Ed Lacy - Room To Swing

“Why her?” I asked, moving into a chair but still watching him, ready to jump on him. “I figured I'd see Steve, accuse him, and get everything down on tape. I don't trust Kay.”

“But she's the only one who can give us any information on this stooge you mentioned. As for her being in on the murder, I can't see that. No motive. True, we don't know McDonald's motive either, but being a relative he can have a dozen motives we can't possibly know of. Also, if Kay was the big mind behind this, she wouldn't have had you up to her house to meet her friends. We have to talk her into going to McDonald's apartment tonight, or getting him up to her place. She plants a bug and we can be a block away in a car, getting it down. She'll come right out and accuse him of killing his cousin. Even if he didn't do it, I bet his answers will give us a lead, make damn interesting listening.”

“If Steve's our boy, he'll knock her off, too.”

“She gets him up to her apartment, we'll be in the next room, ready to take him. Nice, we have three witnesses to his story.”

“Suppose Steve and Kay are in this together?”

“Naw, that doesn't figure. As I just said, if she had anything to do with this, she would have kept you a secret, not invited you up to see her friends. No, it has to be Kay, it even looks right. Being they were working on the same TV show, etcetera, she'd be the one to suspect him. Main point is, will she have the courage to work with us?”

“And if she turns us down?”

“We're in a bad way.”

“I still think I should see him, plant a bug, and you be down in the car, recording what he says.”

Bailey sent a stream of brown tobacco juice into the waste basket. “Toussaint, if he is the killer, and has set you up, why should he admit a thing to you? Been my experience that criminals like to brag, especially these one-shot amateurs. Talking is a form of confession for them, and he'd love to shoot off his trap in front of her.”

“But they were lovey-dovey the last time I heard.”

“If she's a career gal, she won't want to be playing house with a killer.” He glanced at his watch. “Think she'll be home now? We can't risk phoning; we'll barge in. Faster we see her, the better; probably take a lot of talking to convince her she has to take a chance.”

He got up and I jumped and he said, “Relax, Toussaint, this ain't the time for jumpy nerves.” He unlocked a cabinet, brought out a tape recorder about the size of a portable typewriter, and some other gadgets. “In this holster there's a Minifone recorder, with the mike on your wrist, like a watch. Now this,”—he held up something the size of an old-fashioned pocket match box, with a pin sticking out of it—“is a little broadcasting station. You ought to see the inside; got transistors—that's like radio tubes— big as beans and batteries no larger than a dime. It's really something. My engineer showed it all to me once. You pin this under a chair or on the back of a couch and it will broadcast about 150 yards. Good for 30 hours.”

“Looks like a toy,” I said, examining the little box. Didn't weigh more than a box of matches either.

“Don't juggle it; my heart can't take the strain. If you knew what these 'toys' cost... I keep telling you this racket has become for engineers. I buy 'em, but you think I know what it's all about? My engineer showed me enough so I can work 'em, that's all I need to know. Ready?”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling like an ingrate. I didn't like Ted's plan but couldn't think of anything better.

As he dropped his gray Homburg on his head, Ted said, “There's one condition, Toussaint. If we should be stopped by the cops, don't run for it or put up a fight. You'll have to let them take you in, trust they believe your story. I don't think they'll even start to believe it, but—I'm willing to gamble, but not with my life. Carrying a gun?”

“No.”

He bent over the small office safe, opened it, and took out two guns. I said, “I never even applied for a permit.”

Ted grunted softly. “Nuts. With what we're stepping into, a Sullivan Law rap won't matter much. Since I have a permit, let me carry both rods until we go into action.”

For a fearful second, as he was busy locking the safe up, I had the feeling I was trapped. But I kept telling myself he would have thrown a gun on me right now if he was crossing me.

As he opened the door and turned out the lights, I stepped into the hallway. Ted said, “I know what you're thinking. Sure, I'd get some publicity for turning you in. But what would it prove, except I was lucky because you dropped in to see me? Who would I be selling, the police? Don't worry, Toussaint, I'm not a rat nor a noble character.... I'm in this simply to convince Madison Avenue what a hot investigator I am—not police headquarters. We understand each other?”

“Perfectly,” I said, trying to believe him.

Ted kept his '53 Buick in a nearby garage and I carried the recorder as we walked to the car. At first I was a little steamed, his telling me to carry it like I was his servant or something, but I calmed down when I realized it was almost a form of disguise on the street—as though I was a part of the routine of the city.

We kept circling Kay's block, looking for a place to park. When I asked why he passed up a spot on Third Avenue, Ted said, “Too far. Just in case we decide to do the recording in the car, I want it ready to pick up the bug. That means not more than a block away, or less.”

As we were turning into her block, on our tenth lap, a Caddy pulled out across the street from Kay's house. Before we could get there, a New Jersey car stopped and started to back in as Ted cursed. I ran over and flashed my badge fast, said, “Police. Park elsewhere, we need this spot.”

A thin guy in a tux was behind the wheel and he rubbed his sharp nose with one finger as he repeated, “Police?”

