“This is Roney, Lieutenant.”
“Ah!” said Pug Lester. “Where are you now?”
“In town. But I’m thinking of leaving. I phoned to tell you I’m sorry about last night.”
“No trouble at all,” Lester said grimly. “I need the exercise. May I suggest that you get the hell down here as fast as you can?”
“I’ll be in,” I said vaguely, “sooner or later. But I’ve got a few things to do.”
There was a silence. That would be Pug Lester’s hand clamping tight on the mouthpiece while he detailed someone in the office to trace the call.
I said sharply, “Don’t send anyone after me, Pug. I won’t be here when they come.”
There was a pause. “What else can I do?” Lester said. “Why don’t you come in? Isn’t that why you called?”
“No,” I said slowly. “I was hoping that you’d found out who killed those people. I had no reason to, you know.”
“Look,” Pug Lester said. “The dame said she saw you kill Malcolm. She said that over the phone.”
“But why should I kill Malcolm? I knew him only slightly.”
“That isn’t what the letters say.”
“What letters?” I asked blankly
“Correspondence between you and Malcolm. We found a couple of his letters in your files – a couple of yours in his. If you kids were fond of each other, you were certainly talking tough.”
“But I never . . .” Then I realized the futility of denial. “Are you sure they’re genuine?”
Pug said, “Me? I’m sure of nothing. The boys in the lab are still working, but they seem to like the signatures well enough.”
I stared out through the glass door of the phone booth. The air seemed suddenly stifling. I was holding the phone like a man in a trance.
Pug Lester said sharply. “Roney! You still there? Don’t hang up on me, Roney! I want to talk to you!”
The urgency in the lieutenant’s voice brought me to my senses. I realized suddenly how long we had been talking. Lester would certainly have the call traced, and the police would arrive at any moment. Indeed, they might well be here right now. I hung up the phone and drifted out of the booth.
The ancient druggist eyed me without particular interest as I moved out into the street. At the corner I caught a streetcar, but I had no feeling of safety until, after a mile on the trolley, I changed to a cross-town bus.
The ride seemed to clear my head, and I found myself able to think. McGuire and Sampson had fitted me with a frame, which, if not perfect, was at least good enough to cause the public to hold and try me for murder. True, it might not stand up under careful investigation, but I disliked the idea of taking up residence in a death cell on the off chance that Pug Lester or some other enterprising detective would come along and kick me out.
Having rejected the services of the police, I felt the loneliness pressing in upon me. In a few short hours, I, Dick Roney, had become a furtive, frightened thing who dared not pause for rest.
I set out to find McGuire. It took longer than you’d think. It meant making discreet inquiries in several bookmaking establishments. It meant watching men’s eyes drift far off the moment I mentioned the name.
Finally, as I was leaving a south-side bar, a heavy-set man stepped out from the wall of the building. He looked so much like a detective, I was tempted to run. But the man was blocking the way. Neither of us said anything while the man thoughtfully brought out a match and bit off the end.
Then he said, “Understand you’re looking for McGuire?”
I said, “I was.” Then I remembered that the man had not been in the bar. “How did you know?” I added.
“We heard.” He moved toward a car at the curb. Opening one door for me, he circled lazily and climbed in under the wheel. “Let’s go,” he said.
I hesitated, then I realized that McGuire was my one wild chance. I climbed in and slammed the door. The car went forward in a sighing rush.
McGuire’s place ran to spacious, quiet reception rooms. The furniture in the offices ran into heavy dough. The receptionist looked like something in a social register, and McGuire looked like the most successful member of the bar association.
He didn’t rise when I came in, but a slight smile furnished the illusion of pleasantness, and a curt nod dismissed my escort. The heavy-set man nodded briskly and backed out through the door.
I stood easily on the soft, thick pile of the carpet, and when I saw Sampson watching from a corner of the room, I said, “Well! My little friend.”
Sampson let it pass. McGuire’s gray eyes rested on me thoughtfully. When he spoke, his deep, cultured voice went well with his surroundings. His face was handsome, almost noble. An international banker would have been proud to own his suit.
“Forgive me,” McGuire said, “if I seem to stare at you. When I heard you were trying to find me, I knew I was going to meet an unusual man.”
“That’s damned nice of you,” I said. “But I’m afraid you’ll find I’m a pretty standard guy, or I was until yesterday.”
“No,” McGuire corrected. “The average man would not have come here.”
“Would’ve had more sense,” said Sampson.
“Can’t you keep him quiet?” I asked.
“If you prefer. However, there is some truth in what he says.” McGuire stood up. “I’m afraid my schedule is pretty crowded. You’re here – now, what do you want?”
“A chair,” I said. I chose one fairly close to the desk, sat down with my legs sprawled out. “Tired,” I explained. “I’ve been walking.” I hoped they wouldn’t notice how nervous I was if I pretended to own the joint.
Sampson said, “You might as well walk while you can.”
I looked appealingly at McGuire. “He’s talking again,” I complained. “And every time he opens his mouth, one of us loses money.”
McGuire sat down. “Would it take you very long,” he asked, “to tell up why you came?”
“I would have come when you first invited me,” I said, “if you’d sent anyone but this little clown.”
Sampson sprang up and moved to the desk “How about it, Mac?” he said. “How’s if I slap this loud-mouth around, then feed him to the cops?”
“You see what I mean?” I said mildly. “The boy has too much bounce.”
McGuire wasn’t looking at Sampson. He said. “Let’s get on with it, Roney.”
“All right. Put it this way. What do you hope to gain by having me take the rap for two murders?”
“Let’s assume,” said McGuire, “that I know what you’re talking about – which I don’t. Then the answer is, I gain nothing.”
“And you call yourself a businessman?”
“I am a businessman,” said McGuire. “I sent a man to you with a proposition which you refused. I have no further interest in you or your affairs.”
“Here’s a proposition for you,” I said.
“Go on.”
“Call off your dogs, and get what you wanted in the first place – a branch office for your syndicate in each of my restaurants.”
McGuire looked at me, cool and amused. “It’s likely I’ll get that anyway,” he said. “Not from you, but from your successor.”
I let my eyes move from one to the other – McGuire, suave and superior; Sampson’s pinched face full of hatred, but with something in it of smugness. That, I guessed, would be about as close to a happy expression as the little hood could manage. In Sampson’s mind, this meeting probably came under the heading of watching the sucker squirm.
I said, “You know who my successor is?”
McGuire shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I manage to do business with most people.”
“With the Paramount Insurance Company? If I’m out of the picture, management of the chain reverts to a holding company owned by them.”