City of Dark Corners by Jon Talton (novels to read .txt) 📗

He handed me the keys.

“What were you doing down there?”

“Got a tip from a snitch,” he said. “But it turned into an ambush.”

That might have been true. Or he had followed me and run into unexpected trouble.

* * *

At the foot of a darkened Fourth Avenue, the lights still glowed from the Union Station waiting room. One or two no-name passenger trains and the westbound Fast Mail would still be arriving tonight.

I had dropped off my car at the apartment, fetched a flashlight, and hopped the Kenilworth line streetcar down to Washington Street, walking the rest of the way.

Now, Frenchy’s four-door Chevy sat unmolested a block north of the depot. It was the same car I had followed from the junkyard to Marley’s house. If I were still a real police officer, I would be burdened by the need of such pesky things as search warrants. Instead, I was your friendly local private eye, with the keys to my “friend’s” car. It could easily have been the one watching my place or the one that followed Victoria home. Spare tire on the outside.

I slipped on my leather gloves. Without the attached trunk to search, I opened up the driver’s door, flipped on the flashlight, and had a look inside. The glove box was disappointingly neat, with an extra set of handcuffs and road maps. I felt under the seats—nothing. The floor and upholstery looked new, with no bloodstains. I pulled up the back seat and, aside from dust, it was lacking anything, much less evidence that he had used this vehicle to kidnap Carrie and murder her.

Nothing was left for me but to drive the car back to Frenchy’s house and leave the keys under the visor for him to find in the morning. That was when a key on his ring attracted my attention. The car key and house key were obvious. But a third one was different: thin, sturdy, brass. It opened a safe-deposit box.

I drove up to the Monihon Building and let myself in. I locked the door behind me and took the darkened stairs up to my office. There I pulled out my cigar box of lock-picking gear and made a clay mold of the safe-deposit key. When I was satisfied it was exact, I slipped the key back on Frenchy’s ring. Fifteen minutes later, I dropped off the car in his driveway and walked home through the silent streets, missing Victoria terribly.

Twenty-Two

The next day I rolled into the office early. A wire was waiting from Victoria: She had arrived safely at Los Angeles Central Station. I scribbled a response and left it for Gladys to summon a Western Union boy. I retrieved the clay mold and walked down Washington Street to my favorite locksmith. Favorite because he still thought I was a cop and because he could work magic in duplicating any key. Thirty minutes later, I had the key to Frenchy’s safe-deposit box.

But which bank?

Start at the best. I walked up Central to Monroe Street, where the imposing new Professional Building hulked over the southeast corner. On the bottom floor was the lobby to the Valley Bank & Trust, the strongest such institution left in Phoenix.

The lobby looked like a high temple of money, with soaring ceilings, art deco carvings, sleek hanging chandeliers, and walnut teller counters and benches so beautiful they made me feel every inch the imposter. It was almost enough to make you trust banks again. The armed guard was a retired patrol sergeant, so that greased my skids to the vault manager after a few minutes of small talk.

The manager wore a conservative suit and toupee that wasn’t fooling anyone. I could use my badge but that might raise issues of warrants, so I decided to brazen it out.

“Leonce Navarre.” I shook his hand. “I’d like to get my safe-deposit box.”

I held up the key.

“Of course, Mr. Navarre,” he said. “Come this way.”

Barely believing my luck, I followed him as he waddled to a gate, unlocked it, and did the same with a sturdy polished steel door. Then we passed an immense open vault door and soon were inside a long room filled floor-to-ceiling with boxes. Each had two keyholes.

“I believe you’re 1207,” he said.

“Sounds about right.” I was about to say something about not having been here for a while but who knew? Maybe Frenchy had been here last week and dealt with someone else. I held my breath. The man produced a key and inserted it in the correct box. I did the same with mine. And it turned. The little steel door opened, and he pulled out a long rectangular box. Carrying it to a table in the middle of the room, he said, “I’ll leave you to it. Let me know when you’re done.”

Then he was gone.

For a moment, I stared at the walls containing money, gold, jewelry, important documents—and secrets. Tamping down my curiosity, I focused on the little fortress in front of me and opened the hinged top.

Inside was money: Seven neatly bound packs of hundred-dollar bills. A quick flip through the C-notes in one pack made me sure Frenchy had at least ten thousand dollars hidden away here. I set them on the table. And saw the brown manila envelope.

I carefully undid the string and let a heavy handkerchief fall to the tabletop. Unwrapping it slowly, I saw a blood-caked straight razor. It had been dusted for fingerprints and inside the envelope were four neat latents on an official police form. They were clear partial prints. But no name was listed on the paper. No suspect, no investigating officer.

The packs of money went back in the safe-deposit box. I wrapped the blade in the handkerchief, careful not to leave my own prints, and put it and the paper with partial fingerprints back in the envelope. That went in my suit coat pocket.

As I walked back to the office, it was time to reorder my thinking.

If Frenchy