“That will be nice for us,” I said. “Would you know the names of any of these racketeers?”
“The supposed ringleader is mentioned in the papers occasionally. Nothing has ever been proved.”
“Barney Seldon is sometimes mentioned in the papers,” I said.
“Yes. I’ve read about him.”
“Barney Seldon was also at El Patio last night. I saw the cops put the collar on him for later questioning.”
“Yes, I know. He was released after questioning, which means he at least satisfied the police he had nothing to do with Walt’s death.” He changed the subject by saying, “I’m willing to pay two thousand dollars plus expenses. One thousand now and one thousand if you deliver me the information at least twenty-four hours before it becomes public.”
“It’s a deal,” I said quickly, before he could change his mind. Then I said, “You mentioned you’re just as satisfied as the police that I didn’t shoot your protege, but you don’t impress me as the type of person who makes snap judgments. What convinced you?”
“I talked to the eyewitness who saw the killer,” he said calmly.
I felt the hair rise along the back of my neck. In a cautious voice I asked, “Who was that?”
For the first time he almost smiled. “You know as well as I, Mr. Moon. And you don’t have to fear my making it public so the killer will know who to eliminate. I’ve been a regular customer of El Patio for years and feel as friendly toward Miss Moreni as you do. Incidentally, it was Fausta who recommended you to me.”
III
About all I got from Davis was a little background material on Walter Lancaster, and even that contained nothing I could not have dug from a newspaper morgue had I wanted to take the time.
Prior to entering politics Lancaster had been legal advisor and vice president of the Illinois Telegraph Company at a salary of $50,000 a year. He had served no political apprenticeship, jumping from business into a key political position much in the manner of Wendell Willkie. He left a widow, a college-age son and an estate Laurie Davis estimated might run into two million dollars. Most of this, Davis believed, was in corporate stocks, as Walter Lancaster had been on the board of directors of four small corporations in addition to his primary job with the Illinois Telegraph Company, and presumably he would not have been elected to these boards unless he had substantial investments in the companies.
The only point on which Davis seemed willing to impart detailed information was the lieutenant governor’s business connections. He told me the four corporations on whose boards Lancaster had served were Rockaway Distributors (a wholesale magazine and news company), Ilco Utilities, Eastern Plow Manufacturers, Inc. and the Palmer Tool Company. All were Illinois firms.
Deciding I could get more information than my client had to offer from almost anyone I asked, including the shoe shine boy on the corner, I took Davis’ private phone number in Granite City and told him I would report the minute I had anything definite. After he and his gangling bodyguard departed, I shaved, dressed and cooked myself a combination breakfast and lunch, it then being nearly one P.M.
Instead of breaking my back going over ground already covered by the police, I decided the best place to start my investigation was to learn what they knew. And the best source for that was Inspector Warren Day.
I found my scrawny friend in his office hunched over a sheaf of written reports. When I entered, he raised his skinny bald head to peer at me over his glasses and snarled, “Can’t you knock, Moon?”
Remembering the radio release he had made caused me to snarl back at him, “What are you trying to pull on Fausta Moreni?”
The inspector only growled and returned to his reports. Sinking into his chair, I said, “I won’t take much of your time. I only came in for two things. The first I already asked you.”
“You mean about Miss Moreni? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t get coy with me, Inspector. We’ve known each other too long. You know as well as I do that statement of Fausta’s is meaningless. Why play it up?”
“Meaningless?” he asked. “You mean it’s a false statement?”
“Oh, for cripes sake, Inspector!”
He gave me a smile like a cat with feathers in its whiskers. “When a witness signs a statement, Moon, I have every right to assume it’s the truth. Of course she can repudiate it, but in that case I’d have to accept Robert Caxton’s statement and take you into custody.”
I said disgustedly, “You don’t believe either statement. You’re using Fausta to try to smoke out the killer. I suppose your next move will be to let the eyewitness identity leak out.”
Day looked wounded. “We’re not that crude, Moon. You think we’d deliberately set up a young woman as a target?”
“Yes.”
He examined me in silence for a minute. “It’s none of your business,” he said finally, “but just to relieve your mind, I’ll tell you what we’re doing. I have tails on that taxi driver and doorman.”
I looked at him blankly. “For what?”
“Put yourself in the killer’s place,” he said irritably. “You read in the paper a witness has seen your face. The name isn’t given, but the names of three other witnesses who didn’t see your face are. Possibly these witnesses, or at least one of them, knows who the fourth witness is. Is it worth the risk of approaching them one at a time in an attempt to learn the fourth witness’ identity?”
I thought of something. “Have you got a tail on me too?”
Day shook his head. “If the killer bites at all, we figure he would steer away from a private detective except as a last resort. And even if he did approach you, we assume you’d have sense enough to sit on him and give us a buzz.”
I thought of something else. “The other witnesses actually do know who the fourth is, because we were all present when Fausta made that silly statement. Suppose the killer does contact one of them, gets the information he wants, and your man loses him?”
The inspector frowned, opened his mouth and closed it again. Finally he rumbled, “We don’t make mistakes like that.”
I emitted a polite horse laugh.
“If we figure Miss Moreni is in any danger, we’ll take her into protective custody,” he snapped.
“Swell,” I said bitterly. “Put her in jail.”
“Better than being dead,” he offered in a reasonable tone. “Get on with the second thing you want. I’m pretty busy.”
“I want to help you,” I told him. “As a patriotic citizen, I feel it my duty to do something about this blot on our honor.”
Day regarded me suspiciously. “Do you know something you didn’t tell last night?”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “I plan to crack the case as soon as you tell me what you’ve got so far.”
He glared at me with sudden indignation. “You’re on the case? It’s not enough I got the district attorney, two governors and every newspaper in the country on my back. Now you want to breathe down my neck. Go away.”
He dropped his eyes back to the reports on his desk. I sat quietly chewing my filched cigar. Finally he looked up again.
“Who’s your client?”
“The governor of Illinois.”
He snorted. Searching his ash tray, he found a long cigar butt, blew the ashes from it and stuck it in his mouth. I waited for him to produce a match, but he preferred merely to chew also.
“Laurie Davis was seen in town this morning,” he said, eyeing me expectantly.
“He was?”
“Is he your client?” he demanded.
“My client wants to remain incognito.”
He started to glare, but let it deteriorate into what was supposed to be an ingratiating smile. I knew what was going through his mind. If my client actually was Laurie Davis, he could hardly afford to be uncooperative, for even the governor might listen attentively if the political boss of a neighboring state decided to make a complaint. And with pressure on the department already tremendous, Day had no desire to make it any worse.