Yes, he had known from the first moment that he was witnessing the work of Hake Derr. But it was good to have the assumption verified. It was good to know that her death could be avenged immediately and without seeking further proof.
The letters crudely smeared in blood on her white flesh were all the proof Morgan Wayne needed. The two, final F's were the pay-off. For the same hand had formed those letters that had scrawled the single obscene word in the spilled powder atop the Gingham Girl's dressing table.
Wayne, alone, knew that. No other person could possibly know. It was clever, too, Wayne acknowledged to himself. Damnably clever of Derr. To Morgan Wayne it was clearly a message, meant only for him and for him only to understand. To the police, when they found her body, it would indicate that this was an ordinary sexual murder. The work of a jealous lover triumphantly adjuring a rival to desist from his attentions.
Wayne got to his feet slowly. His face was relaxed now, his blue eyes wide and calm. He leaned down and drew up the top sheet to cover Lois' body, to hide the mutilated face, leaving only the closed eyes, smooth forehead framed by fluffy brown hair. For a timeless moment he looked down at her while grief and rage swelled like an intolerable expanding ball within his chest. With only her eyes showing above the sheet, softly closed this way with long lashes brushing the smooth cheek, she looked as she might have looked with her head pillowed in the crook of his arm in sweet exhaustion.
He bent and touched his lips to her forehead, cooling now and glowing with the indefinable pallor of death. And as he did so he swore an oath that was not formed in words, but etched in acid on his soul. An oath that her killer would die by his hands, and soon. Derr's identity was his secret. It would remain his secret. Let the police discover her body in the natural course of events. Long before they could possibly get on the right trail, Morgan Wayne swore to himself she would be avenged.
Nothing else mattered now. Letty Hendrixon and the problem of Durtol Drugs were swept out of his mind by the consuming determination that now gripped him.
He turned and groped his way out of the death room, found the tiny kitchenette, and felt a new lump forming in his throat when he looked down somberly at a tray on the small table containing a bottle of bonded bourbon, a siphon bottle, two empty highball glasses standing side by side and a bowl of half-melted ice cubes.
Lois' preparations for the evening they were to have spent together. Further mute evidence of the manner in which she had planned to welcome him. He reached woodenly for the bottle and his corded fingers tightened on the neck of it. Then they relaxed and he took his hand away.
No. He wanted to be stone-cold sober for the job ahead of him. Nothing to dull a single sensory fiber of his body. For the first time in his life Morgan Wayne wanted to kill—ached for the pleasure of taking life from another human being. And as he turned away from the kitchen, leaving the tray sitting there untouched, his mind began to work again with clarity for the first time since discovering Lois' body.
He knew it was the work of Hake Derr, and he knew it had been done simply as a warning to him. To lay off. To keep hands off the Durtol job. To stay away from the Hendrixons in the future.
Wayne stopped abruptly in the middle of the living room and narrowed his eyes to slits.
How had Hake Derr known about Lois Elling? How had he known Wayne would be here tonight to find the warning words smeared on her cold flesh in blood?
Priscilla Endicott? He had told her he had a date with his secretary. Just a careless phrase tossed over his shoulder while he hurried away to find Letty.
Had she repeated the words to Derr? Suppose she had? How had Derr known the identity of his secretary and where to find her? Lois had worked for him less than a week. Was it possible that Derr knew more about Wayne and his affairs than Wayne knew about him?
It was possible, of course. Wayne hadn't been discreet about making inquiries this past month. He hadn't meant to be discreet. From the beginning, he had known it would come to a showdown soon, and hadn't minded forcing the issue. He had known that Derr and his gang would get wind of his activities. And they had, of course. Priscilla had recognized his name instantly this afternoon. Her question“What are you?” proved that she was well aware of his interest in her lover.
So maybe they had been spying on him all this time while he was planted in the office spying on them and on the docked yacht that he had expected to be used as a prison for Letty.
