by Dan Marlowe
“That what he told you? Guess maybe he can sleep better nights if he's convinced himself that's the way it was. You his manager? Do him a favor, kid. Retire him. In that league he's a raggedy canoe in white water.”
The red lips curled derisively. “I just hope I'm there to see him take you.”
“Yeah? You like a little blood? You musta been in the front row when they were throwin' the Christians to the lions,”
“Beat it,” she said tersely. “You're excused. You can see Ed's not here.”
“Who needs Ed?” he asked her. If he could stall a few minutes Russo might be back. This Mavis was in too much of a hurry to get rid of him. “You're the stenographer around here, aren't you? Or are your duties more highly specialized these days?”
The brunette eyes glittered. “I ought to belt you one myself.”
Johnny sighed with exaggerated patience. “Loosen up the spring on that hair trigger, kid. I walk in here like a citizen to dictate a letter, and all I get is a lot of abuse. You're the stenographer?”
“Certainly I'm the stenographer!”
“So take a letter.”
She looked at him, hands on hips. “This ought to be good for a laugh, anyway,” She sat down and uncovered her machine. “From a speedball like you I'll take it right in the typewriter. Go ahead. Shoot your head off, and I do mean off.” She paused and looked up at him suspiciously. “Unless this is a gag?”
“No gag, big stuff. Very serious business. Crank it up.” He watched her slip a battered carbon between a sheet of bond and onionskin and wind it into the machine. She looked up at him impatiently.
“Well? Who's it to?”
“To? Oh. Yeah.” He looked up at the ceiling for inspiration. “Ready? Today's date, no address, to the New York City Police Department, 24 °Centre Street, New York, New York. Gentlemen: I am making this confession voluntarily-”
“Wait,” the blonde girl interrupted, whipping the paper out of the machine. “You didn't say how many copies.”
“Copies? Two's enough.”
She paused in her task of aligning fresh carbon and onionskin, her tone patient, as to a backward child, as she discarded the worn carbon in the wastebasket beside her and brushed off her fingertips lightly. “An original and one copy? Or an original and two copies?”
“I can see this is a complicated business, requirin' steel nerves and lightning-like decisions. One copy.”
She discarded a carbon and an onionskin from the sheaf in her hand, reinserted the balance in the machine, typed in the date and salutation and looked up at him. “Go on.”
“Gentlemen-” Johnny ran a hand thoughtfully over his chin stubble. “I am making this confession voluntarily and of my own free will.”
Mavis half turned to look at him, then ducked her head down and clack-clacked away at the keys.
“I am and have been under no coercion whatsoever to-”
Mavis backed her chair away, her hands in her lap. “What is this? You going to sign it yourself? And where did a mug like you learn to dictate a letter?”
“We don't all have visible talents, kid. Like you.” Johnny leered at her companionably. “And don't worry about the signer. I got him on ice. Let's see… under no coercion whatsoever to make this statement. I killed Robert Sanders, Ellen Saxon, and Roberta-”
“You're crazy!” Mavis burst out as her chair again rolled away from the typewriter. “Will you-”
“Will you stop bothering the motorman?” Johnny cut across her eruption. “-and Roberta Perry. I recognize my legal responsibility in the dictation and signature of this confession. Space for a signature; space for two witnesses' signatures. Got it?”
The typewriter tac-tac-tac'd and came to a stop. Mavis reeled the letter out of the machine, removed the carbon and handed Johnny the letter and copy. She tossed the carbon into a folder on her desk and weighted the folder with a fifteen-inch ruler. She picked up a business envelope and typed the address on it; her voice was disdainful as she gave it to him. “You're out of your mind if you think you're going to get anyone to sign that thing.”
Johnny looked at her; he felt that somehow she sounded very well pleased with herself. The corners of the small mouth turned downward as though she had difficulty in repressing a smile. She turned her face sharply away when she noticed Johnny's inspection of her; the smugness on her features as she toed her wastebasket under the desk puzzled him. And then suddenly he had a feeling. All his life he had acted on impulse; he reached for the folder beside the typewriter, and sensing his movement Mavis grabbed for his arm.
