The Lincoln cut in viciously at the same moment, nearly touching the rail a mere car length ahead of the point where the Buick slid to a screeching halt. Careening around the curve, it disappeared in a burst of power.
“He tried to kill us!” Adele gasped, pushing herself back in her seat.
“He would have,” Dan said grimly, “if I hadn’t braked a split second ahead of his swing.”
Shifting into low, he lifted the speed to forty again, but made no attempt to catch the Lincoln.
It was just before five when Dan dropped Adele in front of her beauty shop. Returning the car to its rental garage, he walked moodily back to his hotel, not even bothering to ask the garage attendant for the name of the renter of the Lincoln. In front of the hotel his moodiness increased when he discovered the thin, sharp-nosed man who had been staring vacantly into a dry-cleaning window next door to the garage when he returned the car, was now staring just as vacantly into a jewelry window fifteen feet from the hotel entrance.
Momentarily he toyed with the idea of pitching the shadow into the gutter by the seat of the pants, but decided against it. Just the thought, however, somewhat relieved his feelings.
As he crossed the lobby, Dan saw Billie, the bellhop, standing near the front desk, and crooked a finger at the boy. Billie scampered over like an eager dog, a wide grin splitting his features.
“Yes sir, Mr. Fancy?”
“What does the hotel do with old newspapers, Billie? Sell them to a junkman?”
The boy looked puzzled. “Yes sir. I believe so.”
“Probably stores them somewhere in the basement until they get a big enough pile to sell, eh?”
“I guess so, sir. Did you want a particular back issue?”
“Thirty of them,” Dan said. “See if you can find me every issue for the past month. Either local paper. I’ll be in my room.”
It did not take Billie long. Within twenty minutes he delivered a thick stack of the Lake City Star. Piling them on the floor in front of the window chair, the big man went through them unhurriedly, reading every item he found on the killing of George Saunders and the subsequent trial and conviction of Eugene Robinson.
It was nearly seven when he finished the pile, and the only new information he had gained was the names of the witnesses who had testified against Robinson. Picking up the phone, he ordered dinner sent up to his room, and while waiting for it, methodically went through the phone book and listed on a sheet of paper the phone numbers of all those witnesses he found listed. All, peculiarly enough, were men. Of the five who had testified to bad blood between the deceased and the defendant, three were listed in the book. Of the six who were actual witnesses to the shooting according to their testimony, four possessed phones. The pawnbroker who had testified to Gene Robinson’s purchase of the murder gun had a business phone, but none listed for a residence.
Dinner arrived and the big man wolfed it hurriedly, eager to get on with his work. As soon as he finished gulping the last of his coffee, he pushed the dining cart aside, lit a cigarette and seated himself on the bed by the telephone.
The first number he called was that of a man named Adolph Striker, one of the witnesses to the alleged teasing of Robinson by the murdered man. A woman answered the phone, peremptorily announced that Mr. Striker was “on vacation” and could not be reached for two months. She hung up before Dan could ask any questions.
In chronological order he went down the list, and every number got him a variation of the first reaction. Some of the men had moved and left no forwarding addresses, some were “out of town for a while,” and the informants had no idea how they could be reached. Some simply bluntly denied ever hearing of the person asked for.
The operator answered when he called the last number on the list — that of the pawnbroker.
“That number has been disconnected, sir,” she told him.
Slowly the big man crumpled to a ball the list of names he had made and dropped the ball in a wastebasket. For a long time he sat in the windowside chair, his feet cocked on the sill and his hands locked behind his head. He smoked two cigarettes, arced the butts out the window, and stared glumly at nothing.
Suddenly a startled expression crossed his face, lingered and developed into a pleased grin. Rising to his feet, he thumbed the phone book once more until he came to the name: Bull, Lawrence. He copied the address on a card which he put in his wallet. Then whistling noiselessly, he left the hotel and hailed a passing cab.
“Seventeen-eleven Fairview Avenue,” he said loudly for the benefit of the thin, sharp-nosed man who had trailed him out of the hotel lobby and now stood idly in the entrance.
As he expected, a second taxi pulled out from the curb a few moments after his.
1711 Fairview Avenue was a white frame house in one of the nicer sections of town. A stupid looking but pretty blonde in a tight-fitting red dress answered Dan’s ring.
“Looking for Sergeant Larry Bull,” the big man said.
The woman’s expression as she examined his huge frame was that of a cattle buyer judging a steer, and a flicker of animal interest appeared in her eyes.
“Come in,” she said, stretching the “in” to an open invitation.
She led him through a hallway into an elaborately furnished living room where the police sergeant sat watching television. Dan estimated that the furnishings of the living room would have cost two years of an honest policeman’s salary.
When Sergeant Bull looked up at his visitor, his eyes hardened. Rising, he cut the television switch and said to the blonde in a flat voice, “Scram.”
The woman’s mouth turned sullen and her eyes flicked sidewise once more at Dan, but she turned obediently and left the room, slamming the door behind her.
“Well?” Bull asked.
“Just remembered where I saw your picture,” Dan said easily. “Armed robbery and murder in St. Louis about nineteen forty-six. Can’t remember the name, but it wasn’t Bull.”
Chapter Three
Hide-and-Seek with Death
Sergeant Larry Bull’s flat face turned the color of paper, but his eyes remained expressionless and hard. For a long time his gaze remained unwaveringly fixed on the big man’s grin.
“What do you want?” he asked finally.
“Nothing,” Dan said. “Absolutely nothing. I’m not going to turn you in. Just wanted you to know I recognized you.”
“Why?” Bull asked flatly, but the big man only grinned at him.
Puzzlement and wariness mixed with the fear in the sergeant’s face. “You know you’re giving me a damn good reason to knock you off. You’re not that dumb, Fancy. What’s the angle?”
“No angle. Does Big Jim know you’re wanted for murder in Missouri?”
Bull licked his lips. “No.”
“Want him to?”
“No.” The man watched Dan’s face, a waiting expression on his own.
“Might give him a toe hold on you, eh?” Dan asked. “You don’t mind working for Jim Calhoun, but you wouldn’t want to be in a spot where you couldn’t quit, would you?”
“What do you want?” Bull demanded.
The big man simulated surprise. “Nothing, I told you. Nothing at all. I’m not going to inform the Missouri cops, and I’m not going to tell Big Jim. You can depend on it.”
“You must want something,” the sergeant insisted worriedly. “If you’re working up a deal where you expect me to cross Big Jim, forget it. I’d rather face Missouri.”
Dan shook his head and grinned hugely. “You’re an untrusting soul, Sergeant.” Opening the door by reaching behind himself and turning the knob, he backed out of the room.
He was still grinning when he pushed the door shut again.