I raced through to the other side of the block and grabbed a taxi. “Take your next left and go straight out,” I told the driver.
The light was green at the next crossing, but we had to wait while a patrol car, siren screaming, went through. Then we went on. I straightened my jacket, lit cigarette, and leaned back in my seat. I flicked my thumb at the disappearing patrol car.
“The desk sergeant must have sent the boys out for a pack of gum,” I said.
I switched taxis twice and then took a stroll to think things over. The two torpedoes, Shultze and Ransy, had been with Bradford from way back. They would consider breaking my head in for revenge a matter of professional and personal pride. I had to get the evidence on Beefer before Shultze and Ransy, Beefer, or the cops got me.
I could not do it alone. There was one man I could bargain with. That was Bradford’s small-time competitor, Chip O’Brien.
I hailed a taxi and told him, “Palace Casino.” That was the crummy little alley-dive where O’Brien hung out. Before I went in, I stopped nearby and had hamburgers and coffee.
Then I slipped the .38 into my coat pocket and strolled down the alley into the Palace Casino. Nobody was at the bar. A newspaper woman nursed a beer on one ringed table. Her big sack of papers leaned against her chair. At the back, playing set-back with three sour-looking characters, sat a small, seedy man. This was Chip O’Brien.
None of them looked at me, and they didn’t lay down their cards. But they stopped playing. Nobody said anything.
I walked toward them, keeping my hands away from my pockets.
“O’Brien,” I said, “I want to talk to you. Alone.” He didn’t look at me. “This is big business, O’Brien. You’re getting your chance. Take it or leave it now.”
O’Brien tilted his head the way they do in the movies, and his friends stationed themselves at the front of the bar.
I sat down. “You know Bradford got it this afternoon,” I said.
He nodded.
“I was Bradford’s top man.”
He nodded.
“If they get me on the rap,” I continued, “the organization will fall apart.”
O’Brien smiled.
“Then Beefer Logan and you will fight for peanuts.”
O’Brien’s face went straight. “Maybe,” he squeaked.
“I can make you a better offer than that.”
“Yeah?” said O’Brien doubtfully.
“Beefer killed Bradford because the boss was going to turn him in on an old count. You call Haskin at five o’clock and tell him that you heard the murder weapon was a little black .22 automatic with hand-inlaid silver. Tell him that you and a couple of your friends have seen Beefer carry it and that it is his.” I paused.
“I’m listening,” said O’Brien.
“After you’ve done that, I’ll also turn in Bradford’s evidence on Beefer. That will supply the motive and put Beefer into more hot water. With Beefer out of the way, I cut you into the organization.”
“Now, O’Brien,” I continued, “the racket’s not my type of business. So when everything is under control, I’ll sell the whole thing out to you.”
O’Brien had to think a minute. He wasn’t the smart businessman Bradford had been.
“Come on, O’Brien,” I said. “Other customers are waiting.”
“Okay,” he said, “it’s a deal.”
“I’ll see you later,” I said and left.
I wasn’t bluffing about getting Bradford’s evidence on Beefer. Somewhere in the city, Bradford kept his file on all the key men in his outfit. Under each name, he had enough info to cook each man’s goose for a long time.
Sometimes he got the info through the grapevine. Other times he got it as an admittance fee into his organization. There was stuff on my embezzlement that would be good for at least ten years.
Other than that, there were no spots on my record until this murder rap. Whatever Tom Bradford’s businesses had been, my association with him had been free of scandal.
My next move was to get my hands on the file. There was one person who did know where it was. That was the one person whom Bradford trusted enough not to get anything on — his slinky, tight-lipped girl-friend, Helen.
She was a small brunette with a shape strictly for connoiseurs. As I flipped the little knocker on her bungalow door, I wished I could be in a position to be more friendly.
She opened the door, and I shoved inside. “Be quiet, Helen,” I said.
She looked at me out of deep, dark eyes wide with fear.
“Now listen, Helen, get this straight.” I held her by the shoulders. “Beefer is the guy who killed Bradford!”
“I don’t believe it!” she said, her eyes watering a little. “The police found you right there.” She almost shouted, “Get out of here, you — get out of here before I call the cops!”
I shook her. “Listen, will you? I saw the gun. It was that little silver inlay job. You know that’s Beefer’s. But the cops don’t know it. That’s why they think I did it.”
I continued, “I’m in a jam. I’ve got to work fast. Where did Tom keep his private files?”
She stiffened. “Oh no. No, you don’t get those!”
“Helen,” I pleaded, “everything’s cracking up. The whole set-up will go to pieces if I don’t get those files! You’ll be out in the cold if that happens.”
“No, Tom took care of me. And he said never to tell.”
I had to remind myself of what she really was before I could do it. I slapped her hard.
She’d have fallen if I hadn’t braced her by the shoulder. I backhanded her across the mouth and then went over it again. “Shut up,” I hissed. “You want to send an innocent man to the chair?” I rapped her a couple more times. “Where are they?” I rasped.
“Go to hell,” she mumbled.
I biffed her hard and let her slide to the floor. I got a pitcher of water from the kitchen and woke her up. I worked her over again with the same results. When I came back with the second pitcher, she was sitting up with her back against the front of an easy chair.
“Okay,” she gasped through swelling lips, “you win.”
“Where are the files?”
“The Columbia. Apartment 201.”
“If you aren’t telling the truth, I’ll be back, you know. And don’t call the cops, or they’ll get the files.”
“I ain’t dumb,” she whispered. “But I’ll get you for this, Vincent.”
I left her sitting there.
I’d never known that Bradford had an apartment at the Columbia. It was a ritzy place. An apartment there would be an expensive — but entirely secret — safety-deposit box. On the way, I picked up a screw-driver, a bit and brace, and a couple of cheap jack-knives at a hardware store.
As I feared, there was no fire escape near any of the apartment windows. I would have to go in through the door. When I got to the second floor, there was no one about. I went to work with the tools and shortly was able to roll the door and lock so that the lock came out and I could get in.
I swung the door back against the wall so the jammed lock couldn’t be seen from the hallway and turned on the light. The little apartment contained a bed, mattress, a couple of chairs, and a bureau. It smelled musty. A casual prowler would think that the room wasn’t even rented.
I tried the bureau first. The bottom drawer was filled with clean, folded sheets and blankets. These I dumped on the floor. I took out the thin brief-case that had been under them.
With one of the jackknives, I sawed the leather away from the lock. In the case, there were paper folders for every member of the organization except for Bradford, Shultze, and Ransy.
My folder contained only one sheet of paper, but it was a complete history of my embezzlement.