1955 - You've Got It Coming (17 page)

“Why this enquiry? Is he in trouble?”

“No. I've been hired by Gregson and Lawson, the attorneys, to find him. He's come into some money and they want to deliver.”

Henry's face relaxed and his suspicions went away.

“I'm glad to hear that. Is it much?”

Borg lifted his heavy shoulders.

“Well, no, but it's worth having. Something like two thousand dollars, but if I don't find him fast, it'll all go in my expenses. I don't even know what the guy looks like. You wouldn't have a photograph of him, would you?”

“I guess so,” Henry said and pressed on a buzzer. When a girl came in he told her to get Griffin's file.

She came back after five minutes or so and handed the file to Henry.

“I’m glad he's had this bit of luck,” Henry said, as he flicked through the pages of the file. “He was a good pilot, and I was sorry he left.”

“I heard he was run out,” Borg said, making a guess.

Henry frowned.

“There was some trouble. It was his hard luck more than anything else.” He flicked a half-plate photograph across the desk.

“I can let you have that if it's any use to you.”

Borg gathered up the photograph, glanced at it, nodded and straggled to his feet.

“I guess I'll find him with this,” he said. “I'll tell him you gave me the photo. Maybe he'll buy you a drink.”

He plodded to the door, opened it and went out to his car.

When he had put several miles between himself and the airport, he pulled up and took out the photograph Henry had given him and studied it. He studied it for a long time, then he took a pencil from his pocket and very lightly sketched in a moustache, a scar and filled out the lean, hard face that looked at him from the glossy surface of the photograph.

He stared at it for a few seconds, held it out at arm's length and stared at it again. Then a sly, cruel smile lit up his fat face.

“Yeah. I think I know who you are, you sonofabitch,” he said softly. “I think you're the boy I'm hunting for.”

chapter five

I

J
oe Dodge, the hotel detective at the Maddox hotel, New York, crouched over a racing sheet, an intent, worried expression on his lean, foxy face. For the past week he had consistently backed a series of losers, and his financial future now depended on his selection from the list of the afternoon's runners.

If he made a mistake, he would be in trouble, and the thought made him sweat.

He sat in his small office which was off the reception hall of the hotel. The room was cloudy with cigarette smoke and the ashtray on his desk was crammed with butts: proof of his nervous concentration. He was so preoccupied with 'his task that he didn't hear Borg enter the room, and it was only when Borg cleared his throat noisily that he became aware that he wasn't alone. He looked up, frowning. When he saw Borg, his frown deepened.

“What do you want?” he said curtly. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Yeah, I'm not blind,” Borg said and pulled up a straight-backed chair to the desk. He lowered his bulk on to it. “If you're looking for a winner try Red Admiral. At forty-four to one he'll be at the winning post before the rest get halfway.”

Dodge's eyes narrowed. This was the kind of tip he was looking for.

“Who says so?”

“I do,” Borg said, taking a cigarette from his limp pack and lighting it. “I saw that horse run at San Diego a couple of months ago. The jock was holding him in so hard he nearly bust the reins, and even at that, he came in second. If you don't want to make some dough, don't listen to me. Why should I care?”

Dodge pushed back his chair.

“I've had ten losers in a row. I can't afford to risk another one.”

“That horse can't lose even if two of its legs fall off,” Borg said, “but if you're scared of losing your own money, I might even be able to do something for you in that line.”

Dodge pushed aside the racing sheet.

“Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded, his hard, mean little eyes searching Berg's face.

Borg took out one of his phony agency cards and flicked it across the desk. Dodge picked it up and stared at it.

“Alert Enquiry Agency?” he said, frowning. “That's a new one on me.”

“We operate in Los Angeles,” Borg said glibly. “I'm working on a nice case where money's no object. I've got an expense sheet that's yearning to be milked. I want a little information from you and I've got authority to pay for it.”

Dodge leaned forward.

“What information?”

“I'm looking for a couple who could be registered here under the name of Griffin.”

Dodge thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“No one staying here under that name.”

