James Chase: Fast Buck

‘Working on something?’

‘A fifteen-year-old robbery,’ Dallas said. ‘Want to hear about it? It’s a good story.’

Olin shook his head.

‘Robbery isn’t my line. Besides, who cares about a fifteen-year-old robbery?’

‘The insurance companies — when the amount involved is four million,’ Dal as said seriously.

Olin looked startled.

‘Is that right? Four mil ion?’

‘Yeah. The insurance companies were caught for the lot. They paid up, but they’re still trying to find the jewellery.’

Olin squinted at his cigarette end.

‘I think I remember something about that job: wasn’t it a Rajah’s collection?’

‘That’s right. The Maharajah of Chittabad. He lent the whole of his family heirlooms to the Purbright Museum. That was fifteen years ago. The museum was staging an exhibition of the world’s most famous gems. The Maharajah had his collection flown to New York. They never arrived, and they’ve never been seen since. A year later a fence in Holland was approached by Paul Hater with some of the stuff.

Remember Hater? He was the smartest jewel thief of them all. The fence shopped Hater because Hater wouldn’t agree to his price. Hater was arrested, but he wouldn’t tell where he had cached the collection.

He got twenty years: he’s still serving his sentence, and is due out in a couple of years time. Old man Purvis is representing the insurance companies, and we’ve been trying to find the stuff ever since. Our one hope now is to wait until Hater comes out and then stick to him like leeches in the hope he’ll lead us to the hiding-place. There’s four hundred grand in it for us if we get the stuff back, as well as a yearly retainer.’

Olin blew smoke down on to his grubby blotter, then waved it away irritably.

‘Did Hater do the job alone?’

Dallas shrugged.

‘No one knows. The pilot and the crew of the plane were never found: nor was the plane, for that matter. We figure they must have been working with Hater, but he wouldn’t finger them. We’re pretty certain the stuff’s never come on the market. Hater’s the only one, as far as we know, who knows where it’s hidden.’

Olin pushed out his aggressive jaw.

‘I guess my boys would have made him talk,’ he said sourly.

‘Don’t kid yourself. They worked over him until he looked as if he had been fed through a mincer.

Nothing anyone did to him — and they did plenty — could make him open his trap.’

‘Aw, the hell with this!’ Olin said impatiently. ‘I’ve got me a murder to solve. What do you want this car owner for?’

‘A couple of years back, the Maharajah died,’ Dal as explained. ‘His son came into the estate. This guy has his own ideas of how to live, and he’s been throwing his father’s money around like a drunken sailor. Rumour has it he’s run through half the old man’s fortune already. Without warning he suddenly turns up here. The insurance companies have the idea he’s over here to contact Hater. They think he’s going to do a deal with Hater somehow or other.’

Olin stared.

‘What sort of deal?’

‘They think Hater would be glad to sell the stuff back to the Rajah at a price. They argue the Rajah could get rid of it far easier than Hater could. From what they hear about the Rajah they think he’s quite capable of sticking to both the jewels and the insurance money. Personally, I think it’s a lot of phooey, but you can’t tell these insurance birds anything. They’ve hired us to watch the Rajah, and report to them who he’s seeing while he’s here. Up to now the only two he has seen are the man and woman who left his hotel in this LaSalle. I want to know who they are.’

‘Well, I guess I’d better do something about it,’ Olin said, reaching for his phone. ‘Purvis has done me a lot of good in the past. How is the lug, anyway?’

‘Just the same,’ Dal as said gloomily. ‘Doesn’t spend a nickel more than he can help, and still thinks a woman’s place is in the kitchen, and no place else.’

‘That’s Purvis all right. He gave me a box of cigars last Christmas I swear he made himself.’

‘You can consider yourself lucky,’ Dal as said, grinning. ‘He didn’t give me a thing. How about a little action on that car number? I haven’t got all night.’

Olin spoke into the phone, listened, waited, grunted and hung up.

‘The car belongs to a bird named Preston Kile. He has a house on Roosevelt Boulevard which puts him in the money. Does that help you?’

‘Not much. You wouldn’t like to ask Records if they’ve anything on him?’

Olin sighed, dialled, spoke again into the phone. While he waited, Dallas crossed over to the window and stared down at the two-way stream of traffic flooding the main street. He spotted the Herald truck unloading a pile of newspapers at the corner. The boy snatched them from the driver and began running along the sidewalk, yelling excitedly.

‘Looks like your murder’s hit the headlines,’ he said.

‘It’s going to make a sweet stink,’ Olin said, grimacing. He spoke into the telephone again, then hung up. ‘We’ve got nothing on Kile. We don’t know him.’

‘Well, okay and thanks,’ Dal as said. ‘I guess I’ll have to do a little more leg work. This job gives me the hives. So long, George. Hope you find your killer.’

‘I will,’ Olin said, scowling. ‘The drag-net’s out for him now. It’s just a matter of time. If your job gives you the hives, my job gives me ulcers. So long. Drop in when I’m too busy to see you.’

Dallas grinned and walked quickly along the corridor, down the stairs to the street. He took another taxi to the Herald offices, made his way through a maze of corridors to Huntley Favell’s office, rapped and pushed open the door.

Favell was the Herald ’s gossip column writer. He made it his business to know everything about anyone in town whose income ran into four figures.

Dallas was a little startled to find Favell and a pretty red-haired girl wrapped together in an embrace worthy of the best traditions of Hollywood. They sprang apart on seeing Dallas, and the girl slid past him, her face scarlet, and fled from the office.

Favell, completely unruffled, eyed Dallas coldly. He was a tall, thin Adonis, with a Barrymore profile, who lived well above his income and was glad to augment his earnings by selling information to the International whenever the opportunity arose.

‘Don’t you know better than to burst into a private office like that?’ he asked tartly as he sat down behind his desk.

‘I wasn’t thinking,’ Dal as said, grinning. ‘Accept my apologies. The next time I’ll let off my gun before coming in.’

‘There’s no need to be facetious,’ Favell said, wiping his mouth careful y with a handkerchief. He eyed the smear of lipstick that appeared on the handkerchief with a grimace of displeasure and tucked the handkerchief away. ‘And don’t go getting any wrong ideas,’ he went on, distantly. ‘She had something in her eye.’

‘Sure. I always get things out of a girl’s eye in the same way.’ Dal as sat on the edge of the desk and offered Favell his cigarette-case. ‘I dropped in for a little information.’

Favell’s acid face brightened, but he didn’t say anything. He lit the cigarette, leaned back in his chair and waited.

‘Know anything about a guy named Preston Kile?’ Dal as asked.

Favell seemed surprised.

‘Why? Is he in trouble?’

‘Not to my knowledge. I spotted him with a blonde who interested me. Is he likely to be in trouble?’

‘He’s seldom out of it,’ Favel said. ‘I haven’t time to waste talking to you, Dal as. I’ve got my column to polish up.’