The Death of Lorenzo Jones Page 9

  There was a set of six bronze plates on the entrance door, Dr. Dallas the sixth. “Third floor,” a walk-up. If someone can walk those flights, they don’t need a doctor, Hook thought.

  SPECIALIST, it said on the heavily varnished door. The bell went ding-dong, and a pleasantly built, middle-aged blond nurse opened the door.

  Lockwood flashed his badge. “Investigator Lockwood of New York City.” That was the truth, wasn’t it, insurance investigator?

  The nurse showed him into an impressive, well-lit, oak-paneled office where a man in a white coat sat. He had gray temples and a distinguished nose. Lockwood felt he was about to be examined for the size of his wallet. So it was with these fancy specialists; doctors and lawyers were miles above safecrackers when it came to inspired larceny.

  Lockwood waved his badge again as the nurse announced, “Detective Lockwood from the New York City Police.”

  “Sit down, please,” gestured the doctor, pointing at a dark green leather chair. “I know I must open my files to the police. So I already have the file out on Lorenzo Jones.”

  He picked up a manila envelope and handed it to Lockwood. The investigator pulled out a Camel, and the nurse lit it. She probably lights spuds for this rich doctor all the time, he thought. Nice.

  The doctor smoked Chesterfields. “Better for the lungs,” he said, “as the advertisements say.” He inhaled deeply, the smoke swirled out, and he looked Lockwood over.

  “I can translate anything you might have trouble reading there.”

  So I look like an idiot, Lockwood thought. He opened the envelope and flipped the pages of graphs and charts. Well, the medical jargon was a bit deep.

  “Okay, doctor. Succinctly, what was the matter with Jones?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Oh, a moderate strain. I gave him some liniment. Nothing serious. Still, he was concerned. He was a baseball pitcher. I gave his arm a few heat treatments.”

  “Could he still pitch?”

  “As well as ever—after a month or so without strain on that arm. My diagnosis was just ‘muscle strain.’ ”

  Lockwood’s head swam as if he had been knocked with a sock full of nickels. Nothing wrong with Lorenzo’s arm! Gray wouldn’t like this at all. For days, he’d been following a false lead. All his thinking had centered around a damaged throwing arm.

  He didn’t show his chagrin. He took a slow draw on the Camel while pretending to read the rest of the doctor’s notes. His eyebrows went up when he found out what the doctor charged for a visit. There ought to be a law.

  “Mind if I keep this?” Lockwood asked.

  “Oh, definitely not, Detective Lockwood. But there’s a photostat service up the street. They can make a copy for you. While it dries you’re welcome to wait in my outer office. Miss Eastland will go make the copies for you.”

  Lockwood waited in the comfortable reception room for about twenty minutes while the nurse wiggled out to make the copies. He looked through a stack of Life magazines.

  The waiting room, empty when Lockwood entered, was filling with women in feather hats rattling their jewelry. Miss Eastland returned and handed him his copies. She gave him a big smile. If there was only more time in this life, Lockwood thought. He thanked her and left.

  It was chilly outside and Lockwood had left his scarf at home. The trip back would be cold. He walked over to a department store—Fowlers, a classy place, and bought a Merino brown wool scarf. As he was leaving the store, guilt set in. He should get Amanda something.

  What?

  Perfume. He couldn’t go wrong with that. He went back through the revolving door to the perfume counter. He was overwhelmed by the variety of little bottles. His eyes found the cheapest item, “Lamour—65¢. It wouldn’t do. That was why they had perfume ladies at the counter, to sell men the stuff a woman liked.

  The counterwoman said her name was Heidi, and could she help? She was scarcely eighteen. He smiled. She selected “Revele,” a tiny bottle—at $3.75.

  “Why can’t I buy that big bottle for $1.25?”

  She smiled sympathetically. “Believe me, sir, the quality of the scent is important. Here, smell. It’s much better than the big bottle. Madame will love this.”

  He smelled. It did smell nice. Sort of like lilacs. He bought the perfume.

