More draft here, an ache in my knees. Maybe the door was locked. Maybe he was waiting until I stood up, to go through it, before letting me know he was awake and watching.
The fire cracked; there was a grunt from the man on the couch. I stopped crawling, my hands pressed hard against the grass rug, waiting, listening, not breathing.
No sound, no motion. I flexed my legs, trying to get the ache from my knees. My outstretched fingers groped for and reached the crack under the door.
Pewaukee Lake, and too early in the season to be occupied. Where could I run to, how far could I get? Naked. The cottages would be empty, and it could be on the far side of the lake from the village. Not that it mattered; any place was better than here.
I crawled closer to the door, and started to get up. I pressed next to it as I got up, using it for support. Full length, I stood now, and took a deep and quiet breath, the knob in my hand.
The knob turned. It was a cylinder lock, open always on the inside. It was a heavy door, for a lake cottage. I had it a quarter of the way open when I heard the movement behind me, when I turned to see the shadow of him, as he came my way.
I got through, and ran.
The moon was dim, but I could see the lake and the pier, the slope of lawn leading to the beach. Across the bay, here, I could see a light.
I heard his footsteps behind me, and knew I couldn’t run for long. There was a wobble in my legs, an aching lassitude in my knees. I gave it all I had, pounding for the pier, sprinting toward the only hope I had.
The rough boards of the pier, the slice of a sliver and I was at the end, hoping it was deep enough.
I went out in a shallow, racing dive, smacking the water with my chest and thighs.
It was cold with a numbing cold that curled my stomach and put an edge on my teeth. I heard no splash behind as I headed for the light on the far shore.
The light was dead ahead. No sound from behind and no knowing that the light ahead was any haven. But I was alive. Naked and cold and far from safe, but alive. I’d never been more appreciative of that.
The first numbing shock of the icy water was wearing off, bringing clarity to my brain. Straight for the light in an eight beat crawl, waiting for the sound of a boat, wondering if Art was following the shore, hoping the light meant people and a phone.
Now, I could see that the light was a backyard floodlight, and I could see the three-quarter-ton truck in the yard. Looked like a milk truck.
A man came out the back door and paused to snap off the light. He was dressed and ready to go. I started to shout at the top of my lungs.
The light went on again, and I could see he was looking out at the lake. Then he was heading for his pier.
Bushed I was, from the shouting and the swim. The outline of him on the pier seemed a hundred miles away. I put down my head and ploughed on.
Then he was reaching over to help me from the water, and I saw a peaked cap over a weather-beaten, thin face.
“A phone?” I asked him. “I want to call the police.”
“No phone,” he said. “I’m going to town. What the hell — ?” He was supporting me, as we walked along the pier.
“A killer,” I said. “I got away. He may be coming, and — ”
“I’ve a gun,” he said. “It’s only a .22, but I guess it’ll stop a man, all right. Let’s get in the house, boy.”
In there, he gave me a robe, which helped, and a shot, which helped more.
“You should take a hot bath,” he said, “but maybe the law is more important.”
He stood in the middle of the kitchen, a pump-repeating .22 in his hand. He looked like the underweight symbol of the solid citizen, the milkman with a rifle.
“The law first,” I said. “Have you something I can wear?”
He nodded, and then looked down at the floor. “Your foot’s bleeding? Is it — bad?”
“I don’t think so. A sliver on the pier, or maybe a piece of glass.” I lifted the foot, to look at the sole. It was nothing, a slit below the big toe.
An adhesive bandage on that, some old corduroy pants, a flannel shirt and a sweater. The pants and shirt and sweater too tight, the socks and shoes too big. Another shot, and we went out to the truck.
Beyond the range of the backyard light, it was still dark, and in that darkness, somewhere, the pudgy sadist named Art. Watching?
The milkman said, “I’ll drive. Here.” He handed me the rifle. “Know how to use it?”
I nodded, old Seventh Division man, and took one last look around the circle of dark before climbing into the truck.
