Fall Girl Page 4

  Abruptly he said, “I’d better get packed. You’ll have my bill ready?”

  “I’ll add it up right away, Mr. Horton.”

  He was turning away, but he paused long enough to grin over his shoulder. “Make it Jim,” he suggested.

  She colored slightly. “All right, Jim,” she said softly.

  On the way up in the elevator he wondered about Helen Quincy. As the legally-adopted daughter of one of the town’s most prominent citizens, it seemed strange that she worked as a hotel desk clerk. And her remark about the hotel’s food being too expensive for her suggested that she had to be careful of her money.

  Probably there was some kind of family estrangement, he decided. Possibly the blonde Velda was the cause of it. It wouldn’t be unnatural for the girl to resent her stepfather taking as his second wife a glamorous woman not much older than herself.

  In his room he transferred his money and his traveler’s checks from his suitcase to his pockets. Then he packed quickly but without haste, feeling reasonably secure that the police would not get to the hotel for some time yet.

  He had snapped the second of his two bags closed when the phone rang.

  The sudden sound caused him to start nervously. He stared at the phone, making no move toward it, wondering what the ring meant. Possibly it was Belle or the colonel. No one else would be calling him.

  Unless it was the police.

  Then he relaxed as he realized the police would hardly phone. They’d simply knock on the door. He crossed to the phone and lifted it.

  “Yes?” he said cautiously.

  “Jim?” a low feminine voice said.

  “Yes.”

  “Helen Quincy. I don’t know what this is about, but I thought I’d better warn you. Two policemen are on their way up in the elevator.”

  Horton said, “Thanks, doll,” and slammed down the receiver.

  So much for his estimate of the time it would take the police to learn his local address, he thought, as he jerked open the room door and heaved his bags into the hall. In one continuous movement, he slammed the door shut behind him and scooped up the two bags again.

  The elevators were only yards away, and he took a quick glance at the indicators. One showed a car already at third, and rising.

  He headed for a turn in the corridor in the opposite direction at a dead run. Just as he rounded it, he heard the elevator door open. Setting down his bags, he leaned against the wall and listened.

  Two pairs of footsteps approached, then stopped. A deep voice said, “This is it. Four fourteen.” There was a loud knock.

  CHAPTER VII

  HALFWAY DOWN the hall there was a fire exit. Horton stooped for his bags, then decided they were too encumbering for flight. Glancing along the hall at the various doors, he spotted one with no room number on it. Trying it, he found it open. It was a broom closet. He set his bags inside and pulled the door closed again.

  Another, harder knock came from around the corner. The same deep voice he had heard before called, “Police officers, mister. Open up.”

  Quietly Horton walked to the fire exit and pushed open the door. It gave onto a windowless fire well. He went down the stairs quickly, but without running. The last half-flight was an open stairway leading into the lobby at a point right next to the side entrance. He slowed his descent of this to a normal walk.

  Glancing toward the desk, he saw Helen Quincy staring at him from wide eyes. He lifted one hand in a casual salute, turned, and strolled from the side entrance.

  Outside he turned right and walked toward the front of the hotel. At the corner he paused and looked across the street to where his car was parked.

  Apparently the police had located and staked out his car before they entered the hotel after him. A uniformed officer stood on the sidewalk next to it.

  Horton turned and retraced his steps to the street behind the hotel.

  As he passed the side entrance, he wondered what Helen Quincy was thinking. He was thankful now that he had taken the time to talk to her in the lobby. He hoped he had charmed her enough to keep her silent about his leaving the hotel. Even though she had warned him that the police were on their way to his room, it seemed a lot to expect that she would cover his flight. She must have recognized it as flight. And there was the matter of his unpaid bill. He could only hope that the impression he had made on her was strong enough to counterbalance her loyalty to the hotel.

  Momentarily he expected police to start pouring from the side entrance of the hotel in pursuit. But he reached the next intersection without anything happening.

