Moraine gave a low whistle. “And,” he said, “they know that I went out there to Sixth and Maplehurst after you telephoned. They can prove where I went, even if they can’t prove you telephoned me.”
He stared moodily at the suitcase.
“You know what this means,” he told them, indicating it with a jerking motion of his head. “The person who has that suitcase in his possession is the one who draws a first degree murder verdict.”
“Then let’s start burning the stuff,” Natalie Rice said. “We can burn a few papers at a time.”
Moraine shook his head.
“Looking at it from another angle,” he said, “that suitcase, with the documents that are in it, is the only thing on God’s green earth that we can use as a club to keep from having the murder framed on us.”
He stared steadily at Natalie Rice. “You’re going to get dragged into it,” he said. “Cops are going to come out here and take you into custody. They’re going to get hard-boiled. Can you take it? Can you protect your father, and can you protect me? Can you tell them that you won’t betray by business secrets, that you won’t tell them where you went without first getting my permission? In other words, can you take it right on the chin?”
She faced him steadily. “I can take it,” she said.
Sam Moraine picked up the suitcase.
“How about Father?” she asked.
“I’m taking care of your father.”
Alton Rice sighed wearily. “No one’s taking care of me. I’m going to take care of everyone else.”
“What do you mean?” Moraine inquired.
“I mean,” he said, “that when it comes to a showdown I’ll confess to the murder of Pete Dixon and the young woman.”
Natalie Rice gasped. Sam Moraine, holding Alton Rice with his eyes, said slowly, “Did you kill them?”
“No, but I’m not going to let my daughter get dragged into it. My life is ruined; there’s nothing left for me. I’ll take the rap and that will let her out.”
“You,” Sam Moraine told him, “come with me.”
Chapter Twelve
Sam Moraine pushed open the door of the apartment house lobby. A Negro lad, who was nodding back of a switchboard, jerked his body stiffly erect and surveyed the intruder with wide, sleep-dazed eyes. Sam Moraine leaned over the counter.
“Thomas Wickes live here?” he asked.
The Negro nodded. Moraine pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. He smoothed out a dollar bill, placed it on the counter and looked at it from several angles, as though admiring the engraving. The eyes of the colored boy showed interest.
“Are you a bright boy?” asked Sam Moraine.
The eyes were wider now, the white showing prominently, the irises reddish-black as they stared steadily at the dollar bill.
“Ise bright ’nuf to know which side ob de bread has got de butter,” the lad remarked.
Moraine made a gesture, moving the dollar bill a few inches toward the far side of the counter.
“Is Wickes in his room?”
The boy mechanically reached toward the switchboard.
“No, wait a minute,” Moraine instructed. “I don’t want you to call him — not yet. I just want to know if he’s in.”
The boy frowned thoughtfully.
“Yassah,” he said, “lie’s in. He ain’t bin in long. He came in purty late, but he’s in.”
Sam Moraine pushed the dollar bill across to the colored lad. He reached in his pocket once more, pulled out the roll of bills and counted off five one-dollar bills with solemn precision. The eyes back of the switchboard grew wider.
“I’m going up and see Tom Wickes for a little while,” Moraine said. “When I come back, I’m going to want you to go out and run an errand for me. It’s something you’ll have to do quickly. Do you suppose you could do it?”
The hand made a deprecatory gesture toward the switchboard. “Lordy, Boss. Ah couldn’t leave dis place. Sometimes dis time ob de mornin’ they ain’t no call comes through, but if a call come through an’ Ah ain’t heah to get it, Ah gets the debil from de boss-lady, and Ah don’t mean no maybe about it.”
Moraine nodded and said, “That’s all right, boy; I’m an expert on telephone calls. I’ll sit back there and watch the switchboard for you.”
The lad hesitated. Moraine picked up the five one-dollar bills, folded them impressively, sighed and slipped them back in his pocket.
“You be all ready,” he said, “when I come down. And don’t announce me. What’s the number of Mr. Wickes apartment?”
“Six hunnert and three, sah.”
Moraine moved toward the elevator. The colored boy reached a decision. “Boss, I’se gwine be ready run dat erran’ for yo’ when yo’ gets back.”
Moraine grinned, opened the door of the automatic elevator and pressed the button for the sixth floor.
He found Apartment 603 without difficulty, located the mother-of-pearl bell button to the right of the door, and held his thumb against it. He could hear a buzzer sounding within the apartment. After a moment, there was the creak of bed springs and the sound of bare feet thudding to the floor. A man’s voice from the other side of the door said cautiously, “Who is it?”
“A message,” said Moraine.
“What sort of message?”
“A message from a woman.”
“Who are you?”
“The man she told to see that you got the message.”
There was a moment of silence. Moraine made no effort to urge the man on the other side of the door, letting the silent suspense serve his purpose. The man reached a decision. Bolts clicked back on the inside of the door. It was opened a cautious three inches. A hand was extended.
“A verbal message,” Moraine said, and pushed the door open.
Wickes, attired in pyjamas, stared at Moraine with startled surprise. Then he drew up with dignity. His face showed indignation.
“Moraine!” he said. “What the devil’s the meaning of this? If you wanted to see me why didn’t you announce yourself in the usual way?”
“Because,” Moraine told him, “I had a message.”
“Who’s your message from?”
“A message,” said Moraine, “from a dead woman.”
Wickes licked his lips slowly.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “Are you drunk?”
Moraine seated himself on the arm of an over-stuffed chair, pulled a cigarette case from his pocket.
“No,” he said, “I’m not drunk; I’m bringing you a message from a dead woman.”
Wickes squared himself, as though getting set either to receive or give a blow. His bare toes seemed trying to dig into the carpet.
“What’s the message?” he asked in a voice that was harsh and metallic.
Moraine regarded him for several seconds with wary watchfulness.
“The message,” he said slowly, “is that you can’t get away with it.”
“Can’t get away with what?”
Moraine’s eyes stared steadily and accusingly.
“With murder,” he said.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Wickes demanded. “I didn’t murder her. I was nothing to her, and she was nothing to me.”
Moraine advanced, as though ready to start a fight. “Baloney,” he said, “you can’t make that fine stick with me.”
“By God, it’s the truth,” Wickes said, his eyes hard, his muscles tense. “I saw her occasionally, but that was all. I never did see her except when Doris Bender was there.”
“You mean Ann Hartwell?” Moraine exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes, I mean Ann Hartwell.”