miles from the scene that had been stolen in Detroit a week before, so there’s a general tie-in.
“Take the guy with the gun… he grabbed a car in Detroit, ran over to Windsor to pull the bank job, muffed it, then pulled the Montreal deal, dumped the car and took off. A report from a motel in the area where the car was left, that catered to tourists from the States, called in a stolen car with Jersey plates the same day.”
I said, “It looks nice except for that one thing, Mack. You don’t plan that kind of holdup in a week… not on the run, anyway.”
Mack collected his papers from the desk and folded them under his arm as one of the duty officers came in and handed him a sheet. He looked at it, scowled, then glanced at me. “That stolen car from Jersey was found in the Bronx.”
“The boy’s coming home,” I grinned.
“So he takes the subway, leaves the gun there so he can’t get picked up with it and finds a hideout. But where?”
“Why don’t you try the Ritz,” I suggested. “He’d have enough cash along to afford the rates.”
“Drop dead.”
We left together and I went down to meet Marty at the diner. She was already there, tall, fresh and cool looking in a trim suit that couldn’t hide her loveliness no matter how businesslike it was cut. She had coffee and pie ready for me and a notepad open on the table in front of her. I said, “Hi, little Giggie,” and sat down.
“If you weren’t my superior you’d hear something,” she told me.
“Superior in all things, sugar.”
“All?”
“Like I said … all.”
“Maybe you need a lesson, big boy.”
“In what?” I grinned.
“Oh, shut up.” She sipped at her coffee, then pulled the pad toward her. “I had a talk with a few people on the block.”
“And… ?”
“Remember what Fat Mary said about René Mills hinting about coming into some money?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Confirmed. He was seen with a roll, paid off two big bar bills, cleaned up an account overdue by three months at the grocer’s and made a pitch at Helen Gentry who has pretty expensive tastes and only goes with the boys who are loaded. On top, he laid in a case of expensive Scotch whiskey and paid for it in cash.”
“So?”
Marty closed the pad and said, “He’d been pimping for those two girls who live over Papa Jones’ store for three years now. Cheap trade, and the take couldn’t have been big, but it was all he had, then suddenly he tells them both to take off… that he’s going out of business.”
“Not much cash was found on the body,” I said. “None of that Scotch was found in the apartment, either.”
“Screwy,” she mused.
I told her about my conversation with Ralph Callahan the night before and she nodded, thinking the same thing I was. I said, “He could have been hiding out Gus Wilder for a price.”
“We could check and see if they ever had a previous contact.”
“Not now we can’t, kid. You’re supposed to be a working girl. Until tonight we’ll go at it from a different angle. If the local mob is looking for Wilder they’ll have their own sources. Let’s see if they really are. Think you can run a check?”
“Sure. Regulation procedure accelerated by native ingenuity. I’ll see those who are assigned to that detail.”
I finished my coffee and dropped a bill on the table. “Good enough. I’ll pick you up at the apartment tonight.” I started to leave, then stopped and turned around. “Don’t get involved personally. Let somebody else do the legwork.”
“I can handle it myself, Joe.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t want you to lose your cover. Probe too far and some newshawk will get curious and your picture will be in the paper. That would wipe out your effectiveness in the neighborhood.”
“All right, Joe,” she smiled, “I’ll be careful.” But all that time she knew what I really meant I was getting a damn funny feeling about that woman, one I had never experienced before. Something that was like a
“Take the guy with the gun… he grabbed a car in Detroit, ran over to Windsor to pull the bank job, muffed it, then pulled the Montreal deal, dumped the car and took off. A report from a motel in the area where the car was left, that catered to tourists from the States, called in a stolen car with Jersey plates the same day.”
I said, “It looks nice except for that one thing, Mack. You don’t plan that kind of holdup in a week… not on the run, anyway.”
Mack collected his papers from the desk and folded them under his arm as one of the duty officers came in and handed him a sheet. He looked at it, scowled, then glanced at me. “That stolen car from Jersey was found in the Bronx.”
“The boy’s coming home,” I grinned.
“So he takes the subway, leaves the gun there so he can’t get picked up with it and finds a hideout. But where?”
“Why don’t you try the Ritz,” I suggested. “He’d have enough cash along to afford the rates.”
“Drop dead.”
We left together and I went down to meet Marty at the diner. She was already there, tall, fresh and cool looking in a trim suit that couldn’t hide her loveliness no matter how businesslike it was cut. She had coffee and pie ready for me and a notepad open on the table in front of her. I said, “Hi, little Giggie,” and sat down.
“If you weren’t my superior you’d hear something,” she told me.
“Superior in all things, sugar.”
“All?”
“Like I said … all.”
“Maybe you need a lesson, big boy.”
“In what?” I grinned.
“Oh, shut up.” She sipped at her coffee, then pulled the pad toward her. “I had a talk with a few people on the block.”
“And… ?”
“Remember what Fat Mary said about René Mills hinting about coming into some money?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Confirmed. He was seen with a roll, paid off two big bar bills, cleaned up an account overdue by three months at the grocer’s and made a pitch at Helen Gentry who has pretty expensive tastes and only goes with the boys who are loaded. On top, he laid in a case of expensive Scotch whiskey and paid for it in cash.”
“So?”
Marty closed the pad and said, “He’d been pimping for those two girls who live over Papa Jones’ store for three years now. Cheap trade, and the take couldn’t have been big, but it was all he had, then suddenly he tells them both to take off… that he’s going out of business.”
“Not much cash was found on the body,” I said. “None of that Scotch was found in the apartment, either.”
“Screwy,” she mused.
I told her about my conversation with Ralph Callahan the night before and she nodded, thinking the same thing I was. I said, “He could have been hiding out Gus Wilder for a price.”
“We could check and see if they ever had a previous contact.”
“Not now we can’t, kid. You’re supposed to be a working girl. Until tonight we’ll go at it from a different angle. If the local mob is looking for Wilder they’ll have their own sources. Let’s see if they really are. Think you can run a check?”
“Sure. Regulation procedure accelerated by native ingenuity. I’ll see those who are assigned to that detail.”
I finished my coffee and dropped a bill on the table. “Good enough. I’ll pick you up at the apartment tonight.” I started to leave, then stopped and turned around. “Don’t get involved personally. Let somebody else do the legwork.”
“I can handle it myself, Joe.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t want you to lose your cover. Probe too far and some newshawk will get curious and your picture will be in the paper. That would wipe out your effectiveness in the neighborhood.”
“All right, Joe,” she smiled, “I’ll be careful.” But all that time she knew what I really meant I was getting a damn funny feeling about that woman, one I had never experienced before. Something that was like a
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