Twospot

by Bill Pronzini

  “Pretty fancy,” Canelli muttered. “Chimes.”

  A half minute passed. I rang the bell again, and waited another half minute. Now I could hear a soft scuffling on the other side of the door. I glanced at Canelli. He’d beard it, too.

  As the door came open on a chain, I had my shield case in my left hand. My right hand was inside my coat, gripping the butt of my revolver. In the crack of the door I saw a spectacled eye, a large pimply nose and a dark, ragged mustache.

  “Police,” I said. “Lieutenant Hastings and Inspector Canelli. We want to talk with Mal Howard. Open the door.”

  “You got a warrant?” The voice was deep and rough.

  “We aren’t searching the premises. And we aren’t making an arrest,” I lied. “Mal Howard is a material witness in a homicide investigation. He’s also a felon on parole. Which means that we don’t need a warrant. Now open the goddamn door.”

  “Homicide investigation?”

  “That’s what I said. Open it.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Open the door, asshole. Now.” As I said it, I heard Canelli’s walkie-talkie come alive. To hear it better, Canelli drew back the flap of his jacket.

  “... someone coming out on the roof in back,” a metallic voice was saying.

  At the same moment, the door began to close. Quickly I stepped back, extended my arms straight in front of me and hit the door with the heels of both hands. The door flew open. I was inside, standing over the man with the dark mustache. He sat splay-legged on the polished parquet floor. With one lens broken, his aviator glasses were cocked askew on his forehead. His nose was bleeding heavily. He was slowly shaking his head. His eyes were blank.

  “Sorry,” I said. “But you should have opened it.” Through the open door I called for two detectives to come inside, and one to stay in the van, with the radio. The van’s front doors came open; two detectives dressed in coveralls climbed the four stairs, fast. The first man carried a shotgun. At a gesture from me, he pointed the shotgun at the fallen man’s head. Eyes wide, the man began scrabbling across the floor. The gun barrel followed him, the muzzle inches from his eyes. His mouth was open, but he couldn’t speak. His hands came up before his face, fingers delicately touching the muzzle, as if to gently push it away. Suddenly he closed his eyes tight. Tears streaked his stubbled chin. He thought he was going to die.

  “Where’s Mal Howard?” I asked.

  He began to shake his head. “H—h—h—”

  I kicked him in the thigh, hard. “He’s on the roof, isn’t he?” I kicked him again. “Isn’t he?”

  “No. I swear to God, no. He—h—h—”

  “Hold on to him,” I ordered the two detectives. “And shut that door.” I took the walkie-talkie from Canelli and called position two.

  “Is he still there, Marsten? On the roof?”

  “Yessir.”

  “What’s the access to the roof? How’d he get out?”

  “There’s a window at the back of the building that opens on the roof. It’s a flat roof, shed-style. The window’s wide open.”

  “What’s his exact position?”

  “He’s standing to the right—my right—of the window. Your left. Repeat, your left.”

  “Our left. Roger. We’re coming up and try to collar him.”

  “Roger, Lieutenant. Watch it, though. He’s got a gun. An automatic. Repeat, he’s got a gun. Do you. read me?”

  “I read you. Out.”

  With Canelli close behind me, I turned to the stairway. Holding my revolver in my right hand, I went slowly up the staircase, one cautious step at a time. As my head came even with the floor of the upstairs hallway, I saw curtains billowing out from the open window at the end of the hall. I pointed to the window, and Canelli nodded—just as his walkie-talkie crackled to life.

  “This is position two. Can you read me?” Marsten was speaking softly. His voice was static-blurred.

  Crouching against the wall of the staircase, Canelli spoke cautiously into his own walkie-talkie. “I read you, Marsten. What is it?”

  “He just tried to get off the roof. He went to the edge, and tried to jump off the roof, into a big redwood tree, back here. But he couldn’t make it. So he’s coming back toward the window. Do you read me?”

  “I read you,” Canelli repeated.

  Motioning for Canelli to keep his position on the staircase, I quickly ran back down the stairs, bolstering my revolver. I gestured for the detective to give me his shotgun.

  “Is there a round in the chamber?” I whispered.

  “Yessir.”

