Mickey wiped his palms carefully on his trousers, got up and looked into the hall. The light came from the lobby.
The music was down there, too. Even with the volume at a reasonable level, it would make a good covering sound.
He left the room and walked down the hall. Nothing sounded underfoot. No board creaked. It was a well-seasoned building and in the damp weather the joints had swollen tight.
Roberts’ room was much like his own, but with less furniture—masculine and plain, almost Spartan. The bed was badly made, but there was no litter or disorder. He searched it, working quickly but silently, his movements efficient and economical. Half a dozen suits hung in a closet and he checked all of them thoroughly, turning the pockets out, feeling the fabric between both hands to make sure nothing had been slipped under a lining. He knew that when two people team up to commit a premeditated crime, each is likely to retain some concrete evidence implicating the other, as insurance against betrayal. This was what he hoped to find.
He found no such evidence in Roberts’ clothing, nor in his luggage, stored on a high shelf in the closet. Nor in the chiffonier in one corner. In one of the shallow top drawers of the chest he found a mellowed leather case containing a set of six razors. They were in good condition. He opened them and saw that the blades had been honed recently. The steel was bright and clean and well cared for.
In another drawer he found a small package of photographs of various women. Most of them were nudes—nearly all of them on the bizarre side. Irene was not among them.
He was approaching the large four-poster bed when the music stopped suddenly. He hesitated by reflex, then went on, keeping his eye on the door. It wouldn’t matter much now if he were discovered. It would be inconvenient, not according to plan, but in the long run, it wouldn’t make much difference. He took his time searching the bed.
There was nothing to be found in it and at length he gave up. It was disappointing to find nothing, but he would get the information in other ways. He took a last look to make sure he had covered everything. The music had resumed downstairs. He could feel the vibration of the thudding beat. He left the room and went down the long staircase, across the lobby and into the bar.
* * * *
Roberts was stretched out on the old leather sofa, a drink in one hand. He had changed to a white shirt with long, full sleeves and an open collar, and had put on the loafer sandals again. There was a bottle of whisky on the bar. Mickey got a glass and poured half a shot into it. He stood with one foot on the brass rail. The fire was burning briskly, casting a rosy-yellow glow over the old, polished wood.
After a while he said, “We were talking about girls.”
Roberts shifted on the sofa and chuckled in his throat. Mickey’s hand squeezed tight around his glass.
“I was just thinking about that,” Roberts said. “Remind me to give you those numbers in Denver.”
“Maybe I ran into some of them when I was there,” Mickey said.
“You’d know if you had.”
“I would? How would I know, if they didn’t tell me?”
“Well, between you and me, since you’re just passing through here, I got a way of leaving my mark on a girl. Like a brand, you know?”
Mickey took a sip of whisky, swallowing with difficulty. His throat felt parched. His heartbeat had stepped up and he could feel it in his temples and just under his Adam’s apple. Roberts had begun to spill sooner than he had hoped. But it wasn’t too surprising. Men like Roberts could barely refrain from bragging about their conquests.
“How do you do that?” Mickey asked.
Roberts’ hand slid inside his shirt; reappeared. Like a miniature lightning flash, the long blade of a razor flicked into view.
“I’m a barber by trade,” he said. “That’s how I came up here in the first place. Liz advertised for a barber.”
Mickey drank a little more whisky.
“You mean you cut these girls—with a razor? How do you get away with that?”
Roberts chuckled. Mickey’s foot was cramped in his stiff shoe, as if his toes were trying to curl over the rail.
“You have to know how to handle the blade,” Roberts was saying. “You don’t want it too messy.”
He slashed delicately, swiftly, at the air.
“Like that—once, twice, three times—it’s done. She’s had it. And she always remembers.”
Mickey brushed at his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I guess she would,” he said.
“Now you’re with it,” Roberts said. “She surely would. Now you’re getting the picture.”
Mickey ran his hand out along the curved edge of the bar and pulled it back slowly.
“I’ve got the picture,” he said quietly, “now that you mention it. Somebody did that to my wife.”
“Your wife!”
Roberts stiffened on the couch, the razor in mid-air. Then he sank back, shrugging.
“Well, it wasn’t me,” he said.
Mickey drank what remained of the whisky. He set the glass down carefully, pushed it away with his fingers.
“Yeah,” he said. “It was you.”
Roberts went stiff again. He pushed himself up on one elbow. The razor, open, lay along his thigh.
“You’re nuts, man,” he said.
Mickey jerked his head impatiently. He had both feet flat on the floor. He could feel the hard edge of the bar across the middle of his back.
“It was you, Lou Roberts,” he said, intoning it in a dry, flat monotone. “Five and a half months ago, in a house in the country not far from Chicago; it was you and one other, with my wife staked out on the floor, and she died of it.”
Roberts sat up on the couch. His head shook strangely, incompletely.
“Oh no,” he said softly. “No, you got the wrong guy. I was never—”
There was a sudden shot-like report in the fireplace and Roberts jumped.
“It was you,” Mickey said. “I was there. You let me watch.”
