Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012
- Автор: Макдермид Вэл, Манфредо Лу
- Год: 2012
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012». Краткое содержание книги:
“Did he hurt you, Velma?” I asked.
“Get out of here, Frank. Are you crazy?”
“Just so you’re okay...”
“Get out of here!” she screamed. I guess she was fine. I turned and left. That feeling of what had been wrong going into Jamison’s room started to coalesce. I took the stairs two at a time, back to 12. I knew what my mistake had been. My job was watching the necklace, and I wasn’t doing my job. The door to 1224 was locked; I kicked it. There was a crack of wood and it opened. I rushed in, feeling like all the air had been knocked out of me, feeling like a kicked door.
Jane was sitting up in bed, but lascivious as she’d been before, now she was holding the sheet up modestly across her breasts. There was no White Tiger necklace around her neck. She pointed at some spot beyond my left shoulder. “Frank, he’s got the diamonds!” I heard a swishing noise behind my left ear and I knew what was coming.
4.
Private dick’s manual, Chapter 2 — Equipment: Never go out without your fedora. Not just a fashion accessory, a good hat can make the difference between a concussion and a catnap when you’re sapped. Sigh. When I get too old for this business, I’m going to write that book.
Right then, my mouth was full of carpet and there was a harsh bitter smell in the air. I opened my eyes. The room was blurry. My name is Frank Swiver. I looked at my watch. It was now 12:55. I am in the Biarritz Hotel in San Francisco. It had already been after midnight when I left Jane. It is Friday night. Well, it was Friday night. Now it’s Saturday morning. I had been unconscious, but maybe less than fifteen minutes. The president is Harry Truman. I was conscious, but considering the pain in my head, I wished I’d still been out.
I got up to my hands and knees. The camera back was open and the film was lying on the floor next to it. Jane was no longer sitting up. I crawled over to the bed like a dog that had lost a fight with a bigger dog and got my paw and face up on it. Jane was dead. Her beautiful throat was cut, and the sheets were soaked in her blood. I gagged, but held it down.
The phone cord in the room had been yanked out of the wall. I went down the hall to a house phone on a side table by the elevators and called the desk. I got Kosloski on the horn and told him to come up to 1224, alone. Then I went back to the room and splashed cold water on my face. The room still seemed blurry. I rubbed my eyes and realized it was smoke hanging in the room from all those gaspers we’d been puffing. I opened the window to let in some fresh air. I turned around, straightened up, and took a deep breath. Then quick as I could do it, I turned back to the window and slammed it shut.
I breathed in deep through my nose. The smoke had the wretched and distinctive odor of black tobacco. Gauloises. Joe Damas had been in the room. I headed out and bumped into Kosloski in the hall.
“Frank,” he said, “what the hell is it now?”
“Trouble, Stan. Better look in. The ice is gone; Mrs. Jamison is dead.” He put his head in the room.
“Oh, Jesus, Frank. Jesus.”
“I know who did it, Stosh,” I said. “You know Joe Damas?”
“Damas? The little nance from France?”
“Yeah, the forger.”
“I wouldn’t figure him for something like this,” said Kosloski.
“Funny thing, Stan, neither would I. But I’ve got to check it out.”
“Wait a minute, you can’t run out. I got a body here in my hotel.”
“So, you call it in. It’s the Jamisons’ room. Maybe I wasn’t even here,” I said.
“Where’s Mr. Jamison? Shit, I’ll have to tell him.”
“Try his room. He was there twenty — thirty minutes ago. Look, I know where to find Damas. I can wrap this up and get back to you before the cops even finish dusting the flop. But you got to cut me loose.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Frank, because if it comes down to my job, I’m giving you over.”
“Fair enough,” I said, and headed out before he could think about it twice.
5.
I picked up my heap in the underground garage and headed for the Marina district. I remembered questioning Joe at his apartment on Magnolia during the Thursby investigation. I couldn’t have told you the house number, but Magnolia’s a short street. I figured I’d recognize the building.
I headed west on California Street. Either the city had put up a second set of traffic signals, or I was seeing double. I spotted a late-night drugstore near the corner of Polk and stopped in for a quick cup of coffee. A couple of twin soda jerks brought me two cups. I drank the first one and things started to focus. Soon I was on my way again. I turned north on Van Ness. There wasn’t much traffic on Van Ness, and I felt safe enough driving. I took a left on Lombard, and in three minutes, I was pulling into a parking spot on Magnolia.
I found a square-built yellow apartment building that was a little larger than most of the other structures on the street. In the vestibule was an intercom panel. Each buzzer had a name next to it. I located “Damas, J. 3-C,” and leaned on the button. Brain injury? What brain injury? I could remember where I’d been six months ago. No one came on the intercom, but I didn’t have to wait long before the door buzzed, and I pushed my way inside. Maybe Joe had been expecting company. I took the self-service elevator up to three.
As I walked down the short hall, a door on the left opened. Joe Damas poked his head out. As soon as he saw me, his eyes bugged out and he pulled his head in. He tried to slam the door but I got there quick and put my shoulder to it.
He stepped back and said, “Okay, Swiver, come on inside.” He waved a small Beretta automatic at me from waist level. “Shut the door and tell me what you’re doing here.”
“I came about the ice, Joe. You know, the White Tiger.”
He gave me that shrug. “The White Tiger don’t concern me, Swiver.”
“I think it does. It disappeared.”
“Still don’t concern me. You know I’m no jewel thief.” He pulled the flat blue box out of his side pocket and slid another Gauloises between his lips using his left hand while he kept the Beretta aimed at my middle with his right. He took out his lighter, thumbed a spark, and lit up.
“Maybe you’ve slit a few throats, though,” I said.
He gave me the Gallic shrug again. “What of it? They were Nazis. It was them or me. I would do it again.”
“Maybe you’re branching out. After you sapped me, you slit Jane Jamison’s throat for her.”
Joe looked confused by that. “You got me wrong, shamus. I didn’t slit anybody’s throat.”
“But you were there, Joe, and you sapped me down. Your smoke. The room’s full of it.”
“I wouldn’t kill no dame.”
“Maybe you’ll step off for it just the same,” I said. “You carry a Corsican knife, don’t you?”
He shrugged that off. “Sure. Everybody from Marseilles carries a knife.”
“Let’s see it.” Joe reached in his side pocket and came up empty. He switched the Beretta to his left hand and checked his right pocket, then his trouser pockets.
“Merde,” he said. “Jamison must have lifted it in the ballroom when he gave me the key to the room.”
“You’d better come clean, Joe.”
He struggled with the idea, then said, “Listen, Swiver, I’ll tell you what I know, but you’ve got to help me. I didn’t kill nobody.”
“But you were there. You took the necklace and sapped me.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I made a deal with Jamison. You know I need to get some prestige clients to get going again. Well, he was going to give me his business — distribute Jamison wines in northern California — if I lifted the White Tiger for him. He said he needed money. If I helped him, he’d help me. It was just an insurance grift. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. Hey, Swiver, if I’d known you were going to be on the case, I wouldn’t have even taken the job.”