Masters Of Noir Vol Iii Part 14

It gave Jordan time to think. He needed it. He was in trouble now, if he hadn't been before. They were going to burn plenty when he told them no soap. He should have told the captain straight out. The way it sounded, Crider and the other two were going to be turned loose. And then Jordan was supposed to con the girl. If he did, he would be what Eglin and Sline thought he was, a hit-and-run guy with women.

Already, somebody else thought that. Sline's search through the department looking for a smoothie with dames, and somebody told him Ron Jordan was his man. Well, they had him wrong. He wasn't a chaser. He didn't have to chase. Women liked him; he liked women. That was all, and what was wrong with that? He played with women who knew the score. The married ones, and the dewy-eyed innocents, he left strictly alone.

A door was opened in the next room. A voice said, "In here, Miss Berkey."

He heard Captain Sline say, "Did the matron tell you this is bag and baggage for you?"

"Bag and baggage?" came Elsa Berkey's low reply. "I don't understand."

There's the tipoff on her, thought Jordan. It was her voice. Deep and husky. Not unpleasant. But that throatiness told it. He didn't have to look at her to know she was a tramp. Gin and cigarettes did that to her voice. Mostly chain-smoking. It had put callouses on her vocal cords.

"It's jail talk," explained Sline. "Means you collect your things because you're going free."

She asked quickly, "Does that mean-are you freeing my brother, too?"

"We are," said Sline.

Ben Eglin said, "Go on, Elsa. Ask us if Joe Crider goes out, too." He wasn't polite like Sline. "That's what's on your mind, isn't it?"

"I wondered," she said.

"He goes out," said Sline. "All three of you. We can't hold you any longer without filing a charge, and we haven't the evidence. You knew that."

"No," she said. "I didn't know that."

She was lobbing them back quietly; there was something subdued about her that did not fit her voice. Jordan took a look. She was standing before Sline's desk, legs together, body poised in natural balance. Long red hair that picked up a gleam from the light above her. A regular profile, with high cheekbones shadowing the hallows below, the lips compressed too tight. Something about her puzzled him.

Sline spoke again. "We never intended to file a charge against you. It's Joe Crider we want. You could have helped us. You didn't. We have to remember that."

She pulled her eyes away from Sline's and sent a quick, careful gaze about the room. Jordan got a glimpse of gray eyes. The voice and the eyes told Jordan enough. He had her pegged. The puzzling thing, the thing about her that Jordan couldn't see though he knew he was looking right at it-what the devil was it?

"It's not too late for you to straighten out your story," said Eglin. "Things have a way of popping up. Suppose we find a witness who saw a woman of your height and build going into Crider's School Street store at around ten o'clock that night. That would mean you were there when Crider shot Garfield, wouldn't it?"

She turned a little, studying his bland and ugly face. "I was home," she said.

Sline broke in, impatient with Eglin. "There's another matter, Miss Berkey. We're worried about your brother."

Her attention carne quickly back to Sline. He went on, "If Crider killed Garfield-and he did-your brother helped him. Or at least saw it. You know that. Bart was there, and admits he was there. You say you were not. That would make Bart the only eye-witness who could ever testify against Crider. Crider might want to do something about that."

They let that soak in, giving her the fixed-stare business with it. This was what they had been leading up to, planting the fear in her.

"We don't want a second killing," continued Sline. "We'd like to hold Bart for his own protection. But our hands are tied. You and Bart tied 'em. Now let me give you some advice. Don't try to leave town, because you might need friends, and we're your friends whether you know it or not. And stop working for Joe Crider, both of you. It'd just be giving Crider more chance to knife you."

"But I-" She stopped, then went on coolly, "May I go now?"

"Wait for your brother," said Sline. "One of the boys will run you both home in a police car. We're going to deliver you safe. Then you won't be our responsibility any more."

