Fall Girl Read online

  Horton raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you about set to skin your mark? Won’t you be leaving town rather suddenly?”

  “That can wait,” she said. “He’s set up to take the bait now, as a matter of fact. But we can stall until this is settled. The colonel can always get a tip from one of his inside-Wall-Street contacts advising delay.”

  “Uh-uh,” Horton said. “I’m not going to upset your plans.”

  Belle rose from the bed, set her glass on the dresser and put her hands on his shoulders.

  Looking up at him, she said, “Do you think either the colonel or I would run out on you in a spot like this? Even if it meant missing out with our mark altogether?”

  “It’s too risky, Belle. If things went wrong, both of you could be charged as accessories for helping me. I won’t let you do it.”

  She gave him an exasperated smile. “You don’t understand, do you, you big lug?”

  “Understand what?”

  “That I love you.”

  Horton stared down at her. It wasn’t a new experience for him to be told he was loved by a woman. Dozens had said it, despite his careful avoidance of the subject himself. Usually he was adroit at changing the subject without either offending the lady or letting her realize he was deliberately skirting entanglement.

  This time he was caught completely off-center. He had a genuine regard for Belle, genuine enough not to want to see her hurt in any way. But the thought of love had never entered his head. He had assumed her amatory interest in him was as casual as his in her. Suddenly, for the first time in his life, he felt like a heel.

  Seeing the look on his face, she dropped her hands from his shoulders. Her expression became rueful.

  “I didn’t expect reciprocation,” she said. “There’s too much wolf in you to settle for one woman. But you don’t have to look so woebegone.”

  “Who’s looking woebegone?” he protested.

  “You. You look as guilty as a teen-ager caught behind the garage with the little girl from next door. If it’s any salve to your conscience, last night had nothing to do with it.”

  “Huh?” he said a little stupidly.

  “I’ve been overboard about you from the day the colonel introduced us. Four years ago.” She laughed shortly. “I used to tell myself it was just a case of puppy love that I’d get over. I was only twenty-three then, you know. But it wasn’t. Last night didn’t change anything. It just confirmed what I knew all along. That you’re wonderful.”

  He looked at her helplessly for a moment, then turned toward the dresser, lifted his glass and tossed off the rest of his unfinished drink. Immediately he poured two more. He added water from the washbowl tap and carried the glasses back to the dresser. Silently he handed her one.

  She raised her glass with a smile on her lips. “To unrequited love.”

  Horton said, “That’s hardly fair.”

  “What woman is fair?” she inquired. “Come on. Bottoms up.”

  He followed her advice. He needed the drink. When he set down his empty glass, he saw that she had tossed off all of hers too. She set her glass next to his on the dresser.

  “Let’s get something straight,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I wouldn’t have mentioned how I felt if you hadn’t turned down my offer. I just wanted you to know I have to help. I don’t want you treating me with kid gloves, afraid that I’ll twist something you say into a declaration of love. When this is over, you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine. Meantime, all I expect from you is to be treated like a woman.”

  He looked at her for a long time, finally grinned. “How is that?”

  “You’ve had enough experience,” she said. “You ought to know.”

  He grinned at her again, then took her by the shoulders and drew her into his arms.

  CHAPTER IX

  BELLE STAYED until six P.M. Before she left, they settled the matter of future contacts.

  Horton insisted that neither she nor Colonel Bob visit the Palais Royal again, because of the danger of them being tabbed as accessories in case the police suddenly walked in. Future contacts would be in public places so that, if Horton was taken by the police during a conference with one or the other of them, they could claim it was a casual encounter and they had never seen him before.

  Belle said she would start the colonel digging for information right away, and would phone him the next morning.

  Shortly after Belle left, Horton donned his cap and jacket and went out to find some dinner. He located a hamburger stand on Third Street where the food was a little more edible than at the place he had lunched, but where he still wouldn’t be conspicuous by wearing his cap at the counter. He bought an evening paper from a newsboy just outside the hamburger stand, and read it while waiting to be served.

