her fifty thousand dollars.”
“You think this sex killer is her boy friend?”
“No. I think her boy friend did the Caltex job, and he duplicated the sex killing as a front. The fact your patrol officer and Barlowe were killed by the same gun, points to it.”
“If these two were going to horn in on a fifty thousand dollar insurance,” Jenson said, “why should he risk his neck for a three thousand dollar hold-up?”
Harmas stared at him for a long moment.
“Yeah… that’s a point. Look, let’s keep an open mind on this. The Barlowe woman has already lied once. Let’s go and talk to her… maybe she’ll lie again.”
Meg Barlowe was sitting up in bed as the nurse led Jenson and Harmas into her room. Although her left eye was stall badly bruised, Harmas was again aware of her sensual handsomeness.
“I have to worry you again, Mrs. Barlowe,” Jenson said.
“I’m told you’ll be leaving here in a couple of days.”
Meg looked from Jenson to Harmas and then back to Jenson again. “Yes.”
Harmas had an idea she was nervous. He stood back and watched her.
“I understand you and your husband spent the evening at the Court road house and he then persuaded you to go with him to Jason’s Glen: Is that correct?” Jenson asked. Meg nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you want to go with him?”
“Not particularly. In fact I told him it mightn’t be safe, but he laughed at me. I guess he was a little high… I guess I was too.”
“It was his idea to go out there… not yours?” She stared at him for a long moment before saying, “That’s right.”
“When you reached Jason’s Glen, did you see anyone up there… any parked car?”
“No. I - I thought we had the place to ourselves.”
“How long were you there before the attack started?”
“About five minutes… a little more.”
“What happened exactly?”
“We were talking. Then suddenly I saw a flash and heard a bang. Phil… fell forward. I looked around and there was this man. He pointed the gun at me and told me to get out of the car. I got out and started to run. Although he was short and fat, he was very quick. He caught up with me and jerked me around, I struck him and his hat fell off. I saw he was completely bald.”
“You are sure of that?” Jenson asked. “He couldn’t have been very fair or even white haired, and in the moonlight, you thought he was bald?” .
Harmas grinned at him.
“Maddox would love that remark. If you go on making those bright deductions, you’ll finish up as Chief of Police.” As he got into the car beside Jenson, he went on, “Hey! Here’s an idea! If she has a boy friend, guess which room in Barlowe’s house he is most likely to visit?” Jenson started the car. “Go on… I can guess.”
“The way she keeps that house, never cleaning it, you might find his finger prints. Why not send your boys out there and go-ever the bedroom before she leaves hospital? You could do it nice and quiet without anyone knowing. If she has a record, he might too and then we could find him a lot faster than waiting for him to come out from under the wraps.
And another thing… finger print the gun box. You might get a surprise there.”
Jenson drove in silence to the hotel, frowning, then as he pulled up outside the hotel he said, “Yeah, you’ve got something. Okay, I’ll send the boys out there this afternoon.”
“Who runs the Pru Town Small Arms Club?” Harmas asked as he got out of the car, “and where do I find him?”
“Harry Seamore. You’ll probably find him at the club on Sycamore Street. Why?”
“I want to talk to him,” Harmas said. “Stick around, I’ll get the^dossier.”
Harry Seamore, a heavy built, red-faced man in his early forties, shook hands with Harmas after Harmas had introduced himself.
“I’m interested in Barlowe’s gun,” Harmas said. “I’ve been told he gave the gun away about nine months ago. Do you know who he gave it to?”
Seamore, settling in his chair, looked puzzled.
“I think you have made a mistake. Phil wouldn’t ever give his guns away. I know for a fact he had one of them last week. I happened to have borrowed it from him.”
Harmas leaned forward.
“Guns? Did he have more than one?”
Seamore grinned.
“He had a pair and they were beauties. I ought to know. I got them for him: they were a matched pair: about the best .38’s I’ve ever handled.”
Harmas ran his fingers through his hair as he frowned at Seamore.
“You just said you borrowed one of his guns?”
“That’s right. A friend of mine from Miami was staying with me. He reckons he is a pretty good shot.” Seamore’s pleasant face creased again into a smile. “We had a wager. I use a .45, but my friend is used to a .38 and he hadn’t his gun with him. So I called Phil and asked him if he’d lend me one of his guns. My friend and I had this match… he using Phil’s gun. I returned the gun to Phil three days before the poor guy was killed.”
Harmas leaned back in his chair until the chair back creaked.
“Where did this match take place, Mr. Seamore?”
“Right here,” Seamore said, jerking his thumb towards the window through which Harmas could see a shooting alley.
“We set up two target boxes and we both fired fifteen rounds. I pipped my friend by an inner.”
“What are the chances of getting the spent bullets from both guns, Mr. Seamore?” Harmas asked.
“Easiest thing in the world. There’s been no shooting for the past week. The slugs are in the boxes right now.”
“You know which box your friend shot into?”
“Of course.”
“Could I use your telephone?”
“Go right ahead.”
Smiling happily, Harmas dialled police headquarters.
Anson had two likely prospects to call on in Pru Town. He then planned to spend the night at the Marlborough hotel before returning to Brent.
As he drove along the busy highway, he wondered what was happening to Meg. She would soon be discharged from hospital. He had already warned her to destroy the insurance policy he had given to Barlowe. This he was sure she had done. He had sent the policy for a claim of $50,000, signed by Barlowe to Jack Jameson, a young but alert lawyer who was now acting for Meg.
Not for one moment had Anson any misgivings that his plans weren’t foolproof. The police would be hunting for the bald headed, sex maniac. The press was sympathetic towards Meg. Jameson would put in the claim and Maddox would have to meet it. There was, however, one slight uneasiness in Anson’s mind… this dossier Harmas had mentioned.
Anson kept asking himself what could be in it.
His two calls successfully completed, he drove back to the hotel. It was after he had finished his lunch and was walking towards the exit when he ran into Harmas.
“There you are,” Harmas said. “I was hoping to see you. I want to talk to you.”
Anson looked sharply at him, then followed him into the deserted lounge. They sat in a far corner.
“What is it?” Anson said, waving to the waiter to bring coffee.
“The Barlowe affair,” Harmas said. “Maddox is right. That man kills me! He is always right. The claim is phony.”
Anson took from his pocket a pack of cigarettes. He offered it and the two men lit up.
“Go on… tell me,” he said, his voice steady and wooden.
The waiter brought them coffee. When he had gone, Harmas said, “I’m sure as I’m sitting here this woman, with the help of a boy friend, murdered her husband. They used the sex killer as a front.”
Anson stared at the burning end of his cigarette. Don’t panic, he told himself. What has he found out? What have I done wrong? He remembered with a feeling of relief that he had an unbreakable alibi.
“You don’t really expect me to believe this, do you?” he said. “Isn’t this something Maddox has cooked up to get out of settling the claim?”
