The Chinese Doll полностью

“All right, let me put it another way. What was his hobby?”

“Hobby? Oh, he had several. Collecting first editions of fantasy literature, dabbling in table-top photography, publishing a paper in some amateur journalism society.”

I cut in on him.

“Aw, now look” and had to fumble for his name. It was forgotten again. The little card was still in my pocket, “—now look, Ashley. You know damned well what I mean!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why stall around? You’re supposed to be his lawyer. I want to know the particular pie which felt the prodding finger of Harry W. Evans. How do you expect me to find who did it, and why? I have to know the motives. I have to know why he expected to be arrested.”

“I’m quite sure I couldn’t tell you,” he said in polite coolness.

That brought me to a full stop. His tone as well as his words betrayed him. I was talking to a changed man this morning, a man who had not only recovered from the shock of Evans’ death, but had in some manner erased the fear that had followed the shock.

What could have happened overnight?

I gave up trying to talk to him and hung up.

What could have happened overnight?

The attorney, in his fear, could have immediately telephoned someone else after talking with me yesterday. That someone held sufficient authority or respect to ease the fears of Ashley, to calm him down and give him that cool, so-what? attitude he had just displayed to me. The attorney, therefore, was a man to keep an eye on.

You have to play all the angles in this game, Louise, but hell, I should tell you. You’re a reporter and a clever one. You know how one shred of evidence or suspicion of evidence leads to the next. I’m suspicious of Ashley, now.

Look at the shreds: they’re tattered, I admit, but consider them. First, a man from Croyden who wants protection from somebody or something and fails to get it — from me. And a girl with a Studebaker sedan having a supercharger attachment. The victim’s own sedan. And then later on, another girl with a Studebaker — a coupe-having a similar attachment. Both cars geared for speed. And a gambler. And an attorney.

My telephone rang.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked the mouthpiece.

“Hello, Horne.” It was the voice of the day sergeant on the police desk. “Heard you were in about your license?”

“That’s right. And before midnight.”

“You shouldn’t have waited so long.”

“I forgot it, honest. I’m coming down for it.”

“Don’t bother yourself, Horne. It ain’t being renewed.”

“What!”

“I can’t make it any plainer, I don’t talk Esperanto. Tough luck, Horne. This is between you and me, see? We get along; I like you Horne. But the Chief said no. Somebody made a squawk. You got enemies Horne. The Chief said to hold it up thirty days for investigation. The squawk will fall apart Home, but thirty days is thirty days— Aw, now Home, wait a minute. Don’t say things like that over the phone. Somebody might be listening. Anyway, you come down and ask for a renewal today.”

“You’re damned right I’ll come down! And when I net there I’m going to talk to that fatheaded yes-man!”

“You can’t Horne. He left town about half an hour ago for St. Louis. The FBI school you know.”

“How that dimwitted s-o-b ever got out of grammar school is a mystery to me!”

But there it was. He would be in St. Louis for several days. Old Yancey was playing around with the bathing beauties in Florida. The acting mayor was the senior alderman, a halfwit from the third ward and totally impossible. All of which left me in a hell of a fix. And a short while ago I was asking myself what a license did for me.

“All right fellah,” I told the desk sergeant. “I give in. I’m lucky my gun permit doesn’t expire for several months yet. Somebody I think I can name would try to queer that too. He’d probably say I fired it outside his bedroom window every morning at five-thirty and woke up his dog. Hell.

“By the way — how’d that baby business turn out last night?”

“A seven pound girl. They named her Marie.” His voice faded from the phone. “Keep your eyes open, Horne. So long.”

“Hey! Hold on a minute. Do you know who made the gripe?”

“Nope, Chief didn’t say. So long, Horne.” He rang off.

I immediately thought of something else and called him back. The line was busy; I waited two or three minutes and he came on. “You again?”

“Me again. Listen sergeant, has anybody in this town ever been pinched for spitting on the sidewalk?”

“Not since I’ve been on the force. Want to try it?”

“But somebody could be, couldn’t they?”

“If they was a complaint signed, yeah I guess so. And there’d have to be an eyewitness. But it wouldn’t go very far in the J.P. court. It’s kinda silly, come to think of it; I probably do it every day myself.”

“All right. How about cross against a red light?”

“Horne, have you shot your bolt? If you wanna get in jail go out and beat up somebody, kick some nice old grandmother’s face in. ’Sault and battery is always good for a coupla months. So long Horne.”

“Hold it — I’m not finished.”

“Maybe you are but you don’t know it yet.”