The Brass Cupcake Page 8

  He tried to give me the bleak eye. “It wouldn’t work,” he said. But his voice was thin.

  “What happened?”

  “After you hung up I wasn’t going to go. Then I decided what the hell. I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep anyway. I’d taken one of the sedans home with me, so that made it easier. I parked down from Belle-Anne with the lights out and the motor running. I guess I got there about quarter after two. You know how sleepy a man gets waiting. All of a sudden I heard a starter and then that big Buick comes busting out the drive and swings south with the tires yelling. I stalled the motor and it took me a minute to get going. It looked to me like he turned toward the beach bridge. By the time I got to the corner I couldn’t see him anyplace. I cruised around and after a long time I thought I saw the Buick parked close to that Gulf station this side of the bridge. I went by and walked back. I felt the tail pipe. It was still hot. He wasn’t anyplace around. I waited for a while and then I went home.”

  “So you stall the car and he’s dead!”

  “Lay off, Cliff.”

  “The municipal pier is a good five hundred yards north of that Gulf station. If you hadn’t been too damn sleepy and lazy to walk around…”

  “Sure. Which way was I going to walk, though? You figure that out.”

  He was right. I gave him a tired smile. “O.K., Harry. It was just one of those things. I was going to follow him myself, and then I thought it would be better to have somebody in an official capacity in on it. We both made mistakes.”

  “How did you know there might be trouble?” he demanded.

  He turned quickly toward the sink and I let the door swing shut. Heels with metal reinforcements clacked loudly on the tile floor.

  “How goes it, Harry?” a heavy voice said. I recognized it as Powy’s.

  “Ain’t this a hell of a morning?” Harry said.

  “Maybe it won’t be too bad,” Powy said. “I’m beginning to get a line on this thing. You ask me, I don’t think it’s tied up with the Stegman thing at all. That Franklin woman, she won’t say nothing, but I find out they went to a beer joint last night and she runs out with some other fella. Now I got an old girl lives across from the Belle-Anne. She tells me there was a hell of a battle out on the grass in front of the place around two o’clock last night. Suppose this Franklin, scrapping over his wife, gets conked too hard and it kills him. Maybe she was beatin’ on her hubby’s head while the boy friend holds onto him. So they load the body in the car and take it down to where we found it in that gas station. Then they carry him over and toss him in the bay. The tide is going out. But the luck is bad. The tide carries him along and the body hits the pier. Something tells me we crack this one today and we find it’s got nothing to do with the old lady’s busted head.”

  “How about the time of death?” Harry asked weakly.

  “The guy runs the beer joint says that just as they closed, and that was right at one o’clock, this Franklin was having a hamburg. That’s a break. Doc can check the stomach contents and pin it down inside of ten minutes either way. He’s working on it now over to Stackson’s.”

  I heard the rush of water as Powy washed his thick hands. Then the heels clacked toward the door and the pneumatic cylinder sighed as the door swung shut.

  I pushed my door open again. Harry was kneading his sharp chin with thin yellow fingers.

  I came out of the cubicle. “Harry,” I said softly, “take good care of yourself. Don’t drop dead. I need you. I was the lucky boy who sneaked out with the Franklin woman.”

  His eyes widened until I could see the red vein network below the iris. “But… but…”

  “Exactly. They’ll find out, and when they do, brother, life is going to turn rugged.”

  “Then don’t be a damn fool! Let me tell him where I fit in.”

  “Save it, Harry. I’ve got plans.”

  I walked toward the door. He said, behind me, “Oh… Cliff.”

  “Yes?”

  “The letter came this morning. Thought you might like to know. She’s healed up, Angela is. She’s coming back, but she’s got to take it easy.” There was a softness in his eyes that I had never seen there before.

  “That’s good to know, Harry.”

  I walked out and down the corridor, wanting badly not to meet anybody. My luck was almost good. Gilman was coming up the steps as I went down. He stopped and stared at me.

  “Warm enough for you, boy?” I said, showing all my teeth in a grin.

  He didn’t answer. All the way down the street I felt his eyes on my back.

