The Horrible Man

by Michael Avallone

  He shook his head, still chuckling. The pistol wavered but not enough. Cristo glowered.

  "Yes, Senor and Senora Lopez served their purpose. Lopez enabled me to learn of Mr. Spanner's unusual back. His wife. You know. The uses of perversion are many."

  "Did you know Lopez before that time?"

  Again he looked surprised. "When you are Spanish, Senor, you do not give up the country. It remains with you all your life. You will understand that some day."

  "And what does that mean? Yes or no?"

  "We keep in touch with all Spanish nationals. It is our business."

  "Cuban Intelligence, Mr. Villez?"

  "Villez," Cristo rumbled impatiently.

  "Turn around, Senor Noon," Raf Villez smiled disarmingly. "It will not do to shoot you all from the front. You understand." I tensed. He was too calm to be kidding, too much in charge to muff things. I didn't have to ask him how he was going to kill three people and get away with it or what story he had concocted to account for dead bodies but I didn't have to. He had obviously made his plans a long time ago and had been ready for the sudden appearance of a private detective on the funeral day ready to spoil everything. I didn't think they meant to use the pump gun. Three quick coup de graces in the back of the necks with the small pistol would be a lot quieter and a lot easier.

  "Turn around," Cristo barked. "Or I'll blow your face off, j'understand?"

  Melissa made a moaning sound. It must be great standing around hearing all about how you're going to die without anybody even asking you how you felt about Russia, Cuba, Castro and living.

  I looked at Raf Villez and Cristo. They made a pair of real valentines. Two contrasting olives about as appetising as moth-eaten newspapers and decayed fruit.

  The revolver and the pump gun stood about ten feet away. Ten feet of impossible distance.

  "Turn," Villez commanded, his voice hard now. Stallings Spanner looked up. There was a light in his eyes I have seen in only two other places. A portrait of Joan of Arc in a museum and in the face of an old Jewish woman jumping into a streetful of charging cars to rescue a child who had wandered off the sidewalk. Again, I coiled. There was one split-second of decision.

  And then the bottom dropped out of everything.

  A siren suddenly blasted, piercing the country air, screaming that there was another world out there. A world of police, newcomers and organised interference. Cristo's head snapped, turning toward the french windows, his pitted face coming apart with terror. Even sensible, tidy Raf Villez jumped like a startled faun. The hunters were coming. The hunted had their chance, as small as it was.

  I practically left my shoes, bridging the ten feet between me and the pump gun. I didn't give a damn about Villez's dainty revolver, long-nosed or not. The long-nose was a silencer, of course. I had to stop the pump gunner. He could blast everybody in front of him without aiming. Stallings Spanner cried out, whisky voice and all. Melissa added a shriek. I hoped everyone was running for cover.

  I came down with both hard feet on Cristo's instep. My arms snapped up with a spread-eagled Karate chop. Bones crunched and Cristo yelled, the pump gun erupting. I had timed it right. The left wall of the room, bookcases and all rained thunder, glass and reverberating explosions. Cristo snarled. Before the snarl was gone from his ugly face, I butted his head beneath the chin, taking him with me to the floor. Behind me, there was a spitting cough of sound. The parquet flooring before me splintered with a bullet hole. Rolling with Cristo before me, I came up on one knee, .45 dug out, ready for business. Cristo was groaning feebly. From the head-smash and the broken bones in both feet.

  Stallings Spanner and Raf Villez were having a dance over possession of the long-nosed pistol. The old man was surprisingly in command. He had locked the medium-sized Spaniard in a bear hug, twisting the gun and the hand that held it inward. Melissa was running around the room, looking for something to pick up that she could use as a blunt instrument.

  "Get away from him, Spanner!" I yelled. "I'll cover him—"

  I was too late that rime. The fought-over gun spit a cough out. And suddenly the wrestling figures parted. Stallings Spanner stepped back, staring. Mr. Raf Villez stumbled backwards, the spade beard jiggling. He stared back down at the red stain on his grey suit. He shook his head, tried to smile, looked incredulously at Stallings Spanner again. Mr. Spanner was dry-eyed and merciless. I couldn't get to him in time. He raised the silencer-pistol and emptied it quickly into the dying Raf Villez.