“Here! What do you think-”
He was too quick for her; her voice was still echoing angrily as the ruler slid into her lap and he picked the folder up and opened it.
“You give me that!” The blonde girl snatched the heavy ruler from her lap, rose with a jerk and pointed it at Johnny. He stared down at the top carbon in the stack in the folder whose glossy, hard-backed surface retained a perfect copy of his dictated letter.
“I can see a man lacks a little something in privacy around here, Mavis. This your own idea?” He began to flip through the carbons in the folder, each a one-time-used perfect impression of a typed letter.
“You get your big nose out of there!” Mavis dropped the ruler on the desk as she came around it on the run. She came like a man, hands doubled into fists, swinging for the body. Johnny caught a flailing arm and spun her in against himself, pinioning her as she struggled within the circle of his arm.
“A nice racket,” he said in her ear. “An out-of-town businessman drops in and dictates his bid on a contract, and with a fresh carbon you've got a copy. Whaddya do then? Look up his competition and peddle it to them?”
Her position proved to be a tactical mistake. She lifted a foot and viciously raked the length of his shin with a high heel. She lifted the foot again, but she had his attention now. He dropped the distracting folder and transferred the freed hand to the nape of Mavis' attractive neck. In two long strides he frog-marched her back to her desk, bent her over it, picked up the ruler and solidly swatted the tight skirt's most prominent characteristics. Mavis yelped shrilly and nearly bucked the desk over. Johnny tossed the ruler back on the desk as he let her go, and she straightened up, holding onto herself.
“I hope you weren't wearin' a girdle, kid,” Johnny told her. He stooped to retrieve the folder of carbons from the floor. “Shall we call it a draw? I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours.” He pulled up the leg of his slacks and looked down at the long scrape on his shin, oozing blood two-thirds of its length. He looked back at Mavis. “Your turn, kid.” She stood motionless, hands behind her, two bright, angry tears in the brunette eyes. “Chicken, huh?”
Her voice was hoarse. “You give me back that folder!”
“Later. If Russo gets shook about it, send him around to see me.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Or is this a strictly Mavis Delaroche production?” He smiled at her silence. “I don't know why you rate Ed Russo so high, kid; pound for pound you got better action. Let's see you sit down. You know what the song says-it only hurts for a little while.” He turned to the door, then glanced back and waved to the tall girl's still-standing figure. “Think of me when you look in the mirror tonight, kid.”
He closed the office door quietly from the outside.
CHAPTER 11
He woke from an uneasy sleep with a long shudder; Ellen had called him. He had heard her so plainly that he half sat up and stared dazedly around the familiar room. He was soaked with perspiration, and his mouth was dry and cottony.
He pushed himself woodenly to the bed's edge, and the hot knife came alive, and bit and twisted. Ellen would never call him again, because he had let her down when she needed him. Ellen, who of all people had deserved a break, and hadn't had one. Her killer was still walking around loose, no doubt planning other murders, and Johnny Killain, who had solemnly promised himself that he would avenge her, was stumbling along in the dark like a blind fool.
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br /> He knuckled fiercely at his eyes and stood up. In the shower's hissing water he promised himself all over again. He'd find this killer, wherever he was. And whoever he was. He'd find him, and when he did He turned off the water and in the silence stared blindly at the white tiled wall.
Ellen…
He leaned against the low counter and watched a dark-haired, white-uniformed girl at the right-hand end of the large desk beyond it. The girl wrote busily, referring occasionally to a little book at her elbow. Johnny glanced behind him; the waiting room of the Landry Cat and Dog Hospital was a beehive of activity. There had been a dozen people waiting in the comfortable chairs when he had arrived, and it seemed to him that two more had since come in for every one who had left.
The desk area beyond the counter was efficiently busy. The girl in front of Johnny was expediting the discharge of the recovered animals; at the other end of the desk a blonde was admitting the newcomers. To the left of the desk was a heavy, paneled door, through which each time it opened came a ringing chorus of barks. With the door closed there was no sound; Johnny realized that Jeff had soundproofed this waiting room, in addition to the money he had spent out in back. No wonder he hated to leave.
