Stab in the Dark (11 page)

But that was beside the point. Beeker wasn’t going to like it when Cora’s story came out, no matter how Knox explained it. He wasn’t going to like it at all.

B
EEKER
definitely didn’t like it. He was even more unhappy than Knox expected. When Knox returned to the storeroom, he found both Beeker and Keehan there. McEwen had just finished making his report on the discovery.

“You get around,” Keehan said to Knox. “Why’d you bring Mac down here, for protection?” He shifted his squat weight as if he were about to enter a prize ring. “You pay him to tag along?”

Knox looked past Keehan to Beeker. “Send him away, Mel, before he finishes making a fool of himself.”

Keehan reached for a piece of Knox’s coatfront. Knox stepped back, his expression no longer relaxed, his eyes frankly hostile. “I’m not one of your two-bit hoodlums, Maddy. Keep your hands to yourself.”

“By God, you got tagging along with that Jock and he gets killed. You mess with the Deane girl and she disappears. Now you just ‘find’ this body.” Keehan was wound up. “For my money, you go downtown and….”

“Who disappeared?” Knox cut in. He wondered how the police had learned of Cora’s going so quickly.

Beeker said, “Shut up, Maddy. Go start things rolling. And let’s keep this one under wraps until we know where we stand.”

“I know where we stand,” Keehan said. “I …”

“Shut up and get going.”

Knox had never heard Beeker quite that abrupt with a subordinate. Apparently Keehan never had either. With a grunt of surprise, he turned and stalked out. Beeker said, “Mac, you’d better go help him. So that things are kept quiet. My men can come in from the back like yesterday.”

McEwen faded. It was obvious that he wanted as little as possible to do with Beeker when he was in a mood like this. When his footsteps had receded, Beeker hoisted a hip onto one of the tables and looked at Knox.

“Well, Paul?”

Knox said, “What’s this about Cora Deane disappearing?”

“She blew, that’s all. The hotel got a call from her from the bus depot. Said she was leaving.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“Keehan thinks so. I’m asking.”

Knox said, “She spent the night with me—innocently, Mel.” There was no smile of derision, no flicker of disbelief, nor any sign of acceptance. Beeker was simply listening.

“I came in late and found her in my room. She’s World-Circle and she was supposed to contact Auffer yesterday. She got scared and came to me, figuring I might be the new contact.”

“So?”

“So,” Knox said, “we swapped notes. I told her to go and she said she would.”

“You told her to go! The police told her to stick around.”

“She was being shadowed, and her life was threatened. After Jock, what did you expect me to do?”

“Threatened by whom?”

Knox explained about the two anonymous phone calls. Beeker said, “Nuts.”

Knox’s eyebrows went up. “I’m lying, Mel?”

“I didn’t say that. But since when does a phone call make a World Circle operative tuck in tail and run?”

“It doesn’t,” Knox admitted. “Cora said she’d be back. That’s all I know.”

“And if she isn’t back?”

“Then you can contact the home office. The company only protects its employees to a point.”

Beeker wasn’t happy. “Let’s drop it for now. What’s this about you finding the body?”

Knox told him the story Cora Deane had given him. “You can see why she kept quiet. Working for our outfit, sometimes you have to clam up until you know where you’re going.”

“So I notice,” Beeker said sourly. “When did you learn this?”

“This morning,” Knox said. It was a lie, but not much of one. And, he figured, it wouldn’t hurt to pacify Beeker a little.

Beeker grunted at him. The men came and Knox stood to one side while the body was photographed in position, chalk marks made, the usual routines gone through. The doctor moved in and took over.

He said, “About twenty-four hours. “I’m guessing, of course.”

Beeker looked at Knox. “About right, isn’t it?”

“I’d say so,” Knox agreed.

The man had died by obvious means. A heavy object had hit him squarely in the face, crushing his skull and the frontal bone structure of his face along with it. It made recognition difficult. It also made Knox slightly ill.

“What hit him?” Keehan asked, moving alongside Beeker.

“I pack a mean wallop, didn’t you know?” Knox said.

Beeker put a hand on Keehan’s shoulder. “Be quiet, damn it.” He said to the doctor, “I want to get into his pockets.”

