Killer with a Key jk-2

by Dan Marlowe

  “You know the detective's name, son?”

  “Rogers.”

  There was slight movement beneath the raincoat. “No detective named Rogers in this precinct, son.”

  “He's from West Fifty-fourth.”

  The patrolman grunted. “I hear you saying so. What happened to the guy in the alley?”

  “He lost the top of his head.”

  The wide mouth pursed doubtfully. “I ought to take a look first. Still, you don't look like the jack-rabbit type. Mind you, if I turn the precinct out on a night like this, and there's nothing in that alley, I'll knock your ears down.”

  “Go ahead and make your call,” Johnny said impatiently.

  The big shoulders hitched at the raincoat. “You come right along with me, son, and watch me make it. I want my eye on you.”

  Johnny half restrained a smile as he followed the patrolman across the street to the restaurant. From the bulge under the raincoat he knew that the service revolver had been unholstered; the officer was carrying it in his left hand, and this created a problem for him when faced with the wall pay phone.

  “Like me to dial for you?” Johnny offered. “Or I'll hold the gun.”

  The blue eyes inspected him critically for a moment, and then with a rustling of rubber the bulge disappeared. “Now I've got you in the light, son, you don't look quite like I made you on the street. Better get that nose straightened, though, before you apply to teach at Sunday school.” He turned back to the wall phone, and dialed. “Glidden, Sergeant. Man reported…”

  The patrolman's voice droned on while Johnny listened with just a fraction of his attention. Russo's death had collapsed completely the major props of the framework within which he had been working. Somewhere, now, there was a man who had committed four murders, and he hadn't the slightest notion who it was.

  He wondered if the police were any closer. Would Jimmy Rogers have been tailing Russo if he expected any such blow-off as this tonight? It figured that Rogers had been just as wrong as he was.

  Officer Glidden nodded to Johnny as he backed away from the telephone, and they walked back out into the rain. Johnny gingerly moved his shoulders beneath the raincoat, which had now become a blotter and passed on its absorption to the sodden uniform beneath. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so uncomfortably wet.

  Detective Rogers moved out from a dry corner of a warehouse platform as Officer Glidden's flashlight announced them from the alley. After a brief, low-voiced colloquy with the detective the big policeman laboriously removed a notebook from his raingear, folded it back painstakingly, heaved a mighty sigh and began writing. Johnny surmised that from Glidden's perfunctory questioning of him that Detective Rogers must have mentioned Johnny's actually being in his presence when the shots were heard. He didn't fool himself that the precinct detectives would be as easily satisfied; it looked like the beginning of a long night. When Glidden snapped his notebook shut with a grunt of relief Johnny spoke up with no real hope. “That wind me up, Chief? I could use some dry clothes.”

  “That's not for me to say, son.” The patrolman looked around for Jimmy Rogers, then out at the mouth of the alley as headlights beamed through the narrow passageway into the semicircular dead end. The high beam of the car lights brilliantly illuminated the sprawled figure lying in the mud at the base of the loading area, and in the glare the rain beat down steadily. Other cars stacked up behind the first one and disgorged dark figures who moved purposefully; it was the type of night when a minimum of facts speedily arrived at was the goal of all concerned.

  Johnny watched Patrolman Glidden jump heavily from the platform to the alley bed and advanced to meet the second contingent. His own position on the platform was not within the perimeter of the headlights, and he looked down for a moment at the activity in the arena of light below him. Take off, Killain, he told himself suddenly. Nobody's paying any attention to you. So they'll yank you in when they miss you later; they'll have to come and get you to do it, and at least you'll be dry.

  He eased over to the darkest corner of the platform and jumped lightly to the mud below. He edged around the outer rim of the platforms and squeezed his way past the first of the parked cars. He had to brush past several latecomers on their way in from the street and he received several sharp glances, but no one offered to stop him. He walked swiftly away from the flashing red lights at the alley entrance and picked up a cab at the stand at the Second Avenue intersection. He settled into the back seat and listened to the soggy squish; he oozed water from every stitch.

