A. Fair - Gold Comes in Bricks

“A sweet story,” she said, and then after a moment’s thought added, “By God, it is a sweet story — but you’ll never make the cops believe it.”

I smiled patronisingly at her. “You forget,” I said, “that I saw the murderer.”

Her reaction was as fast as though someone had shot an electric current into the seat of the chair. “Who was it?” she asked.

I laughed at her and blew another smoke ring. Or tried to.

She crossed the room and sat down. She crossed her knees, held the left knee in interlaced fingers. The thing didn’t make sense to her, and she didn’t know what to do about it. She’d look at me, then down at the toe of her shoe. The skirt of her evening gown got in her way. She started to pull it up, then got up, walked into the bedroom, and took it off. She didn’t close the bedroom door. After a minute or two she came out wearing a black velveteen housecoat. She came over again and sat down beside me. “Well,” she said. “I don’t know as it changes the situation a hell of a lot. I need someone to handle the Ashbury angle. You look like a good guy. I don’t know what there is about you that makes me trust you — sight unseen, so to speak. Who are you, anyway? What’s your name?”

I shook my head.

“Listen, you, you’re not going to get out of here until you give me your name, and I mean your name. I’m going to see your driving licence, your identification cards, take your finger-prints — or I’m going over to your apartment, find out where you live, and all about you. So get that straight.”

I pointed to the door. “When I get damn good and ready, I’m going to walk right out of that door.”

“I’ll rat on you.”

“And where will that leave you with your swell shake down with Alta Ashurst?”

“Ashbury,” she said.

“All right, have it your own way.”

She said, “What’s your real moniker?”

“John Smith.”

“You’re a liar.”

I laughed.

She tried a little wheedling. “All right, John.” She twisted around, drew up her knees, and slid over across my lap so she was lying on one elbow, looking alluringly up into my face.

“Listen, John, you’ve got sense. You and I could team up and make something out of this.”

I didn’t look at her eyes. The colour of her hair kept fascinating me.

“Are you in or not?”

“If it’s blackmail, I’m out. That’s out of my line.”

“Phooey,” she said. “I’m going to let you in on the ground floor. Then you and I are going to make some dough.”

“Just what have you got on Alta Ashbury?”

When she opened her mouth, I suddenly put my hand over it. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

She stared at me. “What’s eating you?”

“I’m on the other side of the fence,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Listen, sweetheart, I can’t do it. I’m not that much of a heel. You’re not kidding me a damn bit. You were in on the whole play. Jed Ringold got those checks from Alta Ashbury. He turned them over to you to take up here to the Atlee Amusement Corporation. You gave the boys here a slice, had a little stick to your fingers, turned the rest of it back to Ringold, and Ringold passed it on to the higher ups — or the lower downs whichever you want to call them.

“Now, I’m going to tell you something. You’re done, finished, all washed up. Make a move against Alta Ashbury, and you’ll be on the inside looking out.”

She straightened up and sat looking at me. “Well, of all the damn nuts,” she said.

“All right, sister, I’ve told you.”

“You sure as hell have — you big boob.”

I said, “I’ll have another one of your cigarettes if you don’t mind.”

She gave me the cigarette case and said, “Well, strike me down. If that ain’t something — I guess I’m going nuts. I see you go into a hotel, the cops start looking for you, I run into you, I ditch a date, bring you up here, and spill my guts to you without finding out who the hell you are or anything about it... I suppose you’re a private dick working for Alta Ashbury — no, you’d be more apt to be hired by the old man.”

I lit the cigarette.

“But what’s the idea of being such a dope? Why didn’t you let me go ahead turning myself inside out, pretend you were going to work with me, pump me for information, and then throw the hooks into me?”

I looked at her and said, “Kid, I’ll be damned if I know,” and it was the truth.

She said, “You could still be the one who bumped Jed Ringold.”

“I could be.”

“I could put you in a spot on that.”

“Think so?”

“I know so.”

I said, “There’s the telephone.”

Her eyes narrowed. She said, “And then you could drag me into it, show perhaps that my motives weren’t so pure, and — oh, hell, what’s the use?”

“What do we do next?” I asked.

“We have a damn good stiff drink. When I think of what you could have done to me and didn’t— Dammit, I just can’t figure you. You aren’t dumb. You’re smarter than greased chain lightning. You figured the play and called the signals, and then when I was rushing into the trap, you turned me back. Well, we live and learn. What do you want in your Scotch? Soda or water?”

“Got any Scotch?” I asked.

“Some.”

I said, “I’ve got an expense account.”

“Well now, ain’t that something!”

“Got a dealer who can deliver this hour of the night?”

“I’ll say I have.”

“All right,” I said, “call him. Tell him to send up half a case of Scotch.”

“Listen, you aren’t kidding me?”

I shook my head, opened my wallet, pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, and casually tossed it over to the table. “That’s what my boss would call squandering money.”

She ordered the Scotch, hung up the phone, and said, “May as well drink up mine while we’re waiting for that to come.”

She poured out stiff drinks. There was soda in the icebox. She said, “Don’t let me get drunk, John.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll get on a crying jag. It’s been a long time since anyone gave me a fair break... What makes me sore is that you didn’t give it to me because I’m me, but because you’re you. You’re just made goofy. There’s something about you that can’t— Kiss me.”

I kissed her.

“To hell with that stuff,” she said. “Really kiss me.”

Fifteen minutes later, the kid came up with the half case of Scotch.

I showed up at Ashbury’s place about two o’clock in the morning. I still couldn’t get that girl’s hair out of my mind. I thought of that strand of the hangman’s rope every time I thought of the way the light glinted along those blond tresses.

At breakfast I asked Mr. Ashbury what he knew about Amalgamated Smelters Mines and Minerals. I said I had a friend — a man by the name of Fischler who had an office in the Commons Building and had inherited a wad of dough. He wanted something to put it in and was the type that liked to gamble. I’d suggested a good mining stock.

Bob spoke up and said, “Why not keep it all in the family?”

I looked at him in surprise. “It’s an idea at that.”

“What’s the address?”

“Six-twenty-two Commons Building.”

“I’ll have a salesman call on him.”

“Do,” I said.

Ashbury asked Bob if he’d heard anything more from the police about what they were doing on the Ringold murder. Bob said the police had checked up on Ringold, had come to the conclusion that it was a gambling kill, and were checking back on Ringold’s associates, hoping to find someone who would answer the description of the man who had been seen leaving Ringold’s room after the murder.