“Help yourself.”

It was grisly business. Beeker came up with an assortment of change, some keys, a large flat wallet of the note case type, and a comb. The wallet contained over three hundred dollars in cash, a snapshot of a woman slightly under middle age, dark and Spanish looking, some identity cards—liquor permit, dishwasher’s union card, driver’s licence—and in the other side a sheaf of glossy four by six photographs that made even the hardened Maddy Keehan whistle.

Beeker called McEwen in and showed him the contents of the wallet. “From here?”

“I’d say so,” McEwen admitted. “But they come and go, these guys.” He shuffled through the pictures. “Jeez! Where’d a dishwasher get the dough to buy them?”

“Where’d he get three hundred bucks?” Keehan growled.

Beeker said, “Go bring someone from upstairs who might know who this guy is.”

Knox remained silent. The photographs made things obvious to hm. He was sure they did to Beeker as well. The kitchen man came down and he not only knew, but he was positive. “Sure, that’s Manuel Salas. I been calling for two days to find out why he didn’t come to work.” He turned away, his face green. Beeker shoved the pictures under his nose.

“He go for this stuff much?”

The kitchen man wasn’t interested. “We all seen them. He carried a different batch every week.”

“What’d he do, peddle them?”

“Hell no. He wouldn’t. He just told us where we could get some like ‘em and where there was stag movies these were made from.”

“Yeh, where?”

The kitchen man looked uncomfortable. “I went once, down in the south end.” He gave an address. “Then I tried to take a friend and the place was empty. I never asked Salas no more.”

Beeker moved alongside Knox. He said, “A floating show with Salas one of the contacts.”

“Hotels are good places,” Knox said. He was thinking of Carl and his hint to the bellhop. “I’ll do a little feeling around myself. Let me have a couple of those pictures, will you?”

“I want ‘em back.”

Knox said, “Do you think I intend to keep them, for Crissake?”

Keehan moved near them and Knox became quiet. Beeker told the kitchen man to go back to work and keep his mouth shut—completely shut. Then he sent Keehan off to look for the murder weapon.

Beeker scowled at Knox. “If this guy was one of them, why get rid of him along with Auffer?”

“My guess is they didn’t,” Knox said. “Auffer was to meet Cora Deane down here. I think they got wind of it and put Salas on Leo. Probably one of those in a hurry things. Salas was to hold Leo until a first class trigger-man could come down and take over. Or maybe Salas did it on his own. Maybe Leo started questioning him and he got scared.”

“You’re saying Auffer killed this Salas before he got it himself?”

“That’s my guess,” Knox said. “Salas probably attacked him and Leo had to fight.”

“Then when the Deane girl came down, who dragged her off by the throat—if anyone did?”

“I saw the marks on her neck. I can’t answer that, Mel. If I could, I’d have the one who murdered Leo.”

Beeker shook his head. ‘If Auffer did kill this guy, what did he use, a sledgehammer?”

Keehan answered that. He found the murder weapon thrown to the rear of the chair storeroom. It was a wooden mallet, the kind a chef would use pounding big steaks. There was no doubt after one look at the blood and bone and hair stuck to it. The handle had been wiped clean of prints.

Knox wasn’t surprised. As he saw it, Leo Auffer had had to take it away from Salas. In defending himself, he had hit too hard. He might have made that mistake; he wouldn’t have been foolish enough to leave his fingerprints on the mallet too.

When Beeker and Knox were alone, Beeker said, “Paul, I want to open this one up. We’re getting nowhere keeping them under wraps.”

That was the one thing Knox was afraid of. He wanted this one kept as tight as Auffer’s death—for the time being. Ideas were beginning to simmer in his mind. He said, “You’ve got Jock to work on in the open, haven’t you?”

Beeker snorted. “Jock, Salas, Auffer—they’re all part of the same parcel. And where are we getting with Jock?”

“How about Eddie Pillow?”

“We’ve got a pick-up out for him,” Beeker said. “We also asked a lot of questions around here, but with the help only, as usual. Until we open up Auffer’s death, we can’t touch some of these high-priced guests.”

“Thinking of the Tinsleys?”

