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Crows Can't Count Page 11
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“Hello, Donald,” he said. “What’s the good word?”
“Not much of anything.”
“How’s Bertha?”
“Same as usual.”
He pushed a cigar into his mouth but didn’t light it. “Want a cigar?” he asked.
“No, thanks.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Oh, I just dropped in. We don’t see much of you any more.”
“I’m off Homicide now.”
“You used to run in once in a while.”
“On business.”
“We don’t bite.”
“The hell you don’t,” he said bitterly. “Bertha was all right until you came along. She was plodding along making a living out of routine work. You jerked her into high finance.”
“She’s made money,” I said.
“She’s made money, but the higher-ups in the department are uneasy about the whole setup. They look down their noses whenever your name is mentioned.”
“That bad?” I asked.
He nodded gloomily and said, “I’ve got a career to think of. I get to fooling around and get friendly with you folks and then you’ll probably pull one of your fast ones, get caught, and I’m in a spot.”
He chewed at his cigar.
“Suppose I don’t get caught.”
“You will.”
“Suppose I’m not doing anything illegal.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I haven’t so far, you know.”
“You haven’t been caught.”
“I haven’t done anything illegal.”
He said, “It isn’t that, Lam. You’re like a boat going full speed ahead through a mine field. You know the channel so damn well you know just where you can go and just where you can’t go. You know the law. While you may keep within it, you’re so damn close to the edge it takes a microscope to prove you haven’t slipped over, once in a while. One of these days you’ll strike a mine and go boom. I don’t want to get blown up with you.”
I said, “Well, I was away for quite a while.”
“Sure, you were away,” he said bitterly, “but what happened? You’d inoculated Bertha with delusions of grandeur. She thought she was all set for the big time. I like Bertha. There’s nothing mushy about her. She’s straight from the shoulder. You know where you stand. Believe it or not, she’d make some guy a great wife when she wanted to settle down. Nobody would ever shortchange her. How old is she, Donald?”
I said, “I don’t know. I’ve known her four or five years and she looks just about the same. I’d place her somewhere between thirty-five and forty.” I lowered an eyelid.
“Well, that’s not old,” he said belligerently. “I’m forty myself, and I feel just as young as I ever did.”
“You look it too.”
“Nuts! What the hell’s the idea of all the baloney. What do you want?”
I said, “A man by the name of Cameron was murdered yesterday.”
“Yeah, I know all about it.”
“Sergeant Sam Buda is working on the case.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Cameron was one of two trustees under a will.”
“Who’s the other one?”
“Harry Sharples.”
“You working for him?”
“We were.”
“Job all finished?”
“As far as I’m concerned it is. He wants us to do something else for him.”
“What?”
“Apparently act as bodyguard.”
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“The hell you wouldn’t.”
I looked innocent and Sellers chewed the end of his cigar to soggy ribbons. “Damn you, Donald, you’re a deep one. You could get a guy in trouble, if he played along with you.”
“Not a friend. I never get a friend in trouble.”
He scratched his thick, wavy hair and said, “What do you want?”
I said, “Sharples seems to be worried.”
“About what?”
“I tell you I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, what do you expect me to do? Get clairvoyant or something?”
I said, “Sharples and Cameron were trustees under the will of Cora Hendricks. There’s quite a bit of money in the kitty. There are two beneficiaries, a girl named Shirley Bruce and a man named Robert Hockley.”
“So what?”
“So,” I said, “the trustees are strong for Shirley but they think they have to slap Robert on the wrist. Shirley could get all the dough she wanted. Robert couldn’t, not until the trust was terminated.”
Sellers took the cigar out of his mouth and spat into a big brass cuspidor. He said, “You’d be surprised how cold all that stuff leaves me.”
I said, “The trust is terminated when the beneficiaries reach a certain age. At that time the trustees can either give them the money or buy them an annuity.”
“Uh-huh.”
“My best guess is that the beneficiaries would rather have the dough all in a lump sum. I think I would.”
“Nobody’s asking you.”
I said, “There’s one other event that would terminate the trust.”
“What?”
“The death of both trustees.”
He frowned at me for a minute, then suddenly jerked up to quick attention. “How’s that?”
I said, “In the event both trustees die, the whole chunk of dough would automatically be distributed to the two beneficiaries, share and share alike.”
“How much?”
“A couple of hundred thousand.”
The end of the cigar wiggled and wobbled as Sellers began nervously eating it up.
“So you come to me?” he said.
“So I come to you.”
He clamped his teeth down on the wet cigar and ripped off some of the soggy tobacco, spat it into the cuspidor, and regarded the frayed end. “What do you want?”
“Interesting thing about the murder,” I said. “Cameron had a pet crow by the name of Pancho. Cameron was killed while he was holding the telephone. A .22 caliber revolver was on the table in front of him. One chamber had been fired. I wonder what he shot at.”
