Sir Lancelot’s Crime Wave

“Yeah. How the hell did I know the lad was lying to me when he said Mr. Gardener asked him to get them? How did I know the lad was trying to be a ball of fire on the job by muscling into the boss’s private product?”

“He seems to have changed his mind again,” Jamison said.

The man cackled. “Little forgetful, though, ain’t he? Had that wire cage built and never did give me the key for it. Let’s see what he says.”

The man went over to the narrow stairway, leaned into it and yelled up, “Mr. Gardener! Hey, Mr. Gardener!”

Steps were heavy on the stairs. Jamison bit his lip. A bad tactical error. They should have asked first if Mr. Gardener was in his private lab. Gardener appeared, first neatly shined shoes, then stained white smock, then a puzzled, heavy face.

“Miss Dobbs!” he said. “What’s wrong?”

Seaton answered for her. He held the note out and Gardener took it. Seaton said, “Mr. Gardener, I got to know just how much authority I got here. You give me hell for letting Kiern take them powders and then you send me these orders.”

Jamison moved two careful steps back toward the door, watched Gardener’s face as the man read the note. It was a heavy, unreadable face, evenly coated with an almost metallic tan.

“You didn’t give me no key for that stuff,” Seaton said, his tone querelous.

Gardener gave Corrine a keen look.

“I don’t understand all this,” he said evenly. “This certainly looks like my signature. But I didn’t write this order. Who is your friend?”

Jamison turned quickly to Seaton. He said, “Where did Mr. Gardener send you Sunday night two weeks ago when he came here with Kiern?”

Seaton had backed toward the oak rolltop desk. There was a slow accumulation of tension in the small room. Seaton said, “He sent me to the office to get his cigar case from on top of his desk. But it wasn’t there.”

Seaton, with surprising speed, snatched open the desk drawer, pulled out a heavy .45 automatic, held it with unwavering steadiness pointed directly at Jamison’s chest. Without taking his eyes from Jamison, he said, “If you didn’t write that note, Mr. Gardener, then they come here to steal something. We’ve got a lot of valuable drugs here. I’ll cover him and you use the phone to call for the cops.”

Gardener stepped down into the room from the last step. He said gently, “Before I bring the police in on this, Miss Dobbs, possibly you could tell me what it’s all about.”

“And when you came back without the cigar case, Seaton,” Jamison said, “Mr. Gardener was here alone. He told you that Kiern had to leave, didn’t he?”

“So what, mister?”

“So you have a small private pier at the other end of the warehouse. How deep is the water off the end of it?”

“Thirty feet,” Gardener said. “Who are you, sir? You don’t look the type to be mixed up in a drug theft. Nor does Miss Dobbs.”

Jamison realized that it wasn’t going well. Gardener was too self-contained, too careful to strike exactly the right note. Jamison looked steadily at Seaton and said:

“Mr. Kiern is at the bottom of that thirty feet of water, and Mr. Gardener put him there.”

Corrine gasped, turned so that Jamison saw her strained face, her staring eyes. He hadn’t wanted to do it that way.

“Quite a smoke screen, sir,” Gardener said easily. He moved to Seaton’s side, gently took the weapon from Seaton’s hand. “You walk up to Chambers Street, Seaton, and see if you can locate a policeman. I’ll watch these two.”

Seaton scratched his head. “Now why in hell would he say that about Kiern? Seemed funny to me that Kiern would take off on foot from here. He didn’t like walking much.”

“Do as I tell you!” Gardener said, a note of strain creeping into his voice.

“Why not use the phone?” Seaton asked mildly. “And what made you act like a crazy man just because I let Kiern take a case of a dozen bottles of those powders of yours?”

“Do as I tell you, or you go off the payroll as of right now,” Gardener said. A certain firmness about Gardener’s mouth had fled. His underlip sagged loosely and Jamison saw the pinch of nostrils as Gardener breathed heavily.

“These people make more sense than you do—”

Seaton was standing at Gardener’s left. Gardener pivoted, his arm straight, the heavy automatic like a stone in his big hand. It smashed full against Seaton’s mouth. Seaton fell back against the convex curve of the desk, his knees buckling, sliding without haste down to the floor.

Jamison made a quick step toward Gardener, halted, off balance, as the muzzle of the gun swung back to cover him.

The polished front had cracked, had fallen away. Gardener stood in an atavistic crouch, hate and desperation in every thick line of his face.

Corrine Dobbs said, her voice oddly placid, the voice of a person who talks in the midst of sleep. “Then you did do it, Mr. Gardener. You killed Johnny. I don’t know why you’d do a thing like that, but I knew he was dead. All along I’ve known it.”

She stepped toward Gardener. “Back up!” Gardener said, moving the gun toward her. Gardener’s voice was a thick, damp whisper.