Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

“We’ve got a search warrant,” Belgrave said. “Let’s get to work.” He was a big man with a pinched face and hooded brown eyes. “Anybody else aboard this tub?”

“No,” David said.

“What’s your name, anyway?” Belgrave asked.

“David Coe.”

“He’s the one spoke to Friedman last,” Sloane said.

“Yeah,” Belgrave said. “He a friend of yours, Coe?”

“Yes.”

“Shame. Somebody must have sure hated that poor bastard.”

“How do you mean?”

“Emptied a whole damn magazine into him. That don’t betoken brotherly love, pal.”

“A whole magazine?”

He thought back to what the lieutenant j.g. had said. They found him with eight bullet holes in his head and chest. A whole magazine. A .45 carried seven or nine cartridges. A .22 usually carried ten cartridges. A .38 carried nine. A .32 carried eight.

“He was killed with a .32?” David asked.

Belgrave snorted. “Hell no. A Luger. Come on, let’s take a look belowdecks.”

He moved toward the cabin door, and David stepped around him quickly.

“What do you expect to find down there?” he asked.

“Happens we’re looking for a dame,” Belgrave said, and he shoved past David and was reaching for the latch on the door when David clawed at his shoulder and spun him around and hit him. Belgrave slammed back against the cabin door, and was reaching under his coat when David hit him again, and he crumpled to the deck. Behind him, David heard Sloane shout, “Hey! Hey! ” He whirled and shot his fist at Sloane’s stomach.

“Hey!” Sloane shouted again, and then there was a surprised look on his face and David hit the surprised look, and Sloane hit the deck and was still. David looked off up the dock. There was no one in sight. Quickly, he went to the seat aft near the fishing boxes. He opened the locker under the seat, reached in, and took out the .45 in its Army holster. He removed the gun from the holster, and put the holster back into the locker. He closed the locker and slid the gun’s magazine onto the palm of his hand. It was a full clip. He slapped the clip home and then worked a cartridge into the firing chamber. He tucked the gun into his waistband, took a last look at the quiet detectives, and left the boat.

Maurow’s going to love this, he thought. This will absolutely delight Maurow. But the alternative had been to let the cops go belowdecks and find Grew’s body, after which they’d have put the arm on David for sure. The important thing now was to find a young lady running around somewhere in the rain, a secretary with a very heavy suitcase and a Luger — but without a typewriter.

There were nine typewriter-rental places listed in the Gulf Beaches telephone directory. The fourth one he called told him a woman in Madeira Beach had phoned to rent a typewriter that afternoon.

“What’s her name?” he asked.

“Name? Just a second.” The man paused, obviously checking some papers. “Rebecca Jones,” he said. “At the Sunbright Motel. You know where that is?”

“I’ll find it,” David said.

“Who is this, anyway?” the man asked, but David had already hung up.

The Sunbright Motel was a plush, luxurious, wood-and-glass structure that hugged the beach. Doggedly, David pushed through the rain and into the lobby. The front desk was set along a solid wooden wall that faced the glass entrance wall. There were a good many people in the lobby, seated in the comfortable, modern easy chairs, staring glumly through the rain. David was starting for the desk when he saw Williston. The big man saw him at the same instant. His eyes sparked angrily, then flicked over the crowded lobby. The anger fled. He smiled genially, extended his hand, and walked over toward David.

“Hello,” he said, almost cheerfully.

David didn’t answer. Williston pulled back his hand, the smile still on his face. “We were looking for you,” he said.

“What do you want, Williston?”

“Put it this way,” Williston said. “We ain’t stopping till we get it, so there’s no use playing cute.”

“How’s your pool parlor coming along?” David asked.

The smile dropped from Williston’s mouth. “How do you know about that?”

“I get around,” David said.

Williston scowled. “Where’s Leslie Grew?”

“Leslie Grew is dead.”

“Since when?”

“You don’t know anything about it, huh?” David said.

“Nothing at all.”

“You’re as innocent as—”

“Cut it!” Williston whispered sharply. “I know Grew’s alive, so just cut it! Just tell me where. ”

“Try looking on my boat,” David said.

“We already tried, pal. Don’t worry, we’ll get what we want.”

“What is it you—?”

He stopped suddenly.

Wanda had just entered the lobby through a door to the left of the desk.

Williston hadn’t seen her because his back was to her, but she had seen him and she had seen David, and she hesitated now, watching them. She had managed to pick up a pair of flats somewhere, but she was still coatless. She carried the heavy valise.

“If you told me what you’re looking for,” David went on softly, “I might be able to help you.”

“You’re a card,” Williston said. “Put it this way. You’re such a card I’d like to break your nose.”

Wanda turned and moved toward the writing desk along one of the glass walls.

“I’ll tell you what, Williston,” David said, stalling. “You’ve been talking about ‘it’ and about how badly you want ‘it,’ but talk is talk, and talk is cheap.” He saw Wanda pick up a pen and hastily scribble something on a sheet of motel stationery.

“Who’s got it?” Williston asked. “You?”

“Maybe,” David said.

Williston scratched the side of his jaw. Behind him, Wanda held up the folded piece of stationery so that David could see it. Then she tucked the folded page into one of the cubbyholes at the rear of the writing desk and crossed the lobby.

“What would you say it’s worth?” Williston asked.

“Plenty,” David said. She was walking out into the rain now, a slim figure in sweater and skirt, crossing the gravel parking lot, her skirt whipping around her bare legs, the ponytail sweeping back over her shoulders. She stood near the concrete oval surrounding a young palm tree. The rain was lashing down in sheets.

“How much is that?” Williston asked.

Wanda raised her arm and a taxi pulled to a stop beside the palm. The rear door opened. She climbed in, and the door closed. The cab sped off.

David sighed. “Not for sale,” he said. “And there’s nothing more to say.”

“There’s a lot to say. We’re willing to be sensible, so long as your price is right. Why spill any more blood?”

David pulled away from Williston and went across the lobby. Williston stared after him, puzzled, considering. David reached in and removed the note from the cubbyhole. She had a clear, firm hand. The note read:

Get my typewriter. Meet me Passe-A-Grille on beach at 26th Street, eight o’clock tonight. Please be careful. I didn’t do it.

The note was unsigned.

David glanced at his watch. Three thirty. That left a lot of hours to kill. He smiled at Williston, waved, walked past the bellhop at the cigar counter, and stepped through the glass door and out into the rain. He saw the Sun City squad car too late. The policemen had already seen him, and there was no place to run.

Maurow was in an ugly mood.

“All right, Coe,” he said. “I’m listening.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want it all. Every bit of it. Right from the beginning. And you’d better give it to me straight.”

“If I knew anything, I’d tell it to you,” David said. “All I know is that a couple of people wanted to charter my boat. I called Sam Friedman, and he told me they didn’t have any law trouble. So I took them aboard. The next thing I know, Sam is dead.”