  I checked the safety catch as I went back up the stairs. Exposing only his head, Canelli was watching the open window.

  “Anything?” I whispered.

  “No. Marsten says he’s still just to the right—Marsten’s right—of the window, flattened against the side of the building. He’s got a big automatic, Marsten says. Maybe a Colt .45, for God’s sake. And he’s just standing there. Waiting, maybe.”

  “Christ I was suddenly aware that my shirt and jacket were sweat-soaked. Perspiration covered my forehead, ran into my eyes. Cautiously, I surrendered my grip on the shotgun’s forestock, drew the arm of my jacket across my forehead, then gripped the forestock again. The open window was about twenty-five feet from our position—perfect range for buckshot.

  “We going to wait him out?” Canelli whispered.

  “Do you want to get a shotgun?”

  “No, that’s all right.” Under pressure, Canelli was good with a handgun.

  “Let’s get closer,” I said. I pointed to an open bedroom door, ten feet from the window. “You get in that doorway. I’ll cover you. Then I’ll put myself beside the window, against the wall, on the left side. Our left side. If he comes through the window, you challenge him. That’ll distract him. Then I’ll try to take him. Clear?”

  “That’s clear.”

  “If it comes to shooting, I’ll shoot first. I don’t want you shooting toward me.”

  “Right.”

  Moving on delicately tiptoeing feet that looked ludicrously small for his outsize body, Canelli scampered up the stairs, down the hallway and into the safety of the doorway. I was flexing my legs, ready to follow him, when my paging device suddenly buzzed. Swearing, I switched the box off. Then, drawing a deep breath and mopping my streaming forehead one last time, I slipped off the shotgun’s safety. A dozen strides took me up the last of the three steps and down the hallway to the window. I was breathing heavily—from fear.

  At short range, only a shotgun does more damage than a .45.

  I looked toward the bedroom door and saw Canelli peeking around the doorjamb, exposing half his broad, swarthy face. Canelli was sweating, too. I nodded. He nodded in return. We were ready.

  I heard Marsten’s voice on Canelli’s walkie-talkie, but couldn’t make out the words. Softly answering, Canelli momentarily drew back his head.

  At that moment, the big square barrel of a .45 automatic came slowly through the window, poking against the billowing curtains. Next came a hand, gripping the gun. Deliberately, inexorably, a forearm followed.

  I set the shotgun’s safety, raised the barrel and brought it crashing down on the forearm. Bone snapped. The .45 roared, leaped from the disembodied hand, fell to the floor. The hand disappeared.

  “Oh—shit.”

  Without exposing myself, I ripped the curtains free of the window. With my breath coming in short, ragged gulps, with sweat still in my eyes, I forced myself to wait a long, deliberate moment, listening. I heard a ragged shuffling of feet, moving away from the window. I placed the shotgun on the floor, drew my revolver and cautiously looked through the window. I saw a man crouched on the edge of the flat roof, facing away from me.

  “Hold it,” I yelled. “Hold it right there.”

  He gathered himself and leaped toward a huge redwood that grew close beside the roof. I saw him disappear, heard a crash.

  I climbed out on the roof. As I cautiousl
y approached the edge, I heard Marsten calling, “It’s okay. We’ve got him. It’s all right.”

  I looked over the edge. With Marsten and another detective standing over him, surrounded by broken branches, he lay on his back, staring up at me. His hair was dark, worn medium long. His face was almost as swarthy as Canelli’s, with a broad jaw and thick, full lips.

  Not Mal Howard.

  “Where the hell is Howard?” I shouted down at him. “Tell me, or it’s your ass.” I heard my voice shilling, then cracking ineffectually. It was the hysterical backlash of tension and fear. “It’s his ass, Marsten,” I shouted. “Tell him. Tell the son of a bitch.”

  Still lying flat on his back, the swarthy man called, “Howard’s gone. He’s been gone for an hour, pig. And he ain’t coming back.”

  I recognized the truth in his voice, saw truth in his face. Furious, I holstered my revolver. “Search him and cuff him,” I called down to the men on the ground. “We’ll call for an ambulance.”

  “Is it him?” Holding the shotgun, Canelli was framed in the open window behind me.