  As the cab swung west he realized suddenly they were within a block or two of Vic's apartment, and he leaned forward. “Cut over south a block, Mac.”

  The cabbie turned left and looked over his shoulder when they came to the first corner. “Straight ahead?”

  “One more block, anyway.” He looked for a familiar landmark as the cab rolled through the quiet streets. “Yeah. Turn right here.” When the cab straightened out from the turn they were passing the apartment, and Johnny looked up at the second floor and saw the light on in the front room. He slapped the leather-covered back of the front seat sharply to attract the driver's attention. “Pull in here a minute.”

  “Listen, bud,” the cabbie said disgustedly as the cab slowed and turned into the curb. “This is no night to be cruisin' on instruments. Make up your-”

  “Shut up, will you?” Johnny thought it over. After three now, and Lorraine was still up? Or she could have fallen asleep with the light on. It was hardly the hour for a social call-or was it? He opened the cab door and got out on the sidewalk. “What's the tab, Mac?”

  “Thirty-five,” the cabby said morosely and then brightened. “Say, thanks, Jack.”

  He walked past the familiar iron fence with its blunted pikes; he thought back fleetingly to that merry-go-round he had stumbled into coming out of this apartment. One more thing that had never been explained satisfactorily. With the aid of his cigarette lighter he found the right buzzer, and Lorraine's voice came so quickly he knew she could not have been asleep.

  “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Johnny.”

  A faint murmur of sound. Surprise? “Come up.”

  He climbed the stairs; she was in the apartment door in pajamas and dressing gown, both of a lightish blue color that did nothing for the dark circles under her eyes. She looked tired, and her hair was disheveled and damp-looking. She closed the door behind him and patted at her hair defensively when she caught him looking at it. “It's a mess, I know; I'm just out of the shower, and I need to set it.” She looked at his wet clothing. “What have you been up to on a night like this?”

  He didn't answer her. He took another hard look at her hair and deliberately pushed his way past her into the bathroom. The light was on, but the tub was dry. So was the shower stall; so were the neatly folded towels. He opened the hamper; no wet towels. He turned to find her in the doorway, and he could see the storm clouds in her face as he accused her. “You've been out in the rain, that's why your hair's wet. You just got in ahead of me.”

  The voice was mocking, but there was an edge to it. “You've heard of a shampoo, no doubt?”

  “First it was a shower.” So it was important to her to deny that she had been out tonight? He brushed her out of the doorway as she stood in his way, and bright anger flared in her face; back in the front hall he opened the closet door and ran a probing hand down the line of hanging clothing. It was not hard to find; his questing fingers picked up the wet folds of a raincoat, and he took it down from the rod, hanger and all, and flourished it at her. “You shampoo this, too?”

  “Put that back where you found it.” Her voice was hard.

  “When I get good an' ready I'll put it back, Lorraine.” He turned the raincoat in his hands; beneath it he could feel other clothing on the hanger. He peeled back the wet rubber and looked down at a black-and-white checked jacket and a pair of gray flannel slacks wet from the knees down. He stared at their wrinkled dampness fo
r a moment before he turned back to the woman. “Let's hear something,” he demanded grimly.

  Two bright spots blazed in the pale cheeks; Lorraine Barnes had not lost her poise, but the same could not be said for her temper. She was furious. “I'll let you hear something. You get out of here, this minute, and you stay out. I'll thank you to mind your own business. Now get out!”

  He shoved the jacket and slacks at her. “Don't you think you should have burned these after you killed Roberta Perry?”

  “Burned-” She looked suddenly uncertain of herself. He could see her almost repeating aloud the description of the clothing seen on the man on Roberta Perry's fire escape. Man? A short, stocky man… or a tall, plump woman? She looked at the jacket and slacks in his hand as though she were seeing them for the first time. “That's not… those aren't- It's simply a… coincidence-” Her voice trailed off; he could see that she was thinking hard, but she recovered quickly. “I'll still thank you-”

  She broke off as he dropped the wet garments on the floor and took her by the arms, not gently. “I'm through foolin' around,” he said between his teeth. “Where were you tonight?”

