Death Wore Gloves

by Ross H. Spencer

  She let him into the apartment. The room was dark, except for the glow of a tiny black-shaded lamp on a bookcase. Willow said, “You don’t like bright lights, do you, Sister?”

  “Doan wann draw no tenshun up here. Am gots diffcullies.”

  “Yes, Sister Rosetta, you’re a big star now.” He draped his wet jacket over an arm of the sofa and seated himself there. “I’m surprised that you’d choose to meet me at your old apartment. You’re hotter than hell.”

  “Had take chance—no place else to go.” She collapsed into a chair in a corner of the room, the full black skirt of her nun’s habit rustling harshly. She said, “Missur Willur, you get me out Chicago?” She was tired, it was obvious.

  “Dressed in that nun’s habit? My God, Sister, the pope himself couldn’t get you as far as the corner!”

  “Am put on old stuff niece leff behind. Juss get me downtown, put me on bus to anyplace—am never come back Chicago—promuss!”

  “I hate to get involved, Sister. It would come under the heading of aiding and abetting.”

  “For thousann dollar?”

  Willow peered at her across the dimness of the room. He said, “You’re drunk, you know.”

  She swiped at her mouth with a black-gloved hand. “Juss have few. Looky, Missur Willur, not here ask no favors—pay thousann dollar, you doan ass no queshuns, I’m not tell no lies.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. Now!”

  “You’ve picked one sonofabitch of a place to start from.”

  “Thass why should get started.”

  Willow shrugged. “You have the thousand dollars?”

  “Right here.” She pulled her bulky handbag from under an end table and dug into it.

  Willow got up to cross the room to her chair, watching her produce a thick wad of money laced up tightly with a rubber band. He said, “All right, if you’ll turn over that gun, we can do business.”

  Sister Rosetta nodded meek compliance. She slipped the Heffernan-Reese from her handbag and shoved it at him. Willow removed the silencer and dropped it into a pocket. He tucked the gun under his belt and aid, “Okay, Sister, let’s hit it! Skin out of that nun’s uniform!”

  She gave him the money and said, “Gol bess you, Missur Willur!” She extended her right hand to be assisted from her chair. Willow reached to take her by the elbow, deftly stripping the long black glove from her arm. He grabbed her wrist and bent to study the back of her hand. He muttered, “Gladys, you cunning little butcher!”

  Gladys Hornsby giggled. She said, “Oh, Tutto, you clever bastard!”

  49

  Friday

  The silence swelled until it threatened to blow out the windows. Then Gladys chirped, “Tut, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll slip into something more presentable.” Unconcernedly—like she was asking him to pass the salt and pepper. Willow nodded and she swished into a bedroom, moving quickly, no longer the wobbly-legged, thick-tongued, blundering ex-nun. Willow stood, gray faced, drenched in finality, his head spinning, his stomach floundering around like a beached sea serpent. He went into the bathroom for a few moments, then came out to sit on the sofa, sweating profusely, but feeling considerably better. There’d been no mistake, and there’d be no reprieve. The dice had been rolled. Snake eyes.

  Gladys Hornsby emerged jauntily from her bedroom, wearing a form-fitting gray knit dress and spike-heeled gray suede pumps, hardly the sort of clothing a sharply dressed fashion model would abandon. Willow shook his head. If he’d picked her lock a few days earlier, if he’d peeked into her closet, he’d have known then, and four people would have lived. He watched her flip a hip-length maroon leather jacket onto a chair and smile, making a series of exaggerated hand-fluttering motions. Sonorously she said, “And thus doth vanish forever Sister Rosetta, Scourge of North Austin Boulevard.”

  Willow studied the design in the carpeting, his jaw twitching. He mumbled, “And murderess par excellence.”

  “Don’t be too hard on her, Tutto. She was a good woman at heart. Aunt Rosie cared for her own.”

  “Sweet Jesus! I played prime attester to her existence!”

  “You and a parade of tavern keepers.”

  “Yes, but I was the banner bearer, the dunce of the bunch.”

  Gladys perched on his knee, leaning to nuzzle his cheek. “How long have you known?”

  “For about twenty-four hours. I saw Becky Johnson Comes Home last night.”

