‘Oh, come on, Miltie. Come on now, boy. You’re reaching.’
‘Am I? Check around, MacGregor. Find out what happens when sabotage is suspected, especially on a plane headed to pick up military personnel. Find out if the Feds aren’t on the scene. And find out what happens when a big-time fools with the government.’
‘I never done a state pen,’ MacGregor said, seemingly hurt. ‘Don’t call me a big-time.’
‘Then why arc you juggling a potato as hot as this one? Do you yearn for Quentin, MacGregor? Wise up, friend. You’ve been conned. The gravy is all on the other end of the line. You’re getting all the cold beans, and when it comes time to hang a frame, guess who’ll be it? Give a good guess, MacGregor.’
MacGregor said seriously, ‘You’re a fast talker.’
‘What do you say, MacGregor? How do you feel, playing the boob in a big ante deal? How much are you getting?’
‘Four G’s,’ MacGregor said. ‘Plus.’
‘Plus what?’
MacGregor smiled the age-old smile of a man who has known a woman and is reluctant to admit it. ‘Just plus,’ he said.
‘All right, keep the dough and forget you were hired. You’ve already had the “plus”, and you can keep that as a memory,’
‘I’ve only been paid half the dough,’ MacGregor said,
‘When’s the rest due?’
‘When you drop the case.’
‘I can’t match it, MacGregor, but I’ll give you a thou for your trouble. You’re getting off easy, believe me. If I don’t crack this, the Feds will, and then you’ll be in hot water.’
‘Yeah,’ MacGregor said, nodding.
‘You’ll forget it then?’
‘Where’s the G-note?’
Davis reached for his wallet on the dresser. ‘Who hired you, MacGregor?’ He looked up, and MacGregor’s smile had widened now.
‘I’ll take it all, Miltie.’
‘Huh?’
‘All of it.’ MacGregor waved the gun. ‘Everything in the wallet. Come on.’
‘You are a jackass, aren’t you?’ Davis said. He fanned out the money in the wallet, and then held it out to MacGregor. MacGregor reached for it, and Davis loosened his grip, and the bills began fluttering towards the floor.
MacGregor grabbed for them with his free hand, turning sideways at the same time, taking the gun off Davis.
It had to be then, and it had to be right, because the talking game was over and MacGregor wasn’t buying anything.
Davis leaped, ramming his shoulder against the fat man’s chest. MacGregor staggered back, and then swung his arm around just as Davis’ fingers clamped on his wrist. He did not fire, and Davis knew he probably didn’t want to bring the apartment house down around his cars.
They staggered across the room in a clumsy embrace, like partners at a dance school for beginners. Davis had both hands on MacGregor’s gun wrist now, and the fat man swung his arm violently, trying to shake the grip. They didn’t speak or curse. MacGregor grunted loudly each time he swung his arm, and Davis’ breath was audible as it rushed through his parted lips. He did not loosen his grip. He forced MacGregor across the room, and when the fat man’s back was against the wall Davis began methodically smashing the gun hand against the plaster.
‘Drop it,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Drop it.’
He hit the wall with MacGregor’s hand again, and this time the fingers opened and the gun clattered to the floor. Davis stepped back for just an instant, kicking the gun across the room, and then rushed forward with his fist clenched.
He felt his fist sink into the flesh around MacGregor’s middle. The fat man’s face went white, and then he buckled over, his arms embracing his stomach. Davis dropped his fist and then brought it up from his shoelaces, catching MacGregor on the point of his jaw. MacGregor lurched backward, slamming into the wall, knocking a picture to the floor. Davis hit him once more, and MacGregor pitched forward onto his face. He wriggled once, and was still.
Davis stood over him, breathing hard. He waited until he caught his breath, and then he glanced at his watch.
Quickly, he picked up the .38 from where it lay on the floor. He broke it open, checked the load, and then brought it to his suitcase, laying it on top of his shirts.
He snapped the suitcase shut, called the police to tell them he’d just subdued a burglar in his apartment, and then left to catch his Las Vegas plane.
He started with the hotels. He started with the biggest ones.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Radner,’ he said. ‘Are they registered here?’
The clerks all looked the same.
‘Radner, Radner. The name doesn’t sound familiar, but I’ll check, sir.’
Then the shifting of the ledger, the turning of pages, the signatures, largely scrawled, and usually illegible.
‘No, sir, I’m sorry. No Radner.’
‘Perhaps you’d recognize the woman, if I showed you her picture?’
‘Well...’ The apologetic cough. ‘Well, we get an awful lot of guests, sir.’
And the fair-haired girl emerging from the wallet. The black and white, stereotyped photograph of Alice Trimble, and the explanation, ‘She’s a newlywed — with her husband.’
‘We get a lot of newlyweds, sir.’
The careful scrutiny of the head shot, the tilting of one eyebrow, the picture held at arm’s length, then closer.
‘No. I’m sorry. I don’t recognize her. Why don’t you try...?’
He tried them all, all the hotels, and then all the rooming houses, and then all the motor courts. They were all very sorry. They had no Radners registered, and couldn’t identify the photograph.
So he started making the round then. He lingered at the machines, feeding quarters into the slots, watching the oranges and lemons and cherries whirl before his eyes, but never watching them too closely, always watching the place instead, looking for the elusive woman named Alice Trimble Radner.
Or he sat at the bars, nursing along endless scotches, his eyes fastened to the mirrors that commanded the entrance doorways. He was bored, and he was tired, but he kept watching, and he began making the rounds again as dusk tinted the sky, and the lights of the city flicked their siren song on the air.
He picked up the newspaper by chance. He nipped through it idly, and he almost turned the page, even after he’d read the small head: FATAL ACCIDENT.
The item was a very small one. It told of a Pontiac convertible with defective brakes which had crashed through the guard rail on the highway, killing its occupant instantly. The occupant’s name was Anthony Radner. There was no mention of Alice in the article.
Little Alice Trimble, Davis thought. A simple girl. Shy, often awkward. Honest.
Murder is a simple thing. All it involves is killing another person or persons. You can be shy and awkward, and even honest — but that doesn’t mean you can’t be a murderer besides. So what is it that takes a simple girl like Alice Trimble and transforms her into a murderess?
Figure it this way. Figure a louse named Tony Radner who sees a way of striking back at the girl who jilted him and coming into a goodly chunk of dough besides. Figure a lot of secret conversation, a pile of carefully planned moves. Figure a wedding, planned to coincide with the day of the plotted murder, so the murderers can be far away when the bomb they planted explodes.
Radner gets to see Janet Carruthers on some pretext, perhaps a farewell drink to show there are no hard feelings. This is his wedding day, and he introduces her to his bride, Alice Trimble. They share a drink, perhaps, but the drink is loaded and Janet suddenly feels very woozy. They help her to the airport, and they stow the bomb in her valise. None of the pilots know Radner. The only bad piece of luck is the fact that the fire-warning system is acting up, and a mechanic named Mangione recognizes him. But that’s part of the game.