Borg produced the photographs of Glorie and Harry he had acquired. He laid them on the desk.

“Those are the two. Know them?”

Dodge examined the photographs.

“Maybe. What's it worth?”

“It doesn't end there. You're in line for twenty-five bucks if you can earn it.”

Dodge considered this. Twenty-five dollars would be a considerable help at this moment.

“I know them. They booked in three days ago. They registered as Mr. and Mrs. Harrison.”

“Here now?”

“She is; he isn't. He left the day after they arrived. Said he would be back: some business trip.”

“But she is?”

“That's right.”

“Is she in now?”

Dodge got up.

“I'll find out.”

Through the office doorway, Borg watched Dodge cross to the reception desk, look at the key rack and then come back.

“No, she's out,” he said, as he closed the office door and made his way around the desk to sit down again.

“I want to look at her room,” Borg said.

“Can't be done. That's strictly against the rules of the hotel.”

Borg suppressed a yawn.

“Well, okay, if that's the way you feel about it. I guess I won't waste any more of your time or mine either.”

He made a show of heaving himself to his feet.

“Wait a minute,” Dodge said. “You owe me some dough.”

“That's right.” Borg' rolled out a thick roll of bills. He opened the roll, pawed through the bills until he found a five-dollar bill which he tossed over to Dodge. “That's all I rate your information at up to now.”

Dodge scowled.

“You said twenty-five. Look, mister, don't let's have any trouble. I want twenty-five.”

“What you want and what you get depends on the service you give me,” Borg said. “I'll pay a hundred bucks if you get me a room near hers and the pass key to her room for an hour. I'll want you to watch for her and when she comes back, to tip me.”

He took two fifties from his roll and held them up for Dodge to see.

Dodge licked his lips.

“Cash on the barrel head?”

“Sure.”

“Wait here.” Dodge went out, shutting the office door behind him. He was away five minutes. When he returned, he put on the desk two keys.

“That's your room key. No. 334. She's right opposite at 335. That's the pass key. I'll call her room as soon as she shows.”

Borg slid the two fifties across the desk. He picked up the keys as Dodge grabbed the bills. He got to his feet and, crossing the lobby, he took the elevator to the third floor and let himself into Room 334. He took off his hat and coat, opened his suitcase and took from it a coil of insulated wire, a set of tools in a leather wrapper and a small cardboard carton. He crossed the corridor and, using the pass key, he opened the door to No. 335.

He took a quick look around the room, then he closed the door and put his tools and wire on the bed. He opened the carton and took from it a small microphone. This he laid in the transom above the door and screwed it into place. He attached two wires to it, threaded the wires through the transom and out into the corridor. He worked quickly and neatly, running the wire under the carpet that covered the corridor and across to his room.

Leaving the coil of wire on his bed, he returned to the opposite room and collected his tools. He looked around. Apart from two suitcases that hadn't been unpacked and a nightdress and silk wrap hanging on the back of the door, the room was unlived in.

When he looked into the cupboards and drawers he found them empty. He decided Glorie didn't intend to stay at the hotel for long, and he reckoned he had arrived just in time. As he was about to leave the room, the telephone bell rang. He lifted the receiver.

“She's on her way up,” Dodge told him.

Borg grunted and replaced the receiver. He left the room, locked the door and went across to his own room. He pushed the door nearly shut and waited.

After a few minutes, he heard the elevator doors clang back, then he heard someone coming quickly down the corridor. He peered through the crack between the doorpost and the door.

He didn't recognize Glorie. He had seen her once or twice when she had been around with Delaney but he had scarcely bothered to look at her. Women had never interested him. He considered them not only a gross waste of money, but an overrated pastime.

He watched the tall, slim girl, dressed in a black-and-white costume, grope in her bag for her key. She looked older than her photograph, Borg thought, tired and worried, but she was a looker in spite of the dark smudges under her eyes and her white, too-thin face.

She went into the room and shut the door.

Borg took from his suitcase a small amplifier and wired the microphone wires to it. He put on a pair of headphones, plugged the amplifier leads to the mains and switched on.

