Dan Marlowe - Killer with a Key

“This is Sally, Johnny. I'm calling from the booth in the lobby downstairs.” He could hear the bubbling excitement in her voice. “I didn't use the elevator coming down just now, of course, and when I crossed the mezzanine I saw Mavis in her office. This early, mind you.” She paused dramatically. “This'll kill you; you know who's with her? What's the name of that cute-looking detective who was here the other night? The one that was around with Dameron when we had the trouble before?”

“Rogers?”

“That's the one. I couldn't think of his name. What do you suppose-”

“He still up there?”

“He hasn't come down the stairs. I can't see the elevators.”

“Hang up, Ma. I want to talk to him. I'll call you.” He broke the connection on his end and jiggled for the operator. “Public stenographer's office,” he told her when she came on the line.

“I doubt there's anyone there yet-” He could hear her ringing. About the fourth ring the phone was picked up; the strident female voice sounded annoyed.

“We're not open yet. Who is this?”

Johnny made his voice neutral. “Let me speak to Detective James Rogers.”

“You've got the wr-” The line hummed emptily for an instant. “Detective?” It was almost a gasp. The voice was fainter; she must be staring at Rogers over the lowered phone, Johnny thought. “You're a detective? Why, you no-good-”

Johnny replaced the phone quietly. He sat and looked down at it, then shook his head and grinned unwillingly. No place to hide on this one. Jimmy Rogers only had to get to the switchboard to find out where the call had originated. And after having a brick like that dropped on him there was a fat chance of his not checking.

Johnny shook with silent laughter; he could picture Rogers in the middle of the stairs, too mad to wait for the elevator. He got up and went to the closet and shrugged into a robe; from the refrigerator he removed a can of orange juice, punched it open and poured two glasses. He carried a glass to the door and listened. It was not a long wait.

When the footsteps he could hear in the corridor halted outside Johnny opened the door left-handed and pushed the glass of orange juice into the hand upraised to knock. The hand closed around it automatically. “Good morning, Jimmy. Join me?”

Detective Rogers snorted. He was hatless, and the sandy hair stood up in spiked tufts; his smattering of freckles was nearly lost in his high color, and his breath came rapidly. He looked down unbelievingly at the glass in his hand; he half raised it as if to throw it, then changed his mind. He pushed inside, and his voice was throaty. “What in the star-spangled damn hell were-”

He foundered on Johnny's upraised palm. “Easy, boy. Easy. Whyn't you let me know you'd come socializin'?”

“Socializing!”

“Why, sure.” Johnny looked surprised. “If you weren't there as Detective Rogers? You go for those big blondes? I ought to tell your wife.”

“Blondes? Wife?” The sandy-haired man breathed deeply; his voice geared itself up from sputtering inquiry to authoritarian roar. “Now listen, Killain-”

“Okay, okay,” Johnny broke in. “I dropped a shoe. Sue me.”

And he started to laugh. He stood in the middle of the floor and laughed until he doubled up helplessly; he shook until he hung helplessly over the back of the armchair, holding his sides. He straightened finally, wiping his eyes, ribs hurting. Across the room Jimmy Rogers, though still red in the face, was fighting to prevent the upturn at the corners of his mouth. He gave up finally and let the meager smile crack through; he looked down again at the orange juice in his hand, lifted the glass and drained it. He rubbed his chin unbelievingly. “Boy! Talk about being struck by lightning! That woman knocked my hat off and jumped on it.”

Johnny's internal trembles threatened him again. “Cut it out. I'm sore now. What were you doing down there?”

“Never mind that. What made you call?”

“I wanted to talk to you. How was I supposed to know you weren't there officially?”

“How did you know I was there at all?”

“Do I ask you how you know what's going on around the precinct house? This is my territory. I'll give you a tip, though-it's your fatal beauty. You're too good-looking for the detective business. Go out and get your nose broken a few times. Any woman that ever saw you can spot you at five miles on a rainy night.” To retain the initiative he continued quickly. “You probably weren't even makin' a dent in that glacier, anyway. You scoutin' Russo?”

The detective looked at him carefully. “Why should I be scouting Russo?”

“Couple of murders. He's at the head of my list.”

The slender man shook his head. “He didn't kill Sanders. He's ironclad on that one.”

“So how ironclad is ironclad? Who's his alibi?”

“You know better than to ask me that. He satisfied us.”

“He may have satisfied you. He hasn't satisfied me. The same guy killed them both.” Johnny paused. “Or don't you characters think so?”

“There could be a difference of opinion. Let me ask you this-what's your interest?”

Johnny opened his mouth, closed it and started over again. “An intellectual exercise.”

The hazel eyes measured him. “Cuneo turned in a bad report card on you, Johnny. My name's not Cuneo, but I'm warning you-be careful. I mean it. If you get caught in the machinery you're going to be chewed, and Lieutenant Dameron won't lift a finger.”

“An' whatever gave you the idea I'd ask Joe Dameron for the right time, even? He's so square you can cut ice with the edges, and I don't mean it as any compliment, either. I told him where to head in twice a month for three and a half years; you don't need to worry about me runnin' to him. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.”

“I'm not worrying about anything, Johnny. I'm telling you don't get caught in a rowboat with a canoe paddle. I know that you feel personally involved; it makes no difference. I'll charge this one this morning to one of those days, but I don't want to see your tracks anywhere in the neighborhood I happen to be from now on.”

“You own the town?” Johnny bristled. “I thought you were a right guy, Jimmy. You're gettin' to sound just like the rest.”

“Just so you listen to the sound, Johnny.”

Johnny drew in his breath, but his explosive comment was stifled by the ring of his phone. He looked at Detective Rogers and picked it up a little gingerly. “Yeah?”

“This is Lorraine, Johnny. Hope I didn't wake you. I forgot to give you Roberta Perry's address last night.”

“Oh. Yeah. Shoot.”

“It's 219 Vernon Street. It's-”

“Right. Thanks. I'll be talkin' to you later.” He hung up under the bright-eyed inspection of Detective Rogers and shrugged. “Newspaper boy. Wants my version on the double-header.”

“I hope you know better than to threaten the police department with the newspapers, Johnny.”

“Threaten? You can only threaten someone who's already scared. Isn't that right, Jimmy?”

Tight-lipped, the slender man walked to the door and turned with a hand on the knob. “Remember,” he said and departed.

Johnny rinsed out the orange juice glasses and retired thoughtfully to the bed. He had a lot to think about. He thought about Lorraine Barnes, but his mind drifted to Detective Rogers. He smiled; he would have given a hundred dollars to see the look on Jimmy Rogers' face when that platinum blonde took out after him.

The laughter struck at him again, deep inside. It clawed at him internally; he rolled over on his side and stuffed a corner of the sheet in his mouth to control the smothered yips.

Exhausted, he wiped his eyes; he sighed deeply, turned onto his stomach and fell asleep between two ragged breaths.