Dead Letter (Digger) Read online

  "Allie, what kind of typewriter do you have?"

  "An electric portable."

  "When did you buy it?"

  "I didn’t buy it. Daddy gave it to me for my twentieth birthday last year."

  "What’d you use before then?"

  "I had an old manual portable."

  "What’d you do with it?"

  "Oh, dear. What the heck did I do with it? Oh, that’s when I was spending a lot of time with Henry. One night, I just put it on top of the garbage alongside his house. It was old, and the keys stuck and everything, so I just junked it. It wasn’t worth selling."

  "You never saw it again?" Digger asked.

  "No. What’s this all about?"

  "Nothing, honey, I was just wondering. Where’s Danny?"

  "He just went down to the restaurant to bring us up some food."

  "I thought the first thing you spoiled brats learned was how to call room service."

  "You forget, Digger. My father started out selling insurance door to door. I don’t think he ever called room service in his life. He certainly didn’t get me in the habit of it."

  "Okay, I’ll see you later. But you guys stay there, you hear?"

  "Jawohl, capitan," she said.

  "You really feeling okay?"

  "Sure. Danny’s taking it worse than I am. It’s one of those things, Digger. I didn’t know how much he really wanted us to have a baby."

  "I’m going to be over there later. I want you guys there."

  "We will be."

  Digger hung up the telephone and breathed a sigh of relief. It hadn’t made any sense for Allie to be writing those notes to herself.

  But they had been written on her old typewriter. The one she junked when she was living with Hatcher.

  Hatcher.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "What do you want now?" Hatcher asked, looking at Digger who was still leaning on the front doorbell. The dean wore a scarlet brocade smoking jacket. His white shirt was open at the throat, which was covered by a silk ascot.

  "Just a little conversation," Digger said.

  "I’m sorry. Try me during office hours. I’ve got company for dinner. And get off that doorbell."

  "Company?" Digger said. "What is this, teeny-bopper night?"

  Hatcher growled and stepped back, then tried to slam the door shut. As it swung toward him, Digger kicked it with the heel of his shoe and the door rocked back against Hatcher and Digger was inside the house.

  "I’m going to call the police," Hatcher said as Digger closed the door.

  "I may beat you to it," Digger said. "But first you’re going to answer a question or three."

  "Not a chance."

  "I hope you’re having the college football team in for dinner," Digger said, "because you’re going to need them."

  "Henry," called a young female voice from upstairs. A dark-haired woman stood at the top of the steps to the second floor. She wore jeans and a striped tank top.

  "Sorry, Miss," Digger said. "Dean Hatcher and I have a little business to discuss. He’ll be right up. Start on the soup without him."

  "Oh." The girl paused for a moment, then said, "All right." Digger waited until she had left, then grabbed a handful of Hatcher’s ascot and throat.

  "Make it easy on yourself, Don Juan," he said. "Where do we talk?"

  Hatcher tried to pull away from Digger but could not. "Back there," he said. "My office."

  Digger released him and followed Hatcher down the hallway to the office. The dean tossed the light switch in the warm paneled room, then turned to Digger and said, "You know I’m going to call the police."

  "To give yourself up?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Allison Stevens used to live with you," Digger said.

  "There’s no law against liking pretty women," Hatcher said.

  "No," Digger said. "Her being with you isn’t against the law. It just violates one’s sense of taste. She used to have a typewriter here."

  "Sure. A typewriter, a douche bag, a diaphragm, all the paraphernalia of a young college student." He was smirking.

  "The typewriter," Digger said again.

  "Yeah, she had one. She’s a good student. She was always writing."

  "Where’s the typewriter?" Digger asked.

  "I don’t believe this. You come in here and assault me because you think I’ve still got her typewriter? Do I look like a typewriter thief to you?"

  "To me, you look like dog-droppings," Digger said. "The typewriter."

  "I guess she took it when she left. What the hell do you want anyway?"

  "All right, I’ll make it simpler. Just before she finally wised up and dumped you, her father gave her a new typewriter. You remember that?"

