The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction

“Chew that canary good before you swallow it,” Slabbe advised. “Did you check the speedometer readings on the Chevvy? Was it burned too bad?”

Carlin leered. “I only got two hands and a dozen guys on the squad. It’s being done. I already telegraphed the used-car guy to see what the reading was when Lorenz took over the car, or if the speedometer was turned back. That’s a waste of money – I never saw a used-car guy yet that didn’t turn ’em back.”

Slabbe sandpapered his jaw line. “While you didn’t have anything else to do this aft’ I guess you checked on Nola some, huh?”

“Dry up, you comic,” Carlin spat. “I want to enjoy this steak . . . Yeah, like you said, he was okay from A to izzard. He lived here all his life and was the kind of guy who doesn’t even go through stop signs. How he tied in with Max Lorenz maybe a tea-leaf reader could tell us.”

“We could see if he had made his plane reservation in advance or if he grabbed it at the last minute,” Slabbe said. “If he jumped on a plane without warning, it could mean he learned something from Lorenz that made him travel. Where was the plane heading, Pat?”

“Just New York City. Everybody was checked into their seats, too, the plane took off on time, four o’clock and all the corpses were accounted for. What I don’t get is—”

“Don’t try thinking yet,” Slabbe cut in. “We haven’t got enough, we’ll just get ballixed up. Why don’t you come along with me and meet the people?”

Carlin made a weighing sound through his long bony nose. “You’re damned polite – when you know I’m going to stick closer to you than your hat anyhow!”

Way out in Treverton Heights was money: wide boulevards, wider lawns, tall trees, taller houses, brighter stars, cleaner air, soundless – and a beat cop who said, “Yes, sir. Good evening, sir,” when Carlin cut his black departmental sedan into the curb and called: “Hey, you.”

Slabbe said: “Can I chew gum in this neighborhood, Officer?”

“Of course, sir.”

Carlin grimaced. “Take off your disguise, Flaherty.”

“Oh! Good evening – I mean, Hi, Lieutenant. What’s up?”

“Chisel any meals in the Nola kitchen?”

“Uh—”

“Relax. I had a tour up here myself, once.”

“Well, yessir.”

“OK. Gossip with us.”

“About the Nolas, Lieutenant? Well, they just had a death in the family.”

“We know. Who all lives there?”

“Just Miss Yates, Mr Prentice, Miss Ione and Bill Teel now – and the servants.”

Slabbe clucked at the sprawling white colonial-style mansion, silvery in the moonlight. “You could make a dozen apartments in that left wing alone.”

“Who’s Bill Teel?” Carlin asked.

“War buddy of Prentice’s,” Flaherty said. “Nice-looking guy about twenty-six, only the war made him look older. He’s going to marry Ione, and that makes ’em both lucky. Her first boyfriend got it in Germany and she walked around here without eyes for months, the old battle-axe just as bad – uh, I mean Miss Yates. Then Prentice brought Bill Teel home and the girl fell for him and everything’s okey-doke. I guess him being a returned soldier and her other boyfriend being a soldier that wasn’t coming back, it was easy for her to what’chacallit.”

“Transfer her affections,” Slabbe said. “You say Miss Yates was busted up too?”

“On account of Ione, yeah. You’d think she was the kid’s real mother, and, well—” Flaherty dropped his voice confidentially – “this is just kitchen talk now, but there are some that say Miss Yates could be Ione’s right old lady, at that.”

Carlin said: “Pour Mrs Flaherty another cup of tea, and let’s get cozy.”

“Aw, Lieutenant, you asked for gossip, didn’t you? They say that years ago it was a toss-up as to whether John Nola would marry Miss Yates or her sister, Agnes, the one he did marry. Then when Ione was on the way, both the sisters went to France and came back after the baby was born and then right soon Mrs Nola died and Miss Yates stayed on at the house ever since, taking care of everything. And John Nola never got hitched again, so what do you think?”

Carlin said sourly: “I think that’s just fine, a lot to go up against them with.”

Slabbe asked: “Ever see Jake George around the Nola stadium here, Flaherty?”

The beat cop said no, he was on duty nights mostly.

“Monday night then,” Slabbe said, “you might’ve seen the Nola Caddy breeze in and out, huh?”

“Heck, there were lots of bigshot cars in and out here Monday night, friends coming to sympathize about Mr Nola and all.”

Carlin said: “All the folks at home then?”

“Yessir.”

“Except,” Carlin sniffed, “that with cars in and out, any of them could have been in and out in them.”

Flaherty shuffled. “I guess, sir.”

Slabbe held up two criss-crossed fingers thicker than the knot in an old-fashioned giant pretzel, and asked hopefully: “A light-complected guy, Flaherty, five-eight, limp in the left leg; make him around here anytime?”