Stab in the dark, p.16
Stab in the Dark, page 16
He pointed to where a telephone cord went into the wall that had the booth on the far side. There was a table and chair there and a telephone on the table. “Toll gimmicked the pay phone someway so that you can’t call out. But incoming calls can be taken in here.”
“And naturally it hasn’t been reported out of order,” Knox said. He looked at Beeker. “A cute gag that would work only until the company sent out a man to collect its nickels.”
“They figured on being done before that,” Binks said. He was neither sullen nor eager. “Anyway, Knox, calls came in here but they didn’t go out. Whoever this Mitch is, he talks from somewhere else.”
Beeker jerked a thumb at Binks. “Go along with the others. I’ll find out later how much you can remember.” He let the driver herd Binks out with the proprietor and the waiter and then turned to Knox. “What’s on for you now, Paul?”
Knox spread his hands. “I don’t feel like swimming after the boat. I’ll go back to the hotel and get some rest while you start whatever wheels are needed. The coastguard should be able to find it.”
“On a dark, foggy night—sure.” Beeker ran a hand wearily over his face. “Got any more information for me?”
Knox flushed at his tone of voice. It was in his mind to tell Beeker about Mrs. Renfrew but he decided against it. He couldn’t see where it would help at this point.
They parted, Knox taking a cab back to the hotel. He was tired; he wished he had a drink. But, he knew, in his present state that wouldn’t really relax him. And what he needed was some way to relax. He was keyed tight and the fact that he could do little but wait now didn’t help. Nor did his realization that a lot of this might have been avoided had he gone about it a different way. While he was busy spreading bait and pulling in minnows, the big fish had swum away. The coastguard might be lucky and find the boat before it crossed into foreign waters. Knox wasn’t feeling sanguine about the prospect.
Because there was really nothing else that he could think of to do, he turned to a prospect that, at the moment, he disliked. He called Nat.
She said, “I’ve been waiting.”
Knox sprinted for the elevator. Something in her tone of voice had lifted him, if only momentarily. Going up, he thought, I could be wrong about her. It was wishful thinking, perhaps, but he wanted to be wrong about her. Wrong as hell. He wanted Nat Tinsley to be what she made herself out to be—nothing more.
Nat had changed into a housecoat, floor length, tight-waisted, with a flaring skirt. She looked less boyish and somehow older, very feminine and sophisticated. She looked good to Knox. So did the drink she had mixed and put in his hand before he was out of his overcoat.
She led him to the couch, lit two cigarets, gave him one, and they settled back with a half cushion width between them.
“Where’s your father?” he asked.
She gave him a half smile. “I don’t play nursemaid to Dad, Paul.”
Knox made a grin out of the question that jumped to his lips. “The last I heard he was with Mrs. Renfrew. If I were you, I’d worry.”
Nat shrugged and drew deeply on her cigaret. “I’m more worried about you. I don’t understand much of what happened but it doesn’t seem—safe.”
The exhilaration was still with Knox. He temporarily ignored the opening her words gave him and said, “My job isn’t always safe, Nat. But right now it doesn’t look too dangerous.”
She was persistent. Almost, he thought, as if she wanted him to force the issue. “What did you do after I left, Paul?”
He told her about the abortive raid. Then he said, because he had to know sooner or later, “So we caught Binks. Toll got away on the boat.”
She looked blank. “Who are Binks and Toll? Am I supposed to know them?”
He wanted to believe her. He wanted badly to believe her. He said, “Binks is the little guy that followed Jock around. Jock got killed. Toll is one of the voices at Merkle 3-4220.”
If it made sense, her expression didn’t admit it. She put out a hand, letting her fingertips brush his forehead. “Paul you’re tired. I should let you go to bed. But I’m selfish, I guess, and I’m too curious. Start at the beginning.”
Now that he had started, he would finish it this way. He took a long pull at his drink and set down the glass. “It begins,” he said, “with Leo Auffer. He’s dead.” Lifting the glass, he finished the rye.