That might explain how Derr had come to Lois Elling's apartment so unerringly. And it would mean, of course, that Priscilla was as vicious as the others. That she had passed the information along to Derr to strike back at Wayne.
But there was one other possible explanation that could leave Priscilla out of it. And, surprisingly, Wayne found that he wanted desperately to leave her out. There was something about her that tore at his heartstrings when he contemplated her possible connivance in Lois' murder. Something about that first impression he got so strongly when he crossed to her at the piano and before they had spoken a word together. The vagrant and nebulous thought of home and mother that went along with her unabashed animality. That was an integral part of her appeal to a man's every sense. The brief picture that had flashed through his mind of climbing rosebushes and a white cottage with lighted windows.
Yes, he admitted frankly to himself that hewanted to leave Priscilla out of this nastiness. So he concentrated on the second possible explanation.
There had been others who knew he planned to see Lois Elling at her apartment this evening. Her phone call to Julius Hendrixon had stated that Wayne could be reached at her place later in the evening. How many people knew of that call? Julius, of course, and probably his wife. Probably John Durtol III also. And possibly the family attorney.
From the first, Wayne had felt positive there was someone behind Hake Derr in his bold attempt to seize control of Durtol Drugs by kidnaping Letty to force the sale of a block of stock to him. Could it be one of those four?
Wayne shook his head slowly as conjecture after conjecture raced through his mind. Julius, who had married into the firm and didn't own any stock but who was in active control of the management? It was a distinct possibility. He, above all others, would be in a position safely to manipulate the corporation's affairs to realize huge profits from diverting certain drugs into illegitimate channels. But that would mean profits to the stockholders. To his brother-in-law and his wife. And could a man conceivably help to plan the kidnaping of his own daughter in order to force his wife and brother-in-law to give up their blocks of stock?
It was possible, Wayne conceded grimly to himself. Particularly if such a move could force the sale of John's stock to some dummy owned by Hendrixon. He could be foolish enough to believe it was safe. To have extracted a promise from her kidnapers that the girl would be treated well and returned unharmed... Not exactly a fatherly thing to do, but when a man let himself get dragged into a thing like this he left his conscience behind him.
The mother was a less likely prospect, Wayne thought, but then he recalled the odd look on Mrs. Hendrixon's face and in her eyes on a couple of occasions and he didn't know. Of course, she owned the stock and could, presumably, dispose of it as she wished, so that seemed to take away the motivation from her, but it was possible there were some legal strings attached to it of which Wayne was unaware.
That was something that would have to be looked into.
Attorney Carson would know about that. But he was also suspect. Of all four, he was in the best position to have planned such a coup and to profit most from it. John Durtol III was the least likely, Wayne decided swiftly, remembering the weak chin and languid manner of the young man. Again, he had his own block of stock, which he could, presumably, turn over to racketeers if he wished to give them control. And kidnaping his own niece seemed an absurd device to accomplish what he could do so much more easily in a legitimate way.
Yet they were the four persons outside of the Gingham Girl who could conceivably have
known that Morgan Wayne would be in this apartment tonight. If one of them were the mastermind behind the plan, it wouldn't have been difficult for him to pass on the information to Hake Derr for him to use as he had.
All of these thoughts and questions raced through Wayne's mind in a matter of seconds while he paused irresolute in Lois Elling's living room.
He put them from his mind almost as swiftly as they entered it. There was something more important to be attended to right now.
Wayne strode to the two doors leading into bathroom and bedroom and carefully wiped his prints from the doorknobs. He hesitated a moment, trying to think of anything else he might have touched, and recalled the whisky bottle. Another moment took care of that, and this time he didn't pause in the living room on his way out.
He rubbed both knobs of the outer door and closed it gently behind him, and gave the push button a hasty swipe as he went past toward the elevator.