“No,” Harmas said quietly. “I have seen her dossier… you haven’t. She is capable of anything. I’m sure Maddox is right as he always is.”
Anson’s mouth became too dry for smoking. He crushed out his cigarette. “What’s in this dossier, then?”
“The woman has a jail record,” Harmas said. “She has been a prostitute. The Tracing Agency says she became infatuated with a man who lived with her. They don’t know who this guy is, but she turned thief to keep him and got a three months’ sentence. When she came out of jail, her pimp had disappeared. She met Barlowe. It’s an odd thing how someone like Barlowe… a mean-tempered, middle-aged man… does fall for a tart. He fell for her, and they married. It’s my guess she met her pimp again, and together they cooked up this idea of getting Barlowe to insure himself and then the two of them knocked him off.”
His face expressionless, Anson said, “Can you prove any of this?”
“I have some proof. Okay, I admit it wouldn’t stand up in court, but it is enough to make Maddox fight every inch of the way before we pay her claim.” Anson leaned back in his chair.
“She is a client of mine. You don’t seem to realize how tricky this is for me. The word gets around Mrs. Barlowe is front page news. People are sorry for her. The newspapers have made a big play about her being raped and her husband being killed. If Maddox fights her claim, where do I stand? Don’t you see the situation I’m in? Every time I call on a prospect to try to sell him a life policy, he’ll say, ‘What’s the use? If anything happens to me, your people won’t settle… look at the Barlowe case.’ Can’t you see that?”
“Sure,” Harmas said, “but you’re not suggesting that we pay out on a phony claim, are you?”
“Is it phony? Just because you’ve found out this woman has a police record, does that make her a murderess. What proof have you got?”
“I’ve caught her out in two lies,” Hamas said. “It was she who persuaded Barlowe to go out to Jason’s Glen and I have a witness who’ll swear to it, but she claims it was Barlowe who wanted to go… to be romantic. I have proof they slept alone. Barlowe wasn’t the romantic type… he was a pervert. It’s my bet that her boy friend was waiting at the Glen for them. There’s a telephone record at the road-house where they spent the evening that a call was put through to a call box near the glen. I can’t prove she actually made the call, but it certainly looks as if she did. I think she was alertting her boy friend that she and Barlowe were on the way to the glen.”
“Pretty circumstantial, isn’t it?” Anson asked, staring at Harmas.
“Oh sure, but it turns on the red light. There’s an impression of a car tyre by the call box and we found the same impression up at the Glen. If we find her boy friend has a tyre that matched the impression, he’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”
Anson kept his face expressionless, but there was a sudden chill around his heart.
“The impression could have been made any time, couldn’t it? What else have you got?”
Harmas sat forward.
“This is the topper,” he said. “Barlowe was a crack pistol shot: he owned two guns; .38’s. Both these guns are missing.
Mrs. Barlowe told us Barlowe had given one gun away, but Harry Seamore, the secretary of the Target Club, is certain, Barlowe would never have parted with these guns. Now there’s something… Barlowe was shot with his own gun. We have been able to check the slugs. And here’s something really sensational; the same guy that killed Barlowe, killed the cop in the Caltex hold-up. How do you like that?”
“You’ve certainly been busy,” Anson said as he bent to adjust his shoe string. He felt he had lost colour and he cursed himself for using Barlowe’s gun. At the time it had seemed so easy and convenient… what blind spot had led him into making such a stupid, dangerous mistake? He straightened. “What does Lieutenant Jenson think… does he think Barlowe did that holdup? Could explain how he got hold of the money to pay for his premium. Come to think of it, it could be the answer. He was desperate to start up on his own. He probably hadn’t the money to pay for the premium and staged this hold-up. Could explain why he paid up in cash.”
Harmas stroked his nose.
“Yeah; you have an idea. All the same, I’m still convinced Mrs. Barlowe has a boy friend and he and she cooked up Barlowe’s murder.”
“Just who is this boy friend you keep talking about?” Anson demanded.
“We’re looking for him. He shouldn’t be all that hard to turn up.” Harmas finished his coffee. “Well, that puts you in the picture. I’m alerting Maddox. He’ll love it! I don’t think Mrs. Barlowe is going to get paid. She could end up in the gas chamber.”
Anson got to his feet.
“You have still to prove it,” he said. “Until you do prove it, I’m going along with my client. This kind of situation could put me right out of business here. See you,” and he walked out of the lounge.
Harmas watched him go, a sudden, puzzled expression in his alert grey eyes.
Harmas had just finished breakfast and had moved into the lounge of the hotel to read the newspapers when Jenson came striding in.
“That finger print idea of yours has paid off,” Jenson said. “I think we’re on to her boy friend. There are two sets of men’s prints in her bedroom. One set we have no record of, but the other belongs to a guy named Sailor Hogan. He was one time light-heavy weight champion of California and he lived in Los Angeles. He works now in Brent for Joe Duncan, a bookmaker. As Hogan lived in L.A. and Mrs. Barlowe worked there as a prostitute could be he was her pimp.”
“Get any prints from the gun-box?” Harmas asked.
“Yeah, but they aren’t Hogan’s; they belong to the other guy,” Jenson told him. “I’m going to talk to Hogan now. Do you want to come?”
Harmas climbed to his feet.
“I’d like to see you stop me,” he said.
Sailor Hogan lounged back in his chair, a sneering grin on his battle scarred face.
“Look, fellows, snap it up,” he said. “I have things to do. What’s biting you?”
“Where were you on the night of September 21st?” Jenson demanded.
Hogan’s grin widened.
“What’s this? What am I supposed to have been doing?”
“What were you doing and where were you?”
“I don’t know,” Hogan said, shrugging. “That’s over two weeks ago, isn’t it?”
“Think about it,” Jenson said with his cop voice. “You could be in trouble. Better think hard.”
“Well, if it’s like that,” Hogan said still grinning, “maybe I can do something about it.” He took from his pocket a slim red diary and began to flick through the pages “September 21 st?”
“You heard me!” Jenson snapped.
“Well, now yeah… just as well I keep a diary, isn’t it?” Hogan looked at Harmas and winked. “I’ve been in a spot of trouble in the past, now I always keep a record. Comes in useful when the law gets nosy.”
“Come on, Hogan!” Jenson barked. “What were you doing?”
“I was in Lambsville… I had a job to do for Joe Duncan… any particular time bothering you?”
“Three to four o’clock in the morning.”
“Well, for Pete’s sake. I was in bed! Where else would I be?”
“Can you prove it?”
Hogan leered.
“Easiest thing in the world, Lieutenant. I don’t often sleep along. I get scared of the dark. I had a babe to look after me.”
His sneering grin widened. “She has a reason to remember. You ask her… Kit Litman. She works at the Casino Club.”
“What were you doing on the night of September 30th?”
Hogan again winked at Harmas as he flicked pages in his diary.
“Time?” he asked. “Between nine and eleven p.m.”