“And this Catlin, since they seem to be the ones Auffer was friendliest with. And your girl Friday, Cora Deane. We couldn’t find her today to question her.”

Knox had to grin. “I had her occupied.” Then the grin faded. “The Tinsleys claim to have been at a party last night. I came in during the rarified hours and they were right behind me. When you’re ready, they should be easy enough to check.”

“When I’m ready.” Beeker glared at Knox. “And Catlin, what was he doing late last night?”

“Playing pattycake with Cora Deane, according to him.” He told Beeker about his conversation with Catlin. He expected a reaotion from Beeker and when it came, he was ready.

“So she gave him a mickey. What for, so she could go out and kill Jock?”

“Sure,” Knox said. “And she beat Salas’ face in with a mallet, dragged him into the back of that room after juggling all those tables, then stabbed Leo Auffer, and hit me on the head when I sniffed around the chair she gimmicked.”

“All right,” Beeker said. “So she had a reason for what she did. Can you supply that too?”

Knox shrugged. “Maybe it was a good chance to search Catlin’s room.”

“She didn’t tell you about that?”

“No,” Knox said. He shifted the conversation to something that right now worried him more than Cora Deane. “Give it a little while longer, Mac. This Salas and his pictures might be the break I need.”

Beeker was going to be stubborn about it. Knox could see that by the expression on his face. Knox said, “Before you say no, listen to what happened to me this morning-early.” He sketched his encounter with Binks and Toll.

Beeker was grinning when Knox finished. He said, “You sure have it tough, Paul. Every time you try to hold out on me, something comes up and you have to spill.” Then the grin went away. “So you let them go? Why?”

“Why not,” Knox asked defensively. “I swapped that for information. And a pair like that can be picked up anytime.”

“Sure, just like we picked up Eddie Pillow. “Hell, they might be a thousand miles away by now.”

“Toll said the boat was his,” Knox reminded him. “Besides, he’s in touch with this Mitch. That makes me think he’s in with the upper crust.”

“Maybe he is the upper crust,” Beeker suggested.

“Toll probably thinks he could be,” Knox said, “but I doubt it. He might have the brains but he hasn’t the finesse. There’s too much emotion in him. He’s too vulnerable. No, Mel, whoever is running this show is a different kind than Toll—someone slick and smart and about as emotional as that mallet that killed Salas. And dangerous,” he added.

Beeker grunted. “So because you got beat up you think you’re closer to a solution?”

“This Salas thing gives me an idea,” Knox said. “It makes me think Leo Auffer was a lot closer to winding it up than I thought. What little we know about the previous operations of this outfit doesn’t include violence. But now there is violence. That means, to me, that they have a weakness somewhere—and Leo had his finger on it.

“But,” he went on, “I don’t want just the small fry like Salas. You could get the Vice Squad and clean that sort of tiling out in a few days. You can do that later, too. I want the big boys. And I want the stuff. If I don’t get both, where am I? World Circle’s job is only partly to get the men behind this. We also want to fix things for the sake of those individuals—stupid as they have been—whose indiscretions can cause them a lifetime of misery.”

“I know,” Beeker said. “I’m a big city cop, Paul. I’ve seen what pornography can do in a small way, not only to adolescent minds but to supposedly adult ones. You don’t have to tell me.” He glowered at Knox. “All right, I’ll keep it as quiet as I can. But damn it, Paul, my investigation is hamstrung until I can come out with the news that Auffer is dead.”

“Okay,” Knox said, “let’s find Auffer dead. But not here. Not near the hotel.”

Beeker gaped at him. Knox plunged on, improvising as he went, and the more he talked the better the idea sounded. “We can fish him out of one of the lakes or the Sound, can’t we? Then you can ask questions of the Tinsleys and Catlin without the hotel being connected. Why,” he added enthusiastically, “give me the body. I’ll plant it for you.”

G
IVING
Beeker a chance to let the idea simmer in his mind, Knox made a date to see him in an hour in the suite, and took off. He had coffee and a sandwich in the coffee shop while he worked out the details of this latest idea in his mind. He was pleased with it. Every now and then a spur of the moment plan would come to him, and he seldom ignored them without a close look. Working under pressure as he was, he was willing to grasp anything.

