Doom Weapon by Ed Gorman Page A

strangulation.
    “Then please find me the assistant manager.”
    “May I say what your business is about?”
    “Just say it’s federal business.”
    An invisible fist punched the kid in the belly. “Federal? Say, that is something.”
    He went away and came back with a beleaguered-looking man with a weak handshake and dog-sad brown eyes.
    “Norm said ‘federal’ business, sir?”
    I showed him my identification.
    “Maybe you should come back when Mr. Swarthout is here, sir.”
    He hadn’t even asked me what my business was.
    “Afraid I’m in a hurry. Is there somewhere we could talk?”
    I was adding to the sadness in his dog eyes and I didn’t feel good about it. I imagined that Swarthout was probably an imperious boss and would work this poor little bastard over pretty good for talking to a federal man.
    With great resignation, as if he knew that the noose was about to be placed around his neck, he said: “Very well, sir. Very well. Let’s step into my office.”
    As he slipped behind his desk, he said, “Philip Axminster is my name. Guess I should’ve introduced myself out there. But I’m nervous about this. Nobody divulges any sort of information—other than the routine things, I mean—without Mr. Swarthout’s approval.”
    “I’m told he used to run slave ships.”
    “I beg your pardon?” He’d been startled.
    “That was a little joke.”
    “I apologize. I’m just a little anxious about this.” Then, in a childlike voice, after an enormous gulp, “Am I in any position to refuse answering questions?”
    I was tempted to make a joke—try to calm the miserable little man down—but I didn’t seem able to amuse him.
    “I’m only going to ask you one question. And, yes, much as I hate to say it, you can refuse to answer until either Swarthout is here or you have a lawyer present.”
    “I sound like an old stick-in-the-mud, don’t I?”
    “You sound like a man who probably has a wife and children and needs to worry about keeping his job.”
    He smiled nervously. “You’re very polite for a federal man. And I appreciate it.”
    “If you’re talking about Mr. Grieves, that’s who I’d like to talk about.”
    “Oh, dear.”
    “What?”
    He thought a moment. “It’s just—well, he and Mr. Swarthout and the widow Ella—well, they seemed sort of thick for a time.”
    “Thick?”
    “You know, friendly.”
    “I see. You mean going out to dinner and things like that.”
    “Exactly.” He hesitated again. Glanced at the closed door as if somebody might have an ear pressed to the other side. “I’m told Grieves even went to the widow Ella’s for dinner several times.”
    I rolled myself a cigarette. “What I’d like to know is if Mr. Grieves opened a checking or savings account here.”
    A tic appeared beneath his right eye. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Confidential information. If I gave that out without Mr. Swarthout’s approval—”
    “He’d put you on the slave ship?”
    The tic stayed but at least the smile was wide and genuine. Then decorum got the best of him. “Confidential information is something we hold sacred here.”
    “That’s good to know. I’d expect the same from my own bank.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    But he’d answered my question. He wouldn’t have looked so put upon if he hadn’t wanted to keep something secret from me. Something like a savings or checking account.
    “You gave the impression that Swarthout and Ella and Grieves might have had some sort of falling out?”
    “I did?”
    “You said they were thick ‘for a time.’”
    “Oh, yes. I see. Well, that’s correct. They spent a lot of time together—or so I’m told, you know how whispers spread in a workplace, people love gossip—but then apparently they stopped going around together.”
    “And you have no idea why?”
    “Well, I’m not privy to that sort of information. Mr. Swarthout doesn’t confide in me.”
    I stood up and shoved my hand