Nightfall by David Goodis Page A

say that the job was handled by a hired killer. But this Vanning keeps us guessing. No record of past arrests. Worked as a commercial artist in Chicago. Served as a lieutenant, senior grade, in the Navy. Damage-control officer on a battleship. Silver Star. Excellent record. No past connection with victim. It's an upside-down case. We know he did it, but that's all. You said you could hand us a few facts.”
      “We may have something for you. Say in a few days. We're not sure yet, but there's an interesting connection that has possibilities.”
      “Why not let me have it now?”
      “I don't want to make a fool of myself. It may not mean anything. I don't want to lose my job. Remember, I'm only an associate editor. There's a boss over me.”
      “Let me speak to the boss. I'll hold the phone.”
      “Wait,” Vanning said. “Let's see what I can do with this.” He turned his face away from the mouthpiece, said to empty air, “Johnny, is the boss around?” Then he waited. Then he came back to the mouthpiece and said, “Wait there a minute.”
      “I'm waiting.”
      Vanning lit another cigarette, took small, rapid puffs at it, closed his eyes, his forehead deeply creased in groping thought. All at once he snapped his fingers. The idea was glaring and he didn't see any holes in it. He whipped out his breast-pocket handkerchief, put it across the mouthpiece, put his voice on a high-pitched, nasal plane as he said, “Callahan speaking. Features editor.”
      “This is Hansen. Denver police. Homicide department.”
      “What did Rayburn tell you?”
      “Nothing. He only asked questions. But he said he might be able to tell me something. He said it was a little over his head, so I asked if I could speak with you.”
      “If Rayburn was a good newspaperman, he wouldn't be dragging me in here. I don't know why they're always putting these things on my shoulders.”
      “Look, Callahan, that's between you and Rayburn. I'm a policeman and we're trying to catch a murderer. You're trying to get a story. If we can help each other out, that's fine. But you can't expect me to throw information your way and have you sit there in New York and hold back on me. If you have something you think we can use, let's have it. Otherwise, stop wasting your time and mine.”
      “I guess you make sense.”
      “I guess I do.”
      “Okay,” Vanning said. “I'll give it to you but I want you to understand it's not a definite lead. It's just something we picked up more or less by accident. Some character called us up and told us a story about a bank robbery in Seattle. About eight or nine months ago, he said it was. A big job, three hundred thousand dollars. He said it was connected with a murder in Denver. We called Seattle and they told us the bank robbers were traced as far as Colorado.”
      “That's interesting.”
      “Is it new to you?”
      “Brand-new. Tell me something. How many men were in on that Seattle thing?”
      “Three,” Vanning said, and he tried to bite it back before it hit the mouthpiece, but it was already in the mouthpiece, it was already in Denver.
      “Three men. That adds up to Dilks and Smith and Jones. That brings Vanning in on the bank job. I'm going to check with Seattle. I think you've handed us something we can use. Will you hold the phone a minute?”
      “Don't be too long,” Vanning said.
      He took a deep breath, blew it out toward the handkerchief spread and tightened across the telephone mouthpiece. He wondered how long he had been in the phone booth. It seemed as if he had been here for a full day. And it seemed as if he was making one mistake after another. There were too many things to remember, and already he had forgotten one of the most important, that angle concerning Sam, the fact that Sam had been absent