Nat was staring at him, her cigaret halfway to her lips, her eyes wide and questioning. “Leo—dead?”
“Murdered,” Knox said shortly. “Like Jock. Just like Jock.” He told her about it, leaving out nothing except his identity and Cora’s and Leo Auffer’s. He detailed the scene on the boat with Binks and Toll and his own investigations in the basement. Then he leaned back and waited for her to say something.
“But why?” she demanded. “Why Leo? What does it mean, Paul. What has it to do with your missing war bride?”
She was good, he thought. She was the best actress in this sort of thing he had ever come across. If, he added, she were faking all of this. He tried again. “There is no war bride. That’s a cover up. It’s all connected with blackmail and obscene pictures like those we saw tonight.”
“They were horrible.” She tried to smile. “I thought at first you were trying to be funny. I got mad. Then I realized—when that man came out—there was more. A lot more. But I don’t understand—about the blackmail.”
He told her that too in short, hard words that left her pale as the picture grew clearer. She whispered once, “How awful,” but outside of that he knew no more of what he wanted to know than when he had started.
“It’s a nasty business,” Knox said. “But it’s almost over-one way or the other.”
“I hope so,” she said. She was playing with her half empty glass. “I don’t understand, Paul. If whoever it is knows that your’re investigating this, why didn’t they kill you too? What would one more murder mean to them?”
Knox looked straight at her. “That’s one I haven’t an answer to—yet. I have an idea, but …” He left it hanging and rose.
She came up too, her hand on his arm. “Paul….” Her voice was soft, her eyes fixed on his. At that moment she was completely appealing. His protective objectivity disappeared, was swept away by her nearness. He felt her touch through the cloth of his coat; he was conscious only of her. Her hands lifted, rested lightly on his cheeks. “Paul …”
He took a deep breath, fighting himself. At that moment he hated his job and everything about it. At the same time he hated himself. With an effort that took more strength than he thought he had, he caught her wrists and pulled her hands away.
“Thanks, Nat. Thanks for your help tonight.” Gently he maneuvered her until they were at the door. “And don’t worry, Nat. It will all work out.”
She did not look at him now but down, at some point by her feet. “I hope so, Paul. But be careful. Don’t—don’t take any chances.”
“No,” Knox agreed, “I won’t take any chances. There really aren’t any now. The coastguard has been alerted for Toll’s boat.” He opened the door and went out. He left her standing there, looking after him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BACK IN his suite, Knox called Mrs. Renfrew. He received no answer. He inquired and the desk clerk told him that Mrs. Renfrew and Mr. Tinsley had gone out together a few hours before. They hadn’t returned yet.
Nor would they, Knox knew. They wouldn’t return unless the fishing boat decided to come back. He asked for some coffee and sandwiches to be sent up and then he sat down to wait for Beeker to call him.
He didn’t wait long. To take his mind off Nat Tinsley, he thought about Beeker, and his conscience rose up and snarled at him. With a sigh, he succumbed and put in a call for the Lieutenant. When they were connected, Knox said, “I just found out that Mrs. Renfrew—” He stopped and detailed Mrs. Renfrew—“is Cora Deane, Mel. She and Tinsley are both gone. On the boat, I suspect.”
“Then you have an operative still on the case,” Beeker said. “You can relax.” Knox winced at his sarcasm. Beeker went on, “Can she handle it if things get tough?”
Knox said in a low voice, “She could handle it—if she were real lucky.”
Beeker said, “Oh.” There was a silence, then talking in the background. His voice came in stronger. “Paul, the vice squad found nothing but a warehouse where you sent them. They turned the place inside out. Fogarty is sore as hell.”
Knox said, “The devil with Fogarty. Does he think they run those shows like Saturday matinees? Tell him to kick the walls down too. They aren’t fools.”
“Okay,” Beeker said. He sounded faintly amused. “I got the Coastguard, Paul. They’ve gone to work.”
Knox didn’t want to talk any longer. He was getting over being mad and tired; now he was getting sick. Sick from helplessness and a rising feeling of tension that made his head feel like the inside of a triggered bomb. Muttering something about waiting here for further news, he hung up.
