A. Fair - The Bigger They Come

‘In on the taboret by the bed,’ I said.

She looked at me sharply, said, ‘You seem to have an observing disposition,’ dropped down in a big overstuffed chair, and went on in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, ‘Run in and get them for me, Donald. Don’t try to talk to me until I’ve had a couple of good deep drags.’

I brought her the cigarettes, held a match, and when she motioned toward an ottoman, slid it toward her. She elevated her feet, kicked off her slippers, twisted in the chair until she found a comfortable position, settled herself, and said, ‘Go ahead.’

I told her everything I knew.

She said, ‘You should have telephoned me before you went to bed. You should have let me know right away.’

‘But he hadn’t been killed then,’ I said. ‘I only got the phone call—’

‘Oh, the murder,’ she interrupted. ‘To hell with the murder. The police can take care of that, but this gang that kidnaped you and wanted to get in touch with Morgan Birks sounds like ready money to me. You passed up a bet there. You—’ The telephone rang.

She sighed. ‘Donald, go get me that telephone. You can pull the jack out and plug it in here. There’s a long extension cord on it. Hurry before they hang up, dear.’

I ran into the bedroom, followed the extension cord to the wall plug, pulled it out, handed the telephone to Mrs. Cool, and plugged into the living room connection.

She picked up the receiver, said, ‘Bertha Cool talking,’ and waited.

I could hear the rattle of the diaphragm in the receiver as words poured into Bertha Cool’s ear. The twinkling eyes indicated she was enjoying the conversation.

‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked at length.

The receiver made more noise, and Bertha Cool said, ‘I’d want five hundred dollars, cash money. After that, I’ll probably want more. I can’t guarantee anything... Well, you’ll have to get it, dearie... Safety deposit boxes mean nothing to me. They’ll seal them anyhow... All right, dearie. Fifty dollars will be all right until tomorrow... I’ll keep him under cover. Yes, I hadn’t better come over there right away. Wait until the police get done. There’s no need of antagonizing them. What time is it now?... All right. Let’s say an hour or an hour and a half. You wait there for me unless they take you to headquarters. I don’t think they will.’

She hung up, and her lips twisted in a smile of satisfaction.

‘Sandra Birks,’ she said.

‘Wants you to investigate her husband’s death?’

‘Wants me to take care of Alma Hunter. They’re arresting her.’

‘They got a crust!’ I said. ‘He was trying to choke her, and—’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ she said. ‘Morgan Birks was shot in the back.’

‘In the back!’ I exclaimed.

‘Uh huh. He was evidently trying to get out the door when he was shot. The bullet went completely through and embedded itself in the door. Reconstructing the position of the body from the direction of the wound, the police figure he had his hand on the doorknob and was trying to get out when he was shot in the back.’

‘Well, what the devil business did he have coming in her room, anyway? What was he looking for?’

‘A drink of water probably,’ she said. ‘But the police don’t like to have girls shoot men in the back and then claim they were being attacked.’

‘It was dark in the room,’ I said.

‘He was trying to get out.’

‘He’d tried to choke her the night before.’

‘He had?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me about it.’

I told her. She listened carefully and said, ‘How does she know it was Morgan Birks who tried to choke her?’

‘It stands to reason,’ I insisted.

‘It takes more than that to sell the police on an idea,’ she said. ‘Donald, be a good boy. Ring up the motor-vehicle registration department at headquarters, tell them it’s the Cool Detective Agency, and get them to give you the registration of 5N1525 and 5M1525. I’m going to go get some clothes on.’

She pinched out the cigarette, exhaled a long last appreciative cloud of smoke, heaved herself from the chair, and strode out toward the bedroom, removing the silk robe as she walked. She dressed without bothering to close the door. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her moving around; and she could hear me as I called the department of vehicular registrations and found out that 5N1525 was registered in the name of George Salisbery, 938 Main Street, Centerville, and 5M1525 in the name of William D. Cunweather, 907 Willoughby Drive.

I hung up the telephone after writing down the names and addresses, and Mrs. Cool called from the bedroom. ‘That Salisbery guy doesn’t sound so good. That Willoughby Drive address may be our meat. How does it seem to you, Donald?’

‘It could be. The house looked as though it were out around that section somewhere.’

‘Call a cab,’ she said.

‘I have one waiting downstairs.’

‘Are you sporting taxicabs for your private transportation?’ she asked. ‘Or did you think you were on an expense account?’

I flared up and said, ‘I thought I was on an expense account.’

She was silent for several seconds. I sat there wondering whether she was going to blow up and fire me or take it.

‘All right,’ she said in that maternal voice of hers. ‘We’ll go downstairs and take it, Donald, dear. I’ll make a note of whatever’s on the meter and take it out of your salary. Let’s go.’

The taxi driver turned into the eight hundred block on Willoughby Drive. Mrs. Cool said, ‘Go down to 907, but don’t stop. Drive past slowly and let us look it over.’

The driver asked no questions. Fares who send a cab prowling around at that hour of the morning are apt to make peculiar requests, and a cab driver gets his tips by saving his arguments until he gets home to his wife.

‘Take a look at it, Donald,’ she said, as the driver indicated the house on the corner.

I studied the driveway leading into the garage, figured the general layout of the house, and said, ‘That could be it.’

‘You’re not certain.’

‘No.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s a hell of a chance, but we’ll give it a try. Swing around to the curb, driver, and stop at that house across the street — the one on the corner.’

The cab driver swung the car to a stop. ‘Want me to wait?’ he asked.

‘Yes, wait,’ she said.

I held the door open. She pulled the springs far over as she stepped to the ground, disdaining our assistance. The driver stood and watched us go up the cement walk toward the dark, silent house. I groped for the bell button, found it, and leaned against it. Inside the house, I could hear the jingling of the bell.

‘Do I do the talking, or do you?’ I asked.

‘If it’s the right party,’ she said, ‘tip me off. Let me go on from there.’

‘All right,’ I said, ‘but if someone I’ve never seen before comes to the door, we’ll have to get in the house before I can be certain.’

‘All right. Tell them I’m sick, and you want to come in and telephone for a doctor — you’ve seen the room where the telephone’s located, haven’t you?’

‘One of the phones, at any rate.’

‘All right. That’s all we need — don’t keep that thing going so steadily, Donald. Take it easy. Let up, and ring again after a minute or two.’

I could hear someone moving around on the upper floor. A window raised, and a masculine voice said, ‘Who is it?’

‘It sounds like the chief’s voice,’ I whispered.

Bertha Cool raised her voice and said, ‘I have an important message to deliver here.’

‘Put it under the door.’