A white-jacketed attendant emerged from the back and deposited a black carrying case on the counter in front of Johnny. “That's not-“ Johnny began as the attendant turned away, then bent for a closer look. The pink nose and white whiskers crowded up against the neat wire mesh looked familiar; Johnny pushed the tip of a finger through the mesh, and Sassy nipped it enthusiastically.
Johnny laughed. “You've got to be feelin' better if you've got all that ginger, baby doll. Jeff's got you travelin' in style.”
“Here's her diet, Mr. Killain.” The dark-haired girl handed him a closely written half-sheet. She smiled impersonally and looked for the next name on her list. “Dr. Landry will mail you the bill.”
Johnny hesitated, but the girl had already called the next name. He picked up the carrying case, and backed off a few feet. If he knew Jeff Landry there never would be a bill, mailed or otherwise. Should he try around at the back to say thanks? Probably do Jeff no favor, he thought to himself, at the rate people were still coming in. Jeff must be busier He heard the voice first; he hadn't seen the big man enter. He must have pushed up to the counter out of turn, because Johnny could see resentment on one or two faces, and there was a hush in the waiting room. Johnny looked at the expensively dressed beefy body, and the light-colored panama with its too-wide brim, at the round moon face and the livid scar drawing down a corner of the heavy mouth. “-tell me why I had to rush over here?” the overpowering bass rumbled through the room.
The dark-haired girl looked doubtful. “You're Mr.-”
“Morton. Charles G. Morton.”
Oh, fine, Johnny thought. He set down Sassy's carrying case. Charles G. Morton? The last time Johnny had set eyes on this fine-feathered bird-which had been last night-his name had been Tim Connor.
“Morton?” The dark-haired girl turned over papers on her desk. “Oh, yes.” She looked up in sudden uncertainty. “It was Mrs. Morton we called-”
“I know, I know,” the big man boomed. “Mrs. Morton is a bit indisposed. She called me at the office and asked me to stop by here and see what this mysterious call is all about. Now will you please tell me why I'm here, young lady? I'm a busy man.”
There was no mistaking the girl's nervousness. She rose abruptly. “If you will please step inside, Mr. Morton, Dr. Landry will-”
“Young lady!” The girl quailed before the roar. “If Dr. Landry called my wife, will you kindly have him step out here and tell me why? I'm sure the doctor's time is valuable, but so is mine.”
The girl was nearly in tears. “He's just inside, sir-”
The big man seemed to swell. “He's as close to here as I am to there. What kind of nonsense is this? You'll have me thinking in a moment he doesn't want to see me.”
The girl flew out through the paneled door, and Charles G. Morton leaned back negligently against the counter and half turned to survey the waiting room as if to measure the extent of the audience reaction. His casual glance passed over Johnny, hesitated, swiveled back and focused-hard.
He's coming over here, Johnny thought. Play a hunch. Morton, Schmorton. This water buffalo is up to no good. What have you got to lose? Play the hunch.
Charles G. Morton apparently didn't like loose ends; he moved away from the counter like a man of action. Chest to chest with Johnny, he looked at him scowlingly. “I know you. What-”
He broke off as Johnny shook his head ever so slightly and tapped the carrying case at his feet with his toe. The big man looked down at it puzzledly. “Ed sent me over,” Johnny told him, trying to put a sense of urgency into his voice.
The opened mouth snapped shut and reopened. “Ed sent you? Ed sent you? Am I going crazy?” He tried to muffle the boom of the thunderous voice. “Is this guy off the hook? Has-” He broke off again as the paneled door swung open to admit Jeff Landry.
One look at Jeff's white, strained face was all that Johnny needed to know that his hunch had been a good one. He picked up his carrying case and put a forceful hand on Charles G. Morton's elbow. “Inside, Tim. Got to straighten this out quietly.”
Unwillingly the big man permitted himself to be shepherded through the door. Jeff Landry looked at Johnny and followed them inside. Johnny closed the door, and stood with his back against it.
“Now suppose you tell me-” Tim Connor began in the familiar shattering roar, then stopped as Johnny raised a hand.
“Jeff.” Johnny's voice was quiet. “Mr. Morton's dog died.
It was a statement.
