by P. N. Elrod
“Taxes?” Derner spoke like it was an unfamiliar foreign word.
“Never mind. Anyone deliver a paper here today? I wanna read the news.”
Strome found this morning’s papers. I sprawled on Gordy’s wide leather sofa and looked over the headlines. The others took the hint and parked themselves at the other end of the room to wait for Bristow’s call.
The kidnapping case had faded from the front page, replaced by a milk-fund scandal, union troubles in Detroit, and the latest load of woe from China. The Japanese were murdering them. The Chinese were in desperate need of pilots and people to teach them to fly, but not having much luck. The officers wanting to learn were from the upper crust of a very caste-bound society and took criticism from lower-rank tutors rather badly. If you gave your noble-born student a poor grade, you could have your head chopped off. Along with the war, they were losing flying teachers by the bushel basket. Though many outside the country were sympathetic, there weren’t a lot of American or British fliers interested in taking their place.
I dug out the funny pages, finding them much more entertaining than usual. Having been walking on the edge for too long, I craved inanity. Strome, Lowrey, and Derner didn’t hide their annoyance at my enjoyment, but damn it, the laughs felt good.
The crossword looked interesting, so I went to the desk—only then did I sit in the chair—and played at filling in the squares for a while. The phone rang a few times, but it was ordinary club business that Derner handled quickly to keep the line clear.
Halfway through the puzzle it hit me: I’d faced down those toughs and hadn’t once resorted to the evil eye. Hadn’t even thought of it. I was faster and stronger than any of them and had used that, but it was different, seemed more square for some reason. And no headache from the effort.
But all the rest was me, not supernatural influence. For all the guff and gab I’d thrown out, I’d been rock steady and still was; it felt good, even. This ordinary kind of smoke and mirrors stuff agreed with me.
Well, well, Mrs. Fleming’s youngest was doing all right for himself.
When I’d had enough of self-congratulation, I decided to check the inside headlines for that morning’s latest about the Gladwell kidnapping. Escott had mentioned no new developments over his boiled egg supper, but then he’d slept in late and might not have read anything. Neither of us had listened to the radio, either. I shifted newsprint around on Gordy’s desk.
The kidnapping had been relegated to page two, and I expected a much-truncated story rehashing everything, but there was fresh information after all. The first was Dugan’s mysterious failure to appear in court. His lawyer gave excuses, requesting a postponement. The judge rescheduled things for tomorrow and sternly lectured the lawyer about the importance of not wasting the court’s time.
By tomorrow, if not already, Dugan would be on someone’s official fugitive roster. He’d be in jail now if they’d been doing their jobs. For crying out loud, kidnapping was a federal crime to start with, and he’d added to it by taking the girl across state lines. He should have been stewing in jail, not Mrs. Gladwell’s basement. God save us from smooth-talking liars.
But tacked onto the bottom of the article was the real bombshell. My guess was the news had come in after they’d set up the front page. Rather than ripping everything, they’d made space for it on the already existing story. Under a smaller heading that read “Grim Discovery at Kidnap Hideout” was a report from Indiana. The cops there had done some digging—literally—at the farmhouse. Dumped in the cesspit under the partially destroyed outhouse were two bodies, an old man and woman, apparently the owners of the property.
I stared at the print a long time, then read it again, carefully, but the words hadn’t changed. I stood, throwing the paper down, and paced a few times.
Derner looked up. “Something wrong, Mr. Fleming?”
“I want a new edition. The latest you can find. Now.”
“Okay.” He went to the office door and passed the errand to someone down the hall. About a minute later he had an evening paper taken from one of the boys.
The kidnapping was once more on the front page, this time with photos. The couple had been identified, their ages listed, with a truncated history of their lives. In summation, they were elderly, had no close relatives, and kept to themselves. Perfect for Dugan’s purpose. If they disappeared from their isolated farm, no one would be likely to notice for months. Cause of death seemed to be gunshots to the head.
How had he found them? Had he and one of the other men, maybe Vinzer the driver, gone along the back roads looking for just such a setup? It would be easy enough to pretend to have a breakdown, stroll up to a house, and ask to use a phone. Dugan’s polished manners and nice clothes would get him through any rustic door. Sooner or later, they’d find a place not on the phone exchange. Plenty of those in farming country. They’d narrow it to anyone who kept to themselves. No visitors, no family, no neighbors. They could find that out over a friendly cup of coffee. Then Dugan or the other guy would take out a gun and with a couple of bullets claim the house for their own.
If I’d known that to start with, I’d have killed Dugan and his whole gang the first night and lived with a clean conscience afterward.
Mostly clean.
I’d killed before. It wasn’t my solution to every problem, and I sure as hell hated what it did to me, but in this case I could honestly say their deaths would not have troubled me too much.
The paper played up the fact that Dugan was truly missing, from his court date and from answering questions about the murdered couple. A lot too late, the editors had come to realize their society pretty boy was a bad egg after all. The cops were again grilling family and friends for his whereabouts. Well, they wouldn’t be lying when they said they didn’t know.
