by P. N. Elrod
I materialized at their front door and knocked. The dogs barked frantically. She told them to shut up, and I heard her slow approach.
“Who is it?” she called over the din.
“I’m here from Derner. Gotta see Lowrey.” The idea of simply appearing in their bedroom did not appeal to me. I’d have to hypnotize her, which would happen only after I scared her half to death. Terrorizing housewives, even if they were married to gangsters, just wasn’t a nice thing to do.
“Who are you?”
“It’s business,” I hedged. “Club business. Gordy.”
That was enough for her to cautiously unlock and crack the door. It was on a chain. If anyone really wanted to break in, a halfway decent kick would do it.
“Yes? I don’t know you.” She had a fierce eye, peering sideways through the opening. One of the dogs forced his muzzle through and snorted mightily, growling.
“No, ma’am. I’m new. Derner sent me with a message for Lowrey.”
Nodding like that was something familiar, she undid the chain. The dogs, a couple of big mongrels, charged up, wanting to see who the hell I was, and after one good sniff retreated, tails tucked.
“He’s asleep. I’ll get him.” She stared at the dogs.
“Just show me where; Derner’s waiting. This won’t take a minute.” I hoped.
A tired-looking woman in a sagging bathrobe, married to a gangland bodyguard, she understood not to ask questions or cause delays. For all she knew, I might have been sent here to kill her husband. It was all part of the job. She pointed, frowning. “Through there.”
“Thank you.”
I went in, flipping on the overhead light and closing the door. Up the hall I heard a drowsy kid ask his mom what was wrong. She told him to never mind and go back to sleep. Couldn’t tell if she was scared or not.
Lowrey was sprawled in bed, down to a yellowed singlet and the start of a beard. I got him awake just enough to put him under again, and primed to answer questions.
“Who shot Gordy?” I asked, still trying to figure out which of his eyes to focus on. Either one seemed to work well enough for my kind of work. “Did you see him? Who?”
“Donno. Dark. Hadda be Bristow.”
He was the logical suspect, but I wanted to cover all the bases. “Who’s next in line after Gordy to run things?”
“Bristow,” he mumbled.
“If Bristow ain’t in the picture, who else?”
“Dunno. Fleming. He could do it.”
Me? Holy moley. Who the hell did they think I was? “But Fleming helped save Gordy.”
“He coulda got that English gumshoe to do it for him. He pretends to help Gordy, then Gordy croaks, then he—”
“Yeah, yeah, I got the picture. Well, forget it, powder puff, Fleming ain’t playing that game.”
“Okay,” he said obligingly.
“Anyone else want Gordy’s job?”
“Derner, maybe. Strome, too.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “Think Derner would knock Gordy off to work for Bristow?”
“Dunno. Maybe.”
“What about Derner knocking Gordy off to take over for himself?”
“Strome thinks he would.” Lowrey shrugged. “Maybe. Ask him.”
I planned to and got his address from Lowrey, writing it on the scrap of phone book cover. “Okay, you did fine. Now forget I was ever here and catch up on your sleep.” I shut off the light on the way out.
Mrs. Lowrey seemed more awake and showing worry. “Anything wrong?”
“No, ma’am. All finished. Your man can take some time off.”
“Husband,” she corrected archly. Apparently she worked hard for that gold band on her ring finger. It and she deserved acknowledgment and respect from lowlife mugs like me.
“Yes, ma’am. Husband. Sorry to barge in.” I got out fast.
Strome was next. I found the right residence hotel, the right number, and slipped under his door like an unwelcome bill.
He lived in an unprepossessing flat, just three rooms. Gordy’s people were well-paid; Strome could afford better. He either spent the bulk of his time in other surroundings or the bulk of his money in the Nightcrawler’s casino. I didn’t see him as the type to send money home to his dear old ma.
In the combination living and bedroom, the Murphy bed had been pulled down from the wall. The sheets and blankets were messed around but unoccupied. No overcoat lying around. He was out, and I’d specifically told him to go home and sleep to keep him out of trouble.
Someone must have woken him up. Bristow perhaps. Or Derner. And Strome knew exactly where to find Gordy. Either of them could get the information out of him, willingly or not.
There was a phone in the small kitchen. I used it to call Clarson’s again. Bobbi answered again.
“Everything quiet?” I asked.
“Why? What do you know that I should?”
“My old maid stuff might have something to it. I want you should get out of there.”
“Jack . . .”
I knew she wouldn’t leave. “All right, there’s a chance that Bristow might come by.”
“Oh, damn. You better talk to Isham, then.”
“And you have to get yourself and Adelle out of there.”
“She won’t go any more than I will.”
“Persuade her, doll.”
“We can’t leave Gordy—”
“Listen to me a minute. You think Gordy would want either of you in the way if something happens?”
“But—”
“Isham and Shoe can look after him better if you two are gone. You know that.”
She knew but didn’t like it. “How serious is this?”
“I don’t know. I’m playing the better-safe-than-sorry song. You and Adelle go back to Crymsyn or take Adelle to your place, I don’t care, but you get clear. It’s tough, but he’d want both of you safe.”
“And then what?”