  All in the face.

  Melissa stopped running, turned away and buried her face in her hands. I got up from behind Cristo's body and walked over to Stallings Spanner. I slapped the gun out of his hand and then slapped him hard across each cheek.

  He came out of his trance and seemed to see for the first time the destroyed man lying on the floor at his well-shod feet. From outside came the whining keen of the siren, the squeal of tyres and the meshing of brakes. Car doors slammed. It sounded like a troop movement. A chorus of muffled voices, with Whipley's high-pitched tone striving for explanations, sounded from the hallway.

  Cristo was still making feeble, mewing sounds on the floor. Raf Villez wasn't talking.

  He wasn't going to talk any more in this world Or the next.

  "He—shouldn't have—stolen my son's body—like that—"

  "Sit down, Sir. Over there. Take it easy."

  "I trusted him—am I really an old man, Mr. Noon?"

  I led him to the chair. The library doors behind us crashed open. Monks loomed in the entrance, flanked by bluecoats and plain-clothes men.

  "Wouldn't you know it?" he thundered. "Your favourite private eye and mine. Ed Noon. What's going on here now for crying out loud?"

  Stallings Spanner subsided like a dying man in one of his lavish, comfortable chairs. He had aged ten years in two minutes. The military bearing was gone with the wind. He was defeated.

  I turned towards Monks and his militia. Drawn guns and grim looks was all the welcome I got.

  "Oh, it's you," I said. "Get your taxi-cab killer yet?"

  The expression that flashed over his big, rough face at that gracious remark, was the sort of thing that some people take their whole lifetime to describe.

  It spoke volumes. Like say the New York Public Library with the Mugar Memorial Library at Boston University, thrown in.

  "Stand still, Noon," he barked. "You're under arrest. For the murder of Mady Lopez and if that gun lying on the floor is your homework, we'll pin that on you too. Get your hands up!"

  For the second time that morning, I raised my hands.

  "Michael, a funny thing happened to me on the way to Tommy Spanner's funeral—if you stop acting like a brainless copper, I'll tell you all about it. Now please, put those guns away. Melissa has had a bad time and we all need something to drink."

  FOURTEEN

  THE RICH DO CRY INTO SILK HANDKERCHIEFS

  □ Tommy Spanner's funeral never did come off.

  When Monks cleared his head of anger and wounded, he got organised. Old Man Spanner helped smooth things over. Mike didn't buy my story right away, that I had lammed out of New York to make the funeral, knowing he'd know that was where I'd be if I wasn't in any of the other places he poked his cops into. But Stallings Spanner, in a dull, dazed way, explained about the double-cross of his dear lawyer, Raf Villez and traitorous cohort, Mr. Cristo. The first thing Monks did was send a squad of cars racing down to the Hempstead Solace Parlour to see whose body was lying in the ice-drawer waiting for the ride and the fire act at the Faraway Hills of Rest. He took some of the Hempstead police department with him. After all, it was their territory, even if Michael had come all the way from Manhattan with the proper warrants of arrest and the usual papers. The Hempstead Solace Parlour got a clean bill of health. Yes, Mr. Villez had shown up that morning with a panel truck and talked to the parlour director, a Mr. Talbot, about arrangements for the funeral. No one knew how Mr. Villez managed to switch corpses. But switch them he did. Mr. Talb
ot proved too frightened and too simple to be part of any plot. The transplanted dead man proved to be a Skid Row nobody from downtown Hempstead. Some poor slob who had happened to catch Mr. Villez's eyes. Human derelicts are perfect fall guys. Nobody wants them so nobody notices it when they are missing.

  The funeral was off, naturally.

  Whipley phoned the White House and Stallings Spanner had a private talk with the Chief. I didn't butt in or ask to overhear. If the Chief wanted me, he'd let me know.

  So there it was. Tommy Spanner's body snatched, Mr. Raf Villez and Cristo accounted for after tipping their mitts and Stallings Spanner left high and dry with his riches, wondering what further rain would fall into his life.

  Monks' men scoured Cristo's little room over the seven-car garage and came up with some goodies. A Swahili blow gun and an assortment of feathered darts, complete with a bottle of some dark-looking liquid that ought to be poison once the police lab checked it out. Once more, I was off the hook. Possession of the murder weapon was enough for a Captain of Homicide who was a friend of mine, in spite of all his official rantings and roarings.