He left the coffee shop humming, the details nicely settled to his satisfaction. His reverie was interrupted by a commotion taking place at the desk and he turned to see what was going on.

A woman teetering on extremely high heels, her hair dyed an amazing red blond, and her body encased in a too tight suit that showed bulges Knox was sure she would not want shown, was yammering at the desk clerk. Behind her was a bellhop, loaded with a half dozen bags, two hat boxes, and a small and very excitable Pomeranian dog.

“But I did make a reservation,” the woman said in a raucous voice. “I wired from Minneapolis three days ago. Mrs. Renfrew. Mrs. Adele Renfrew. Come now, you must have a record.”

“Did you get a confirmation, Mrs. Renfrew?” The clerk was polite but obviously wishing for the presence of someone with more authority.

“Certainly not. I assumed. I have never yet needed a confirmation. Not in New York or Paris or—anywhere. Why should I here?”

If the clerk hadn’t been so obviously harrassed, Knox would have enjoyed the scene. Mrs. Renfrew, who looked fortyish and obviously wanted to look fifteen years younger, Was a type Knox had always liked seeing in action—as long as he was merely a spectator. Whether or not she had made a reservation was beside the point. She would have her room before she was through.

The clerk seemed to realize that he was fighting a battle he could never win. With a sigh, he went through his cards and came up with one. “I’m very sorry, Madame, but until Monday I can give you only a small room. The football game here tomorrow has us filled up.”

Mrs. Renfrew was displeased. She said as much. Then with a gesture meant to be gracious but which nearly took off the end of the clerk’s nose, she yielded. “I shall have to accept it, I suppose.”

Woman, dog, and bellhop loaded with baggage surged toward the elevator. The strident voice, having conquered the hotel, now turned itself onto the dog. “You just behave, Paulsy. Mama will have to leave you alone for a while, but she’ll come and see you later. Promise to be good.”

Knox glanced at her more closely when she mentioned the dog’s name. Then he strolled over and joined her in the elevator. The dog was wriggling in her arms now, sniffling. The woman offered Knox a smile. Her mouth was too heavily made up and the smile looked more like a red slash with rough edges. “Isn’t he darling?”

Knox put out a tentative hand for the dog’s head. Paulsy sniffed and then licked Knox’s finger. Mrs. Renfrew squealed. “Oh Paulsy likes you! And he makes so few friends.”

“Perhaps because we have the same name,” Knox said. He was studying Mrs. Renfrew without making himself obvious. He also wanted to hear more of her voice. He could be wrong, of course, and in that case he would feel a complete fool.

“Oh, is your name Paulsy too?”

Knox could see the back of the bellhop’s neck. It was growing red. He said hastily, “Paul. Just Paul.”

The elevator stopped and both the operator and the bellhop began unloading luggage. Momentarily Mrs. Renfrew and Knox were left alone at the rear of the elevator. Her voice reached his ears, a different voice now, coming from lips that barely moved. “I’m in six-fourteen. When can I come see you?”

“I’Il call,” Knox murmured. He leaned against the rear of the cage as Mrs. Renfrew, still holding a struggling dog, teetered away on her absurd heels.

“This,” the operator observed as he took Knox on up, “should make for a real week end.”

Knox could only agree with him. Once in his room, he set Mrs. Renfrew aside for more immediate matters. He took Leo Auffer’s toiletries kit from the dresser and spread everything on the bed. He was well along, the paste squeezed from every tube, and the labels detached where possible to see if there was writing on the back of any, when Beeker arrived. Hastily, Knox returned everything to the drawer, piled underwear on top, and went to let Beeker in.

Knox ordered up the inevitable coffee for Beeker and they sat in the living room waiting for it. Beeker looked around and whistled. “Get cramped upstairs?”

“I needed breathing space,” Knox said.

“I thought you were going to throw a roller skating party.” Beeker seemed wholly uncurious about Knox’s reason for changing rooms. Knox hoped he put it down to the whim of a man with money and then forgot it. He wasn’t yet ready to tell Beeker that among his other recent sins, he had burgled Leo Auffer’s suitcases.

“Where is Auffer now?” Knox asked bluntly.

“In the morgue.”

“Can you get him out by saying you want another autopsy?”

