The Long Vendetta by Clifton Adams

Author:Clifton Adams
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: マイコンテンツ
Published: 2011-01-27T05:03:39.807000+00:00

It was midnight when we reached the corner of Eighth and Horner, which was the end of the line. Nobody knew the killer. Or if they did they weren't saying. All we had to show for our trouble were sore feet and short tempers. And Jeanie, if the killer played the string all the way out, had four less hours to live.

Garnett took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He looked at his watch and grunted.

“There's something about you, Coyle,” he said wryly. “I don't think I've had a dozen hours' sleep since I first ran into you.”

I gave him a narrow look. “Don't let me keep you up, Lieutenant. There's nothing much going on—just a girl about to be murdered.”

We were standing in a yellow pool of light under a corner street lamp, waiting for Lavy to catch up with us on the other side. The Street behind us, all the way to Second, stretched out only half-alive, half-breathing, waiting. We had made all the wine joints, the hole-in-the wall eating places, the missions, the walk-up flophouses and the walk-down bathhouses. Nobody knew the killer. Every time a head shook “no” the knot in my stomach pulled a little tighter.

Garnett walked over to a corner call box, unlocked it and checked in with the night shift at headquarters. He came back, and I said, “Is Jeanie all right?”

“Miss Kelly's fine. The policewoman has been calling in every hour.”

“Is that all they said?”

“Not quite. A police artist has been working with Milton—he's finally got a picture that Milton says looks like the man who paid him to deliver the notes.”

I stopped breathing. A prickling sensation started at the base of my spine and walked straight up my back. “You've got a picture of the killer?”

“Not exactly. It's just a picture of somebody that Milton says... Well, you know Milton. Anyway, they're bringing the picture down here for you to see before they start making copies.”

Across the street we saw Lavy appear in the doorway of a basement flophouse. He crossed with the light and came toward us. Garnett told him about the picture, and the sergeant nodded.

“Maybe it's the break we've been waiting for.”

“And maybe it's something Milton saw in the bottom of an after-shave bottle.”

About ten minutes later a squad car pulled up at the curb with the flasher going but no siren. A young, springy plain-clothes man got out of the car and handed the sketch to Garnett. All of us stood under the street lamp looking at the drawing.

It was a sad, long face with deep lines around the mouth and an eerie blankness in the eyes. The nose was long and slightly hooked; the lips were thin and looked colorless in the drawing. What promised to be a high forehead was covered by the brim of a shabby hat. A face like this one would not be an easy one to love, but it would be just as hard to hate. It was difficult to rake up any feeling at all about the face, except.

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