I said: “I catch.”
He was Government, what branch I didn’t know or care. I had the notion he was probably a deputy-marshal but it didn’t make the slightest bit of difference. It explained why Kirby had dared to go against Crandall as he had. It meant Macintosh was after Crandall and that he thought I might be a help to him. It was the answer to a lot of things that had bothered me.
I went on with: “That’s swell. That’s a break. I want Wendel here when the blow-off comes. I don’t want him chased away. If it has to be done, to keep Kirby and Crandall apart, and Crandall still foxed, let Kirby run him out and you go with him and see he’s brought back.”
“Wendel will have to be here, you think?”
“I don’t think; I know. We’ve got to have him.”
“Why?”
Macintosh had cold grey eyes, set under damned near white eyebrows. The eyebrows were bushy and needed plucking badly. They were mean eyes and he turned them on me and waited for an answer and all I could say was:
“I’m not sure yet. I can’t crack until I’ve got more to go on. If I’m right in what I think, he’s got to be here.”
“Why not spill what you think?”
“I’ve got nothing to go on. Just a notion.”
“Is the French girl mixed in it?”
“She must be. I’m not sure just how.”
“Both Kirby and I have given you every break, Connell. Why not play back?”
I said: “Damn it! I can’t tell you something I don’t know. I’ve missed something and I’m trying to figure what it is. I can’t get it. Why should somebody try to kill me like that? There’s only one answer; I’ve stumbled into something and haven’t brains enough to see it. It’ll come to me. The French girl is mixed in it someway but I don’t know how. She don’t fit in the picture anyway. A murder throws things wide open and this bunch is smart enough to know it. They’d never have done it unless it was forced on them. What forced it? What made them panicky? When I know I’ve got the answer to the whole thing.”
“Suppose I get help and you and I and Wendel demand to see his wife? Would that bring the showdown?”
“How would it? He’d never get a chance to talk sense to her like that. She’d go ahead and get her damned divorce, which is just what Crandall wants. What are you after him for?”
I rang that last in quick, thinking I could possibly stampede him into telling me something. He just grinned, said: “That’s a sort of secret, Connell. But I’ll tell you this; Rucci is mixed in it too.”
“It’s either white-slave stuff or dope.”
“You’ve got a right to guess. I can’t stop you guessing.”
I said: “Let’s call it a draw. I can’t tell you anything and you won’t tell me anything. Let me talk to Wendell and work something out.”
He stared at me a moment, said: “I want to be in at the finish, guy. I’ll talk to Kirby.”
He left, and left me staring at the four blank walls, trying to figure the connection between the murdered French girl, the attempt to kill me, and Mrs. Wendel’s refusal to talk with her husband.
And trying to tie Kewpie and the rest of the complications in with the mess in general. None of it made sense.
Chapter Fourteen
i went out that night and met Lester and his blonde mama, then went over and took the Spanish looking girl for a ride. I didn’t think she was mixed up with Rucci and it was so damned monotonous sitting in the room that I thought I’d go crazy. I told her: “Do me a favor, hon, and don’t say anything about seeing me.”
She said: “Why? Are you ashamed of me?” I said I wasn’t. She had brains enough to know I was in some kind of jam with enough extra not to ask about what it was. If it hadn’t been for her voice she’d have been a swell kid. It was just another count against the music business; If I hadn’t been in that so long I probably would never even thought of how she talked. I got back to the Palace Rooms late and slept the same way the next morning. Lester woke me by calling about ten and what he said brought me wide awake. He said:
“Mr. Wendel and Joey are here. They want to see you.”
“There in the room?”
“Oh no. They checked in the hotel. They’re cleaning up now.”
“The damned fools! Don’t they know the cops will run them out if they see them?”
“Joey’s drunk again, Shean! He told me he has his false whiskers along and that he’s going under a disguise. He’s going to be the old man of the mountain he says.”
“Oh Christ,” I said. “What are they registered under? What names? Is Wendel drunk?”
“Wendel’s sober. They’re registered under the names of O. M. Mountain and Dick Smith.”
I wanted to laugh but I was too mad to do it. Wendel, the poor innocent, wouldn’t know that Dick Smith was a gag name, and Joey Tree’s O. M. Mountain business had me wacky. I wouldn’t have put it past the screwball to don a long white beard and go down to the station and ask if they’d heard of a Mr. Joey Free lately. He was that dizzy when drunk. I said to Lester:
“They’ll see you again, I’m afraid. Tell Wendel I want to see him. But don’t call this number when he or Joey are in the room and don’t tell them where I am. This is a secret, kid, I told you that.”
“I know, Shean!”
“Did Joey say anything about his rubber check?”
“He took me to the side and gave me the hundred to give to you. I told him you were in trouble and that I met you now and then, where you told me to. Was that right?”
“Sure. Now listen. If Joey’s drunk, keep it just with Wendel. Tell him to meet me at the corner of Virginia and K streets at nine tonight. Of course if Joey is sober, it’s okey to tell him too. The only thing is, I don’t want Joey around if he’s drinking. I’m hotter than a forty-five right now and he’d make it that much tougher. Understand?”
“Sure, Shean! Can I come too?”
I thought and couldn’t see what harm it would do. I wasn’t planning on doing anything but picking up Wendel in the car and driving out of town a bit and telling him what had happened. I had an idea how boring it must be for Lester; staying in the room just the time I had was driving me dizzy. So I said: “Sure.”
I went back in the room and put the rest of my clothes on and asked the landlady to bring me something for breakfast. She did and handed me an envelope along with it, and I opened this and found a gun permit and a note from Macintosh. The note read: “Connell — I got the number of that cannon of yours yesterday and thought you might want a permit for it. You need one for this state. Your California permit and license are no good here. It won’t be traced and I signed for you. Macintosh.”
The permit was issued by a J. P., a few miles out of town and it had my gun number right. It was a help; it gave me a legal right to carry the gun and God knows I thought I might need it. I was having more respect for Len Macintosh every day I knew him. The landlady took pity on me that afternoon and came up and we played coon-can for four bits a game and a dollar a tab and she took me for fourteen bucks but it was worth the price of admission. She told me yarns about the Nevada of the old days; she was sixty-two, although she didn’t look over fifty, and she’d lived in the state since she was sixteen. She’d done everything and that was truth. She’d been shot three times and stabbed once; brawls in places she’d ran. She knew all the old-timers who’re history now... and the things she knew about them weren’t the history that’s common knowledge. She’d been through gold and silver rushes... she’d been in the money herself twice over, grubstaking prospectors... and here she was running this place. She wasn’t in the least bitter about losing her money... part of it had gone in bad mining ventures and part in the last stock market crash... and she said: “Why should I squawk? I had fun with it. I made it and I spent it. Why cry about it?”