Doom Service jk-3

by Dan Marlowe

  “What's the damage on that deal?” Johnny inquired.

  “At a hundred fifty thousand and over, the rates are eighty-nine per cent,” Mr. Quince said. “First twenty-five exempt.”

  “Ow!” Johnny breathed. He looked at Sally. “Back to pauperism, Ma. At least I can say I knew you when you had it.”

  Mr. Quince snapped his briefcase shut, his eyes upon Johnny. “Are you prepared to say at this time, Mr. Killain, what the young lady's attitude is to be in the matter?”

  “You mean is she goin' to fight it? The board of directors has to have a little meetin' on that one, Mr. Quince. Maybe we'll arbitrate. If we said we wouldn't fight it, maybe the razor wouldn't cut as deep?”

  “Arrangements of one sort or another are not unknown,” Mr. Quince agreed. He permitted himself the small, neat smile. “Let me hear from you when you decide.”

  “But I don't want their old money!” Sally exclaimed when the apartment door had closed upon Mr. Quince's conservative blue suit. “I think-”

  “Stop thinkin', Ma. Relax. You got to provide for my old age. An', if this guy has his way, you aren't goin' to wind up with enough to keep you from sleepin' nights. Let's roll up the rug on it for now. We'll have the board meetin' later.”

  “Board meeting!” she snorted, and squealed as the big hands tipped her into his arms. “Johnny! Stop it!”

  “Contrary to the laws of nature, Ma,” he told her placidly. “Hold tight. Here comes the brass ring on the merry-go-round.”

  Johnny, finishing off the last forkful of pie and the final swallow of coffee, eased himself back cautiously in his spindle-legged chair. “I take it all back, kid,” he informed Stacy Bartlett, who was busily stacking dishes across the table from him. “You can cook. I could need a little help up outta here.”

  “I haven't seen anyone eat like that since I left the farm,” she said, smiling.

  “I do that boa constrictor bit to carry me over the lean times whenever I run into grub like yours.” He looked at the tall girl, trim and efficient in her postage-stamp apron, busy on round trips to the kitchenette. “You didn't do so bad yourself,” he accused her. “I'd hate to pay your board bill.”

  “You go on inside,” she told him. “I won't be five minutes.”

  “Hell with the dishes,” Johnny said lazily, and pointed a finger at her. “You come inside with me an' entertain your company, girl.” He glanced around the tiny dining room, which was actually a niche carved from the living-room floor space. “That couch in there any more solid than these silly-lookin' chairs? With a runnin' start I might make it in there. I might.”

  “My furniture is Danish modern,” she said, reprovingly. “You don't furnish a girl's apartment in ax-hewn oak, you know.”

  “Oh, I like it fine,” he said hastily. “It's just that with all these sharp edges I don't see how you keep from scarrin' up the nice upholstery-yours, not the furniture's-”

  She ignored the remark. “I like it here,” she said defensively. “It's the first time I've had a place of my own. I can't afford it, of course, the place and the furniture, too. I've been looking for someone congenial to move in and share expenses. The bedroom's large enough, thank goodness.” She colored brightly at his look. “Another girl!”

  “Now you went an' spoiled it,” he said sadly. “I was right in step till you pulled that switch on me. Didn't any one ever tell you girls are hard to get along with? If you're a girl?”

  “I doubt that I'll have any difficulty,” she said drily. “Shall we go inside?”

  Johnny groaned eloquently as he eased himself erect. “How about the loan of a shoulder or two to assist in transportin' the body?”

  “You're doing all right,” the girl retorted.

  “I like that apron,” he said as she removed it.

  “Leftover from the curtain material,” she said briskly.

  “Sews, too,” he murmured aloud, and surveyed another tide of color rising from beneath the primly necklined dress. “Any money in the bank?”

  “I have a job and a mortgage on the furniture,” she replied with dignity, leading the way into the living room. “Does that answer your question?”

  “Speakin' of the job, how's it goin' over there?”

  “Just fine.” She turned to look at him. “Why wouldn't it?”

  “No reason, no reason,” he replied hurriedly.