She turned and walked out without a word, Jordan's gaze following her slim hips. He couldn't tell too much about her age-she might be twenty-five, she might be thirty. And that elusive quality about her, that thing that he was so close to seeing....

In the other room Captain Sline said, "I can't make up my mind about her."

"I can," said Eglin. He was venomous. "Crider's woman."

"I don't know. If she was his woman she wouldn't be putting in eight hours behind the counter at his store."

"See here, Frank," said Eglin. "Why don't you come out with it?" He was suddenly, harshly explosive. "You and the chief and the commissioners think Garfield was taking. You figure Garfield was knocking down from Crider on his bookmaking. You think he tried to hike the ante and got himself killed for it. You won't say so because you don't want the public to hear about a crooked police officer. That's why you're bucking me on a cop killer. And you're all dead wrong!"

"n.o.body's bucking you, Ben," said Sline mildly. "You're all steamed up because we've got to let Crider go."

"It won't wash," Eglin went on. "You ought to know Crider better than that. He knows how we feel about a cop killer. The last guy in the world he would kill would be a cop, if he used his head."

"He was using his head," put in Sline dryly. "He used it so well you couldn't make a case on him."

"He's using it now. But he wasn't when he shot Garfield. And what does that mean? A cool customer like Crider-what would make him go off his rocker? The dame that just walked out of here! Maybe Garfield was taking; I don't know. But he didn't go too far until he tried to take Crider's girl. Probably she made a play for him. She got Garfield killed, and I'll bet a month's pay she was there when it happened."

The far door opened and a young fellow was pushed in. A kid, really. Jordan figured him to be about sixteen. He was dragging his left leg-a club foot. He came slowly up to the desk.

Sline said abruptly, "Bart, we're turning you loose."

"Yeah," said Eglin. "Take good care of yourself. Lock your door nights."

Bart Berkey looked from one to the other. He had dark, deepset eyes that turned in upon himself, high cheekbones like his sister, and a weak face. He was scared, of Eglin more than the captain. He pulled jerkily at a cigarette.

"We're letting Crider loose, too," said Sline. "He'll be coming around to see you. What you going to tell him?"

"I-" Bart swallowed.

Eglin didn't let him get any farther. "You going to tell him you almost cracked? You going to tell him you almost put the whole thing on the line for us? You're not going to do that, are you, Bart? You know what he would do to you, don't you?"

It was nice teamwork. The old one-two. Against the girl they couldn't work it well. But it was working on Bart.

"I told you the truth!" Bart burst out. "I didn't do anything. I didn't see anything. Elsa knows I didn't."

Jordan saw the glisten of tears. Still, you couldn't despise him too much. That club foot had beaten him and shaped him; he was just a kid without the stuff to overcome it. Bart hung his head. For him, there was an object of terror somewhere that was more fearful even than Ben Eglin.

Sline punched at him. "Crider is going to worry about you. You're his soft spot. You're the one that might let your tongue slip. He's going to think about that, but one day he'll make up his mind and start looking for you."

"It'll be too late then," Eglin nodded. "We won't be around to wipe your nose." His voice changed, became brutal. "Your sister is waiting for you. Get out!"

Bart Berkey left. There was another wait, during which Sline and Eglin exchanged low-voiced growls. Jordan still had the girl on his mind.

The far door opened again and Joe Crider walked into the room. He was a trim, compact man with a good-humored mouth. A roundish face, not a line in it, matched the gray at his temples. He wore rimless gla.s.ses, the lenses cut almost square, reflecting the overhead light, blanking out his eyes, making them shiny apertures without depth. He was smiling when he turned to look across at Sline and down at Eglin. A man sure of himself, sure he had won. But his cigarette was long, newly lighted. He had fired up just outside the door and taken one deep drag to relieve the tension inside of him.

"Well, Inspector," he said. His words came flat and soft. "Is this good-bye?"

Sline gave the reply. "You go out," he said. "But don't go far. We're not through with you."

