Read Online Mourn the Hangman by Harry Whittington - Free Book Online

But a clean shirt was all that mattered.
    He pulled at the filing cabinet and almost pulled it over on him. Locked. Bricker and his damned keys, he thought vehemently. With the heel of his hand, he jammed at the lock sharply and listened to it snap with grim satisfaction. That’ll show Bricker how effective his keys are against anyone who really wanted to get into these things, he told himself.
    He selected a carefully laundered shirt and put it on, stuffing it inside his trousers while his thoughts moved over all that had happened to him, every little thing that might have led to Stella’s murder.
    He went over to his desk, flopped down behind it and dialed a number. He listened to the telephone ring a long time. When the man answered, Blake could hear him grumbling about being disturbed this hour on a blamed Sunday morning.
    “Edwards?” Blake said.
    “Yeah.”
    “This is Steve Blake — or Robert Cole.”
    He heard Edwards’ sharp little whistle. “Blake will do. That Cole malarkey is gone. Where are you?”
    Blake laughed at him. “You ought to know.”
    “How the hell should I know?”
    Blake decided to hell with arguing that with Edwards. “I want to see Arrenhower,” he said.
    “What?”
    “You heard me. You could fix it. I’ve got to talk to him.”
    Edwards laughed again. Mirthlessly. “You’re wanted for murder, Blake. You’ve been a very naughty boy, pretending to work for Mr. Arrenhower while, really, you were working for somebody else all the time. You’ve been a fool, Blake. But you ain’t a big enough fool to want to talk to Mr. Arrenhower after all that.”
    Blake’s voice cracked sharply. “I’ve got to talk to him!”
    “Look, Blake, I don’t know what you want. But take my advice. You got troubles enough. Stay away from Arrenhower.”
    “I don’t want your advice.”
    “Nobody ever does,” Edwards said sadly. “But it’s mighty good advice — and for free, Blake. Arrenhower would chew you up and spit you out — right in the laps of the cops.”
    “I’ll worry about that. Somebody killed my wife.”
    “You think maybe Mr. Arrenhower did it?” Edwards laughed.
    “I don’t know. I only know I didn’t do it. I know Arrenhower has plenty of reason to want to fix my tail — ”
    “You are so right.”
    “And I want to talk to him.”
    Edwards was silent a moment. “Tell you what. Now I shouldn’t do this. But I don’t think you’ll stay out of jail very much longer. So I’ll tell you. Why don’t you get to Tampa about nine o’clock tonight? Mr. Arrenhower loves girlie shows. They have a hot one out in Ybor City at El Toreador. He’ll be there. Why don’t you come? I know Mr. Arrenhower would love to see you. That is if you didn’t stand between him and the girls.”
    There was a sharp click and the instrument went dead in Blake’s hand. He tossed it back into its cradle and leaned back in his chair. God gave you brains to think with, Blake, he told himself. Use ’em, use ’em, use ’em.
    But the whole business was so wrong that Blake could get nowhere with it. Dickerson, by all rights, should have wanted to keep Blake away from the police. Dickerson’s people didn’t want publicity, not even if they denied it in every newspaper and on every radio in the country. And yet Dickerson told Blake that he was through with him, left him to do what he wanted to do. He felt a little cold at the nape of his neck. Was it that maybe Dickerson was pretty sure Blake wasn’t going to live long enough to talk to the police? Dickerson’s kind loved silence. And is there anything more silent than a dead man?
    His jaw tightened and his fists clenched on the edge of his desk before him. That was fine. That was violence and violence he understood. He could fight back. What he couldn’t fight were men who hit at him through Stella and disappeared. He wanted to hit back at something — and there was nothing to hit. Last night, Manley Reeder talked him out of using his fists.