  Hatcher looked off into space for a moment, and he seemed amused by Digger’s persistent questioning. "Yes. Now I remember it."

  "The old typewriter she had? What happened to it?"

  "I don’t know," Hatcher said.

  "She said she put it out in the garbage here one night," Digger said.

  "Then I guess the garbage men took it. That’s usually what happens to the garbage." He curled his lip at his wit.

  "That’s good," Digger said. "That’s very good. If they’re so good at picking up the garbage, what are you still doing here?"

  "Listen," Hatcher said. "Is there anything else before I call the police?"

  "You never saw the typewriter again?" Digger said.

  "No."

  "Where were you on the night Redwing got run over? You remember Redwing, the guy who was going to get the job you wanted?"

  "You don’t…you don’t really think I had anything to do with Redwing’s death, do you?"

  "Convince me otherwise," Digger said.

  "There’s a young woman upstairs at my dining table. She was here the night poor Otis was run down. We had just finished fucking, if you will, and we turned on the radio and heard the news bulletin. I was in all night and she can prove it. And will do so gladly. Should I call her down?"

  "No," Digger said. "That won’t be necessary."

  "You believe me?" Hatcher said.

  "For the time being," Digger said.

  "Then you won’t mind if I call the police now?"

  "What would you tell them?" Digger asked.

  "How you barged in here and assaulted me."

  "That’d make a good story," Digger said, "and I’ll give you the second-day lead. That I came here to punch you out because you seduced a young friend of mine, as is your custom. That you are a lecher in leather elbow patches. And from jail I will call some friends of mine who are connected with this college’s board of trustees and you’ll be out of a job so fast your head will spin. What do you think of that as a follow-up story?"

  "Will you please leave?" Hatcher said. "We can forget this whole thing."

  "I don’t want you to forget me, though," Digger said. "Try this to remember me on," he said as he punched the dean in the right side of the face. Hatcher went down as Digger walked from the office, angry because Hatcher had an alibi for the night Redwing was killed, and angrier because he believed that the dean didn’t know anything at all about Allie’s typewriter.

  Digger was beginning to think of the telephone booth near the Waldo gate as an old friend. He called the Copley Arms and asked for Room 309.

  But there was no answer. Where were Allie and Danny?

  He called Buehler’s answering service in case they had left him a message.

  "This is Julian Burroughs. I’m a house guest of Doctor Buehler’s. Are there any messages for me?"

  "Yes, sir. A woman called. A Koko? She said she’d be home."

  "When did she call?"

  "About fifty minutes ago."

  "Thank you. Any other calls?"

  "No, sir."

  Where were Allison and Danny? His mind turned that question over as he used his credit card to call Koko in Las Vegas. She answered on the first ring.

  "Yeah, sweetmeat,
" he said.

  "Digger," she said excitedly, "it’s the stolen car."

  "What is?"

  "I remember you told me it didn’t have any prints on it."

  "That’s right."

  "None at all," she said.

  "Right."

  "Digger," she said, her voice rising in pitch, "would a car thief wipe off all the fingerprints in a car?"

  "I never heard of it," Digger said.

  "You know who would?" she asked.

  "Who?"

  "Only the owner. If he stole the car himself. He might make the mistake of wiping off all the prints, just to make sure no one noticed there were no strange prints. To make it look like a real thief. Maybe because he was a little spooked and nervous. Digger, check the owner."

  "I just tried to," Digger said. His stomach felt as if it were sinking into his shoes.

  "Well?" she said.

  "He’s gone. With Allison," Digger said.

  "Get going," Koko said crisply. "Call me later."

  Chapter Fifteen

  All of a sudden, it was the kind of night God had in mind when he created Boston. The skies opened and poured water down onto the city. The summer heat seemed to shiver for a moment and then surrender before the bone-soaking chill.

  Digger ran along Dartmouth Street, trying to stay under awnings and overhangs, until he saw a cab and ran out in front of it to stop it.

