Tommy shrugged and turned his back to the private detective. He heard the man’s shoes slither on the deep pile of the rug, then the muzzle of the gun was pressed into the small of his back and a hand patted his hip, his side pockets and finally reached under his armpit and slapped both of his coat lapels. Then the feet retreated and Kraft said:
“You can turn now.”
Tommy obeyed. Kraft reached into a hip pocket and brought out a pair of shiny handcuffs. “Catch,” he said.
He tossed the handcuffs to Tommy. “Put them on,” Kraft continued, “and let me hear them click.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Tommy said.
“Maybe so, but I’d rather be wrong and apologize later, than be right and sorry, so — put them on!”
Tommy put one of the cuffs about his left wrist and clicked it shut. Then he followed with the right. Kraft beamed at him and lowering the gun, stepped forward. He took first one wrist, then the other and examined the cuffs to make sure they were properly fastened. Finally he put away his gun.
“Now, let’s talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Tommy said. “I got here about one minute before you did and found him like that.”
“Then let’s talk about Louie. He’s out in the car, his head bashed in.”
“He isn’t dead.”
“Perhaps not, but where’s the money?” Kraft gestured toward the Boston bag, which stood open on the couch. “There’s just some gewgaws in there.”
“That’s all there is,” Tommy said, “what I had in my box at the bank.”
“Uh-uh,” Kraft said. “I talked to Trent on the phone, before you got to the bank. He said you were coming there to pick up one hundred and sixty thousand dollars.”
“It wasn’t in my box.”
“Why not?”
“Because it wasn’t.”
“What
Tommy exhaled wearily. “Trent couldn’t make me tell that and I don’t think you can.”
Kraft nodded agreement. “No, I don’t think so. Well, it was a good try.” He sighed. “I thought this was the chance I’ve been waiting for all my life — to get rich quick, but it seems to have blown up in my face... as usual.” He sighed again and crossing to the telephone, picked it up. He dialed the operator and after a moment said:
“Police Department.”
Tommy exclaimed, “You’re not...!”
Kraft covered the mouthpiece with one hand. “What else can I do? I’ve got to mend my fences.” He took his hand off the mouthpiece and said:
“Hello, this is Fred Kraft... yes, the private investigator.” He swallowed hard. “I want to report a murder... No — Mulholland Drive.” He nodded emphatically. “I’ve got the man right here. Caught him red-handed — practically. Fine.” He hung up.
“I didn’t kill him,” Tommy raged. “He was alive when I left here with Louie. Trent killed him, or you... you were gone from the bank when I came out.”
“The point is,” said Kraft mildly, “
“That’s what you’ll tell the police... and how will you explain
“Oh, that isn’t important. Maybe I got wind of it accidentally. A stool pigeon.” Kraft smirked. “I’ve got connections.” He tugged at an old-fashioned watch fob that dangled from his right hip and drew out a large ninety-eight watch. “The police’ll be here in a few minutes. Shall we make ourselves comfortable?”
He sat down in one of the armchairs. Tommy crossed to the couch and dropped heavily. His eyes went to the cushion beside him and a little ripple of hope shot through him. A hairpin lay there. Dropped by Betty Targ, no doubt, during the manhandling to which she had been subjected.
Tommy pretended to shift his position and picked up the hairpin surreptitiously. Clasping and unclasping his manacled hands he began manipulating the hairpin, squeezing the two ends together, bending them about an eighth of an inch.
A faint shout came from outside the house. Kraft sprang to his feet. “Louie!”
“He’s waking up,” said Tommy and thrust the bent ends of the hairpin into the lock of the left cuff. He twisted and the lock turned.
Kraft started across the room toward the kitchen, but, halfway to it, turned back. “Let him come in here...” He stopped, his mouth falling agape.
Tommy was coming to his feet, the handcuffs dangling from his right wrist, the sack of silver dollars, abstracted from the Boston bag, in his hand.
Kraft clawed frantically for his hip pocket, where he had stowed away his revolver in the belief that Tommy was safely shackled.
Tommy sprang toward Kraft. The little private detective backed away. “Don’t!” he cried, as Tommy raised the bag of silver dollars.
Then the bag struck Kraft in the face. He was going away at the time and Tommy had not exerted his full weight behind the blow, otherwise there would have been very little left of Kraft’s face. As it was, he collapsed to the floor, moaning and clawing at his bleeding face.