The coffee and sandwiches came. He found that he wasn’t really hungry but he managed to eat half a sandwich and drink all of the coffee. He thought about calling Nat Tinsley again and he had to fight hard before the idea went away. He kept remembering what she had looked like in that brief moment he had glimpsed her slim, smooth body. He kept remembering her eyes and her voice and her touch just before he had left moments ago. He rose and forced himself to think of something to do.
He realized how completely disorganized he was when he remembered that he had never finished his check of Leo Auffer’s toiletries kit. Going into the bedroom, he got it from the drawer and dumped the contents on the bed. With savage violence, he took a knife and ripped apart the leather case. There was nothing. The squeezed out tubes lay wrinkled and empty, mocking him. He took the bottles into the bath, emptied them, peeled off the labels, squinted into the caps. He threw the remains into the wastebasket.
He found what he sought in the razor, and he stood for some time cursing his own stupidity. It was a tiny piece of paper covered with miniscule writing, and it had been placed under the felt pad that lined the inside of the metal head guard.
The tiny, folding magnifying glass that Knox carried was barely enough to help his tired eyes make out the writing Auffer had put on the paper. Knox made no effort to do a thorough job of deciphering Auffer’s cryptic notes. The first few words told him that these were to have expanded later into a full report. Then names came out and struck him: “Tinsley directing. Toll running for Tinsley. About to break this. Arranged contact for sub-basement. Deane. Am being played but can make it boomerang and clean it up today.” The date was that of Auffer’s murder. One more. “Fishhead picked.”
Knox put the paper away and began pacing the floor. Auffer’s notes had done little but confirm his suspicions. It still proved nothing about Nat, but one way or the other, he was glad he had said to her what he had. Again he thought of calling her. Right now, he had an idea, she would tell him if he asked. It was too late to matter one way or the other.
He pushed the idea aside again, recognizing it for what it was—an excuse to see her. The last phrase that had caught his attention came back to his mind. “Fishhead picked.” It was so senseless on the surface that he wondered how anyone but a native or a person very familiar with this area could ever decode it. But Knox had not been raised on the Sound for nothing. Fishead was an island, a mere dot of land, on the edge of the San Juan archipelago. It was across the line, on the Canadian side.
Knox knew now what he had to do. Now that he was sure, he had no intention of calling Beeker. It might be foolish and it might cost him the case, but it was a chance he had to take. The kind of chance the World Circle office would understand.
His watch said that it was five a.m. Picking up the phone book, Knox went to work. He found what he wanted and put in his call. It took some time; it was the thirteenth ring before there was an answer.
Knox said, “I want to charter a seaplane to take off at dawn.”
The half asleep voice came to life. “For how long?”
“All day if necessary,” Knox said. He listened, talked, made the arrangements, and hung up. Going into the bedroom, he stripped down. Putting himself under a cold shower until he was thoroughly miserable, he rubbed himself dry, and dressed in a loose flannel suit and sneakers. He took his gun out of the case where he kept it, made a careful check, and dropped it into the coat pocket. He still had a few moments and he used the time to run his razor over his whiskers. Grabbing up an overcoat and soft hat, he left the suite.
A brief breakfast at Connie’s helped waken him some more and then he took a taxi, arriving at the seaplane anchorage at the south end of the lake just as the sky began to lighten. The pilot was a red-haired young man, stocky, with a wide grin and a competent way of handling himself and his plane that Knox liked. He took orders and asked few questions. His name was Riggs.
Knox said when they were up. “We’ll head straight for Fishhead island. I’m looking for a converted fishing boat that should arrive just about the time we do.”
Morning spread out, clear above and with a light mist on the water. By the time they were over the Strait and could see the Canadian mainland as well as the Peninsula to the southwest, the islands began breaking into sight, blending westward into the big mass of Vancouver Island itself.
“Isn’t that it,” Knox said.
“Off to the left,” Riggs said. “All by itself, what there is of it.” He went into a wide sweeping turn. “Now what?”