“No,” Roberts said. “Oh no—”
Mickey stood against the bar, waiting. Roberts came slowly to his feet, his eyes rigid.
“It couldn’t be,” he said. His voice rose. “He shot you! Killed you!”
“No,” Mickey said. “Nobody killed me.”
For perhaps thirty seconds, Roberts, in an awkward, strained crouch, stared across the room. Then the razor flashed in the firelight and he came on, rushing.
Mickey waited till it was too late for the other to change the direction of his lunge, then side-stepped, pivoting. The razor slashed down past his shoulder, struck the bar, and Roberts slammed his ribs against the edge. Mickey’s fist smashed at the back of his head and Roberts gasped and let go of the razor. He turned, groping, and Mickey hit him hard in the ribs and with his left in the side of the jaw. Roberts’ head snapped to one side and he careened backward across the room, falling short of the sofa. He started up, shaking his head. Mickey waited, gauging his swing. Aiming carefully, deliberately, he struck Roberts full force on the bridge of his nose.
Roberts screamed and collapsed against the sofa. His mouth and chin blossomed like rare, red fruit. Mickey walked to the hi-fi set in the corner and turned it off.
He kicked one of the chairs into position, facing Roberts, sat down on it and waited. After a couple of minutes Roberts roused and wiped his mouth with the white sleeve of his shirt. He put one hand on the sofa, started to get up, then gave in and stayed where he was.
“What’re you going to do?” he said. “What do you want?”
Mickey looked at him in surprise.
“What do I want?”
“I mean—” Roberts shouted shrilly. “What do you want?”
Mickey leaned forward on the chair.
“Who was the other one?” he said.
Roberts stared, shook his head.
“You got to give me a chance,” he said. “I’m entitled to a fair trial. You can’t—”
Mickey nodded,
looked at his hands.
“I’ll give you a chance,” he said. “I’ll let you fight me for a fair trial. Right now.”
He went behind the bar and found the razor Roberts had dropped. He brought it back, folding the bright blade into the handle. With a flip of his wrist he tossed it to Roberts. It fell on the floor. Roberts groped for it, found it, released the blade. Mickey watched him stiffen, gather himself, working up to his knees against the sofa. Then his arm reached out over it and began with measured, compulsive strokes, to cut long slashes in the smooth, aged leather.
Mickey lunged from the chair, caught Roberts’ shoulder and jerked him around. The razor slashed at him feebly and he used his forearm against the other’s wrist.
“Don’t give me that phony psycho crap! Talk to me, Roberts!”
Roberts snuffled in his broken nose. With slow, mechanical strokes he stropped the razor blade on the taut fabric covering his thigh. Then without warning he slashed upward at Mickey’s throat. Only half prepared, Mickey threw himself backward and to one side, tumbling into the clear toward the bar. He heard feet pounding heavily, going away. When he found him, Roberts was plunging into the lobby.
He was halfway up the stairs when Mickey reached him. The taller man half turned, cutting down at Mickey’s face. Mickey twisted, gripped the banister with both hands and kicked Roberts’ feet out from under him. Roberts fell awkwardly, rolled down the steps. He had sense enough to let go of the razor as he fell. Momentarily stunned, he lay in a still, cramped heap at the bottom of the staircase.
Mickey picked up the razor and put it in his pocket. He lifted Roberts at the shoulders and dragged him into the bar, propped him against the sofa. He slapped his face lightly, alternately with the palm and back of his hand till Roberts came around, blinking. Mickey crouched, facing him.
“Now you talk to me,” he said quietly. “The sooner you start, the easier it will be. Because I can make it hard for you, Roberts—the way you did for her—Kathy.”
Roberts’ eyes rolled to one side, then the other.
“I’ll refresh your memory,” Mickey said. “On the floor, remember? All staked out, helpless, a gag in her mouth—she couldn’t even scream. I can fix it for you to have the same deal. I don’t think it would take long.”
Roberts pressed back against the sofa, panting. His mouth moved soundlessly.
“Who was the other one?” Mickey said.
Roberts mouthed something, tried again and made it. “Frenchy,” he gasped. “Guy named Frenchy Wister.”
“All right,” Mickey said, “we got a start. Where does Frenchy Wister live?”
“California—”
“Where in California?”
“In—down south, like in the desert—”
“Where?”
“Yuma—near Yuma, Arizona.”
“You said California.”
Roberts’ throat convulsed violently.
“It’s between Yuma and—El Centro. There’s a big hotel—resort—”
“Frenchy Wister’s resort?”
“No. He owns a motel—”
“What’s the name of the town?”
“Vista del Sol.”
“Why do they call him Frenchy? Is he French?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“In Vegas—Las Vegas.”
Mickey waited till Roberts’ eyes met his.
“Which one of you had the idea? About Kathy?”
“Him—Frenchy—honest to God! It was him!”
“You just went along?”
“Yeah—that’s right.”
“What for? Kicks?”
Roberts shook his head vigorously.
“No—for money.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred—and expenses.”
“Five hundred dollars.”