"So?" said Crider. "I get ridden, eh? You make it a bad job and you're sore, so you ride Joe Crider. How long?"

"It was a cop you killed," Eglin snapped.

Crider took the hand from his pocket and raised it, palm up. "Why? Why should I want to kill Bob Garfield?"

"Bart Berkey knows," said Eglin. "And we'll know when Bart figures out he's being a chump. He'll come crawling back to tell us the rest of it. That's why we ride you, Crider. And if something happens to Berkey, we're not going to sit on our behinds, we're going to pin it on you. Just you bear that in mind."

Ron Jordan got the full force of it, then. Eglin had been systematically setting them all on edge, pitting them one against the other, as a means of making something happen that would break the Garfield killing. And ladies-man Jordan had a n.o.ble part to play. He was to be the observer-the buzzard flying overhead. He must con the girl to stay close inside, be in a position to report whatever happened. Jordan saw it all now.

Ben Eglin stared at Crider and played out his perfidy, that might mean the life of Bart Berkey. Crider turned his head to examine the half-open door; the glare on his gla.s.ses gave Jordan the queer impression that opaque, depthless eyes were fixed on him. Slowly Crider brought his attention around to Sline, studying him, then to Eglin.

"Let's stop horsing each other," he said. "Bart's a kid. He couldn't stand up to you. If he had known anything, you'd have got it out of him. Now tell me, why with the cop-pressure off, should he suddenly start talking?"

"That's right," said Eglin, ignoring Crider's question. "He couldn't stand up to me. You should have seen him cry like a baby and call for his sister when I hammered at him about a woman being in your joint that night."

Eglin dropped it there, left it to Crider to figure what might have been added but wasn't. Bart Berkey had almost broken. Eglin didn't have long enough to work on him. Eglin couldn't hold him any longer without filing a charge, and Bart didn't confess enough to make a charge stick. That was what Crider was supposed to think. It was clear, without Eglin coming out and saying it, that Bart was so weak his silence couldn't be depended on and that he was the kind of a kid who might crack at any time.

Captain Sline stood up. "All right, Crider," he said. "You can go, now."

Before the door closed on Crider, he looked back, smiling. The last little trick was his. And maybe all tricks. Jordan couldn't for the life of him figure out under which one of the three Sline and Eglin had set the keg of dynamite.

This was the time for Jordan to count himself out. They couldn't touch him for it. There was nothing in the manual that said a traffic cop could be ordered to do a job on a woman.

Crossing toward Sline he said, "I tried to tell you, Captain-"

"Tell it later, Jordan," broke in Eglin. "Go change to a suit and pack a bag. Then come back to homicide. I'll be there. You're moving in across the hall from her tonight."

Jordan came on. He told himself, Don't look at Ben Eglin. Don't look in those eyes or he's got you. He looked down at Sline's desk. The ash tray there had two stubs in it. One b.u.t.t was Bart Berkey's, the other was Crider's. If Elsa Berkey were a chain smoker she would have needed a smoke when Eglin was working her over. But she hadn't smoked. That was the thing that didn't fit. Her throaty voice was natural.

Sline spoke. "What did you try to tell me, Jordan?"

"Nothing. Only-only you didn't ask me if I would."

Eglin came around the corner of the desk. "How long have you been in the department, Jordan?"

"A bit over a year."

"That's long enough. You should know when a police officer is murdered, a chunk of you dies, too. You should know if a cop killer ever got away with it, it would be open season on the department for every cheap gunman in town. You should know when a police officer is murdered, the wives of every one of us don't sleep nights, wondering if their man is next. You wouldn't think about the wives, would you? You don't know that kind of women." The voice sank, mimicking Jordan with a world of contempt, " 'You didn't ask me if I would.' G.o.damighty!"

Ben Eglin spun on his heel and stalked out.

In the silence that followed, Captain Sline said, "You'd better run along now and pack."