  “Damn! I’d hoped you’d miss it! It was a lousy flick and a dead giveaway.”

  “A bad movie, but a first-rate makeup job. Joe Orlando’s name on the credits list clinched it, but who’d have needed that?”

  “That detective missed it—Curtin, or whoever.”

  “He missed it the first time around. He’d have caught it the second time.”

  “The second time around would have been too late. He’d have grabbed a handful of what the little boy shot at.”

  “The Becky Johnson movie gave you the idea, right?”

  “Of course. If Joe Orlando could make me look ten years older, why couldn’t he make me look twenty or thirty years older? No hard feelings, Tutto, please! Keep Aunt Rosie’s thousand dollars and put your car in shape.”

  “Why me, for Christ’s sake—why not some other gullible sonofabitch?”

  “It was a carefully worked-out script. Joe helped me with it. It called for a private detective who’d be hired by Aunt Rosie to locate her niece, one who’d take me to bed and lose his perspective. You fit the role beautifully.”

  “Joe Orlando picked a couple of fights with me just to muddy the waters.”

  “And you didn’t tell me about those. Why not? Did you have a hunch?”

  “Not really. The trouble was between Orlando and me and I wanted to keep it that way. There are five hundred half-assed private snoopers in this rotten town—you could have used any damned one of them.”

  “No, it had to be you! You know me and I know you. If I could fool you I could fool anyone, and you wouldn’t have betrayed me, even if you’d seen through Aunt Rosie. You were important to me, Tutto, you’ll always be important to me! You’re coming with me to my farm!” She giggled. “Can you shovel shit?”

  “Apparently I don’t know it when I’m up to my knees in it.”

  “But you’ll come with me?”

  “Don’t bet on me, Glad.”

  “Too late now—I’ve already bet my life on you.”

  “No, you’ve bet your life against five hundred thousand bloody dollars that you’ll probably never see.”

  “I’ll see it, we’ll see it! Casey Bucknell’s will was kosher!”

  “Bucknell—he was a dead man the moment he included you in his will.”

  Gladys shrugged. “It wasn’t an opportunity to be ignored.”

  Willow slammed his fist into a couch cushion. “Why didn’t I spot it? You’d drop into a tavern dressed as Sister Rosetta, you’d insult somebody, create a ruckus, and get thrown out—then you’d come back to this apartment, change clothing, take off your makeup, and become the worried niece, looking for dear old Aunt Rosie. So simple!”

  “So simple it worked.”

  God, Willow thought, she’d been born two hundred years too late—she might have hooked up with the Scarlet Pimpernel. Then, for a price, she could have sold him out. “Let’s go back to when you hatched this business—you rented an apartment that was handy to my favorite gin mill. You had Bucknell on the ropes then.”

  “Uh-huh, and Raponi’s was ideal. Aunt Rosie didn’t drive, of course, so she had to live within walking distance to make it a logical meeting place.”

  “You picked Raponi’s not only because it was my hangout. You liked it because it’s darker than hell in there, day or night. You always sat in the dimmest corner, and you chose the role of a nun because your face would be the only flesh you’d expose.”

  “Raponi’s minimized the possibility of you recognizing me. You saw traces of me in Aunt Rosie and vice versa but you put
them down as family resemblances.”

  “You were never really plastered—the drunk routine enabled you to mask your normal speech patterns.”

  “You’d have picked those up instantly.”

  “And the long black gloves covered your rose tattoo.”

  “Obviously.” She could have been discussing a dull book she’d read. Ho-hum.

  Willow thought of an article he’d seen—something about multiply tattooed people being potential killers. He said, “You went up to Sam Brumshaw’s office dolled up as Sister Rosetta, you blew his brains out, you located the Wow-Wee photographs, swapped clothing somewhere, met me at Womer’s Wigwam, and led me on a turkey hunt. How could you have gone back into that office, knowing what was in there?”

  Her upper lip curled. “It was easy. There’ll be no tears for Sammy—he was a rodent, you know that!”

  “Yes—but—Jesus Christ—”

  Gladys was fidgeting on his leg. He knew that fidget. She was excited and excitement had always given her hot pants. She tweaked his nose and changed positions, facing him to straddle his knee, her gray knit skirt up to her navel, and Willow saw that she was still keeping it simple. Her crotch was hot and damp, bearing down hard on him. Soon now, Willow thought, very soon. She was winking at him. “Tutto, you have amazing hindsight.”

