Richard Deming: Tweak the Devil’s Nose

“That will be nice for us,” I said. “Would you know the names of any of these racketeers?”

“The supposed ringleader is mentioned in the papers occasionally. Nothing has ever been proved.”

I admired his caution. He was not going to defame anyone’s character in front of witnesses unless he had documentary proof the guy had no character. But I am not so sensitive about slandering known hoods.

“Barney Seldon is sometimes mentioned in the papers,” I said.

“Yes. I’ve read about him.”

“Barney Seldon was also at El Patio last night. I saw the cops put the collar on him for later questioning.”

“Yes, I know. He was released after questioning, which means he at least satisfied the police he had nothing to do with Walt’s death.” He changed the subject by saying, “I’m willing to pay two thousand dollars plus expenses. One thousand now and one thousand if you deliver me the information at least twenty-four hours before it becomes public.”

“It’s a deal,” I said quickly, before he could change his mind. Then I said, “You mentioned you’re just as satisfied as the police that I didn’t shoot your protégé, but you don’t impress me as the type of person who makes snap judgments. What convinced you?”

“I talked to the eyewitness who saw the killer,” he said calmly.

I felt the hair rise along the back of my neck. In a cautious voice I asked, “Who was that?”

For the first time he almost smiled. “You know as well as I, Mr. Moon. And you don’t have to fear my making it public so the killer will know whom to eliminate. I’ve been a regular customer of El Patio for years and feel as friendly toward Miss Moreni as you do. Incidentally, it was Fausta who recommended you to me.”

I closed my eyes for a minute, wondering how many other people Fausta had told her story to in an effort to protect me, for knowing how Fausta’s mind worked, it was obvious to me she had deliberately placed me above suspicion in Laurie Davis’s eyes in order to make me safe from possible vengeance. At least she was consistent in her perjury, but if she continued repeating herself often enough, there was a fair chance the so-called “key witness’s” identity would get back to the killer.

I decided I had better speak firmly to Fausta.

I don’t think I have ever encountered a client as unwilling to impart information as Laurie Davis. The worst of it was, I had a feeling he could tell me exactly what he wanted me to look for, but preferred that I start the investigation cold without benefit of whatever theory he himself had. He reminded me of the kind of guy who refuses to tell his symptoms to the doctor because he wants the doctor to earn his money without help. Only the size of his fee prevented me from tossing his check back at him and advising him to solve his protégé’s murder himself. But two thousand dollars can compensate for a lot of temperament in a client.

About all I got from Davis was a little background material on Walter Lancaster, and even that contained nothing I could not have dug from a newspaper morgue had I wanted to take the time.

Prior to entering politics Lancaster had been legal advisor and vice president of the Illinois Telegraph Company at a salary of fifty thousand dollars a year. He had served no political apprenticeship, jumping from business into a key political position much in the manner of Wendell Willkie. He left a widow, a college-age son and an estate Laurie Davis estimated might run into two million dollars. Most of this, Davis believed, was in corporate stocks, as Walter Lancaster had been on the board of directors of four small corporations in addition to his primary job with the Illinois Telegraph Company, and presumably he would not have been elected to these boards unless he had substantial investments in the companies.

The only point on which Davis seemed willing to impart detailed information was the lieutenant governor’s business connections. He told me the four corporations on whose boards Lancaster had served were Rockaway Distributors (a wholesale magazine and news company), Ilco Utilities, Eastern Plow Manufacturers, Inc. and the Palmer Tool Company. All were Illinois firms.

Deciding I could get more information than my client had to offer from almost anyone I asked, including the shoeshine boy on the corner, I took Davis’s private phone number in Carson City and told him I would report the minute I had anything definite. After he and his gangling bodyguard departed, I shaved, dressed and cooked myself a combination breakfast and lunch, it then being nearly one P.M.

Instead of breaking my back going over ground already covered by the police, I decided the best place to start my investigation was to learn what they knew. And the best source for that was Warren Day.

While it would be padding the truth to say I ever look forward with pleasure to an interview with the inspector, I do derive a certain stimulation from our encounters. For eight years Inspector Warren Day and I have maintained a co-operative agreement: I get in his hair and he gets in mine. A casual observer would think he hated my guts, which he probably does part of the time, but on the few occasions other division heads of the local police department have started pushing me around, Day has shooed them off like a mother hen protecting her young. I have never quite decided whether this phenomenon is due to some spark of affection for me he conceals under his crusty exterior, or whether he simply has me marked off for pushing around by the chief of Homicide only, and resents others poaching on his private game.

I found my scrawny friend in his office hunched over a sheaf of written reports. When I entered, he raised his skinny bald head to peer at me over his glasses and snarled, “Can’t you knock, Moon?”

I had anticipated finding him in a sour mood, for I guessed from his pixie attitude the previous night he did not realize what was in store for him in investigating Lancaster’s murder. But by now he would have received phone calls from the commissioner, the mayor, the governor, a couple of congressmen and a dozen other assorted public figures, all urging him to catch the assassin posthaste. He was used to pressure and usually could shrug it off, but a mere police inspector can’t shrug off that kind of pressure.

Had I not been convinced he was playing some kind of dangerous game with Fausta, I would have felt a little sorry for him, for since Day had become chief of Homicide, no one approaching Lancaster’s importance had been murdered in the city, and the amount of pressure he was already beginning to feel certainly must have appalled him.

But thinking of the radio release he had made caused me to snarl back at him, “What are you trying to pull on Fausta Moreni?”

The inspector only growled and returned to his reports. Sinking into a chair, I regained his attention by pinching a cigar from his desk humidor.

“You’ve got two cigars sticking out of your breast pocket!” he snapped.

“Stolen apples taste better.” Biting off the end of the cigar, I unsuccessfully felt in my pockets. “Got a match?”

All that got me was a glare. Shrugging, I decided to chew instead of smoke.

“I won’t take much of your time,” I said. “I only came in for two things. The first I already asked you.”

“You mean about Miss Moreni? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t get coy with me, Inspector. We’ve known each other too long. You know as well as I do that statement of Fausta’s is meaningless. Why play it up?”

“Meaningless?” he asked. “You mean it’s a false statement?”

“Oh, for cripes’ sake, Inspector!”

He gave me a smile like a cat with feathers in its whiskers. “When a witness signs a statement, Moon, I have every right to assume it’s the truth. Of course she can repudiate it, but in that case I’d have to accept Robert Caxton’s statement and take you into custody.”