The Gingham Gardens was his first objective. He seriously doubted that he would find Hake Derr there, but it was his only point of contact. Priscilla might know, as she had known his whereabouts that afternoon. And this time Morgan Wayne knew he would force the information out of her smooth throat with his two hands if necessary.
But he hoped it wouldn't be necessary.
Chapter Eleven
AS HE LEFT the apartment house on West End Avenue, Wayne had more reason than before to be pleased by the privacy of the lobby and the lack of curiosity of the switchboard operator. Since she hadn't turned her head to look at him when he asked the number of Lois' apartment, it would be impossible for her to give any sort of description of him to the police. And right now Wayne didn't want any police interference with his movements.
Also, he was inwardly pleased with the thought that it was quite unlikely that Hake Derr could be identified either. Morgan Wayne was the only one who knew, and he wanted that secret to remain his own for a little time, at least. He didn't need much time. Just long enough to come face to face with Hake Derr.
He got in the borrowed Hudson and drove southward, rigid behind the wheel, but in no hurry now. His first surge of blind, killing rage had spent itself. The hot lust for vengeance had changed to a cold and more deadly emotion because it was reasoned and relentless. He would take chances, yes, but they would be coldly calculated chances. Both mind and body were tuned to the highest pitch of precision as he neared the Gingham Gardens. He could afford no mistakes this night. Not for his own sake, but for Lois Elling's.
He drove carefully and at a moderate speed to Fifty-second Street, turned eastward, and began watching ahead for a parking lot close to his objective. He found one on the left side of the street less than a block from the Gingham Gardens and pulled into the driveway, which was not quite blocked with cars.
An attendant sauntered forward as he got out, and Wayne handed him the keys with a ten-dollar bill. He said curtly, “I may be ten minutes or three hours. And I may be in one hell of a hurry to get going when I do come back. The ten is for keeping this hack in a space open to the street and headed out.”
The attendant said, “You bet, mister. Any time till two a.m.”
Wayne nodded and walked away in long strides toward the life-sized oil painting on the sidewalk, with a red spotlight on it now to attract passers-by.
He slowed as he approached the cellar joint, noting that it occupied the entire subbasement of a one-story brownstone separated from its neighbors by a lane not more than two feet wide. Next door as he approached was a closed florist shop with a lighted window display, and Wayne paused in front of it, pretending an interest in the floral arrangements while he studied the first-floor layout of the next building. He carefully recalled climbing the stairs to Priscilla's apartment, and realized that her bedroom would be the front corner room on this side.
There was light behind the curtained windows. He realized that didn't necessarily mean it was occupied at the moment, but it was a hopeful sign. He chose a moment when the doorman was helping a drunken couple into a cab and the sidewalk was deserted, slid forward casually between the buildings, and made his way to the back. Here was an alley entrance to the kitchen, as he had been certain there would be, the door standing invitingly ajar and with the brightly lighted kitchen on the left. Wayne paused outside the door and watched a white-capped chef stirring a huge pot of soup on the range while two busboys come staggering in under heavy-laden trays that they clatteringly unloaded at the sink beyond his line of vision.
Choosing a moment when no one faced in his direction, Wayne entered and went unhurriedly past the open kitchen door, following a dimly lit hall to a closed wooden door at the end. It was locked, but he took the knob firmly and braced himself, put steady and increasing pressure with his shoulder against the door, and the flimsy catch gave way. His tight hold of the knob prevented him from catapulting forward, and he found himself in the narrow corridor with the flight of stairs leading upward that he had climbed with Priscilla that afternoon.
Hot piano music and the laughter and din of a night spot doing good business came at him with a rush from the other end of the corridor as Wayne closed the door behind him. At the far end toward the front he saw the figure of Willie Sutra with his back toward Wayne”.
He had the look of being posted there as a guard to prevent entrance to the stairway, and this gave Wayne further hope that Priscilla might be upstairs. With someone, perhaps. Even with Hake Derr, possibly, though he refused to hope for that much luck.