  He said, “That was a cute wrinkle when I knocked on Sister Rosetta’s door. You’d just put her to bed, you said. Actually, you’d been busy converting back to Gladys Hornsby.”

  “Yes, well, you surprised the hell out of me. I’ve been forced to improvise from time to time.”

  “Let’s talk about Joe Orlando. Joe became expendable when he’d taught you all of the Sister Rosetta makeup tricks, when he’d escorted you nearly to the cash register.”

  “Yes, and when he became greedy.”

  “Those Wow-Wee pictures on his bedroom wall—you put them there. Would that have been before or after you shot him?”

  “You’re getting better, Tut! It was just a few minutes later. I took a cab to Joe’s place, arranged the pictures, and called you at Millie and Jake’s from there. Did you like those snaps?”

  Willow evaded the question. “What was Orlando doing at Millie and Jake’s in the first place—waiting to beat my brains out with a black jack?”

  “Yes, somewhere along the line he’d developed a genuine animosity for you and he wanted a shot at you where that big Italian waitress couldn’t interfere.”

  “You were with him when he blocked my car in the parking lot?”

  “Right. He wanted me to lure you out of Millie and Jake’s. I agreed because Joe had to be disposed of and the parking lot presented as likely a spot as any. It was isolated, more or less.”

  “But you were seen.”

  “Oh, no—Aunt Rosie was seen, as I’d intended her to be.” Gladys took pride in her work, that was obvious. She found pleasure in talking about it.

  Willow said, “Joe Orlando was a little tinhorn in a great big hurry, but he was loyal to you. He acted as your sentry at the Walton Building and he stuck around to throw the cops a few breaking pitches—he loved you, he worked for you, he took damned fool chances for you, he got his brains knocked loose for you, and you shot the poor bastard in the back.”

  “I’ll have that put on his headstone—‘Joe was useful.’ How’s that?” Her smoky blue eyes were flaring with the joy of achievement. Gladys Hornsby was insane, Willow was certain of it. He said, “Old Casey Bucknell wasn’t a real bad skate—just one more wealthy cat keeping a good-looking item on the side, hardly a pioneer in that field. You shot him, pumped a couple of slugs into your condo wall, stashed that Heffernan-Reese, called the cops, threw a dying swan act for their benefit, and dumped the whole stinking shebang into Sister Rosetta’s lap.”

  “Sweet old Aunt Rosie!” She squirmed diligently on Willow’s knee.

  “And Bucknell wasn’t your father.”

  “Oh, of course not! Aunt Rosie had to have a strong motive for killing him, and incest is about as strong as they come, don’t you agree?”

  “Let’s look at the box score, shall we?”

  “Just a moment, Tutto, please!” She was romping on his knee now, bouncing, grinding, her breath coming spasmodically, her eyes fixed and unseeing. She shuddered violently, clutching his leg like a child grips the mane of a carousel horse. Then she relaxed and drew a long deep breath, smiling at him. “Thanks, Tut, I really needed that!”

  Willow said, “Yes.” He’d seen her like this more than once.

  She said, “You mentioned a box score?” She was winded.

  “Yeah, it comes out to no runs, four hits, one error—you murdered Brumshaw because he was threatening to blow you out of Bucknell’s will, Orlando because he knew too much, Bucknell because he’d been your target all along, and Bucknell’s wife because she just might have seen fit to contest your cut of his will. Very thorough.”

  “Yes, I think so. Better safe than sorry, Tut, and Kathy Bucknell’s far better off dead—she was flotsam, worthless even to herself—no meaning, no purpose.”

  “I see. Gladys, your next tattoo should be a fucking swastika.”

  She grinned and rumpled Willow’s hair. “Aunt Rosie picks up the tab! They’ll be looking for Aunt Rosie for a long, long time!” There was a detached matter-of-factness about Gladys Hornsby, the sure brand of success.

  Willow said, “I can’t fight you for Brumshaw or Orlando, and I can’t make much of a case for Bucknell, but Kathy Bucknell was all right—lost as hell, but sensitive, intelligent—she was good people. What do you know about good people, Gladys?”