“And then nothing happens, if we’re lucky, and you can come back. You promise you’ll leave?”
Not happily, but she promised. I asked her to put Isham on. Apparently he was hovering close, for he took the phone right away.
“Yeah, what’s going on?” he wanted to know.
I explained a few things in broad terms. “Is Shoe there?”
“He can be.”
“Let him know what I said. Beef up the guards outside. If you see Strome coming back with friends, you may have to nail them. Keep your eyes peeled for a blue car with a missing driver’s door.”
“Huh?”
“Just what I said. Any chance of moving Gordy out of there?”
“You’d have to ask Clarson.”
“Ask him for me. I’ll call back in half an hour. If anything happens before then, you can reach Escott here.” I gave him the Gladwell number. “Make sure Bobbi and Adelle get a ride to wherever they want.”
He said he would and hung up.
I called Derner, knowing full well he might be working with Bristow. Or for himself.
“What’d Kroun have to say?” I asked.
Derner sounded unhappy. “Not a lot. I told ’em Gordy didn’t make it and that Bristow should be told. I don’t know that Kroun bought it.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“He didn’t say. I think he’ll talk to Bristow, though.”
I wanted to be there in person to get the truth out of him. It’d be worth a headache to make sure of Derner’s loyalty. “You heard from Strome?”
“No. Why?”
“I got an errand for him, too. If he phones or comes back, get him and keep him there. I’ll be in later tonight.”
“When?”
“Later. Is the hunt called off yet?”
“Mostly. Some of the guys know, others don’t. Word’s getting around.” If he’d passed it on. “Keep it moving. I’ll call again shortly, and I want good news about Bristow.”
I slipped back under Strome’s door, heading out. The street seemed em
pty, but I took a moment longer than usual to check all the stray shadows before pulling into the thin traffic. I shifted gears, both in my head and with the car, and headed toward the Gladwell estate.
Until now, up to and including getting shot at, everything had been a relative cinch. Now I had to deal with Dugan. I liked mob guys better. They had rules and ethics I could at least comprehend. You knew where you stood with them and how to handle them. Dugan was the kind of mess you just wanted to scrape off your shoe and walk away.
No walking from this one, though.
14
I stopped at the Dugan house on my way over, still checking for tails and cutting unnecessary but reassuring extra turns before getting there.
The neglected pile looked forlorn, like an old lady left behind by careless grandchildren. I wondered if Dugan had some kind of sentimental attachment to the place or if it was pride that made him stick it out here. Of course, he might have had nowhere else to go, hanging on until his kidnapping gamble paid off or the bank foreclosed. I couldn’t feel sorry for him, though. He was able-bodied and sharp-minded. Instead of taking a cream-puff job in the family firm, he chose to kidnap and terrorize a harmless girl and her mother for two long weeks, apparently enjoying himself the whole time.
Sieving in, I looked around, found it mostly unchanged from my last invasion. The cops or his attorney had come by, for the note Escott and I had propped on the phone was gone. No way to tell who’d gotten it, though.
I picked up a few things, shifting others over with a gloved hand to close the gaps so they wouldn’t be missed. Twice I heard creakings and froze, listening. After some repetitions, I decided they were branches scraping against the wooden flanks of the house, a creepy sound when you’re alone.
And damn, this place was cold. Even for me.
I got out quick, sought the familiar confines of my car, and didn’t stop until reaching the Gladwells’ back gate. Escott had left it open. Apparently the flood of reporters had eased since Dugan’s disappearance. At this late hour—it was getting on to midnight—no one was likely to come knocking unless they had business, like yours truly. I drove through and parked next to Escott’s Nash.
The lights were on in the back of the house, and Escott answered the door to my knock. He and Vivian were having coffee in the kitchen. I’d egg him about domestication later, when we’d all be in a mood for it. I took off my hat to Vivian, asked how she was, got a polite reply and a question of what I was planning to do. She didn’t look worried, which I took as a good sign. Removing my overcoat—careful to conceal the bullet holes in the back—I explained a couple things, and she agreed and went off in search of help.
“What’s up?” I asked Escott. “Servants’ night off?”
“Most of them are asleep. Is that a problem?”
“Not for me. I was just by Dugan’s place, and the emptiness gave me the heebies. A brass band and Billy Sunday revival meeting wouldn’t cheer that dump up.”
“You don’t care much for darkness and silence, do you?”
“Who does?”
“Good point, it just seems an oddity, given your condition.”
“Damn few nice things ever happen to people—supernatural or otherwise—who wander around by themselves in dark buildings.”
“Even better point. Any sign of Bristow and his friends?”
“Not that I saw, and thanks for reminding me . . .” I went to the kitchen phone and called Clarson’s office. This time Shoe Coldfield answered.
“You sure put the corncob up Isham’s ass,” he said irritably. “What’s going on?”
I told him, with more detail, what he should know and my worries about Strome not being home. Escott listened in, nodding approval. “It’s a long shot,” I said to them both. “Maybe one of his cronies turned up and they went out for a drink, but I don’t want to take chances that Bristow got to him.”
“That’s two of us,” said Coldfield.
“Are Bobbi and Adelle out of there?”