“That’s an easy one,” Hogan said. “I was playing poker with four of my pals. We played from eight to midnight at Sam’s bar. Check if you don’t believe me. I was with Joe Gershwin, Ted Macklin, Frankie Stewart and Jack Hammond.” He lolled at ease in his chair. “They’ll tell you. We started play at eight and finished at around two o’clock. Is that all? I have work to do. You can’t pin anything on me, Lieutenant. I keep my nose clean.”
Jenson asked abruptly, “You know Mrs. Barlowe? Hogan was waiting for this question. “I can’t say I do… have I missed anything?”
“You know Philip Barlowe?”
“The guy who was knocked off? No… what’s all this in aid of?”
“Have you ever been to the Barlowe house?” Hogan’s smile began to fade. He didn’t like the cold, hard stare Jenson was giving him. “Is it likely?”
“How does it happen then your fingerprints were found in the Barlowe house?” Jenson demanded, leaning forward. For a moment Hogan gaped at him, then he forced a rueful grin.
“You coppers! You been out there getting fingerprints?”
“We have yours Hogan,” Jenson said. “Let’s start again; do you know Meg Barlowe?” Hogan shrugged.
“Oh, sure. What’s it matter now Barlowe’s dead? She and I used to go around together before she married Barlowe. We met again and she invited me out there from time to time. Barlowe hadn’t what it takes!” He had recovered his nerve and he winked at Harmas as he went on, “I was just protecting the lady’s honour. But since you know, well, there it is.
Anything else you want to know?”
“There’s another set of prints in the house,” Jenson said. “A man… know who it could be?”
Hogan picked a tooth with a dirty fingernail.
“You surprise me,” he said. “I thought I was the only one. I wouldn’t know… why not ask her?”
Jenson looked at Harmas and shrugged. This gesture was an admission of defeat.
“Where’s your car?” Jenson asked. “Outside… the blue Buick.”
The two men left the apartment, and as they shut the door, Hogan gave a sneering little laugh.
It took Jenson only a few minutes to satisfy himself that Hogan’s car hadn’t made the tyre track at Jason’s Glen. He looked in disgust at Harmas.
“Well that’s it,” he said. “There’s another boy friend. Hogan couldn’t have done it. I’ll check his alibi, but I know him…his alibis stick.”
“So we start looking for the other boy friend,” Harmas said.
“That’s it,” Jenson said. “I’ll turn the screws on this woman".
“Not yet,” Harmas said. “I have an idea I’d like to work on first. When we do start working on her, we want enough facts to crack her.”
Anson drove his car into the Shell Service station on the Brent highway.
The manager of the Station, Jack Hornby, came out to shake hands.
“Jack,” Anson said, I’m worried about my tyres. I don’t like them. I want Firestone fitted. Will you fix it?”
“Happy to do it, Mr. Anson,” Hornby said. He walked around Anson’s car. “I don’t see why you should be worried about this lot. Could run another 8,000 miles.”
“A pal of mine had a burst with one of these. Fit me with Firestone".
“O’kay; I can give you discount on your old tyres if you like?”
“Thanks, but I’ll take them. Put them in the trunk. I’ll wait. How long will it take?”
“Best part of an hour", Hornby said, looking puzzled. “I can lend you a car, Mr. Anson and I’ll send…”
“I’ll wait,” Anson said curtly.
Edwin Merry weather, the manager of the Pru Town National Bank, was short, fat and fussily old-fashioned. He wore a neat, well pressed blue suit and a polka dot bow tie. As Harmas shook hands with him, Harmas thought he looked like a character out of a novel by Sinclair Lewis.
“I understand Mr. Philip Barlowe was a client of yours?” Harmas said after he had introduced himself. “We are expecting a claim to be made against us. Mr. Barlowe took out a life coverage with us a few days before he died. We have to check on certain points before we meet the claim.”
Merryweather lifted his eyebrows.
“Yes?”
“Did Mr. Barlowe consult you about this policy?”
Merryweather regarded his nicely polished fingernails before saying, “As it happens… he did.”
“I understand he took out the policy as security for a bank loan. Is that correct?”
“Those were his intentions.”
“Did he tell you how much he planned to borrow?”
“Three thousand dollars. We would have been happy to have advanced him that amount if he had lodged his policy with us.”
Harmas became alert.
“I understand Mr. Barlowe wanted a much larger sum than three thousand dollars.”
Merryweather looked prim.
“We couldn’t advance him any more than that sum on a five thousand dollar policy.”
“Five thousand? Barlowe was insured for fifty thousand dollars!”
Merryweather looked startled.
“Surely not. Are you sure there isn’t a mistake?” Looking at Harmas’s set expression, he frowned and paused to adjust his bow tie. “No, obviously you would know. Mr. Barlowe told me he was arranging to insure his life for five thousand dollars and as your company offered a five per cent discount for cash, he wanted to pay the first premium in cash. He drew out practically all the money he had in his account to meet the premium.”
Harmas felt a prickle of excitement run up his spine. Now he really was on to something, he told himself.
Quietly, he said, “I don’t understand. We don’t give discount for cash… what made him say that?”
“Mr. Barlowe told me that your representative gave him this information… someone… I think… it’s Mr. Anson, isn’t it?”
“He’s our representative,” Harmas said slowly. “But there is obviously some mistake here. How much did Barlowe draw out of his account?”
“A hundred and fifty dollars.”
Harmas rubbed the back of his neck; the amount needed to cover a five thousand dollar life policy.
“There’s something odd about all this, Barlowe took out a fifty thousand dollar coverage and he paid the first premium in cash! One thousand odd dollars.”
“I can’t imagine where he got that amount from, Mr. Harmas. He was often overdrawn.”
Harmas thought for a long moment, then he got to his feet.
“Well, thanks for your time.”
Merryweather made a gesture with his fat hands.
“Only too happy to be of service,” he said.
As Harmas picked up his key at the reception desk, Tom Nodley said, “There’s a woman wanting to talk to you, Mr Harmas. She’s been waiting some time in the bar.”
The smirking expression on Nodley’s face made Harmas stare sharply at him.
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Fay Lawley,” Nodley leaned forward, lowering his voice. “She’s one of the girls.” He winked. “I can get rid of her for you, Mr. Harmas, if you don’t want to see her.”
“I always see everyone,” Harmas said and walked across the lobby to the bar.
He spotted Fay sitting in a corner, nursing a whisky and water, and he joined her.
She smiled at him.
“Come and sit down. I’ve been trying to contact you for days.”
“Is that a fact,” Harmas said. He signalled to the waiter, then sat down opposite her. “I’ve been busy. You know me… I don’t know you.”
The waiter came over and Harmas ordered a Scotch on the rocks.
“I’m Fay Lawley,” she said. “I live around here.” Her painted lips twisted into a hard little smile. “You’re with National Fidelity, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I thought you’d like some information.”
The waiter came over with Harmas’s drink.
“I thrive on information,” Harmas said when the waiter had gone away. He offered cigarettes. They both lit up. “What is this… some kind of deal?”
