“Last night after you left. No kickback so far.”
“I have a feeling they won’t turn her up,” Saxon said.
“Why not? I didn’t explain the real reason we wanted her. I was afraid some cop might let it drop while questioning her friends, and it would get back to Larry Cutter.”
“What excuse did you give?”
“I told them you claimed you’d been waylaid and taken for a ride when you visited her apartment. That shouldn’t get Cutter excited. He must have expected you to make a complaint.”
“It may not get him excited, but it isn’t going to make him want the cops to get their hands on her. If she isn’t already in Canada or dead, Cutter will probably arrange one or the other.”
Kettle frowned. “It was your idea to handle it this way.”
“I’ve had some second thoughts,” Saxon said. “We’re going to have to throw a block into Cutter fast Arn. I just found out that Art Marks has been offered the job of chief security guard at the new track when it opens.”
“So?” the district attorney asked puzzledly.
“Marks will be the third chief boosted out of office by one means or another. It leaves the way wide open for Adam Bennock to recommend some experienced outsider to the Common Council. Such as Sergeant Harry Morrison.”
After thinking this over, Kettle said slowly, “Yes, I suppose there’s no longer much doubt that our new mayor is in cahoots with Cutter. What are you second thoughts?”
“I’d like to try something that might net us everyone involved, including Larry Cutter, providing it works. Will you be party to a frame?”
“A legal one?” the district attorney asked cautiously.
“I wouldn’t ask you to risk disbarment even to nail my father’s killers. But it’s still a frame.”
“Turnabout’s fair play, I suppose,” Kettle said. “Cutter framed you. Just what do you have in mind?”
Saxon spent fifteen minutes explaining his idea in detail.
Chapter 22
It was still fairly early in the morning when Saxon got back home, only a little after ten. He placed a phone call to Tony Spijak’s home in Buffalo.
He caught the bookmaker just as he was leaving the house. Spijak said, “A minute later you’d have missed me. I’m surprised to hear from you. I thought you’d be full of ice-pick holes by now.”
“The only damage at our meeting was to Cutter,” Saxon said. “And that wasn’t much. Just a bruised jaw.”
“You clipped him? You never had any sense, Ted. You better keep one eye over your shoulder for a while.”
“He isn’t all that tough,” Saxon said. “What I’m calling about is that I want to get in touch with the man, and he isn’t listed in the phone book. I assume he has an unlisted number.”
“Yeah, he has.”
“Think you can get it for me?”
“It’s in my little black book. Hang on.”
A few moments passed, then Spijak said, “Maxwell 7-3204.”
Saxon jotted the number in his notebook. Then he asked curiously, “How do you happen to have his number, Tony?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Are you tied in with Cutter in some way?”
“Nope,” the bookmaker said cheerily.
“It’s kind of important for me to know,” Saxon said. “I was going to ask another favor of you, but I can’t if you’re on Cutter’s team.”
“I’m not on his team. I don’t give a hoot in Hades what happens to the guy.”
“Then how come you’re so friendly with him — you have his unlisted phone number?”
Tony Spijak laughed. “If you have to know, he likes to play the ponies. I’m his bookie.”
“Oh,” Saxon said, surprised that a man whose fortune had been built on the gambling fever of others had a touch of the fever himself.
“What’s the other favor you want?” Spijak asked.
“Later tonight I may want you to phone somebody and deliver a message. It’ll be some time before I’ll know just when I want the call placed, though. Is there any way I can get in touch with you on short notice?”
“Sure. Marie’s my answering service. I’ll be moving from spot to spot, but she always knows where to reach me. Buzz her and you’ll get a call back from me within ten minutes.”
“Fine,” Saxon said. “Thanks, Tony.”
“Any time, old buddy. Keep looking over your shoulder.”
“I will,” Saxon said, and hung up.
His next call was to police headquarters.
When Sam Lennox answered, Saxon said, “This is Ted, Sam. Is Vic Burns on duty?”
“No. He comes on the second trick.”
“On the desk?”
“Nope. Patrol car.”
“Thanks,” Saxon said. “I’ll try his home.”
There was no answer at Burns’s bachelor apartment. Saxon phoned Lennox back.
“Vic isn’t home, Sam,” he said. “Will you ask him to call me this evening? Not before eight, because I’m taking Emily out to dinner and won’t be home before then.”
“Sure, Ted,” Lennox said. “I’ll tell him.”
Saxon spent a good part of the rest of the morning and the early part of the afternoon practicing a voice imitation. When he got to Emily’s apartment at four o’clock, he tried out the imitation on her.
“Who does this sound like?” he asked in a thin, reedy voice.
She burst out laughing. “It’s pretty close to Adam Bennock.”
“Just pretty close? It has to be better than that. Guess I need some more rehearsing.”
With Emily as a critical audience, he did some more practicing, adjusting his voice up and down at her suggestion until she decided he was perfect.
“You could fool his own mother now,” she said finally. “What’s the purpose of all this?”
“A nasty scheme I’ve dreamed up. Now I have to know if Bennock plans to be home this evening. Have any ideas as to how I could find out and not make him suspicious?”
“That’s simple,” Emily said. “He’s on my list of patrons for the hospital charity ball next month. I’ll phone and ask if I can drop off his ticket and pick up his contribution tonight.”
When she phoned, the mayor assured her he would be home all evening.
There was nothing further Saxon could do to put his plan in operation until that evening. He took Emily out to dinner, and about seven-thirty stopped in front of Adam Bennock’s house long enough for her to run in with his hospital ball ticket. Then he drove her home and got home himself just before 8 P.M.
At exactly eight the phone rang. It was Vic Burns.
“Can you drop over here, Vic?” Saxon asked.
“Sure, Ted. What’s up?”
“I have a little police business for you. Tell you when you get here. Who’s riding with you?”
“Nobody. We’re short-handed tonight, so I’m riding alone. Will this take long?”
“It might. Better tell the desk to phone here if you’re needed.”
“Okay,” Burns said. “See you in about fifteen minutes.”
While waiting, Saxon went upstairs and clipped the holster of his short-barreled Detective Special to his belt beneath the suit coat. He was starting downstairs again when he had another thought. Turning around, he went into the room that had been his father’s and took a similar holstered gun from the top bureau drawer. Removing it from the holster, he replaced the holster in the drawer and carried the gun down to the basement. He was still there when the doorbell rang.
Slipping the second gun into a side pocket, he went upstairs to let in Vic Burns.
It hadn’t snowed now since the Saturday night storm, and the stocky lieutenant wasn’t even wearing rubbers. Saxon took the heavy uniform overcoat and gold-shielded cap and hung them in the entry-hall closet. Then he led the way into the front room and offered Burns a chair.
When the lieutenant was seated, Saxon handed him the mug shots of Grace Emmet.