  “Mr. Turner is handicapped, of course, by the loss of Jake Gidlow and Terry Chavez at the same time. Between them they handled most of the fight details. Mr. Turner is having a little trouble getting things lined up. He's been a little edgy.”

  I'll bet he has, Johnny thought. “How's Chavez gettin' along?” he asked casually.

  “Mr. Munson says he'll be back with us any day now.”

  So they don't tell this kid everything, Johnny mused. Or haven't they taken the trouble to find out? Or did Al Munson want Turner to believe Chavez would be back shortly? This Munson, now-

  “Aren't you going to sit down?” Stacy asked him, breaking into his train of thought. “And aren't you going to smoke?”

  “Couldn't stop me with a gun,” he told her, reaching for his cigarettes. He looked down distrustfully at the wide, backless, short-legged chaise longue and lowered himself onto it carefully.

  “You look like the type of man who should smoke cigars,” the tall girl remarked as she seated herself erectly a little distance away.

  Johnny inched himself back and forth, trying to get comfortable without placing his back against the wall. “These things take a little gettin' used to, don't they?” he inquired. “Not that I'm knockin' your furniture, now,” he continued hastily. “Cigars? Cigars are all right, but too many times you're in a place where you can't get 'em easy or at all.” He waved the cigarette pack in his hand. “Some kind of weed you can generally get most anywhere. Cigarettes can be pretty lousy, just so they burn. This couch here is stuffed probably with better makin's than some of the stuff I've set fire to in my face in my time.” He was aware she was watching his struggles with the couch from the corner of her eye. “I think I need a Western style saddle with this thing. Or a set of spurs.”

  She giggled softly. “You're doing fine.” She folded her hands in her lap. “My father smokes cigars. He says that three things come most naturally to a man's hand-a cigar, a drink-” She stopped and turned rosy.

  “-and a woman's behind,” Johnny finished for her. He nodded soberly. “I've heard that sayin'. We'd get along, your old man 'n me. He run the farm?”

  “Yes, if you mean he operates it. We're tenants.”

  “You say that present tense. You're a city girl now, remember?”

  “My father doesn't seem to think so,” she said seriously. “He's letting me try my wings here, but he bet me I'd be back in a year.”

  “He could be right,” Johnny said thoughtfully. “It's a hard-boiled set of circumstances in this man's town, baby. You might decide you didn't want to take the trouble to gear yourself up to it.” He took a deep, satisfied breath, exhaled slowly and half rolled on his side in Stacy's direction.

  “The dishes will only take me a few moments,” she said at once, starting to rise.

  “Hell with the dishes,” he said for the second time, and reached lengthily and caught her hand. His strength dropped her effortlessly back on the couch within the circle of his arm, and the feel of her big-bodied softness against him was like a match to carbon.

  “That's enough of this-foolishness!” she exclaimed when she could get her breath. “Let me up out of here!”

  He nuzzled gently at her white neck, and he could feel the shiver that ran through her. “Remember I said you could give me the ground rules when I got up to bat?” His voice was a deep river; he slowly tightened the pressure of the arm about her. “We playin' college or pro rules, baby?”

  “Kindergarten!” she said breathlessly. “And don't expect to graduate too quickly!”

  CHAPTER IX

  Johnny stepped off the service eleva
tor into the deserted, semidark lobby and intercepted Paul's warning nod in the direction of the switchboard. A quick glance took in the two men standing by the low wooden railing, and Johnny accelerated to a low-slung trot. At the sound of his approach both men faced about hurriedly, and, as he pulled up in front of them-not quite sliding to a stop-he could see the apprehension on Al Munson's fat face and the anticipation on Monk Carmody's battered one.

  “Somethin' we can do for you two?” Johnny demanded as neither spoke. His glance slid off beyond them to Sally's slim figure crouched over the switchboard, the small face white and anxious, and his tone hardened. “You two been botherin' this girl?”

  “Of course not! Ask her!” the fat press agent replied hastily.

  “I'm askin' you,” Johnny said grimly, and shifted the position of his feet as Monk Carmody advanced a step.

  “Whyn't you butt out, Killain?” the squat man demanded vibrantly. “We came over here to talk to her. That leaves you nowhere, see? I'm tellin' you to pack it in.”

