“Was it Frankie Moore who gunned Cig?”
“Huh?” Jerry Lord looked sharply at the Parson. “It was never cleared up who killed Cig. It was just one of those things. But it was never believed that Frankie was responsible for the rubout.”
“How come? If he stepped into Cig’s shoes, isn’t it more than likely that he knocked off Cig to get there?”
Lord shook his head. “I see where you’re heading. But you’re making a lot of mistakes. In the first place, Frankie Moore got his start under Cig as a racket man, and secondly he was Cig’s friend; he owed a lot to Cig who had practically made him a gift of the Jersey City territory.”
The Parson dug in. “That was always the Wolfe’s way. Not kill off but buy off the competition. Divide and rule.”
Lord was silent, intently watching the Parson. He snapped a finger against his cigarette, flicked the ash into his cup, said: “Well, what do you think?”
“This: Something went blooie last night. I don’t say I know why Tex Kent was killed, though that bagful of dough could be motive enough. I don’t even say I know who put a knife in him. But I do say motives don’t start here in Cariba, they stretch away back to New York. Judge North didn’t show last night. It’s even possible he butchered Kent. I don’t know. I’m sure he was there somewhere.
“The Dutchess and her fancy new husband, Carl Blue, are thick in it. And that little girl... I don’t think that suitcase of money was intended for Judge North. I think it was being delivered to the Dutchess. And above all I think there was opposition present that neither the Dutchess, Tex Kent, nor Judge North had counted on. Keep this in mind. Just as I was passing out I heard her yelclass="underline" ‘They’re back! Oh God, they’re back!’ It was a general mix-up, a scramble, a root-ta-tootin’ lead party.”
“You’re lucky,” Lord sighed, “one of those bullets didn’t wing your way. The whole thing sounds like a bad dream.”
“Sure. But things happened faster than in dreams. That yell of the Dutchess’ now: ‘They’re back!’ Who was ‘they?’ The opposition. And the opposition almost spoiled the plant.”
“Plant?” Lord’s head bobbed up. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. Plant. Something fixed beforehand.” The Parson was relaxed, eyes somnolent. “Everything that happened last night was planned, figured out before it happened. But the opposition was the unpredictable event that spoils the best of plants... and murders.”
“You mean there was some gang present, some gunmen who were after the Dutchess?”
The Parson nodded. “Somebody who took a licking from her and Cig Wolfe sometime back, probably in connection with the numbers racket.”
Lord shrugged. “You may be right. As far as you go. But remember, my job is to bring Judge North back home. I could take the Dutchess, too. That would help. But I don’t give a damn about the dough or Tex Kent or that little girl or what you so quaintly call the opposition. That’s incidental.”
“Yeah. But sometimes it’s the incidentals that count most.”
Lord smiled ruefully. “You’re telling me. Listen, boy. No racket’s been bloodier than numbers. It’s pennies, just pennies. A business in pennies. But millions upon millions upon millions of pennies. And each one is red with blood. Soaked in it. Dozens of people have been murdered for control of those pennies.”
“What are you driving at?”
“There’s a whole lot involved here. It’s not your quarrel. If you want to, you can slide out.”
The Parson frowned. This was the second time he had an offer to quit. He stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit it, sent up a white balloon of smoke. “Hell, I’m in it this far, I might as well stick.”
Lord reached over the table and put friendly pressure on the Parson’s arm. “Boy, you’re tops. In New York they used to say you were one of the best shots and one of the smartest heads in the rackets. I can well believe that. You got what it takes.”
The Parson shrugged. “I look out for number one. I had an eyeful of that bag of money last night. I’d just like to put my hands on it. That’s why I’m sticking with it. And then this is the first time I’m working with the law — even if only from the outside.”
“You like working with the law?” Lord asked.
“It’s a new experience. It gives me a kick to watch a respectable law like you at work.”
Lord looked quizzical. “I don’t know if you’re kidding or not. Anyway, I still think this is not your quarrel, and that you ought to quit. I’ll pay you whatever you think you ought to get for your work last night and you can drop it right as is. I mean if it’s money...”
“It’s not money,” said the Parson.
Lord grinned. “Oke. I’m glad to have you, boy. I’m glad you’re so set on sticking. Tell me,” he added curiously, “what makes you and Linton such pals? When I left New York, Linton said, ‘Get hold of the Parson. He’ll help you.’ You didn’t know me when I arrived here, yet soon as I showed you Linton’s letter, you were ready to pitch in. He’s New York’s crusading D. A. and you’re supposed to be a red-hot. Where’s the connection?”
The Parson nodded reflectively. “I can see where you’d be puzzled. You know the old Five Corners district, backwash of the docks in New York? Linton and I played there together as kids, we went to school together. When he was admitted to the bar, I was his first case. He got me out—”
The Chinese boy looked in the door. “The milk is here, master.”
“The milk? Oh, yes. Yes. Very well, Ching. I will take it later, chilled.”
“Chilled, master?” The boy’s head ducked. “Very good, master.”
“Milk?” said the Parson. “Do you drink stuff like that? Say, that bottle of Demerara looks good. Break it out, will you? I could inhale a slug. Breakfast doesn’t seem to be what I need.”
The tropical morning air was fresh and the bright-plumed birds poured song abandonedly from throbbing throats.
The Parson entered his cottage at eleven, whistling soundlessly to himself. He liked living at the Queenshaven with its spacious country club air, cottage-plan and privacy. There were rooms to be had at the main building, but these were mostly for tourists. The cottages were for more permanent guests.
He peeled off his dark jacket, lit a cigarette and dropped into an easy chair. He unstrapped his holster, laid gun and holster on a tabouret beside him.
When the bathroom door across the room began to open toward him, he did not stir nor did he snatch at his gun. He sat and watched it.
The door took a long time in opening. Then a gun peeped through, held in a white hand. Behind the hand came a man. His face was ruddy, well packed; his hair white. His clothes were good but wrinkled as though they had been slept in. His gun was a Police Positive .38, but he did not seem to be sure of it or of himself.
He moved hesitantly to the door leading to the bedroom and peered in. He came back to the middle of the room and with an apologetic smile, said:
“I just wanted to be sure we’re alone.”
The Parson accepted this as the natural order of things, nodded sagely.
“I’ve been waiting almost an hour for you,” the man went on. “I’m Judge North. Edwin North.”
“You don’t look much like the pictures the New York papers printed.”
“Those were old pictures, taken ten years ago. I’ve changed, I guess. Listen.” His words dragged to a stop. The room was quiet. The Parson could hear the man’s soft breathing.
“Listen,” he said again slowly. “We’re ready to make a deal. We’ll lay the dough on the line. We’re through fighting.”
The Parson stared at him unblinkingly. The lines at the corners of his mouth drew down skeptically. He waved his cigarette, said: “Call off the artillery and take a chair.”