Read Online Top of the Heap by Erle Stanley Gardner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erle Stanley Gardner
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girl’s weekend, do you?”
“You’ll have lots of weekends after I get back,” I told her.
“And a lot of good they’ll do me,” she retorted.
“What was that last?”
“I simply said to give my love to Sylvia,” she observed, and then asked, “Where can I call you?”
“You can’t. I’ll call you.”
“When?”
“Sometime tomorrow morning.”
“Sunday morning!”
“That’s right.”
“You’re getting more and more like Bertha every day,” she told me.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give you more time and more sleep. Let’s make it at the office Monday morning. I’ll call collect because I’m running short of cash.”
“Make it Sunday if you want, Donald. Anything I can do—”
“No, you won’t be able to get the information by then.”
“How do you know? A police detective is buying my dinner tonight.”
“You do get around.”
“Just local stuff. I don’t need to go to another city.”
I laughed. “Make it Monday, Elsie. That’ll be soon enough.”
“Honest?”
“Honest.”
“žBy now,” she said softly, and hung up.
I went out to Post and Polk and looked around. It was a nice intersection for an accident. Someone coming along Post Street and seeing a Go signal at Van Ness would start speeding to try and make the signal if he thought he had a clear run for it at Polk Street.
A kid was selling newspapers on the corner. There was quite a bit of traffic.
I took from my pocket the list of witnesses that Lieutenant Sheldon had given me and wondered if it was complete.
There was a woman whose occupation was listed simply as a saleslady, a man who worked in a nearby drugstore, a motorist who “saw it all” from a place midway in the block, and a man who ran a little cigar stand had heard the crash, and run out to see what it was all about.
There wasn’t anything about a newsboy.
I started thinking that over, then I walked up and bought a paper, gave the kid two bits, and told him to keep the change.
“This your regular beat?” I asked.
He nodded, his sharp eyes studying the people and the traffic, looking for an opportunity to sell another paper.
“Here every night?”
He nodded.
I said suddenly, “How come you didn’t tell the police what you knew about that hit-and-run case last Tuesday night?”
He would have started to run if I hadn’t grabbed his arm. “Come on, kid,” I said, “let’s have it.”
He looked like a trapped rabbit. “You can’t come busting up and start pushing me around like this.”
“Who’s pushing you around?”
“You are.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” I told him. “How much money did they pay you to clam up?”
“Go roll a hoop.”
“That,” I told him, “is what is known as compounding a felony.”
“I’ve got some friends on the force here,” he said. “Fellows that aren’t going to stand for having me pushed around.”
“You may have some friends on the force,” I said, “but you’re not dealing with the force now. Do you know any good judges?”
I saw him wince at that.
“Of course,” I said, “a good friend who is a judge might help you. This isn’t the police. I’m private, and I’m tough.”
“Aw, what are you picking on me for? Give a guy a break, can’t you?”
“What difference does it make to you?” I asked him.“Did somebody give you money?”
“Of course not.”
“Perhaps trying a little blackmail?”
“Aw, have a heart, mister. Gee, I was going to play it on the square and then I realized I couldn’t.”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“Because I was in trouble down in Los Angeles. I skipped parole. I ain’t supposed to be selling papers. I’m supposed to be reporting to a probation officer every thirty days and all that stuff. I didn’t like it and I came up here and been going straight.”
“Why didn’t you report the hit-and-run?”
“How could I? I thought I was going to be smart. I took down the guy’s number and figured I’d make a
“You’ll have lots of weekends after I get back,” I told her.
“And a lot of good they’ll do me,” she retorted.
“What was that last?”
“I simply said to give my love to Sylvia,” she observed, and then asked, “Where can I call you?”
“You can’t. I’ll call you.”
“When?”
“Sometime tomorrow morning.”
“Sunday morning!”
“That’s right.”
“You’re getting more and more like Bertha every day,” she told me.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give you more time and more sleep. Let’s make it at the office Monday morning. I’ll call collect because I’m running short of cash.”
“Make it Sunday if you want, Donald. Anything I can do—”
“No, you won’t be able to get the information by then.”
“How do you know? A police detective is buying my dinner tonight.”
“You do get around.”
“Just local stuff. I don’t need to go to another city.”
I laughed. “Make it Monday, Elsie. That’ll be soon enough.”
“Honest?”
“Honest.”
“žBy now,” she said softly, and hung up.
I went out to Post and Polk and looked around. It was a nice intersection for an accident. Someone coming along Post Street and seeing a Go signal at Van Ness would start speeding to try and make the signal if he thought he had a clear run for it at Polk Street.
A kid was selling newspapers on the corner. There was quite a bit of traffic.
I took from my pocket the list of witnesses that Lieutenant Sheldon had given me and wondered if it was complete.
There was a woman whose occupation was listed simply as a saleslady, a man who worked in a nearby drugstore, a motorist who “saw it all” from a place midway in the block, and a man who ran a little cigar stand had heard the crash, and run out to see what it was all about.
There wasn’t anything about a newsboy.
I started thinking that over, then I walked up and bought a paper, gave the kid two bits, and told him to keep the change.
“This your regular beat?” I asked.
He nodded, his sharp eyes studying the people and the traffic, looking for an opportunity to sell another paper.
“Here every night?”
He nodded.
I said suddenly, “How come you didn’t tell the police what you knew about that hit-and-run case last Tuesday night?”
He would have started to run if I hadn’t grabbed his arm. “Come on, kid,” I said, “let’s have it.”
He looked like a trapped rabbit. “You can’t come busting up and start pushing me around like this.”
“Who’s pushing you around?”
“You are.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” I told him. “How much money did they pay you to clam up?”
“Go roll a hoop.”
“That,” I told him, “is what is known as compounding a felony.”
“I’ve got some friends on the force here,” he said. “Fellows that aren’t going to stand for having me pushed around.”
“You may have some friends on the force,” I said, “but you’re not dealing with the force now. Do you know any good judges?”
I saw him wince at that.
“Of course,” I said, “a good friend who is a judge might help you. This isn’t the police. I’m private, and I’m tough.”
“Aw, what are you picking on me for? Give a guy a break, can’t you?”
“What difference does it make to you?” I asked him.“Did somebody give you money?”
“Of course not.”
“Perhaps trying a little blackmail?”
“Aw, have a heart, mister. Gee, I was going to play it on the square and then I realized I couldn’t.”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“Because I was in trouble down in Los Angeles. I skipped parole. I ain’t supposed to be selling papers. I’m supposed to be reporting to a probation officer every thirty days and all that stuff. I didn’t like it and I came up here and been going straight.”
“Why didn’t you report the hit-and-run?”
“How could I? I thought I was going to be smart. I took down the guy’s number and figured I’d make a
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