Sellers shrugged.
I said, “I was there with Sharples when he found the body, I looked around a bit. I didn’t see any place where the .22 could have struck. I understand the police haven’t been able to find any bullet holes.”
“You think maybe someone’s wearing a .22 caliber bullet around?”
“I understand that’s the police theory.”
Sellers chewed on his cigar again and ran one hand through his wavy hair. “I’ll tell you something, Donald—don’t tell anybody who told you, for there’s no need stubbing your toe.”
“What?”
“The .22 bullet mark has been found.”
“Cameron shot at someone and missed?”
Sellers shook his head. “He shot up at the roof. Looks as though he tried to pull a fast one but he wasn’t a good enough shot.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was a hole up there that the crow could use going in or out—a hole that was right up under the gable.”
I nodded.
“Now,” Sellers said, “if the boys had found that .22 revolver with one shot fired and the room all closed up, they’d naturally have figured something must have been on the receiving end of the bullet. And if they couldn’t have found the bullet, they’d have thought perhaps Cameron had taken a shot at somebody, maybe in self-defense.”
I nodded.
Sellers said, “Whoever fired that gun evidently aimed at that hole, hoping the bullet would go out into the blue sky. But it was a miss. The bullet was found embedded right at the edge of that hole.”
I creased my forehead in a frown to let Sellers know I was thinking. Sellers waited for me to say something and when I didn’t, he went on: “You can see what happened. Cameron had a gun. It was only a .22, but just the same it was a
gun. He was killed by someone who had a knife. If Cameron had shot the gun, the logical conclusion would be that he’d been aiming at the person who had the knife. That would make it a fight.”
“How come?”
“If he’d shot the gun, it would have been fired before the knife went home. According to the autopsy surgeon, Cameron didn’t do anything after that knife slid into his pump. Now if he’d been the one to open festivities with a gun, the person who used the knife might have been acting in self-defense.”
“So you think the murderer fired the shot?”
“Exactly,” Sellers said. “The murderer was someone Cameron knew pretty well, someone in whom Cameron had confidence. Cameron was sitting in his chair telephoning. The murderer was standing right close to him. Perhaps the murderer didn’t like what he was saying over the telephone. Perhaps the murderer had been waiting for the right moment. But he slipped a knife out of a sheath, waited for the proper moment, and then stuck it into Cameron. Cameron fell down out of the chair and the guy who’d committed the murder calmly opened the drawer, where he knew Cameron kept the .22 automatic, walked over to stand just above where Cameron was lying on the floor, aimed at the hole, pulled the trigger, and then put the gun on the table. He hoped that he’d sent the bullet out through the hole, but he missed it about an inch.”
“High or low or to one side?”
“High.”
“You think it was the murderer?”
“We think it was the man who committed the murder.”
“Or the woman?”
He looked at me and then said, slowly and rather dubiously, “Or the woman who committed the murder.”
“What makes you think it was the murderer who fired the gun?”
“We took a paraffin test of Cameron’s hands. There were no powder particles present.”
“Fingerprints?”
“No.”
“How about fingerprints on the gun?”
“Some smudged fingerprints.”
“You mean the gun had been wiped?”
“No—that is, it hadn’t been wiped clean. The killer might have wrapped a handkerchief around the gun butt when the trigger was pulled. Donald, what the hell do you want?”
I said, “I want to go to South America.”
“So do I.”
“I mean I want to leave right now.”
“What have I got to do with it?”
I said, “You’re going to get me my passport.”
“You’re crazy.”
I said, “Oh, no, I’m not. You’re going to take down that telephone and call the passport division at the State Department and tell them who you are and tell them I’m working on a murder case and that you have every confidence in me—that you’d like to have my passport rushed through.”
“You’re crazy.”
I shook my head.
“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t do any good.”
“If you used the right line, it would do some good.”
“What does Bertha say to this?”
“She doesn’t know anything about it.”
“Who’s sending you to South America?”
“I’m on my own.”
“What the hell’s down there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you going?”
I said, “Robert Hockley is going. He’s one of the beneficiaries of the Cora Hendricks trust. Most of the properties belonging to the trust are down there in Colombia.”
“You mean you want to shadow him?”
“I just want to go down to Colombia.”
“And what happens to me? I pull your chestnuts out of the fire and then what?”
“You get a chestnut.”
“Too hot to handle,” Sellers complained.
“You could let it cool off as long as you wanted.”
“How do I know you’re going to pull any chestnuts out of the fire?”
I grinned and said, “You’re getting us mixed. You were the one that was going to pull the chestnuts for me. Remember?”
Sellers said, “Hang it, Donald, I front for you and then something happens and I’m caught—”
“You won’t get caught. Nothing’s going to happen. Don’t you want a report on what Hockley does in Colombia?”
“I don’t see why I should.”
“Any reason why you shouldn’t?”