  Her eyes had grown flinty. “Oh, God, don’t tell me that you fell in love with that wreck!”

  “I may have.”

  “This time for real?”

  “I’ll never know, will I?”

  Gladys leaned forward, squirming on Willow’s leg. Here it came, sure as hell. She said, “Aw, Tutto, let’s not argue, honey—wouldn’t you rather take me to bed?” She kissed him, her tongue fluttering into his mouth, and Willow felt the barrel of the Heffernan-Reese .38 slip from beneath his belt. He felt its muzzle probe his belly. Her voice had taken on a metallic quality. She said, “Tut, you shouldn’t have removed my glove.”

  Willow nodded. “I’m beginning to get that impression.”

  “You should have tucked Sister Rosetta onto a bus, witnessed her departure, testified to it if necessary, and left well enough alone.”

  “You may have a point there. Can’t that be arranged?”

  “Not now, Tut, it’s too late. You were my greatest asset, now you’re my greatest liability.”

  “Your silencer’s in my pocket—someone will hear that damned thing go off.”

  “Unlikely, I’d think, with all that thunder out there and us being the only people in the building. ‘No runs,’ you said. Why?”

  “Because you haven’t scored, Glad. You don’t have your five hundred thousand, do you?”

  “I’ll have it next week.”

  “I doubt that.” The barrel of the Heffernan-Reese dug into him. He said, “What’s Sister Rosetta’s motive for this one?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Tut. I don’t even know her motive for Kathy Bucknell.”

  “Perhaps she was deranged—killers usually are.”

  “You’re generalizing. How can you generalize Aunt Rosie? Aunt Rosie was a very special person!” She was taunting him.

  He said, “Maybe Aunt Rosie thought I was a prowler.”

  “Yes, that’ll do! Maybe you picked her lock and she shot you. Aunt Rosie would shoot a prowler.”

  Willow’s mouth was dry. He said, “In the stomach? That’s a slow death, Glad.”

  Her laugh was silky. “I know that, Tutto, but you simply must understand my position.”

  “I understand it. Right now I understand it a helluva better than you understand it.”

  “Never!” She leaned back to study his face and Willow stared at a woman whose final barrier was
about to crumble. Her eyes were the eyes of a peregrine falcon and her smile was a smile he would never forget. The safety of the Heffernan-Reese clicked off. Gladys Hornsby said, “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes, I think so. Why?”

  “I just wondered.” The muzzle of the Heffernan-Reese ripped into his navel. “Tutto?”

  Willow licked sandpaper lips. “Yeah, Glad?”

  “It was great, wasn’t it?”

  “Not bad while it lasted, not bad at all.”

  She was squinting like a kid waiting for a firecracker to go off. This would be it. “The error you mentioned, Tutto—it was yours. So long, baby!” The hammer slammed into an empty chamber. Gladys tightened, then jerked the trigger several times. Willow’s smile was thin and gray. He said, “No, Glad, it was yours—I unloaded that damned thing in your bathroom, but I had to know if you’d really use it.” Gladys gasped and swung viciously at his face with the Heffernan-Reese. Willow caught her wrist with his left hand and the pistol flew to thud and tumble on the cheap carpeting. She slid from his leg to back rapidly across the room, her lips tight and pale. She said, “You bastard, I loved you! I loved you and you fell in love with a nobody!”

  “There are no nobodies, Glad—everybody’s somebody.”

  She gathered her composure with an obvious effort. She grated, “All right, Tutto, do I rate one chance—just one for the good old days?”

  Willow shrugged. “Yeah, Glad, you get one for the good old days.”

  Gladys Hornsby slipped hurriedly into her maroon leather jacket, swooped up Sister Rosetta’s big black handbag, and went out, closing the door, then opening it to blow him a kiss—a touch of the galante, Willow thought—the vanquished World War I ace saluting the victor from a flaming Fokker on its screaming plunge into hell. He listened to her feet drumming down the stairs. The vestibule door squealed open, then banged shut. Her heels clicked on the concrete walk, fading into the sounds of the storm. October rain clawed at the windows and Tuthill Willow put a shaking match to a cigarette, staring at the oblong moist silver smudge on the knee of his pants leg—the very last of the memories.