Макс Коллинз - True Crime

I shook my head. “She hasn’t left the guy’s side in days; she’s shacking up with him, for Christ’s sake. I can’t warn her without warning him.”

“Maybe you should. Warn him, I mean.”

“Maybe I should. But what if he is Dillinger? If I go near him, I might get my head shot off. Or if he just lams, and the feds get wind I warned him, suddenly I’m an accomplice or accessory or something. Obstructing justice, that’s called, Shit. I should just walk away from this one. I really should.”

“That’s what you told this Zarkovich guy — that you wanted no more part of this.”

“You bet. When I found out that son of a bitch was involved, I knew I wanted to jump ship.”

“You say he’s a smooth character, though.”

“Very. A real ladies’ man, too. They call him the ‘Police Sheik,’ back in Indiana.”

“What’s his relationship with this Anna person... Anna, what was it?”

“Sage. Well, like I said, he’s a bagman. He picked up money from her and other madams to pass along to the big boys, keeping some for himself.”

“Do you trust Anna Sage?”

“Not particularly.”

“But you don’t suspect her of anything, either.”

“No.”

“You don’t think maybe she talked to this Zarkovich before she talked to you?”

“I suppose that’s possible... but why would she talk to me about her suspicions, if she’d already talked to Zarkovich?”

“I been in show business since I was about nine. And I can tell you from experience, things are rarely as they seem.”

“I don’t get you.”

“This whole thing seems... orchestrated, somehow. Don’t you think?”

I didn’t answer.

“You were led to Jimmy Lawrence. By your traveling-salesman client — who you have no way of contacting, right?”

I nodded.

“In fact, you can’t even check up on the guy. The only address you have is that flat in Uptown where Polly Hamilton lives.”

I nodded again. “And since they aren’t married, that’s not really his address. Right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Did he tell you what company he worked for?”

I shook my head. “Just a feed and grain company. No name.”

“So you can’t check up on him.”

“I can’t check up on him. Well — he said the firm was out of Gary. That would be a start.”

“So this client, who lied to you, leads you to Polly Hamilton and Jimmy Lawrence. Now, Polly Hamilton knew you through Anna Sage, so if Polly was in on this — just bear with me, Heller — if she was in on this, she could well assume you’d check up on her with — or try to warn her through — Anna Sage.”

I started nodding again. “And Anna Sage fed me the Dillinger story.”

“And Anna Sage led Zarkovich to you.”

“No denying that much.”

“Maybe you’re being used to set this guy up — whether he is or isn’t Dillinger.”

“But why? A simple anonymous phone call would do the trick just as well — they could call the cops or the feds and say, ‘I think I saw Dillinger at such and such,’ and accomplish the same thing.”

“I can’t explain it, Heller. You’re the detective. You’ve got to figure the motives out. Me — I just know theater when I see it.”

We took the dishes out to the kitchen, and soon she was snoring peacefully beside me while I lay with wide-open eyes staring into how smart she was.

I spent the next morning, Friday, sitting in my office running phone checks on the credit ratings of half a dozen would-be borrowers. This I was doing for the Retail Credit Company in Jackson Park, the single account that was keeping me afloat these days. The thought of a piece of the Dillinger reward money coming my way hung in the hot air in front of me, like laundry on a line.

Just around noon, when I was thinking about going downstairs to the deli for a pastrami sandwich, a big moonfaced man of about thirty-five in a gray hat and a gray suit and a gray tie came in. His complexion was a little gray, too — that hot ball of sun that had been baking Chicago for days upon end hadn’t got to him yet, it would seem.

“Mr. Heller,” he said, taking off his hat. His dark brown hair was longer on top than on its graying sides.

“Yes?” I said, half-rising.

“I’m Sam Cowley. With the Division of Investigation.” He moved forward with a tight, somber expression and extended a hand. I rose the rest of the way to take it, then motioned for him to have a seat.

“Mind if I take off my coat?” he asked. Apparently the sun had got to him a bit.

I said sure. Since I wasn’t wearing a coat myself, this piece of protocol struck me as excessive, but sincere — unlike smoothie Zarkovich, who used manners and charm as devices, Cowley was just a big heavyset guy who seemed a little awkward having to deal with people.

Or at least with me.

“I understand you spoke with Chief Purvis yesterday,” he said. He had slipped the coat on the back of the chair. I’d misjudged him and the sun: the sweat circles on his shirt, under his arms, were like moons. They complemented his round face.

“I spoke with Chief Purvis,” I confirmed.

“He informs me you feel you may have seen John Dillinger.”

“That’s right.”

He moved his hat around in his hands, fingers on the brim like he was drying a plate. “We could use any information you might care to give us.”

“I’ve... reconsidered.”

“How so?”

I chose my words carefully. “I now feel I was hasty. I’ve had second thoughts about the likelihood that the man I saw was John Dillinger.”

Cowley made a small shrugging gesture with his head. “There have been some misidentifications. I can understand your caution.”

“Your associate Mr. Purvis — Chief Purvis — strikes me as a little too hot to trot, where Dillinger’s concerned. I’m afraid he’d shoot Aunt Jemima if you pointed at her and said, ‘There’s Johnny.’”

I thought I saw the faintest trace of a smile appear on Cowley’s lips, but he buried it. Said, “Chief Purvis is not alone on this investigation.”

“I know. Your boss Hoover sent you in to be a steadying influence. I read the papers.”

Cowley stirred in his chair. “That — that wasn’t in the papers, not in that manner.”

“I can read between the lines. Your boss seems real public-relations conscious to me. He couldn’t fire Purvis after Little Bohemia without making the division look bad; so he sent for you.”

Cowley waved a big deliberate paw in the air, said, “Be that as it may — I can assure you, any information you relay to our office — to me — will not be treated lightly, will not be acted upon rashly.”

He was choosing his words carefully, too. I leaned back in my chair; studied him. I instinctively liked this man. He was a big, shy bear who could be trusted. He struck me as competent, as well. But I was still afraid that his competence would only be canceled out by Purvis’ incompetence.

“I’m looking after a client’s interests,” I said. “And I don’t think my client’s interests would be best served by my getting further involved in this matter.”

Cowley’s face turned stern and he pointed a finger at me as thick as a twenty-five-cent cigar. “If you’re aiding and abetting a fugitive, Mr. Heller, you can’t hide behind the cloak of your profession. You’re not a lawyer. Just a private operator. You’ll go to jail.”

“Inspector Cowley,” I said, with what I hoped was a peacemaking smile, “I’m not harboring a fugitive. My client is not John Dillinger. He happens to be a traveling salesman and a law-’biding citizen. Whose girlfriend happens to be seeing another man, on the sly.”