Fast Buck

Olin opened the rear door as more police sirens wailed through the night. He lifted the blanket, and O’Brien threw the beam of his powerful flashlight over Olin’s shoulders.

They both stared at the emaciated, half-naked, mud-streaked body, and at the bluish-white face. The adhesive bandage across the mouth had cut deeply, and the flesh each side of it had swollen, giving the dead face a grotesque, horrifying appearance.

‘What makes you think it’s Hater?’ Olin asked.

‘I once worked at Bel more Farm, Lieutenant,’ O’Brien explained. ‘That’s their uniform,’ and he touched the mud-soaked trousers.

‘Ever seen Hater?’

‘I’ve seen pictures of him. Looks like him: same eyebrows.’

‘Yeah,’ Olin said, and stepped back. The stench in the car made him feel ill.

Morris came running up.

‘It’s Hater,’ Olin said.

‘What do you know?’ Morris gaped into the car. ‘He’s got his hands tied.’

‘You’l be tel ing me he’s dead next,’ Olin snapped. ‘Isn’t that damned ambulance coming?’

‘Yes, sir. Should be here any second now.’

Olin looked up and down the shabby street.

‘Isn’t this the street we cornered Baird in last time?’

Morris nodded.

‘Yeah, I guess it is.’

‘Maybe he’s still around.’ Olin looked up expectantly at the roofs of the buildings. ‘Get four men up there. The rest of them had better go from house to house and find out if anyone’s seen Baird.’

While Morris went off to get his men posted, the two interns, who had got off the newly arrived ambulance, carried Hater from the car to the sidewalk. They laid him on a stretcher, and one of them carefully removed the adhesive bandage from his mouth.

‘What did he die of?’ Olin asked, pul ing fiercely on his cigar.

‘Heart failure, from the look of him,’ the intern said. ‘I’d say he’s been dead for two or three days.’

‘What’s the stink in the car, for Gawd’s sake?’

‘Gangrene,’ the intern told him. ‘It’s not from this guy.’

Olin stroked his jaw.

‘Pret y bad?’

‘I’d say it was bad. Whoever owns that stench is about ready for a wreath.’

A patrolman came up and saluted Olin.

‘Lieutenant, there’s a guy wanting to speak to you,’ he said. ‘Name of Dal as. Shal I let him through?’

Olin hesitated, then shrugged.

‘Yeah, let him through.’

Dallas joined Olin.

‘What have you got?’ he asked, looking at the body on the stretcher.

‘Hater,’ Olin said. ‘Not much doubt about it. O’Brien here has seen a picture of him.’

Dallas blew out his cheeks.

‘That’s sweet, isn’t it? The only guy in the world who knows where the Chittabad collection is, and he has to croak. Think he told Baird where it was cached before he handed in his pail?’

Olin shrugged.

‘Looks like Baird’s badly hurt. Someone who’s been in that car’s got gangrene. He couldn’t have got far.’

Dallas looked thoughtfully down the street at the gaping crowd. Then he frowned, peered forward, stared, and turning, caught hold of Olin’s arm.

‘I think I can guess where Baird is,’ he said. ‘See that girl in the front row? The one with a scarf over her head.’

Olin looked in the direction.

‘What of her?’

‘She’s Baird’s girl. She lives across the way. No. 30, on the top floor. It’s my bet Baird’s up there right now.’

‘How the hel do you know all this?’ Olin snarled. ‘If you’ve been holding out on me…!’

‘Burns found out about her,’ Dal as explained. ‘I didn’t know until tonight.’

‘There are a lot of things you didn’t know until tonight,’ Olin said angrily. ‘You’re sure that’s Baird’s girl?’

‘Yeah.’

Olin turned to O’Brien.

‘That girl with the scarf on her head. Bring her over here.’

‘Miss Jackson?’ O’Brien looked startled. ‘Excuse me, Lieutenant, you’re sure you want her?’

Olin glared at him.

‘That’s what I said! What is she – untouchable or something?’

‘Sorry, Lieutenant,’ O’Brien said uncomfortably. ‘I know most people on my beat, and she’s a good girl. She works hard and keeps to herself. She’s never been in any trouble, and that’s saying something in this street.’

‘Wel , she’s in trouble now,’ Olin snapped. ‘Bring her here.’

O’Brien saluted and walked stiffly down the street. He went up to Anita, said something, took her elbow and brought her back to Olin.

Anita’s dark eyes were scared, but she didn’t flinch from Olin’s hard gaze.

‘You know Verne Baird?’ he snapped.

‘I’ve met him,’ Anita said.

‘Yeah? Didn’t he hole up in your room about a month ago?’ Olin demanded aggressively. ‘You’d better not lie. I’ve got a witness.’

She looked quickly away from him, and her eyes took in the stretcher. The intern was dropping a blanket across Hater’s dead face. She had a glimpse of the swollen, grotesque mask before the blanket hid it.

Her hands went to her breasts, and the colour drained out of her face. She looked appealingly at O’Brien, claiming his at ention because he was a familiar stranger among unfamiliar ones.

‘Who – who is it?’ she asked.

‘Did you hear what I said?’ Olin barked. ‘I asked you…’

‘Who is that, please?’ she repeated, looking at O’Brien, and pointed at the still figure on the stretcher.

‘A guy named Hater,’ O’Brien told her. ‘But answer the Lieutenant’s question.’

‘Hater? Is he dead?’