  He ran into some luck then. A cab neared the intersection just as he reached it, and stopped at his hail.

  He had the taxi drop him at an intersection six blocks from the riverfront. Then he walked four more blocks in the direction of the river to Second Street.

  In a used-clothing store on Second, he bought a cheap cloth cap to cover his tell-tale crew cut. He also bought a clean but worn leather jacket. At the next corner he bought a newspaper.

  A half-block farther along, he entered a tavern crowded with workingmen. No one paid any attention as he walked to the men’s room. Inside he changed his suit coat for the jacket and wrapped the coat in newspaper.

  Studying his reflection in a mirror over the sink, he decided the cap and jacket made an adequate temporary disguise. In his present garb, except that his trousers were too well-pressed, his shoes too well-shined and he wore a necktie, he would be indistinguishable from hundreds of other men who lived in this neighborhood.

  He rectified the first defect by removing his trousers and wadding and twisting them together. When he put them back on, they were satisfactorily wrinkled. A coating of liquid soap deadened the sheen of his shoes. Then he took off his tie, put it in his pocket and left his shirt collar open.

  Leaving the tavern, he walked another block in the direction of the river to First Street. Turning left, back the way he had come, he wandered along First until he came to a seedy hotel exotically named the Palais Royal. It advertised rooms at a dollar and up.

  The elderly man on duty behind the desk exhibited no interest in him when he registered as James Malone. Horton engaged a medium-priced room at a dollar seventy-five cents a day. At this price, rooms included a washbowl with both hot and cold running water. He would have preferred one of the two-fifty rooms, which had private baths, but he didn’t want to invite undue attention.

  He paid for two days in advance.

  His room number was 212, on the second floor. The elderly desk clerk let him find it for himself. The Palais Royal didn’t provide bell-boy service.

  Horton surveyed his new home without enthusiasm. It was neither well-furnished nor very clean. A spotted green shade hung in the single curtainless window. Illumination was furnished by a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The washbowl in the corner had a ring of dirt in it. The only furniture was a brass double bed, a dresser, and a wooden, straight-backed chair. A series of hooks along one wall served in lieu of a closet.

  Horton drew back the bed covers and discovered with relief that at least the sheets were fresh. He also noted with some surprise that a phone stood on his dresser.

  He secreted his newspaper-wrapped coat in the bottom dresser drawer. Then he lifted the phone.

  After a short wait the voice of the elderly desk clerk said, “Yeah?”

  Horton gave him the number of the Hotel Lawford. When the Lawford switchboard answered, he asked for room 727.

  A moment later Belle Jarvis’s voice said, “Hello.”

  “Hi, honey,” Horton said.

  “Jim!” she said in a pleased tone. “Where are you? In your room?”

  “In a jam,” he said.

  Immediately she was concerned. “Something go wrong?”

  “Everything. Want to do me a favor?”

  “Of course, Jim. Just name it.”

  “Just a minute,” he said. He paused for a second, then said, “Operator!”

  W
hen there was no reply, he said, “Just checking to make sure nobody was listening in. Right around the corner from my room you’ll find a broom closet. My two bags are in it. Take them to your room and pack all my underwear, socks, shirts and shaving stuff in the smaller one. Leave everything else in the big one. And bring the smaller bag to me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Room 212 of the Palais Royal Hotel on First Street. Just walk in and up the stairs. I don’t think anyone will stop you, but if they do, you’re looking for James Malone. Incidentally, you’d better dress plainly. They’re not used to class here. Got any old clothes?”

  “Hmm,” she said. “Some plain ones, I think. I’ll manage. Expect me in half an hour.”

  “Make it forty-five minutes,” he told her. “I haven’t had time for lunch yet. I’m going out for some now.”

  It was typical of Belle that she hadn’t asked what his trouble was before offering to help.

  He found a coffee shop a block from the Palais Royal. It was the sort of place where he could sit at the counter wearing his cap without being conspicuous. He lunched on a greasy hamburger and a cup of bitter coffee.

