Sellers turned to me. His eyes were burning with suppressed rage. “You double-crossing bastard!”
“What do you mean, double-crossing?”
“I warned you to leave this one alone,” he said.
“You warned me,” I said. “You aren’t the legislature. You aren’t passing the laws. I didn’t double-cross you. I didn’t promise you I’d lay off. I’m running a legitimate business.”
“Says you!”
“Says I,” I said.
Sellers said, “Well, if you folks are finished with the phone I’ll put through a call myself, just to let Headquarters know where I am.”
He went over to the phone, dialed the number of Headquarters, said, “This is Sergeant Sellers. I’m at—” He drew back to look at the number on the telephone, “Hightower 7-74103. It’s an apartment but I don’t know who rents it yet. I’m with Hazel Downer and Donald Lam. I think we’re going to button up the rest of that armored truck case. If you want me, get me here.”
Sellers hung up the phone, came over to where I was sitting on the davenport and stood looming above me, looking down at me ominously.
“I hate to do it on account of Bertha,” he said. “Bertha is a good gal; greedy but square — and she plays fair with the police.
“You’re a two-timing chisler. You always have been. You play both ends against the middle. So far you’ve always come out smelling like a rose. This time it’s going to be different.”
I looked past him to Hazel. “Did you get him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he coming over?”
“Yes.”
“Is he good?”
“The best.”
“How long will it take him to get here?”
“He’s coming right away.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes. He’s right here in this neighborhood.”
“Do something for me,” I said. “Don’t say a word until your lawyer gets here. Don’t answer any questions. Don’t even say yes or no.”
Sellers said, “That won’t help her, Lam. You don’t know what I know.”
“What do you know?” I asked.
Sellers took a notebook out of his pocket, said, “Hazel Clune, alias Hazel Downer. Living in open and notorious cohabitation with Standley Downer. Standley has a record.”
“A record!” Hazel exclaimed.
“Don’t be so coy,” Sellers said. “He’s a con man and a promoter. He’s served time in two Federal prisons. He’s out on parole at the present time and we can violate him any time we want.
“So far I can’t prove that Standley was a pal of Herbert Baxley, but they were in Leavenworth at the same time, so they know each other all right. So Standley and Herbert Baxley got together and figured out a scheme for lifting a hundred grand out of this armored truck. After they got the money they split it two ways and—”
The phone started ringing.
Sellers frowned at it a moment, then said, “I’ll just answer that and save you the trouble. This may be for me.”
He went over to the telephone, picked it up, said cautiously, “Hello,” then settled himself and said, “Yeah, talking — go ahead.”
For almost a minute a voice made sounds in the receiver. Sellers frowned, at first incredulously, then reached up with his right hand and took the cigar out of his mouth as though that would help him hear better. He said, “You’re sure? Give me that again.”
Sellers put the cigar on the telephone stand, pulled a notebook from his pocket and made notes. “Once more,” he said. “I want to get those names.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ve got Downer and Lam right here. I’ll bring them in. Hold everything until I get there. Don’t notify the press for a while. I want to sit on this myself.”
He hung up the telephone, then suddenly, with a quick motion of his hand, jerked out his revolver and pointed it at me. “Up,” he said.
There was something in his eyes that I had never seen before.
I got up.
“Turn around.”
I turned around.
“Walk over to the wall.”
I walked over to the wall.
“Face the wall, stand back three feet, spread your feet apart, then lean forward and put your palms against the wall.”
I did as he ordered.
Sellers said to Hazel Downer, “Get over there against the wall.”
“I won’t do any such thing,” she said.
“Okay,” Sellers said. “You’re a woman. I can’t frisk you, but I’m warning you, this is business. Either one of you make a false move and you’re going to stop lead.”
He walked over to the davenport.
I tried to see what was going on but my arms were up so that I could only get a flurry of motion. I saw skirts kicking up, an expanse of leg, a high-heeled shoe kicking, heard a metallic click and a woman’s scream and then Hazel Downer said, “Why, you — you beast! You’ve handcuffed me!”
“You’re damn right I’ve handcuffed you, Sellers said. Make another try with those spike heels and I’ll sap you over the head. I may not be able to search you, but I can sure as hell draw your fangs.”
He walked over to me, shoved one foot up against my leg. His hands started running over me in a swift search.
“Keep your hands against the wall, Lam,” he said. “Don’t move. If you do, you’re going to get hurt.”
His hands went over me, searching every inch of my clothes.
“All right,” he said, “you’re clean. Now, stand back there and take the things out of your pocket. Put them on that table.”
I did as I was told.
“Everything,” Sellers said. “Money, keys, everything.”
I put everything on the table.
“Turn your pockets inside out.”
I followed his instructions.
Knuckles sounded on the door.
Sellers jumped back until he was against the wall. He turned his gun on the door. “Come in,” he called.
The door opened. A man in the late thirties, smiling affably, entered the room, then jerked to a standstill as he saw Frank Sellers’ gun pointed at him, saw me standing there with my pockets wrong side out and Hazel Downer sitting on the davenport, her wrists handcuffed behind her back.
“What the devil!” he exclaimed.
“Police,” Frank Sellers said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Madison Ashby,” he said, “an attorney at law.”
“Her lawyer?” Sellers asked.
“Yes.”
“She’s sure going to need one,” Sellers said. And then, after a moment, added, “Bad.”
“Maddy,” Hazel said “will you please make this baboon get these things off my wrists and find out what this is all about?”
Sellers made a little gesture with the gun. “Sit down,” he said to Ashby. Then he nodded to me. “Sit down, Lam. Keep your hands in sight.”
Sellers remained standing, holding the gun.
“May I ask what this is all about?” Ashby inquired.
Sellers ignored his inquiry, turned to me. “So you went to San Francisco, Pint Size,” Sellers said. “And you took a trunk.”
“That’s a crime?” I asked.
“Murder’s a crime.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Right now,” he said, “I’m talking about a man named Standley Downer, who was murdered in the Caltonia Hotel in San Francisco. Your trunk was standing open in the middle of the floor and the clothing and stuff that was in the trunk were scattered to hell and gone all over the room.”
Sellers read the startled surprise in my eyes.
“Go on,” he said, “put on an act. You’re a smart little pint-sized bastard, and a hell of a good actor. You did a swell job of that. You—”
He stopped as Hazel’s scream, sounding shrill and hysterical knifed through the room.
Sellers turned to her. “Well, now,” he said, “that’s a nice performance. You pulled just the right timing on that, just the right delay to think what to do, just the right timing to save Donald here from having to answer questions and giving him a minute to think.