Ron Jordan stood in the middle of the strange living room. The couch's velour was a dirty brown, its nap slicked by time. The wood pieces bore the scars of conflict with a hundred tenants.

He said to himself, How did you get here and what do you do next?

He hadn't kept his nose clean. That was how he got here. He had got himself tagged at headquarters as a lady killer, and now Ben Eglin was using him. He had to warm up the girl across the hall. That's what he had to do next. The world was full of floozies who didn't smoke.

In homicide, an hour ago, Ben Eglin had said, "We shook down the Berkey apartment while we had them here. Found nothing. The one across the hall was empty and we grabbed it. The landlady knows who you are. We'll have a phone in there by morning. There's no time tonight to fill you in on background. Come back here in the morning; get it then."

Jordan had got to the door with his bag when Eglin's voice reached for him again. "The games you play with that dame are police business, Jordan. You're going up there to get information out of her. Don't forget it."

Odd, how this little runt of a man could make Jordan forget the rule book. Jordan had snarled, "You're funny. When I want to have fun with a girl, she'll be one I I pick." pick."

This living room looked down three stories to the street. In front of him, as he stood, was a kitchenette-dinette. On his right, a bedroom. Then a bath. Then another bedroom. Two bedrooms. That might need explaining. Why would he need two bedrooms? He could tell her he had to find an apartment quick, and this was all he could find. Or he could work up a leer and let it answer for him.

He stepped into the kitchenette. He opened the refrigerator aimlessly, seeing the heavy coat of frost around the coils, arriving slowly at an idea. The freezer control was a k.n.o.b that turned in a half circle from "off" through numerals to five. He worked on the k.n.o.b for several minutes, and it came off in his hand. He dropped it into a drawer, then went across the hall, smiling.

He rapped four times at her door, trying to make his knuckles talk briskly rather than alarmingly. "Who is it?"

"Your new neighbor," he said.

Silence again. After a time she repeated, "Who?"

He caught on. It was his voice she was studying. She wanted to hear it again, make sure whether she knew it.

He said quite loudly, "My name is Ron Jordan. I just moved in across the hall and I can't figure out how to defrost my refrigerator."

The door opened three inches; a night chain caught it there. Her face was wary and hostile.

"Sorry." He smiled. "It is kind of late, isn't it? But I thought maybe you had the same kind of refrigerator as mine and could show me what gadget to turn. I've been fooling with it for ten minutes and it's got me whipped."

She studied him coldly. He kept his smile, feeling a stiffness in his lips. The great lover-yeah! She was going to close the door in his face.

"Bart," she called. Then to Jordan, "Just a minute."

He heard the murmur of voices, then the chain dropped and the door came open. Bart stood behind her, his mouth sullen.

"I'm Ron Jordan," Jordan repeated, catching her guarded glance down the hall.

"I'm Elsa Berkey. This is my brother Bart. Why didn't you call the landlady?"

"You know how it is. You start griping the first day you're in, and you get tabbed as a complaining tenant." He grinned. "I always wait 'til the second day."

Still unsmiling, she said, "Come on, Bart." She closed her door carefully. The night latch clicked again. They crossed and entered behind Jordan.

She took one look in the refrigerator, said, "No wonder. The k.n.o.b's gone," and began rummaging in the drawers. In a moment she came up with it, stuck it on its spindle and turned the control to the "off" position. "There," she said. "Leave it off 'til morning."

He said in genuine surprise, "How did you know where it was?"

"Any woman would know." She had resumed her study of him in this stronger light. Her eyes were gray, under quite dark eyebrows. A hard gray, and suspicious. She said, "You just moved in?"

"Just tonight. I took it yesterday, but didn't have time to get my stuff over from the hotel. The company transferred me from St. Louis last week. I sell."

"Sell what?"

"Exterminator chemicals. You know. Terminate the termites. Roust the rats."

It was moderately safe ground with him. Once he had worked six months for a pest-control company. And it got a small smile out of her.