Fay shook her head.
“I’m just paying off a grudge. Treat me nice and I’m lovely. Treat me rough and I’m the original stinker. I’ll do anything for a man who is decent, but the jerk who tries to shove me around gets his throat cut.”
“Should this interest me?” Harmas asked, looking at her intently.
“I don’t know… you’re an insurance cop, aren’t you?”
“That’s it.”
“Would you be interested in the way your salesmen act?”
Harmas sipped his drink.
“Why, sure… any particular salesman?”
“A little runt… Johnny Anson.”
Harmas put down his drink. He kept his face expressionless.
“What about him?”
Her face suddenly vicious, her eyes glittering, Fay leaned forward and began to talk.
It was Harmas’s idea, and as soon as he put it to Jenson, the Lieutenant agreed.
“Mrs. Barlowe will be returning home tomorrow,” Harmas said, “this is our last chance. Let’s go cut there and really look the place over. Okay, your fingerprint boys have gone over the place, but now let us go over it together?”
“Just what are we looking for?” Jenson asked as he got into his car.
“The guns. They could be hidden somewhere in the house. They bother me.”
Arriving at the house soon after midday, Harmas and Jenson got out of the car and surveyed the garden.
“You know, Barlowe had genius,” Harmas said “It’s odd, isn’t it, how this land of talent and artistic ability can go hand in hand with rottenness.”
Jenson wasn’t interested. He grunted and then walked over to the front door. He had no difficulty in slipping the lock.
The two men wandered into the lobby. The stale smell of stuffiness and dirt made them wrinkle their noses.
“Let’s go and look at Barlowe’s bedroom first,” Harmas said and led the way up the stairs.
Systematically, the two men searched the room. It was while Jenson was grimacing with disgust at a pack of photographs he had unearthed, that Harmas, pushing aside the bed, found one of the floorboards loose.
Taking out his pocket knife, he carefully lifted the board and shot his flashlight beam into the cavity.
“Here it is,” he said, “and what the devil’s this?”
Jenson peered over his shoulder at the .38 automatic that lay on the plaster. Harmas fished out a white bathing cap and two rubber cheek pads. Jenson inserted a pencil into the barrel of the gun and lifted it carefully from its hiding place.
Harmas was staring with interest at the bathing cap.
“The bald-headed man,” he said and looked at Jenson. “It jells. All this muck… now this… I’ll bet a hundred bucks that this is the Glyn Hill murder weapon.”
Jenson stroked his thick nose.
“Yeah? I never throw money away. Well, come on, now we’re here, let’s look at the rest of this hole.”
They remained in the stuffy little house all the afternoon, but they didn’t find the other gun. Jenson had called police headquarters and a couple of cars, loaded with technical men, had arrived. Two of them had taken the .38 down to the Ballistics department at Brent. By the time Jenson and Harmas had returned to Brent, the experts were able to tell them that the gun was the Glyn Hill murder weapon.
Anson was sensitive to atmosphere.
When Harmas walked into the office soon after six o’clock and just when Anson was preparing to go home he was immediately aware that Harmas was hostile.
Harmas came abruptly to the reason of his visit. He described his interview with Merryweather, his grey, steady eyes probing and suspicious.
When Harmas had finished talking, Anson said, “I can’t imagine what he means. I never offered Barlowe a five per cent discount. Why should I? Are you sure Merryweather has his facts right?”
“I’m not sure about anything,” Harmas said in a tone that belied his words. “Barlowe told him you told Barlowe if he paid the first premium in cash, we would give him a five per cent discount. What’s more, he drew out one hundred and fifty dollars from his account to cover his first premium… nearly every dollar he owned.”
Anson picked up a pencil and began to draw aimless designs on his blotter.
“The premium was twelve twenty two,” he said, without looking at Harmas. “Some mistake here.”
“Originally, Barlowe intended to take out a five thousand dollar policy,” Harmas said. “Merryweather is certain of that.
Barlowe only wanted to borrow three thousand dollars.”
Anson shifted uneasily. He paused for a moment while he lit a cigarette.
“All I can tell you,” he said finally, “is that Barlowe filled in one of your coupon inquiries. When I called on him, he asked for a fifty thousand dollar policy… you’ve seen the policy… it was signed by him! He might have talked the deal over with Merryweather before he saw me. When he got home and thought about it, he must have decided to go for the bigger policy.”
“Ten times as big?” Harmas said quietly, “where did the money come from to pay for such a premium?”
“He had the money… he gave it to me,” Anson said.
“Could I see the inquiry form?” Harmas asked. “I would like to be sure we have proof that Barlowe talked to Merryweather before he saw vou.”
Anson stiffened. The ash from his cigarette fell into his lap.
“I destroyed it,” he said.
Harmas now paused to light a cigarette. He stared prob-ingly at Anson who forced himself to stare back.
“Do you usually destroy your coupons?” Harmas asked.
“Only when I have made a sale. As I sold Barlowe a policy there was no point in keeping the coupon.”
Harmas considered this, then shrugged.
“Yeah… I see that.” He let smoke drift from his nostrils for a long moment, then suddenly leaning forward, he asked,
“Just for the record… where were you on the night of September 30th?”
Anson felt a sudden cold stab of fear go through him.
“What do you mean?”
Harmas smiled.
“You know Maddox. He loves alibis. He wants to know where everyone was, remotely connected with Barlowe on the night of his death,” Harmas’s smile broadened. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he doesn’t ask me for an alibi as well. It doesn’t mean a thing and if I’m treading on thin ice say so and we’ll skip it.”
“Of course not.”
Anson opened a drawer in his desk and took out an engagement diary.
“I was working late, right here,” he said in a cold, fiat voice. “I didn’t leave here until eleven. The janitor downstairs will tell you if you want to check.”
“Relax,” Harmas said, waving his hands. “I don’t want to check.” He leaned back in his chair. “You know, I’ve been thinking about this case. I’m inclined to agree with you. Even if this woman isn’t on the level, it might be wiser to pay her. As you say, in this district, we might easily lose a lot of business by fighting her claim. Maddox is coming here this evening I’m going to try to talk him into paying up.”
Anson stiffened and leaned forward. “Maddox is coming here?”
“Yeah. He wants to talk to Jenson. I’ll let you know if I persuade him to meet the claim. Will you be home tonight?”
Anson nodded.
“Up to around nine o’clock but I know Maddox; he won’t pay up.”
“He could do. Old man Burrows doesn’t like bad publicity. The newspapers could have a go at us. I’ll see what I can do.” Harmas pushed back his chair. “Getting away from business, do you know anything about that antique shop at the corner of the block? I picked up a paperweight there. They swore it was a genuine antique.” He took from his pocket a plastic bag and slid out an ornate glass paperweight. He pushed it across the desk towards Anson. “Helen is nuts about antiques, but I am now wondering, if it is a fake… could be Japanese, 1960!”
