“What's the difference?” she asked a little stiffly. “You'll have to send it first class.”
“Well, it beats me why he wants these old papers anyway. But they must be important to him, so send it first class. What's this one add up to?” I asked, handing her the second package. “Has writing in it, too.”
“This is heavier. Be a... two dollars and twenty cents.”'
I handed her the five bucks as I said, “I hope I ain't putting out money I'll never get back.”
The other substation wasn't part of a store. I mean it was, or used to be, a store, but all of it was a post office with several windows. I went through the same routine with the last packages. There were a few wanted flyers on a bulletin board. I couldn't see our mugs and didn't have nerve enough to look.
I dropped into a coffeepot for a sandwich. Food sometimes calmed my nerves, but not now. I felt high, all of me racing—the way I guess a charge of “horse” hits you. It didn't seem possible I was successfully pulling off one of the biggest scores in crime history.
I was eating aimlessly; sandwich, pie, toast, cake. I told myself to haul tail out of this place. It would be some jerky, needless move, some little thing, that would queer the whole deal. Elma rarely went farther from the apartment than the corner store, but today she might be walking around here, drop in for a cup of coffee. Not that she'd make me in this clown outfit. Still, it was a needless chance. It was the first time I'd thought of her in days. I wondered how she was taking all this. Not that it mattered to me.
The fly-specked wall clock said it was eleven after four as I started for the house, anxious to duck any coming-from-work crowds. I stopped in at a small supermarket I'd never been in before, bought some food for supper. I even lucked up on Doc's yen—frozen strawberries.
As I walked I felt very good, very sure of myself. I'd tested my clown outfit enough to have absolute confidence in it as a disguise. Looking at myself in a store window, I only saw a sloppy-looking fat slob in dirty clothes. And now that all the money was moving, it seemed like most of the work was done, although I knew I was a long way from being in the clear.
The good feeling—all feelings—fled the second I turned into “our” block. I saw smoke coming out of the house! Fire engines and squad cars were all around the place, blocking the street!
I ducked into a doorway and for a heavy, dumb moment I didn't get it. The firemen were hosing the wooden house but didn't seem to have the fire under control. I wondered where Doc was—a dull pounding in the front of my head warning me it was all over.
They moved a pump engine closer, giving me a clear view of the sidewalk near the house. I saw Doc—oh, I sure saw him—in the midst of a crowd of cops and detectives! I even saw Ollie and that little punk who had flattened me. Doc was talking to Lieutenant Smith. Doc looking like a runt next to Smith. Doc still unshaven and in his own wrinkled clothes. Of course, I couldn't hear what Doc was saying. But I didn't have to: His gesturing hands told me plenty—he was going through the motions of his hands being tied! I sure got the message then—right between my stupid eyes!
14—
I got the whole picture in one staggering flash. I'd been had from the go!
Doc with his damn lighter fluid! Smart Doc had me timed to the minute, probably figured on me stopping for coffee, or a shot: Doc had set the house afire a few minutes ago. He had tied his hands and waited for the firemen and cops to find him. Or could be smart old Doc had even raced out of the house first to pull the fire alarm!
Doc the fox had framed me from the moment he first saw me after the Batty Johnson killing. He wanted me for a partner. Why, the sonofabitch had framed me like a picture! He must have been shopping around for a muscle dope like me ever since he'd got the idea for the kidnapping a long time ago—when he'd heard that Australian nursemaid shooting off her mouth in a bar.
Oh, Doc was thorough: The perfect snatch needed a perfect fall guy—me! How all those “coincidences” fell in line now, fitted so tightly I wanted to scream. Doc had set me up, and Betty too. Doc and the tall guy were the kidnappers. Maybe another corpse somewheres around town had been in on it. Doc had told the thin guy to wait at Betty's. No wonder Doc had been angry when I busted up with Judy; he must have had her marked as the girl. Then, when I broke up with Judy... How decent and generous Doc had been in fixing Betty up. He needed her, needed a place for me to kill the thin guy!
Crafty Doc, leaving nothing to chance, figuring every angle down to a split hair's width. The deal with the parked squad car, letting me go into Betty's alone, knowing I was so steamed about the kid's murder I'd blast his partner on sight. Child-killer Doc really knew me. Doc's gunning Betty lined up. Oh, how everything fitted: the convenient hideaway, maybe even “finding” the baskets in the cellar.
But those were merely trimmings. His smartest move was knowing me like a book, holding the hoops and having fool me jump through like a trained dog.
Watching Doc gesturing to Lieutenant Smith, I knew the fall he was setting me up for, what clever-clever Doc had in mind for me from the start. He would be giving them a simple story, so simple it had to sound true: When we found the kidnapper, I had thrown a gun on Doc; then I'd forced him to come with me, held him captive. And Doc's story would hold; it rang “true” in too many places. My brain was working on all cylinders, but even a dope could see the whole damn frame in a flash.
I'd made the last phone call to the squad room.
I'd ditched the car.
Doc's gun was busted—they could prove it was my rod that had killed Molly.
They'd found Doc in the house, probably with his hands tied. I was the guy on the loose.
And I was the jerk in disguise. Doc even looked as if he'd been held captive. Wise, dapper Doc, refusing to shave or take a bath.
The fire—that was the neat final touch, his real out. Doc wanted to be a rich hero. I could almost hear the bag of lies he must be giving them about the money burning. Would he say it was an accident? Or would he be bold enough to claim he did it on purpose, to attract the police? One thing was for certain, he had $205,000 to burn and Doc would have made it look like all the ransom money had been burned. And with over two hundred thousand bucks with which to salt and pepper the burnt remains of the suitcases, Doc could make it stand up.
It was such a complete frame I almost had to admire Doc, in a cockeyed way. Old careful Doc, not getting into the game unless he started with a pair back-to-back. Yeah, all the real and circumstantial evidence was stacked against me. Even if I was caught, it would only be my word against his. If I surrendered and tried to tell the truth, I was still guilty of killing Molly. It had been my gun. I would end up in the chair—even if Doc burned with me.
But Doc must have figured that one too, would see to it I wasn't caught alive.
Almost as if he was reading my mind, I saw Doc motioning up and down the street. Cops and detectives started to fan out, guns in hand. Smart Doc telling them I was due back any second, that I was armed, and ready to shoot on sight!