  “No, goddammit.” I climbed back through the window. “Is there a phone?”

  “I saw one in the bedroom.”

  I dialed Communications. After a delay of almost a minute, Halliday came on the line.

  “Sorry, Lieutenant. I was talking to the phone company. I didn’t think I’d gotten through on the buzzer, and I was getting the phone number of 1976 Scott Street.”

  “What is it, Halliday?” Wearily, I sank down on the bed, closing my eyes. I was thinking that, with every year that passed, it became harder for me to face a gun.

  “We just got a call from Alex Cappellani,” Halliday was saying. “He asked for the officer in charge of the Booker investigation. He’s in an apartment on Telegraph Hill. It’s 2851 Greenwich, a rear apartment. It’s a half block down from upper Grant, near Coit Tower. He wants you to go see him.”

  “How’s he sound?”

  “He sounds nervous.”

  “Did he give you a phone number?”

  “No. He gave me the message, made sure I had it, then hung up. There’s a phone in the apartment, though. I checked.”

  “I’m on my way.” I hung up the phone.

  “What’s happening, Lieutenant?” Canelli was standing beside me.

  “Alex Cappellani called in. He’s on Telegraph Hill.”

  “You want me to go with you?”

  I stood up. “No,” I answered. “I want you to stay here, and finish up. I want you to take both these characters downtown. But before you do that, I want you to get the story on Mal Howard from them. I want to know everything about Howard. I don’t care how you do it—the hard way or the easy way, it’s all the same to me. Just find out about Howard.”

  “You want me to lean on them, you mean? Really lean on them?”

  “I want the information, Canelli. If you have to bend the rules to get it, I’ll back you up. I don’t have to tell you that we’re short handed. Which is why I’m leaving it to you. Understand?”

  He frowned, thinking it over. “You want me to make a deal? Like that? Let these guys off, if they cop?”

  “Goddammit, Canelli, I’m telling you what I want. How you do it, that’s up to you. I want Mal Howard. I don’t care what you do with these two. They’re nothing. I want Howard. Is that so hard to understand?”

  I knew I’d hurt his feelings, but I didn’t have time to worry about it—or to apologize.

  “Tell Marsten to follow me to 2851 Greenwich,” I said shortly. “Tell him to bring a walkie-talkie, tuned to channel ten.” I was already walking down the hallway to the stairs. “I’ll meet him in front of 2851 Greenwich. Got it?”

  “2851 Greenwich. Channel ten.” Looking at me with reproachful brown eyes, he nodded. “Got it,” he sighed.

  12

  With Marsten a half block behind me, I drove slowly past 2851 Greenwich. During the fifteen-minute drive from Scott Street, I’d ordered Halliday to contact both Leo and Rosa Cappellani, asking whether the Greenwich Street address was known to the family. It wasn’t, apparently.

  Like the Cappellani town house, 2851 Greenwich was an example of choice six-figure San Francisco real estate. It was a “lowrise” apartment building, built to the city’s code that protects an owner’s right to a view. The building was new: a stark, squared-off stucco box, architecturally undistinguished. But it was located on the north slope of Telegraph Hill. From the rear of the building, floor-to-ceiling windows would command a vista of San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, with the low green hills of Marin County for a background and Alcatraz and Angel Island in the foreground. Full-width balconies would allow affluent tenants to drink martinis and barbecue steaks while they admired the view.

  Two entrances fronted on Greenwich, designating two large flats, numbered 2847 and 2849. The number 2851 was fixed to a gate on the uphill side of the building, and marked a garden apartment with a rear entrance and access through the gate. The front windows of the two flats showed no signs of life. Circulars littered the two entrances, and the mailboxes were full. The gate on the uphill side was closed—but not littered with the same circulars.

  The building was only two blocks from Alex’s car, still parked on Grant Avenue. He’d probably borrowed the apartment from a friend, to hide. He’d parked his car close enough to get it in a hurry—but not close enough to betray his hiding place.

  Just ahead, Greenwich Street began a tight uphill curve that ended in the tourist parking circle that served Coit Tower, on the crest of Telegraph Hill. The circle was less than two blocks from 2851. Following a green Porsche, I drove to the crest and made a circuit of the parking area, finally pulling into a red zone. Using my walkie-talkie, I told Marsten to pull in beside me. I rolled down my window.

