Free Cargo for the Styx by Louis Trimble Page A

shaky floor threw up a small wave. It caught the hand, moving it gently. I took a deep breath.
    I reached the counter. I went around the end and stopped. The cave made by the tipped counter was shadowy, but not so shadowy that I could miss the arm that belonged to the hand. The arm and hand were still together; they weren’t with the rest of the body.
    Nicolo flashed a light into the gloom. The explosion had stripped the body and taken off one arm. It hadn’t done any more damage. The corpse was recognizable. It belonged to Albert Prebble.
    I backed away. Nicolo said, “Not big enough for Blimey?”
    “Some poor devil enjoying a cup of coffee,” I said.
    “Where the hell is Blimey?” Nicolo demanded.
    Biddle said, “It wasn’t the kind of explosion to blast anyone out of sight. If he’d been here, we would have found traces. And this guy is all there is; he must have been here alone.”
    “Maybe he planted the stuff and didn’t get away fast enough,” I said.
    Nicolo said he’d think about that. I decided I’d told enough lies. I turned and sloshed my way out. I stopped on the sidewalk. Harbor Way was quiet with traffic rerouted. I walked back to the office. I sat down and thought about Irma.
    If Biddle was right, she hadn’t been in Blimey’s when the place blew. And neither had Blimey. That could only mean he had called me from somewhere else. That he’d used the story about Irma to sucker me down there. If I hadn’t stopped to take the keys out of her convertible, I’d have been stepping in the door as the dynamite went off.
    I thought about Blimey some more. He was a friend of Bonnie Minos. I thought about her for a while. She knew I’d been hunting for Irma. She and Jaspar Clift knew. But she was Blimey’s friend.
    I stood up. I said, “This time, lady, you’re going to make some sense when you talk.”
    I hopped a cab and told the driver to go north by way of Alpine and Spruce Streets. That way we passed Irma’s office. I had him slow down. I tried to see in the window against the reflection of the sunlight.
    I couldn’t see Irma, but I had a good look at something else. At Clarence Curdy across the street, behind the wheel of his sedan.
    I said to the driver, “Keep it moving. Go up a block and around so we can come back on the other side of the street.”
    He said, “Sure, Cap.”
    When we were around the corner and drifting toward Clarence’s sedan, I told the driver what to do. He nodded and held out a hand. I put a bill in it. The hand disappeared. We rolled on.
    The cab braked to a stop with my door next to Clarence. I hoped out. I climbed in the back seat of Clarence’s sedan. The cab moved away. I said, “Let’s you and me talk.”
    Clarence didn’t think that was funny. He sat with his eyes straight ahead, his hands tight on the wheel.
    He said, “Get out of here.”
    I said, “When I go, it’ll be to call Homicide. They’re interested in people who were in Blimey’s today.”
    The back of his neck turned so pale it looked almost clean. He said, “What’s that supposed to mean to me?”
    I said, “Didn’t you hear? Blimey’s was blown to hell a little while ago.”
    He said, “I didn’t have anything to do with that. I wasn’t near the place.”
    I said, “Maybe the police will want to know what you were near, Clarence.”
    He took a deep breath. “What do you want?”
    “A ride,” I said. “To my boat, Jeeves.”
    He sat still for another minute. Then he started driving. He didn’t ask me where I lived; he drove straight there.
    We strolled like a couple of tired businessmen heading for an after-work drink. If anyone saw us, they couldn’t have noticed how itchy Clarence was. He held in until we climbed aboard and down into the lounge. Then he turned on me.
    “You can’t get away with this, Zane. You got nothing on me.”
    I said, “There’s the phone. Help yourself. Call the police.”
    He stood and glared. His breath made a lot of noise as he worked it