  Back in his room he had barely hung his cap and jacket on a pair of the wall hooks when Belle rapped on the door. She came in quickly when he opened it. He took the bag from her hand, dropped it on the floor next to the dresser and looked her over. She wore a plain gray sweater with a matching skirt which would have been appropriate on either a cafe-society habitué or a working girl. Plain black pumps without stockings would have inclined the casual observer to guess her the latter.

  Horton nodded approvingly.

  She offered her lips for a kiss, and he brushed them lightly with his own. Then she looked around the room.

  “Well, well,” she said. “So this is how the other half lives. Sure you can afford it?”

  “It’s a strain,” he said. “Considering that the bulk of my wealth is on deposit at the Rice City National Bank. And if I go near the place, lurking cops will probably make with the handcuffs.”

  “It’s that bad?” she asked with concern. “What happened? Your mark get wise to you?”

  “Worse than that. He got murdered.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Not by me,” he hastened to add. “I was just an innocent bystander. But the cops think it was me.”

  She said, “If you’ll open your bag, you’ll find I included a bottle of liquor. I think I need a drink before I hear about this.”

  He snapped open the bag, drew out a fifth of bonded bourbon and flashed Belle a look of admiration. “You always were a thoughtful kitten,” he said. “Afraid there’s no ice, but we do have water.”

  There were two jelly glasses on the dresser. Horton washed them in hot water, poured a couple of ounces of whisky into each and added cold water. When he handed Belle hers, she carried it over to the bed and sat down.

  Leaning against the dresser, Horton raised his glass. “Cheers,” he said.

  Belle tossed off half of her drink and shuddered. Horton barely sipped his, set it on the dresser and produced a package of cigarettes. He offered Belle one, put another in his mouth and held flame to both. Lifting an ash tray from the dresser, he set it on the bed next to Belle.

  Belle inhaled deeply and blew thin streams of smoke from her nostrils. “Now, tell me what happened,” she said.

  CHAPTER VIII

  HORTON TOOK it from the beginning, outlining his actions from the moment he had hit town until the moment of the murder. When he finished, Belle’s expression was a mixture of concern for his plight and admiration for the bunco game he had worked out.

  “What a fool-proof gimmick,” she said with enthusiasm. “Jim, there’s no doubt about it. You’re a genius.” Then she gave him a puzzled frown. “But why all the extra trimmings?”

  “What extra trimmings?”

  “Well, the plot was to get yourself arrested for passing a hot check, wasn’t it? And then, after the banks opened Monday and your check proved good, to sue everybody in sight for false arrest, defamation of character and personal indignity.”

  “Yeah,” he said regretfully. “I didn’t see how it could miss.”

  “It couldn’t under ordinary circumstances,” she assured him. “Why, it’s almost legall”

  “Entirely legal,” he corrected. “I couldn’t have been held for anything, even if it blew up.” He added ruefully, “Except on a bum rap like this.”

  “Still, why did you need all the extra trimmings? I mean like the appointment with Acme Realty to view beach homes, arranging with the bank for a mortgage and so on? Why not just buy your car in one lot, drive to another and offer to sell it cheap? You’d get arrested just as fast.”

  Horton shook his head reprovingly. “You really don’t have a con-woman’s mind, Belle. Sure, I’d get arrested just as fast. And get my case kicked out of court even faster.”

  “Why?” she asked. “It would still be false arrest.”

  “Uh-huh. Except that it would stick out a mile as a con game. The police couldn’t wait to get off a wire to St. Louis asking for a record search. And when they got back the news that I’ve conned half the people in the Midwest out of their savings, you think anybody would pay off? Even a green lawyer could convince a jury that I deliberately got myself arrested for the sole purpose of bringing suit.”

  After thinking this over, Belle said doubtfully, “I suppose.”