The Chief of the Pewaukee Police, and a third of the force, was a man named Arranbee. We got him at home, a small place off the highway at the north end of the lake.
Briefly, I told him what had happened, and added, “I’d like to phone Sergeant Waldorf, in the city. He knows about this.”
Arranbee nodded, and said to the milkman, “Clem, better get Doc Forester over here. He’ll know how to ward off pneumonia.”
Clem left.
Arranbee said, “Better sit down, Mr. — ?”
“Kaprelian,” I supplied, and sat in the worn, mohair-upholstered chair near the archway to the living room.
The Chief took over from there. He called town and left the message for Waldorf, and called the County Sheriff’s office. The doctor came while he was talking to the sheriff and gave me two capsules no larger than an orange, the suggestion I take a hot bath and get into bed.
I took the capsules. It was getting light, now, and a pair of deputies were here, and the Chief was feeding me warm milk which he’d heated personally. He was certainly a contrast to what I’d assumed a small town police chief would be.
Waldorf phoned back while I was still on the hot milk. He’d picked up Al, in town. They’d released Dykstra, and put a tail on him. Art, they felt, would undoubtedly come back to town. And would the deputies bring me in, immediately?
They would, and did. At a modest eighty miles an hour. I was still wearing the milkman’s clothes. I wondered why they hadn’t started working at this end, trying to find the cottage.
Waldorf explained that, at the Safety Building. A crew had gone out, as soon as the sheriff phoned, and they would check every house on that side of the bay. Other men were waiting at this end.
Waldorf was smiling, for a change. “We’ve traced that button and the pieces of fabric, believe it or not. The bolt the suit was cut from is still in a tailor shop in this town. That’s the kind of luck you get once in a lifetime.”
“It wasn’t all luck, Sergeant,” I said. “You had me, too, remember.”
“In my hair.”
I told him about the Pastore business, and about Art stripping me down.
Waldorf smiled. “Navy man, huh?”
“You’ve a weird sense of humor.”
“You’ve given me a bad time. I’m naturally a sympathetic man.”
“This bolt of cloth,” I said, “that the suit was cut from. There isn’t likely to be a mistake about that, is there?”
He shook his head.
“And the suit was Art’s?”
He nodded.
“And you think that wraps it up?”
He frowned, studying me. “Don’t you?”
“How about Ducasse?” I asked.
“Same deal, isn’t it? Same rug. Partners, weren’t they? It wasn’t Dykstra, maybe, but it was his boys. Art’s punchy one way; they’re both punchy another way. They think he’s some kind of god. He’s outside the church, now, but he’s still their god. Pastore has the territory, just about, where Dykstra used to be king. Some of the small fry in the territory would like to see Dykstra king again. But Pastore wouldn’t, and none of the other big operators would. He’s lost his guts.”
We were in a small room near the D.A.’s office, and his voice was unnecessarily loud. It was as though he was trying to convince himself of all this.
Same deal…. Partners, weren’t they . .?
&nbs
p; I asked, “Did Sabazian really have something on Dykstra?”
“No. He wanted to trump something up and feed it to Pastore if Dykstra’s boys didn’t lay off about the rug. He was using Pastore as his weapon.”
“That’s pretty farfetched, isn’t it?”
“Not for a man as scared as Dykstra. Sabazian was probably Art’s work, but that won’t get Al off the hook. AI was an accomplice in that. Al will talk, I think, if he’s handled right.”
“And you had me rushed in to identify him?”
He nodded, and leaned back in his chair. “Your father was here, yesterday. I talked to him.”
I said nothing.
“I was thinking about the story for the papers,” he went on quietly. “Relative of murdered man helps trap killer. How would that look in the headlines? That should put you in solid with all of them.”
“Maybe. It isn’t that important to me. First, you’ve got to find Art.”
“Yup. When we find him, we’ll wrap it up.”
He wanted to believe. He was a busy man and his time was limited. Friends we were, for the moment, because Art and Al’s kidnaping of me helped to bolster his case. And if anything should go wrong, in court, the Feds would still have their case, kidnaping. Friends we were, but only for the moment.
