Wren got to his feet. “I know when I'm licked. She can publish her damn yarn and the devil with it. We can get around that. Sorry if I sounded as if I was throwing my weight around a second ago, but you must understand my position. The publicity of an article can be handled, but a scandal, being even publicly questioned about a killing—my business would be ruined.” He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “I'm under a strain, this new wiring method Miss Henderson must have told you about. I've been going fifteen and sixteen hours a day. That's why I lost my temper before. Well, hope I've been of some help,” He held out his hand.
I shook it. “At least we know where Ed Owens got the four grand from.”
Wren's tan face went ashen, his eyes seemed to pop, get as large as if he had his glasses on. Then he began coughing as he bent over, kneading his belly with his stubby hands.
“What's the matter?” I asked, stepping back in case he was about to be sick. “Need a pill? Water?”
He shook his head and slowly straightened up, ran a crumpled handkerchief over his sweaty face. He whispered, “Excuse me. These quickie lunches—had a gas pain that seemed to stab at my heart. Thought I was going to faint.”
“Ought to have a check-up.”
“Yes, I'm past due. Now, what were you saying about Owens?”
“That we now know how and where Owens got the money, the reason for the false name in the bank. Another piece that may fit into a bigger picture, one of two murders. That's police work.'“ I pulled out the newspaper pictures. “This your Mr. Parker?”
Wren pointed to Owens' snap. “Yes, although it must have been taken many years ago. Yes, I did see something about the other killing—I only skim through the papers. Well, I've helped you. See what you can do to shield me from any possible notoriety,” Wren said, walking me to the door.
“You don't have to worry about that.”
“Well, have to be on the safe side when...” His face screwed up with flushed pain again and he mumbled, “I... uh... have to... sounds silly but... good day, Detective Wintino, I have to go!”
I'd thought his coughing and the rest of it was part of an act to get rid of me, most people get nervous when around a cop for any length of time, but Wren actually did run by me, across the reception room and through another door.
The girl at the desk just shook her head, said, “He never listens, his wife keeps telling him to slow down, see a doctor. He'll get himself an ulcer yet.”
“An executive-type one, I suppose,” I said, walking out.
Friday Afternoon
It was 1:43 p.m. and I was hungry. For a while I didn't want to think of Wren, the frightened businessman, but let my thoughts cook for a few minutes. I had a bright idea: long as I was downtown I might as well see Uncle Frank and stick him for lunch, save some dough. I phoned and he asked, “Davie, you coming to see me?”
“Yes. I'm downtown, thought we might have a bite together.” Although if Uncle Frank didn't reach for the tab first, I'd be in a fine spot.
“Who has time for lunch? I just ate a stale sandwich and a bottle of soda. My ulcer will kill me tonight. When will you be over?”
“About a half-hour, I have a few calls to make. Take it easy, Uncle, I just left another man whose blood has turned to coffee. See you soon.”
I hung up and dialed the Owens house. Susan's sharp voice asked, “Yes?”
“It isn't yes, it's no.”
“What? Who is this?”
“Dave Wintino.”
“I've been waiting for your call. What about the money, can we—”
“So far no. Actually I still don't know, so leave the dough alone. I've found the guy who handed out the money but things are still foggy.”
“Who's Francis Parker?”
“Your father, on a tax dodge. Remember, don't touch the cash and let me talk to your mother.”
“If Parker was Pa then the money should be ours.”
“Well see. I don't know yet that it isn't yours. Put your mother on,” I said, hoping I could finish the call without paying an extra nickel.
I heard Susan yell, “Ma, come to the phone,” her voice a hard bark. Then she told me, “One thing, if there's any doubt it's going to be in our favor. Not handing out four grand like—”
“Take it slow, we're giving it a try. That's what you wanted. Where's your mother?”
There was a moment of silence and then the old lady said, “This is Mrs. Owens.”
“Dave Wintino, Mrs. Owens. During March did Mr. Owens ever mention doing any outside work? I don't mean at the brokerage house, but detective work?”
“Why, I—” Jane Owens began as the operator cut in with, “Five cents for the next three minutes, please.”
“What did you say?” Mrs. Owens asked as I told her to hang on,. dug out a nickel and put it to work. “Did Ed ever mention doing any private detective work in March?”
“No.”
“When he talked about getting the little farm in California soon—about when was that?”
“About two months ago.”
“And he didn't say how he expected to get the money for the farm?”
“No. He was just talking big.”
“At any time since he retired did he ever talk about doing private detective work?”
“No. He couldn't have done any work like that, he was home till he left for the brokerage office and then he always came right home to work in his garden before it got dark.”
“Okay. Thanks. I'll keep in touch.” I hung up as she started to ask about the money. I got the manager of the brokerage house on the phone, another fifteen-cent call since I had to wait till he finished talking on another line. He said Owens had never missed a day since he'd worked there. Wales had been sick sometimes. “You know the kind of sickness, he drank too much of his favorite pain-killer,” the manager added.
“If you knew he was a lush, why did you hire him?”
“I never said he was a drunk. I wouldn't talk harshly about the departed or—”
“Which way do you think you were talking now about him?” I asked and hung up.
I stopped at a stand for an orange drink and a couple of doughnuts and food reminded me I was supposed to call my folks. I chewed the junk slowly, I usually can do my best thinking when I'm stuffing my mouth. But now I thought about Wren and came up with nothing.
Wren's yarn was crazy enough to be true. The only important angle was it gave a possible motive for killing Owens: Wren was taken for four grand and he paid off with a bullet. Not that he would do the actual killing, but he might hire a goon. But that didn't make sense, a big businessman doesn't go in for punk stuff. And that wouldn't explain Wales' murder. I had an uneasy feeling about things—I was playing it wrong by holding out on Reed and the boys downtown. Trouble was I was in over my head, playing a lone hand when I'd never even been on a murder before, much less a double one. If Reed ever found out I'd look like a kid playing amateur dick. Keep up the way I'm going and I'd end up minus my badge—unless I could come in with the whole answer.
I decided to give myself a deadline—by tonight I'd tell Reed about the four grand, Wales watching the garage for years, and Owens working for Wren. In the meantime I still had a couple of hours in which to dig. No sense wasting time with Uncle Frank. I got some change and phoned Rose. No answer. I was counting on her for more dope on Wren. I called Ma and she said, “Davie, I've been trying to reach you. I'm cooking, are you and Mary coming up for supper?”