by P. N. Elrod
“If it sells papers, yeah. Maybe Gordy can put a good word in for us. He’s chummy with some of the crime-beat guys. Did you see him come in tonight?”
“Yes, along with several bodyguards and Hog Bristow. He showed no sign of remembering last evening’s dustup or his noon-hour ultimatum. They were at that high table as usual.”
“It’s taking too long. Gordy should have gotten him out of the picture by now.” He probably had his reasons for letting this drag, but I didn’t like it dragging all over my place. Things had come too close to disaster with the near gunplay, and I wanted no more of the same. If he didn’t resolve things tonight, I’d offer my services as interrogator the next time Bristow was sober, get what was needed, then pack him off to Cuba. This was the right time of year to enjoy Havana’s climate.
I peered ahead, trying to blink my way past a light mist that had begun falling just after we left the Gladwell house. Though not cold enough for snow or sleet, it did slick the world up and obscure the view. The wipers would swipe the windshield clean, then squeak protest against the streaked glass, so I had to keep turning them on and off. Driving in a full rain was easier; this stuff created too many shifting reflections.
“We anywhere close yet?”
Escott checked a map by flashlight. “One more street.”
We went one more street. There was no parking to be had; the people living in this area had grabbed every legal space. We wouldn’t take any illegal spots. This foray was meant to go unnoticed by the law. “Take it around the block a few times, would ya?”
“My pleasure.”
I paused across from a venerable-looking apartment hotel and got out. Escott slid over to the driver’s side, put my Buick in gear, and cruised off. He’d be gone about twenty minutes, plenty of time for my errand.
We’d debated on whether I should see Marie Kennard or Anthony Brockhurst, and Anthony dear won out, based on what I’d overheard in his car. He seemed to be second to Dugan in the hierarchy and the one most likely to know interesting things.
At this late hour there was no night man; you needed a key or to be buzzed in by a resident to gain entry. I wafted through the cracks, went solid, and used the elevator the rest of the trip. Counting off the door numbers, I found Anthony’s flat at the far end of the fifth floor’s hall and sieved inside.
Solid again. In a stranger’s home. Me failing to suppress a big grin.
Damn it, it was fun to break into places, especially without performing any actual breakage and with no chance of getting caught. Not that I sneaked into just any house that took my fancy—I’d been taught better manners—but the ones in the line of duty were fair game. Unless required by the needs of a case, I never stole anything, so my conscience was fairly clean. I was just naturally nosy and liked looking around other people’s lives because I suspected they were doing a better job of living it than me.
If his father controlled Anthony’s money, he was generous, to judge by the surroundings. Everything was expensive and new except for what appeared to be family pictures dotting the walls. The Brockhursts looked to be a large and well-to-do clan. I didn’t recognize any of them but did spot a formal studio portrait of Marie Kennard standing alone on a baby grand piano in the living room. Perhaps Anthony, the helpful cousin and unsuspecting best friend of the bad guy, had a crush on her, choosing to be chivalrous and stay quiet about it. I could imagine him at the keyboard practicing love songs while looking at Marie’s photo. Close up and with time to study, she was a dish, but not to my taste. The studiously bored manner I’d overheard in the club and the car made her sound spoiled, not sophisticated. World-weary people who had never been near a real crisis weren’t worth my time, but she was perfect for the likes of Dugan and Anthony. They were welcome to her.
This place was easy to go through; Anthony’s life was uncomplicated. The usual trappings of modern living were in their usual places, including a well-stocked liquor cabinet. No surprises there. Except for the piano, he didn’t seem to have any creative leanings. I found some check stubs in his desk indicating that he had a job at a place called Brockhurst and Sons, and damn near blanched at the amount he made. I couldn’t imagine anyone being valuable enough to a company to deserve a sweet and cool hundred a week. Not unless they were in the movies or the mobs. That was obscene. When I’d been reporting, I counted myself lucky to pull in seventy-five a month and thought myself well off.
