Read Stop This Man! for Free Online Page B

there.”
    “She did? What mess?” Selma asked.
    “The mess, you know. A guy gets shot up, there’s a mess on the floor. Blood and so forth.”
    “That’s terrible,” Selma said.
    “I’ll say. Them molls are cold as ice when it comes to that kind of thing. Of course, she only did this to cover.”
    “Cover what?”
    “To cover up her real purpose, that being the hidden goods.”
    “Oh, I see,” Selma said. “What were those goods?”
    “Well, they didn’t say in the papers, but my wife knows the super’s wife in that building. In other words, I have what might be called inside dope.”
    “And?”
    “This friend of my wife’s, the super’s old lady, she figured Shoemaker for a suspicious character from way back. No visitors, no visible means of support, hardly ever went out—you know what I mean. Well, she’d go up to his place now and then, just to check. She’d look at the plumbing or the wallpaper, anything like that to check up on what was going on there. And what do you think she found?”
    The cabby paused, but nobody said anything.
    “She found stacks and stacks of road maps!”
    “I don’t understand,” Selma said.
    “Don’t you get it? Road maps! Where do you get road maps, I ask you, except you walk in a filling station and ask for one? That’s how he’d been collecting those road maps!”
    The traffic got lighter on upper Woodward and the taxispeeded up. Selma didn’t say any more. She sat huddled in her corner of the seat, weary and withdrawn.
    “So what was this moll picking up?” Catell asked.
    “I’ll tell you what she was picking up! Remember I was telling you about all them road maps? Do you also remember that slew of gas stations that got stuck up around Detroit and vicinity the last coupla months? Well, the guy what done it, he’d walk in the gas station, ask for a road map, and then stick the place up. Now, do you still want me to tell you what was stashed away in that apartment there?”
    “Never mind,” Catell said. “I can figure it. Schumach—I mean, Shoemaker had all the money from those gasstation holdups stashed up there, and his girl friend came to collect after he’d been shot, right?”
    “You certainly are right,” said the cabby with a sense of achievement.
    Catell sat back in his seat. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one for himself, and then offered one to Selma. She shook her head and turned away.
    How she remembered those road maps! Otto and she would sit on the couch nights and study the maps, talking about trips they’d take someday. Schumacher never took her on any of those trips, but he’d talk about them often, and Selma was sure he meant to take her away someday, to drive along the highways through different states, and to see all the points of interest that were marked on the maps. And Selma had liked the planning ahead; she had felt comfortable sitting on the couch there with old Otto.
    “What’s eating you?” Catell said.
    “Nothing.”
    Selma bent her head so Catell couldn’t see her eyes. She felt terribly alone and wished she could cry out, weep.
    “Do something with your hair, kid. Those curls are coming down,” Catell said.
    “It’s the damp, honey. I’m sorry.”
    “Well, fix it. We’re almost there.”
    The taxi had swung off Woodward, out toward the country. A garish neon sign came closer, off to the right of the highway. It said, “Paar Excellence,” first in red, then in pink, then in blue, and finally all together—red, pink, blue.
    “Get happy, kid. Here we are.” Catell straightened his tie.
    The Paar Excellence had two sections. One was a roadhouse with name band, fried chicken, dancing, and drinks. The other was a private club. Freddie Paar ran both of them, and he probably even owned the place, though nobody knew for sure. In the roadhouse section he had a friendly nod for the patrons; in the club he knew everybody by name. He had to.
    When Selma and Catell walked into the club entrance, a bruiser