What did I owe him? If the telegram in answer to mine was home, now, and said what it might say, I might have another killer for him, Ducasse’s killer. Or, at least, another suspect. Maybe he didn’t want it. This was so clean, this way.
And why should I throw him Claire? She was a hell of a lot more to me than he was. He’s a public servant, Lee Kaprelian, and you’re the public. He’s the law, Lee, and you’re a citizen.
But that was all abstract. The reality was this; he was a rough man in a cheap suit and she was my love. Nuts to him. I thought, that moment. He’s satisfied with what he’s got.
The phone on the desk rang, and he picked it up. His smile told me more than the words that followed.
When he hung up, he said, “They picked up Art, right here in town. Now to work on Al. We can promise him immunity, almost, on the murders, and still throw him to the Feds, later. He might forget about the Federal rap.”
“Not if he’s got a lawyer,” I said, “and he’ll have a good one, I’ll bet. Well, Sergeant, it’s your baby.”
Washing my hands of the deal, I was. Pontius Pilate, Jr.
In the office of an assistant district attorney, I identified Al Hagen as one of the men who had transported me, by force, to the cottage on Pewaukee Lake and there illegally held me.
Al had no comment to make all through this. Al looked at me curiously for the first few seconds, and then avoided all our eyes during the ritual in the office.
They took him away, again, and I left. I walked over to the Avenue and took the green bus home. Maybe, in court, they’d use Berjouhi’s testimony. Berjouhi had said Sam had seen the black Buick near the apartment. But Ducasse hadn’t died in that apartment, according to the papers.
Maybe Waldorf was sorry, now, that that information had been made public. It weakened his case, rather than strengthening it. Because if Art and Al were near Ducasse’s apartment the night he was killed, but Ducasse hadn’t been near the apartment, it was their alibi. Berjouhi’s testimony would not be used, I’d bet.
All they wanted was a killer. Any killer would do, if the crime could be tailored to fit. All the public wanted was a scapegoat. And all I wanted was Claire. What a stupe I’d be to make them all unhappy by further complicating such a clean case.
There was no telegram at the apartment. I was glad of that.
In the old-fashioned tub with the claw feet, I took a hot bath. Then, without phoning anybody, I climbed into bed.
I was just stretching the aches out of me, when the phone rang. I let it ring.
Fatigue was heavy in me, but my mind wouldn’t slow down. I stretched and squirmed, ignoring the phone. Upstairs, the baby babbled. Outside, traffic went by. I couldn’t sleep.
There was a knock on the French doors, and I could see the outline of a woman behind the curtain. I put on a robe, and went to the door.
My mother stood there. “You’re safe,” she said. “You’re all right?”
I nodded. “Come in, Ma. I’ve had a bad night and I’m trying to get some sleep.”
She came in, her face composed. “There were reporters at the house. I guess they don’t know you’re living here.”
She sat on the davenport. “What happened last night?”
“I was kidnaped, by the men who killed Sam. I think they meant to scare Sam, not kill him. He was a hard man to scare. I got away from them, and now the police have them.”
She nodded, as though that was all settled, now, in her mind. She wasn’t looking at me. “You are going to marry this woman, this Americat — this woman?”
“I guess so. You wouldn’t like that?”
“I don’t know. I never saw your father until the day we were married. That’s the way it is sometimes arranged in the old country. Perhaps that isn’t good — but one thing, the old people are wiser. The marriages don’t end in divorce.”
I said nothing.
“Your father,” she said quietly, “is sorry. He wants to tell you he is sorry.”
“He knows where I live, if you do.”
“He’s a proud man, Levon.”
“So am I.”
Now, she turned to face me, and her eyes were wet. “For me, Levon, you’ll go to see him? For me?”
I sat down on the davenport and put an arm around her. “Maybe. Don’t go heavy on me, Ma. I can’t take any more of that. I’ll drop in at the store and pick up that prayer rug. That’ll give him an opening.”