“I can get him out,” Beeker said. He looked unhappy. “But I don’t know that I’m going to.”

“Look,” Knox said earnestly, “think what it’ll do to the morale of our big boys if Auffer suddenly turns up—but not at the hotel. Besides,” he went on persuasively, “it will take the newspapers off your neck. This way they can’t say you held out on them because they won’t know you did.”

“If it slips,” Beeker said, “it can cause one hell of a lot of trouble.”

“It won’t slip,” Knox assured him. “I’ve got it figured out so that no one in the department can get burned too badly. And so that if there is trouble, it’ll be my neck. Listen, will you?”

“I’m listening,” Beeker said. He did, all the way through the oversized pot of coffee that arrived. When Knox was finished, he sighed. “All right, Paul. I don’t like it but I can see your point. But if Maddy Keehan should catch you …”

“I know,” Knox said, “this is one time you can’t call him off.”

Beeker’s smile was a mere baring of his teeth. Knox said hastily, “And, Mel, how about getting me some information on that Merkle number and on the fishing boat?”

Beeker went to the telephone. “If the boys are on the ball, I should have that information by now.” He put in a call to his office, spoke briefly, and then listened, jotting notes on a sheet of paper on the desk. Hanging up, he turned to Knox.

“The Merkle number is a pay station in a joint called Maroney’s Bar. And that happens to be about a half block from the end of the pier where the fishing boat is moored.”

“Better than I expected,” Knox said.

“The boat,” Beeker went on, “is registered to Albert Toll. It’s also his address.”

Knox swore out of relief. This was even neater than he had hoped. Beeker said, “Toll has a record, all right. Bunco artist. The girl he was working with got scared and talked.”

“What about his background?” Knox asked.

“That,” Beeker said, “is the nicest part of all. Until three years ago, he was a college professor. His last job was as guest lecturer at the University of Havana, Cuba. He also did a lot of traveling and studying in various parts of Europe.”

“It’s beginning to fit,” Knox said. “Maybe he’s a bigger shot than I gave him credit for. Anythng else?”

Beeker looked positively smug. “He was raised in this part of the country. His father was a Pilot. Toll worked his way through University sailing on cruise ships that go up the Sound and into the Straits of Georgia. He’s qualifind as an apprentice pilot. Or was. With his record, I don’t know now.”

“A guy with all that background and he got a little too eager for easy money,” Knox said. “He probably figured that his brain power raised him a notch above the wage slave.”

Beeker shrugged. “I don’t pretend to understand his reasons. Now as for Binks, he’s clean. A small time private operative from California. Divorce cases have always been his speed up to now.”

“Any trace of Cora Deane?” Knox asked with a shade too much disinterest.

Beeker gave him a quick look and then glanced at his notes. “She hopped a bus for the east but she wasn’t aboard when the bus got to Moses Lake today. That means she got off probably at Ellensburg. We’ve got an alert out. We’ll get her.”

“Uhm,” Knox said. He didn’t amplify it. “That’s it?”

“That’s it so far.” Beeker looked at the empty coffee pot and got to his feet. “I don’t like this, Paul, but I can’t see any other way to be able to question people about Auffer without blowing it wide open.”

“When we’re on trial,” Knox said with a grin, “I’ll testify to your reluctance.”

“Thanks.” Beeker went toward the door. “And remember, I’m your pal and ‘the commissioner is your pal—but just to a point. If you keep on holding out, I swear I’ll let Keehan have you.”

“Maddy’s just frustrated,” Knox said. “He wants someone to hit.”

“He may get that someone,” Beeker said darkly. He went on out.

When Knox was certain he had time to reach the lobby, he went to the phone and made two calls. The first was to Mrs. Renfrew. He said, “This is eight-o-eight. I’m in for a while.” He hung up and called the penthouse.

To the deep voice that answered, Knox inquired if it belonged to Gerard Tinsley. It did and Knox identified himself. “I was wondering if you and Natalie might have a drink before dinner with me?”

“Delighted, Knox. I’ll let you ask Natalie herself.”

In a moment he heard her voice, pleasantly husky, lazily indolent as if she might be stretched out on a chaise longue, completely relaxed. “Hello, Paul.”