  The murder of Honest John Quincy was splashed all over the front page. As Horton had expected, he got full credit for it.

  The account read:

  “Honest” John Quincy, local car dealer and chairman of the Civic Crime Committee, died of a gunshot wound about noon today, only sixteen hours after receiving a threat against his life. An anonymous note consisting of words cut from a newspaper and pasted on a piece of paper had been found by Quincy in his residence mailbox at 223 River Road at eight o’clock Friday evening. The note read: “Call off your dogs, snooper, or you’re done. This is your last warning. Next you get a bullet.”

  Police, however, do not believe the killing was an outcome of the threat. They base their opinion on their alleged knowledge of who the killer is.

  The shooting took place in the office of the used-car lot operated by Quincy in downtown Rice City. The deceased was speaking on the phone to Joseph Cannon, the operator of another used-car lot, when he was murdered. Gannon, who heard the shot fired over the phone, reported to police the identity of the alleged killer.

  According to Lieutenant Thomas Gray, head of the Homicide Squad, Quincy was killed by a man attempting to pass a bad check. Quincy was phoning Gannon to ask him to call the police when he was shot. It is believed that the killer overheard the call and shot Quincy to avoid arrest.

  The lieutenant identified the alleged killer as a man going under the name of James Horton and, until shortly after the murder, residing at the Hotel Lawford. The suspect eluded arrest by a narrow margin when police arrived at his hotel room shortly after he absconded without paying his bill. An all-points bulletin is out for his arrest.

  The suspect is described as six-feet-two to six-feet-three, a hundred and ninety to two hundred pounds, with a muscular build. He is about thirty years old, has sandy hair worn in a crew cut. When last seen, he wore a tan gabardine suit. Anyone seeing a man of this description is asked to phone the police immediately.

  The suspect’s home address was listed at the Lawford as St. Louis. Lieutenant Grady said that a wire had already been sent to St. Louis requesting a record check. However, the Homicide chief is of the opinion that James Horton is probably an alias, and said he does not expect much result from the St. Loius wire.

  Grady said there was no question in his mind that the murder had no connection with the anonymous threat Quincy received yesterday, which he attributes to some crank.

  Asked his opinion of Quincy’s charge, as reported in this morning’s edition, that the threat had been sent by the Tony Manzetti machine, Lieutenant Grady rejected the idea.

  “As far as I know, Mr. Manzetti is just a politician,” he said. “If he’s got a machine of some kind, I never heard of it.”

  The remainder of the article was a rehash of that morning’s item about the anonymous threat. It ended with the usual statement that the police were working on several leads and expected to make an arrest in the near future.

  Horton’s dinner came, and he folded up the paper.

  Any remote hope he had that the police might at least consider the possibility that it had been a gangland kill now faded completely. Obviously they were content with him as the sole suspect.
And Lieutenant Grady’s performance left little doubt that he was an obedient tool of the Manzetti machine, and would do nothing which might tend to incriminate the political and racket boss.

  The next morning, Sunday, Horton stayed in his room awaiting Belle’s promised phone call. It didn’t come until nearly noon.

  When she finally phoned, she said, “Sorry to be so late, but I just this minute heard from the colonel.”

  “He get anything?” Horton asked.

  “I don’t know. He did some poking around last night. Mainly just making contacts, I think. Then this morning he was off to Police Headquarters, and he just phoned that he’s lunching with a reporter. He wants you to meet him at two this afternoon.”

  “Where?”

  “A tavern near the Rafferty House. The Hurricane Bar at 611 Concord. He says it’s a quiet neighborhood place with a mixed clientele, where neither a Beau Brummell nor a bum would attract attention.”

  “He’s the Beau Brummell, I suppose,” Horton said.

  Belle chuckled. “Well, I told him about your new outfit. He’s looking forward to seeing it. I hope you haven’t shaved today. He’ll be disappointed.”

  “I haven’t,” Horton assured her. “I wouldn’t spoil his kick for the world.”

