Solomon's Vineyard by Jonathan Latimer

Author:Jonathan Latimer [Latimer, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Crime, General, Mystery & Detective, Hard-Boiled, Fiction
ISBN: 9781471910708
Google: bJciXRINWtcC
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2013-04-13T12:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WHEN I walked to the lane by the Vineyard road, Pug's car was gone. It meant he was getting tough again. But I was too tired to be scared. I caught the two o'clock inter-urban back to town. The motorman stared at me when I gave him my dime, but he didn't say anything. I took a seat in the back of the car and closed my eyes. I thought, Jesus, I'm tired! What a woman! I wasn't good for anything. I wouldn't be any good for days.

“Far as we go, buddy.”

It was the motorman, shaking me awake in the town square. I walked to the Arkady and dragged myself up the front steps. Incense almost strangled me as I walked across the lobby. Nobody was at the reception desk. A paper lay on the counter. There was a long story about the shooting. I read down the first column and found one new thing: Pug Banta had been questioned by the DA, but he had an alibi. It made me laugh. Chief Piper had provided it. He declared Pug had been in jail all night, on a speeding violation. “I arrested him myself,” he was quoted as saying.

That was a good one! I could see the chief arresting Pug. The clerk came to the desk. He was a new one.

“Anything for Craven?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.” He was a fat man with the bread-dough face of a night worker. “Someone in St Louis has been trying to get you.”

I told him to put the call in the phone booth. I lifted the receiver and said “Hello.” The operator said: “Here's your party, St Louis.”

“This is Grayson.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Grayson.”

“What are you bastards doing down there?”

“We're making progress.”

“Baloney I They told me you and Johnson could deliver, but I've seen no signs of it.”

I took a long breath. He sounded as though he was going to fire us. I said: “We'll have her out in three days.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, that's better.” He was silent for a couple of seconds. “You need more money?”

“We could use some.”

“All right. I'll send a thousand down in the morning.”

He hung up. I came out of the booth. I rode up in the elevator with the fat clerk.

“Still hot,” he said.

“Yeah.”

I went to my room. I was sweating. I wondered how the hell I was going to get Penelope Grayson out in three, days. Or in three years for that matter.

In the morning I lay in heel for n long time. I was still bushed, I sent down for coffee and six raw eggs. I dropped the eggs into a glass of bourbon and drank the mixture. Then I drank the coffee. I felt bad that it was the wrong month for oysters.

I propped myself up in bed with pillows and thought about Oke Johnson. He was a big, dumb Swede who thought he was smart. But I had to get the guy who shot him. It would be swell to have people point me out as the private detective who wasn't bright enough to find his partner's murderer.

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