The desk was the kind with a hinged trapdoor on top. Lift and fold it to the right and a counterbalanced shelf within raised the hidden typewriter up level with the rest of the work area, which was now doubled. That was a very handy thing to have. Maybe I could get one of my own.
Used carbon paper was crumpled in the wastebasket, along with early versions of the letters Dugan intended to send out. Keeping company with them were two origami animals, a giraffe and a pelican, made from discarded drafts. He’d probably amused himself folding them while Anthony typed.
I found Anthony in his bedroom, snoring obliviously away in yellow silk pajamas. There was a taint of booze on his breath, mixed with mint mouth gargle. That told me he’d had something to drink but not enough to make him forget to brush. This would be slow going but hopefully not impossible.
Turning his night table light on, I loomed over him, tapping his face a couple times to haul him from sleep. Once I captured his bleared and dumbfounded attention, I was able to give myself another headache.
“YOU’RE sure that’s all of them?” Escott asked after picking me up.
“The ones he had.” I fanned the crisp envelopes full of potential grief, holding them like a card hand. They were stamped, ready to mail. None had a return name, but the delivery addresses were neatly typed, including one on top for the FBI. I ripped it open. It was indeed the original to what I’d seen earlier. “How could Dugan think J. Edgar Hoover would ever bother himself with me?”
“Because he likely would. I understand he is a very persistent investigator and a great one for collecting information, rather like Gordy. What about the other letters at large?”
“Brockhurst will get them for me.” I shuffled this batch together and stuffed them in my coat pocket. The mist had grown thick and fast enough to qualify as rain. Tiny drops dotted the windows, and the wiper thumped back and forth without squeaking. I was glad not to be driving. “He was pretty cooperative once he was under.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Slack face, eyes like a dead fish, and a suddenly slow heartbeat. I’m certain. He couldn’t have faked the last.” I’d also pretended to take a swing at him. He didn’t blink, even when the breeze of my passing fist ruffled his hair. “He has the day to get the rest from the other four people in his little circle, then come by the club tomorrow night to deliver them. I told him to say he found out the truth about Cousin Gilbert, that he really had been the mastermind in the kidnapping, his motive being the money. Brockhurst will look shocked and grieved by the betrayal.”
“Let’s hope they accept it.”
“If not, then I got their names and where they live. I should visit them anyway, make sure they’re set straight about Dugan. This will save Marie Kennard ten grand. And from a disastrous marriage.” Not a bad night’s work. I felt positivly chivalrous.
“Was Brockhurst possessed of further useful information?”
“I asked about family history. Their paternal grandfathers way back when were brothers. Both did pretty well for themselves and their descendants until the crash. By then Dugan was the only one left of his branch. He lost his shirt. The Brockhursts had gone into ball bearing manufacture, so they weathered things better. Anthony seems to idolize Dugan, thinks he’s a deep thinker, and Anthony’s given him financial help on the sly. He’s got an open offer for a job at the family business, but Dugan’s much too sensitive for the harshness of the cruel world.”
“Indeed?”
“My translation: Dugan’s too lazy or thinks he’s too good for regular work.”
Escott nodd
ed, thoughtful. “Yet he will put weeks of effort into committing a crime and lie his head off to con a young woman out of ten thousand dollars. The mundane bores him. He likes challenge to lift him from his ennui. Danger, too. He didn’t bring a gun to your little meeting, did he?”
“Nope.”
“And at least twice he mentioned doing various activities to ‘fill the time.’”
“Boredom. Now that’s a hell of a motive for kidnapping.”
“I can understand him, though.”
I snorted. “He’s crazy. You’re not. Don’t go scaring me.”
Escott chuckled.
IT was great to walk into Crymsyn again and see everything running normally. The doorman told me we’d had a good crowd, people grabbing an early piece of the weekend by starting on Wednesday. They’d mostly gone home by now. I was just in time to close and felt like I’d missed a lot by not being here. Tomorrow would be less worry-making. With Dugan locked away, I could immerse myself back into my favorite routine.
