Dan Marlowe - Doorway to Death

“Mmmpfh! Have we ever got a wide screen production goin' now.”

“We can't seem to get a break on the timing on these things,” Lieutenant Dameron said tiredly. “Two hours earlier on that report, and the cook would probably still have been under sedation.”

“You figure he'd been going so bad financially that his nerves were gone and finding his brother was the last straw?”

“I figure it a little stronger than that. It almost has to be that he'd brought the brother in to help out on something he was promoting, and the realization he'd gotten his brother killed did it. And the way he was killed-did you see the face?”

“Yeah. Rugged. One thing, though. You can bet me if you think Hans was working with Freddie.”

“Against him, then?”

“Has to be. You realize the payoff on this thing has got to be one hell of a brass ring, Joe? If about four more people show up, Fort Knox couldn't pay 'em off for their trouble.”

“I've changed my mind half a dozen times. I just don't know. It's got to be important, the way people are throwing themselves under the wheels. If Hans wasn't working with Freddie-and offhand I'm inclined to agree with you on that-then that has to mean that Freddie's crowd doesn't take easily to being muscled out.”

“You say 'Freddie's crowd' real strong today. That because of what I told Jimmy last night about Freddie's place bein' all wired up?”

“Partly, but I'm holding a kicker to that pair. We finally got the picture in from San Francisco, and Freddie is not Ronald Frederick, the hotelman.”

“Well, hell, Joe. If you know that, what are you waitin' for? Till we have to move out some of the guests to make room for the bodies?”

“If I had someone to put him near the kitchen that night-”

“Joe, you mean to tell me you aren't gonna pick him up?”

“If I pick him up, you know how long I can hold him without a charge. And if I can't charge him, from the looks of this operation I shouldn't be able to scare him very much, either.”

“So charge him. With murder.”

“And if I don't get a confession?”

Johnny drew an exasperated breath. “Are you trying to tell me you didn't get to be a lieutenant of police by sticking out your neck for false arrest charges? Goddamit, Joe-”

“There's a better way of doing it, Johnny.”

“Like what?”

“Who speaks for the hotel when Willie's out of town?”

“Some lawyer downtown. He don't spit, though, till Willie tells him it's time.”

“If we could convince this lawyer that he should protect Willie's interests by preferring charges against this man for securing a bonded position under false pretenses-I don't need a murder charge to hold him, Johnny. I just need an airtight charge.”

“It might be easier than talkin' to the lawyer.”

“How?”

“Willie'll be in town sometime tonight.”

“He will? That's fine. You bring him around.”

“I still think you ought to scoop Freddie right now.”

“I happen to have a little more at stake in this thing than you do, Johnny. You bring Willie around tonight.”

The phone clicked in Johnny's ear, and he hung it up slowly. He sat and stared at the wall. A couple of days ago he had wished for a ravelled thread in the fringe that would lead back to the counterpane. Now there were as many threads as fringe and still remarkably little that a man could put his finger upon exactly.

Johnny roused himself finally and looked around for his clothes.

He walked into the bar from the lobby and watched Fred work his way up the shining mahogany, polishing with a rhythmic sweep of a long arm. The bartender looked up as he sensed his audience and threw the bar rag behind him. “Hope we're a little busy tonight. Damn time drags so when we're not… you workin' two shifts lately, Johnny? Seems like every time I see you you're in uniform.”

“Getting ready for the next depression,” Johnny told him. “Manuel around?”

“Out in back. He'll be right-here he is now.”

The slim dark boy ducked under the counter with a trayful of glasses which he set down on the bar. “'Lo, Jonee. Up early?”

“Medium. You got a blade, Manuel?”

“But of course.”

“Like to borrow it a few minutes.”

“Seguramente.”

Manuel reached into a hip pocket beneath his wraparound apron and carefully removed a pearl-handled knife whose silvered blade slithered silently open at the pressure of a finger. Johnny accepted it and laid it thoughtfully across his palm.

“I wanted it for a gag, but this damn thing doesn't look a bit funny.”

Manuel smiled. “Ees not meant to be fonny.”

“No? Tell me something, hotshot-what happens when you got to get to this thing in a hurry? In that hip pocket you'd be starched an' ironed before you ever got it sprung.”

The smile widened. “If I theenk the need for hurree ees approach', Jonee, eet ees no longer een the heep pocket. Eet ees move a leetle closer to the corrida.”

Johnny shrugged. “I don't dig you knife men at all. Be back in a few minutes with this.”

“No hurree. Earth ees the bes' for remove the blood, like a plant in the lobbee.”

“You bloodthirsty little spick!” Fred growled at him. “Didn't the man tell you it was a gag?”

The dark, innocent eyes widened. “But of course. I heard heem say so, deedn't I?” He picked up his tray of glasses and moved on past them, and his back was to Fred as his left eyelid flickered ever so slightly at Johnny.

“He thinks you're gonna use that thing,” Fred rumbled.

“He thinks it more than you think,” Johnny agreed. He made a short, sharp downward stroke with the graceful blade. “You believe the kid can really cut the mustard with this hatchet?”

Fred rubbed his chin. “I'll take him on trust. Couldn't feel comfortable around him knowin' for sure.”

Johnny snicked in the blade, slipped on the safety, and dropped the knife in a pocket. He saluted the mildly interested Fred and walked on out through the lobby which drowsed in the dinner hour quiet. He crossed directly to the switchboard and entered through the little gate, and Myrna's orange head bobbed up inquiringly from her book. The half smile of inquiry on her face faded upon recognition. “What do you want?”

“A few pearls of wisdom, C.O.D.”

“For you I have nothing,” she said flatly. “I went along with you once, and it was a mistake.”

“Who says it was a mistake, Myrna?”

“Never mind.” Her voice was resentful.

“Police talk to you?”

Her lip curled. “Two hours. Nosy bas-” She looked up at him.

“What'd you tell them?'

“The same thing I'm telling you. Nothing. Not one thing.”

“You think that was smart?

“Would I have done it if I'd thought it wasn't? Come on, blow, wise guy. I'm busy.”

Johnny nodded. He reached in his pocket and took out the knife, and Myrna's chair started to inch away from him. She was backed into the corner by the time he slid the safety off and flicked out the blade. He had the entire front of the switchboard to himself, and the eyes behind the horn rimmed glasses were enormous.

Still without a word Johnny laid the opened knife on the bakelite front of the board and pushed it toward her with his left hand. “Take a look,” he suggested.

“L-look-?” Her voice was a croak.

“Did you know the boy up in 938, Myrna? A knife just like this sliced his face to ribbons. You sure you know what league you're playin' in these days?” She stared mutely, a hand at her throat. “You and Hans pullin' oars in the same boat, maybe? You know what happened to Hans?”

“Stop-” The tip of her tongue circled her lips swiftly. Her voice strengthened. “Stop it. And get out of here. And get that damned knife out of here. Who the hell do you think you are?”