  I phoned the office at the Coral Strand. It took a long sticky five minutes before Melody came onto the line. Her voice seemed to be the only sane thing in all of Florence City. “Oh, Cliff! I was just leaving. Mr. Rainey phoned me a little while ago. He’s registered at the Coast Hotel, and I was on my way over to see him. Can you come along?”

  “It’s only two blocks from here. I’ll wait in the lobby.”

  The Coast Hotel is a very peculiar institution to find in the middle of Florence City. No patios, palms, pools. Just a square red-brick box with plain excellent food, rooms no different than you would find in Buffalo or Cleveland, except for the air conditioning, and a general air of nonresort-town competence.

  I sat in the lobby feeling slightly naked without a necktie. I had a fifteen-minute wait before she came in. She saw me the moment I stood up. She wore a black dress, which I suppose was a concession to the death of her aunt, but which merely accentuated the long clean lines of her body, the molten flow of silver-gold hair.

  “I need moral support, Cliff,” she said. “He’s in Five-eleven. He said to come right up.”

  She jittered nervously on the elevator. I stood close to her. She smiled at me several times, looked quickly away. The corridor carpet muffled our steps.

  I knocked at the door and it was opened immediately by a tall man in his early forties. He held himself very erect. He wore a dark suit, and his dark hair, peppered with gray, was worn in a brush cut. His glasses had ponderous dark horn rims and bows.

  “Ah, Miss Chance. Do come in.” He flashed me a second look of curiosity.

  “Mr. Rainey, this is my friend Mr. Bartells. He is also the representative of Security Theft and Accident.”

  We shook hands, measuring each other. His hand was cool and dry. In the neat small room the air conditioner buzzed quietly. Papers and a portable typewriter stood on a small desk near the windows.

  “Do sit down. Allow me to express my sympathy, Miss Chance. This is a very tragic thing.”

  “Aunt Elizabeth and I did not see eye to eye, Mr. Rainey, but she was my only close relative.”

  “Of course, of course,” he said. He shuffled the papers on the desk. “I am here because her will appoints me, along with Mr. Dent, as coexecutor of her estate. Mr. Dent, as you no doubt know, has been ill for some time.” He coughed. “The estate is, as you no doubt realize, quite large.” He flushed as though he had said something dirty.

  “Do you have some idea of the total value?”

  “All told, Miss Chance, it should be in the neighborhood of half a million dollars, estimating property values conservatively.”

  He flushed again. “I have taken the liberty of giving you the net figure, after all inheritance-tax deductions. Also, I have not figured in the face value of the theft policy. It has been—forgive me—most difficult for us to deal with your aunt during the past several years.” He laughed humorlessly. “I suppose as we all grow older we become eccentric. I wished to speak to you confidentially about two matters, Miss Chance.”

  “Mr. Bartells is a good friend, Mr. Rainey.”

  He gave me a dubious look. “Ah, so. Despite our protests, Miss Stegman has refused to use checking accounts ever since a bit of trouble with the bank four years ago. Against our advice, she brought fifteen thousand dollars in cash with her to Florida. I rather assume that the money disappeared along with the jewels. She seemed to feel that there was no
danger in carrying such a sum with her on a trip. It makes my task as coexecutor very difficult, as checks would give me the basis to arrive at a proper accounting to the court.”

  He frowned down at his knuckles. “The second matter is a codicil that was added to her will at her request before she came south. A most unfortunate codicil, we feel. I believe that you could break it if you desire. But you must not mention to the other party—ah… Mr. Trumbull—that I have given you this advice.”

  “What does the codicil say?” Melody asked, frowning.

  “I am not at liberty to tell you. The will and the codicil must be read by me to you and to Mr. Trumbull at the same time. I haven’t been able to contact him yet. The switchboard is trying to locate him for me. I had hoped that I could get him up here so that we could get this matter accomplished. But there are other matters.”

  We sat patiently while he ruffled the papers again. He seemed to be the perfect example of the completely humorless man. I guessed that the law firm was very happy with him. He made no more concession to Florida than did the Coast Hotel.

