Dan Marlowe: Shake a Crooked Town

“Now just a moment. I do know a Carl Thompson.” A distinct change had come over the dry voice. “I don't understand this. What does the man who claims to be Thompson look like?”

“Medium height, heavy set, red hair goin' thin, voice like a sergeant major on dress parade-”

“That's Thompson, all right.”

“His face looks like he tied into the business end of a mule.”

“I don't know anything about that. The part about him being chief in Jefferson is right enough, though. My endorsement of him played a part in his originally getting the post. Jefferson's my home town. I can't imagine what happened. I would have thought I'd have heard about something as apparently serious as this.”

“He claims he got squeezed in a power play. You don't go for that?”

“I simply don't know, Johnny. There's no doubt of his- ah-mental condition?”

Johnny hesitated. “There's no doubt he's packin' a whale of a grudge that's got him tipped in the saddle. It'd take a better man than me to tell you if he's really flipped.”

“You expect to see him again?”

“Oh sure.” Johnny grinned wryly into the phone. “Before I had the big picture I offered him an' his wife the use of my room.”

“He and his wife,” Lowell repeated. There was a short silence before he continued. “I wish you'd have him call me, Johnny. I feel a bit responsible. Also, I'm curious. I recommended Carl for the position because he'd been with me overseas and seemed completely reliable. There have been Lowells in Jefferson since the War of 1812 and we take a civic interest. I should know more about this.”

“Okay, Toby. I'll see if I can get him to call you.”

“What are you up to yourself these days? Do you ever see Dameron?”

Unconsciously Johnny's free hand went to the bandage on his chest. “I'm just layin' back clippin' coupons. I see Joe once in a while. He's the lieutenant in this precinct, you know.”

“I do know. Give him my best when you see him, will you? And thanks for calling, Johnny.”

Johnny replaced the receiver in the cradle slowly. After a moment he picked the phone up from his chest and returned it to the night table. He stretched out his legs lengthily. Well, he was in for it now. There was no graceful way to withdraw the invitation to Carl Thompson. He'd just have to keep an eye on Thompson and see to it that he got into no trouble around the Hotel Duarte. And it should only be for a couple of days at the most.

On the brighter side he had to admit he was looking forward to seeing Micheline Laurent-Micheline Thompson, rather-again. He wondered what the tough-fibered youngster he had known in those days would be like now.

He got up from the bed and dressed. He changed his mind three times about the tie to go with his lightweight tan suit. For late October it was unseasonably warm. He packed a small bag and called housekeeping to tell them to re-make his room.

He would throw the bag in the cloakroom downstairs and sometime after midnight take a key from the rack for an unoccupied room. Long service at the Duarte had its perquisites.

Bag in hand, he headed down the corridor to the elevator and the lobby. By ten o'clock that night he had been holding down the same stool in the Duarte bar for over three hours. He hadn't seen or heard from either of the Thompsons and he was more than a little bored with his own company. He drank slowly lulled by the subdued hum of the out-of-season air-conditioning. He unhooked a heel from a bar stool rung and straightened his right leg as a muscle cramped in an over-muscled thigh. He supposed he should get up and move around. He stayed where he was.

This damn loafing around was for the birds, he decided moodily. He needed something to do beside acting as blotting paper for the Duarte's bourbon. Doc Randall or no Doc Randall, he'd have Chet sign him back in for the first of the week. One little. 28 slug in the chest wasn't going to dry-dock Killain for another three weeks. What he needed “Hey, Johnny!” He looked up the bar to little Tommy Haines, the night bartender, hanging up the phone beside his cash register. “Marty says he's got a call for you in the lobby.”

Johnny grunted acknowledgement and slid from the stool. He felt sluggish. Lethargic. It wasn't the liquor; it was the inactivity. He was rusting up faster than a mothballed battleship.

He walked out through the dimly lit bar lounge, his bulky two hundred and forty pounds padding softly on the lounge carpet. In the lobby he took the phone pushed toward him at the front desk by Marty Seiden, the carrot-topped reservation clerk. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Killain?” The female voice was low-keyed. Johnny thought it had a touch of breathlessness. “Years ago you saved my life in the Gabon Pass south of Bagneres-de-Luchon when we were caught by a night patrol. Is it possible you'd remember?”

“Is it possible I could forget?” Johnny returned promptly. “You're Mich-”

“Excuse me, please,” the low voice cut in. “I know you're speaking from a public place. This is going to sound melodramatic but could you come down right away to Room 1047 in the Hotel Manhattan on Eighth Avenue?” He realized that the voice was pleading. “I've had myself driven down from upstate this evening to try to find my husband and keep him from making a bad mistake. You don't know him but I'm sure he's going to try to see you. It's essential that I speak to you first. Please believe this is no domestic squabble. It's serious. Most serious. Can you do me the favor of coming at once?”

Twice during the urgent, rapid-fire plea Johnny had opened his mouth, and twice closed it. “Sure,” he said finally. “1047? I'll be right down.”

“I can't possibly tell you how grateful I'll be, Mr. Killain.”

Johnny stood by the desk a moment after he had pushed the phone back to Marty. Micheline Thompson had had herself driven down from upstate tonight? Well, Thompson had lied about Toby Lowell telling him where to find Johnny. What was so odd in his lying about his wife being with him?

Conscious of the bowtied, flip-talking Marty's curious stare, Johnny turned away from the desk. Halfway through the foyer to Forty-Fifth Street he pulled up short. The recollection of Carl Thompson in Johnny's room that afternoon had suddenly brought to mind a thick white envelope carelessly tossed onto the bureau and afterward forgotten.

Johnny retraced his steps and headed for the service elevator. No point at all in leaving that kind of temptation around in front of people.

In the sixth-floor corridor he remembered he'd given Thompson his key. At the door of 615 he removed an illegal brass passkey from his wallet and let himself in.

From the doorway he could see the bureau plainly. The thick white envelope was not there.

Carl Thompson was.

Sprawled beside the leather-covered armchair, the red-haired man lay hunched together, with a slender, bone-handled knife protruding starkly from his back. The portion of his face visible disclosed the grotesque mask of a man totally surprised by violent death.

Without moving a step inside Johnny examined the room carefully. As nearly as he could tell nothing appeared to have been disturbed. Except the envelope, he thought bitterly. Stupid to have left it there. Although there was always a chance in a thousand the housekeeper or the maid in straightening up the room had put it in a drawer.

This wasn't the time to try to find out. Johnny knew he should call the police immediately. He knew just as well he wasn't going to do it. They could wait thirty minutes while he walked down to the Manhattan. Some of the questions the police were going to ask required better answers than he had at the moment.

He backed out into the corridor and closed the door, listening for the click of the automatic lock. He returned the passkey to his wallet as with lengthened stride he hurried back to the elevator.