Without thinking, Anson picked up the paperweight and examined it, then he shrugged.
“I don’t know; looks nice. If you tell her it’s a hundred years old, she’ll be happy.”
He handed the paperweight back and Harmas carefully returned it to its plastic bag.
“Yeah: you have something there.” He stood up. “If I can talk Maddox into paying up, I’ll call you. So long for now.”
When Harmas had gone, Anson lit a cigarette and stared thoughtfully at the opposite wall. He had an uneasy feeling that this murder plan of his was slowly coming unstuck at the seams.
He tried to assure himself that although the situation was tricky, it wasn’t dangerous. Not for one moment did he believe that Maddox would pay up now. He was sure that the insurance money was as good as lost. What he had to be careful about was not to be involved. It was Meg’s fault, of course. If she hadn’t told him all those lies about her past life, he wouldn’t be in this spot now.
He was still sitting at his desk, probing the situation, still wondering if he had made some fatal mistake, when some thirty minutes later, there came a gentle tap on his door.
“Come on in,” he called.
The door opened and Jud Jones, the night guard wandered in.
Surprised, Anson stared at him.
“Hello, Jud,” he said. “I was just going home. Is there something I can do for you?”
Jones moved his fat body further into the office. He closed the door. There was an uneasy, smirking expression on his face Anson hadn’t seen before and which he didn’t like.
“I wanted a word with you, Mr. Anson,” he said.
“Can’t it wait?” Anson said a little impatiently. “I want to get home.”
Jones shook his head.
“I guess not, Mr. Anson. This is important… to you as well as to me.”
Anson moved over to the window so his back was to the fading light.
“Go ahead… what is it?”
“This guy Harmas… you know him?”
Anson’s hands turned into fists.
“Yes… what about him?”
“He has been asking questions about you, Mr. Anson.”
With an effort, Anson kept his face expressionless. So Harmas had checked his alibi. Well, that would get him nowhere.
Forcing his voice to sound natural Anson said, “I know all about that. It’s to do with this murder case. The police want to check everyone’s alibi; everyone remotely connected with Barlowe. I happened to have sold Barlowe an insurance policy so I’m involved. It’s just routine. Don’t let it worry you.”
Jones took a half smoked cigarette from behind his ear, stuck it on his lower lip and set fire to it.
“It’s not worrying me, Mr. Anson. I thought it might be worrying you. You see, I told him you were right here in this office between nine and eleven. I told him you were using the typewriter.”
There was a sneering tone in his voice that made Anson’s eyes move intently over the fat, sly face.
“That’s right,” he said. “I told him the same thing. Just as well I didn’t have company that night, isn’t it?” He forced a smile.
“Yeah,” Jones said without returning Anson’s smile. “Well, I told him you were here, but he’s only a private dick. What if the cops should ask me?”
“You tell them the same thing, Jud,” Anson said, his voice sharpening.
“You can’t expect me to tell lies to the cops, Mr. Anson,” Jones said, shaking his head. “I can’t afford to get into trouble… they could make me an accessory…”
Anson felt a chill growing around his heart.
“What do you mean? Accessory? What are you talking about?”
“You weren’t in your office that night, Mr. Anson.”
Anson sat abruptly on the edge of his desk. His legs felt as if they wouldn’t support him.
“What makes you say that?” he asked, his voice husky.
Jones dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and trod on it.
“I had run out of cigarettes,” he said. “I thought I might borrow a couple from you. I knocked on the door. No one answered, but the typewriter kept going. I knocked again, then I thought something must be wrong. I opened the door with my pass key. You weren’t there, Mr. Anson. There was a tape recorder playing back the sound of a typewriter working and very realistic it sounded… it had me completely fooled “
Anson felt cold sweat run from his armpits down his ribs.
Sunk! he thought, now what am I going to do?
His immediate impulse was to take Barlowe’s gun from the locked drawer in his desk and murder Jones. The thought was scarcely in his mind before he dismissed it. He would never have the strength to move this great hulk of a body from his office once Jones was dead. He had to gain time to think.
“That’s right, Jud,” he said. “I wasn’t in my office but I had nothing to do with the murder… nothing at all.”
Jones, who had been watching Anson closely, smirked. Anson could smell the sweat of excitement and fear coming from the fat man.
“I’m sure, Mr. Anson… never crossed my mind you did have anything to do with it. I just thought I’d better let you know if the cops asked me. I’ll have to tell them the truth.” He cocked his head on one side, and went on, “it wouldn’t do any harm, would it, Mr. Anson?” Anson said slowly, “Well, Jud, it might.” Jones managed to look sad.
“I wouldn’t like that. You’ve always been good to me. What sort of harm would it do?”
“I could lose my job,” Anson said. “I set up this alibi because I was fooling around with a married woman and her husband is on to me. I wanted to prove I was right here instead of being with her.” Even to him, this sounded pretty feeble, but he had no time to think up something better.
“Is that right?” Jud said and leered. “You were always sharp with girls.” He paused to scratch the back of his fat neck.
“Well, maybe I could forget it if that’s all it is. Maybe I could… I’ll have to think about it.”
Anson smelling blackmail, said quickly… too quickly, “If a hundred dollars would be of any use to you, Jud… after all, although I have nothing to do with it, this is a murder inquiry. How about a hundred bucks and you keep me in the clear?”
Jones lolled his massive frame against the wall. “Well, I don’t know, Mr. Anson. It worries me. To tell the truth, my wife is far from well. The doc says she should go away. The climate here doesn’t seem to agree with her. Moving is an expensive business. You couldnt run to a thousand, could you? For that I’ll forget everything and you will be doing us a good turn.”
Anson suddenly became calm. He realized the situation. He told himself he would have to kill this fat, hulking blackmailer, but he would have to stall him until he got him where he could kill him in safety.
“A thousand!” he exclaimed. “For Pete’s sake, Jud! Where do you imagine I’d find that kind of money? Two hundred is the best I could do.”
Jones shook his head. His expression became more sorrowful. “I’d like to help you, Mr. Anson, but suppose the cops found out I had lied to them? What would happen to my wife? They could put me away for. a couple of years. Two hundred bucks is no good to me.”
Anson stared at the fat, sweating blackmailer for a long moment, then he said, “Give me a little time; two or three days.
I might manage to find five hundred, but that would be the top. How about that?”
“I hate to press a guy as nice as you, Mr. Anson,” Jones said and Anson was quick to detect a hardening in the expression of his eyes. “It’ll have to be a thousand or nothing. I will give you a couple of days to decide.”
Anson watched him heave his bulk away from the wall and over to the door. As Jones opened the door, he paused and leered at Anson.
“My wife knows,” he said. “I never keep anything from her, but she can keep her mouth shut as well as I can. Good night, Mr. Anson.”
He went out into the corridor and closed the door after him.
On his way back to his apartment, Anson stopped off at the Shell Service Station. Hornby shook hands with him and asked him how he liked his new tyres.
