"What, Cat?"
"Let me know what they plan to do. Everything, okay?"
"Okay, darling." She frowned at what she said, then smiled softly. She reached up and touched my face. "I can trust you."
"You won't get hurt," I told her. I kissed her mouth and the tip of her nose, but it wasn't enough. She was back there in my arms again for one fierce moment and it was us, just us and no one else. I knew my fingers were hurting her arms and I pushed her away feeling my heart smashing against my ribs.
"We'll make it, baby."
"No . . . we never can. I wish . . . but we can't."
I left her like that and went out to the car. At any time now the stuff was going to hit the fan.
At the motel I told the clerk at the desk I'd be around a little while yet, paid the bill up to date and went to my room. I double locked the door, shoved the .45 under my pillow, showered and flaked out with the radio playing softly in my ear.
Popeye Gage and Carl Matteau. They came to town behind a bagman who carried a hundred grand and it could be it was to set up an operation for Matteau. Luck played into their hands when they saw Maloney killed and picked up the evidence. His original investment had now increased tenfold if he pulled it off.
I reached to switch the radio off when the late news came on from the local station and the first item the announcer read off was that Guy Sanders, prime suspect in the Chuck Maloney murder, had been picked up in Seattle, Washington and arrangements were being made for his extradition.
CHAPTER SIX
The morning papers had it all laid out. There was a full statement from the D.A. who claimed there was no doubt concerning Sanders's guilt and felt certain a confession could be obtained after an interrogation. He rehashed the details of the crime and stated that Sanders would be brought to trial as soon as feasible.
On the inside pages an editorial went through it again, crying out the need for justice and lauding the D.A. for his attitude concerning the affair. It looked like Sanders had had it. As far as the city was concerned, the investigation was over. Only the prosecution remained.
After I got dressed and ate I drove around for two hours checking out the properties Simon Helm had suggested to me, jotting down quick notes so I could have an intelligent though phoney conversation with him. When I finished it was a little after ten A.M. and I got to his office just as he was coming in.
For the kind of deal he was hoping to set up with me he was willing to forego all other engagements and took me back into his office with orders to his secretary not to disturb us. She had coffee ready, set us up and left.
"Now, Mr. Bannerman, how did you like the sites I pointed out?"
"Only two have possibilities," I said. "The old Witworth estate and the Flagler Hill section. However, they both lack one essential . . . a water table sufficient to my needs."
"How would you know about that?" he asked with a degree of surprise.
"When you know how to ask questions you get some great answers. It's my business."
"Well, I heard this rumor, but never gave it a thought. My, we have to find something else quickly."
"I'll tell you what I have in mind."
"Oh?"
"You'll have to investigate the deal . . . but it'll all be a matter of public record anyway. Check out that property my future cousin-in-law has next to the proposed city marina."
"But Mr. Bannerman . . ."
"For my purposes it's ideal. The building will be modern, handsome, the Industry smokeless, the access highways are at hand . . . a railroad siding can be extended from the Tompson works and the benefits to the city will be far greater than that of another gambling casino."
"But . . ."
"No buts, Mr. Helm. If you don't want to handle it there are others."
He couldn't fight that attitude. He shrugged and drank his coffee. "Very well, I'll see how far things have gone. However, if it is not possible . . ."
"Then I'll have to take something else," I finished for him. "How long will it take?"
He glanced at the clock on the wall. "If I get to it right away . . . perhaps this afternoon."
I got up and reached for my hat. "I'll be back later."
"Certainly, Mr. Bannerman," he said, rolling his tongue around the name.
Hank Feathers didn't reach his office until a little before noon. I whistled out the window of the car and he came plodding across the street all grin and crinkly eyes and got in beside me.
"Step on any toes?" I asked him.
"Well now, son, I don't know yet. I got up around the Maloney place and funny enough I know quite a few people up there. One of our printers has a place two houses away and a garrulous wife. Anyway, after due poking around I came up with a lot of answers."
"Gossip or answers?"
"You do the separating," Hank said. "This Maloney woman has quite a neighborhood reputation. She made no bones about her conduct, rather enjoying the Madame Pompadour concept. She had plenty of visitors, plenty."
"Anybody special?"
"Don't jump the gun, son," he smiled, holding up his hands. "Rudy Bannerman was positively identified having tried to gain admittance on two occasions, both times while he was crocked. One, during an afternoon, he was seen for better than an hour in her back yard while she was sunbathing. The whole thing was observed and though he was well tempted by that lovely dish, he stoutheartedly left before the husband returned."
"Good for him."
"The suspect Guy Sanders made several surreptitious trips to visit Irish and twice was seen with her in a neighborhood bar. It's enough to hang him."
"They'll sure try it."
"But here's the interesting note. From a couple of very nosey sources, one an old lady given to staying up late and the other our printer's wife who has some odd habits including insomnia, I learn that there was one fairly common visitor to the Maloney household when the husband was on the late shift at the Cherokee Club."
"Any description?"
"Very little. He was always dressed in a suit or topcoat, wore a hat and moved fast. Generally he drove up, apparently at a specified time and she came out, joined him in the car and they drove away."
"Car?"
"What old dame can identify a new car at night? It was a dark one, that's all. They suspect that he was Sanders."
"Great. What do you think?"
Hank shrugged, looked at me and said, "The guy was thin . . . so is Sanders. Rudy Bannerman is chubby. At least it wasn't him. Anything else you want me to get in trouble over?"
"I'll think of something."
He opened the door and stepped but, then remembered something and said, "By the way, I bumped into a guy who wants to see you very badly. A friend of your old man's."
"Who?"
"George P. Wilkenson, the family solicitor."
"Wilkenson? Damn, he must be ninety years old."
"Ninety-three. He's still active. Anyway, I told him you were back and he said it was urgent you get up and see him. He lives back in the past these days and can still chew your ears off. He and your old man were great fishing buddies."
"I'll say hello before I leave," I said. "And hey . . . who's a cop you can trust? Somebody with a gold badge."
"Try Lieutenant Travers. Tell him I recommended him."
I waved so-long, drove back downtown and cut over to the Municipal Building that housed the First Precinct and went in and asked for Lieutenant Travers. The desk sergeant made the call, told me to go on back and gave me directions.
Travers was pretty young as Lieutenants go, but he had all the little earmarks that stamped him as a professional law enforcement officer. Tough when he had to be, smart always, cute when necessary and suspicious eternally. He gave me one of those long slow up-and-down looks when I walked in, was ready enough with a handshake and an invitation to sit down and had I not left the .45 and the speed rig in the car he would have spotted it and shaken me down on the spot. He caught the name, but it didn't cut any ice with him at all.