Ruthie and I packed a bag, and I drove to the Turner apartment. Betsy looked properly domestic in slacks, a flannel shirt, and an apron. She had cake and milk ready for Ruthie, and yards of cloth all set beside the sewing machine. I started to tell her about not keeping Ruthie up late, what time she had to be at school, and Betsy cut me off with, “Oh, go look at TV or something, and leave us women alone.”
Ruthie giggled at this coy corn and I told Betsy, “Going in a few minutes. I have to...”
“I really didn't mean you had to leave, Barney.”
“Look at Daddy's lump,” Ruthie said. “He got hit on the head.”
Before I could stop her, Betsy gasped and stood on tiptoe and cached for my noggin. I saw the usual galaxy of stars as my dome seemed to crack. “What happened, Barney?”
“Nothing. Guy offered me a can of beer. Look, I have to go home because I got an early and long day ahead of me tomorrow.” I gave Betsy the eye to walk me to the door. Then I kissed Ruthie, told her to be good, and I'd call her tomorrow night.
She planted a hard chocolate kiss on my mouth. The cake tasted pretty good, so I took a big mouthful of the piece she was holding, which didn't please Ruthie—I really have a big mouth.
At the door, Betsy stepped out into the hall with me and I told her, “If reporters call, play it straight. I don't know how long I'll have to stay with our pigeon. But I'll keep in touch with you by phone. Don't let Ruthie be a pest.”
“She'll be all right.”
“Look, I think I know what happened to Ed. We—the police —assumed it was the same gun that killed both men. Now that we know we're dealing with two men, seems logical to believe Ed was sitting in his car, waiting...”
“In front of that woman's place!” she cut in bitterly.
“Yeah. The killers didn't know he was there. One of them steps out of the shadows and plugs Andersun. Ed probably jumped out of his car, only he didn't know the other killer was behind him. He probably shot Ed in the back as Ed was going for his gun. More in keeping with Mr. Turner's... eh... ambitious character. Definitely rules out suicide. Might say Ed was just a cop trying to do his duty, lost his life at it.”
She bit her upper lip, sucked on it for a long second. “Thanks. That makes me feel better.”
“Now that you've found out what you wanted, about winds up the case—for you. From here on in I'm not charging you, but I want you to still retain me—gives me a right to stay on the case.”
“I hired you to find Ed's murderer—you're still working for me. Only that will close the case for me. And be careful, Barney.”
I said okay and nodded—and wondered why I still wanted to be on the case, for nothing started my bump acting like a midget buzzer.
When I got home the apartment was too quiet. I made myself a big bowl of Shredded Wheat and chocolate syrup and tried to listen to the radio. But when I finished eating, I set the alarm for 5 a.m. and went to bed.
A few days ago I'd thought of Betsy as the possible killer. Now I was letting Ruthie stay with her.... I thought about Betsy, the way she'd been throwing herself at me, and whether I was a dummy or not for turning her down. After what she'd been through with Turner, she felt she had to prove herself, and I was the first pair of pants that had come along. No, that was too simple, although she sure looked like mighty pretty proving grounds. But I was a little too old and set in my ways to bother with a young girl's complexes.
I began worrying about tomorrow—that .38 they gave me. Irv sure had a couple of swell protectors—a blind old man and a would-be detective!
I fell asleep on that one, and the next thing I knew the alarm was ringing, each ring like a needle in my sore head. It was a cold, dark morning, and if there's one thing I hate, it's getting up early. I took a quick shower, got into a pair of coveralls, and drove to the garage. I got out the jeep—and it needed a ring job—picked up Danny in front of the precinct house. We had breakfast of wheat cakes and coffee—I quit when he started on his fourth stack—with Danny bulling me about the time he wrestled Strangler Lewis back in 1916.
When we picked up Irv, he was pretty gay. He said, “This is as exciting as my first mission in a B-24. Let's get moving— adventure calls.”
“You crocked?” Danny asked.
“You've heard of punch-drunk slobs—well, I'm scared-drunk. Let's go before it all ends in one big scream.”
We reached the garage at six-thirty and Irv took off in his cab, with Danny as a passenger. Across the street, in front of the loading platform of the post office, a couple of “mailmen” stood around and talked, while near the garage entrance, a small mail truck was parked. It would be monotonous for the two guys cooped up in there all day.
I had the garage to myself and I couldn't get the gun comfortable, kept switching the holster around under my coveralls. I decided I might as well really look the part of a mechanic, do some work. They had a '48 Oldsmobile on jacks and I took the motor apart, worked all morning on it. Except for a call from Franzino, to see if I was on the job, not a damn thing happened.
At noon Danny came in—in a cab driven by a city detective. The old man had coffee and sandwiches for me, and as we ate he said things were quiet. Nobody had tailed Irv's cab, although he had driven all over the city. At Times Square there had been a show for the TV camera—man-on-the-street interview—in which Juanita had kissed Irv, told the world how glad she was that the case was over, that she and Irv were applying for passports right away, and were going to be married at sea to save time. There were also pictures and stories in all the afternoon papers, or so Danny had been told, playing up the “romance.” Brown and Smith should go into action—if they were still around.
I said, “Surprised Juanita is so co-operative.”
Danny laughed. “Got me, too. She has her angles—figures all the hero publicity will help Irv when he gets out of college. She's probably trying to put her hooks into the pudding company to do something for Irv, too. Think this sort of publicity sells pudding? Heard their publicity men are working overtime with the cops.”
“Maybe—the idea of publicity is to bring the name of the product before the people,” I said, going back to work on the Olds. Danny wandered around the garage, tapping with his cane. After about an hour, he was able to walk around without touching the cane to the floor. When asked how he did it, he said, “I can get the layout of a place down fast. All blind people can. In my room I walk around like I had eyes, but I had to keep telling my landlady never to move any furniture—that fouls me up. This is a snap, unless you should move one of these cars, or that jack over at that side.”
At two, a cab with Al Swan as a passenger picked Danny up. I finished timing the Olds motor, found a battery, put some gas in the carburetor, and gave her a test run. I hadn't cleaned the oil pan and it must have been lousy with carbon specks; she stuttered and backfired till the gas gave out. I went out on the sidewalk for a moment, to get some fresh air, lit a cigarette. One of the “mailmen” came over, asked if I had a spare cigarette, then whispered, “Hear anything?”
“No. Didn't you guys hear the racket I just made with a car?”
“Not a sound. Old garage—walls are pretty thick.”
“That makes things real ducky.”
I went back inside the garage, gave the Olds a grease job, then washed up and read an old paper lying around. Being below the street level, the garage got dark by four and I turned on the lights. Danny returned a few minutes later, and the dick who drove him went back downtown. Danny had nothing to report except that there had been another TV interview, in which Irv told a group of “cabbies” he was applying for a passport in the morning, and the “cabbies” were talking about giving him a send-off in the garage.