  “Ah, yes. The matter of the Franklins, Miss Chance. The couple employed by Miss Stegman. The car, naturally, is estate property, and I suggest that it be sold locally. I shall prepare a routine letter of reference and give them, say, two months’ pay and their fare back to Boston. I believe we could properly consider that a moral obligation of the estate, and I am certain that the court will not balk at the expenditure. If you agree, I shall make all of the necessary arrangements.”

  “It’s quite all right with me, Mr. Rainey,” Melody said.

  “If I may interrupt,” I said, finding myself adopting Rainey’s measured tones, “there will be a slight hitch in that plan. Horace Franklin was murdered last night.”

  Rainey’s mouth sagged open and his eyes bulged. “How—how perfectly dreadful! Who did that?”

  “The police are trying to find out.”

  Melody had a pinched look around the mouth. “Poor little man,” she said.

  “I find this atmosphere of violence most distressing,” Rainey said.

  “You are not alone,” I told him.

  “As for you, Mr. Bartells,” he said, “what does your company plan to do?”

  “We have a grace period of ninety days before making a settlement. We’ll try to recover the stones. If we can’t, we’ll pay off the face value, of course.”

  “How was Horace killed?” Melody asked.

  “By blows on the head. Then he was thrown into the bay.”

  Rainey shuddered visibly. He took out a crisp hanky and dabbed his broad forehead. “Our clients seldom… seldom…” he said, searching for the right word.

  “Die violently?” I supplied.

  He gave me a grateful glance. “Exactly. I think I had best contact the widow. Maybe, under the circumstances, a letter of reference and… ah… three months’ pay plus her fare north and, of course, the cost of shipping the body to wherever she may wish it shipped?”

  “That’s for you to decide, Mr. Rainey,” Melody said.

  The phone beside the bed rang. Rainey reached a long arm over and scooped it up. “Rainey here. Yes? Ah, good morning, Mr. Trumbull. Hope I haven’t inconvenienced you. I’m representing the Stegman estate, Mr. Trumbull, and at your and Miss Chance’s convenience, I must get you together for the reading of the will. What? Yes, you are mentioned in the will, Mr. Trumbull. Let me see. It is a few minutes after eleven. You could make it by twelve noon? Splendid!”

  He held his palm over the mouthpiece after murmuring, “Just one moment.”

  “Miss Chance, would twelve noon be inconvenient?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then it’s all set, Mr. Trumbull. Room Five-eleven at the Coast Hotel. Yes, you may bring a lawyer to represent you. In fact, I strongly advise it. I will be expecting you.”

  He hung up. “I shall give you the same advice, Miss Chance. We hope, of course, that you will have us represent you in the future, but owing to the oddness of this will, it might be wise if you employed a local attorney until such time as the will is probated.”

  “I won’t need a lawyer. You can tell me what it means.”

  “I can do that, of course, but…”

  She stood up and smiled at him. “Then we shall be back at twelve.”

  I stood up too. Rainey walked us to the door. “Mr. Bartells’ presence is not absolutely necessary, you know.”

  “I know,” she said sweetly.

  We went down in the elevator. She agreed to coffee in the air-conditioned grillroom. We found a narrow booth for two, upholstered in red leather. I leaned across and held the light for her cigarette.

  “Your dependence on me is very touching,” I said.

  “Goodness! Stop talking like that stuffed pin stripe.”

  “I’m still curious.”

  “Then don’t blush when I tell you, Cliff. You’ve got one picture of yourself as how you think you are. I happen to have another. For me, old Hard-as-Nails Bartells is a sort of myth. I like the other guy you keep hidden. Softy Bartells. A very sweet and very dependable guy.”

  I couldn’t answer because the waitress arrived with the pot of coffee.

  Then, as I opened my mouth, I saw Kathy walking down toward the booth, her eyes wide and her face pale under her tan.

  8

  SHE RECOGNIZED me and quickened her pace, arriving at the booth before I could slide out from under the table. She couldn’t see Melody until she was right at the booth.

  “Cliff! Oh, Cliff, I…” she stopped suddenly and the air grew a bit frosty.