It wasn’t a question; simply a low-voiced, unbelieving murmur. Mickey got up on stiff legs and made his way to the bar. He poured some whisky into the glass and drank it. When he looked around, Roberts was as he had left him, on the floor, cowering against the sofa. Mickey rubbed his face roughly with both hands.
“Why?” he said.
“I don’t know. Jesus, I don’t know! It was something Frenchy had to do.”
“Why did he have to?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did you know where to go? How did you find Kathy?”
“Frenchy had a name—and a town.”
“What name?”
“Phillips—Mickey Phillips.”
Mickey started toward him. Roberts snuffled and edged away along the sofa.
“I’m Mickey Phillips,” Mickey said. He stabbed at his chest with his thumb, shouting. “Me! I am Mickey Phillips!”
Roberts ran his tongue over his lips. Mickey halted himself, sucked air deeply into his lungs and sat on the chair, facing Roberts.
“All right,” he said. “Tell me what you did. The part I didn’t see.”
“Nothing—we were finished—”
“Tell me what you did! Everything.”
“We—the woman was—dead. Frenchy took out a gun. He—shot you—”
“Then what?”
“Then—he told me to take the handcuffs off you—because they could be traced, he said. He looked around—for stuff that could be tied in—”
“What else? Go ahead, what else!”
“He—he took a picture—”
“He what?”
“With a flash camera—he took a picture—”
“Of who?”
“Of—her—the woman—”
“Why? Why did he take a picture?”
“To prove it—to prove we did the job—”
Mickey lunged at him. Roberts turned and tried to scramble on to the sofa. Mickey grabbed his shirt collar. The collar ripped away and the shirt opened down the back.
“Prove it to who?” Mickey shouted. “Who was he doing it for?”
“I don’t know.”
Mickey grabbed Roberts’ hair and pulled his head back, twisting.
“Who hired Frenchy to do it?”
Roberts shook his head helplessly and wiped at his face with a ragged sleeve. Mickey went to the bar, started to pour a drink, then changed his mind.
“Listen,” he said, speaking calmly again, “you better work on this, Roberts. We’re up here all alone and I’ve got nothing to lose. Nothing.”
Roberts rubbed his face with his arm. Mickey sat down on a chair and waited. Except for Roberts’ snuffling and the tired crackling of the dying fire, there was no sound.
Ten minutes passed. The long, unnerving silence prodded Roberts and he shifted against the sofa.
“What—more do you want?” he said.
“Who hired Frenchy Wister to cut up somebody named Mickey Phillips?”
“I don’t know.”
“Work on it!”
“Honest to God—I don’t know! I tried to find out. He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Did you know it was a woman he was after?”
“No, not at first.”
“When did you find out?”
“Just before—that day—before we did it.”
“What did Frenchy tell you?”
“He just told me—what to do.”
“Tell me.”
Roberts’ throat worked. Pushing up, he got on his feet and moved unsteadily to the bar. Mickey let him pour a good-sized shot and drink it. Roberts coughed and wiped his nose gingerly with his arm.
“Go ahead,” Mickey said.
“We were staying in this—place—outside of Chicago. He told me to stay there till he got back. It was in the morning. He left and I hung around. He didn’t get back till—I don’t know—late in the afternoon. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’ I asked where we were going and he said just down the road a ways.”
Roberts poured another drink.
“So we drove about an hour and a half, through some towns, mostly
country. I kept asking him—where were we going, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. We were practically there before he told me anything. Then he said, ‘This broad lives down the road here. We’re out in the country; shouldn’t be any trouble. She’s probably shacked up with some guy. So we knock on the door and whoever comes, you say, “Does Mickey Phillips live here?” If the answer is Yes, we go in fast. If it’s a guy, hit him hard enough to keep him quiet.’
“So then I asked him, what if the answer is No? And he said, ‘Then we go away. We got the wrong place.’ And I asked him, if he wasn’t sure this was the place, what the hell were we doing there? And he said, ‘I’m sure it’s the place, but the phone book was last year’s.’ So then I didn’t ask any more questions.”
Mickey was staring at him.
“He looked it up in the phone book?” he said. “He just looked it up?”
Roberts picked up the bottle. Mickey went to the bar, grabbed the bottle and smashed it in the fireplace. Roberts slid backwards along the bar, watching him.
“Where was Frenchy all that day while you were waiting for him?”
“I don’t know.”
“That picture he took. You got a copy of it.”
“No! I’ve got no copy—”
“You must have. You save pictures. I saw them upstairs in your room.”
“Not that one. Honest to God I never had a copy. I never even saw it.”
Mickey reached for him and Roberts stumbled backward, ducking.
“What did you do after? After you were—finished?” Mickey said.
“We just got in the car and started driving. The first night we drove to some place in Kansas City. The next night he dropped me off in Pueblo and I took a bus to Denver.”
“Where did Frenchy go?”
“He said he was going back home.”
“To Vista del Sol?”
“That’s right. He owns a motel there.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“I don’t know. He never told me.”
“All he told you was when you were almost there and he said there was this woman who got herself in trouble.”
“That’s all.”
The Noir Novel Page 11
