“You’ll take care of Natalie?” Alton Rice said.
“I’ll take care of Natalie,” Moraine assured him.
With the suitcase banging against his legs, he went down the corridor to the elevator.
“Taxi,” he told the bell boy who ran for the suitcase as he emerged from the elevator.
“Fourth and Central,” he told the cab driver. But, after the cab had got well on the way, he tapped on the glass and said, “I’ve changed my mind, buddy, let’s run down to the Union Depot.”
Moraine paid off the cab at the Union Depot, carried the suitcase to the checking stand, surrendered it, paid a dime and received a pasteboard check. He put this pasteboard check in a stamped envelope, addressed it to ‘James Charles Fittmore, City, General Delivery,’ sealed the envelope and dropped it in a mail box.
It was now daylight. Moraine took a cab to a Turkish bath.
“Give me the works,” he said, “and get me out of here at five minutes to nine.”
Chapter Fourteen
Natalie Rice’s face was gray with fatigue. She looked up as Sam Moraine pushed his way in through the door, hung up his hat and coat and grinned at her.
“How’s Father?” she asked.
“I’ve got him tucked away. If you don’t know where, it’ll be just that much the better for you.”
“Have you been able to accomplish anything?” she asked in a low voice, as though dreading the answer.
“I’ve accomplished all I can until they discover Dixon’s body. How much money have I in my checking account?”
“Something over four thousand dollars.”
“I’m going to draw it all out,” he said.
He grinned as she raised her eyebrows and said, “Make out a check cleaning out the entire account. Make it to cash.”
“You mean you’re not going to leave a cent in the bank?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s the idea?”
“I’m going to become a fugitive from justice.”
“Sam!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Moraine — you can’t do anything like that!”
“I think it’s going to be a swell idea,” he told her. “I think it’s going to work out fine.”
“You’re pretending a lot of cheerful optimism that you don’t feel.”
“No,” he told her, grinning, “it’s genuine. I never feel so cheerfully optimistic as when I’m winning a jack pot on a bluff.”
“You mean you’re going to run away?”
“I’m going to make it look as though I had run away.”
She opened the drawer of the desk, took out the check-book, made out a check and handed it to him for his signature. He scrawled his signature across the check, and she blotted it. He patted her shoulder reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, lad,” he said.
She clung to his arm as though striving to find something which would give her reassurance.
“Tell me,” she pleaded, “do you believe Father?”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because,” she said slowly, “Father is a very determined man. He’s reached the point where he thinks his own life doesn’t matter. He thinks he’s all through, that there’s nothing he can do — he can’t fight his way back. All that he wants is to vindicate his name so that I can face the world.
“Poor Dad! He doesn’t realize that I’ve already faced the world, that I’ve already fought my way through all of that. His mind still goes back to that first numbing shock when I realized that my friends were snubbing me on the street.”
Moraine said nothing.
“So,” she went on, “he went to see Pete Dixon. I’m satisfied of this, Mr. Moraine — he would have stopped at nothing. He knew that Dixon had certain things that he wanted, and if my father had thought those things were in that suitcase, he’d have done anything on earth to get them.”
“Do you think your own father would have killed a man?”
“Yes,” she said, “if he thought that man had done me an injustice and that he could only rectify that injustice by killing him.
“If you want to know, that was why I was so anxious to help you in this thing. That was why I was so anxious to get something on Peter Dixon. That was why I was so willing to take all those chances and do those desperate things that seemed so illogical to you. It was because I knew my father was going to get out and I knew that he would do anything to vindicate his name so that I could hold up my head once more. I tried to explain to him that I cared nothing for the friends who had snubbed me. The fact that they snubbed me showed how worthless their friendship was. I certainly wouldn’t fall a second time for such a spurious friendship.”
“You don’t think your own father would run the risk of disgracing you by having you become the daughter of a murderer, do you?”
“Not deliberately, but he was always a gambler. I was disgraced already. He was willing to risk anything in order to bring the true facts of the case to light. Dixon was a stubborn man. If my father confronted Dixon with some sort of an ultimatum, there is no telling what might have happened. If Dad killed him, I know that it was in self-defense, but he may have killed him.”
“Well,” Moraine told her, “we can’t do any good by talking about it. Try and dismiss it from your mind. I’ll go cash this check and...”
He broke off, as, from the street below, came the roar of newsboys screaming extras: “Politician moidered! Read about it!”
Her hand went to her throat.
She took a deep breath, then smiled at him.
“All right,” she said, “I can take it.”
“Sit tight and keep cool,” he told her, “it won’t be long until they’re out here looking for you. Remember, don’t answer any questions. Tell them that you refuse to answer anything about my business unless I instruct you to do so, and that you were out last night on my business. Don’t use that other stall we cooked up. It won’t work.”
She pushed her chair back, walked close to him, put her hands on his shoulders.
“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” she pleaded. “Don’t run risks on Father’s account, or on my account.”
He laughed, and patted her back.
“Don’t forget,” he said, “that I’m in this up to my necktie. I’m on my way.”
The phone was ringing as he pulled the door shut behind him.
He went at once to the bank. Despite the comments of the cashier, he offered no information. Yes, he was drawing out his account. No, there was no complaint. The service had been quite satisfactory. He couldn’t tell whether the account would be reopened. No, he didn’t care to step in and see the manager, he was in a hurry.
He took the money in fifties and hundreds, thrust it into his pocket, a big sheaf of bank notes, pushed his way out through the swinging door of the bank, entered a drug store, deposited a coin in the telephone and gave the number of Phil Duncan’s office.
When Duncan’s secretary answered the telephone, he said, “I want to talk with Phil, please.”
“Who is this talking?”
“Sam Moraine,” he told her.
He could hear her give a little gasp of surprise, then, a moment later, he heard the district attorney’s voice on the wire.
“Phil,” he said, “I want to talk with you.”
“Where are you, Sam?”
“I’m down at a drug store.”
“I’ve been calling your office. Have you read the papers?”
“No.”
“Peter Dixon has been murdered.”
“Good lord!” Moraine said. “Any particulars, Phil?”
“The paper contains rather complete details,” Duncan said slowly. “I want to talk with you about it, Sam.”