The microphone he had hidden in Glorie's room was exceptionally sensitive. He could hear her moving about, and when he listened carefully, he could hear her breathing. He lit a cigarette, settled down in his chair and waited.

Glorie had reason to look worried. She had been horrified when Harry had told her of his plan to contact Takamori, and when they had parted at the airport, she was sure she wouldn't see him again. He had promised he would telephone her at four o'clock this afternoon. She had got back at twenty minutes to four, and now she sat down in the only armchair in the room to wait his call.

She was practically certain the call wouldn't come through She had visions of him being in prison or even dead, and she waited, smoking cigarette after cigarette, trying to still the fear in her mind, and trying not to dwell on the possibilities of what could have happened to him.

But as the minute hand of her watch moved on to the hour, the telephone bell rang. She jumped up, knocking the ashtray off the arm of the chair, and snatched up the receiver.

“Glorie?” Harry's voice sounded far away over the crackling line.

“Oh yes, Harry. I've been so worried about you.” The relief of hearing his voice made her feel faint.

“Listen!” He sounded curt and angry. “It didn't work. I can’t talk over the phone. I'm catching a plane to Oklahoma City. I want you to meet me there. There's a six-ten plane out you can catch. It'll get you there in time to meet me. I'll arrive just after ten. Wait at the airport for me.”

“Yes, darling. Wouldn't he take them?”

“He took them all right, but there's no dough,” Harry said, his voice savage. “I’ll tell you when we meet.”

“Yes, Harry. Are you in trouble?”

“I don't think so. Don't talk now.”

“All right, darling. I’ll meet the ten o'clock plane at the Oklahoma City airport. Is that right?”

“That's right. I'll be seeing you,” Harry said and hung up.

Listening in in the other room, Borg fished out another cigarette and lit it. He thought for a long moment, then he took off the headphones and dismantled the amplifier. He put the headphones and the amplifier in his suitcase, slipped on his coat, picked up his hat and let himself out of the room. He walked to the elevator and rode down to the reception hall.

Dodge came over.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Borg said. “Who can tell me the next plane out to Oklahoma City?”

“I'll fix it,” Dodge said and went over to the hall porter. After a brief consultation he came back.

“There's a five o'clock and a six-ten,” he told Borg.

Borg grunted, looked at his watch and decided he could make the five o'clock. He started towards the exit.

“Hey!” Dodge said. “You going?”

Borg didn't stop. He passed through the revolving doors, waved to a taxi, and said, “Airport, fast.”

Dodge watched the taxi drive away, then frowning, he went to his office and sat down. He had laid Borg's money on Red Admiral, and now the race was about to start, he felt uneasy.

For the next twenty minutes, he sat watching the telephone, sweat beading his face. When his informant came through and told him Red Admiral had finished sixth, he slammed down the receiver and sat cursing. He was in trouble. He had to raise some money somehow and raise it quickly. Getting to his feet he opened his office door with the intentions of seeing if he could raise a loan from the hall porter, when he paused. Glorie was at the desk, paying her account. He saw her take from her purse a thick roll of bills, and his eyes narrowed. He waited until she had moved away from the reception desk, he crossed over to her.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Harrison,” he said, “but I'd like a word with you in my office.”

He saw alarm and fear jump into Glorie's eyes. This was going to be easier than he had thought. From experience he knew when they were scared, when they were soft.

“What is it?” Glorie asked, her voice unsteady.

“It won't take long,” Dodge said. “Just come with me.”

They walked together across the hall and into Dodge's office.

He shut the door and waved her to a chair.

“Sit down, Mrs. Harrison,” he said.

Glorie sat down.

“I—I'm in a hurry. What is it, please?”

“I have some information you might like to buy,” Dodge said, watching her closely.

Glorie stiffened.

“I might like to buy?” she repeated. “I don't understand what you mean.”

“It’s simple enough,” Dodge said, with a foxy smile. “A guy has been here making enquiries about you and your husband. If you want details it'll cost you two hundred bucks.”