  She tried to twist away. “Let go of me!” Her face was scarlet. “Let go!”

  He held her effortlessly. “Where were you? I'm sick of this one-way deal. You'll tell me if I have to raise lumps all over you.”

  “If you think-you can third degree me… I'll show you — different!” she panted breathlessly, and with a surge of anger he picked her up by the shoulders and in four long strides carried her inside to the sofa, where he dropped her. She bounced high and landed asprawl with head snapped back. The blue-gray eyes stared up at him malevolently as he pulled up a chair in front of her and seated himself, hemming her in. He made his voice deliberate. “Make it easy on yourself, Lorraine. Fast or slow, you're going to talk. I played along with you all I'm goin' to. From right here we do it my way.”

  Her lips were drawn back from her teeth; there was no fear in her. “Let me remind you, Johnny-because I have a stake in this myself I refuse to be caught in the down-draft of your emotional involvement. That's final. Now get up out of that chair.”

  “You're not talkin' to your husband Vic's friend, Lorraine. You're talkin' to Johnny Killain, who used to be married to Ellen Saxon, an' I want answers. What's the matter? Don't you have an alibi for Russo tonight?”

  “Russo? Alibi? What's-” Her teeth gnawed at her lower lip, and she sat up straighter on the sofa. The anger vanished from her face as though with a sponge. “What happened tonight, Johnny? You've got to tell me.”

  “Lady, you've got more brass than a foundry. I've got to tell you, have I? Those days are gone. I gave you a chance to join the team an' you turned me down.” His mind veered off on a tangent; he leaned back and considered her carefully. “Did Ed Russo work for Robert Sanders?” he asked her abruptly.

  She looked surprised. “I've already told you that it was Mrs. Sanders he worked for over there.”

  “But if it was out of the same office-”

  She shook her head. “The public relations business doesn't work like that,” she said patiently. “They each had their own clients and their own staff.” She tried to make her voice placating. “What's all this about Russo? What happened tonight, Johnny?”

  “We're gettin' off the subject. Where were you tonight? I want to know. Now.”

  The red spots were back in her face, but her tone was restrained in her effort to appear casual. “If you think you can find out anything from me I don't want you to know, then you just don't know me very well.”

  He leaned toward her. “Where were you tonight, Lorraine?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “If you're not on your way out that door in five seconds I'll rip these pajamas and start screaming.”

  “Suit yourself. You won't be screamin' when they get here.”

  Her short upper lip curled. “You frighten me. Terribly. I'm speechless with fear.” But she made no move toward the pajamas; she spoke again quickly. “Don't let's do this to each other, Johnny. I have the best of reasons for everything I've done. I have to do it my way.”

  “Not any more. Cut the stalling. Talk!”

  “Find out, then, you fool!” she gritted and, in movement nearly too quick to follow, braced her back against the sofa, drew up her knees tightly to her chest and as part of the same motion straightened them viciously, exploding her slippered heels with projectile force against Johnny's breastbone as he leaned forward in his chair. The impact was tremendous; only his weight prevented the chair from going over backward, and he teetered uncertainly in mid-air for an instant before he could rock himself level again.

  She stared up at him unbelievingly as he fought against the knifelike assault on his lungs; when he stumbled erect and kicked the chair behind him fear washed her face a pasty gray. She lurched up and tried to duck past him as he stood bent nearly double, and he half straightened with an effort and slapped her heavily. She gasped and fell back on the sofa, the mark of his hand standing in livid relief on her cheek.

  Fear and anger struggled for dominance in her distorted face as she stared up at him, and the livid finger marks turned a dull red. When Johnny could speak at all his voice was a croak. “Not a bad move for a hundred-twenty-five-pound female woman. Too bad you didn't know I was comin'. You coulda had your high heels on, then, an' hung your spikes in me.”

  “Don't think I wouldn't!”

  “I think you would. How many people you decommissioned with that move? Four inches lower you had a perfect gut shot; six inches higher you break my neck. I could see you were surprised I didn't go over; you got a real bad break, huh? You learn that one in finishin' school?”

