Dan Marlowe - Doom Service

The promoter peered across at Johnny, who was listening intently. “For services rendered, I was prepared to be altruistic. The modus operandi was simple. I merely set up a separate bank account, and to each associate I issued an undated check for what was due him or a series of checks totaling the aggregate sum if the amount were large. Some of those checks have been carried uncashed for years, and it is a rather curious by-product of the system that my name is well enough known to permit an associate to pledge such a check against a loan from another source and subsequently redeem it.”

Al Munson opened his mouth as though to speak, shook his head dubiously and remained silent.

“I did not consider myself required to investigate the reason for these-ah-deposits,” Lonnie Turner went on placidly. “Certain people might consider that lack of curiosity gross negligence. I might say in passing that this separate bank account was never included in the figures I gave my lawyers for tax purposes each year. Altruistic I was prepared to be, but not to the extent of paying taxes on other people's money, especially in the tax bracket in which I find myself.”

He cleared his throat gently. “If you've been following me closely, I'm sure you realize that in this matter I was by now culpable on several counts.” He grinned unexpectedly like a small boy. “This was brought home to me rather forcibly last year when, through a most regrettable bit of absent-mindedness on my part, my lawyers learned of the existence of this account. They informed me in some heat that even a random tax audit would show little respect for my intelligence or my altruism, either. To remain in good odor with them I was forced to make other arrangements, which brings us to Jake Gidlow. I thought I had plugged all the loopholes, but I erred-I misjudged Jake's hypersensitivity to possible contact at some future time with the minions of Internal Revenue. He found an escape hatch. I thought having the will in my favor protected me against the extreme eventuality, and by the time I found out I was wrong the fat was in the fire.”

He tilted back in his chair again and locked his hands behind his head. “You're familiar with the sequence from that point, Killain. It was I who sent Carmody and Hartshaw over to Miss Fontaine's that morning. In retrospect, a very poor move. Inexplicable, really. I panicked. When-”

“How did you know Gidlow was dead?” Johnny inquired softly. “Nobody else did, at that time.”

“There were a number of keys to Gidlow's suite, for a number of reasons,” the promoter replied blandly. “Someone walked in upon Gidlow deceased and, with my interests at heart, called me. I put the machinery in motion, but by the time you put in that rather startling appearance here to pick up Roketenetz's check, I'd become acquainted with enough of the true facts to decide I couldn't afford the luxury of following through on the recovery of the account.”

Lonnie Turner smiled urbanely. “Here again I was guilty of a slight oversight. I had neglected to take into consideration the considerable anxieties of the-ah-beneficiaries of the account. Aware of the situation, and mistrusting my solution of it, they contacted my employee-” His sardonic glance darted off to Al Munson slumped in his chair-“and authorized him to act for them. This resulted in the visit at the hotel. Since learning of this, I believe I've restored order. The matter has been arbitrated at all levels, adjustments have been made-some expensive-and everyone is, if not satisfied, at least reconciled. The critical point was the establishment of the fact that, either through income or inheritance taxes, there wouldn't be enough left in the account to justify the danger of trying to collect it.”

Johnny sat there, turning it over in his mind. “It's a good story,” he admitted finally. “If the tax people get back to you, it won't save you any money, but it could keep you out of jail. If it's not true, you ought to pension off the guy who produced it.”

“Oh, it's true enough,” Lonnie Turner said wryly. “And I believe you realize I've told you this because it lies in your power to see that the tax people do get back to me. I would appreciate your restraint. And Miss Fontaine's.” He stood up behind the desk. “Thanks for coming over.”

“Yeah,” Johnny grunted, and got slowly to his feet. He looked long at the man behind the desk. “Who killed Gidlow?”

“I don't know, Killain,” the promoter protested wearily. “I honestly don't know.”

“Or Roketenetz, either?”

“Or Roketenetz, either.”

“Or Hendricks?”

“Hendricks? Who's Hendricks?” Johnny's eyes were upon Al Munson, who was sitting as rigidly in his chair as though an electric current had passed through it, his eyes popping. “Not Dave Hendricks who judges fights?” Lonnie Turner continued with every evidence of honest surprise. “He was killed? When, for God's sake?”

“Last night,” Johnny said shortly. He smiled at Al Munson. “Looks like someone's throwin' the excess baggage overboard.”

He left a very quiet room behind him.

On the street Johnny headed for a drugstore and a telephone booth. It took him nearly five minutes to get Detective James Rogers on the line. “Killain, Jimmy. You get anything from your pigeons yet?”

“That was quite a hunch, little man.” The sandy-haired detective's admission was grudging. “Up to now we've found three small operators who say they were bankrolled to cover all bets on Roketenetz to go by the fourth.”

Johnny grunted with satisfaction. “Able to trace it back?”

“You know I can't answer a direct question. Seems to me I heard, though, that the money man operates a floating poker game.”

“That's lovely,” Johnny commented sourly. “In my time I've met a few warts on the arse of progress, but this Manfredi is in a class by himself. What he's got comin' to him-”

“Don't go getting ideas, now!” Detective Rogers warned him sharply. “And, before I forget it, you're overdue down here to look at mug shots to try to locate the goon who assaulted Ybarra. You'd damn well better get down here before you run into Cuneo on the street. He didn't like that mess you left in the hospital corridor, and even more he didn't like your walking out.”

“I'll be down,” Johnny said. That's not saying when, he added silently. “Jimmy? You guys took the telephone chits outta the hotel for the day Gidlow was knocked off. There was a call made to Lonnie Turner's office from Gidlow's place within an hour of the estimated time of death, and there was another call made within five minutes of the first one. Is that right?”

“Why don't you ask me to send you the flimsies?” the detective asked irritably.

“Who was the second call made to, Jimmy?”,

“You've got better sense than to ask me that!” Jimmy Rogers snapped angrily.

“Sure, Jimmy. Sure. Forget it,” Johnny said soothingly. So there'd actually been a second call. Had to be, of course. The police must be reeling in the line. Slowly. Too damn slowly. “Thanks, man,” Johnny said into the receiver, and walked rapidly from the drugstore, out to the street and the cold.

Back at the hotel he had barely cleared the foyer doors when Gus pointed imperatively to the reservation desk. Gus was the day bell captain, pale and black-haired. “Message for you, Johnny.”

Johnny veered off to the desk and picked up the proffered telephone chit. He looked at the brief message: Call Bartlett.

He stood beside the desk, crumpled the bit of paper in his hand and wondered what could have happened to Stacy. He crossed the lobby to the pay phone booths, and had seated himself in one before he realized he didn't know the number. He had a little trouble before he found it in the directory. No sleep and that whack on the ear were making him a little fuzzy.