Jeff looked surprised. “It was a cat, but it died, all right. I called his wife-”
“Poisoned,” Johnny interrupted, again in the flat statement.
“Yes.” Jeff paused. “You knew? How-”
“I didn't know, Jeff.” Johnny moved away from the door, casually. “But Mr. Morton knew. Didn't you, Mr. Morton?”
“What's all this tomfoolery!” “Mr. Morton” glared from Johnny to Jeff and back again. He made up his mind suddenly and advanced on Johnny, the round face dark. “You sucked me in here, wise guy! I-”
The resonant voice died to a gasp as Johnny put a palm in the center of the cream-colored sport jacket and shoved firmly. Tim Connor staggered back on his heels a quick half-dozen steps, his arms flailing the air. Beside Johnny in the narrow corridor Jeff Landry took a quick step forward. “Is this the guy?” he demanded tensely. “Is he the one?”
“Easy, Jeff,” Johnny counseled. He turned back to the big man. “You should have bought a program, Tim. You guessed wrong on the lineup; I'm in the other dugout.”
Bitter anger mottled the moon face. “I won't forget this, Killain. I'll cure you of meddling. I'll drop a ton on you.”
“That's for later. Right now let's clean house here.”
“Right now I'm getting out of here!” Tim Connor fixed his panama more firmly with an impatient tug at the brim. “And God help the man who tries to stop me!”
At his first step Johnny moved fast; he crowded up against the beefy figure, and Tim Connor retreated the step as his right hand darted under the cream-colored jacket. Johnny pivoted on the ball of his left foot and muscle-punched the reaching right arm with a line-drive right-hand smash. The big man's face went white, and his arm dropped limply as his body caromed from the wall. He made no effort to resist as Johnny snaked the snub-nosed revolver from the shoulder sling under the sport coat and tossed it back to Jeff.
Johnny looked at Tim Connor's suddenly shriveled face and at the left hand supporting the right arm. “You're gettin' old, Tim. You're about fifteen years and forty pounds away from gettin' out of here your way. You want to try mine?”
“I'll… get you for this, Killain-” The voice was still deep, but the vibrancy was gone. The heavy body was half crouched forward, but not aggressively; the face looked sick. “I'll… Let's hear
your proposition.”
“Conversation.”
Tim Connor considered Johnny. “And?”
“If it reads you walk out of here.”
“Just a damn minute!” Jeff Landry tried to push by the bar of Johnny's extended arm. “If this is the guy that poisoned those animals he's not going to walk out of here!”
“Listen to me, Jeff.” Johnny said it quickly; he pushed the veterinarian back down the corridor and out of Tim Connor's hearing as he lowered his own voice. “You got a lot of money invested here, and you had a close call. We got a break and you're out of the barrel, but you go working this guy over he can tie you up indefinitely with assault charges and damage suits. Use your head.”
“Those animals-” Jeff began stubbornly, and paused. He took a slow step backward. “Get him out of here, then. Fast. Before I change my mind.”
Johnny walked back to Tim Connor. “Let's hear it, Tim.”
The beefy man swallowed visibly. “Hear? What else is to hear? You laid it all out on the drawing board.”
“I want to hear it from you, and right now. That's a soundproof door there, and Jeff is a little restless. Talk.”
“If I do I walk out?”
“If I think I'm hearing it all.”
“I was hired to scare Landry away from this address,” Tim Connor said abruptly. “It figured that a little bad publicity ought to change his mind that his lease couldn't be bought up.” He hesitated, and his eyes went warily to Jeff. He cleared his throat tentatively before continuing. “I sent two people in with dogs which had already been fed a pill set to dissolve in ten to twelve hours. This last time it was a cat.” He hesitated again and shrugged. “That's it; somehow you caught it. I still don't see how-”
“Who hired you?” It was Jeff's voice; Jeff's glasses were in his pocket, and his tone was shrill.
Tim Connor replied promptly as he kept an uneasy eye on Jeff. “Man named Dave Richman.”
Jeff looked at Johnny, who shook his head. “Never heard of him. It figures. This kind of thing filters down from five or six removes away from the operator like Connor here. With a lot of time and trouble and money you might be able to trace it back. You might. There's a better way.”
