Dan Marlowe - Shake a Crooked Town

“I would, thanks,” he said promptly. She opened the refrigerator door as he swept the bundled clothing off onto the floor. The thump with which the holster hit the floor reminded him of something. He removed the police special and placed it on the table beside the wallet. “I'll drop these in the nearest mailbox before I go upstairs,” he remarked to Mrs. Peterson. He wiped each carefully with his handkerchief and wrapped them in it. “I'll burn the rest in your incinerator.”

Her eyes rested on him speculatively. “You think they don't know where they sent him?”

“No sweat,” Johnny said. “Let them try to prove something.” Valerie Peterson sat down across the table from him. He looked up from his painstaking construction of a four-decker cracker-and-cheese monument to find her staring across at him, her chin in her hands. “I get it,” he said resignedly. “You're thinkin' of askin' me to leave.”

“I'm thinking of it.” Her tone was level. “You didn't tell me Carl Thompson was dead. And you're getting an awful lot of attention for a stranger in town.” Her steady gaze took in his hands and shoulders and returned to his face. “You bother me. Without that silly looking jacket you're different, but you come into town looking like something out of a comic strip-”

He waited until he was sure she wasn't going to continue. “You figure Jim Daddario's the wheel in this neck of the woods?” he asked her casually.

“Of course not.” She seemed surprised. “Dick Lowell runs this town.”

“You sure you're up to date?”

“You think that because Thompson is out and Riley is in it makes Daddario top dog? I don't think so. And anyway, they've never had any trouble getting along.”

“Sometimes a bug bites a man. Daddario might be plannin' on movin' up. How would Lowell like that?”

Valerie Peterson's mouth pursed thoughtfully. “Knowing him, he wouldn't like it.” Her steady gaze rested on Johnny's face. “Are you hiring out to one side or the other?”

“I'm here on a little business of my own.”

“I don't intend to have your business bringing trouble to my place,” she warned him. She pushed back from the table. “If it does-”

“See me then,” Johnny told her. He picked up his handkerchief-wrapped little package and walked to the door. “Be right back.”

Five minutes after he had dropped the revolver and wallet in the mailbox at the corner he was in bed, and thirty seconds after he was in bed he was asleep.

He came instantly awake in bright sunshine at a knock at the door. “Telephone, Johnny,” Jingle Peterson's voice called.

He rolled out of bed and slid into his pants. He padded barefoot to the door, opened it, and thrust his head out. “Man or woman, Jingle?” he inquired.

“Woman. Like definitely, see?” She eyed his bare arms and shoulders. “"What big muscles you have, grandma,' Little Red Ridinghood said to the wolf.”

“You should see the ones in my head.” Johnny returned to the chair beside his bed for an undershirt, pulled it on and, not bothering with shoes, brushed past Jingle and ran downstairs. He expected to hear Jessamyn Burger's voice when he picked up the dangling receiver of the wall pay phone in the front hall. Micheline Thompson's surprised him.

“Is this Johnny Killain?”

“Yeah. Hey!” he exclaimed. “Where are you? I been tryin' to reach you.”

“I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to see you. I don't know what you're doing here. I think you'd better leave town.”

“Just answer 'yes' or 'no',” Johnny said rapidly. “Is someone standin' right beside you while you're reelin' that off?”

He counted to five before she replied. “No,” she said.

“Someone's listenin' in on an extension?”

Again the hesitation. “You're going to get yourself in a lot of trouble,” her voice said finally. It sounded flat, without emphasis. “You'd better listen to-”

“Micheline,” he broke in, “qu'est-ce que c'est que vous voulez dire? Quand — ” The loud click of the broken connection in his ear cut him off. “Damn it all,” he said softly, and hung up the receiver. He stood looking blankly at the phone for an instant before turning to go back upstairs. Before he had taken three steps a sharp ring spun him around again. He had started for the telephone before he realized it was the front-door bell.

Tingle answered the door. There appeared to be no conversation as she was shunted aside by two uniformed police who barged right in. “Here!” Jingle said indignantly. “What do you think you're doing?”

They paid no attention. The leader stopped at sight of Johnny. “That him?” he asked his companion.

“Yeah.”

The front man addressed Johnny directly. “Let's take a little walk, pal.”

“Yeah? Whose invitation?” Through the small-paned window beside the front door Johnny could see the Black Maria at the curb and a third cop standing on the sidewalk.

“Our invitation. Let's go.”

“You got a warrant?” Johnny wished he had his shoes on. He wasn't going willingly in the police van, and a rough-house barefoot was like driving a racing car with a couple of cylinders missing.

The second man glanced at the wide-eyed Jingle taking it all in. “Take a walk, kid,” he said gruffly.

“This is my house!” the girl retorted. “Don't you try to tell me what to do in my own house!”

Johnny laughed. The second man looked at him. “We don't need a warrant for you to come along for a quiet little talk, now, do we?” he asked.

“You sure as hell do,” Johnny told him.

The leader spoke up again. “You could be making-”

“Get it out of your head I'm goin' with you voluntarily,” Johnny interrupted. His voice was flat and hard. “Take it any damn place you please from there.”

The second man said something in an undertone to the leader. The man looked undecided, started to reply, shrugged, and strode to the wall phone. He dug out a dime from a handful of change and dialed.

“What's the hard time for?” the second man asked injuredly. Johnny thought the question was asked to cover the rapid, low-voiced phone conversation. “You'd think someone was going to eat you.”

“Someone ate your ex-boss. Whose side were you on?”

The policeman's face darkened but he was saved from the necessity of a reply by the first man's turning away from the phone. “He's coming over,” he announced to no one in particular.

“Good,” Johnny said briskly. “I'll get dressed. I'd like to look my best for Chief Riley.” He walked to the stairs.

“Go with him, Charlie,” he heard from behind him. He didn't know which of them had spoken. He heard the solid thump of boots on the stair treads behind him. When he was in his own room he went immediately to his shoes beside the bed. He slipped into socks and shoes, lacing and tying them carefully. He straightened and flexed his knees. He felt like a new man.

“Cigarette me, Jack,” he said expansively to the patrolman who had followed him into the room. It was the man who had made the phone call. His eyebrows climbed in surprise but he produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Johnny took one, lit it, winced at the before-breakfast taste, and sat down in the room's only chair. The man in uniform eyed the bed, but it would have put him at a disadvantage since he wanted to keep between Johnny and the door. He stayed where he was.

They waited in silence.

Chief of Police Jack Riley's entrance into Johnny's room was impressive. Johnny was reminded of a younger, heavier Dameron. Another twenty pounds might reduce him to fat-man status but he still carried himself well. Johnny looked at the heavy gold badge on the blue uniform jacket, a badge identical in appearance to the torn one Carl Thompson had showed him in the hotel room.