“They’re fine,” Anson said. “I looked in to settle the account.”
“Thanks, Mr. Anson. Come into the office and I’ll give you a receipt.”
As Hornby began to write out the receipt, he said casually, “The police have been asking about your old set of tyres, Mr. Anson.”
Anson was looking at a tyre pressure chart, hanging on the wall. His back was to .Hornly. He felt the shock of Hornby’s words like a physical blow.
Without turning, he asked, “The police? Why?”
“Something to do with the Barlowe murder,” Hornby said. “It seems the killer left an imprint of his tyres on the murder spot. The police are checking on everyone who has changed his tyres recently. I told them that you had changed your tyres and that you took your old set away.”
Now the first shock was over, Anson turned.
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll see Lieutenant Jenson. He’s a good friend of mine… I wouldn’t like him to think I had anything to do with the murder,” and he forced a laugh.
“I just thought I’d mention it,” Hornby said, giving Anson the receipt.
“Sure… I’ll see the Lieutenant.”
As Anson drove away from the garage, he had a feeling he was in a trap. How many more mistakes was he going to make? He had been so eager to get the insurance money, he had rushed into this thing. He had been crazy to have used Barlowe’s gun. He had been even more crazy to have been so damned careless as to get a garage that knew him to change his tyres. Then there was Harmas asking about the coupon inquiry form and worse still, he now had no falibi for the night when Barlowe died!
Could this bright idea of his be slowly but surely collapsing? He mustn’t lose his nerve, he told himself. So long as his alibi stood up, he was in the clear. What was he to do about Jones? His hands turned damp as he gripped the steering-wheel. Would he have to murder both Jones and his wife? Somehow he would have to silence them. He was sure, even if he did manage to find one thousand dollars, Jones would come back for more. This tyre business… he had dumped his old set in a breakdown yard among hundreds of other used tyres. No one had seen him do it. Suppose Jones did betray him? Could the police prove he murdered Barlowe? He didn’t think they could… unless Meg’s nerve broke. If they worked on her, she might involve him.
She would be back the following night and alone in the sordid dirty, little house. He would go out there late and talk to her.
Maddox flicked cigarette ash off his tie.
“I never liked Anson,” he said. “There has always been something queer about him. He looks sexually starved and when a man looks like that, I don’t like him.”
Lieutenant Jenson sat behind his desk. Astride a chair, Harmas kept his eyes on Maddox. They had spent the past hour going over the details that Jenson and Harmas had collected covering Anson’s connection with Barlowe’s murder.
“Let’s take another look at it,” Maddox said, dropping his cigarette butt on the floor and lighting another cigarette. “We know Anson has been in this woman’s bedroom. We know also he has handled Barlowe’s gun-box. You have his fingerprints in the bedroom and on the gun-box. We know this because you got his prints on the glass paperweight.” He looked approvingly at Harmas. “That was smart.” He drew in a lungful of smoke and let it drift down his thick nostrils.
“We know from this woman, Fay Lawley, that Anson has been losing money on horses and has been chasing women.
We know he has been living far beyond his income. We also know on the morning following the Caltex holdup, Anson suddenly pays into his bank a thousand dollars. We know the gun that killed the officer in the hold-up belonged to Barlowe. We also know that the gun killed Barlowe. We can assume the woman gave Anson the gun. He hadn’t the money to pay for the premium so it looks as if he were forced to fake the Caltex hold-up to get the money and to pay off his debts to this bookmaker. We know he changed his car tyres after he was alerted by you…” here Maddox scowled at Harmas, “that a tyre track was found on the murder spot. We also know that he has a cast iron alibi.” Maddox leaned back in his chair “What is a cast iron alibi? Who is this night guard who tells us Anson was working until eleven on the night Barlowe died?”
“He wouldn’t stand Up for three minutes under cross examination,” Jenson said. “He copped a five year stretch for blackmail ten years ago. He’d lie his mother’s life away if he could earn a dollar.”
Maddox ran his fingers through his hair, his red, rubbery face set in a scowl.
“Then it looks like Anson.” He turned on Harmas. “What do you think? Can we nail him?”
“I don’t think so,” Harmas said. “We have nothing against him that a smart attorney couldn’t shoot to bits. I think as you do… I think he is our boy, but proving it is something else besides.”
“Well, this is your job,” Maddox said, glaring at Harmas. “So what do we do?”
Harmas smiled his slow, lazy smile.
“I think we should settle the claim. Give Mrs. Barlowe fifty thousand dollars.”
Maddox’s face turned purple.
“Pay her! You’re trying to be funny! She’ll never get a dime out of me!”
Harmas glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes to nine and he was hungry.
“I told Anson I’d persuade you to settle the claim. Just to get the right atmosphere, I think we should call her lawyer and tell him the same thing. As soon as they know the money is going to be paid out, things will start happening.”
Maddox suddenly relaxed.
“Go on… keep talking…”
“This woman is an ex-prostitute; there is no greedier animal,” Harmas said. “She won’t part with any of the loot. She and Anson could have a quarrel. She’ll be leaving hospital tomorrow. I thought it would be an idea to tap the telephone and plant microphones, hooked to a tape recorder around the house. It’s my bet Anson will go out there as soon as he knows the money is going to be paid. We could get quite a conversation on tape.”
Maddox rubbed the back of his neck as he looked at Jenson. “The boy’s smart,” he said. “I won’t say I can’t do without him, but he makes my life a little easier than if I didn’t have him.” To Harmas, he said, “Go ahead… call her lawyer and call Anson.”
Anson paced up and down in his sitting-room. Every now and then, he looked impatiently at the clock on the sideboard.
It was five minutes to nine o’clock. Then suddenly the telephone bell rang.
For a moment he hesitated, then picked up the receiver. It was Harmas.
“I’ve fixed it!” Harmas exclaimed. “Phew! I’m pretty near a wreck! Maddox has agreed to settle the claim. You have yourself to thank for it! If you hadn’t been selling so much insurance in the district, Maddox would never have agreed, but even he can see that he would only be spoiling your territory if we fought the claim.”
“You really mean… there’s no trick in this?”
Anson was stiff with suspicion. The idea of Maddox parting with fifty thousand dollars with the evidence he had against Meg seemed impossible.
“Don’t imagine Maddox likes it,” Harmas said and laughed. “He talked first on the telephone with old man Burrows.
He’s sure the woman fixed her husband, but he isn’t sure he can prove it… so, well, he’s letting her get away with it. I’ve called her lawyer. He’ll get the cheque tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m glad,” Anson said. “Thanks for calling me.”
“That’s okay. I thought you’d like to know. See you sometime,” and Harmas hung up.
Anson slowly replaced the receiver.
Meg Barlowe stirred the fire into a blaze.
The big, dusty room gave her a feeling of security. Having Hogan, his heavy body stretched out on the settee, gave her a feeling of relaxation even though Hogan seemed in a vile mood.