  As for Raf Villez's quarters somewhere on the third deck of the house out of Xanadu, nothing incriminating was found. He hadn't been a brain for nothing. I had the feeling that Stallings Spanner had dropped a very important member of Castro's Cuban Intelligence Service. Someone high up in the hierarchy.

  Of course, it was all Greek to Monks. He didn't know from the President's personal interest in Tommy Spanner or the meaning of the tattooed, grilled back. He had less of an idea why Tommy Spanner had been snatched. But he went through the motions, sending out all the alerts, bulletins and messages that moves men in cars and cops on corners. All railways, airports and bus depots were to be watched. Mr. Talbot of the Hempstead Solace Parlour wasn't a total loss. He remembered that Raf Villez's panel truck was cream yellow, a Ford and had had New York licence plates. That was something.

  After all the machinery was set in motion, Monks came back to the library for a war talk with myself and Melissa Mercer. Old Man Stallings was in the master bedroom, sleeping off a sedative that his hastily-summoned family doctor had given him. The bodies of Cristo and Raf Villez had been moved. The dead Villez had been photographed, examined and carted away by a Hempstead meat-wagon. The live Cristo had been sent off to the lock-up. He had stonily refused to say anything. He was too busy groaning over his smashed ankles and cursing at me in fluent Spanish.

  It was well after one o'clock by this time and I was starved. So was Melissa. Whipley saved the day by whipping up a little something from his mess hall sized kitchen. Whipley was on my side, for some reason. He hadn't liked me at first but Stallings Spanner must have indicated to him how much I'd done that morning. I got treatment fit for a king. So did Melissa. He was icy cordial to Monks, but cordial all the same. Monks didn't care too much. Some of the loose ends were coming out even for a change. Again, he had his murderer and that is the main dish of rice to a Captain of Homicide who has to account for all the new corpses that come with the job.

  "I don't suppose you've seen the morning papers, Ed."

  "Who had the time?"

  "You're plastered all over page one. Lousy picture of you. You look old enough to be your own father. You too, Melissa. Private cop runs away with his lovely secretary and leaves a dead woman in his apartment—well, you know how the yellow rags go. You're both celebrities, folks. It'll take a while to blow over too. Even with the murder cleared up."

  "It'll be good for business. Let me worry about that," Melissa laughed.

  "If they want my life story for the movies, I'm ready. I'll hold them up for the price too."

  Monks studied us both, shaking his head. He hooked his big thumbs into the waistband of his trousers.

  "Okay. You left a trail for me. I came along just in time. You gave me credit for that much. Now how about a little real co-operation?"

  "You name it," I said.

  "Why was Mady Lopez killed in your apartment? Where does she fit into this?"

  "I told you. Her dwarf husband was in with these guys. Garcia Lopez. Mady got to be extra baggage—they didn't need her and they didn't want me in their hair. So they killed her and framed me."

  "Doesn't wash," he said. "You told me about the Belt. Why didn't they just knock you off and let it go at that? I don't know all there is to know with this business of Spanner's corpse but somebody wants it obviously. Now they got it. But what for? What is the gizmo on Spanner's back all about?"

  "You got me there, pal."

  "Yeah, but you have a better idea than I have. You were interested in him and his remains since almost the first day. Give, Ed. If you're working for the government in some official capacity, tell me, and I'll lay off."

  "What makes you think that?"

  He shook his big head at me, smiling at Melissa. "You hear this clown? Fifteen years I know him now. He's been in my hair more than dandruff. He's nuts but he's straight. He's always been straight. But he never gave me credit for much imagination. I don't need any, Ed. I use the facts. Fact—last year you went on a cruise to England. You were all involved in that Harcourt thing. Diplomats and all. Then you were mixed up with some screwy UN thing with the F.B.I. and some Red plans to steal away a scientist. What am I—in kindergarten? For Christ's sake, Ed! Yes or no?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Okay. That's better. I won't ask again. You see how nice I am? I'm reasonable."

  "Sure you are," I agreed, grinning. "What else do you use for facts?"

