The Third Figure Read Free Page B

murderer?”
    She nodded. “They think he let him in.”
    “How did the police learn about the murder?”
    “A phone call.”
    “Anonymous?”
    “Yes.”
    “Man or woman?”
    “A man, the papers said.”
    “Did your husband usually have a bodyguard with him?”
    “Usually. But not—not on weekends.”
    “Who did the police question?”
    “Everyone. They put on a good show.”
    “What do you mean by that, Mrs. Vennezio?”
    She hesitated before saying, “We live in La Palada. Do you know anything about La Palada, Mr. Drake?”
    I did, but I wanted to hear what she’d say. So I shook my head and waited for her to continue.
    “There’s only three thousand people in La Palada,” she said. “It’s right outside Los Angeles, but it’s a separate town. It’s incorporated, and everything. It’s where most of the big shots live, and it’s got the lowest crime rate in the whole state.”
    “The big shots from the Outfit, you mean.”
    “Yes.”
    “And they own the town, including the police.”
    “Yes.”
    “Did the police turn up a suspect, as part of the show they put on?”
    “No. They just questioned a lot of people, and made a big noise for the papers. Then, after a couple of weeks, it all died down. No one really expected anything different. It’s like when Bugsy Siegel got killed. No one ever expected the murderer would get caught. And he never was.”
    “Yet you still insist your husband wasn’t killed by someone in organized crime?” I asked incredulously.
    “I’m not saying that, Mr. Drake. There were probably fifty men who would’ve liked to see Dominic dead, for different reasons. Anyone makes enemies, no matter what business he’s in, and Dom made his share. Maybe more than his share. What I’m telling you, though, is that his murder wasn’t ordered. Siegel’s murder was ordered, but not Dominic’s. The Outfit didn’t—”
    “Everyone I’ve ever talked to about the murder thought it was a professional job,” I interrupted. “And that includes several policemen.”
    She moved her clasped hands fretfully before her.
    “Talk to Russo, Mr. Drake. That’s all I’m asking you to do. Go down to La Palada and talk to him.”
    “Will he talk to me, do you think?”
    She nodded.
    “How can you be so sure, Mrs. Vennezio?”
    “I made a bargain with him.”
    “What kind of a bargain?”
    “The letters—the four letters I wrote. Two days ago, I told Russo about the letters. I said I’d give them to him, if he’d talk to you. And he said he would.”
    “And you gave them to him?”
    She nodded, silent and resigned.
    “But—but what’s to prevent him killing you?”
    “He promised,” she said simply.
    “And you believed him?”
    “Yes, Mr. Drake. I believed him. I made promises, and so did Russo. If we both keep our words, there won’t be any trouble. That’s the way it’s always been, Mr. Drake—for hundreds of years.” She reached over for her purse and got to her feet, heavily. She pointed to the small pile of bills on the table between us.
    “Take the money, Mr. Drake. Go see Russo. He’ll be expecting you. He’s in the phone book, and he’s expecting you. If you keep your word with him, he’s not a bad man. He’s like Dominic was. They’re just the same.”
    She turned and walked to the door. Hastily crossing the room, I opened the door for her. I wanted to say something, to comfort her. But she was already outside. I watched her get into a car parked at the curb. As the car pulled away, I saw two men in the front seat.
    I closed the door, locked it and walked back into my living room. I picked up the small stack of bills—a thousand dollars, in hundred-dollar bills.
    Automatically I took out my wallet and slipped the money inside. As I did, I was conscious of a sudden, chilling sense of forboding. I’d felt it first as I’d watched the car pulling away, with the two figures in the front seat and the single figure in the rear. Remembering the slow