  As she was wrapping it, he grew uneasy. He knew why. “Say, have you got another scent, as good as that, but different?”

  Heidi understood at once and beamed. “Ah, the gentleman has two ladies in mind? Yes, this is ‘Essence L’Arberge.’ Also $3.75. Should I wrap it, too?”

  “Yes.” Now he felt better.

  In the cover of darkness, it was easier to get back without being chased for speeding. The little light that lit up the Cord’s license plate had gone out a few days before, and Lockwood hadn’t replaced it. But he drove slower anyway on the trip back. Night driving could be tricky.

  Especially when there was some tricky thinking to do.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Just when he hit the bed the phone rang. Oh, Jesus, now what?

  “Lockwood, where have you been?” It was Gray.

  “Working.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Well, is your ‘work’ getting Transatlantic off the hook in the Jones’ death?”

  “Not yet. My theoretical killer’s motive just disappeared.”

  He filled Gray in, mentioning the crash, the thermos, and the Philadelphia doctor. “But I’m not sure now that the thermos means anything. I’m still looking for it. When I find it, I’ll check it for traces of poison.”

  “What happened to this all-revealing thermos bottle?” asked an exasperated Gray.

  “Don’t know. If there was a killer, he probably took it.”

  “Then how on earth will you find it? It’s probably destroyed.”

  “I’ll find it. I have a hunch that the killer didn’t take it.”

  “What do you mean? Is it lost in the grass? Did you look around?”

  “Thoroughly. No, I think someone’s covering up for someone else here. I know that somebody wants to get rid of me real bad.”

  “One of your ‘hunches,’ Lockwood?”

  “Maybe. I don’t like the runaround I’ve been getting. Nobody knows anything.”

  “Well, find that thermos. Do whatever you have to do, but—what would happen if you bought a thermos and put, say, a trace of poison in it, and then planted it, Lockwood?”

  “Why, Mr. Gray, that would be illegal.”

  “It might flush your quarry, Lockwood. Sometimes a gentleman has to rise to the occasion. I expect results—soon. How you get them is no concern to me. Understand?”

  Click, the line went dead.

  Lockwood called Amanda. The phone rang only once before she picked it up.

  “Bill, there’s been someone outside my building all morning. A big guy. What should I do?” She sounded scared, breathless.

  “How big? No, never mind. Lock the door, and—do you have a gun?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Load it and use it if you have to. I’m coming right over. Don’t answer the door, and don’t stand near the window. I’m coming.”

  He hung up. Women had a way of getting knocked off in his life. Quite a few times he had lost someone he was sleeping with, and once it had been his fault. He burned rubber.

  This time he would have his gun out. He parked a block away and slinked along the hedges up to the house. A dog was barking in the distance.

  No one seemed to be prowling around. No cars were parked nearby. Except for a footprint Lockwood found in the flower bed by the window, everything seemed all right.

  “Open up, it’s me,” he said at the door.

  Amanda opened it a crack, then wide. She threw herself into his arms, holding a little silver gun.

  “Oh, Bill! They left. A minute ago.”

  “Too bad. I had a present for them. Jesus, woul
d you put that nasty little derringer away?”

  “Oops, sorry.”

  She went inside with him and placed the gun on the coffee table.

  “How about yours?” she asked, looking down at his hand.

  Lockwood holstered his gun in the spring clip at his waist.

  From Amanda’s description, it sounded like Half-Pint and Killer Dumbrowsky had been the mysterious prowlers. Walter-the-Waiter must have been waiting in the car.

  Maybe they had wanted to plant another bomb or throw one in the window but had been scared away. Lockwood checked out the house from basement to attic. Then they made love. Amanda seemed as aroused by danger as she had been by speeding—or she was simply the most uninhibited female Lockwood ever met.

  They knew each other’s body now. And that made it even better.

  Lockwood took Amanda up to O’Malley’s on Swing Street for lunch. The plates weren’t fancy, but the service was quick and the red-and-white checkered tablecloths were clean. The beer was good, and the glasses weren’t dainty little things. Amanda could really put it away.

