Doorway to Death

by Dan J. Marlowe

  “Oozo.”

  “Oozo?”

  “A Greek drink. Or at least south central Mediterranean. You drink all night an' then turn your head an' the world dissolves.”

  The little man smiled again politely, but his mind was obviously elsewhere. He drank again and sank deeper into the depths of his chair. “Since I've stated my case, or rather the lack of it, it remains only to say that I am belatedly curious.”

  Johnny wiped his lips with the back of his hand and sighed. “Goddamn Joe Dameron. All right; you got the floor.”

  “Thank you. I'm sure you'll agree that once one scratches the surface, the situation is not—well—ordinary. Item: I come to work three months ago, to be informed by my predecessor about the night bell captain with the pipeline to the summit.”

  “Which you verified.”

  “Which I verified. Oh, indirectly, I assure you. I learned also that said bell captain was accounted by all the senior citizens here to be truly that rara avis, a devil with the ladies. You will forgive me for thinking that that seemed to type the bell captain? And that is why I feel that I should—perhaps?—apologize.”

  Johnny rose from his own chair to retrieve his guest's empty glass. He took his time in the process of refilling it, head cocked a little to one side as though listening to an inner voice. “Apologize?”

  “Precisely. In view of what I heard this afternoon, it's a bit deflating to the ego to realize that one has so baldly underestimated an associate's talents.” He accepted the rallied glass.

  “I wouldn't let it worry me,” Johnny told him, but the little man shook his head vigorously.

  “The lieutenant was, you must admit, quite explicit. You seem to be a many-sided individual.”

  “You don't want to pay too much attention to Joe. Oh, it did happen a few years back that a guy was dropped down in a new arena, and the equipment fitted.”

  “And the lieutenant offered you an opportunity to re-test the equipment?” The silence built up in the room, and Ronald Frederick waved his glass deprecatingly. “No eavesdropping, I assure you, Johnny. But the lieutenant so obviously admired the equipment, and staged the meeting so carefully, surely I'd be something sub-human if my curiosity weren't piqued? Everything seemed so—ah—factual, in his exposition. Was it in the O.S.S.?”

  “For a while.”

  “And then?”

  “Partisans.”

  “Mmmmm. You speak French, then? Italian? Spanish? But of course; it would be a requirement.” He revolved the glass in his hand, considering. “And our Mr. Martin was a part of all this?”

  “Willie? The greatest.”

  “Really? One would scarcely—I've had barely three words with him, except at the final interview, but he hardly seemed—”

  “You've got to see him in action. Best front man in the business. You know that hustle-bustle thing of his, the way he lights up everything he touches?”

  “Incandescence?”

  “Yeah. Willie's got brass-bound guts, and he can talk the birds right out of the trees in half a dozen languages. He was the man. I was just along to bulldog him out alive when the roof fell in on an operation.”

  “A bit less difficult to see now why you're here under such circumstances. Or should I say auspices? It must be an unusual relationship.”

  “Maybe. It doesn't seem so unusual to me.”

  “I see. Johnny, I've enjoyed your hospitality as much as I've—ah—-abused it. I'd like to have the opportunity of reciprocating some time soon. Even a little vicarious excitement stirs the sluggish blood occasionally, hmm? Goodnight, and thanks.” He put down his empty glass, smiled briefly, and departed, and his host sat for some time staring at the closed door.

  Johnny roused himself and finished his own drink. He stacked the glasses in the sink and left for the captive service elevator. Aboard, he headed down, and in the lobby he started in the direction of the public phone booth in the corner, changed his mind and veered toward Sally's switchboard. “I'm goin' out for a couple minutes, ma.”

  “Blonde or brunette?”

  “Blind date. Do something for me. Make a list of all the calls while I'm out, and I mean all.”

  “What are you up to now, Johnny?”

  “Be glad to let you know when I find out. Be right back.”

  “Oh, give the girl a better break than that!”

  He grinned, waved to Vic hunched over his transcript, and walked out through the foyer and turned left toward Broadway and the Villa Nueva, the night club four doors down the street. Its garish outside illumination contrasted sharply with the low-ceilinged, smoke-filled cavern which he entered. Johnny made his way through the closely packed tables to the phone booth in the farthest corner and dialed Lieutenant Dameron. The phone rang quite a while before it was answered. “Joe? Killain. Couple of things occurred to me.”

  “Jesus! They couldn't wait till morning?”

  “You office types sleep too much.”

  “We might if we didn't associate so damn much with other types. Well?”

  “Did your people run a check on the hotel employees, Joe?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Everybody?”

  “What the hell? Certainly, everybody.”

  “Anything I should know?”

  “Why the hell should you know anything? You're not on the team, as I was informed by you personally. Now what's on your mind?”

  “Not a damn thing, if that's your attitude.”

  “It's not my attitude, Johnny. It's yours.”

  “I think I was just propositioned, Joe.”

  “You were?” Interested awareness took over the voice, to be followed immediately by suspicion. “What do you mean, you think?”

  “Went fifteen rounds an' never laid a glove on the guy.”

  “Now there's a switch—”

  “There has to be a reason they picked this place.”

  “When we know that, we'll know a lot more, too. Who propositioned you?”

  “I've got something else on my mind, Joe. I've had a chance to sort out this Max Armistead thing, and I don't like it. You didn't ask me if I'd killed him, Joe.”

