Richard Deming - Tweak the Devil’s Nose

I said, “Thanks, Mr. Mohl,” and was about to hang up when he cleared his throat and said in his dried-up voice, “A person was in making inquiries about you shortly after you left here, Mr. Moon.”

“A person?”

“I didn’t see him myself. He talked only to our receptionist. He claimed he was a friend of yours, had seen you enter the building and was trying to find you. But the manner in which he asked questions convinced the girl he was trying to pump her about what your business had been.”

“She tell him?”

“No. She suggested he talk to me, but he said that wouldn’t be necessary and departed.”

“Leave a name?” I asked.

“No. But she describes him as tall and rather thin.”

“She mention his teeth?”

“His teeth?” Alfred Mohl paused in thought, then said, “She did, now that you remind me. Rather protruding, she said.”

I said, “Thanks a lot, Mr. Mohl. I know the man.”

I hung up and told Warren Day, “Farmer Cole is still on me. He walked into Mohl and Townsend right after we left and tried to find out what I wanted there.”

“That disproves your whole theory,” Fausta said. “If he was following you simply because he wanted to kill Mr. Knight, he would have stopped after accomplishing his mission. Probably Laurie Davis has him following you to make sure you do not loaf.”

Ignoring her, I asked Day, “What do you make of that?”

The inspector shook his head. “Nothing. It doesn’t make sense. Was Davis on the list of directors?”

“Yeah. So maybe you better make that call to the Illinois police.”

It was shortly after five when we left headquarters, and Fausta demanded a cocktail.

“You have dragged me here, there and everywhere all afternoon,” she said. “But you have hardly even looked at me. Now it is time to forget work and concentrate on me.”

I took her to the Jefferson because it was close to headquarters, found an empty booth and ordered a rum Coke and a rye and water. When the waiter brought them, he also brought a third glass which looked as if it contained Tom Collins.

I said, “We ordered only two drinks.”

“The gentleman at the cigarette machine,” he said, nodding toward a man who was in the act of dropping a quarter in the slot. “He said he was joining you and paid for all three drinks.”

The man was Farmer Cole.

He sauntered over tearing the red tab from his cigarette package, nodded to Fausta, looked at me without expression and slid into the booth on Fausta’s side.

I asked, “Know the gentleman, Fausta?”

“Oh, yes,” Fausta said. “Mr. Cole frequently dines at El Patio with Laurie Davis.”

I raised my glass. “Thanks for the drink, Farmer.”

“A pleasure.” Suddenly he pulled his cigarette trick again, popping a cigarette into his mouth and getting a lighted match under it in a blur of motion too fast to follow.

I said, “Some day you’re going to scorch the end of your nose doing that.”

“It’s my nose,” he said in a reasonable tone.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “But it seems to spend a lot of time in my business. Got a plausible explanation for keeping on my tail constantly?”

“Not constantly,” he demurred. “Only periodically. And I told you why. Boss’s orders.”

“Why the orders?”

His bony shoulders moved in a shrug. “I’m just common labor. I don’t ask why. You’d have to go to management to find out.”

“I’ll do that,” I told him. “I think I need a talk with Mr. Davis.”

“Yes, you do. That’s why I intruded on your little tête-à-tête. Tuesday Mr. Davis left you his phone number, with instructions to call in any progress. This is Thursday, and he’s beginning to wonder why the phone doesn’t ring.”

“There hasn’t been any progress. Except negative.”

“You mean you’ve eliminated some possibilities? Even that would interest Mr. Davis.” He examined me with his mouth open for a moment. “Suppose you give me a brief run-down, I’ll pass it on, and you won’t have to bother phoning Mr. Davis.”

“Sure,” I said. “Willard Knight didn’t shoot Lancaster. Neither did Warren Day, Fausta or I. End of report.”

“Very concise, Mr. Moon. What did you find out at Mohl and Townsend?”

“The receptionist is single, but she leans backward when she runs. Alfred Mohl believes in gilt-edged securities and votes Republican.”

The look he gave me was the same one he had employed the first time we met. Not belligerent, nor threatening, but merely a quietly informative look which let me know if I wanted a contest, he would gladly tear off one of my arms and beat me over the head with it.

I said, “I don’t deal with common labor. I’ll get in touch with top management.”

“Yes, do that,” he said quietly.

Lifting his glass for the first time, he drained it in one continuous swallow, rose from his seat, inclined his head at Fausta and sauntered off.

That evening Don Bell, the local radio gossip, had the full story of Fausta’s narrow escape from poisoning on his nine o’clock broadcast. I was rather surprised, inasmuch as the evening papers had carried nothing but the bare announcement of the waiter’s death, with the additional information that the police were investigating. Apparently Warren Day, for reasons of his own, had not wanted the incident publicly connected with the Lancaster and Knight murders, but there had been the usual leak resulting in a Don Bell exclusive. If the inspector was listening to the broadcast, his nose at this moment would be dead white, I reflected.

Fausta’s phone rang just as the broadcast ended, and Fausta went into her bedroom to answer it.

When she returned to the front room, she announced, “That was Lieutenant Hannegan. Inspector Day wants you to meet him at your apartment right away. The inspector is already on his way, and Lieutenant Hannegan has been phoning everywhere trying to reach you.”

“Hannegan said all that?” I asked, surprised. “Usually he isn’t so voluble.”

Then, not because I had the least suspicion the call was faked, but merely from the habit of double-checking, I went into the bedroom and phoned headquarters. Since both Day and Hannegan went off duty at five, I was not surprised to find neither there. The sergeant on duty at Homicide knew nothing about their whereabouts.

I tried Day’s apartment, but when the phone had rung six times without answer, hung up. Then I tried my own number, and again hung up after six rings. Apparently Day had not yet arrived, for while I kept my apartment locked, the apartment manager knew the inspector well enough to let him in with a passkey, and I was certain Day would not stand out in the hall waiting when he could just as easily be inside drinking up my rye.

I made one more call, this time to the bar phone downstairs, and this time I got an answer. I told the bartender to send up Mouldy Greene.

When I returned to the front room, Fausta was freshening her lipstick with the obvious intention of going out.

I said, “You’re staying right here in this nice safe apartment.”

“I thought you were going to protect me twenty-four hours a day,” Fausta said. “Suppose that was not Lieutenant Hannegan at all, but the killer trying to lure you away so I would be alone?”

“You won’t be alone. Mouldy’s coming up. And wasn’t it Hannegan?”

Fausta shrugged. “I suppose. I haven’t heard him speak more than twice, and never over the phone.”

“I’m reasonably sure it was the lieutenant,” I assured her. “Warren Day is out, and he rarely goes anywhere except on business. He hates spending the money on foolish things like women and strong drink. His idea of a good time is to run down to the bank and deposit his pay check. And since the banks aren’t open at this time of night, he must be out on business. Anyway, if our killer was trying to get at you, he’d probably assume I was dragging you along, and plan to pot you from some ambush.”