“I’ve just invited you and your father for a drink. And dinner,” he added, “if you aren’t tied up.”

“I’m not. I can tie up Dad, if you want.”

“Not for dinner,” Knox said. “Let it wait until after dinner.

“Oh, us alone? Are we going detecting?”

“That’s the general idea,” Knox admitted. He was glad that she had met him half way. “I you want to.”

“I’d love it.”

“Just say for the record that we’re going dancing.”

“Uhm, I love mysteries. What do I wear, sneakers and old slacks?”

“Hardly, not for dancing.”

They chatted inconsequentially for a moment. Knox set the time for the drink and dinner and hung up. He sat motionless for some time mentally working out a time schedule for the night. He saw that he would have to cut things pretty fine. Maybe too fine. But there was no way around it, that he could see. He was frowning over the problem when the knock came at the door.

Mrs. Renfrew was there minus dog. Paulsy, she explained, was in a belhop’s care. Otherwise, he might cramp her mobility.

She looked around as Beeker had. “You don’t get this on a World-Circle expense account?”

“I could,” Knox said. “It was Auffer’s room.”

“I know it. Why didn’t I think of that?” She smiled as if the make-up on her face might crack if she made too much of an effort. “You should see your expression, Paul. Don’t you like Mrs. Renfrew?”

“It’s a little overdone.”

“Not really,” she said. “Anyway, it’s the only disguise I have. I played the part in a college play.” She laughed shortly and then became serious. “I suppose the police are looking for me?”

“From here to Moses Lake.”

“I got off the bus at Ellensburg, rented a dressing room and changed my clothes and hairdo. I took a bus to Yakima and a train from there. I changed again on the train and gave myself a dye job. It was rather awkward but I came out as Mrs. Renfrew.”

Knox said, “They figured you got off in Ellensburg. It won’t take Beeker long once he gets a lead.”

She looked down at herself and giggled. “Do you think he’ll suspect anyone so lumpy?”

Knox had no time to waste kidding with her. He said, “They found who the man you saw dead was.” He told her about it and added his theory that Auffer might have killed him.”

“Does that mean Auffer was the one who tried to strangle me?”

“If it does, it makes no sense,” Knox answered. He went on, outlining the remainder of his talk with Beeker but not mentioning his plan with the body.

She looked shocked. “You mean that—that policeman thinks I might have killed Leo Auffer?”

“He’s toying with the idea,” Knox admitted. “Especially since you gave friend Catlin a mickey.”

“If he knew it was a mickey, he’s smarter than I gave him credit for,” she said.

“Then it was you. Why?”

“That’s a silly question coming from you,” she answered. She sounded irritated. “What would you have done if you wanted, say, to search the penthouse and you were alone in it with Natalie Tinsley and’ she was pawing you and there was no way to get rid of her so you could search?”

Knox grinned. “Find anything?”

“Nothing. He’s either very clever or he’s just what he says—-an insurance representative.” She shook her head. “But I don’t really think that, Paul.”

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“Especially not after last night!” She rubbed her hands over her arms. “He’s too sleek, too much the I’m a real find for a poor stenographer’ type. No thanks.”

“That doesn’t make him guilty of this kind of crime.”

“Nor does it make the Tinsleys guilty because they’re gamblers. But you seem to think they might be in it.”

“Because Leo contacted them. I feel the same way about Catlin.”

“If they’re so wealthy,” Cora said, “why would they take a chance?”

“Gambling makes strange bedfellows,” Knox said. “And then, money doesn’t always start people off, Cora. It might be adventure, a desire for thrills, maybe even indulgence in a different type of gambling. In this case a gamble for life or freedom.”

“Against what, money selling dirty art?”

Knox realized that she wouldn’t have been given the background of the case. Only, as far as he knew, Leo Auffer and himself had that. “Big money selling dirty art, Cora. Two million dollars plus on this phase of the job alone.” He told her about it.

She looked faintly ill beneath her make-up. “That’s monstrous,” she whispered. “If I’d known …”

“What more could you have done.”

“Nothing more,” she admitted. “I couldn’t have done anything that I didn’t do. Only—now I feel more than ever as if I’m cheating. I learned so little.”