Such was his manner that Quevedo quickly nodded. When he and his companions finished dining, he contrived an excuse for remaining behind and sat down at Fiala’s table.
“Now,” he said with some anxiety, “what is this matter of importance which concerns me?”
“I’m afraid it’s much too important to discuss here.”
“In that case, we’ll go to my office.”
Fiala nodded and both of them arose and went out the door. A few minutes later they faced each other across Quevedo’s ornate hand-carved desk. Quevedo offered a cigarette. Fiala refused it and presented his case, bluntly informing him that the Chief of Police had murdered Rosa Belmonte.
“A very serious charge,” Quevedo said, turning pale. “But can you prove it?”
Fiala nodded and described how he’d gone to see Luis Espina, the fibre-gatherer who’d discovered the body of the dead girl. With a series of tactful questions he’d finally gotten the old man to admit that he’d actually witnessed the murder.
“If this is true,” Quevedo put in, “why didn’t Espina come forward and say so?”
“He couldn’t,” Fiala replied, “because at the time of the murder he didn’t recognize Santiago. All he knew was that the killer drove off in a blue and white Cadillac. That was significant. I continued to question him and he produced a vivid description of the driver, but not his identity. That came later when I pressed him.
“He then admitted that he’d watched the spectacle last night. The lights drew him from his house, and he saw Santiago gun down Manuel Domingo. That’s when he recognized him as the murderer of Rosa Belmonte.”
Quevedo nodded and said, “The word of a confused old man. His story won’t hold water. Besides Domingo admitted his guilt at the scene of the crime by attempting to escape.”
“Admitted his guilt?” Fiala smiled and shook his head. “That was the one fact I knew from the beginning, that he wasn’t guilty. You see, Manuel Domingo couldn’t have killed Rosa Belmonte, he wasn’t in the city that day. I know. I trailed him to San Rafael with the expectation of catching him in one of his activities, dealing in marijuana.
“He remained at a bar in San Rafael till evening, and his contact never appeared. Perhaps he knew I’d trailed him. At any rate, the deal didn’t come off. At nine he headed back to the city. By that time Rosa Belmonte was dead.”
At this point Quevedo was convinced of the truth of Fiala’s charge, but one thing was unclear. “Why did Santiago pick Domingo for a victim?” he wanted to know.
Fiala smiled again and clarified the point. “One,” he said, holding up a finger. “Domingo’s reputation was bad; the charge appeared to suit his character. Two: Santiago and Domingo were partners. Domingo controlled the red light district, with the help of Santiago. They quarreled over money. Santiago claimed that Domingo was holding out on him. He probably was, so Santiago found it doubly convenient to eliminate him.”
Quevedo nodded. It was all clear now, too clear. He frowned and his face paled. If revealed, Santiago’s terrible act would threaten his own position. Frightened, his eyes met Fiala’s.
The detective had read his thoughts, understood his predicament and said, “Of course, Santiago should be brought to justice, but to arrest him would prove most embarrassing to you.”
Badly shaken, Quevedo nodded, but he was still alert. Fiala’s statement implied more than it said.
“What do you suggest?” Quevedo asked.
Fiala moistened his lower lip with his tongue. “Speak to Santiago,” he answered. “Give him the facts.”
“And if he denies them?”
“If he does, tell him he’ll be placed under arrest. After what has taken place—” Here Fiala shrugged. “You can not guarantee his safety from the mob. I think he’ll understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Call him and see.”
Quevedo glanced at the phone and hesitated, giving Fiala the opportunity to rise from his chair. “I’m going for coffee. I’ll be back,” he said and left Quevedo to deliver his terrible message.
Ten minutes later he returned to the mayor’s office. Quevedo was still troubled. He said nothing. Fiala sat and reached for his cigarettes. At that moment the phone rang. Quevedo picked up the instrument, listened briefly, and placed it back on its cradle.
“Santiago just shot himself,” he announced.
Having foreseen this, Fiala merely shrugged and said, “But of course. He had no alternative.”
At this point, Quevedo saw Fiala in a new light. The fellow was devilishly clever and had saved him from his enemies. “I am in your debt,” he said.
“Not at all,” replied Fiala.
“Ah, but I am,” Quevedo insisted. “Besides, I have no Police Chief now. Would you consider the office?”
Fiala grinned and, to the consternation of Quevedo, shook his head.
“But why not?” said Quevedo. “I don’t understand. Think of what it means to be Chief of Police.”
“In this city,” Fiala replied, “it means to have much power, and power corrupts.”
“It would corrupt you?” Quevedo asked.
“I am of flesh and blood. Perhaps it might, but I doubt it.”
“Then why refuse?”
“Because the job doesn’t interest me. It’s as simple as that,” Fiala answered and rose from his chair to light a cigarette. With that, he walked to the door.
Still puzzled, Quevedo watched him, then said, “But you must want something. What do I owe you?”
His hand on the doorknob, Fiala turned. “Nothing,” he answered. “Just be more careful when you pick the new Chief of Police.”
Man on the Run
by Dennis Lynds
Detective Lieutenant Frederick Jacoby lighted a cigarette and watched the white-uniformed attendants carry the body from the dingy hotel room. Then Jacoby looked to where the coroner was still working on the other man. The second man had a bullet in his chest and had a hard time breathing or talking. Jacoby had just finished listening to the man.
“He almost made it out the door,” Detective Sergeant Allers said to Jacoby.
“He almost made it all the way to Rio,” Jacoby said.
“I still don’t get it all, Fred,” Allers said. “I mean, how come Maxie came back to New York anyway. He should of known he’d get it here.”
“He had a plan,” Jacoby said. “A smart man, Little Maxie. The careful type, never worked without a plan.”
Allers looked puzzled. “This was a plan? Some plan!”
“A hot tip, Sergeant, real inside information. Maxie probably paid plenty to check it out. The only trouble was he didn’t get the whole picture, you know?”
Jacoby had the wounded man’s story, and the Lieutenant could imagine the rest without much trouble. Jacoby smoked his cigarette and thought about Little Maxie and his hot tip.
Little Maxie Lima had been on the run for three months when he decided to work on Walter Midge. That was something new for Maxie, being on the run. It was usually the other way around. Since he had killed his first man with an icepick when he was sixteen, it had been the other men who ran while Maxie chased. Maxie got one hundred dollars for that first killing — a man had wanted his wife out of the way and Maxie went into business.
Since then his methods had improved and so had his pay. Maxie could kill you any way you could think of, and do it expertly, quietly, without a trace of evidence.
That kind of talent does not go to waste. Little Maxie was twenty when he filled his first contract for the Syndicate. The trouble was that Maxie liked his work too much. He filled private contracts on the side, the cops came down on him hard, and the Syndicate decided that Little Maxie Lima was no longer a safe property to have around. They put out a contract on Little Maxie himself, and Maxie started to run.