Love Me and Die by Louis Trimble Page A

redhead had called for Art or me. The girl had given her the only message she had—that I was due in at midnight.
    “I said, “It wasn’t you?”
    “Why would I call when I knew Art was in Ramiera and I thought you were in New Mexico for at least another four days?” she demanded.
    I saw her point. She said, “Later a man called and asked for you. He said he was Art Ditmer.”
    I said, “Which he isn’t, since Art thought I was in New Mexico too. It was probably Turk. Bonita said he called and was told I was coming in on the plane. What’s the matter with that answering service? Don’t they know our voices yet?”
    “The night-shift girl is new,” the redhead said. “And yesterday morning a woman called and left a message for Art to meet her in his office at ten.”
    I said, “That would be Toby Jessup.”
    The redhead said, “Wait a minute. There’s a call on the other line. Can you hold?”
    I said I could hold. I smoked two cigarettes before she came back on the line. Then she said, “Nothing from San Francisco on Turk Thorne. But here’s the rundown on Gorman and Bonita Jessup. They worked for the same firm before she married Jessup. Her name was Barton then. She was secretary to the big boss and Gorman was an assistant traffic manager.”
    I lit my third cigarette. The redhead said, “Gorman was fired about six months before Bonita met Thaddeus. Nobody could prove anything but he was suspected of selling inside information to a rival trucking company—how much his concern was going to bid for big jobs, what new routes they planned to open up, that sort of thing.”
    I said, “How could an assistant traffic manager get that kind of information?”
    “That’s the point,” the redhead said. “He had to get it from someone who had access to top-level information.”
    I said, “Bonita—the boss’s secretary!”
    “That’s the guess,” the redhead said. “But she was never tied to Gorman in those days.” She added dryly, “Maybe no one really wanted to tie her to him. She wasn’t paying all her own rent and her boss took her everywhere with him.”
    I said, “So much for gossip. Did you get any facts?”
    The redhead sounded a little miffed. “What do you want, documented proof? The only other item I have is that Bonita has made a number of trips to San Francisco during the past year. She dropped in to see former friends and said she came to shop the stores. But rumor has it she went to places that make q.t. loans—the kind with big interest and a lot of collateral.”
    I said, “That’s the kind of ammunition I need. Here’s something else you can check out.” I gave her a rundown on what little I knew and read the letter I had taken from Healy’s desk drawer.
    I said, “Check out that address in Tucson. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
    I hung up and left the booth. I saw Gorman working in his cubbyhole of an office at the end of the loading dock. He glanced up as I passed. We traded poisonous looks. I went on, thinking that I would have to have a chat with Gorman before the day was out.
    Bonita Jessup was going over a sheaf of papers when I was shown into her office. She let the secretary shut the door. Then she checked the switches on her intercom box. Finally she gave me the full power of her dark, sultry eyes.
    She said calmly, “Did you kill Turk Thorne?”
    I said, “Hell, yes. I don’t like people who put mickeys in my liquor bottle.”
    She said, “I’m quite serious, Mr. Coyle.”
    I sat down and admired the way her pale-pink suit caressed her curves. I said, “If you’re serious, how about giving me a motive?”
    “Yesterday you hinted that you thought Turk and I had caused your partner’s disappearance, Mr. Coyle.”
    I said, “I had it figured just the other way. You killed Turk because he wanted more money for helping you. You refused and he threatened to expose what you’re so busy trying to hide.”
    She took time to light a cigarette. She said