Barney Morden’s face writhed with expression. He started to say something, then jerked a door open and said to a man in the corridor, “Frank, bury this bird. Don’t let anyone talk with him. Don’t let him get near a telephone. Don’t let anyone see him. Don’t answer any inquiries about him. Take your orders from me and from no one else. Is that clear?”
“You mean from your office?”
“Office hell! I mean from me personally.”
Carl Thorne stepped forward.
“You know me?” he asked.
The man nodded.
“He means from himself personally,” he said.
The man nodded again, jerked his head to Moraine.
“Come on, buddy.”
Moraine followed him down a corridor to a desk back of which a man sat reading a newspaper. There was a big safe behind the desk.
“Empty your pockets,” the man said.
Barney Morden stepped up beside Sam Moraine, scowling.
Moraine took a handkerchief, a key container, cigarette case, a lighter, a pocket knife and a watch from his pockets.
“Frisk him,” Morden said.
The man ran his hands through Moraine’s pockets, gave an exclamation as his fingers closed about the sheaf of bills in Moraine’s inner pocket. He pulled it out, looked at Barney Morden and gave a low whistle.
Barney Morden stepped forward, snatched the bills out of his hand, started counting them.
Morden finished counting the bills. He looked at Moraine accusingly.
“So,” he said, “you were going to take a run-out powder.”
Moraine turned to the man behind the desk.
“Pardon me,” he said, “could I telephone a lawyer?”
The man looked inquiringly at Barney Morden.
“Hell, no!” Morden said. “I’m responsible for this guy.”
“Who’s responsible for the money?” Moraine asked.
“You’ll get your money back fast enough.”
Moraine said to the man behind the desk, “I want a receipt.”
The man took a manila envelope from a drawer. The flap of the envelope contained a numbered stub. He listed Moraine’s belongings one at a time, dropped them into the envelope, sealed it and handed Moraine the numbered stub.
“Your money’s safe enough,” he said.
“This way,” the man told him.
Moraine was taken to a cell. The steel door closed behind him.
The cell had an iron cot which folded up against the wall, or let down, held in position by a couple of chains. There was a thin mattress on the cot. Moraine untied his necktie, opened his shirt at the neck, climbed to the cot, lay down and closed his eyes. He was physically and mentally fatigued, and he drifted off into a dozing, uneasy sleep.
Some two hours later he was awakened by a key turning in the lock. The door opened, and Barney Morden stood in the doorway.
“Sam,” he said, “I’m going to give you a break. I’m going to let you out.”
Moraine chuckled.
“In other words, Barney,” he said, “after having made a complete search of my office, my apartment, my automobile, and every other place you could think of, you can’t find where those papers are, so you’ve decided to turn me loose and put a shadow on me. Is that right?”
Barney Morden’s face was dark.
“You,” he said, “get the hell out of here!”
Chapter Sixteen
Sam Moraine grinned as he tapped gently on the door of Room 306 in the Rutledge Hotel at Colter City.
A woman’s voice sounded from the other side of the door, “Who is it, please?”
“A message,” Moraine said.
After a moment of thoughtful silence, the woman’s voice said, “Who’s the message for, please?”
“For the woman who’s registered under the name of Mrs. G. C. Chester — that’s all I know about it.”
“Who’s it from?”
“From the friend who called you on the long distance telephone before daylight this morning.”
A key clicked back in the lock. The door opened. A woman’s bare arm appeared through the open door. “Can you give it...”
She gasped, as her eyes focused on his face.
“You!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“Giving you a message.”
She started to close the door. Moraine pushed his foot against it.
“Invite me in,” he said.
“I don’t want to have anything to do with you. Get out or I’ll call the officers.”
“Swell idea,” Moraine said. “Let’s both call the officers. When I say ‘three’ we’ll both start yelling ‘police!’ One... two...”
“Stop it!” she exclaimed. “Are you crazy?”
“Invite me in.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk with you.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“You will when you know what I’ve got to tell you.”
“What, for instance?”
“That they’re framing Ann Hartwell’s murder on you.”
“They can’t.”
“They are.”
She hesitated for a moment.
Moraine raised his voice and said, “You see, Miss Bender, that when the body was found it was down by the railroad track, and, of course, you took the ten forty train to come here and take an assumed name...”
The door jerked wide open.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “Must you stand there and shout it so everyone in the hotel can hear?”
“Why, no,” Moraine said innocently, “I just wanted to be certain you heard. Suppose I come in where I can talk it over in a more confidential manner?”
She gathered a negligee about her. “Come on in,” she said.
She closed and locked the door behind Moraine.
“Buying a drink?” Moraine asked casually.
“The drink I’d fix for you,” she said, “would be a cyanide cocktail with a dash of arsenic.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“You’ve been a buttinski from the first. What right have you to horn in on this business?”
“What business?”
“My business.”
“I’m not horning in,” Moraine said, seating himself and stretching his legs out in front of him with the ankles crossed; “I’m just paying a social visit.”
Her eyes were hard and watchful.
“Go on and spill it.”
“The police,” he said, “figure Ann Hartwell’s body was dumped from the train that leaves the depot at ten forty and goes past Sixth and Maplehurst at ten forty-seven.”
“She wasn’t on that train.”
“You were.”
“What if I was?”
“The police figure she was dumped from the train.”
“She wasn’t.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Perhaps. What’s it to you?”
“Oh, nothing,” Moraine said casually; “I’m a fugitive from justice, that’s all.”
“You are? Why?”
“Oh, the police suspect me of murdering Pete Dixon.”
She was standing now, rigid with attention, regarding him through narrowed eyes.
“You mean you’re on the lam?”
“That’s it.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, I just acted the sucker, I guess. I found out Pete Dixon was interested in things, and I went out to see him. I got there just too late.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He was dead.”
He stared at her musingly for a moment, then said, “Mind if I smoke?”
She shook her head in a preoccupied manner, said, “Give me one while you’re about it.”
“Of course,” Moraine said, “I’m telling you this in confidence. If anyone asks me about it, I’ll swear I never said any such thing.”
Moraine produced cigarettes, handed her one, took one himself, and said, “I suppose I should remain standing until you’re seated, but I’m tired. I’ve had a lot of excitement in the last two days.”