  “You're tellin' me,” Johnny repeated gently. He exhaled and came up on the balls of his feet. He was leaning in Monk Carmody's direction when Al Munson stepped quickly between them.

  “Let's not lose our heads, now,” the pasty-faced man urged. “This is a business call.”

  “At 2:00 a.m.?”

  The publicist's smile was pallid. “I couldn't truthfully claim to be enjoying it myself. Its necessity is dictated by the young lady's persistence in not speaking on the phone, not answering the door-” His smile died. “It's an attitude I can't say I appreciate when time presses.”

  Johnny's stare had shifted back to Sally. “I must be neglectin' my homework,” he said softly. He looked down at the misery in her soft brown eyes as he addressed her directly. “There's a reason I didn't get to hear about these guys workin' out on you?”

  He could see her swallow hard. “They said-”

  “I'm sure he's not really interested, Miss Fontaine,” Al Munson interposed smoothly. “As I indicated in the one conversation you permitted, my business is with you.”

  “Your business!” Johnny said deeply. He reached out and took a double handful of lapel on Al Munson's overcoat; Johnny's hands moved, and the fat man's feet slid sideways on the polished floor. “Your dirty, stinking business-”

  “Here, now!” Al Munson exclaimed jerkily. “Don't be a fool!”

  “Shut up!” Johnny said between his teeth. He pivoted slightly to keep the fat man's body between himself and Monk Carmody. “You tried to bull her into keepin' me out of it, right?”

  “What do you think you're settling like this?” the publicist asked hurriedly, and Johnny's grip slackened. Munson took a tentative backward step, and Johnny reluctantly released him. “That's a little better, Killain,” the press agent remarked, readjusting his coat. “Now let's pretend we're adults. If you persist in sticking your nose in this, let's go some place where we can talk privately.”

  “Right behind you,” Johnny said shortly, and nodded at the door under the arch of the stairway to the mezzanine. “The bar's in there, an' it's closed for the night.” He looked at the glowering Carmody. “Lead the way, sawed-off.” In the bar the night light shed a soft radiance over booths and tables, but darkness predominated. Shadows bulked larger than actual objects as Johnny faced the two men, keeping them both in front of him. “All right, Munson. Let's hear something that makes a little sense.”

  “Does money make sense, Killain? One hundred eighty-nine thousand dollars?” At Johnny's silence he chuckled. “You didn't think we'd let it go without a whimper, did you? I'm here to see about picking up the pieces.”

  “It's your money?” Johnny asked carefully.

  “Let's say it's a slush fund to which several people have contributed. Through Gidlow's stupidity it's been made unavailable to us temporarily. I'm sure Miss Fontaine would be the first to admit that she has no real claim upon it. We're prepared to settle a satisfactory lump sum upon her for her signature upon a release. You see, it's all really quite simple.”

  “An' just how much of the boodle do you simple souls think you'd recover if she signed the release?” Johnny asked curiously.

  “We've explored that factor. Even after a rather complicated inheritance tax formula-”

  “Let me be the first to give you the bad news,” Johnny interrupted him. “Internal Revenue has staked out a prior claim.”

  Even in the poor light he could see Al Munson's eyes narrow. “Internal Revenue?”

  “The same. They come by to warn Miss Fontaine not to buy any yachts, because they were goin' to go to court prepared to maintain that the boodle was one-year undeclared income, in which case there's not enough left for anyone to fight over. Right?”

  Al Munson spoke thoughtfully into the little silence. 'That can be contested in court.”

  “Who's gonna contest it? You?”

  “Miss Fontaine will contest it. A good lawyer-”

  “You're off your rocker, Munson!” Johnny snorted. “Why should she buy herself a jackpot like that for whatever you feel like givin' her, when all she's got to do is sit tight an' the apple drops in her lap? Internal Revenue's already hinted they'll do the right thing in return for co-operation.”

  “Nice of them,” Al Munson said drily. “You can't be as stupid as that last remark sounds, Killain. Perhaps I haven't made it sufficiently clear that I'm just a spokesman in all this. The people whom I represent are not going to look with favor upon such an attitude, I assure you.” Heavy irony flavored his tone. He continued with assurance. “I think Miss Fontaine will co-operate, and not with Internal Revenue.”