  The driver bitched about being asked to take such a small fare, to the Copley Arms Hotel, and Digger overtipped him for his trouble.

  He rode the elevator to the hotel’s third floor and let himself into Room 309 with his spare key. Allie and Danny were not there. The bed was still unmade, and Allie’s small overnight bag still sat in a corner of the bedroom. But what gave Digger a chill was the large tray of food on the small coffee table in the sitting room. The food had not been touched and when Digger poked at it, it was still lukewarm. There were two steaks. But there was only one knife. As he rode downstairs in the elevator, Digger could visualize what had happened. He had opened his big, stupid mouth to Allie about her typewriter. Danny had been out of the room. When he came back with the food, she had told him what Digger had been asking and Gilligan—suddenly realizing that Digger was zeroing in on him—had scooped her up and left.

  Where the hell had they gone?

  The doorman in front of the hotel was dressed in the traditional British Beefeaters’ uniform. It struck Digger as odd that Boston and the colonies had fought so hard for their independence, so that, two hundred years later, they could seize on any excuse to wear costumes that showed their English heritage.

  Digger caught the doorman by the arm. He was big and husky with wind-burned cheeks and whiskey-burned nose.

  "Listen," Digger said. "I’m looking for two young people. A beautiful redheaded girl, and a little guy, yay big, kind of dirty blond hair. Did you call a cab for them?"

  The doorman looked at Digger casually. "Might have," he said.

  Digger said, "There’s good news and bad news. The good news is you help me and you’ll make some bucks. The bad news is you fuck around with me and in ten minutes, you’ll be in police headquarters telling your story. The rest of the bad news is you won’t talk so well because I’ll punch your teeth out of your face."

  "No need to get upset, Mister. Yeah, I called them a cab. About an hour ago."

  "Is the same cab here?" Digger asked.

  "Let me think," the doorman said. He looked down the short line of cabs in front of the hotel, their windshield wipers swishing back and forth noisily.

  "I think it was a…yeah, it was…a Liberty cab that took them," he said triumphantly.

  "Do you know where they went?" Digger asked.

  "No. They just asked for the cab. Didn’t even tip me."

  "Is one of these a Liberty cab?" Digger asked.

  The doorman shook his head.

  "Get on your phone over there," Digger said, "and get hold of the Liberty cab people. Try to find that driver and where he took them. If he’s nearby, tell him to get over here." Digger pulled out his wallet and handed the doorman fifty dollars. "I’ll be inside for a few minutes. Hurry, Mister, this is an emergency."

  Digger darted back into the hotel, went to the telephone booth in the corner of the lobby and called Muggsy’s Restaurant.

  He asked for Lieutenant Terlizzi to be paged. A moment later, the maître d’ was back on the line. Terlizzi had just left, he advised Digger.

  At the desk, Digger borrowed a pen and paper from the clerk. He wrote a brief note: "It was Gilligan. Going after him. Wait for my call. Burroughs."

  He dropped the note and Doctor Langston’s keys into a hotel envelope and on the front printed: "Lt. Edward Terlizzi. Personal."

  He called the clerk back over.

  "This is important. I’m Mister Burroughs in Room 309 and this is a life-and-death matter. In exactly fifteen minutes, I want you to call the cocktail lounge and page Lieutenant Terlizzi, the name on this envelope. Call him to the desk and give him this. If he isn’t there, call every fifteen minutes until he is. You got that?"

  The clerk nodded. "Every fifteen minutes."

  Digger looked at him hard. "Don’t mess up. This is police business and it’s important."

  "I understand."

  Digger ran back outside. The rain was pouring down now even harder and puddles were building in the streets.

  "You’re in luck," the doorman said. "The driver was just around the corner. He’ll be here in a minute."

  "Thanks," Digger said. "I appreciate it."

  "Just doing my job," the doorman said unctuously.

  Less than a minute later, a white-and-black Liberty cab pulled up in front of the hotel’s main entrance.

  "That’s it," the doorman said.

