One Bright Summer Morning

One of the telephones on Jay Dennison’s desk buzzed urgently. He reached out and scooped up the receiver and growled, “Federal Field Office here. Inspector Dennison talking.”

“Chief... this is Tom.” Dennison recognized his future son-in-law’s voice. “I’m sorry, but I’ve lost Kramer... just this minute. I guess he knew I was on his tail. I had Abe with me, but Kramer was too smart for both of us. He just dissolved into space.”

Dennison’s mouth tightened in anger. He was silent for a long moment while he bit back angry words that jumped to his tongue, then he said, “Well, okay, Tom: come back in and fast,” and he hung up.

Ten minutes later the telephone buzzed again. This time it was Special Agent Harry Garson.

“Sorry, Chief, but we’ve lost Zegetti.”

“I know,” Dennison said savagely, “he just dissolved into space,” and he slammed down the receiver. He leaned back in his chair and as he began to fill his pipe, the door opened and Tom Harper came in.

“Zegetti too,” Dennison said. “So these two must be up to something... but what?”

Harper hooked a chair towards him and sat astride it.

“He was on to us, of course,” he said, “but I didn’t imagine he could pull such a vanishing trick. He went into the lobby of the...”

“Forget it,” Dennison broke in impatiently. He got to his feet. “We’re going for a ride.” He slapped his hat on the back of his head and strode to the door. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up outside the long drive that led to Kramer’s house.

“I bet he won’t be home,” he said, looking at the imposing wrought-iron gates, “but with any luck his wife will be. One time, she used to be a nightclub singer. I haven’t seen her for years. From what I hear she’s gone respectable. A visit from Federal Officers could scare her out of her girdle.”

Tom got out of the car, opened the gates, then got back into the car.

“Sort of lives in style, doesn’t he?” he said enviously as they drove through the park and towards the big house.

“So will you when you make your first million,” Dennison said sourly. “He’s made four.”

A fat, pleasant-faced negress opened the front door.

“Mr. Kramer,” Dennison said.

“Mr. Kramer ain’t at home,” the negress said, eyeing the two men with alert suspicion.

“Then Mrs. Kramer will do. Tell her it’s Inspector Dennison, Federal Bureau.” Dennison moved forward and the negress gave ground. The two men walked into the big, pleasantly furnished lobby.

Helene Kramer was coming down the broad stairs. She paused at the sight of these two men. Her hand went uneasily to her throat.

“Evening, Mrs. Kramer,” Dennison said heavily. “We’re Federal Officers. Mr. Kramer isn’t in, I understand?”

Helene felt a cold sick emptiness form inside her. Federal Officers! Her hand tightened on the banister rail. This was a moment she had always been dreading since Jim had retired. She remained motionless, staring at the two men, panic in her eyes, then making an effort, she came down the stairs, waving Martha to the kitchen.

“Yes, Mr. Kramer is away,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “What is it?”

“I wanted to see him. I’m Inspector Dennison.” Dennison glanced at the open door leading into the lounge. “We can talk better in here,” and he walked heavily into the big room, followed by Harper.

Helene hesitated, then followed them into the room.

“I don’t understand... what is it?”

“I want to talk to him... it’s police business. Where is he?”

Helene flinched. The two men watching her saw her hands turn into fists.

“New York. I... I don’t know exactly where he is staying. He — he has gone up there on business.”

Dennison stared for a long moment at her. He remembered the way she had looked fifteen years ago. She was rather faded now, he thought, and she was certainly in a panic.

“Isn’t it a fact, Mrs. Kramer,” he said in his cop voice, “that a man called Moe Zegetti, an ex-convict and a known criminal, visited this house a couple of weeks ago?”

Helene walked to a chair and sat down.

“Yes, he did. He is an old friend of my husband’s. He was looking for a site to open a restaurant in Paradise City,” she said slowly. “As he happened to be passing through, my husband naturally invited him to lunch. They have been friends for years.”

Dennison rubbed the side of his face, an inquiring, sarcastic expression jumping into his eyes.

“Zegetti starting a restaurant? Did he tell you that?”

“Yes, that’s what he told us,” Helene said.

“Would it surprise you to know that Zegetti has been a third-rate waiter in a fifth-rate restaurant for the past months and he hasn’t a dime to call his own?”

Helene closed her eyes, shivered and then looked anxiously at Dennison.