  “I’ve been starving all day,” she explained apologetically. “It’s not lady-like to eat like a horse, I know.”

  “Nonsense,” Lockwood said. He ate two steaks to her one. They say sex makes you hungry. They were right.

  When they had finished, he called Sheer, who had more information. It seemed that neither Wade nor Cynthia Jones needed money; they were both loaded. Lockwood groaned. This case was getting worse and worse. Sheer had another hot tip: Wade was going out to the Polo Grounds. If Lockwood wanted to surprise the guy, he’d better get to the stadium around 2 P.M.

  Lockwood asked Amanda if she wanted to go with him to get another look at Cyrus Wade.

  “Yes,” she answered. “But why do you like seeing Wade so much?”

  “I don’t know. I guess he’s like a reptile at the zoo. He’s so ugly I keep going back for another look. I don’t believe my eyes. And I know, like a reptile, he’s deadly. I’m just waiting to see his little pointed tongue lash out.”

  “Gives me the shudders,” Amanda said. “But I want to be with you today, Bill.”

  “Well, come with me, baby. I want to be with you, too.”

  They drove to the Polo Grounds. Lockwood was thinking about Robin. What would he do if Amanda and Robin met? Well, he didn’t sleep with Robin, so what did Amanda have to get jealous about? Still, he had taken Robin out.

  The Polo Grounds weren’t as blustery this time, and his hat stayed firmly in place. With Amanda at his side, he walked the now familiar route through the underground passage and came up near the dugout. The coach was there, standing with Wade. They were arguing about money. Wade had a small white bandage at the end of each of his ten fingers.

  “Hello,” Lockwood said.

  Wade turned around and sneered, “Lockwood! You. I’m going to throw you out of here—Medelsohn, call a guard.”

  “Hold it, Medelsohn. This is a friendly visit. See? I brought a date. Don’t bother calling security.”

  Wade coughed and looked Lockwood up and down a few times, but saw there was no need to fight now. Nothing would happen here.

  The coach came over and shook hands. A second later, a player, “Sykes” it said on his jacket, came in. He was rubbing his left ear as if it were bruised. He smiled when he saw Amanda. She nodded.

  Johnny Sykes was a catcher. Six-foot-six inches tall, blond, blue-eyed. He looked like an idealized portrait of the American athlete.

  It had been a bad-breaks season for the team. Sykes, an excellent catcher, had made some spectacular plays and saved the day, Medelsohn said by way of introduction.

  Wade grudgingly acknowledged Sykes’ presence. He appeared to be in a hurry to leave. Lockwood wondered what there was about Sykes’ presence that made Wade so uncomfortable.

  Lockwood introduced Amanda, and Sykes grinned stupidly, smitten by Amanda’s looks. Wade kept eyeing his hat hanging on the wall rack. He was an ugly reptile, all right. Lockwood could have shivered just watching his eyes.

  Sykes had known Jones pretty well, it turned out. That surprised Lockwood. He had been told that Jones was a loner. The investigator decided to question Sykes before something violent happened to him.

  Wade finally found a chair and took it. He brought up Doc. “I heard about what happened to Carruthers. Did you?” He looked accusingly at Lockwood.

  “Lieutenant Brannigan was here,” said the coach, “an hour ago. He urgently wants to see you, Mr. Lockwood. He said if you showed up I was to tell you that.”

  “Did Brannigan say anything else?”

  Wade narrowed his eyes at Lockwood. “Only that someone had tortured Doc before he shot him in the head.” He jammed his fingers farther into his pockets.

  Lockwood turned to Medelsohn. “Listen, did Brannigan say anything else?”

  “Well,” offered Medelsohn, “he did ask me if I knew anyone with a German accent. I don’t know why.”

  Ah, my call about Doc’s death, the investigator thought. He smiled but said nothing.

  “To change the subject,” Hook said, “is it true, Mr. Wade, that you have doubled Robin’s salary?”

  Wade squirmed in his seat, but finally spat out, “Yes, damn it. I’m so seldom in the office—she has to assume extra responsibilities. So I doubled it—satisfied?”

