Джеймс Чейз - Safer Dead [= Dead Ringer]

I got the gun out and started running towards the car with the crazy idea of running past it before it could get at me. I caught a glimpse of the driver: a little man with his hat pulled down low over his face, crouching down behind the wheel. There was another man in the back of the car with what looked like a riot gun in his hands. The barrel was resting on the top of the open window.

I lifted the .45 and pulled the trigger. The gun went off with a crash that deafened me and its kick back nearly had the gun out of my hand. It was a lucky shot. The slug smashed the windshield of the car which swerved crazily as the riot gun opened up with a deafening clatter.

If the car hadn’t swerved, I should have been cut down by the stream of slugs that smashed into the sidewalk about a yard ahead of me.

I threw myself face down in the gutter. The car lurched across the road, the on-side wheels missing me by about three feet. It crashed into a lamp standard.

I rolled over. The dark night lit up with the revolver flashes as my bodyguards came into action. Slugs hummed through the air, more glass in the car smashed. I hugged the road, feeling sweat on my face, scared silly. I listened to the thud of running footfalls.

Lying still, my gun hand thrust forward, I looked over at the car.

The off-side door hung open. I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure, crouching behind the car, then the riot gun opened up again and a stream of slugs passed just above me. I took a snapshot at the crouching figure. My bullet must have winged him for he dropped the gun and flopped on the sidewalk. His sharp yelp of pain made sweet music in my ears.

Peters and Scaife came running up.

‘He’s behind the car — watch out!’ I gasped.

Peters darted across the road while Scaife, taking no chances, sprinted up the road, crossed to the other side so he could get a safe, long shot at the gunman.

I saw the gunman snatch up the riot gun and I yelled a warning to Peters, who swerved. The gun chattered and Peters went down, his gun falling from his hands.

Scaife fired three times.

The gunman dropped the riot gun, tried to straighten, then dropped limply.

‘I got him!’ Scaife called.

Stiffly I got to my feet. My legs felt wobbly. The three detectives from the restaurant who had been crouching in the doorway, came over. The four of us joined Scaife on the far side of the car.

I looked at the dead man as he lay, still clutching on to the riot gun, on his back on the sidewalk. It was my hophead all right. His white face was a snarling mask of death.

‘There’s another guy in the car,’ I said.

Scaife looked in the car.

‘You got him with your first shot,’ he said, then went around the car and over to Peters, who was sitting up holding his arm and cursing.

Two patrol cars came roaring down the street, their sirens blasting.

Creed got out of one of the cars and joined Scaife. They bent over Peters, then leaving Scaife to look after him, Creed came over to me.

‘You okay?’

‘Just about,’ I said, leaning against the wrecked car. ‘Is Peters badly hurt?’

‘He’ll be okay,’ Creed said and stared down at the dead gunman. ‘Is this your man?’

‘Yes. Ever seen him before?’

‘Can’t say I have.’

An ambulance came up and two more squad cars. By now there was a big crowd, gaping from the sidewalks.

Scaife came over.

‘Seen him before?’ Creed asked, nodding at the dead gunman.

‘He’s a new one on me,’ Scaife said.

‘Well, okay: the show’s over,’ Creed said. ‘You’d better get back to your hotel.’ This to me. ‘Go with him, Scaife. I don’t reckon they’ll try again, but we won’t take any chances for tonight.’

‘Come on, hero,’ Scaife said. ‘The excitement’s over. I told you it wasn’t going to be as bad as you thought.’

‘It was bad enough. Anyway, it’s given me something to throw in Bernie’s face for the rest of his life.’

I went with him to one of the police cars.

Nothing happened of interest during the next three days. I knew there was bound to be a time lag before any results of Creed’s investigations bore fruit. He had given various police officers assignments to cover, and we had to wait for them to turn up something. He had men hunting for Henry Rutland and his cream and green Cadillac; other men digging into Fay Benson’s background; a squad hunting for the charm bracelet, and yet another bunch of men digging into the gunman’s past.

We couldn’t expect to learn anything immediately, and while we waited I sent Bernie back to New York to report in full to Fayette and to begin the first installment of our story. He went off with indecent haste, insisting on a bodyguard to the train.

I took the Crime Facts photographer, a guy named Judson around and got him to take pictures of Spencer, Mike’s bar, Joan Nichols’s apartment house, the miniature apple I got from Creed and pictures of the various police officers working on the case.

All this took time, but when I was through I was satisfied I had a good collection of art to help Bernie’s article.

Judson flew back to New York on the evening of the third day after the shooting, and I drove over to police headquarters to see if any information had come in.

Scaife was in the charge room as I entered.

‘I was going to call you,’ he said. ‘The captain wants you.’

‘Has he got anything?’

‘He’s got something. He’ll tell you. Come on up.’

Creed was sitting at his desk, smoking a cigar when I entered his office. His heavy, hard face looked tired.

‘Come in,’ he said, fighting a yawn. ‘Well, we’re getting somewhere. Sit down.’

I sat down and Scaife leaned against the wall.

‘The gunman’s name’s Hank Flemming. He came from Frisco. He had a bad record, including six killings. He’s known to have hired himself out for shootings and beatings-up. For fifty bucks he’d have shot his own father. I guess someone hired him to knock you off. He’s a junky, and Doc says he was full of dope when he staged the shooting the other night. You were lucky to have come out of it alive.’

‘So we have to find the guy who hired him?’

‘That’s right, and it won’t be easy,’ Creed said, tapping ash off his cigar. ‘We’ve a pointer that might do us some good. Flemming had a return railroad ticket to Tampa City in his pocket. He left Frisco five days ago for Tampa City, then came on here. It could be he got his orders from someone in Tampa City.’

‘Do the Tampa City police know anything about him?’ I asked.

Creed scowled.

‘They say they don’t, but from past experience I’ve learned not to take much notice of what they say. They’re the most inefficient, uncooperative police force in the country. The

Commissioner, Ed Doonan, is hand in glove with the rackets, and believe me, the city is crawling with them. We’re not going to get any help from him.’

‘Did you get a line on Henry Rutland?’

Creed shook his head.

‘Not yet. The Cadillac distributing agents in this district tell me they have sold four hundred green and cream convertibles in the past three years. I have a list of the buyers, but it will be a job tracing them. Rutland’s name doesn’t appear on the list, but then that doesn’t surprise me. The name’s probably a phoney. My men are working on it, but it’ll take some time to check everyone on it.’ He fought back another yawn. ‘We’ve got a line on the charm bracelet. It was hocked three days after Fay Benson disappeared. Tierney’s, the local hockshop, handled it. Hesson sold it to them. The clerk recognized Hesson’s picture. The bracelet was sold again to an actress who is in Hollywood now. We’re contacting her. There’s no doubt that Hesson sold it.’