“If you found out anything, would you tell me? Without holding out a damn thing?”
I grinned and shook my head.
“I thought not.”
“But when I find out who murdered Robert Cameron, I’ll tell you and you can make the pinch.”
“On the strength of your say-so.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll give you the dope. You can check it.”
Sellers hesitated.
“After all,” I said, “you really don’t have anything to lose. You know as well as I do that the Police Department won’t pay the expenses of someone to go chasing around South America, simply because Robert Hockley is going. This is a chance for you to have someone on the job at no expense to the department. You can always alibi your way out of it if you have to. You won’t have to.”
Sellers jerked the cigar out of his mouth, banged it into the cuspidor.
“Did I ever give you a cross?” I asked.
“You’ve cut corners.”
“But you never lost any bets on me. I always had you in at the finish.”
Captain Sellers heaved a sigh and reached for the telephone. “Whom do I call?”
“The passport department at the office of the Secretary of State,” I said. “And you’d better make it good and strong. If you’re going to do it at all, you might as well do it well.”
Chapter Thirteen:—NOT A HALFWAY GIRL
IT WAS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON when I got to Shirley Bruce’s apartment.
She greeted me in the doorway with a soft hand in mine and eyes that were as affectionate as a dog’s tongue.
She said, “I suppose you’re surprised I sent for you?”
“My business is full of surprises.”
“There’s something about you that inspires confidence.”
“Thanks.”
She left her hand in mine and gently pushed me out into the hallway. She was dressed in a rayon blouse and sharkskin slacks that emphasized her slender waist, the smooth long curve of her hips. A deep V in the front of the blouse gave a glimpse of smooth olive skin and rounded contours.
She kept her hand in mine, moved closer to me, said in a low voice, “My friend is here. Wait a while before you talk. I’ll get rid of her.” Then in a louder voice she said, “Won’t you come in, please?”
I entered the room.
A woman bolstered up with pillows was lying on the couch, covered with a bright-colored afghan, her head turned partially from me so that I saw only dark hair and the curve of a cheek.
“Do sit down,” Shirley Bruce said, and then added, “My friend is a little under the weather. She’s had a very embarrassing experience. Juanita, dear, I want to present Mr. Lam, the friend I was telling you about.”
The figure on the couch stirred, then sat up, and with a sudden surge of strength the afghan was thrown off. There was a quick flash of legs that were not in the least unattractive. Then eyes were glaring daggers at me and Juanita Grafton spat out words filled with venom.
“He was there when she poisoned me. Perhaps he had a hand in it. He is a friend of hers. Do not trust that man. It is I who tell you—”
“Shut up!” Shirley Bruce snapped at her.
Juanita Grafton became silent at Shirley’s command. Shirley Bruce turned to me.
I said, “I’ve seen Mrs. Grafton before. I was calling on her daughter. Mrs. Grafton ate some poisoned candy while I was there.”
Shirley Bruce kept her large dark eyes fixed on me. “What were you doing with Dona?” she asked, the words evenly spaced as though she were dictating the question to a stenographer
.
“I was investigating the murder of Robert Cameron.”
“Why?”
“Largely to save my own skin. The police knew that I had been with Sharples when the body was discovered. They don’t like to have private detectives discover bodies.”
“And why Dona Grafton? Do you suspect her?”
I shrugged. “I cannot divulge the sources of my information.”
“You went to her to question her?”
“You might put it that way.”
“Did she know why?”
“She knew I wanted information.”
“Did she know your-name?”
“She thought I was a newspaper reporter.”
“But how could you explain calling on her?”
“Because she had taken Robert Cameron’s crow to keep. That gave me a good entering wedge—the crow, you see.”
“Oh.”
It was one short word, but there was expression in it. And she was smiling now. Her eyes were once more looking at me with caressing invitation.
Juanita Grafton started rattling off Spanish.
Shirley Bruce turned to her and said in English, “Oh, shut up. You make me sick. When it comes to sweets, you’re just a plain hog. You guzzled down too much candy and it made you sick. I don’t think it was even poisoned.”
Mrs. Grafton said, “I was sick. I fell down. I was taken to a hospital. They put a tube into my stomach. I was very sick.”
“Well, you’re all right now. Quit playing the invalid. I’m tired, of it. How about making us some tea?”
Obediently Mrs. Grafton got to her feet, neatly folded the afghan, and silently left the room.
Shirley said in a low voice, “She’s Spanish. They have the devil’s own temper. You know, South American. She’s the wife of a mining engineer who was killed in the mine that I’m interested in. Indirectly. Part of the trust properties, you know.”
“How long has she been in this country?”
“Oh, she comes and goes. She’ll live here for a while and then return to Colombia. When she’s here, she likes to play the lady. But I understand that when she’s back in Colombia she has to do the work of a servant. She’ll work and save enough to come to the States and—But let’s not talk about her. There are other things.”