Blonde Bait for the Murder Master

Joyce gave me a quick look of contempt and stumped up the stairs. Seconds later I heard the distant slam of the front door.

I stood with my hands flat against the concrete wall. I thought of all the men I had seen in the police lineup. They let the silence add up.

“You had to get smart,” Brock said wearily. “And I thought you were okay.”

“Smart?” I asked. “How?”

Whitey took two slow steps toward me. Fletcher said sharply, “Hold it!” He circled Whitey and stood a few feet in front of me, his thumbs stuck in the bottom pockets of his vest. “You’re a smart looking boy, Gage,” he said gently. “And I understand you can handle yourself. Both of those things are advantages, you know. We were beginning to trust you, too.”

Inside of me the fear grew like a swollen boil — and then it broke, and when it went away I was once again clear-headed, able to figure angles. “It would help a little,” I said, “if I knew what you were talking about.”

Fletcher sighed in an elephantine manner. “I am talking about a young man who fell under the spell of a vicious woman. I am talking about a young man who is too big for his pants.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“My boy, part of our efficiency as an organization is the result of employing constant checks and balances. In the employ of the syndicate is a humble stenographer in the police department. Through him we learned this noon that a certain Miss Robinson in the District Attorney’s office has turned in a rather complete report on the operations and organizational setup of this Murrisberg branch. They plan a raid for the day after tomorrow.

“I immediately brought Whitey and young Cowlfax down here by private plane to talk the situation over with Mr. Sentano. It is obvious to us that you gave the information to Miss Robinson. Then we wondered why; we could not imagine why you would wish to disrupt your own income for a period of a few weeks until we could get back in operation at some new location. Mr. Sentano remarked on your recent attraction to our Miss Garron.

“He also remarked on your behaviour lately, which, at the very least, has seemed odd. We have discussed this matter, and it seems likely that you and Miss Garron could hope to improve your positions through the setting up of an alternate organization which would replace the syndicate here in Murrisberg.

“I know of no outside organization interested in this city at the moment, so I am assuming that you two have found local backers and... ah... local gunmen to protect you from us during the starting period.”

He paused and smiled fatuously at me.

I didn’t answer, so he said, “Mind you, we are not ones lightly to give up a source of income which nets us around four hundred thousand a year. You were stupid to believe that we would give it up without a fight. A very... ah... dirty fight, I might say. A fight in which we would be glad to... murder someone as an example.”

He turned and beamed at the young punk. “Cowlfax here would be glad to do a job for a price which includes immediate transportation to a pleasant tropical country where they do not practice extradition, wouldn’t you, Jimmy?”

“Sure,” Jimmy mumbled.

“And so you see, my dear Brian, your premise was false from the beginning. However, we are prepared to forgive and forget. Does that surprise you? Yes, forgive and forget. Merely give me the names of your backers, and those in your organization, and we will keep you on, but switch you, of course, to some other part of the state, and, I am afraid, at a reduced income, my boy.”

“Why are you so certain of all this?”

His eyes widened. “Why because of Miss Garron, of course! She is... ah... clever, and we were asleep at the switch, you might say. When she saw my arrival by taxi from the airport, she comprehended immediately and... fled.”

Denial would bring Whitey in on me. There was something rabid and unclean about Whitey, something about the way his fat white fingers worked, and his look of sadness. I needed time more than anything.

I smiled at Fletcher. “Assume for a moment that you are right, Mr. Fletcher. And make the further assumption that I am a hired boy, with Anna Garron bossing the job. Would I know as much as you expect me to know?”

He rubbed his big chin and looked reflective. “You make a point, sir.” Then he smiled broadly. “And would it not be equally wise for you to pretend to be a hired boy, as you call it, so as to prevent Whitey from working on you a bit?”

That angle had failed to pan out. I thought it over. A denial would bring Whitey in on me. I had learned during the war that torture is a great deal more effective than the average man would like to believe; and Whitey had the same look that the fat Jap in charge of the water cure had at the Rangoon Prison.

I gave Fletcher a frank smile. “Okay, Mr. Fletcher. You hold the cards. You’ve read them right, believe me.” I looked beyond him, and said, “Sorry, Brock.”

Fletcher turned around quickly. Brock was pale. “He’s being wise, Fletch.”