I wondered if Escott had had a chance to read this stuff and reached for the phone, then changed my mind. That could wait until after Bristow called. I sat and stewed and thought seriously about killing Dugan even now in cold blood. There’d be nothing to it: just go up to a man chained helpless to a wall and snap his neck. Or use a gun so I wouldn’t actually have to touch him and feel the life going out. I thought about that a lot, what I’d have to do to get rid of the body, how I would deal with the aftermath inside my head. As long as I slept on my home earth, there would be no nightmares, and if I stayed busy and distracted, I wouldn’t have to think about it. For decades to come I wouldn’t have to think about it for a single minute.
I wondered what kind of hole in the world he would make disappearing. It’s a big thing to kill, not necessarily a bad thing, but a big thing, the old toss a rock into a pool kind of thing. Would the ripples be too much to handle? There would be a hellish legal fuss with the law looking for him, but beyond that . . . maybe it’d work.
But it wasn’t practical. Too many witnesses. Vivian Gladwell trusted her servants, but I couldn’t. I’d have to remove Dugan to some other place. Escott would have to be told . . . or I could hypnotize him into forgetting. Not square, doing that to my best friend, and eventually it would wear off and he’d remember. Or, knowing what I had planned, he’d help, become an accessory to first-degree murder.
We’d been through a lot together, and I could count on him, but he didn’t need this kind of burden. Okay, maybe I could kill Dugan cold, not something to be proud of, but in the end too much of a problem to drop on my friends.
I eased back from the idea. Things would serve as they stood; no need for me to step in swinging, all fired up with belated vengeance. We’d continue as before: let Dugan rot for a time, then turn him over to the law. It was slow, and justice was sometimes uncertain if not completely absent, but better that someone else handle the problem.
Besides, if Dugan’s trial didn’t go the way I thought it should, I could always step in and have a “talk” with the judge, attorneys, and the whole damned jury.
I cut the article out, shoved it in my pants pocket, and pretended to read. Across
the large room, Strome told the other men how he’d spent his day in Clarson’s office, speaking soft to keep me out of it. He complained about the food, how he was treated, and I picked up plenty about him and how his mind worked.
There was no point reminding Strome that Coldfield’s people had saved Gordy’s life and were continuing to preserve it. Throwing it up in his face would not make our own uneasy collaboration any better, and he wasn’t the type to learn new stuff, anyway. I’d make sure he wouldn’t be going back to watch over Gordy. His Bronze Belt surroundings were too distracting to him. He’d be paying more attention to himself than outside threats. Better for Gordy that Coldfield’s people played bodyguard. They knew the territory, what was normal, what wasn’t.
When talk shifted to the present situation, I sensed a few looks thrown my way. Their voices got softer, but my ears picked up every word. Strome and Lowrey didn’t think I could pull off running things, but Derner had seen me in action and thought I had a chance.
“He does something to people,” he said. “I donno what, but he talks and they listen. The boss calls him in whenever he needs a special job. One minute a guy’s all piss and vinegar, the next he’s on a train to Florida and happy about it.”
“So?” said Strome. “Ain’t gonna work with Bristow. We listened to him all this time, and what he goes after, he gets. Even the boss wasn’t crossin’ him. Night after night we was listening to that crap.”
“The boss was learning stuff,” Lowrey put in.
“Ain’t that much to learn. Bristow’s taking over.”
“Fleming’ll kill him first. He an’ the boss owe each other. He’s stand-up. He’ll back Gordy all the way.”
“Fleming don’t have the authority to do any killin’. I don’t see that kid having the guts, neither. It’s just show with him, nothing underneath. We’ve seen a dozen punks just like him come to town, gas loud, and then they ain’t around no more. New York likes that loudmouth bastard Bristow. If anything happens to him, we all go, including Gordy.”
“We go anyway if Bristow takes over,” Lowrey reminded him.
“You mean when. Gordy’s not looking so good. Even if Fleming stops Bristow—which he won’t—Gordy’s dead meat. I’m moving town. Plenty of places in Jersey or Florida to work.”
“When you going?”
Strome seemed to consider. “We’ll see how this punk handles a real piece of trouble, but I can promise you Bristow will bury him. When that happens, you better be packed and going through the door.”
Gordy had some fine fellas working for him, but it was the nature of the business. When he was better, I’d let him know about Strome’s flexible loyalty, though he was likely already aware of it.
“Strome! C’mere.”
To give him credit, he didn’t do a guilty start at my calling him over. He took his time, though.
I swiveled Gordy’s chair to put my back to the other guys and gestured for Strome to pull another up close. “We gotta powwow about tonight,” I said. “Make some plans.”
Strome got a chair and sat. I leaned forward. He mirrored me to a lesser extent, but we definitely had privacy. I could be confident that Derner and Lowrey wouldn’t overhear.
“Yeah, what plans?” His talk with them must have been fortifying to his self-assurance; after all, I was just a kid full of my own piss and vinegar.
I took care of his objections to me in about a minute, though it made for a good sharp pain behind my eyes. When I was done, we stood and shook hands. “Glad that’s settled. Good luck.”