  "Just this. Spanner's a no-good. Has himself killed. His back is practically a gasoline station roadmap. He was in Russia for a long time. The President knows his father. Does it take an Einstein to guess that Spanner's map is a diagram of some important information that our country wanted or wants? I'm glad we got some films off that back. Takes some of the sting out of losing the body."

  I had to agree with that too. The Chief hadn't been alarmed too much about Spanner being dead; he had only been concerned about the final disposition of the body. But, if the information was old, what difference did it make?

  "I wonder where that body is now?"

  "You heard. In a yellow panel truck going somewhere. Don't worry, if they stay on wheels an hour longer, somebody will spot that truck. The wholecity is on the alert."

  "You going to pick up Garcia Lopez?"

  "Sure I am. His wife's dead, he's the husband, and you said he might be in deeper than that."

  "Yes, I'd say so."

  Melissa, who'd had about three cups of Whipley's coffee to go with the meal, set her cup down with finality.

  "How's chances of us going back home, Boss? I need a shower and some rest. I'm beat."

  I looked at Monks. "That's up to the Captain, Mel."

  Monks looked surprised. "You can leave here any time. I have to stick around. To protect the old man, for one thing. For another, I put through all my calls from here. Headquarters is contacting me at this end. Go on. Buzz off if you want to."

  "That's it then. Come on, MeL" I stood up, stretching again, feeling new blood running into my arms. It had been a helluva morning.

  "And Ed," Monks said.

  "Listening, Captain."

  "Don't go after Lopez. Leave him alone. We're bringing him in. Material witness. It'll be official that way."

  "I've an idea he might come looking for me, Mike."

  "If he does, call us."

  "Will do. And thanks again for the rescue act. You came just in the nick of time."

  "Go on. Beat it." He hates being complimented to his face. "So long, Melissa. You get more smart than you are and quit this bum. He's going to get you killed some day."

  She smiled, thoughtfully at Monks. They had always liked each other. Almost from the start.

  "I'll remember that, Captain. And I hope you get your taxi-cab murderer too."

  "We'll get him. We get them all sooner or later."

  We left him in the library, growling moodil
y into a coffee cup. He looked like some angry bulldog, squatting in front of the immense fireplace. We stole across the parquet gridiron of a floor. Our shoes clicked on the polished boards.

  "Such a nice man," Melissa murmured.

  "A lop-eared G.I. copper. But I love him," I agreed. "I couldn't have made it all these years without him."

  Whipley materialised from an alcove. The ar-moured knight with the halberd towered behind him, as if ready to crown him with the long axe. He looked sorry to see us leave.

  "Going so soon, Sir? I'm sure Mr. Spanner would have wanted you to stay for dinner."

  "Thanks, Whipley. I'll call him from town tonight. I promise. I have business in Manhattan. Don't worry. Your master is in good hands. He couldn't have a better watchdog than the Captain."

  "Yes, thank you. Good day, then. Good day, Miss Mercer."

  "So long, Whipley. That was a scrumptious meal. I never knew shrimp could taste so good."

  "Ah—thank you." He beamed. He held the front door open for us and we left him, standing there, looking forlorn. The door closed behind us without a single squeak.

  "You see this place, Ed? Mr. Spanner must be worth millions. I never saw a home like this one."

  "Yeah, he's rich, okay. But he's crying now. But into a silk handkerchief. That's the difference. The rich can always cry into silk handkerchiefs."

  "I feel sorry for him."

  "Sure you do."

  From the front of the house, the view was Arcadian. The solid green of the golf range lawn was blinding. The tall border of the trees, all beginning to take on the first touches of the coming spring, rose like soldiers against the sky.

  "It's going to be a nice day after all," Melissa said.

  "Sure it is."

  We moved away from Spanner House, walking slowly. There was a solemn stillness to the setting. The curving macadamised walk ran like a clean ribbon down from the crest. The cold air, faintly tinged with golden sunlight, was bracing. We walked towards the Olds, mindful of the veritable horde of patrolmen in plain-clothes covering the area. Monks hadn't stinted on a single thing. The plaza was dotted with at least four prowl cars and radio vehicles. Nobody had taken the space I had left in front of the Olds. We climbed in. I turned the ignition on and adjusted the heater. Melissa shivered.