  “Oh, stop it!” Weariness had replaced the fear, but there was still no color in her face except for the mark of his hand. “I should have known better than to try to knock over a chunk of pig iron like you. You got me mad, that's all. I'm sorry.”

  “Skip the sorry. Talk.”

  The tip of her tongue circled her lips swiftly; she appeared to be gauging his mood. “I suppose you feel you have all the justification you need now to beat it out of me. That should make you feel good. That should-”

  “Will you stop the stalling?” Johnny's voice cut across hers, hard. “Talk!”

  And as though the explosive imperative had been a signal the apartment buzzer sounded in the hallway. Lorraine looked surprised but started to rise; he made one halfhearted move to stop her and then shrugged. He knew who it was. It just wasn't his night.

  “Who?” Lorraine asked the speaker. “Oh.” She hesitated and half turned to look at Johnny in the doorway. “Well… come on up.” She scooped up her wet raincoat, jacket and slacks from the floor where Johnny had dropped them and threw them into a corner of the hall closet. She stood with her back pressed against the closet door and looked at him speculatively. “It's Cuneo. I'm not fussy about his finding you here this time of night. On the other hand, I'm not fussy about being left alone with you here, either.” She frowned as she moved away from the door. “Why is he here?”

  “Whyn't you ask him?”

  “But I need to know-” She chewed at her lip in the familiar gesture. “We can still work together, Johnny,” she said persuasively.

  “Not a chance. A clean divorce.”

  “Just a minute!” she called to the knock at the door. She turned back to Johnny with the first hint of desperation in her tone. “You can't do this to me now! I need to know what happened!”

  “Open the door,” he said inexorably. “You're doin' all right. You're still walkin' around, and there's four people that aren't.”

  Her eyes widened. “Four!”

  “Open the door.”

  She opened it, reluctantly. Ted Cuneo stalked in, hesitated at sight of her nightwear, sensed the other presence and whirled to look at Johnny. “Well, for- What are you doing here, Killain?”

  “Do I need a license from you to be here?”

  The detective turn
ed to stare at Lorraine. “You two-” he said slowly. He looked at her more closely. “What's the matter with your face?”

  In the split second that she hesitated Johnny could see that she was wondering if she could somehow involve him with Cuneo without involving herself. With evident regret she decided against it. “Nothing that a little cold water won't fix. I believe I took the decision on points.”

  Detective Cuneo seemed to swell. “You mean he hit you, Mrs. Barnes?”

  “Not often enough,” Johnny said harshly, and Lorraine Barnes laughed almost gaily.

  “Johnny and I never understood one another better. He was just leaving.”

  “Right now,” Johnny agreed. He turned experimentally to the door. If Cuneo knew about his unheralded departure from Second Avenue…

  Cuneo didn't, evidently. “Anyone talked to you tonight?” he asked Johnny sharply, his side glance at Lorraine indicating that he didn't want to say too much.

  “Yeah,” Johnny said laconically. “I was with Rogers.”

  “You were with-” The large-pupilled eyes swung back to Lorraine and caught her hard, interrogating stare. He gestured dismissingly. “I'll talk to you later, Killain.”

  “Sure you will,” Johnny agreed softly. He smiled at Lorraine, then walked out of the apartment and down the stairs out into the still dripping night.

  CHAPTER 13

  In the rainswept, deserted street Johnny scowlingly squished along back toward the hotel; not a cab in sight, naturally. A little more water might be just what you need, Killain… reduce a little of the steam coming out of your thick ears after that fiasco upstairs. Damn that Lorraine woman, anyway… Damn all women eating their cake and trying to have it, too He came to a dead stop in the middle of the block.

  Women…

  There's a woman on the fringe of this deal at whom you haven't taken a very close look, friend. Quite a considerable woman-name of Mavis Delaroche. You think maybe she was out in the rain tonight, too? You think you could get her to tell you why, if she were? Mavis. You've never gotten the answer yet on those one-copy carbons of hers, either.