“Yeah. They didn’t like it, but they’re gone.”
That was a big relief. “Where?”
“I sent ’em off to a hotel. Couple of the guys who work there also work for me. They can keep an eye open.”
“Shoe, I owe you.”
“You just get the next singer I date a spot in your club for a week, and we’ll call it even.”
“Deal. Consider that a handshake. How’s Gordy?”
“The same. Doc Clarson brought in a nurse to look after him, what with the other ladies gone.”
“Can he be moved?”
“Not unless you want him dead, but I just figured a way around that.”
“Oh, yeah?”
He told me what he had in mind.
Grinning, I said, “For that I’ll have spots open for the next dozen singers you date.”
“I’ll hold you to it, kid. What are you going to do about Bristow?”
“I got some stuff set up, hope it’ll get settled tonight, tomorrow night for sure. I’ll let you know if it works.”
“You let me know if it doesn’t. Until then you and Charles keep your heads down. I don’t want to scrape either of you off any sidewalks.”
“No arguments from us on that.”
“On what?” Escott asked when I hung up.
“Shoe hates a mess, so we can’t let Bristow kill us.”
“Or anyone else, one would hope. What news of Gordy?”
“He’s the same. Safe so far, but Shoe came up with something genius.”
“Indeed?”
“One of his car repair shops has an ambulance in. It’s supposed to go back to work tomorrow, but they’re gonna put some extra miles on it tonight.”
“I thought Gordy couldn’t be moved.”
“Not him. They’re gonna bundle a bunch of laundry together under a blanket, strap it to a stretcher with weights, and take it downstairs to that ambulance. It’s going to arrive, siren going, lights flashing, bigger than Broadway. They’ll get the stretcher into it, then drive off the same way. Everyone on the street will see. Clarson will put some of Shoe’s men into white hospital coats to make it look good, and all the while Gordy’s still safe upstairs in bed.”
“Heavens, that is brilliant. But what if Bristow isn’t there to notice?”
“Won’t matter, word will get around. My guess is Strome or Derner have already got people on the watch—from a respectful distance. They won’t miss that. The ambulance proceeds to shake any tails and take itself far, far away. Shoe’s people will seem to withdraw, and they’ll douse the lights at Clarson’s place.”
“I wish I could be there to see, but it’s probably best to let things run their course.”
Vivian returned, carrying a squarish box with a suitcase handle and metal latches. “Will this do, Mr. Fleming?”
Escott hurried over and took it off her hands, putting it on the broad kitchen table and opening it up.
I checked. “It’s perfect. Let’s get started.”
HURLEY Gilbert Dugan sat up straight on his cot as though this was a fancy parlor, not a dank and chill underground cell. I’d just unlocked the heavy door and stood on the threshold, peering inside. He looked tired and disheveled, his shirt buttons undone and a growth of beard shadowing up his face and jaws, but his dignity—or sense of superiority—was intact. Not a bad front to keep up with no shoes and those manacles clanking on his wrists.
“I expected you to keep me waiting much longer than this,” he said.
“Unlike you, I have places to be and things to do. I had a minute, thought I’d get some small-fry errands out of the way.”
He smiled indulgently, the way you do with self-important kids. “And what is going on in the wide world? They’re not telling me anything.”
His caretakers weren’t talking to him except to give orders like “Take your food,” and “Push that onto the shovel.” I heard the rule of silence was practiced on Alcatraz to good effect. “It’s spinning on as usual. Witho
ut any help from you.”
“What time is it? Someone took my watch.”
“It’s after sunset.” I thought he might like to confirm what day it was, but he didn’t ask. Not that I’d have answered.
“I want my watch back.”
“You don’t need it.”
“I won’t turn it into a weapon or a lockpick, if that’s what worries you.”
“It wasn’t, but I’m happy to hear it.”
“That watch is a family heirloom. Is it in a safe place?”
“Yeah.”
“You won’t tell me where? Is it supposed to add to my punishment? I’ve read that such tortures are inflicted on prisoners to destroy their minds and spirits.”
“If not knowing where your watch is makes for torture, wait awhile, you’ll learn better.”
“What are you doing there?”
“You’ll find out.”
I’d been uncoiling an electric extension cord; now I brought in the portable phonograph Vivian had brought to the kitchen, setting it just inside the room. Her own machine was part of a large radio model as big around as a refrigerator, not the sort of thing you could easily lug downstairs. This smaller one had been volunteered by her cook to the cause. I put the machine gently on the floor and hooked it up to the cord’s plug, then went out again, taking a flat box from Escott. It contained the two records we’d made, and he had carried it away from Crymsyn for safekeeping.
He stood just out of sight, but not earshot, of the cell, Vivian right next to him. We’d all agreed that Dugan might talk more freely to me without any additional audience.
“Are we to hear music?” He was successful at keeping his tone neutral, with neither hope or dread attached. He must have been curious as hell, though.
Except for such faint sounds of the household that might filter down to him through the many walls, the utter silence here must have been having its effect. I know I’d go nuts in my sanctuary if stuck there indefinitely. Even with good light, the freedom to move around within, a radio to play, and books to read, in the end it was still a tiny, confining vault.
