Read Online Exploit of Death - Dell Shannon by Dell Shannon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dell Shannon
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they were, Marilyn was a
joy—pretty, too, with her glossy brown hair and blue eyes. Conway
was a good-looking man himself with his regular features and cool
gray eyes, which he appreciated without undue vanity.
He was sitting at Higgins' desk and there were a
couple of glossy eight by tens on the desk blotter. Conway looked at
them appreciatively. He could see that the poor girl was dead, but
she'd been a hell of a good-looker. "I wonder what this is
about," he said.
Schenke, also a born bachelor, but not particularly a
man for the girls, said indifferently, "No idea."
They got their first call at eight-fifteen, a heist
at a liquor store on Third Street. The address rang a faint bell in
Conway's mind. They both went out on it, and when they got there, the
owner was mad as hell. "It's the third time I've been held up in
five months, goddamn it. I have had it. I have had it up to here,
I've goddamned well had my fill of this goddamned business. My wife's
been after me to retire and move up to Santa Barbara— Hell, who can
afford to retire with the goddamned Social Security about to go down
the drain, and I'm only fifty-five but these goddamned punks roaming
around—"
He looked vaguely familiar to both Schenke and
Conway. His name was Bernard Wolf and he was a short, stocky, dark
fellow with an unexpected bass voice. Schenke said, "Yeah, the
latest one was back in July, wasn't it? We were both out on that
then."
"I remember you," said Wolf. "You
goddamned well were, and goddamn it, you never picked up that
bastard, he got away with a hundred and seventy bucks—it was a
Saturday night. You had me down there looking at pictures of all the
punks and I couldn't make any, all of these god-damned louts look
alike—"
"Well, can you give us any description of this
one tonight, Mr. Wolf?" asked Schenke patiently.
Wolf let out a long exasperated sigh of resignation.
"I don't know that I can, goddamn it. There'd be ten thousand
punks look like him—all over this goddamned town. I was alone in
the place—my wife's nervous about me being here at night, but the
young guy I hired to come in, he's in the hospital with a leg in
traction. Do I shut at six and miss all the business—the weekend
coming up? There'd been a customer just left, the punk came in and
showed me the gun and I gave him all the paper in the register and he
went out—call it three minutes. All I can tell you, goddamn it, he
was a spick."
"Latin," said Conway.
"Sure, maybe five ten, thin, black hair, little
mustache, and he couldn't talk English so good, had a thick accent.
He got maybe a hundred and fifty bucks. Goddamn it. God-damn it, I
have had it. I can't afford to retire, but the hell with it. I'll get
something for the business and maybe I can find a part-time job up in
Santa Barbara. I have had it with this goddamned business and this
goddamned town—"
"Did he touch anything in here?" asked
Schenke.
"Nothing but the goddamned money," said
Wolf.
They went back to the office and Conway typed the
report on it. It was probably the only report there'd be. There would
be a hundred possible heisters conforming to that description in
Records, and they'd never pin the charge on any one of them. He
stopped typing to light a cigarette. "At least it would be
cooler up in Santa Barbara," he said. He had just finished the
report when another call came in, and another a minute later.
The first was a heist at an all—night pharmacy on
Beverly Boulevard, and the other was a body on Rosemont Avenue in the
Echo Park area. Schenke went out on the heist and Conway looked up
Rosemont Avenue in the County Guide. When he got there, it was a
narrow, shabby old eight-unit apartment building. Four apartments
down, four up. The man waiting for him at the entrance was about
forty-five, a heavily built man with a bald head and rimless glasses.
His name was Robert Peterson. He was the manager of the apartments,
lived in the right front one downstairs. The door was open and
joy—pretty, too, with her glossy brown hair and blue eyes. Conway
was a good-looking man himself with his regular features and cool
gray eyes, which he appreciated without undue vanity.
He was sitting at Higgins' desk and there were a
couple of glossy eight by tens on the desk blotter. Conway looked at
them appreciatively. He could see that the poor girl was dead, but
she'd been a hell of a good-looker. "I wonder what this is
about," he said.
Schenke, also a born bachelor, but not particularly a
man for the girls, said indifferently, "No idea."
They got their first call at eight-fifteen, a heist
at a liquor store on Third Street. The address rang a faint bell in
Conway's mind. They both went out on it, and when they got there, the
owner was mad as hell. "It's the third time I've been held up in
five months, goddamn it. I have had it. I have had it up to here,
I've goddamned well had my fill of this goddamned business. My wife's
been after me to retire and move up to Santa Barbara— Hell, who can
afford to retire with the goddamned Social Security about to go down
the drain, and I'm only fifty-five but these goddamned punks roaming
around—"
He looked vaguely familiar to both Schenke and
Conway. His name was Bernard Wolf and he was a short, stocky, dark
fellow with an unexpected bass voice. Schenke said, "Yeah, the
latest one was back in July, wasn't it? We were both out on that
then."
"I remember you," said Wolf. "You
goddamned well were, and goddamn it, you never picked up that
bastard, he got away with a hundred and seventy bucks—it was a
Saturday night. You had me down there looking at pictures of all the
punks and I couldn't make any, all of these god-damned louts look
alike—"
"Well, can you give us any description of this
one tonight, Mr. Wolf?" asked Schenke patiently.
Wolf let out a long exasperated sigh of resignation.
"I don't know that I can, goddamn it. There'd be ten thousand
punks look like him—all over this goddamned town. I was alone in
the place—my wife's nervous about me being here at night, but the
young guy I hired to come in, he's in the hospital with a leg in
traction. Do I shut at six and miss all the business—the weekend
coming up? There'd been a customer just left, the punk came in and
showed me the gun and I gave him all the paper in the register and he
went out—call it three minutes. All I can tell you, goddamn it, he
was a spick."
"Latin," said Conway.
"Sure, maybe five ten, thin, black hair, little
mustache, and he couldn't talk English so good, had a thick accent.
He got maybe a hundred and fifty bucks. Goddamn it. God-damn it, I
have had it. I can't afford to retire, but the hell with it. I'll get
something for the business and maybe I can find a part-time job up in
Santa Barbara. I have had it with this goddamned business and this
goddamned town—"
"Did he touch anything in here?" asked
Schenke.
"Nothing but the goddamned money," said
Wolf.
They went back to the office and Conway typed the
report on it. It was probably the only report there'd be. There would
be a hundred possible heisters conforming to that description in
Records, and they'd never pin the charge on any one of them. He
stopped typing to light a cigarette. "At least it would be
cooler up in Santa Barbara," he said. He had just finished the
report when another call came in, and another a minute later.
The first was a heist at an all—night pharmacy on
Beverly Boulevard, and the other was a body on Rosemont Avenue in the
Echo Park area. Schenke went out on the heist and Conway looked up
Rosemont Avenue in the County Guide. When he got there, it was a
narrow, shabby old eight-unit apartment building. Four apartments
down, four up. The man waiting for him at the entrance was about
forty-five, a heavily built man with a bald head and rimless glasses.
His name was Robert Peterson. He was the manager of the apartments,
lived in the right front one downstairs. The door was open and
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