Стюарт Стерлинг - Collection of Stories

Wiley blinked. “A dame says ‘Patsy’ and you decide she’s a killer. You see her out on Route 60 — so you figure she lives here on Chestnut. You never saw her but that once — you don’t know what her name is — she’s gotta be this Mrs. Francine Garnet!”

“I know it sounds wacky,” Don protested, “but—”

“It doesn’t even sound that good!” Wiley turned to nod to Frank, in the doorway.

The plainclothesman held out a briefcase. Battered pigskin with a brass side-lock. Frank held the flap up so Wiley could see the lettering burnt on the under side. PROPERTY CLARK-McGEEKIN CORP. LIBERAL REWARD IF RETURNED TO PAYMASTER’S OFFICE.

“Where’d you find it?” Wiley glanced inside to make sure it was empty.

Frank looked sourly at Don. “In his truck. Under the front seat.”

Annalou cried, “No! Noll”

Don swore beneath his breath.

“There’s a locked compartment, in the back of the truck, Lieutenant,” Frank said. “Maybe they’s something else stashed in that.”

Don took out his keys, tossed the leather case to Wiley.

“If you birds think I’d be dumb enough to hide that briefcase in my own truck—”

Wiley handed the keys to Frank. “Haven’t time to tell you how dumb I think you are, Rixey. Take all night.”

Frank went away.

Annalou jumped up excitedly. “Every single word Don says is absolutely true!” She ran to the Lieutenant, grabbed his arm, put her face down close to his.

Wiley threw a leg over the arm of his chair, shifted his position, pointedly avoiding her gaze.

“I bet those two came to Outside Inn in the first place just to see if they could learn anything about Mister Whalen’s condition, from Marie!”

“Who’s Marie?” Wiley asked patiently, still keeping his eyes away from her. From Don, too.

Don reached for the kit which Annalou had rescued from the lobby. He slid noiselessly out of his chair, backed toward the kitchen.

“Marie Whalen. My night relief at Outside Inn. Mister Whalen’s her uncle. So of course when she heard he’d been shot and might die any minute, she telephoned me she wouldn’t come to work tonight...”

Don was in the passageway, catfooting toward the kitchen. Even that far away he could hear Wiley’s:

“You two are tangled up in this worse’n a couple pups in flypaper — hey! Rixey!”

Don slid up the window by the refrigerator, slipped out on the fire escape, raced down.

His heart pounded faster against his ribs than his feet did on the iron rungs. At any second there might be a shattering blast from above — and the tearing shock of a slug!

Maybe, technically, he wasn’t escaping. They hadn’t actually arrested him. But even if he managed to get away now, he’d only be getting himself in deeper. On the other hand, the cops were pushing his head under, every chance they got, anyway. Wouldn’t listen to him, wouldn’t believe him when he tried to tell them what he knew.

He dropped the last ten feet to the ground. The weight of the kit sent him to his knees. He scrambled up as a shout from above roused the neighborhood:

“Stop! Or I’ll shoot!”

He didn’t stop. But he slowed, when he got to the end of the alley opening onto Elm. No uniform in sight. No prowl cars.

He walked briskly to the next corner, heard wailing sirens approach. He stepped into a dark doorway until the flashing red eye of the patrol coop had passed.

Blocks away he went into a drugstore, used the classified directory.

In the phone booth he cupped his hand around the mouthpiece: “Mike Brewer there?... Oh, Mike, this’s Don Rixey... fine, how you?... oh, I get a little job here’n there, now’n then... say, you could do me a favor, you want to... well, ‘s like this... I was working on a set tonight... Klaravox console... dame named Garnet... over on Chestnut... an’ I saw your sticker on the back of the set... you remember workin’ on that one?.. yeah, Chestnut... No?.. Wouldn’t you have some record at your shop?.. y’ll? Suh-well! Meet you there, ten minutes.”

While he waited in front of the flasher-display at Brewer’s-for-all-things-Electric, Don worried about Annalou. Maybe Wiley had her in jail by now. It wasn’t a pleasant idea.

Mike Brewer’s round face was ghostly under the greenish glow from the emerald cone over his desk.

“Here y’are, keed.” A fat fist extracted a Customer Card. “Yates. Templeton D. Klaravox Console, Model XT ’47.” He chuckled. “One those 14-tube contraptions, guaranteed to bring in such world-wide reception as Paris, Kentucky, London, Ontario an’ Moscow, Idaho. Condenser replacement, rectifier tube.”

“That’s th’ set. Where’d Yates live?” Don asked. If it was the Chestnut Street address, that would only mean Yates had sold the set to the Garnet dame, when she’d moved in. If it was something else, maybe Yates had lent it to his girl-friend to use in a furnished apartment. Those gilt chairs in the Garnet place had looked like the kind of stuff landlords fixed up to rent.

“Hundred eighty-one Crestview.”

“Happen to recall this Yates?” Don described the man who’d been at the Outside Inn.

“That’s the joe. I remember that Man of Distinction mustache. Wouldn’t have trusted him with a burnt match.”

“You’re a life saver, Mike.” Don shook his hand.

“Yeah? Whose life?”

“Mine, maybe. Tell you later. S’long.” He hurried away.

The apartments at 181 Crestview weren’t as toney as the Chestnut Street setup; there were brass letter boxes in the lobby. But no Yates on any of them.

Don found the janitor, a wizened ancient who said:

“Mister Yates? He moved away three, four months ago. Nope, dunno where he went.” The old man noticed Don’s sharp disappointment. “Y’might ask over to the Apex. Think he still keeps his car there.”

“A big black Caddy?”

“Yes sir, that’s Mister Yates’ car. Fine bus, that is. Fine gentleman, too — you ask me.”

“Where’s this garage?” Don asked.

“Two over, one south.”

It was ten minutes to midnight when he reached the neon sign: APEX GARAGE — TWENTY-FOUR HOUR SERVICE. There was a night light in the office, but he didn’t see anybody around.

He went in swinging his kit, as if he was on a job — spotted the shiny double aerial whips right away. The long, sleek Caddy was over in the corner.

He tried the doors. They were locked. He still had hold of the handle beside the driver’s seat when a voice at his elbow said sharply:

“Whatch doon, bud?”

A car washer, muscular in undershirt and rubber boots.

Don swung his kit bag onto the front bumper carelessly:

“Rush job for Mister Yates. Guess I’ll hafta get the keys from the office.”

“Reckon so.” The washer followed along, suspiciously, as Don strode toward the office.

A scrawny, gaunt-faced man, smelling of whisky, came up out of the chair in which he’d been dozing, beneath the ticket rack.

“You got the keys to Yates’ heap?” Don heard the washer’s boots clumping close behind him. “Sent me here to stick a new amplifier or something in th’ radio.”

The gaunt man hesitated, clearing his throat. “I don’t have no keys to Mister Yates’ car. But,” he gestured vaguely toward the door of the men’s room, “I guess if he sent you over here... why...”

The lavatory door opened slowly. The plump man with the mustache smiled at Don. He was wearing a light topcoat. He had his right hand bunched in the pocket. And it was not a nice smile.

“This boy’s tellin’ the truth,” Yates said affably. He moved close to Don, took his arm. “Come on, fella. I’ll show you what has to be done.”

Don stood stock still, wondering how he could get a call through to Wiley on that phone on the ticket desk.