  Digger hopped over the curbside lake and jumped into the rear seat of the cab.

  "What’s going on?" the driver said. He wore a traditional hackman’s cap and the line of its sharp pointed bill was repeated in his sharp hook nose, when he turned in profile to glance back at Digger.

  "The redhead and the little guy you picked up? Where’d you take them?"

  "Who wants to know?" the cabbie said.

  "The guy who’s going to cancel your fucking reservation unless you tell him fast," Digger said. He reached forward to the front of the cab and dug his right hand into the driver’s neck. "You got it, pal?" he said.

  "Yeah, yeah. Let go, let go."

  Digger released him.

  "I took them to the airport," he said.

  "Oh, shit," Digger said. "Do you know what airline?"

  "It wasn’t no airline," the driver said. "They asked me where was the nearest place they could rent a car. The airport’s like the only place around at night that’s always got them. So I took them there."

  "Listen, pal, what’s your name?"

  "Eddie."

  "Eddie, listen, I’m sorry for the temper. This is an emergency. I’ll square it with you. Take me to the same car rental place."

  "Okay, mister," Eddie said, rubbing his neck. "You got it."

  Why a car rental? Digger wondered. Where were they going?

  The driver had started up onto the elevated highway that cut through city traffic, when Digger barked, "We’ve got a stop first. Over at the Harbor View Apartments."

  "Okay, Mac," the driver said. He reached the top of the ramp, pulled onto the highway, then cut off two lanes of traffic to get to the left lane and sped down an exit. Two minutes later, he was pulling up in front of the Harbor View.

  "Wait for me," Digger said.

  "I got to keep this meter running," the cabbie said.

  "There’s twenty extra in it for you," Digger said. "Just wait for me."

  Arlo Buehler was sitting in the living room in front of the Space Invaders’ machine when Digger came in. He looked over his shoulder and sipped from the Scotch on the footstool in front of him.

  "Well, if it isn’t Willie Wanderlust," he said. "Catch any m
urderers lately?"

  "Trying to," Digger said as he ran back into the bedroom. He came out stuffing small tape cassettes into his pockets. "Gotta go."

  "Where you going?"

  "Allie’s vanished. I think she’s with Gilligan and I think Gilligan’s a killer."

  "I’m going with you," Buehler said.

  "No," Digger said.

  "Why not?"

  Digger paused for a moment.

  "No goddam good reason. Come on," he said.

  Buehler drove his own car and followed Digger’s cab to the airport. Digger tipped the cab driver twenty dollars over the fare and walked through the airport door. He was faced with four car rental booths. Which one? He stopped at the one on the right-hand side nearest the door. A young black woman wearing a yellow uniform was behind the counter. When Digger approached, she looked up from the magazine she was reading.

  She smiled mechanically and said, "Good evening, sir."

  Digger returned the smile and said, "Did you rent a car in the last hour to a young man named Gilligan?" Digger held out his hand at chest level to indicate Danny’s height. "There was a pretty redheaded woman with him."

  The girl hesitated. "I’m sorry, sir, but…"

  She had, Digger knew, or she would simply have said no.

  "Listen, Miss," Digger said rapidly. "That’s my sister and her boyfriend. They just finished college tests and they’re going away for a few days. I’ve got to reach her. Our mother’s dying in the hospital." He let pleading come into his voice. "You’ve got to help. Please."

  The girl paused, then nodded. "About an hour ago, I rented them a car. Mr. Gilligan had a credit card."

  "Did they say where they were going?"

  She shook her head. "They seemed in a hurry, though."

  "How long did they take the car for?"

  "Mr. Gilligan said just one day," the clerk said.

  Digger nodded. "Thank you. Oh, what kind of car was it?"

  "A yellow Pinto," she said. "Want the license number?"

  "Please. It might help."

  She turned to a rack on the wall behind her and took out one of the car contracts. She opened it and read him the license number.

  "Thank you," Digger said. "I appreciate it." He turned and ran from the airport. Behind him, he heard her call: "I hope your mother gets better."