“There’s a bay on the north,” Knox said. “Not much but maybe enough for you to put me down.”
“Sorry,” Riggs said. “How long would I have a license if I started running people over borders?”
Knox showed him his World Circle card. “This is a government affair, too, by the way. But to save your neck, get as low as you can and go as slow as you can. If you lose me, that’s no fault of yours. Then hightail it to Friday Harbor and report—to the Coast Guard.”
“I don’t like it,” Riggs said. It was logical for him not to want to jeopardize his living. But on the other hand, Knox did not feel like making a detailed explanation. He said:
“Let’s go down and take a look, anyway.”
Riggs gave him a slantwise grin and started for the island. There were two bays, actually, opposite one another. Both showed clearly as they dropped toward the dot of rock and timber that made up the island’s surface. On the north bay, the larger, the fishing boat rode gently at anchor. Riggs dropped so low that both he and Knox could see a man on deck, focusing binoculars on them. Another man appeared. There was the glint of light on a rifle barrel. A star blossomed in the glass at Rigg’s side.
Riggs swore and they went up and away fast. “By God,” he said, “you weren’t kidding.” He looked mad. “Who are those guys?”
“No one you want to tangle with,’” Knox told him.
“It’s my plane, now it’s my war.” Riggs glared down. “Where do you want to be dropped, friend? And shall I come with you?”
“You can do more at Friday Harbor,” Knox said. He had an idea that it was Toll using the rifle—or Eddie Pillow. One or the other. He thanked them.
Riggs began to work back down. Knox stripped, put his clothes into a bundle, wrapped them in a piece of dirty canvas lying in the ship, and waited by the door.
Riggs chose the south bay under Knox’s direction. His pontoons touched the water, skipped, slowed. “Now!”
The ship began to swing away, ready to lift. Knox felt the cold air like an ice bath and pushed with his legs. The water slanted up over him, colder than the air. He jumped to take advantage of the movement of the plane and he didn’t go in too far, but far enough so that he was glad when he broke water and saw daylight. He held his bundle high, dripping on the outside, hoping that it had stayed comparatively dry on the inside.
He could hear the ship roaring up and away. The sandy beach of the island looked a long way off from where he was. He started for it, awkwardly holding the bundle up with one hand.
It wasn’t over fifty yards. Any more, he thought, and he wouldn’t have made it. Fifty yards was a long way in such numbing water. Then when he staggered onto the sand, the breeze was colder than the water had been and he made himself run for the scant protection of a patch of timber.
Once behind the bole of a solid looking douglas fir, he opened the bundle. Little water had seeped in so that his undershirt was dry enough to use as a towel. He was giving himself a good rub with it when a pleasant voice turned him around.
“This is a strange way to come calling, Paul.”
It was Cora Deane and she was looking him over with obvious approval. She wore a sweater and slacks and was herself, with no trace of Mrs. Renfrew. Her hair was caught up in a scarf. In her hand she held a thirty-two, and it was pointing casually but definitely at him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“GOOD MORNING,” Knox said. His teeth were chattering. He dropped the soggy undershirt and reached for his shorts. He put them on and then got his shirt. “How are you doing, Cora?” His voice was casual, as if he had expected this.
The gun lowered. “It’s about sewed up.” She smiled at him. “I’m glad you didn’t get any wrong ideas, Paul. I need your help.”
He finished dressing, found his coat with the gun and his cigarets dry, having been protected by his trousers. They slapped damply against his legs. He lit a cigaret and inhaled with pleasure.
“You took a hell of a chance,” he said. “What happened?”
She showed her teeth in a wide smile. “Tinsley isn’t as old as he might be,” she said. “It didn’t take him long to find out some of Mrs. Renfrew’s lumps weren’t real.”
“And he’s letting you run loose?” Knox had to light another cigaret as Cora plucked his from him.
“Why not? He thinks I’m helping him.” She paused and added, “I am—right to where we want him.”
Knox bent to tie his shoes. “The coastguard is on its way—I hope. How do we play this?”