  “I’ll leave my car here, and walk back. You follow me in your car, a half block behind. If it looks all right, I’ll go in by myself. There’s a gate beside the house that leads back to the apartment. When I go through the gate, I’ll leave it open. You take up your position opposite the gate. Stay in your car. Clear?”

  “Yessir.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be a problem. He’s scared, probably, and wants to talk. He might talk to one man, rather than two.”

  “Right,” Marsten said shortly. Displeasure was plain in his voice. He’d been hoping for action. Marsten was still in his thirties —a hard-working, ambitious, savvy cop. But he was hot-tempered. He’d grown up a tough kid, and hadn’t changed. Working on the vice squad, his street sense had helped him second-guess the hoods and the whores and the hustlers. In Homicide, though, his temper worked against him. He was too quick with his fists—and his gun, too. As a partner, Marsten was a calculated risk.

  I raised my walkie-talkie. “We’ll stay on channel ten.”

  “Right.”

  I locked my car, slipped the walkie-talkie into my inside pocket and began walking back the way I’d come. It was a clear, warm Saturday afternoon, and the observation circle was crowded with tourists. But, despite the balmy weather, most of the tourists remained in their cars, staring at the sights through their windshields. A few of them—children, mostly—clung to the big coinoperated telescopes, focusing on Alcatraz, or the Golden Gate Bridge, or the ships sailing into San Francisco Bay. Some of the tourists emerged from their cars long enough to take a shapshot or pose for one. Then they quickly returned to their cars.

  As I walked down Greenwich Street, I glanced to my right, down the steepest slope of Telegraph Hill. The rock slope was overgrown with wind-stunted laurel and juniper, as impenetrable as a forest thicket. Yet, despite the steepness of the terrain and the denseness of the undergrowth, I could see tunnels burrowed through the tangled branches. The small, twisting tunnels could have been made by animals—but weren’t. They were made by children, playing. I’d grown up in San Francisco. I could remember playing on this same wild slope during a time when tourists were a novelty, not a nuisance. One of the
tall rock outcroppings had been my Indian fortress. I’d been a cowboy, stalking the enemy, attacking with shrilly shouted “bangs” and “pows,” followed by equally shrill arguments and arbitrations.

  Thirty-five years later, I was still stalking the enemy.

  I paused at the side gate of 2851 Greenwich, and casually looked up and down the street. On both sides, the sidewalks were deserted. From my right, a station wagon filled with squirming children came up the hill. From my left, Marsten’s car was coasting down toward me.

  The gate was made of thick redwood planks, secured by a simple black iron latch. I tripped the latch and pushed the heavy gate slowly open. A flight of cement steps led down to a redwood deck. The stairs were about three feet wide. On my right was a high wooden fence. The stucco side of the house rose on my left, a sheer wall with only two small, high windows. Pine and laurel grew across the top of the redwood fence, touching the stucco of the house. Even though the time was only three-thirty, the fence and the overhanging foliage and the high stucco wall cut off much of the afternoon light.

  I tried to leave the gate open, but it was spring loaded. I looked for a hook to latch it back, but couldn’t find one. As Marsten drew to a stop at the curb, I let the gate swing free, shrugged and raised my walkie-talkie, signaling for him to listen.

  “It won’t stay open,” I said. “So listen for me. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I slipped the walkie-talkie into my pocket and began descending the cement steps. I saw a door leading from the redwood deck to the garden apartment. Beginning on the far side of the deck, a flight of wooden stairs ran down the hill to a tall privet hedge that probably marked the lower boundary of the lot. Except for a single huge pine tree, nothing grew on the property. The ground was covered with thick-growing ivy. A small wooden gate was set into the privet hedge.

  The deck was about fifteen feet below street level. Before I stepped on the first of the deck’s redwood planks, I stopped to look—and listen. I didn’t like the silence—didn’t like the feeling of the place. I was confined by a fence on one side and a stucco wall on the other. I was isolated by trees and darkening foliage and an ominous silence. I felt closed in, cut off—threatened.