The time was a few minutes after eleven p.m. Meg had left the hospital during the afternoon. As soon as she had got back to the house, she had attempted to call Hogan, but it was some hours before he answered her repeated ringing.
She had asked him to come out right away, but Hogan was busy. He said he would be around about nine o’clock, but he hadn’t arrived before a few minutes after ten.
As soon as he had settled himself and had had a drink, he wanted to know when Meg was going to get the money.
“I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “This guy Jameson is supposed to be smart. He’s put in the claim, but I haven’t heard anything.”
“You get after him tomorrow,” Hogan snarled. “Chase him! I know lawyers. If you don’t keep after them, they sit on their tails and do nothing.”
Meg nodded.
“I’ll get after him. What are we going to do about Anson?”
Hogan scowled at her.
“Nothing… you give him the brush-off. What can he do? As soon as we get the money you give it to me to handle. You give him the air. You understand?”
Meg stared at him.
“I’ll give you the money Jerry, but I’ll also give you Anson to handle. He still has Phil’s gun.”
Hogan half sat up; his eyes alert. “What are you talking about?”
“I have already warned you about Anson,” Meg said. “There’s something about him that scares me. He’s coldblooded.
It’s fine for you to tell me to give him the brush off. What about me? He could do anything… he could kill me!”
“Yeah? He can’t do a damn thing!” Hogan snarled. “Can’t you see, you dope, that unless he wants to stick himself into the gas chamber, he can’t do a thing? We have him over a barrel. You get the money, tell him to go to hell, and give me the money… it’s as simple as that.”
“I wish it was,” Meg said, clenching her fists. “You don’t know him the way I do. He’s ruthless. His mind is set on getting money.”
Hogan swung his legs off the settee and sat up. His thick fingers closed around the buckle of his belt. With a quick movement he released the buckle and whipped the thin leather belt from around his waist.
“Okay, baby,” he said, getting to his feet, “it’s time you had a hiding. You’re getting too big for your pants. A beating…”
He paused as the front door bell rang. They looked at each other.
“Who’s that?” Hogan said, the belt swinging idly, his eyes uneasy.
“Go and find out,” Meg said. “But maybe you would like to beat me first!”
The front door bell rang, loudly and persistently.
Anson got out of his car, opened the double gates and drove the car onto the tarmac drive.
The headlights of the car lit up the garden. Before be turned off the car’s headlights he saw the garden had already lost its magic neatness without Barlowe’s care and discipline.
The time was half past eleven. There was a light on in the sitting-room. He paused for a moment, his hand going into his top coat pocket. His fingers touched the cold butt of Barlowe’s gun, then he walked to the front door and rang the bell.
There was no answer to his ring. He waited, aware of a cold mounting rage inside him, then he put his finger on the bell and held it there.
After a further wait, the front door was suddenly jerked open. The moonlight fell directly on Meg.
Anson remembered the first time he had seen her; in exactly the same position in which she was now standing, but now, of course, it was different. The bruise on her jaw and her slightly swollen eye marred the sensual quality she had.
At the sight of Anson, she drew in a quick, alarmed breath.
“What do you want?” she demanded. “I don’t want you here… go away!”
“Hello, Meg,” Anson said with a deceptively mild smile. “We have things to talk about”
“You’re not coming in!” Meg set herself to slam the door. “I have nothing to say to you!”
Anson made a quick move forward. He put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a hard shove that sent her staggering back. He entered the hall, shut the front door and then walked past her into the sitting-room.
A log fire burned cheerfully in the grate. Anson was quick to notice two half empty glasses of whisky standing on the occasional table. So she had company, he thought, and his hand slid into his pocket and touched the butt of Barlowe’s gun.
As Meg followed him into the room, leaving the door open, a sudden gust of wind blew a shower of rain against the windows.
Anson moved to the fire. He looked around the room. The burning logs, the settee and the two glasses of whisky sent his mind back to the exciting moment of their first meeting. It seemed a long time ago.
“What do you want?” Meg demanded.
Anson looked searchingly at her. His eyes moved over her body. He thought: you meet a woman and she starts a chemical reaction in you. You think there is no one like her in the world, then something happens, and it is finished. She means less to me now than the used plate after a good meal, and how little can that be?
“So you had to lie to me,” he said. “If you had told me you had been a tart and you had been a thief and you had been in jail, I wouldn’t have gone ahead with this thing, but you had to live in a dream world and lie. You hadn’t the guts to tell the truth. I’m sorry for you. To me now, you are just something I find on my shoe and scrape off.”
Meg hunched her shoulders. Her face was hard and her eyes bleak and indifferent Anson knew he had no power to hurt her. Her past life had armoured her against contempt.
“Do you imagine I care what you say about me?” she said. “Get out!”
“Not just yet… I have news for you, Meg. In spite of your record, in spite of your lies, they are going to pay the claim.
You’ll get the money tomorrow.”
Meg stiffened, staring at him. Blood rushed to her face, then receded, leaving her pale with excitement.
“You mean that?” she demanded huskily. “You really mean they are going to pay?”
Anson waved to the telephone.
“Call Jameson. They’ve even told him. I talked to him before I came out here. He said he would be coming out himself tomorrow as soon as he got the cheque.”
Meg drew in a long, slow breath. Watching her Anson’s face showed amused cynicism.
“We made a bargain… remember?” he said, “I was to insure your husband and murder him and you were to share the insurance money and yourself with me. We were going away together and we were going to have a whale of a time spending fifty thousand dollars.” His smile became crooked. “But now I’ve changed my mind. I have known too many whores to trust any of them and that now includes you. So I’ll settle for half the money. Tomorrow, you will get a cheque for fifty thousand dollars. I want a cheque right now from you for twenty-five thousand dollars, and we part and I hope I never see you again.”
Meg was aware that Hogan was just outside the room, listening to what was being said. His presence gave her the courage to say, “You get nothing! You can’t force me to give you anything… get out!”
“Don’t be stupid, Meg,” Anson said, his eyes bleak. “I can force you to give me my share… make no mistake about that.
You will do what I tell you or…”
A slight movement at the door made him jerk round. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of Sailor Hogan who grinned sneeringly at him.
“Hello palsy… you threaten me, not her. I’m more your size.”
As he moved into the room, Meg backed away.
Completely taken by surprise, Anson looked blankly from Hogan to Meg and then to Hogan again. Then his quick mind realized why Hogan was here. He saw suddenly the whole fabric of the plot he had blindly walked into.
“So… that’s how it is. You and she. So you are the boy friend the police think murdered Barlowe,” he said softly. “You are the pimp from Los Angeles who they talk about.”
Hogan’s sneering grin widened.
“Don’t get sore about it, palsy,” he said, leaning his broad, fighter’s shoulders against the wall. “We’re all suckers at one time in our lives. The cops thought I had knocked him off, but I convinced them I didn’t. I had an alibi. For your sake, I hope you have one too for they are certainly sniffing around.”