His mouth twitched like it was trying to remember how to smile, and he left. No word of parting to his pals as he passed. I didn’t do anything drastic, just told him to go home and sleep for a couple of days. By then things would be over, one way or another. By then Gordy would still be with us or not. I hated that latter possibility, but it had to be considered. One thing that would not happen was Bristow taking his place.
Derner stared after the departing Strome and muttered to Lowrey. “See? That Fleming guy does things to people.”
As it ticked toward nine o’clock with no word from Bristow, I got antsy and phoned my club. Escott answered.
“Any sign of Brockhurst yet?” I asked.
“Not tonight. I think he took a powder.”
What the hell? “Okay, you can lay off.” Impersonating me once was funny, but not twice.
“Not my doing, bo. He’s the no-show.”
“Charles?”
“Yeah?”
“How’s the dance act going over?”
“They’re burning up the floor. That blond pippin’s laying ’em flat. Wouldn’t think the mugs would go for that snooty type, but they’re eatin’ it up. We’re having grief from the damn lights, though. It’s that short what needs fixing. You need to get here and do that.”
Right. Well, he didn’t have to hit me twice with a two-by-four. “I’ll be over, but I can’t leave just yet.”
“Where are you?”
“Looking after Gordy. He’s ready to chew nails over Bristow, but I talked him into keeping his head down a little longer.” Escott knew as well as I that Gordy was still out. Now he’d also know that I’d caught his message.
“Maybe I should talk with him, too. Where’s he parked?”
“Don’t worry about it. You can see him tomorrow. He’s in a bad mood.”
“I can cheer him up,” he pressed, still holding the American accent. Someone had to have a gun to his head. Certainly they were listening to everything.
“Look, I’m gonna wind some stuff up here and get to the club in . . . oh . . . about an hour. If Brockhurst comes in, tell him to wait. All I want is fifteen minutes with that jerk. Just fifteen nose-busting minutes.”
“Yeah, but—”
“In an hour,” I said, hanging up and bolting for the door.
I’D wanted to work in a stop at the Stockyards at some point tonight but had to nix that. Not that I was in dire need of blood; it was just to keep myself prepared in case things got rough. But events had bulled ahead and sideways of my feeble plans.
Risking notice from traffic cops and subsequent delays, I ran stop signals but got lucky, reaching Lady Crymsyn in twelve minutes flat. The only parking space was my reserved spot, and I wasn’t using it in case someone was on watch. I drove around the block and backed my car into an alley, hoping the owners of the property didn’t have any night deliveries scheduled.
The wind was still ugly but blowing in a favorable direction for me. It was strong at my back as I hurried along the nearly empty sidewalks. Cars growled past, snorting thick exhaust that the wind immediately shredded. I knew it wouldn’t do that to me when the time came to go invisible, but it raised unpleasant mental pictures.
Before taking the last corner, I paused to check the front of my club. My office lights were on. One of the window curtains was held partially open; a man’s form—not lean enough to be Escott—was silhouetted there, looking out. Very smart of them, but they didn’t expect me for another forty-five minutes yet.
Peering narrowly, I sighted a sharpshooter’s bead on the entry, intending to bowl straight in. Not caring if anyone walking by noticed, I vanished and let the wind speed me along across the street until I washed up against the doors like ghostly flotsam. I hit so hard it nearly sent me solid, but the shock passed, allowing me to sieve under the cracks into the lobby.
Busy night. I sensed people milling about, couldn’t tell how many. None saw me flowing across the lobby, though a few might have felt a passing chill. They’d blame it on drafts. I surged upstairs and down the hall, materializing in the room next to my office.
Dark and empty as I expected. The recording equipment was gone, only the tables, a couple chairs, and a phonograph on its stand remained. Excelsior scraps littered the floor, left over from packing the stuff off again. The wiring from the microphones was still in place but not hooked up to anything. I didn’t need them, only had to press my ear to the adjoining wall.
One way to find out. Damn.
To avoid the unpleasant sensation of pressing through the wall, I eased quiet into the hall and slipped beneath the office door, then had to try locating Escott among the several individuals here. Two were behind my desk, close together, another seated on the front corner of the desk near the door, one by the window, another on the sofa. They were too scattered for me to take on and be certain of no gunplay.
Guessing that the man in my desk chair was Escott, I moved in close to give him the shivers. He obligingly coughed and cleared his throat so I’d know his voice.
“What’s with those lights?” someone demanded sharply.
“We got a short,” said Escott. “I tol’ ya. They flicker like that all the time.”
“God damn it!” This was from Bristow. Unmistakable. He was on the couch. “They’re out again! Someone get a flashlight.”
I took a hell of a chance with Escott’s life, but he knew I was there and would duck quick enough. Materializing in the dark behind the guy nearest him, I plucked his gun away and slammed home a kidney punch, dropping the thug almost instantly. He’d been aiming at Escott. Now the gun was pointed at Bristow, who was on the sofa, glaring impotently around and grumbling in what for him was near pitch-blackness.
When the lights abruptly came on again, the men honestly didn’t notice me right away. The guy I’d clobbered and I both wore dark coats. I stood in his exact same place. It was the change of the gun’s direction that got Bristow’s exasperated attention.