His right hand was in the side pocket of his linen jacket fondling the butt of a large-caliber gun as he climbed the stairs cautiously so as to make no sound that would attract Sutra's attention.
The same stairs he had climbed this afternoon so close behind Priscilla's willowy body. Just this afternoon, that had been. Only a few hours past. But this time there was no enticing rustle of a taffeta skirt. There was no woman smell to come back to his nostrils warmly, no promise of delight when the upward climb was ended. Tonight there was silence and the subtle aura of death on the stairway.
At the top of the stairs, Wayne stopped in front of the door Priscilla had unlocked that afternoon and lifted the gun from his right-hand pocket. He turned the knob and entered the unlocked living room with the chartreuse draperies at the far end.
The long room was empty. The door into the bedroom stood open as it had that afternoon, and Priscilla Endicott stood on one foot in front of the vanity mirror, leaning forward with the other foot resting on the low stool while she carefully drew a stocking upward over the shapely ankle and calf. The other leg was already stockinged and she wore a narrow garter belt. Nothing else. Her back was toward Wayne.
She straightened slowly as the stocking came up, and Morgan Wayne closed the door behind him after thumbing the catch to set the night lock.
The tiny click it made as the door closed brought Priscilla's head around over her shoulder while she was still in a half crouch. She was as impossibly lovely as ever. White-faced now and staring, her eyes round and enormous with surprise and fright, caught in that posture for an instant like a startled fawn face to face suddenly with a crouching panther.
Wayne dropped the heavy gun into his pocket and strolled forward without speaking. His first movement released Priscilla's spellbound muscles. Her head jerked back and she straightened swiftly and snatched up a green silk robe from the dressing table and flung it about her shoulders. Entering the bedroom, Morgan Wayne told her evenly, “You don't need to cover it up, Priscilla. I've come for something else entirely this time.”
Priscilla Endicott turned slowly to face him, drawing the edges of the thin robe tight together in front. Her face was still white and she spoke as evenly as he, but flames danced in the translucent green eyes and her tone was so low as to be almost guttural:
“What do you mean by somethingelse this time? What did you want from me this afternoon except what you got?”
He sat down on the edge of the still unmade bed and regarded her levelly. “You know
what I wanted this afternoon. I still want it. But not right now.”
“And not this afternoon either.” Her voice rose and she almost choked with rage. “Did your goddamned secretary appreciate what you walked out of here with?”
Morgan Wayne said, “This is wasting time. You know how fast Hake Derr got here after you phoned him. There wouldn't have been time.”
“But you didn't know that,” she raged at him. “I don't know how the hell he heard me say that to you over the phone, but—”
“I know,” Wayne interrupted her. “And I think you do too. I think you tried to set me up for him, and when that failed you handed him my secretary instead.” He got to his feet as he spoke and moved toward her, his face rocklike, blue eyes hooded and coldly watchful.
She shrank away from him instinctively. “Your secretary?” she gasped. “I didn't...”
“I think you did, Priscilla.” Wayne put both hands on her shoulders and his face was inches from hers. “I'm not sure of it yet. If I were I'd break your neck. When I do find out, Iwill break your neck. But before I do that I'm going to take that lovely, wanton body of yours as it's never been taken before.”
His fingers tightened roughly on her shoulders. His voice was low and hoarse, charged with the two most elemental passions of man—desire and anger.
Priscilla Endicott did not flinch from the hurting pressure of his fingers. Her eyes were wide now, and shining. Her lips parted as the breath came in and out more swiftly. “Promise me you'll do that, Morgan Wayne. Then you can break my neck if you still want to.”
Her mouth was there, waiting for him. Her body was taut and quivering, waiting for him.
Wayne set his teeth and let go of her shoulders with a little shove that sent her back against the low dressing table. He turned and took three steps across the room and wheeled to face her at this safer distance. He asked quietly, “How long did Derr stay this afternoon?”
The Avenger Page 9