“Fine,” she whispered. “Fine. It was — Berjouhi who told us about Sam. She’s such a good girl, Lee, and so beautiful.”
“I’m glad you dropped the ‘Levon,’” I said. “She’s a good girl and beautiful. It would be nice if I loved her. Then we could all be happy.”
Or I could pretend to love her, and everybody but Lee would be happy.
I asked, “Have you heard anything about Selak? Has he come back?”
She shook her head. “Do you think-could he have — ?” She was staring at me, the question in her eyes.
“No. They wouldn’t bother Selak. They’d have no reason to. I guess he’s in love with my girl, too.”
My mother was silent, for seconds. “Maybe, if everything goes well at the store, if your father is — all right, maybe you could bring her for dinner, Sunday, for pilaff?”
“Maybe. I’ll ask her and then phone you. Am I okay, Mom? Good boy?”
“Nothing extra.” She patted my hand. “You pick up that prayer rug. And give him a chance to talk. He’s stubborn, you know. He’s not the smartest man in the world.” She stood up. “Well, I’ve got more important things to do.”
I went to the door with her. When I came back, I made the bed and rolled it away. There’d be no sleep for me.
I looked at the phone for quite a while before I dialed her number. I don’t know why I had to put on the ham, all alone like that; there hadn’t been any doubt in my mind that I was going to phone her, eventually.
“Where in the world have you been?” she asked me. “I’ve been phoning all morning.”
“I was kidnaped. It’s a long story. They’ve got the killer.”
“They — ? The police, you mean? Lee, what’s happened?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. Why were you phoning me?”
“I saw that man, that Selak. He was in the hall, here. He — looked — horrible, Lee. He didn’t see me, thank God.”
“You should have called Carl. He’s so strong and brave.”
“I didn’t, though. I phoned the police. Why all the mystery? Why can’t you tell me what happened?”
“I will, in about an hour. I’m going down to the store, first. The folks are coming around, I guess.”
“We can have an Armenian we
dding, can’t we? Won’t we have a time? Oh, Lee — ” And then a fairly long pause, “Who’s the killer?”
“Don’t you know?”
“What are you saying? Lee, for — ”
“A guy named Art,” I said. “One of Dykstra’s boys. Waldorf is sure it’s a solid case.”
I could hear her sigh. And her voice was calm, now. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
No sniffles, no soreness in the throat. The sun came through the windows to the east and the lake was tranquil. I dressed slowly, thinking of the telegram, wondering why it didn’t come. Maybe, he was answering by mail.
No peace, no anticipation of the scene with Papa to come, nor the reunion with my lovely. The big question kicking around in my troubled brain. She’s such a hard girl to believe in.
Well, I didn’t have to marry her. I could play house until the bloom wore off, bicker it to death. Only she was for me. What she’d been wasn’t going to matter, after a while. What she was going to be was mine.
The front door to the shop was open. Papa was at the desk, working on his books. He looked up, as I entered, and his face went slack.
Finally, “Levon — Hello, Levon, my son.”
“Hello, Papa,” I said. “I’ve come for the prayer rug.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course. I — ” He closed his mouth.
I smiled at him. “You heard I’m not a che ghadz?”
“I heard.” Now, he smiled. “Aaaa, Levon.” He rubbed the back of his wrist with his other hand. “And the girl — ?”
“Ma thought I should bring her up for dinner, Sunday.”
Quiet, his face grave, showing nothing. “You are — ?”
“I’m going to marry her.”
“Oh.” Nothing on the face, still. He walked to the safe and started to turn the knob. His back was to me. “When Berjouhi told us about Sam, I thought, maybe — Well, what does it matter what I thought?” He reached in and brought out the rug.
He turned, spreading the rug out on the floor, and stood there, a moment, admiring it. “I wish I could afford it.”
Fine as moss, it looked, warm in the sunlight.
Bloody Bokhara Page 17
