Ричард Деминг - Man-Trap

“Yes.”

“Tell him to keep his gun handy. I’ll be around to see you sometime tomorrow.”

After I hung up and climbed into bed, it was another hour before I was able to get to sleep.

The next noon I had just sat up in bed and was contemplatively scratching the small of my back when the door buzzer rang.

Swinging my good left foot to the floor, I hopped to the bedroom door, shouted, “It’ll take me five minutes!” and hopped back to the edge of the bed again. I used the five minutes to strap on my leg, throw a handful of water on my face and dress to the extent of shoes, trousers and a colored T-shirt.

When I finally opened the door, I saw a man who weighed probably two-thirty, and not an ounce of it was fat. He had a granite jaw and slow, sleepy eyes, and stood so straight he nearly leaned backward.

He looked me over without saying anything for a long time, then asked, “You’re Mr. Manville Moon?”

I said I was.

“I’m Laurence Davis.”

I said, “I could sub-lease you that spot, but I would have to charge high rent to compensate for the inconvenience of having to use the back door. It would be hard to get in and out the front way with you standing there all the time.”

“You’re a very funny man, Mr. Moon,” he said, slowly moving toward me with his hands still in his pockets. I stepped aside to avoid collision, he went past me with a kind of lazy ponderousness and took my personal easy chair. When he sat down, his hands came out of his pockets, he took off his hat and held it in his lap.

Right behind him came a tall, narrow man who must have been standing in the hall to one side of the door all the time, for this was the first I knew of his presence. He was about thirty-five and had a doughy face and teeth so bucked he could not quite bring his lips together. His build was along the lines of Abe Lincoln’s, and though he wore an obviously expensive blue serge, his ganling boniness made him look like a back-woods farmer dressed for church.

By the bulge under his arm I judged he was not a farmer, however. I tagged him as a bodyguard, and when he closed the door, leaned his back against it and simply waited, I was sure of it.

I waited too.

After a time the big man said, “Apparently my name didn’t ring a bell, Mr. Moon. I’m from across the river. Carson City, Illinois.”

It rang a bell now. The Laurence had thrown me, for in the newspapers he was generally referred to less formally as Laurie Davis. The political boss of Illinois he was reputed to be, though he had never personally held a higher public office than state representative. According to rumor his business interests were so varied and his political influence so wide, he could have ruled Illinois as a benevolent dictator in the manner of Huey Long, had his ambitions run along those lines. However, he was supposed to be square, concerned more with the welfare of his party than with personal aggrandizement, as demonstrated by his remaining in the state legislature for twenty years when presumably he could have gone to Congress, or even become governor.

But nevertheless he managed to collect enemies, and twice attempts had been made on his life. After the second attempt, about a year before, he had acquired his bucktoothed bodyguard.

Now that I had Laurie Davis placed, I also recognized the bodyguard. “Farmer” Cole was an ex-FBI man who was supposed to be so tough just his addition to the payroll decided the underworld group gunning for Davis to cancel their homicidal plans.

I turned back to his boss. “I recognize you now, Mr. Davis. Out of your territory a little, aren’t you?”

“All the way out of it. Sit down, Mr. Moon. I dislike gazing upward.”

He said, “I came to you because I am out of my territory, Mr. Moon. I understand you were present when Walter Lancaster was killed last night.”

I admitted I had been. “As a matter of fact I was a suspect for a few minutes,” I added calmly.

“So I understand. However, I am just as satisfied as the police that you had nothing to do with the killing. I’m not here to question you about last night, but to engage your services.”

I looked at him blankly.

“If this had happened in Illinois, I wouldn’t have to bother with private investigators, Mr. Moon. But over here my influence is nil. Walt Lancaster was a protege of mine, and I want his killer caught. But if the police catch him, I won’t be able to control the situation. I want to get to the killer before they do.”

I said, “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

His eyes drooped half-closed in his sleepy face. “I’m simply taking insurance, Mr. Moon. As far as I know Walt was an honest man and hadn’t an enemy in the world. But people don’t get murdered for nothing. If there was anything unsavory in Lancaster’s background, it will come out in the open the minute the police crack the case. That might reflect both on me and the party. I want to know the killer’s name and his motive before the police do, so I can plan some kind of action to counteract the unfavorable publicity, if any.”

I frowned at him. “You mean have Farmer Cole here rub him out and save the state a trial?”

Slowly his lids raised until his eyes were wide open. “I don’t operate like a gangster, Mr. Moon,” he said in a soft voice. “And I don’t like the suggestion that I would.”

I don’t scare easily, or at least I like to imagine I don’t, but the big man’s quiet air of invincibility gave me the willies. I had to convince myself I was twice as tough as he was.

I said, “Quit making like Edward G. Robinson and tell me what the hell you want.”

As though he hadn’t heard my remark, Davis went on. “I have no intention of doing anything to the killer. Not even turning him over to the police. I simply want to know what’s behind the killing before the public does. At least twenty-four hours before. After that you may turn the killer over to the police or let him go, whichever suits your fancy.”

“You suspect what’s behind it?” I asked.

He shrugged slowly. “Suspect is too strong a word. There is a bare possibility it may be something I wouldn’t want made public unless I announced it myself. If Walt was involved in anything shady, I want to be the one to unearth it. Unless it comes from me, it will be hard to convince the public the party didn’t know about it all along.”

“What is this thing you’re afraid of?”

He shook his head. “You’ll have to work in the dark. I wouldn’t even want it rumored unless I was sure. As a matter of fact I’m almost sure Walt Lancaster was scrupulously honest. But I don’t run risks.”

I said, “Let me get this straight. You simply want the killer’s name and motive? You don’t want him delivered to you?”

Again he shook his head. “I don’t even care to know where he is. I’m not after revenge, but simply taking a political precaution.”

Somewhere I sensed a snake in the grass. I had an idea he had given me all the information he intended to, which amounted to exactly nothing, but I tried once more anyway.

“Before you hired Farmer Cole to guard your body, a couple of people took pot shots at you, as I remember. Any chance Lancaster’s killer might be one of those people?”

“It’s a possibility,” he admitted without enthusiasm.

“Ever figure out who those people were?”

He shook his head.

“Ever suspect who they were?”

He regarded me from beneath sleepy lids. “You’re a persistent questioner, Mr. Moon. No evidence was ever turned up concerning the two attempts on my life. However, at the time I was bringing my influence to bear on cleaning up certain illegal rackets operating in my county. I managed to make it so uncomfortable for the racketeers involved, they finally moved to an adjacent county, where they’ve been operating ever since. If my plans work out, eventually I’ll run them right across the river to bother you people.”