How long he stayed chained to that floor was up to him. His only way out of his cell was to write and sign a full confession. Then I’d take him to the cops. He could scream all he liked about it being obtained under duress, but everyone in the Gladwell household would lie themselves blue denying that they had anything to do with holding him against his will. We knew who would be believed in the end. Especially if I had anything to do with it.
I had a lot of respect for Vivian for going along with our dangerous game. Escott had confided the general idea to her earlier today. All of it was based on the calculation that Dugan fully expected to leave his meeting with me alive.
We figured he’d have prepared some pretty serious insurance for that, and it would have to be blocked by us in some way. I had to play the business very much by ear, let him tell me what he thought I should know, let him think he’d won, then follow and look for a weakness.
Which had worked out well, up to and including the possibility of putting him on ice. He had plenty of brains, just not a lot of experience playing with the big boys. Good thing for him that he’d tried blackmailing me instead of Gordy; otherwise, Dugan would be fish food by now. Gordy was more practical about disposing of annoyances. More final. Not that I hadn’t killed before myself, in the heat of rage, cold-bloodedly, and out of my head with insanity. But I had enough deaths hovering over my shoulder, bleak company when in a gloomy mood. Maybe Dugan deserved to die, but I didn’t care to be the executioner.
We’d intended to store him in the far end of Lady Crymsyn’s basement, hidden behind a bank of crates and old scenery flats, and take turns keeping watch. But once she heard these tentative ideas, Vivian volunteered her place and staff for the job, and the devil take the law if she was caught.
Escott tried to talk her out of it. Any other client he’d have turned down flat, and devil take their bruised feelings in the matter. He failed with Vivian, which told me a lot about how far she’d gotten under his skin. Maybe he could bring her to the club some night to meet Bobbi, and we could double-date like college kids.
Bobbi was in the main room, seated by the near-side bar. It was the best place to keep an eye on the patrons, the entry, and the show, which was winding down. She saw Escott and me come in, and immediately got that things had gone well. I’d have done it all even without a hug and kiss at the end, but I wasn’t going to turn down what was offered.
“So?” she said as we shed our coats and sat at her table.
“The good guys won.”
“A tremendous success,” Escott added.
Adelle was done for the night, probably backstage changing. Gordy and Bristow were still talking, which astonished and annoyed me.
“How much longer is that gonna go on?” I asked.
Bobbi leaned forward, impatient. “Who cares? Tell me everything. I’m ready to chew glass from all this waiting.”
She got the short version; details could come later if she wanted them. Escott let me do most of the talking, lounging back in his chair to load and light his pipe. He looked contented.
“What if he doesn’t confess?” she asked when I was done.
“That, sweetheart, is the flaw in the plan. We’re going to ignore it.”
“What? Oh, you stinker, don’t pull my leg.”
“Well, not here and now. We could go upstairs . . .”
“Oh, hush!” she said, going a little pink.
Escott, more of a gentleman than I, pretended not to have heard.
I went on. “Anyway, a signed confession is the frosting. The cake is good enough on its own. We don’t count on him to crack, but the longer he’s disappeared, the worse it’ll be for him with the law. Then it won’t matter.”
Escott nodded. “If and when he emerges from his durance vile, he will find himself without friend or ally between him and a lengthy prison term.”
“I was against this, you know,” she said. “Until I heard him talking to you. What a creep.”
“How did that go?”
“Perfectly.”
“So it turned out?”
“Clear as a bell. Wanna hear?”
