Тэлмидж Пауэлл - The Third Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™ - 25 Classic Mysteries

Banklin was in a threadbare easy chair, his shirt open at the throat, a glass in his hand, a bottle beside the chair on the floor. He heaved himself up at the sight of Bob, his eyes bulging. Breath rushed out of him as he stared at the gun Bob had taken from Steve Ivey. He slipped back in his chair.

“Well...” Banklin wheezed, trying to gain a little composure. “I see you’re up late tonight, Bob. Have a drink?” He eyed the gun.

Bob advanced in the room. Banklin sat poised, his hands trembling faintly. He tossed off his drink, eased his bulk up out of his chair.

“Bobby pal, why the gun?”

“To make sure a little talk we’re going to have goes perfectly straight. I’ve got no time to beat around the bush. I saw Darran. He’s dead.”

Banklin’s face went slack; his jowls quivered. “Dead? Hell, Bobby, I never dreamed... I just thought you’d rough him up... Bobby, you’d better scram out of town fast!”

“Why?” Bob said harshly. “I didn’t kill him. I think you did, Banklin!”

Stark surprise whitened Banklin’s face. “What gave you that kind of idea, Bobby?”

“I think you were in that blackmail mess. Old Thad Berrywinkle, remember? You were shaking Berrywinkle down. He kicked. You’re the one who killed him. But Darran knew. You located him, but were trying to figure a way to kill him with safety. Then I walked into the picture. The perfect fall guy. The perfect way to kill Darran and never have the police even suspect you, because they’d already have a sucker to burn!”

Banklin’s mouth worked. “No, Bobby. You got it wrong. It wasn’t me behind the Berrywinkle killing. You know me better than that! I wouldn’t touch that kind of stuff. Not murder!”

Banklin backed up until he was against the wall. He could retreat no further. He was staring straight in Bob’s eyes. What he read there made him shudder. He sobbed out words:

“Bob, no — not the gun! You got to listen to me!”

“I will. For about ten seconds.”

Banklin was all blubber, slumped against the wall, his face oily-slick with sweat.

“Bob, here it is straight — you got to believe me! Darran had a little money stashed away, see? But he couldn’t get to it. He knew that the Berrywinkle killer was after him. He was afraid the killer might know about his nest egg, be watching it. So Peewee made a contact — with me. He told me where the dough was so I could get it to him. He had to have it. It was his only way of getting away, out of the killer’s reach.”

Hard lines grew in Bob’s face as he looked at Banklin. “I get it,” he said flatly. “You’re a big mass of slime, Banklin. Somebody ought to step on you and turn their heel hard. You were Darran’s closest friend. You got his dough. But you didn’t deliver it. You pulled about the lousiest double cross I’ve ever heard of. Then I walked into the picture and you sent me to Darran’s, hoping I’d either kill him or scare him so bad he’d he willing to swim the river to get out of town!”

Banklin stared at the floor, his face working. “I had to do it, Bob. You don’t know how rotten my luck has been. When I got my hands on that money, I couldn’t just hand it to Peewee.”

“Okay,” Bob said. “Maybe you’re telling the truth. It’s just the kind of lousy trick you’d pull. But that still leaves the fact that somebody carried me to Darran’s and left me there with his corpse. If you know anything else, talk, fat man, and talk fast.”

“Sure, Bobby! Look, I’m your pal. Soon’s you staggered out of the Gilded Lily, Harry Heintz left the booth. I sat there wondering what I could do for you, Bobby. I swear it! Then the girl, Marcillene, came up to the booth — asked if that hadn’t been you.”

“Marcillene?” Bob whispered.

“Sure, Bobby. She went back to the piano. But she only played one more tune. When I got up to leave, I noticed the piano bench was empty.”

“And Harry Heintz?”

“He was already gone, Bobby. I don’t know where the two of them went. It’s the truth, so help me!”

Bob said slowly, “You’re going to get a chance to prove it. Come on.”

“Sure, Bobby, sure. Where we going?”

“To see Harry Heintz. Is he still living at the same place?”

Banklin nodded jerkily. “In the Ardmore. The same swell apartment. I...” He hesitated. “One more drink. Bob? Time for that?”

“Sure, take your drink. You’re going to need it. I’m going to have the gun in my pocket, my fingers on the trigger. One phony move, Banklin, and you’ll do your drinking in hell. I already got one corpse around my neck. A big, fat, pink one extra wouldn’t matter a damn.”

“No,” Banklin squeezed out a laugh. “It wouldn’t, would it? But no phony moves, Bob, I swear it!”

Bob tossed the bottle to the thoroughly cowed man, waited for Banklin to pour his drink.

The Ardmore Apartments comprised the upper five stories of a six-story arcade building. The arcade on street level and mezzanine was given over to a drug store, cafeteria, hobby shop, a few suites of offices, and small, expensive dress shops.

The building was quiet, filled with the hush of darkness before the dawn as Bob and Banklin walked down the fourth floor corridor. Bob punched the fat man with the gun. “You know what to do, Banklin.” Banklin mopped his face and nodded. The terror of the gun so close to him was greater than the terror of leading Bob to Heintz’ apartment. Banklin pressed the buzzer beside Harry Heintz’ door. Seconds walked away on fast, pricking feet. Banklin buzzed again, and there were muffled footsteps in the apartment.

“Heintz?” Banklin said against the closed door. “Let me in. It’s Banklin. I got something you’ll want to know.”

Bob was over to one side, with Banklin’s bulk covering him. The knob clicked. The door opened a crack. Bob couldn’t see Harry Heintz’ face, but it was Harry’s voice. “This is a hell of time to be calling,” Heintz said to Banklin.

“I know, but this couldn’t keep. Let me in, Harry. It’s about Peewee Darran!”

A night chain rattled. The door swung back. Bob gave Banklin a heave that slammed him into Heintz and sent the two of them staggering. Bob stepped into the apartment quickly, closed the door. He leaned back against it, watching Harry’s face whiten when he saw the gun in Bob’s hand.

The living room was long and spacious, with wide windows at the far end. The carpet was pale tan and deep. Massive couches and chairs gave the plate a feeling of indolent comfort.

Heintz got a grip on himself. He straightened his coat, touched the knot of his tie, brushed his hand back over his blond hair. He looked from the gun in Bob’s hand to Banklin, eyes glittering.

“He made me do it!” Banklin said, almost in a sob. He sank in a chair, buried his shaking face in his palms.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Heintz turned his back on the gun, walked across the room, picked up a whiskey decanter from a scroll-legged table. “You got the gun, Bob. I hope you got some idea of what you’re doing.”

Before Bob could speak, a door opened across the room. Marcillene saw him, then the gun, and stood like a frozen bird.

He looked at her. She was wearing the same gown she’d worn earlier at the Gilded Lily. It hadn’t been long since the Gilded Lily had closed for the night, since she’d got off work. And there in her hair, the same feathery flower she’d worn at the piano. Bob’s mind received the crashing picture of a dead man’s hand. Pewee Darran clutching a tiny white piece of down, a feather that had stuck to his hand when he died...

Angel-face, Bob thought. Through long years of separate, suffering days and nights she hadn’t come once to see him. She’d never been Bob Myrick’s girl; she wouldn’t belong to a sucker.