The Line Is Dead | Page 6

After an hour or so of telling himself that he had not a Chinaman's
chance of getting any sleep, he tried it. In a restless way, he succeeded,
until the jingle of the doorbell aroused him. The note was insistent, as
though the tension of the finger had been communicated to the button.
It was not the police.
It was Alma, with her make-up taken off.
Like Carver, she had apparently been aroused from sleep. Her robe, all
awry, revealed a sapphire-colored nightgown with lace panels which
would have been intriguing under other circumstances. Carver's second
blinking glance at the clock told him he had been dozing for a couple of
hours. Meanwhile, Alma had come home, without having awakened
him as she high-heeled it along the balcony, and across the bridge.
"Back for more brandy?" he grumbled.
She caught him by the arms. "You've got a client, Jeff, whether you
want one or not."
Her animation had a flavor of a sort she had never displayed before.
Alma was worried, frightened, and grabbing him for support, rather
than for emphasis.
"What have you gone and done?" he countered, as he shut the door
behind her. "You look as if you need a drink!"
PREMONITION gave Jeff a case of shakes that promised to match
Alma's. Nothing less than the killing up in Carrollton could have
knocked her into such a shuddering state.

As she gulped her brandy, Carver checked up the crazy pace of his
imagination; yet, while no woman other than a side-show freak could
have done that gruesome job, she could in some way have been
involved.
"Oh, it's not me. My girl friend is in a terrible mess. Though really it's
her boy friend that's jammed up."
"Well, as long as it is someone else," he said. "I'm relaxing and you'd
better do the same." He felt better, yet he knew that things were closing
in on him. "You look as if you'd been through the ringer. What's the
pitch?"
"They've picked him up for murder; you've got to do something."
"No dice, darling. They'll either find he's all clean, or else they'll clean
him, and plenty.
What'm I supposed to do?"
"He's not guilty. That's why I told her you would help."
"He needs a lawyer now. Have you--has she called one? Who'd he
kill?"
"Herb Lowry! Isn't that ghastly?"
Carver drew a deep breath, and stretched out his legs. "With a
disposition like his, it's a wonder it wasn't done years ago. Some night-
spot brawl?"
"No--right in his own house. Not long after he left here."
"The hell you say! Well, if he hadn't fouled things up, you two would
have been on your way, and he'd missed his date with death. Or maybe
you were lucky. Whoever had it in for him might've settled things
wherever he found him, whether or not you were there."
Carver had not done a neat job of finding out where Alma had been;

and then the play came to him. He picked up her income tax papers,
and said, "Here's something to make you scream. You don't get a
refund. You're hooked for something like $40 more. You weren't in
when I took it over."
She did not even glance at the papers. She said, earnestly, "Jeff, I felt
terrible about this evening. I never knew Herb had such a temper or
such high-handed ways. Can't you forget that, and help me?"
"Who is the fellow that's fouled up?"
"Dennis Wayland."
"I mean, what is he to you? Job prospect?"
"I hardly know him. It's on account of my girl friend. He managed to
phone her just before he was picked up, so she called me. She said
Denny couldn't possibly be guilty. I told her I'd talk to you."
And this promised an inside track, an offset against the pressure which
was closing in on him. "Picked up, when?"
"Oh, a couple hours ago. She wasn't able to get in touch with me till
just now. I was out at Happy Landings, with a crowd. The lake was
lovely tonight. Imagine, coming home to news like that."
Carver made mental note of the resort near the Yacht Club. Then,
"How come Wayland had time to phone the girl?"
"He saw the police car pull up at the house, and began to wonder.
When they came up the walk, he knew something was wrong; he called
before he let them in."
"He must've been expecting trouble for sure, to be so jumpy."
"Oh, good Lord, Jeff! You're as bad as the police!"
"You asked for a detective," he answered, grimly. "I'm not much of one,
never was. Just a skip tracer, and a tracker-down of grand and petty

larceny from water front warehouses.
Except for the time that watchman