“Why won’t Ainslie let the police touch Jason or Short?”
“He thinks gambling draws in tourists or something,” Janet said. “Or so he says. Personally I think he figures the stage shows he books for his theatre aren’t good enough to draw people in from very far, but with gambling pulling folks from all over the county, a lot go to the Bijou, beings they’re already in town.”
Tony let his lips curl in a cynical smile. “I could think of a more probable reason.”
She eyed him, puzzled.
“What’s the usual reason local governments give protection to guys running illegal businesses?” he asked.
Her face remained blank, then slowly the dawn of understanding lighted her eyes. “Protection money! I’ll bet Art Jason and Harry Short are paying him off!” She frowned thoughtfully. “That would give Mayor Ainslie just as much motive as either of them though. For that matter George Erickson’s got as much motive as all three of them.”
“Who’s George Erickson?”
“Druggist on the corner. Mr. Larson was divorcing his wife and naming George correspondent. Like to have ruined George’s business in a small town like this.”
Tony said, “Kind of gives Mrs. Larson a motive too then, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t she inherit the restaurant?”
The girl’s mouth widened into a delighted grin. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s kind of convenient for the old gal, isn’t it?”
Tony rose, paid seven cents for his coffee and slipped a quarter tip under the saucer. “Better not mention our conversation to anyone, unless you’re sure it’s someone who won’t repeat it. Wouldn’t do for the guilty person to have warning before Chief Murphy has time to act.”
“Oh, sure,” Janet breathed.
Tony watched the other waitress enter the kitchen with a tray.
“I’d like to talk to Gert and the cook now,” he said. “All right to go back in the kitchen?”
“Sure. Go right ahead.”
He learned nothing from Gert or the cook, Henry, except they were equally positive in their identification of the body lying at the funeral parlor as that of the bandit. When he came out of the kitchen again, Janet was ringing the register for a woman who was paying her bill.
“—and wouldn’t it be awful if the robbery was just a cover-up,” he heard her say in a low voice. “But don’t repeat it to a soul.”
As he left the restaurant, the little man’s grin was self-satisfied.
III
Obviously the Blue Goose was straight out of the pre-prohibition era, complete to sawdust, brass rail and cuspidors. Through double curtains across an archway at the rear came the whir of slot machines and the brittle click of dice. Aside from two men leaning against the bar, most of the place’s custom seemed to be the other side of the curtains.
“Looking for Art Jason,” Tony told the bartender.
“Usual table,” the man said, jerking his head toward the archway.
The little man parted the curtains and stepped into a wide, barn-like room containing a roulette wheel, three dice tables, two poker tables and about twenty slot machines. Five men sat around one of the poker tables, a half-dozen more ringed one of the dice boards and three women played slot machines. No one was playing roulette.
Behind a square table centered nearly against the rear wall sat a large-boned man of middle age wearing a close-cut mustache and goatee. Laid out in front of him on the table were stacked coins ranging from nickels to silver dollars, the last denomination taking up half the table space in stacks of ten each.
Tony approached the man and said, “Looking for Art Jason.”
Sharp eyes surveyed Tony before the man spoke, and his gaze was such a solid ray of power, it exerted nearly physical force. The little man got a fleeting impression of ruthlessness, and experienced mild surprise to encounter it in a small-town gambler. A dangerous opponent, was his first appraisal, but he immediately revised it downward when he detected evidence that the man’s forcefulness was largely theatrical effect. His whole personality was an obvious pose, from the small beard which only partially concealed a weak chin, to the thick gold ring with its glittering yellow diamond, which he wore on his right forefinger.
“You’ve found him,” the man said.
“My name is Tony Ransome. Buffalo Homicide and Arson. Got permission from Chief Murphy to ask questions.”
“About what?”
“Killing night before last. Kind of like to know what made an honest Buffalonian turn killer.”
The sharp eyes lanced at Tony again, but when they clashed with the smaller man’s steady gaze, immediately dropped. “What makes you think I’d know?”
“Didn’t say you did,” Tony said. “Thought I’d try tracing back the kid’s movements after he hit town. Got to start somewhere.”
“Better start somewhere else.” He became absorbed in the refracted light from the stone on his index finger. “Never heard of the guy until he was dead.”
Jason turned his attention to a portly, bald-headed man who wanted to trade a twenty-dollar bill for silver dollars.
“Aren’t many places in town a fellow could go,” Tony said mildly. “Thought maybe he dropped in here. Big fellow about your build, wearing a green corduroy jacket with leather pockets and elbow patches, denim pants and a flat fedora.”
The portly man glanced at Tony. “You talking about that tramp who murdered Jonathan Larson?”
Tony eyed the man deliberately. “The kid accused of it, yes.”
“He was around here a couple of days. Getting the lay of the land, I guess. Tuesday night he made thirty bucks riding me on a hot roll, then backed out of the game. The next afternoon I saw him drop five and quit. You’d think a guy that cagey with money wouldn’t need to stick anyone up, but that same night he robbed the Missouri Cafe.” He shifted his attention to the bearded man. “You remember the guy he is talking of, Art. You gave him a letter to mail for you.”
Jason’s face assumed an expression of sudden enlightenment. “Yeah, I remember the guy now. Big fellow in his late twenties with a bent nose and a scar through one eyebrow. Looked like a hobo. Didn’t realize he was the one killed Larson.”
“You gave him a letter to mail?” Tony asked.
The gambler nodded and flicked a thumb in the direction of one of the tables.
“Yeah. Wanted it to make the five o’clock mail train. He was standing there doing nothing, so I gave him a buck to run it over to the post office.”
“Was he alone or with somebody?”
“Alone, I think,” Jason said. “Didn’t really notice.”
Tony turned to the bald-headed man. “You notice?”
“I think he was by himself... No, wait a minute. By himself Tuesday, and I think he came in alone Wednesday afternoon, but I saw him leave with George Erickson.”
“The druggist, eh?” Tony said softly. “Thanks, mister.”
Nodding curtly to the bearded man, he left the Blue Goose and crossed the square again to a store with a sign on the window reading: Erickson’s Drugs and Sundries.
The man who came from the prescription room to wait on Tony was as tall and heavy set as Art Jason. But there the resemblance ended. He had a soft, round face and large dark eyes like a woman’s, but a blunt jaw and square, hard mouth saved him from effeminacy. Instead of asking what Tony wanted, he questioned him silently with a direct, impersonal gaze.