Sir Lancelot’s Crime Wave

Of course there was always the possibility that Kiern could have gone directly to the railroad station, checked the bags, returned the car to the lot and then gone on to take a train out of town. But it would have made more sense to take the bags to the lot, hail a taxi outside the lot. It would have saved time and trouble and there were plenty of cruising cabs in the area of the parking lot at night, as it was only a block or so from the theater district.

He made another X, after looking up the address of the Ballou and Stark warehouse. By taking a crosstown thoroughfare, a man could drive from Lincoln to the warehouse, and then downtown to the lot in possibly five or ten minutes more than would be needed to drive directly to the lot. That would give Kiern an hour, more or less, at the warehouse.

Jamison looked down at the map and it was as though he were suspended high over that city on a Sunday night two weeks before. The little black sedan was down there on the street. It waited. Kiern got in it and drove off. Where did he go? And why? If he already had a new address, it would seem reasonable that he would have given that address to the building superintendent.

He was still sitting there at midnight when Carl Case came in. Carl sat down, tenderly took off his shoes and groaned. “Oh, you lucky, lucky guy. I get a car from the department and then I can park it within a mile of where I want to go every time. You have it soft, lad. Soft.”

“Want to trade?”

“I didn’t until today. Joe told me you were locked in for a long time today with some very nice stuff.”

“Joe talks too much. She’s a nice girl.” Jamie took a deep breath. “I took her out to dinner to talk over her problem.”

Case gave him a look of burlesque surprise. “Jamison, the woman hater! Jamison, the strong and silent man! Dating girls now! The earth has faltered on its majestic orbit around the sun. I am speechless.”

“I wish you were.”

Case padded over in his stocking feet and looked over Jamison’s shoulder at the map. He stopped smiling. He said:

“Jamie, you and I are friends. You got a rough assignment. But just between us coppers, let me suggest that you don’t go hero for some babe, without orders.” Jamison quietly folded up the man and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. He lit a cigarette and leaned back. “Homicide needs people with long noses,” he said.

Case flushed, turned and went into his bedroom. In a little while Jamison heard the roar of the shower...

Jamison got some information on the phone, made an appointment, skipped his lunch to keep it. Roger Leesh, the C.P.A., was a burly young man with his big hands, a lurid sports jacket and a customer’s smile.

Jamison took the chair Leesh indicated. He said, “I made it sound over the phone as if this were official business, Mr. Leesh. It isn’t. I’m acting as a private citizen with no authority whatsoever. I found out you audit the books of Ballou and Stark. I know that your relationship with your clients is confidential. So you can tell me to go to hell.”

Leesh grinned. “I like that! Right to the point. Look at it this way, Lieutenant. Some time you might come in with authority. The truth is, I wouldn’t feel right about answering questions. Some questions. Try a few. If I don’t like them, I’ll hedge.”

“Ballou and Stark makes money?”

“If it were a corporation instead of a limited partnership, I wouldn’t be in a rush to buy up a lot of stock.”

“It will keep on going for a long time?”

“Call it the transfusion method. Money is the blood of business. Mr. Gardener, one of the partners, is a transfusion expert.”

“Do they worry?”

“They don’t seem to. That’s not my business. Maybe it’s a hobby with Mr. Stark. Maybe he sends Gardener the transfusions. I wouldn’t know.”

Jamison thought in silence for a time. He said, “No more questions.”

“That was a lot easier than I expected, Lieutenant. I don’t have to say anything about your keeping the mouth firmly closed, do I?”

“Not a word.”

“Now I’ll ask one. Is there any danger of my losing a client?”

“There’s always that danger,” Jamison said...

During the afternoon, during a lull in the procession of people who considered themselves too important to get traffic tickets and had to be disillusioned, Jamison called a salesman friend of his, asked some questions, jotted down terminology on a scratch pad.

And then he called Mr. Gardener. He said, “My name is Hunt, sir. I’m lining up wholesale houses for a new product called Lynadrine. We—”

“We can’t take on any new items at this time,” Gardener said bruskly.

“But we’re spending upwards of a million in national advertising, guaranteeing you a local sale of at least a hundred thousand dollars a year, with an eighteen percent gross profit to your firm, Mr. Gardener.”

“The offer is attractive, Mr. Hunt, but we find that our present lines are all that we can handle at this time. Thank you for thinking of us.” The line clicked dead.

Jamison hung up the phone, slouched in his chair and frowned at the far wall.