  “Listen, wise guy-where d'you think you'd wind up if she repeated this conversation to Internal Revenue?”

  “She hasn't heard this conversation,” Al Munson replied evenly. “For Miss Fontaine's sake I wouldn't like to think that Internal Revenue learned about it in any other way.”

  Johnny's shoulders came off the booth with a jerk. “Munson, I'll-”

  “Think it over, Killain,” the publicist interrupted, and waddled to the door. Monk Carmody followed, after favoring Johnny with a complacent leer, and when Johnny walked slowly into the lobby they were gone. He went directly to the switchboard.

  “They been bangin' at you every day without my knowin' it?” he asked Sally tightly.

  She nodded miserably, brown eyes brimming. “I s-should have told you.”

  “Damn right you should have told me, an' the next time you don't your fanny'll catch a real heartburn. I got to know what they're up to if I'm goin' to spoke their wheel.”

  “Johnny?” It was scarcely more than a whisper. “Let's give them the bankbook. I don't want it. Honestly. Let's give it to them and get rid of them.”

  “It's not that simple, Ma,” he explained patiently. “You're the only one with a claim to it now. You couldn't give anyone the book without givin' 'em a headache they don't want.”

  “Then what on earth do they want?” she said, cross-examining him.

  “Pie in the sky,” he said tersely. “Forget it, Ma. Just let me know if they bother you.”

  “But what can you do, Johnny?”

  “I can say 'Tut-tut, boys. Naughty-naughty.' ” He grinned at her. “The way I'd say it I think it might make an impression.” He sobered at sight of her serious expression. “Don't worry about it, see? Everything's gonna be fine.”

  “I want to know what you're going to do, Johnny.”

  “Who the hell knows? You know me-just rock along, an', if you can't see the ball carrier, just put a good stiff block on the interference. Somethin'll drop.”

  “Probably you,” she said apprehensively. “I still think-”

  “Your career's not in thinkin', Ma. I'll bear witness.”

  “Please be careful, Johnny?”

  “My pleasure. You hop back on the board now. I'm gonna skip upstairs an' irrigate my thought processes with a dollop of bourbon.”

  “You mean you're going to try to
slip out of here without my knowing where you're going or what you're up to.”

  “You wound me, Ma. Deeply. I need that bourbon now.” He crossed the lobby to the service elevator and waved to the watching figure before sliding the bronze door shut in a crash of metal.

  In the icy darkness of the street doorway a slim shadow moved in beside Johnny and tapped him on the arm. “Out for a constitutional?” Detective James Rogers inquired briskly.

  Johnny slowly dropped his hands. “I already told you about that caper, Jimmy. You're buckin' for bridgework.”

  The slender man regarded him impassively. “Nice night for a stroll,” he said reflectively, and passed a hand through their combined breaths whitening the air. He glanced across the street at the imposing pile of the apartment building that towered upward into the night sky, with only occasional pinpoints of light dotting the angular surface, and his voice, when he spoke, was official. “You have no business here, Johnny.”

  Johnny pointed with a shoulder across the street. “You bodyguardin' Turner now?”

  “I'm conducting an investigation,” the detective said evenly. “Without your help. In case the point should come up.”

  “That's a little different than the noise you were makin' a while back.”

  “Don't make me ask myself if I made a mistake. What are you doing here?”

  “This guy's pushin' Sally around,” Johnny said obliquely.

  “Turner? I haven't heard a word to that effect.”

  “Maybe I could get him to call up an' let you know. Or take an ad in the paper. Make a little sense, will you, Jimmy? I caught a couple of them over at the place tonight because she wouldn't answer her phone any more.”

  “You reported it, of course.”

  “I'm reportin' it now,” Johnny said easily.

  “Fortunately you knew right where to find me,” the sandy-haired man remarked sardonically. He hunched his shoulders together beneath his overcoat. “No sense standing here freezing to death,” he said abruptly. “Come on.”

  Johnny walked along beside him the two blocks to an all-night Java mill, and with mugs of coffee on the table between them the detective's inspection of Johnny became more preoccupied. “How do you get to spend so much time off the job during working hours?” he asked.