We went upstairs, and once more I got a good look at the stuff she and Escott had worked so hard to arrange. Wires threaded from holes drilled in the wall between the storage room and my office led to a simple-looking box with a brushed chrome face. The innards were probably stuffed with tubes and a spaghetti twisting of more wires and unbelievably complicated electrical tubes and other stuff. The box was linked by cables to other devices and looked intimidating to unfamiliar eyes. Bobbi worked switches and dials as easy as stirring a cup of coffee. They hummed, warming up. Then she went to a large turntable spinning an ordinary-looking seventy-eight record and set the needle on it to play.
Dugan’s voice spoke from the grill of an amplifying speaker. He was underscored by static and distant dance music but perfectly recognizable to anyone who knew him.
“. . . damaging. Your detective friend could lose his license, that blond singer with whom you keep company will never get decent work again. That large gangster will have no end of grief with federal investigators and could shortly find himself heading . . .”
“Oh, brother, that’s great!”
She shut him off and grinned. “That’s just the first one. The second’s still on the recording table. It does fifteen minutes a side. We lost a little when I had to put a fresh blank in, but not much the way that joker likes to talk. I was worried the background noise of the band would ruin it, but you can make out every self-damning word he says. Even if you don’t get a confession out of him, he can’t deny any of this.”
“I don’t know if it will be allowed as evidence in court, but it would be a treat to have the DA in to hear it,” said Escott.
“But I thought you didn’t want anything to do with a court case.”
“We make sure it doesn’t come to that. If Dugan is stubborn about accepting his fate, we see to it he has a chance to listen to himself. I should like to be present to enjoy the look on his face.”
“Won’t it be a bad thing for Jack, though? They might want to know what his big secret is.”
I lifted a hand. “No problem. I just whammy them into disinterest. Now, how about we put that in a very safe place?”
“After I make some copies.” Bobbi fiddled with a knob and the hum of power from the machine diminished. “I’ll take the originals to a place I know and have them turned into more records you can play on any phonograph.”
“I should like to make a transcript first,” said Escott. “I’ll start right now. If the unthinkable should happen and either of those are broken . . .”
“Yeah, I guess I could slip on some ice on the way over.”
“I’ll need writing materials.”
“In my office,” I said. We went there. I got Escott a freshly filled fountain pen, some pencils, and a thick pad of paper. He knew shorthand nearly as well as I, but I was better at typing. When he was done, I’d use my spare t
ime to translate his scribbles into readable English.
He poked at the vase of cut flowers. “These will want water.” He pulled the flowers and their greenery clear. Some stems remained behind, snagged on the microphone they had concealed. It was small, maybe as big as my fist, held by a short stand that fit into the bottomless vase. The cord ran through a hole in the table, down one of the legs by the wall, and then on through the wall. You had to know where to look to see it, and I’d kept Dugan plenty busy looking at me.
“I’m going to leave things set up,” I said. “Never know but we might have a use for it again.”
“But the recording equipment has to go back tomorrow.”
“I can buy my own later sometime. Business is pretty good. Until then I can cover the mike with the vase, put some paper flowers in it.”
“The curtains, too?”
“Yeah.” Hidden in the curtain folds were two more microphones, hanging from either end of the rod at eye level. We couldn’t be sure if Dugan would stay in one spot and had allowed for his moving around the room.
“You know ... I could make something better for the one on the table.” Escott stared at it, probably seeing something not yet there.
“Oh, yeah?”
“What about a lamp? I could fashion a pedestal base out of thin wood, drill holes in the sides, back them with black gauze . . . It would be like a radio speaker but in reverse. The lamp would even work. Of course, there might be an echo effect with the wood around the mike . . .”
“Talk it over with Bobbi.”
He started sketching at the desk, focused on his new idea. “Um-hm.”
Bobbi came in. “I got it ready to play. Talk what over with me?”
“I’ll tell you; let’s leave him think.” Escott would be preoccupied for a while. I recognized the signs. I also had an idea about gutting a radio and putting the microphone in the speaker, but then someone might try turning the radio on, and that would raid the game. Arm in arm, Bobbi and I went downstairs. “How did the show run?”
“No hitches.”
