Richard Deming - Tweak the Devil’s Nose

“Fellow named Robert Caxton asking to see you, Inspector.”

“Caxton?” Day repeated. “Oh, that taxi driver in the Lancaster case. What’s he want?”

“Wouldn’t say, sir. Wants to talk to you.”

“All right,” the inspector said impatiently. “Send him in. You can go, Moon, but keep in touch with me.”

The cop backed out, but I made no effort to move.

“You can go,” Day repeated.

“We’re sharing all information, remember, Inspector? I’ll stick around to see what Caxton wants.”

The inspector scowled at me, but decided to let it ride. A moment later the little taxi driver came in, scowled at me also, then turned his attention to Warren Day.

“I figured I better bring this straight to you, Inspector. I got to thinking about this phone call I got yesterday morning, and the more I thought about it, the screwier it seemed.”

“What call was that?”

“From this guy who said he was a reporter for the Morning Blade. Got me out of bed about nine yesterday morning. Usually I don’t get up till noon, see, because I work the four till midnight shift. I was half dopey with sleep, or I might have tumbled something was fishy at the time, but I never thought about it until this morning when the phone got me out of bed again and some woman asked what radio program I was listening to.” He smiled with relish. “Bet the Hooper people scratch me off their phone list. Then when I got to thinking about this reporter’s call, I dressed and came right over.”

“Well, get to it,” the inspector said impatiently. “What’d he want?”

“Just getting background for a human-interest story on the Lancaster case, he said. Wanted some dope about the witnesses. Asked how long I’d run a cab, whether I was married or not. That kind of stuff. When he was finished asking about me, he said kind of casual-like, ‘Let’s see, you’re the third witness I’ve called. Thomas Henning — that’s the doorman, Manville Moon, the customer who saw it, and you. What was the name of that fourth witness again?’ Being half asleep, I said, ‘You mean Miss Moreni, the lady who runs El Patio?’ and he said, ‘That’s it. Forgot the name for a minute.’ Then he thanked me and hung up.”

All three of us were glaring at him by the time he finished. Day and Hannegan continued to look at him, but I swung my glare at the inspector.

“So you put tails on the witnesses,” I said bitterly. “If the killer approached either of them, all you had to do was grab him. But being so scientific-minded, it never occurred to you he might make use of a modern invention like the telephone.”

Day’s nose was whitening at the tip when he swung it at me. “It never occurred to you either. You knew what the setup was.”

Not deigning to answer, I jerked his desk phone from its cradle and gave the police switchboard Fausta’s apartment number. When it had rung for three minutes without answer, I hung up and tried the bar phone downstairs. Since it was only ten A.M. and El Patio did not open till noon, I was not surprised that it took another three minutes before I got an answer there. The voice that finally answered sounded like it belonged to a colored porter.

“Fausta around?” I asked. “No, suh.”

“Is Mouldy Greene there?”

“Back in his room, maybe. Want I should look?”

“Get him to the phone fast,” I snapped. “Got that? I want him right now.”

“Yes, suh,” he said in a startled voice, and I heard him drop the receiver on the bar.

Another two minutes passed before Mouldy’s belligerent voice said, “Who’s in such a rush?”

“Moon,” I said. “Where’s Fausta?”

“Oh, hello, Sarge.” His voice turned friendly. “Ain’t she showed up yet?”

I felt my stomach turn over. “Showed up where?”

“Wherever you was supposed to meet her.”

“Look, Mouldy,” I said desperately. “Try to get this the first time I say it. I wasn’t supposed to meet Fausta anywhere. The guy who killed Lancaster knows she was the fourth witness, and if a fake call came for her, it was from him.”

“Huh?”

“For cripes’ sake, get your brains together, Mouldy. A killer may have hold of Fausta.”

“A killer? Just a minute, Sarge.” There was a dull clunk as the phone was laid on the bar.

“Mouldy!” I said. When there was no answer, I yelled, “Mouldy, you Goddamned moron!”

There was still no answer, and I sat there with the phone glued to my ear a full two minutes, frustratedly glaring from the inspector to Hannegan to Caxton and then starting the circuit over again. I was almost ready to hang up and start driving toward El Patio when Mouldy returned. And by then I was so mad I couldn’t speak.

“Hadda talk to Romulus a minute,” he said calmly.

“He’s the porter who answered the phone. About an hour ago the bar phone rang and Romulus answered. Some guy said he was you and he’d been trying to get Fausta’s apartment, but something was wrong with her phone. Then he told Romulus to tell Fausta to meet you at the Sheridan Cocktail Lounge at ten o’clock. She called a taxi and left here at nine thirty.”

I was too amazed by Mouldy’s unexpected coherence to speak for a moment.

In the same calm voice he said, “I guess you’ll want to do it, but if this guy bumps Fausta, I get to kill him, Sarge. Okay?”

When I was able to speak I choked out, “Okay.”

“Meet you at the Sheridan,” he said, and hung up.

As I started for the door Warren Day said, “Wait a minute, Moon. What happened?”

I stopped with my hand on the knob. Over my shoulder I said, “Your killer used my name as a lure, and Fausta may be dead by now. If you want to help rectify the results of your clever trap, start phoning cab companies to find out who made a trip from El Patio to the Sheridan at nine thirty.”

Pulling open the door, I passed through and slammed it behind me without waiting for a reply.

In the time it took me to cross the street and climb into my Plymouth, Warren Day must have started a couple of plain-clothes men on my tail, for as I pulled away I noticed a blue sedan swing into a U-turn from in front of headquarters and fall in behind me. I had not seen the men come out of the building — as a matter of fact had not even noticed the blue sedan as I rushed past it — but in my rear-view mirror I could see the car contained two men and there was no doubt in my mind it was a tail.

I decided to give them a ride for their money.

The Sheridan is a good four miles from headquarters, most of the distance requiring travel through the city’s most congested district. Nevertheless I made it in five minutes flat, leaving a stream of curses in my wake and at least two traffic cops with apoplexy. I was too busy driving to check whether or not the blue sedan was able to stay with me, but apparently the driver was an expert, for as I slowed down just short of the Sheridan, it pulled next to me and the man next to the driver waved me over to the curb. Surprisingly I had passed not a single radio car or motor cop during my entire trip, so the blue sedan had been alone in its chase. I could hear sirens begin to drone in the distance, however, which led me to believe at least one of the traffic cops I had emotionally upset had gotten to a phone.

Figuring I would be unable to find a parking spot closer to the Sheridan’s front door anyway, I pulled into a loading zone just across the street from the hotel and climbed out of the car. The blue sedan double parked next to me and emitted its spare passenger at the same moment.

The sedan bore nothing to identify it as a police car, but the man who got out immediately flashed a badge. He was a middle-aged heavy-set man with a bull neck and a face nearly as flat as Mouldy Greene’s.