“I am having half the money,” Anson said, his face white, his eyes glittering. “You and your whore can have the other half, but I fixed this; I took all the risks… so I get a half share.”
Hogan laughed, slapping his thigh.
“You don’t get a dime, sucker. You killed him. When Meg put up the idea, I knew we had to find a sucker in the insurance racket and so I picked you. I picked on you because I knew you were in trouble and panting for dough. I gave you the treatment, and boy, did that punch in the belly soften you up. It was that simple. All she had to do was to write that letter about insuring her jewellery and then turn the heat on.” He looked over at Meg and grinned, “If she knows anything, she knows how to make a sucker out of a guy with hot pants. So you’ve pulled the nuts out of the fire, but don’t kid yourself… you don’t get a dime. There’s nothing you can do about it. You start bleating and you’ll bleat yourself into the gas chamber. Get it?” Hogan winked. He jerked a thick thumb to the door. “Now, beat it. Me and my girl friend want to be alone.”
Anson remained before the fire. His eyes were intent, his mouth a thin line.
“Are you telling me it was your idea to trap me into insuring Barlowe and then murdering him?” he asked.
Hogan laughed.
“Not my idea… she dreamed it up. You would be surprised how smart she is for a tart. I worked it, but she invented it.”
Meg, listening and watching, said sharply, “You’re talking too much Jerry… shut up!”
“Let him know how it is,” Hogan said, enjoying himself. “After all, he’s made us fifty thousand bucks. He’s entitled to know. Well, that’s it palsy… on your way. When we meet again, I’ll buy you a cigar.”
Still not moving, Anson asked, “How did the police get on to you, Hogan? Why did they ever imagine you killed Barlowe?”
“Because they were smart enough to come out here and fingerprint the bedroom,” Hogan said. “They found my prints: maybs they have found yours, but I have a cast iron alibi and I bet you haven’t been sucker enough yourself not to have a cast iron alibi.”
Anson stood staring at Hogan, cold blood crawling up his spine. “They fingerprinted the bedroom?”
He thought of Jud Jones, and his sneering blackmailing smile.
“They sure did,” Hogan said. “Stood me on my ear when Jenson told me.”
Anson suddenly felt defeated. He thought of that odd moment when Harmas had produced the glass paperweight. He had been vaguely uneasy about why Harmas had suddenly dropped his probing questions and had produced the paperweight. His heart gave a lurch. He had fallen for one of the oldest police tricks in the world. They now had his fingerprints. They would have found by now plenty of his prints in the dirty, sordid bedroom made during those nights when he had slept with Meg. They now would know that he had been Meg’s lover; that, plus Merryweather’s evidence, plus the fact he had changed his car tyres could cook him… anyway, they were enough facts for Maddox to swing into action against him!
Maddox!
Anson stood for a long moment, his brain racing, his face turning livid.
Harmas had said Maddox had agreed to pay the claim. So what had he done? He had rushed out there to be sure of his share! Maddox would know he would do just that very thing. What a stupid fool he was! He had walked into a trap.
Slowly, he looked around the room. He knew Maddox’s methods. He lifted his hands in a gesture of despair.
Puzzled, Hogan and Meg were watching him, shocked by the sudden change that had come over him.
“Look, palsy…” Hogan began, then stopped as Anson motioned him to silence.
The two of them watched him move around the room. He pulled aside the sideboard and looked behind it. He began a slow, systematic search of the room. The whiteness of his face and his despairing expression made both Hogan and Meg remain motionless and silent. Finally, Anson discovered the microphone. It was concealed behind the radiator; its wire lead going out of the window and into the darkness of the garden.
Anson stared at the microphone, furious with himself for falling for such a trick. And I was crazy enough to think I could outwit this devil, Maddox, he thought. Between the three of us, we have now talked ourselves into the gas chamber.
“What the hell’s going on?” Hogan demanded, unnerved by the way Anson was acting. “What is it?”
Again Anson motioned him to silence and then he beckoned. Moving cautiously, Hogan approached and Anson pointed to the microphone. He put his hand on Hogan’s arm motioning him to say nothing.
Hogan stared at the microphone as if it was a deadly snake. Sweat burst out on his battle scarred face. Meg moved forward. When she saw the microphone, she stifled a scream.
Hogan turned on her viciously and slapped her across the face, sending her reeling back.
“You smart, stupid bitch!” he yelled at her. “Look at that! So you thought you could fix it!”
“Stop it,” Anson said. He walked heavily over to the fire and bending down he thrust his hands towards the flames. He felt cold and sick, “Well, it didn’t come off,” he went on, staring into the fire. “At least, it wasn’t a bad try. If this stupid woman had only told me the truth… if she had admitted she had a record, I’d never have gone ahead with this thing As soon as Maddox know what she was, he set this trap and we’ve walked into it. He never intended to pay the claim. This was his trick to get me out here and set us all talking. We’re on tape! We have talked ourselves into the gas chamber!”
“Not me!” Hogan snarled, wiping his sweating face. “I have an alibi! They can’t touch me! To hell with you two! I’m in the clear!”
Meg turned on him; her face white and terrified. “Jerry! I did this for you! You were going to have the money! You agreed! You can’t walk out on me now. I love you! We’ve got to face this together!”
Hogan’s face was now a frightened, white mask. “Love? You? Do you imagine I ever wanted anything to do with you, you cheap whore, except what I could get out of you? I was planning to take the money and then I would have ditched you! I have all the women I want without getting snarled up with a dead-beat floosie like you. You and your sucker can go to hell!”
“Keep talking,” Anson said in a cold, flat voice. “It’s all being recorded. Just keep talking.”
Neither Hogan nor Meg bothered to listen to what he said. Meg had run over to Hogan and had caught hold of him. He threw her off.
“Get away from me!” Hogan snarled, and he started for the door.
Anson’s hand closed around the butt of Barlowe’s gun. He pulled it from his pocket and offered it to Meg.
“Kill him,” he said. “He isn’t fit to live!”
Hogan whirled round as Meg, gripping the gun, lifted it and pointed it at him. His face went slack with fright as he stared at the gun in Meg’s hand.
“No! Don’t do it!” he exclaimed, his voice shooting up. “Meg!”
“Your yellow boy friend,” Anson said softly and reaching forward, he took the gun from Meg’s shaking hand. The sight of the terror on Hogan’s face did much to repay that moment in the garage when Hogan had terrified him.
Hogan backed away, sweat running down his face, his breath coming in heavy gasps. As he moved unsteadily into the lobby, the front door bell rang.
Anson said quietly, “Here they are; Jenson, Harmas and the rest of them.”
Hogan came back into the sitting-room. He looked wildly around.
“Let them in,” Anson said, smiling at him. He was now very quiet and calm. “Then try to talk yourself out of all this.
You won’t! Nor will she! You both have said enough to put you in the gas chamber… go ahead… let them in!”
As the front door bell rang again, Anson put the barrel of the gun into his mouth, and still smiling at Hogan, pulled the trigger.