  “My way, they’d never look farther than Rice City. Acme Realty Company could give evidence that I had a bona fide intention of buying a summer home here. Hanford Maytum at the bank could testify that I inquired about a mortgage. And, more important, that I’m a nut on sport cars, particularly Jaguars. The salesman at Gannon’s would have to admit I wanted to buy a Jaguar before he talked me into a Mercury by assuring me I wouldn’t find a used Jaguar in town. A jury might question my business sense in taking a thousand-dollar loss on a car I’d owned less than a half hour, but they’d pass it off as the eccentricity of a guy who was overboard on Jaguars. And look how much greater my loss is the way I worked it than the way you suggest.”

  Belle said, “I don’t follow you.”

  “Naturally I’m not going to live in a town which treats me so shabbily. I drop all plans to buy a summer home. Not only have I suffered great indignity, I’ve been forced to change major living plans. After I slapped suits for a hundred thousand each against Trusting Joe Gannon, Honest John Quincy and the city, all three should have been willing to settle out of court for twenty-five thousand apiece.”

  This time Belle’s face expressed complete understanding. “I guess I do lack a con-woman’s mind. You are a genius.”

  “Some genius,” Horton said bitterly. “It takes an idiot to get himself in a jam like this.” Viciously he ground out his cigarette.

  Belle had been so engrossed in Horton’s description of his bunco game, momentarily she had forgotten his plight. Now her expression grew worried again.

  “What are you going to do, Jim? Run?”

  He shook his head. “The police have never made a beef stick against me yet. Anywhere. I’m not about to take a fall now for something I didn’t do.”

  “You’re going to fight it?”

  “Not in court, if that’s what you mean. In this town I wouldn’t stand a chance if I turned myself in. My only hope is to find the real killer.”

  Belle considered this dubiously. “Is there any way I can help?” she asked.

  “You might tell me what you know about Quincy. Didn’t you mention that you and the colonel picked him for your first mark?”

  “Until we found out who he was and veered off. I really don’t know a thing about him that I haven’t already told you.”

  “You must know something,” he insisted. “I’ve seen you operate. Men pour their life stories in your ear.”

  “We dropped him too quickly,” Belle said. “I simply met him at the Lawford’s bar and felt him out enough to find out he was loaded wi
th money. He gave me the usual line about his wife not understanding him, but aside from that I didn’t delve into his personal life. He didn’t even mention that he was chairman of the Civic Crime Committee. The colonel found that out the next day, when he began checking up on the man. We decided conning someone with his connections was too dangerous, and started looking for another mark. I never saw Quincy after that first casual meeting in the bar.”

  “Hmm,” Horton said. “I’d hoped you could give me some kind of lead. Guess I’ll have to scrounge around somewhere else.”

  Belle stubbed out her cigarette and took a thoughtful sip of her drink. “Won’t your description be in the newspapers? You’ll be recognized the moment you step outdoors. You’re not exactly ordinary-looking.”

  Instead of answering, Horton moved to the wall hooks, shrugged into his leather jacket, and pulled on his cap with the peak low over his eyes. He thrust his hands in his pockets and slouched across the room.

  Belle regarded him with her mouth open. For the first time she noted the wrinkled trousers and lusterless shoes. Suddenly, despite her worry for him, she laughed.

  “Better modify the walk,” she advised. “You’ll get picked up for vagrancy.”

  He hung up the jacket and cap again. “I think I’ll be safe enough,” he said. “Unless I run into somebody I know. And there aren’t more than a half dozen people in town aside from you and the colonel who know me by sight.”

  “Colonel Bob and I will help all we can, of course,” Belle said. “Need any money?”

  Horton shook his head. “I have about two hundred in cash. Plus five hundred in traveler’s checks.” He smiled ruefully. “Lot of good those will do, though. By the time the banks open Monday, my name will be splashed all over the papers. I wouldn’t dare try cashing one.”

  “Maybe the colonel can do some leg work,” she suggested. “Poke around at Police Headquarters to find out what they know, for instance.”