  “That lets you off the hook,” Lockwood said.

  The coach looked from one to the other, not understanding this exchange. Then he fell into a lament about how awful it was that Doc had met his death. Sykes chimed in, and even Wade gave a brief eulogy about the kindly doctor.

  It was sickening. Then Johnny had to leave, so Lockwood took Amanda by the hand, and together they walked the baseball catcher toward the parking lot.

  Lockwood asked questions on the way. Sykes, walking rapidly, half-whispered, “Not here. I’ll tell you what I know once we’re in my car.”

  The three entered the lot and walked over to Sykes’ brown Nash. Sykes put the key in the door and was turning it when there was the crack of a rifle report that echoed through the walls of the stadium.

  Lockwood grabbed at Amanda, and they hit the ground.

  Sykes was already on the ground, a big ugly hole in his head.

  Lockwood dragged Amanda against the car on the side away from the shot. Then he crawled over to Sykes.

  The catcher was very dead. Blood oozed out of a bullet wound in his left temple that left his brains exposed. His eyes stared blankly into the beyond. Lockwood felt sick.

  CHAPTER

  16

  The single rifle shot had come from the window on the scoreboard. A tiny puff of white smoke was dissipating near the open window.

  Lockwood pulled the right-hand Nash door open, shoved Amanda in, then followed. He rolled the window down and pulled the key from the door, slamming it into the ignition. He depressed the clutch and started the car. They screeched away as another shot shattered the rear window. Shards of glass flew through the air like shrapnel.

  “Keep down, damn it!”

  Amanda slouched down and so did Lockwood. Another shot hit the fender. They were almost at the end of the parking lot. Lockwood saw the little booth where the parking attendant sat would block the car from sight of the window with the rifle. He swerved the Nash, put her in reverse, and backed behind the structure. Unless the sniper changed location, they were safe. He left the engine running.

  Poor Johnny Sykes. Lockwood got out his .38 and left Amanda with a kiss in the Nash. He found a phone in the little booth and called Jimbo.

  Brannigan said, “I’m on the way, but if this is some sort of joke—”

  “I’m serious,” Lockwood answered. “On my mother’s—” “On my way.” There was a click.

  Together, Jimbo and Lockwood found the rifle in the room behind the big scoreboard, where a man usually sat during the games and posted the big black and white numbers of the scores.

  The rifle had been wiped clean of pr
ints. It might be traceable. Probably not.

  No one had seen anything, though everyone had heard the shots. They questioned the five guys who had been working on the scaffolding for the new lighting system, then Wade and the security man.

  Nothing.

  The five workmen didn’t know where the others had been at the time of the shooting; Wade and the coach hadn’t been within sight of each other either. Seven suspects, plus the possibility of an unknown eighth—and not one with an alibi.

  Jimbo had a team of 2nd Division patrolmen comb the stadium.

  Later, after retrieving Amanda, Lockwood sat with Brannigan in the cop’s tiny office. Another body. Another mystery.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have developed a German accent in the past few days, would you, Hook?”

  Lockwood said, “Why, what do you mean?”

  “Wherever you go, Hook, there’s trouble. You’re a jinx.”

  Amanda reached over and put her hand in Lockwood’s.

  “Ah, true love again. Heaven praise you both. Good luck, lady. You’ll need it.”

  It went on like that. Lockwood insisted that he was incapable of even imitating a German accent, and that he had no idea who killed Doc. He kept Robin’s ring pushed deep in his pocket. He did tell Brannigan of the prowler around Amanda’s house.

  “Half-Pint again,” Brannigan muttered.

  “Yes. And a big friend of his, probably a mug by the name of Dumbrowsky.”

  “Hook, not that insane wrestler, the one that was thrown out of the racket because—”

  “The same.” Lockwood didn’t want Amanda to hear the details of how Dumbrowsky was banned from wrestling for twisting a man’s head off in the ring out in Chicago. She had had enough gruesomeness for one day.

  “Well, Hook, you are really up to your neck in it this time, aren’t you? What do you propose we do about it?”