Lay Her Among The Lilies

He scratched the side of his jaw with the end of his pipe and stared blankly at me.

“Better tell Brandon. That’s a Homicide job.”

“This is a tip, brother, not evidence. Brandon likes facts, and I mightn’t be ready to give

them to him. I’m telling you because you may or may not steer the information into the

proper channels and leave me out of it.”

Bradley sighed, realized his pipe had gone out and groped for matches.

“You young fellas are too tricky,” he said. “All right, I’ll give it to my carrier pigeon. How

much of it is true?”

“All of it. Why do you think Mrs. S. took poison?”

The clerk came in and laid the folder on the desk. He went away still at the slow deliberate

pace. Probably his brain worked as fast as his legs.

Bradley untied the tapes and opened the file. We both stared at a half a dozen folded sheets

of blank paper for some seconds.

“What the devil …” Bradley began, blood rising to his face.

“Take it easy,” I said, reached out and poked at the sheets with my finger. Only blank

sheets: nothing else.

Bradley dug his thumb into the bell-push and kept it there.

Maybe the clerk scented trouble because he came in fast.

“What’s this?” Bradley said. “What are you playing at?”

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The clerk gaped at the blank sheets.

“I don’t know, sir,” he said, changing colour. “The file was fastened when I took it from

your out-tray.”

Bradley breathed heavily, started to say something, changed his mind and waved a hand to

the door.

“Get out,” he said.

The clerk went.

There was a pause, then Bradley said, “This could cost me my job. The cram must have

switched the papers.”

“You mean he’s taken the contents of the file and left that as a dummy?”

Bradley nodded.

“Must have done. There was a photograph and a description and our progress report when I

gave it to him.”

“No copies?”

He shook his head.

I thought for a moment.

“The fella who asked for the file,” I said, “was he tall, dark, powerful; a sort of movie-star

type?”

Bradley stared at him.

“Yeah. Do you know him?”

“I’ve seen him.”

“Where?”

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“Do you want those papers back?”

“Of course I do. What do you mean?”

I stood up.

“Give me until nine o’clock tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll either have them for you or the man

who took them. I’m working on something, Bradley. Something I don’t want Brandon mixed

up in. You don’t have to report this until the morning, do you?”

“What are you talking about?” Bradley demanded.

“I’ll have the papers or the man by tomorrow morning, if you sit tight and keep your

mouth shut,” I said, and made for the door.

“Hey! Come back!” Bradley said, starting to his feet.

But I didn’t go back. I ran down the four flights of stairs to the front entrance where

Kerman was waiting for me in the Buick.

V

There were four of us: Mike Finnegan, Kerman, myself and a worried looking little guy

wearing a black, greasy, slouch hat, no coat, a dirty shirt and soiled white ducks. We sat in

the back room of Delmonico’s bar, a bottle of Scotch and four glasses on the table, and a lot

of tobacco smoke cluttering up the air.

The little guy in the greasy hat was Joe Dexter. He owned a haulage business, and ran

freight to the ships anchored in the harbour. Finnegan claimed he was a friend of his, but by

the way he was acting you wouldn’t have known it.

I had put my proposition to him, and he was sitting staring at me as if he thought I was

crazy.

“Sorry, mister,” he said at last. “I couldn’t do it. It’d ruin my business.”

Kerman was lolling in his chair, a cigarette hanging from his lips, his eyes closed. He

opened one eye as he said, “Who cares about a business? You want to relax, brother. There’re

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more things in life than a business.”

Dexter licked his lips, scowled at Kerman and squirmed in his chair. He turned pleadingly

to Mike.

“I can’t do it,” he said; “not a thing like this. The Dream Ship is one of my best customers.”

“She won’t be for much longer,” I said. “Cash in while the going’s good. You’ll make a

hundred bucks on this deal.”

“A hundred bucks!” Dexter’s face twisted into a sneer. “Sherrill pays me more than that

every month: regular money. I’m not doing it.”

I motioned to Mike to take it easy. He was straining forward, making a growling noise in

his throat.

“Look,” I said to Dexter, “all we want you to do is to deliver this case of supplies to the

ship tonight. Do that, and you’ll get a hundred. What’s scaring you?”

“And you’re going to travel inside the case,” Dexter said. “To hell with that for an idea. No

one’s allowed on that ship without a permit. If they catch you—and they will —they’ll know

I had something to do with it. The least Sherrill would do would be to shut down my account.

He’s likely to send someone over to crack my skull. I’m not doing it.”

As I refilled the glasses I glanced at my wrist-watch. It was half-past seven. Time was

moving.

“Listen, Joe,” Mike said, leaning forward, “this guy’s a friend of mine, see? He wants to get

aboard that ship. If he wants to get aboard, he’s going to get aboard, see? Sherrill ain’t the