  After Belle hung up, Horton went out and had some lunch. Then he decided to walk to the Hurricane Bar. It was four miles, but he had nothing else to do. He took it slowly and arrived a few minutes past two.

  The place was an ordinary neighborhood tavern, clean but unpretentious. Horton peered through the plate-glass window and saw the colonel at the bar in conversation with a thin, gray-haired man wearing rimless glasses. The man was as well-dressed as the colonel. The only other customer was a man in a coverall at the far end of the bar.

  A dour-looking bartender seemed to be listening intently to the conversation between the colonel and the thin man.

  Horton went in and took a seat at the near end of the bar. Colonel Bob looked at him with no sign of recognition. When the bartender came forward, Horton ordered a beer.

  The colonel had one eyebrow raised and was staring at the thin, gray-haired man through his invisible monocle. His ragged mustache bristled belligerently. He was saying, “I don’t care if you are a teacher of English, sir. I myself am a retired army officer. They don’t exactly turn dunces out of West Point, you know.”

  “I wasn’t inferring you lack education,” the thin man protested. “I merely said you are quite wrong if you think any word beginning with Q doesn’t require a U as its second letter. A U always follows Q.”

  The colonel turned to the dour bartender. “Do you have a dictionary, my good fellow?”

  There were three books in plain sight stacked together on the backbar: an almanac, a street guide and Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. The colonel couldn’t have helped seeing them, and Horton suspected the sight of the dictionary had inspired whatever small con game he was in the process of working.

  Horton sighed to himself. Colonel Bob couldn’t resist taking a mark when the oportunity offered, even if the potential take amounted to as little as a dime. Horton knew there was no point in interrupting the game. The colonel would give his attention to him only when the matter at hand was completed.

  The bartender lifted the dictionary from the backbar and placed it in front of the colonel. Taking out his wallet, Colonel Bob slapped a fifty-dollar bill on the bar.

  He said, “I will wager this fifty or any part of it that this dictionary defines at least one word beginning with Q whose second letter is not U.”

  The English teacher looked at him quizzically. “You’d lose your money.”

  “A calculated risk I’m prepared to take,” the colonel retorted. “Do you accept, sir?”

  The thin man looked at him for a moment more. “You said ‘defines’ the word. It isn’t some kind of abbreviation used in footnotes? It’s an actual word which Webster defines?”

  “An actual word,” the colonel assured him.

  The English teacher took out his wallet. He laid a twenty, a ten and two fives on the bar. He said to the bartender, “George, lend me ten dollars.”

  CHAPTER X

  THE BARTENDER had pulled the book toward him and had opened it to the Q’s. He was running his finger down the columns of each page, flipping the pages as he finished his examination of each.

  He said, “Just a minute, Professor,” and went on flipping pages.

  When he finished, he went back to the first page and checked it again. It didn’t take him long, as there were only seven pages in the Q section. Then he closed the book, took a ten from the cash register and slapped it on top of the English teacher’s forty dollars.

  “Want to cover some more?” he asked the colonel.

  Colonel Bob frowned at him. “You’ve already checked the book, sir.”

  “Well, you’re so doggoned sure of yourself.”

  “Very well,” the colonel said agreeably. “Possibly I’m in error, and the word I have in mind appears only in Webster’s unabridged. But I’ve already committed my troops, so I’ll back them with every gun.”

  He took another fifty from his wallet and laid it on the bar.

  The bartender said, “It has to be in this here book. It don’t count if it’s in some other dictionary.”

  “Agreed,” the colonel submitted.

  “And it has to be a defined word, like the professor said.”

  “Agreed.”

  The bartender rang up “no sale” again, took another fifty dollars from the register and slapped it on the bar.

  “Okay, mister. You just show us that word.”

  The man wearing the coverall had come forward from the far end of the bar in order to better view the betting activity. The colonel said to him, “You wish to risk a wager too, sir?”

  The man considered, then shook his head. “I’ll just watch.”