  “Miss Baron, Miss Chance,” I said, standing up. “Sit down, Kathy. I’ll get hold of a chair.”

  “Howdyado,” Kathy said quickly. Then she turned immediately to me. “No, Cliff. I can’t. It was just luck finding you. Andy thought he saw you coming into the hotel here. Some woman was in the office, crying and carrying on. She was looking for you. Wilma, the darn fool, gave her your address.”

  “Blonde? A heavy blonde with a long nose?”

  “That’s the one, Cliff.”

  “It sounds like Letty Franklin,” Melody said.

  I frowned at Kathy. “O.K., so she’s trying to find me. Why the panic?”

  “I’ll tell you in private, Cliff.”

  “You can talk here, Kathy.”

  She lowered her face and glowered up at me through the excessively long black eyelashes, arching her back in a trick she has so that the high impudent breasts were outthrust against the sheer fabric of her white office blouse. It is a surly and unruly gesture, and in some odd way it gives her the look that French girls have in those photographs of existentialist groups in Paris.

  “Tell me, Kathy.”

  “All right, then. The woman has a gun. She charged by Wilma with her hand in her purse. She went right to your office, and when she reached the door the gun was half out of the bag. Mart nearly swallowed his bridge. Wilma has been grinning like a cat full of fish heads ever since she left the office.”

  I patted her arm. “Thanks a lot, Kathy. Go on back and don’t worry. She won’t shoot me. I won’t let her.”

  Kathy pouted up at me for a moment and her eyes were telling me that I was a darn fool to waste time on a blonde when anyone could tell you that a brunette…

  She turned on a high heel and left, adding that special something to her walk.

  I sat down. “A well-furnished office you have, Mr. Bartells,” Melody said.

  “We try to keep it in shape.”

  “One warning you, one gunning for you, one trying to get even by giving your address… Aren’t you the busy little man? Tell me, Cliff. Is it Letty Franklin?” I nodded. “Why is she angry, Cliff?”

  “Because her husband is dead.”

  “Does she think you killed him?”

  “No. But she thinks that I managed to maneuver him into a spot where he had to be killed.”

  She waited a long moment. “And did you?” she whispered. />
  “Yes. I did.” I gave it flat, no explanations.

  She shut her eyes for a moment. The closed lids were shadowed. She opened them and looked directly into my eyes. “A girl can be wrong. I’ve been wrong before. Maybe it is Hard-as-Nails Bartells—with no soft spots.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  “Take care of yourself, Cliff. You’d better rush off and attend to this little problem of yours. I can see Rainey by myself. I don’t really need you.”

  I found the waitress down near the door onto the street and paid her. The whole setup was pretty queer. With Powy’s theory of what had happened, it didn’t seem logical for Letty to be wandering around loose, especially with a gun. It would seem more likely that Powy would be asking her some very direct and pointed questions. Who was the guy you run out with, huh? Who was he? Come on. We’ll find out anyway. Who was he?

  I had a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. It would be unwise and unhealthy for many reasons to phone Powy and say, “Look, grab the Franklin woman, she’s gunning for me.” His only answer would be, “Aha!”. No, I had to get to Letty and I had to talk some sense into her. To do that, I had to keep that gun from going off.

  I grew more cautious as I reached the alley beside Western Auto. It is a good trick to be careful and still keep from looking as though you’re slinking. There was a fear inside me bordering on superstition. I had to admit that it would be a very pretty sort of poetic justice if, after last night, Letty blasted a few holes in me. When you deserve shooting, you get very gun shy.

  When I got to the far end of the alley I slid along the wall and stuck one eye around the edge. My car sat there in the sun. There was no one on the steps. The lock on my door is the kind that takes an expert to pick. I let the breath out of me slowly. It simplified things. If I could be in my apartment when she arrived, it gave me a much better chance of grabbing the gun.

  I wasted no time heading for the foot of my stairs. When I was halfway up I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned and saw her, coming out from her hiding spot behind my car. She held a big Colt .45 automatic in her hand. It was pointed at me, and I could have put my finger on the place where the slug would hit.