“Didn't you see the badge?” I asked, a growl in my voice. “Come on, get going.”

“Well.... Yes sir, officer. I always co-operate with the police. Raiding somebody?”

“Don't ask questions about police business.”

“Of course, you're right,” he said, driving away. Ted parked and got out, locking the car. The New Jersey guy was waiting at the corner for a light, looking back at us. It was okay, we looked like detectives, burly, and Ted dressed like one. I told Ted to wait. When the guy finally turned the corner, we crossed over to her house, rang her bell. When the door buzzed open I said, “Two of us can't fit in this elevator. I'll walk up, you give me a minute's head start.”

“Good, but wait until I get there before you show yourself.”

I sprinted up the cement stairs, then waited, panting, until the elevator came and Ted stepped out. He walked over to the door, held his gold shield against the peephole and said, “Detective.”

As the door opened he pushed in and I ran in behind him, shut the door. Wearing a pale blue Chinese housecoat over a slip, Kay was standing by the door. Barbara was sitting at a table set for supper, an apron over her gray-knit sheath dress.

They both screamed: small yells of fear and surprise. Then Kay wailed, “Touie, they have you!” That was a confusing sound too, sort of a hysterical sigh.

Bobby jumped to her feet, ready to scream again, or burst into tears. Ted said, “Now ladies, things will be fine if you'll relax, no screams, don't run to the phone or—”

I cut in with, “This is Ted Bailey, a friend of mine. He's a private detective.”

The real relief I saw on both their faces was a shot in the arm—neither Kay nor Bobby had blown the whistle on me. Kay hugged me. “I've been so worried about you, Touie. I felt at fault for involving you in all this.”

I held her for a moment, asked, “You two alone?”

“Yes. Oh Touie, are you all right?”

“I don't know,” I said, pushing her away—gently. “The police been asking about me?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Of course, when we read about the murder the office was thrown into a first-rate gasser. It was immediately agreed to drop the Thomas story from You—Detective! Then—”

“Kay, you mean Central hasn't told the police about me?”

Kay gave me her tight smile. “Of course not. Very few people knew of the publicity stunt, and in view of the murder any news of it would now be in extremely poor taste. Of course we had no way of knowing what you would say, and that had us worried. Naturally I discussed it with B.H.

He had a chat with a member of Central's legal staff who happens to be a personal friend of somebody high up in the police department. In an off-the-cuff talk with the police, our lawyer was told the police knew all about you, that is, knew your identity. It was agreed Central would be kept out of the case as far as possible.”

“How would Central be kept out? By making sure a trigger-happy cop killed me if I should be collared!”

“Don't be nasty, Touie. We decided that if you were caught, we would see you had the best lawyers. There would be a slight change in our story, something you couldn't possibly object to: I had hired you merely to recheck the facts on Thomas. After all, you can't blame Central—they have millions invested in their network.”

Their millions and shame on this brown boy! I thought.

Kay smiled again. “I wouldn't let them throw you to the dogs. This way we'd covered ourselves and it turned out fine. The police weren't too interested in you or—”

“I don't get this about the cops,” Ted cut in.

“The cops aren't interested in me, only in framing me into the electric chair!” I got it all right: if I said anything about the publicity deal, Central would claim I was nuts.

“There!” Bobby said, as if making a profound statement. “I told Kay you didn't do it.”

Kay waved a slim hand in the air. “Now I never said— My God, what did happen in that room, Touie?”

“A setup. Somebody claiming they were you phoned my office, left a message I was to be in Thomas' room at midnight. He was dead when I got there. Moment later a cop came busting in.”

“Claiming I was calling?” Kay began. “I don't see how anybody could know—”

“That's what I'm here for, to find the answers to a few questions. I'm still under the frame. Two things I want to know. You said after the Thomas case was televised, you— Central—had a stooge set to turn him in to the police. Who is the stooge?”

“Because of the secrecy, we hadn't told the—eh—stooge yet. There's a pensioned watchman who worked for Central we planned to hire. Either he or his wife, they could use the money.”

“Okay, we'll forget that angle. Now, what's playing between you and Steve McDonald?”

Kay flushed. “What has my—?”

“There's nothing between them!” Bobby said loudly, rushing over to place a protective arm around Kay. “She was home the next morning. She's finished with him.”

Kay broke away from Bobby, took her pipe out of a pocket in the Chinese coat, calmly lit it as Ted's eyes got large. “I really don't see what my personal affairs have to do with all this, Touie.”

“Kay, I'm not asking to keep up with the local gossip. I have a damn good reason.”

Kay blew a whiff of smoke at me. “I'm smoking that brand you recommended. About Steve, it isn't worth talking about. I admit, I was silly. Steve isn't anything... a... caterpillar. So terribly dull that actually all that happened was I got very drunk at his place.”

“And passed out?”

“How did you know? We started out late in the afternoon and he acted so cocky, and over nothing, why, it became boring. I drank too much, did a loop-the-loop early in the evening. Now that I've confessed my all, I still don't get the bit about Steve.”