  Colonel Bob glanced down at Horton. Horton grinned and gave him a headshake.

  The colonel turned back to the bartender. “Turn to the Gazetteer in the back of the book, please.”

  “Huh?” the bartender said.

  “I didn’t say where in the dictionary the word would be found,” Colonel Bob said. “I merely stipulated that it would be defined in that book. It’s in the Gazetteer section. The word is Q-I-S-H-M, pronounced ‘Kishum.’ It’s an island in the Strait of Hormuz in South Persia.”

  The English teacher reached for the book before the bartender could get his hands on it. He opened it and riffled pages until he reached the ‘Q’ section of the Pronouncing Gazetteer. He stared at the page with his jaw hanging in surprise.

  Then he looked up as a thought struck him. “Wait a minute. This can’t be an English word. It must be Persian.”

  “Who stipulated it had to be English?” the colonel asked, picking up the money. “Certainly I didn’t. I merely said Webster defined it. Thank you, gentlemen, for a very pleasant conversation.”

  And he sauntered out of the tavern.

  Horton finished his beer and followed. The English teacher and the bartender were still staring at the door with their mouths open. The man in the coverall was grinning.

  Colonel Bob was a half-block away, strolling down Concord Avenue toward the next intersection. Horton shambled along after him with his hands in his pockets.

  At the corner the colonel took a seat on a bus-stop bench, drew the folded sport section of the Sunday newspaper from his pocket, and opened it. A few moments later Horton sank down onto the bench next to him.

  Without looking at him, the colonel said, “Sorry, my good man. Don’t believe in giving handouts. Only encourages laziness. Why can’t you work for a living, like the rest of us?”

  “Very funny,” Horton said. “Find anything?”

  “A good deal more than appeared in the newspapers,” the colonel said with a touch of self-importance. He turned his head and hiked an eyebrow to fix Horton with his invisible monocle. “Remarkable how co-operative peopl
e are with professional writers.”

  “Oh? You’re a professional writer now?”

  “True crime story free-lancer. With an assignment to cover yesterday’s murder.”

  He drew a telegram from his pocket and handed it to Horton. The sender’s address was New York City, and it was addressed to Major Herbert Walsh in care of the Rafferty House. It read:

  WIRE SERVICES REPORT MURDER RICE CITY CIVIC CRIME COMMITTEE CHAIRMAN. SINCE YOU’RE ON SCENE, CAN YOU COVER FOR FOUR THOUSAND WORD STORY. WILL PAY YOUR USUAL RATE OF TEN CENTS PER WORD PLUS EXPENSES. JUNE 30 DEADLINE. CONFIRM BY RETURN WIRE.

  AL GATES

  EDITOR FACT CRIME MAGAZINE

  Handing back the wire, Horton asked, “Who sent it?”

  “Friend of mine in New York. I phoned him long-distance at seven last night, and had the wire an hour later. Peculiar how people will accept a telegram as authentic credentials. Minute I showed it, the police threw open their files. I’m getting the real red-carpet treatment. They all hope I’ll mention them in the article, you see.”

  “Human nature,” Horton siad. “What’ve you learned?”

  “Well, for one thing, they all think you did it. Not just the police. Even the reporters I’ve talked to who aren’t inclined to favor the Manzetti mob. The papers would love to stick Manzetti with it, but the evidence against you is too strong.”

  “Yeah,” Horton said sourly. “I read the news account.”

  “I did get one encouraging bit from a reporter I lunched with today. To a man the local press is convinced that the Manzetti mob was behind that threat. They can’t say it in print, of course, because of the criminal libel laws. They went as far as they could by quoting Quincy. This reporter I lunched with says it’s quite in keeping with Tony Manzetti’s normal behavior. Describes him as a throwback to the 1920’s. An arrogant, strutting gangster who thinks he can get away with anything so long as he has his hired guns behind him. They think he probably would have had Quincy gunned eventually, if you hadn’t saved him the trouble.”