“You’re a broker?”
“Retired customer’s man,” he said, and beamed at me, wishing with all his might he was back in the pious rat race with something to do besides watch bugs skim the surface of a rectangular swimming pool.
The senior citizen said, “If you need him in a hurry, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He’ll be gone a couple of weeks.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“Frank and Edith went upstate three days ago with Governor Raiford to organize the election campaign.” He was name dropping, of course, but I couldn’t complain; at least he was talkative.
“He didn’t come back to town last night by any chance? Just for a brief business appointment?”
“If he did he didn’t stop by here. My wife and I were home all night. Look, I’ll tell you what you do, you can call him at the Stone Mountain Hotel up at the capital, that’s where he’s staying. We’re forwarding the important mail. I’m assuming you want to talk to him about something important—otherwise you wouldn’t have come to his home?”
He made it a question but I didn’t let him draw me into conversation; I thanked him kindly and strode back to the Jeep. When I got to a phone booth I called Joanne to check on her.
Her voice sounded strange. “Oh—Simon.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Why, nothing, I only—”
“Is somebody there with you?”
“Yes,” she said, eager.
“With a gun?”
“Yes, exactly. Simon, can you come right away? There’s something I have to talk about and I’d rather not do it on the phone.”
“It’s a set-up—he’s waiting to trap me?”
“Yes, fine, I’ll see you in a few minutes, then?”
“Hang on, darling,” I said. “Do you think he’ll use the gun? Should I send cops?”
“No, it’s all right, I’ve already had lunch. But thank you for thinking of it. You’re sweet.”
“Is it anybody I know?”
“No, really, I promise you I’m not hungry, and besides, it would take too long to stop and pick up a sandwich for me. I’ve got to see you right away—it’s important.”
“Is this guy alone, no help outside?”
“That’s right.”
“What does he want? Just talk, not a fight?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there. It’ll take me twenty minutes.”
“Bye, darling.”
“Take care,” I murmured, and hung up. My hand was trembling on the receiver. I made it to the Jeep and pulled away from the curb and almost collided with a bus that roared by with a swish of pollutant exhaust.
Chapter Six
The Venetian blinds were drawn; I couldn’t case the motel room. I stood outside the door and listened. The voices were muffled but I could distinguish Joanne’s husky tone and a man’s deep round one.
I closed one eye entirely and slitted the other, and stood silent for several minutes, letting the pupils dilate so I wouldn’t be sun-blinded when I went in. There didn’t seem any alternative. I didn’t have a gun and hadn’t wanted to take the time to find one. Of course I had one advantage—the knowledge that the man was an amateur. If he’d been a pro he wouldn’t have let Joanne do all that talking on the phone. He’d have grabbed it from her and told me to come on in or he’d shoot Joanne.
It was only a surmise, based on experience, but if I’d had any lingering doubts they were dispelled when I stood close against the door and knocked, and he answered by opening the door himself. A professional would have brought Joanne to the door, held his gun in her back and had her open it.
He had a round, soft florid face like a baby’s buttocks. He smelled of expensive after-shave. Handmade cordovan shoes, tailored slacks, linen shirt and a bow tie. He had one gun in his waistband—mine, the .38 I’d left with Joanne—and another in his fist, a lightweight .25 Beretta. When he opened the door he stepped back one pace and pointed the toy in my direction.
“Come in, Mr. Crane. Shut the door behind you.” If I was supposed to look startled I disappointed him. I just nodded and stepped across the threshold and made a wisecrack:
“What’s a big boy like you doing playing with loaded guns?”
“I’m glad you’ve assumed it’s loaded,” he said. “It is.” He had stepped back against the side wall so he could watch both me and Joanne. I gave her a quick glance. She sat in a low armchair, not mussed; she looked all right and she gave me a nod. She looked tense but not terrified.
I pushed the door shut behind me with my heel, and with my foot still braced against the door that way, I launched myself at him. He was a bit too far away for me to try the same trick I’d pulled on Mike Farrell, so I didn’t go for the wrist. I counted on his amateur status; an amateur with a gun in his hand can be depended on not to shoot when he ought to; trigger-pulling is not one of the amateur’s learned reflexes. When I made my dive, he reacted instinctively by throwing both arms up in front of him to protect his body, forgetting all about the gun.
He made it ridiculously easy. When I rammed into him with an open-handed stiff arm, he tried to bat me across the face with the gun. I stopped his wrist with my forearm, jabbed him under the chin and used my lifted left arm to spin him flat against the wall. Then all I had to do was reach out and pluck the Beretta from his half-numb hand. He went rigid when he saw the Beretta pointed at him. I lifted the .38 out of his waistband and stepped back across half the width of the room, covering him with both guns.
Joanne was actually chuckling. I glanced at her and said, “All right, who is he?”
“He didn’t say.”
I turned my eyes to him. He was massaging his wrist, making a point of not looking at me. When he got through with his wrist he rubbed himself under the chin where I’d hit him.
I said, “You heard the question. Who are you and what’s this all about?”
He managed to meet my eyes. Glowering, he spoke without bothering to pry his lips apart. “My name is Robert Brown and I only wanted answers to a few questions.”
I looked at Joanne. “How did he get in?”
“By my stupidity.” She made a face at me. “I’m sorry, Simon, I’m not used to fending off men with guns. When he knocked, I let him in. I thought it was room service from the bar.”
Robert Brown, if that was his name, took a breath and said, “This is all a mistake. I can save us all a good deal of trouble if you’ll let me explain.”
“Do that,” I said. I clicked the safety on the Beretta and slipped it into my hip pocket, keeping the .38 pointed at him.
He directed a pudgy finger toward an early edition of the evening paper, lying open on the bed. One of the headlines, with photo, was: “AIELLO SUCCUMBS: ALLEGED RACKETEER FOUND SHOT.”
Robert Brown said, “Mr. Crane, I don’t know and don’t care what your arrangements are with Aiello’s friends, but I have to know what happened to the contents of Aiello’s safe. It’s very important to me—you could say vital.”
“Everybody in town seems to be interested in that,” I remarked. “Who told you the safe had been robbed? And why come to us to find out?”
“I won’t fence with you, Mr. Crane.” He said it coyly. He reminded me of nothing so much as an elephant trumpeting an unrequited love. “I spoke with Vincent Madonna an hour ago from my office, when I first heard of Aiello’s death. I wanted to make sure the contents of the safe hadn’t been disturbed. Madonna was quite frank with me; he told me the safe had been rifled and you were the person most likely to know where the contents were to be found. He told me where to find this lady, and wished me good luck, and asked me to forward to him any information I might obtain from you.”