Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

He reviewed what he knew of the local organization, looking for a starting point. At the top locally was Myron Ledecker, big wheel in both Concord Devices and Valley Farms. Tall, thin, consumptive-looking man with hawk nose, bald head and British accent. Clubman. Semi-socialite. Accepted by those who didn’t know or care that his bankroll was made up partly by schoolkids’ dimes.

The next level was vague. Bill Walch was one. Brad Antonelli was another. Brad had started as collector of the payoff from the horse rooms. Jerry Norma had been on the third level, reporting probably to Walch.

He began to work on how they’d found the girl. The answer wasn’t long in coming. Once the two searchers had hit a dead end on the taxi, they’d gone back trying to identify the man she was with. Stukey wouldn’t have talked. But the waiter in Hiram’s knew him by name. He realized that he should have been smarter. But you can’t turn the clock back.

One more step in the thought process. They had the girl, the actual witness to the murder, even though she didn’t remember it as yet. Shock and the concussion had driven it out of her mind. They would assume that she had told Max the story. He would have only hearsay and yet they had a decision to make. He guessed that they wouldn’t get rough with him. Two killings would be ample. Instead, they would try to discredit him.

It would be best to get the jump on them. At least one mistake could be corrected. He phoned Captain Lowery. It took several minutes to get through to him.

He said, “Ed? This is Max Raffidy. I want to report—”

In a voice heavy with sarcasm and exasperation, Captain Lowery said, “You want to report! You want to report! By heaven, Raffidy, if you send this department on another goose chase like you did twenty minutes ago, I’ll have you picked up!”

“But—”

“I always thought you had good judgment, Raffidy. Maybe the Chronicle folding has softened your brain. I’m not interested in a damn thing you have to report. If somebody has heisted your wallet, report it to the cop on the corner.”

Max’s ear stung with the heavy click as Lowery hung up. They had moved just a shade too fast for him. And it could only have been done by someone who knew the city, knew of Max’s friendships. Walch could have done it. The net effect was to close the ears of the department to anything that Max could say, particularly as he had no proof.

He uncovered the portable, rolled paper into it, hammered out a terse report of everything that had happened. The last sentence he wrote was: “Lowery, if I wind up dead or missing, this should give you something to go on.” He folded it, sealed it, stamped it, mailed it from the corner. Far easier to hop a train. The fourteen hundred would last until the next job. But it wouldn’t be so easy to forget long blond hair, purple smudges of weariness under gray-blue eyes.

He sat over a cup of coffee and went back through every scrap of information he had. Jerry had met the girl at the train. The sleeper came in from New Orleans at noon. The girl had walked into his life at a quarter to five. Thus she had been with Jerry during daylight hours. She would have remembered staying overnight. All her clothes were still checked at the station. Yet the girl had talked of the lights going on suddenly. Concrete floor. Gunshots. What would that mean? A garage would be lighted. Probably windows. Some kind of light.

Suddenly he snapped his fingers. A warehouse! That would fit very nicely indeed. Concrete floor. Concord didn’t have local manufacturing facilities, he was certain, but they were a distribution point for everything from gimmicked roulette tables to sticky dice.

But where? Probably within the city limits, close to rail connections. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to hit the assessor’s office.

He was known in the assessor’s office and, with the rights of a citizen, he was given access to the records. Nothing looked promising under Concord, Ledecker or Walch. But under Valley Farms, Inc., he found a Market Street address. The clerk dug out the maps for him.

In the dull stubborn flame of anger, he had forgotten elementary caution. They picked him up as he came out of the assessor’s office. He recognized one of them as the man who, earlier in the day, had picked him up outside the Concord offices.

They were large, muscular and efficient. They moved in, and when he tried to twist away, one of them pivoted, chunked a hard fist deep into Max’s diaphragm. Max’s half-raised arms sagged. They supported him on either side. A few pedestrians looked curiously at the three men as they hurried by. The two men laughed enormously, slapping Max’s shoulders. They herded him quickly into a car, their faked laughter covering Max’s agonized attempts to draw breath.

Once in the car, one man drove. Max got his breath, said, “Picked up like a jerk kid by two slobs!”

The other searched Max’s person, removed the gun with an admonishing clucking sound.

“Where are we going?” Max asked.

“To see Mr. Ledecker.”

Ledecker was sitting in an easy chair by the window in his apartment at Valley Farms. When Raffidy was hustled through the doorway, Ledecker looked up amiably and said, “Ah, Mr. Raffidy.” He turned to the girl on the couch and said, “Do you mind, my dear?”

She got up indifferently and walked out. One of the two men who had picked him up took the place on the couch the girl had vacated. The other one left.

Ledecker said, “Please sit over there.”

Max sat.

Ledecker said, “You are an enterprising young man. Poor Bill Walch swallowed your story. He put a tail on you because he wanted to find out who you were acting for. We thought we might do better dealing direct. But a half hour later we found out that you were the gentleman who so kindly gave shelter to Miss Banner. Then we began to appreciate your cleverness, Mr. Raffidy.”

“You’re congratulating me?”

“Cleverness always appeals to me. It is at a premium in my type of business. And it is just that, Raffidy. A business. We take normal business risks. However, when a man chooses to defraud a more legitimate business enterprise, his employers can deal with a bonding company or with the police. That privilege is denied us. We have to take care of our own.”

“But this wasn’t taken care of in a very businesslike way, eh?”

“How do you mean that?”

“Too many loose ends. Like me, for example.”

“Quite.” Ledecker paused and looked out over the rolling fields, toward the distant line of woods. Saddle horses were winding down across the meadow. The heavy man sat on the couch, biting on his tongue as he pared his nails with a small pocketknife. Ledecker’s legs were crossed, the free foot swinging idly.

“Mr. Raffidy, we had a small blunder. We anticipated Mr. Norma’s plans. I have to keep large amounts of cash on hand. We do not know how Jerry got the combination, but our safe here was rifled a week ago. Everyone on my staff was under suspicion. Jerry made no change in his habits. But I did find that he had gone twice to the warehouse for no known reason.

“We searched the warehouse and found that Jerry had cleverly hidden the two hundred thousand dollars in a small packing case which had contained the wheel from a roulette table. However, we needed proof. One of my most trusted assistants was planted in the warehouse. When Jerry came after the money he was — dissuaded.”

“Permanently.”

“Oh, yes. And then we discovered the blunder. Jerry had a girl with him. She battled vigorously but was finally quieted. My assistant phoned me. I suggested that the young lady be taken to a certain apartment we maintain on Primrose Street. He put her on the floor in the back of the car. In heavy traffic she managed to get the door open and lose herself in the crowd. It was my idea to find out how damaging a witness she might be.”