Snowball in Hell - lanyon Josh (читать книги без TXT) 📗
Nathan replied, «No.»
«Okay.» Spain nodded politely, and Nathan rose, picking up his hat. «We'll be in touch,» Spain added.
Nathan nodded and went out. The door swung gently closed behind him.
He expected to be followed, and although he could see no sign of a tail, he took it for granted that he was shadowed. It didn't present an immediate problem. Stopping for breakfast at a diner, he treated himself to eggs and bacon, not because he was hungry but because he knew he had to keep his energy up. He paid with cash and his red stamp coupons– practically the first he'd used since getting back-and then had a cup of real coffee, watching through the Christmas-painted windows as a phalanx of P-38 Lightnings headed out toward the ocean.
Despite his fatigue, he needed to get over to the paper. He felt weirdly numb, but when he thought of the night before in Pershing Square, he knew he wasn't nearly numb enough. And when he was that numb the best thing would be to take that liberated Walther Paratrooper Harry Ryan had given him, put it in his mouth, and pull the trigger.
He rubbed his forehead tiredly, thought about Mathew Spain. Thought about the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice when he'd said, «What did you need?»
For a minute he let himself believe what he thought he'd seen, but it was too dangerous to kid himself about that.
Finishing his coffee, he left the restaurant. He would go to the paper, and he'd turn in some kind of story on the Arlen investigation, and then he'd try again to find Pearl Jarvis.
* * * *
«Well, well, Jonesy said. «I think we have a winner.»
Matt looked up, distracted from his own thoughts. «Is that so? What do you think Doyle's motive is?»
«It'll turn up soon enough. He's a cool customer, but it'll turn up.»
They both knew motive was the least important element in putting together a case. People killed for all kinds of reasons that didn't make any sense to other people. If the means and opportunity were there, you could generally come up with a motive that would serve to convince a jury. All the same, Matt preferred his prime suspects to have strong and compelling reasons for their crimes. He preferred to believe in their guilt as he built his case.
Jonesy said, «He tried to protect Arlen's wife. Could there be something there?»
«No.» Matt realized that was too final. «I doubt it.» At the expression on Jonesy's face, he said, «We've got plenty of suspects. Don't make your mind up too fast.»
«It's mighty convenient him walking out of the club the same time as the Arlen kid. If he wasn't the last person to see Arlen alive, he was damn close to it.»
Matt said slowly, «He's not well. Not strong. I'm pretty sure Arlen wouldn't have gone with him without a fight, and I don't think Doyle could have taken him.»
«According to Doc Mason the Arlen kid had a bruise on his jaw.»
«That doesn't sound like much of a fight.»
Jonesy admitted reluctantly, «I guess if they'd actually tangled, Doyle would be carrying a few bruises. Of course, he could have taken him at gun point.»
«True,» Matt said thoughtfully. «Or maybe the kid wasn't beat up because he went willingly with his kidnappers.»
«If there was a kidnapping.»
The Arlen case was little more than forty-eight hours old, but Matt was already taking heat from above to get it solved. Of course, technically the case was Jonesy's, but from the minute the victim had been identified as Phil Arlen, Matt had been acting as lead investigator. There was too much hanging on it. The Arlens were important people according to Police Chief Clarence B. Horrall, and the least LAPD could do was get the kidnapping and homicide of their youngest son solved in a timely fashion. Matt was treading carefully. Most of the suspects in young Arlen's murder were wealthy and influential people-a number of them also Arlens-and this was the kind of case that could destroy a promising police career if the officer in charge didn't play his cards exactly right.
«A botched kidnapping isn't a bad cover for a murder,» Matt agreed with a wry smile. «Especially if the killer walked away with a hundred thousand dollars.»
«Assuming Bob Arlen delivered that ransom money.»
«Assuming Bob Arlen didn't knock off his baby brother himself.»
«He had plenty of provocation,» Jonesy agreed. «From what I can make out there was no love lost between those two. Phil was the apple of the old man's eye, and never did a damn
thing to deserve it according to just about everyone who ever knew him.»
«Bob Arlen doesn't have much of an alibi. He was supposedly home alone Saturday night while his wife was at the ballet enjoying The Nutcracker Suite with two other couples.»
Jonesy nodded. «He could have waited outside the club for him. Seems likely big brother could get close to Philip without arousing a lot of suspicion, and even with a bum leg, he's a big, powerful guy.»
Matt agreed. «And if the wife did get home and discover Bob gone, she'd lie her head off. That dame's crazy for him. Even the muckrakers admit she didn't marry him for his dough. Not that he has a lot of his own. The old man controls the purse strings»
Jonesy scratched his nose reflectively. «All the same, Bob Arlen doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who would fool around with an antique pistol. If he was going to kill baby brother my guess is he'd just use his service revolver.»
Matt nodded to himself, «You're right. We can't forget about that gun. Who the hell walks around packing an antique pistol?»
«Where would Doyle have got such a thing?»
«Where would anybody?» Matt mulled this over. «The old man, Benedict Arlen, collects antiques and western memorabilia. Find out if he's got a gun collection.»
Jonesy's eye brightened. «Now you're talking!»
«Uh huh. The real question is where is that gat now? If we could find it-«
Jonesy shook his head. «I'm guessing that gun's buried way down deep in the tar with all those dinosaur bones.»
«Even if the pistol did come from a collection belonging to Benedict Arlen, it doesn't exactly narrow our field of suspects. Just about everybody except Doyle probably had access to it: Bob Arlen, Claire Arlen, and, possibly, Claire's brother Carl Winters.»
«Winters is supposed to have a hot temper,» Jonesy said. «And there have been rumors for years that some of those fancy books he sells aren't the genuine article.»
Matt contemplated Jonesy's homely face. The blackmail angle. They couldn't get away from it. Suppose Phil had known-had proof-that Carl faked the fine, the rare, and the antiquarian? He said slowly, «That fancy bookstore Carl Winters owns is full of antiques. Let's bring in Winters,» he said. «I wouldn't want him to think we were neglecting his side of the family.»
Jonesy nodded, turned to leave the office, and paused. «You sure you don't want Doyle followed?»
«I'm sure,» Matt said.
* * * *
In a kind of creative fever Doyle typed up a story from the standpoint of doomed young Phil Arlen, and handed it in to Whitey Whitlock. It wasn't journalism; it was more suitable to Black Mask than the Tribune-Herald, but Whitlock read it, whistled, and offered Doyle one of his rare snaggled-toothed smiles.
«Well, it's certainly a new angle,» was all he said.
«I thought I'd head over to Griffith Park Observatory and see if I could pick up the trail,» Doyle said.
Whitlock considered this, and then nodded. Nathan hadn't worked for him long, but he had the kind of track record that inclined Whitlock to give him his head and let him run.
«Thanks,» Nathan said, and turned away.
«You all right, Doyle?» Whitlock growled, and Nathan turned back, startled.
«Fine,» he said.
Whitlock considered this, not appearing particularly convinced-or particularly concerned-and he turned back to the mountain of paperwork on his desk.
