Ричард Деминг - The Copper Frame

When he finished, Burns emitted a low whistle. “Larry Cutter, huh? This is big stuff. What do you plan to do?”

“Frame him back. I’ll never be able to prove the frame without getting my hands on Ann Lowry. And even then, I doubt that I could tie Larry Cutter to the frame, or prove any collusion between him and Adam Bennock. But if I can get Cutter, Bennock, Morrison, and the Lowry woman to come together voluntarily for a conference and catch them all together, we’ll have evidence of the conspiracy.”

Burns raised his eyebrows. “How do you plan to do that?”

“You’ll see in a minute. Your part will be to arrange the raiding party. But first let’s see if we can set up the meeting.”

Going over to the phone, he dialed the unlisted number Tony Spijak had given him. A voice he recognized as that of Farmer Benton answered.

In his high-pitched imitation of Adam Bennock, Saxon said, “Mr. Cutter, please.”

A couple of minutes passed before Larry Cutter’s voice said, “Hello, Adam.”

“How did you know it was I calling?” Saxon asked in the same precise, reedy tone. “I didn’t say.”

Cutter laughed. “You have a kind of distinctive voice, Adam. The Farmer recognized it. What’s up?”

“I think we’d better have an immediate meeting. And I think you had better bring along the sergeant and that girl.”

“Why?” Cutter asked, his tone suddenly becoming cautious. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t care to discuss it over the phone. Can’t you guess?”

“Yeah, I guess I can,” Cutter said slowly. “But why do you want me to bring along the girl?”

“I thought we’d meet at my skating rink. It’s right on the beach and the beach is absolutely deserted at this time of year. It seemed a convenient location in the event we have to make a decision.”

After a moment of silence, Cutter said, “You might have a point there. I’ll phone Morrison right now. I happen to know he’s not on duty. Expect us in, say, an hour and a half. It’s almost eighty-thirty now, so we’ll be there at ten. In case I can’t reach Morrison, what’s your number there again?”

“I won’t be here,” Saxon said. “I’ll have to get over to the rink to start the place warming up. The heat has been off since I closed for the winter in November. The phone there is disconnected, so you can’t call me there.”

“Okay. I’ll get hold of Morrison somehow. If I can’t, I’ll just bring the girl. I know where she is. See you at ten.”

When he hung up, Vic Burns was gazing at Saxon in astonishment. “Even sitting here watching you, I’d swear that was Adam Bennock talking,” he said. “I never knew you were such a good mimic.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Saxon said with a grin. “And I’ve been practicing.”

Lifting the phone again, he dialed Tony Spijak’s number. When Marie answered, he asked if she would get in touch with her husband and have him call back.

“Sure, Ted,” she said. “Tony told me to expect your call. You should hear from him in a few minutes.”

It wasn’t more than five minutes before the bookmaker called back.

Saxon said, “I want you to make a phone call to Adam Bennock down here, Tony. Remember him?”

“Sure. Bennock’s Skating Rink. He’s the mayor now, isn’t he?”

“That’s right. It’s Miller 2-3101. Place the call person-to-person so that he knows it’s coming from Buffalo. Tell him you’re phoning to deliver a message from Larry Cutter. Tell him Cutter will be down to see him at the roller rink at ten tonight. You don’t know why. You’re just relaying a message. Don’t phone him until nine-thirty, so that Cutter will already be on his way. I don’t want Bennock to be able to reach him if he decides to check back. Got that?”

“Uh-huh. Suppose he asks who I am?”

“Make up a name. Bennock can’t know all of Cutter’s men. Don’t pick someone who actually works for Cutter, because Bennock may be familiar with the voice.”

“All right,” Spijak said. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what this is all about?”

“When I see you,” Saxon said. “I really appreciate all the help you’ve been, Tony.”

“What have I done?” the bookmaker asked. “If you feel indebted, you can spring me for a beer next time you hit Buffalo.”

When Saxon hung up, Vic Burns asked, “Now what do you want me to do, Ted?”

“Get a raiding party organized and ready to move in at ten o’clock. I figure about six men can handle it. Are there two patroling in the other car?”

“Uh-huh. Chaney and Mark Ross.”

“You and I make four. Tell the desk man to call in two off-duty men to report to headquarters at nine-thirty. Chaney and Ross can pick them up there. Meantime you and I will stake out the entrance to Beach Road to make sure everybody’s in the trap before we spring it.”

“Okay,” Burns said. Rising, he went to the entry-hall closet and started putting on his overcoat.

“You can phone the desk from here,” Saxon said.

“I’ll use the car radio.”

“Oh. Wait until I get my coat and hat and I’ll go with you.”

“I’ll be in the car,” Burns said, opening the door and going out.

Saxon went upstairs for his coat and hat. When he got out to the police car, Burns was just hanging up the mike.

“Everything’s set,” the lieutenant said. “The other car will meet us at the entrance to Beach Road with four men at a quarter of ten. Suppose I pick you up at nine-fifteen?”

Saxon slid into the front seat. “That’s only half an hour. I may as well cruise with you until then.”

“Suit yourself,” Burns said with a shrug.

For fifteen minutes they cruised slowly about town. Finally Burns parked in front of a drugstore.

“I need a pack of cigarettes,” he said.

“I’ll get them,” Saxon said, getting out of the car. “What brand?”

Burns was already out the other side. “I’m not crippled, Ted. Stay in the car.” He went into the store.

Saxon pushed the car door closed and walked over to the plate glass window. Inside Burns bought a package of cigarettes at the counter, then headed for the rear of the store. Saxon opened the door and stepped inside.

Burns glanced over his shoulder and his stride slowed. He paused at the magazine rack next to the phone booth and looked over the selection. Then he turned and moved back toward Saxon.

“Guess we’d better get going,” he said. “I thought you’d stay in the car to monitor the radio.”

“It hasn’t been more than thirty seconds,” Saxon said mildly.

Back in the car they cruised for another fifteen minutes. Saxon finally said, “We may as well get to the stake-out point.”

Burns headed the car west toward Beach Road.

Beach Road was only a block long, starting at Lake Shore Drive and ending at the northernmost of the three municipal beaches. A quarter of a block down the street from its entrance, on the opposite side of the street, was a filling station, now closed for the night and with only a single night light burning inside it. When Burns parked behind it and cut his lights, they were shrouded in darkness, yet they could see headlights approaching from either way along Lake Shore Drive. As there was a street lamp at the intersection of Lake Shore and Beach Road, they would also be able to get a clear look at any cars that turned in there.

Saxon drew his father’s Detective Special from his pocket and handed it to Burns butt first.

“Stick this in your overcoat pocket,” he suggested. “Then you won’t have to unbutton your overcoat to get at your service revolver.”

“What are you going to use?” Burns asked.