‘And how did you happen along?’ I asked.
‘They wanted another guard on the gate. I was short of dough at the time and got the job. You know how these things happen. About a couple of days later she began to make passes. I guess she was bored with herself and thought it’d be fun to have a guy to fool with.’
‘Do you know anything about a suitcase of stolen articles which was found in Anita’s cupboard?’
‘That was Nat’s idea. I collected the stuff for her, and she planted the suitcase. She reckoned it’d take the gilt off Cerf’shoneymoon, and it certainly did. She was full of sweet ideas like that.’
‘What can you tell me about Gail Bolus?’
He stared at me, surprised.
‘You get around, don’t you, Mac? What do you know about her?’
‘I’m asking you. You know her, don’t you?’
He nodded
‘Yeah. She blew into town about four months ago. She was crazy about the fight racket. We met at Kruger’s. At that time I did a bit of boxing. We hooked up together. She liked to see me fight. When I quit fighting, she lost interest in me. You know how it is, Mac. She was a tough dame, and knew all the answers. You have to work too hard with a dame like that. I gave up trying. As far as I know she used to earn a living playing poker. She could shuffle all the aces to the bottom of the deck as easily as she could light a cigarette. I don’t know what became of her.’
‘Did she ever mention Lee Thayler?’
He shook his head.
‘Who’s he?’
‘Never mind. What were you doing in Barclay’s house a couple of days back?’
He gave me a quick, startled look.
‘You’re a busy guy, aren’t you? What were you doing there?’
‘I was there. What were you looking for?’
‘That was Nat again. She sent me out there to see if I could find anything that’d convince Cerf Anita was two-timing him. But I didn’t find anything.’
I finished my drink and stood up.
‘You wouldn’t have any ideas about the murder? Why Dana Lewis was shot?’
He shook his head.
‘Not a thing. Nat thinks Anita did it, but I don’t. Anita isn’t the type.’ He pushed himself out of the chair. Fear and whisky made him unsteady on his feet. ‘If that’s all you want, Mac, I guess I’ll be going. I’ll pack a bag and get out of town. I shan’t be easy until I’ve put some miles between myself and that twist.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s all I want.’
V
On the way back to Orchid City I chewed over what I had heard and what Mills had told me. On the face of it none of the facts I’d learned had any bearing on Dana’s death, although they did clear up some points that needed clearing up. But I was still as far away as ever from finding Dana’s killer.
I was still sure that the key to the whole business was the reasons why Dana was shot and why the diamond necklace had been left in her apartment. But I couldn’t see any way of finding the explanations of those two reasons. As far as I could see the hunt was narrowed down to Thayler or maybe Bannister. Thayler was the most likely suspect. I couldn’t see why Bannister should have shot Dana unless he had been bribed to do so by the promise of the necklace, and when he didn’t get it he had squared accounts by shooting Anita. I didn’t like this theory much, but decided it might be worthwhile to give it a little more thought. I didn’t think it was possible for Natalie to have shot Dana. She had no motive for one thing, and she wouldn’t be able to handle a .45 for another.
I went on like this, turning the facts over in my mind, trying to make them fit into the jigsaw, and getting nowhere until I pulled up outside my cabin.
It was quite a change to find the place in darkness. I turned on the light after unlocking the front door and walked heavily into the sitting room. The clock on the mantel showed one-fifteen. I was tired enough to go to bed with my clothes on.
As I walked into my bedroom the telephone began to ring. In the quiet of the night the bell sounded loud and hysterical. Cursing softly I sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the receiver.
It was Pat Finnegan, and he sounded excited.
‘I’ve found him, Mr. Malloy,’ he said. ‘He’s holed up with Joe Betillo, and he’s there right now.’
I stiffened to attention.
‘You mean Thayler?’
‘Yeah. Do you want me to come over?’
‘You go to bed,’ I said, and patted my pillow regretfully. ‘This is something I can handle on my own. Thanks for the tip, Pat.’
‘Now wait a minute, Mr. Malloy. You can’t go out there alone,’ Finnegan said excitedly. ‘Betillo’s a mean guy to monkey with. You want to be careful of him.’
‘Forget it, Pat,’ I said. ‘Do me a favour, will you? Call Frisco and tell Kerman to come back by the first plane. Tell him where Thayler is.’ I gave Mike the telephone number of Kerman’s hotel. ‘You leave Joe and Thayler to me.’
‘But, look, Joe’s a mean guy...’ Finnegan began, but I cut him short.
‘So am I. Go to bed and so long,’ and I dropped the receiver back on its cradle, gave my pillow one more regretful pat and went out to the car again.
Chapter Nine
I
I knew Joe Betillo well by sight and reputation. He was a mortician and embalmer, coffin maker, abortionist and fixer of knife and bullet wounds with no questions asked, and owned a double-fronted shop in Coral Gables, the Dead-End district of Orchid City. The shop was at the far end of a cul-de-sac alley alongside Delmonico’s bar, which dominated the waterfront and faced the harbour.
Coral Gables, the farthest extension west of Orchid City, was a shack town that had grown up around the natural deep-water harbour where an industry of sponge and fish docks, turtle crawls and markets provided a living for the tough boys of the district. It was a tough spot where cops patrolled in twos, and a night seldom passed without someone getting a knife in his hide or his head broken by a beer bottle.
As I parked the car in the shadows, a few yards from the brightly lit entrance of Delmonico’s bar, the clock on the dashboard showed one-forty-five. A mechanical piano was going: thumping out tinny jazz. The waterfront was deserted. Even for Coral Gables, one-forty-five a.m. was bedtime.
I got out of the car and walked to the mouth of the alley leading to Betillo’s place. I could see through the bar windows a few stragglers lounging up at the bar, and a couple of girls in halters and shorts sitting at a table by the door, looking with exhausted eyes at the lights shining on the oily water in the harbour.
Keeping in the shadows I moved quietly down the alley that was as dark as a homburg hat and smelt of stale whisky, cats and rotting fish. I turned a sharp corner in the alley and came upon Betillo’s shop: a two-storeyed job made from salvaged lumber, bleached white by the sun and the wind, shabby and uncared for, and in total darkness. There was a five-foot fence adjoining the building, and after a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, I caught hold of the top of the fence and swung myself over.
I landed in a big yard full of timber, sawdust and wood shavings. Splashes of moonlight, broken by neighbouring roofs, provided light and shadows, and I hadn’t much fear I would be seen if anyone looked out of the windows.