A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(123)

“But if we find out that he was the one who snatched Kemper?”

“He’ll be nowhere near that, Archer, with an unshakable alibi. And he won’t have used Hank and Tony. Some boys from out of town were no doubt paid to do the job and keep their mouths shut later.”

“So what do we do, then?”

“We find Kemper.”

“He could be anywhere, though.”

Dash looked at him and smiled. “I think we need to go to the hospital.”

“But Ernie Prettyman is unconscious. He can’t tell us anything.”

“This has nothing to do with Ern. I just want to prove to myself that Armstrong isn’t as smart as he thinks he is.”

*

Bay Town General Hospital was a large, whitewashed building, four stories tall, with lots of windows, a flat face, and no interesting architectural elements. It looked about as appealing to enter as a morgue. At least to Archer.

“Look here, Archer, while I’m in here checking things out, I want you to go to the Occidental Building and see if Beth Kemper is there. You said she has an apartment there. It’s only one block over in that direction.” He pointed to his right.

“Beth? Why would she be there?”

“For some reason I don’t think she wants to be anyplace right now that has an A on the gates.”

“You think she knows her husband’s been taken?”

“Doubtful. So I want you to tell her. And then I want you to persuade her to throw in her lot with us. She needs to tell us where Armstrong might have taken her hubby.”

“You think she’ll tell us?”

“Depends on how persuasive you are.”

Archer dropped Dash off, and Dash told Archer he would meet him at the Occidental as soon as he could.

Then Archer parked the Delahaye at the curb and got out. He stared up at the fa?ade of the Occidental Building. It was constructed of white and brown slabs of stone with emerald-green slashes thrown in, probably to make the architect happy. A long burgundy awning was emblazoned with the name of the place in case the two-foot-high chrome letters on the side of the building weren’t clear enough. There was a doorman out front wearing a black top hat, and a long coat the same color as the awning with brass buttons and a vest the color of a British redcoat. Long, white gloves covered his hands. A cab whistle dangled on a chain around his neck. To Archer, the man looked as embarrassed as he probably felt wearing that get-up.

He walked over to the man and said, “Hey, pal, checking to see if Beth Kemper is at her place here.”

The gent looked him up and down in a disinterested way. “Who wants to know?”

Archer produced his PI license, which had about as much effect as if he’d stuck out his tongue and tried to pull the guy’s pants down in a fit of mild mischief.

“You’ll have to do a lot better than that,” said the man. And he looked like he meant it.

“Then Lincoln wants to know.”

The man looked dubiously at the single bill Archer held out.

“And his twin brother,” Archer added, producing a second five-spot.

“Lady is in, and it’s Apartment 411, pal,” said the man, sliding the two Lincolns into one of his numerous pockets.

Archer cleared the set of double doors and took the stairs up to the fourth floor.

He hurried down to 411, knocked on the wood, and did it twice more before there was a response.

“Who the hell is it?” called out Beth Kemper.

“Archer. We need to talk. It’s about your husband.”

He could hear feet running toward the door and it was thrown open a moment later.

There stood Kemper in a nightgown and bare feet, her hair disrupted by sleep. “Yes?” she said breathlessly. “What about Douglas?”

Archer took off his hat and said, “Can I come in?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

He stepped through and she closed the door behind her.

“Have you proven that Douglas didn’t kill those people?”

Archer sat in a chair and waited until she did the same. “No, we haven’t. Not yet. But there have been developments, lots of them.”

“What developments?”

“For starters, Alfred Drake shot himself this morning at his home. He’s dead.”

Her hand flew to her bosom. “Oh my God. Why would Alfred do that?”

“Let’s just say he played his winning card. He didn’t want to be your old man’s lackey as mayor.”

“That’s ridiculous. My father wasn’t backing Drake.”

“You’re right about that; he was blackmailing him.”

“Blackmail? I don’t understand, Archer.”

“You don’t have to, but it’s true. Drake was a key to the casinos that were going to go up on that hunk of rock out there your father bought. Your husband would never agree to do his dirty work, so he couldn’t be allowed to be mayor. Your father was the one who sent the blackmail note to your hubby. He was the one who had Fraser and Sheen killed. And now he, with the help of Chief Pickett, is framing Douglas for the twin murders and hoping he spends his last few minutes on earth breathing in cyanide in the gas chamber at San Quentin.”

“You . . . you must be mad,” she said breathlessly. “Even if what you say about the election is true, my father wouldn’t have to try to frame Douglas for murder and see him executed.”