Canvas Coffin by William Campbell Gault Page B

said. “I think it’s that big redhead.” Just a hunch I was playing.
    The redhead was there, Sergeant Nolan, and I said, “I don’t know if you’re familiar with my part in the Brenda Vane case, but the night clerk at the hotel here has just attempted to blackmail me in connection with it. I thought you might want to know about it.”
    “Blackmail you, Mr. Pilgrim? How?”
    “He wanted me to pay him for swearing I came home with my manager that night Miss Vane was killed.”
    “There weren’t any witnesses to the attempt, I suppose?”
    “Two, though they’re both friends of mine.”
    “I see. How clearly did the clerk word his demand?”
    “I think I could give it to you almost word for word. I’ve a pretty good memory.”
    “I see. Well, Mr. Pilgrim, I’ll talk to Sergeant Sands about it. He’ll undoubtedly want a statement from all three of you. He’ll get in touch with you.”
    “Thank you,” I said, and hung up.
    Sally shook her head. Max looked at me doubtfully.
    I said, “I suppose it never occurred to either of you that Sergeant Sands, himself, might have sent that clerk here just to get a reaction?”
    “Nonsense,” Sally said.
    “Nuts,” Max said.
    “Besides,” I told them, “I’m not a defensive fighter. I think it’s time we went on the offense. After all, I
might
be innocent.” I went back to the davenport. “How did you like that for finesse, Mrs. Forester? Smooth, eh?”
    “Your brains are scrambled,” Max said.
    Sally looked at him. “Maxie, honey, we’ve finally found an area of agreement, as they say. Are we friends, Max?”
    “Aaahh,” he said, and went back to his patio.
    “I’ll be friends with you, Sal,” I said.
    “Aaahh,” she said, and came over to pick up the book she’d thrown.
    My hand was still sore, but there wasn’t any more throb. I held it up and looked at it, my good right hand that would be good again, I hoped. Good enough for Patsy Giani, I hoped.
    “Boom, boom,” I said, “and there goes Patsy.”
    Sally turned a page.
    “Whammo,” I said. “That old man Pilgrim still has a wallop. Look at Patsy reel around the ring. Migawd, he’s covered with blood. He’s out on his feet. He’s — ”
    “Will you please be quiet?” Sally asked.
“I
am trying to read.”
    “How can you read with the battle of the century going on? Giani’s down. He’s trying to get up. Oh, folks, this is an awful sight, this young man, bleeding from the mouth and over both eyes, trying to get up, to strike back at this terrible ring tiger, this inhuman master of the most brutal of the arts, this sneering, cold perfectionist who has, round by round — ”
    “Shut up!”
Sally said.
    “Okay, okay. Spoilsport.”
    I arched my back, stretched my legs, and considered the ceiling. Start with the windmill; what does the windmill mean, what is it trying to tell you? It is a Dutch windmill and — wait, Dutch Krueger is Giani’s manager — No, start over. It is the trade-mark of a baker and I knew a promoter in Houston named Baker who — No.
    Chimes sounded.
    “That’s the door,” I told Sally. “Answer it, will you?” She glared at me.
    “My hand hurts,” I said. “I’m afraid if I try to get up, I — ”
    “I’ll get it,” Max said. “It’s probably that newspaper guy.” He came through from the patio as the chimes sounded again.
    It was no newspaper guy. It was three men. One of them was Sam Wald, one of them was a dark, bald man over six feet high and looking almost that broad. The third man could have been related to Noodles; he had the same general build. Only he was tougher, or wanted you to think he was, at any rate. I’d have backed Noodles, with my money.
    “What the hell is this?” Max asked. They’d come in without an invitation.
    “We wanted to talk to you, Max,” Sam said. “Big-money talk, Max. We knew you’d be interested in that.” His insurance-salesman smile was working. “This is Paul D’Amico, Max. And Luke Pilgrim,