They were very nice at headquarters. About six cops grouped around him in the small room. One of them offered a cigarette. Joey needed it.
The big, bald cop with the sagging face and frigid blue eves introduced himself as Harry Crenshaw. He was saying, “So you took the bill to the bank. The teller knew you weren’t in the habit of depositing thousand dollar bills. He asks you to wait a moment, checks the bill.”
Joey felt needles of sweat on his forehead. “I thought the bill was counterfeit when the teller and bank guard closed in on me. I tried to explain, but they had the beat cop on hand too. Then presto, here I am.”
They didn’t smile. Crenshaw said, “The bill was worse than counterfeit. You recall the armored truck robbery several months ago where the crooks used home-made tear gas guns to knock out the guards?”
“I read about it,” Joey admitted.
“A half million was taken,” Harry Crenshaw said. “This grand note you tried to deposit, Thomas, was part of the loot.”
Joey’s voice was like dry sticks breaking. “I’ve told you the truth! I found that bill in a copy of Eman’s Political Economy!”
Crenshaw smiled at last. “We haven’t doubted your word for a moment, Mr. Thomas. You may go now.”
“Go?” Joey said blankly, rising hesitantly.
“Certainly, and won’t you have another cigarette?” Crenshaw said.
In a daze, Joey left headquarters. But the daze had worn off by the time he reached the store. He was in a jam, he knew, a real jam. They’d let him go because they were positive he’d lead them, sooner or later, to the rest of the loot. If he didn’t, they’d figure he was protecting his cronies in the robbery. Patience gone, they’d run him in.
No one had seen him find that bill. He had nothing to back his crazy story. They’d play a cautious game, keep him shadowed. It would end when they’d wound a twenty year sentence around his neck...
Joey braked his ramshackle coupe before the snug brick house with the small lawn where Cora Lail lived, keeping house for her father and two brothers until she had a home of her own.
She answered Joey’s knock, a small, lively faced girl with brown eyes and silky auburn hair that glinted in the sunshine.
“Joey! This is nice!” She took his hand, drew him inside. Joey looked at her a moment; then the memory of Crenshaw’s sardonically smiling face jerked him back from the clouds.
“Are you going to be very busy today, hon?”
“Not terribly...” She was looking at him closely. “What is it, Joey?”
“Nothing... That is, I wondered if you’d watch the store for me awhile this afternoon, when you’re all through here. I can leave the key at the bake shop across the street.”
“Of course, Joey, but...”
“I just want to check the sale of a book,” he said. “Eman’s Political Economy. The book was left in the store. The only four people who could have left it deny doing so. You see, I... Well, it’s important that I find out, if I can, the store that made the sale, to whom they sold the book.”
“But, Joey, I... if something’s wrong, you should tell me. It would be almost impossible to find the purchaser of a book. It’ll take you hours to check every new and used book store in town.”
“I know...” His lips felt dry. “But it’s the only angle I can think of. Whoever left that book wouldn’t admit...”
She caught his arm. “Joey, you...”
“I’ll tell you later, hon,” he broke in. If he got a lead on that book, he was thinking, no need to worry her needlessly. He was sorry he’d let anything show on his face. He forced a smile. “It’s nothing, really. I just didn’t want to leave the store closed all day. We might sell a few used magazines.”
He pecked her forehead with his lips. “And don’t let your imagination run away with you! I’ll see you later.” He left the house quickly, got in his car. Watching the rear view mirror, he saw the black, inconspicuous sedan pull away from the curb two blocks behind him. Crenshaw. Until he’d cracked this thing, Joey knew he wouldn’t be clear of the police. A drop of sweat crept under his collar.
It was twilight, stores closing, sidewalks swarming with people hurrying home, when he finished his task. He was limp with fatigue, from searching records, more or less opened to him since he was a fellow book dealer, and from questioning salespeople in the book stores. He had also chased down a few hopeless leads, one sale of Eman’s economic work to a college professor, another to an eccentric millionaire. He’d presented himself as a buyer of exclusive Americana well enough to wriggle in both men’s libraries long enough to ascertain that their copies of Political Economy were still in their shelves.
All the while he knew that Crenshaw was back there somewhere in the traffic, in the crowds. He never caught sight of the bald, homely faced detective, and that made it worse. Like playing tag with a ghost. Joey looked hollow-eyed when he ran his car in the mouth of the alley a couple of doors up from the store.
He entered his book store, said, “Hi, hon.” No one answered. He waited a moment in the renter of the gloomy store, thinking that Cora was in back. He called her name again. The thick silence swallowed the words.
He started toward the back of the store. At the rear counter he drew up, sharply. A stack of magazines had been knocked to the floor behind the counter, trampled, twisted, their pages torn. The counter sat at a faintly crooked angle, as if a struggling body had slammed against it.
Joey felt his heart hammering. A gleam caught his eye. He bent over the mussed magazines, picked up a brooch with the monogram: C. L. Cora’s brooch. Bent, twisted, a hit of the cloth from her dress still caught in the pin.
Joey breathed deep and hard, but it didn’t steady him. Flesh knotted coldly along his spine as he called her name again, headed for the store-room in back.
The store-room was dark, silent. He fumbled, found the hanging overhead light. He clicked the switch. A wan, yellow glow spilled over empty cartons, stacks of magazines and books unfit for sale, waiting for the junk man. Then Joey saw the woman lying in the far corner. Not Cora, a blond woman. Marge Krayer. But she wasn’t plump looking any longer. She was limp, and bloody, and dead.
Joey had seen death before, but not in this setting. He closed his eyes, shuddered, and involuntarily backed away. His jaw muscles worked, and he opened his eyes again, looking at the bloody knife beside Marge Krayer. He knew what had happened. Marge had entered through the alley door. Someone had been close behind her, murdered her. Cora, in front, had heard the commotion. The killer had struck her, dragged her away to assure her silence.
Joey wondered if Ralph Ballinger upstairs had heard anything. But Ballinger always left his flat at five — Joey could set his watch by it — to go downtown for supper and a few drinks before his nightly poker. Or Arnheit, perhaps. He stayed around the store a lot. If he had been around and seen or heard anything, Cora might be safe in the hands of the police by now. But Joey had a hunch he’d insulted Arnheit, along with Marge Krayer, Dorrell, and Ballinger, this morning. And if the old man had seen and reported anything, the police would be here now.
Joey knew he was clutching at wisps of fog. The killer was still free, leaving a corpse planted here in Joey’s store, and taking Cora with him.
Joey moved a step toward Marge Krayer’s contorted face. How about Crenshaw, the cop? He’d be hovering around in the neighborhood, keeping an eye on the store. If he should decide to amble in and have another talk with Joey, finding Joey here with what was left of Marge Krayer...