  The silence was fractional. “I know you don't use a gun. And I might as well ask the Sphinx.”

  “I think there was another reason.”

  The silence was longer this time. “So maybe I was afraid of the answer.”

  “But afraid of the answer, you'd take me on? I could look for a lotta backin' from you if they tied it to me later on, Joe?”

  “What are you getting at, Johnny?”

  “You know what I'm gettin' at. If I'd said yes to you this afternoon, you'd have put me under your umbrella till I'd pulled your chestnuts outta the fire here. Then what?”

  The voice was tired. “You didn't ask for a written contract.”

  “And a damn good thing, I can see now, you Irish sonofabitch. You never did assay very high to the ton in my book, Joe, and if I wasn't rustin' completely away in this plush birdcage for something to do I'd kiss you off for good. I'm tellin' you now: you stay the hell out of my way.”

  The voice was sharper. “Don't get ideas, Johnny. Don't meddle in something that's none of your business. Don't make me prove I'm a cop.”

  “And don't you make me laugh. The next corner I turn that you're around, I run right over the top of you.” Johnny banged up the receiver and boiled out of the booth to collide with an underdressed cigarette girl carrying her wares on a neck-slung tray.

  “Why, Johnny! I've missed you—” She was tall and dark, with long slender legs in full length opera hose, brief shorts and a briefer bra of black satin. She was an extremely good-looking girl, with flawless pale features under jet black hair.

  “I'm in a hurry, Shirley.”

  “You and that boss of yours are always in a hurry. Relax; you'll live longer. He tell you when he'd be back?”

  “He didn't say.”

  “You're not even a good liar, Johnny. What did he tell you?”
>
  “I said I was in a rush, Shirl.” He tried to edge by her past the close-crowded tables, and she stepped into his path.

  “Why don't you drop by some night in the master's absence and warm up the couch, Johnny?”

  “That shade of mauve makes me bilious.”

  She tapped her teeth with a silvered fingernail. “Not anti-social, are you? Or did you just remember your Boy Scout oath?”

  “You're not makin' a play for me, Shirl. Relax.”

  “When did Willie say he'd be back?”

  “What did he tell you when you asked him?”

  Two bright red spots emblazoned the pale face; the tall girl in one quick movement picked up a package of cigarettes from her tray and threw them right in Johnny's face. A titter ran around the nearer tables, but Shirley took an involuntary backward step at the look on his face as he straightened from his instinctive half-crouch. His voice when he found it was huskily soft. “Don't press your luck, Shirl.”

  She had recovered her poise in that instant; her voice was jeering. “Run along, little boy. Willie will keep you in line.”

  “Don't ever count on it.” He brushed her aside roughly and strode heavily to the door. You can keep an eye on your own damn wildcats, Willie, he thought to himself grimly. I'm too likely to break that one's little neck.

  On the street he slammed back toward the hotel in a furious black mist.

  “Over here, sonny.”

  Johnny looked and leaped in the same instant, surprising the freckled, reckless face above the snubnosed automatic partially concealed in the pointing hand, and the man ricocheted off the parked car against which he had been leaning and looked down with a shocked grin at the gun which clattered noisily into the street.

  The big hands closed down on the lapels of the garish sport jacket. “I didn't get the name, chum?”

  The man twisted, freckles stark in the pale face. He tried to kick, tried viciously to jerk up a knee, and the hands shook him until his head bobbed wildly, and the whites of his eyes rolled up.

  Johnny widened his leg stance. “Let's hear something, gunman, or I feed you one of your ears.”

  The frecklefaced man's hat flew off disclosing carroty red hair as he snarled defiance between gasps. “Go to h-hell—!”

  Johnny's shoulders bunched under the uniform as he leaned forward to increase his leverage.

  “Drop him, muscles!” Johnny turned; over his shoulder he could see the twin of the gun he had knocked into the street prominently displayed in the grip of a large, swarthy man in a seersucker suit three paces to his rear. He shrugged and released his grip, and the man he had been shaking staggered to one side, a hand at his throat, wheezing hard.

  “Get your gun, Eddie,” the seersucker suit said softly. “The boss said this one was a character.”

  As Johnny's eyes automatically followed Eddie scrambling in the gutter, the swarthy man took a long step and a short step forward and in perfect coordination reversed his gun and, in a full armed swing, exploded its butt high off Johnny's head.

  When the first flash of light subsided he found himself on his knees staring foggily at two large feet planted solidly on the sidewalk in front of him. Too late he reacted to the position of the feet; his twisting lunge carried him right into the second crashing impact, this time along the jaw-line. Johnny felt something sharp catch under his ear and rip through the flesh, and pure anger as well as reflex conditioned his furious grab at the close-in knees. His arms tightened around them hungrily as the man above him yelled in surprise, and he lifted mightily and smashed him to the sidewalk, rolling over on him.

  He grinned down tightly into the stricken face below him, cocking his own head to one side so that he could see from the good eye. “You don't look near so tough from up here, Bud.”

  Methodically Johnny freed a hand and arm. He pinned the thrashing body beneath him with his own weight, and systematically hammered the contorted face, meantime trying to inch around to increase his field of vision on the side of the bad eye. Eddie was on his mind, but not soon enough. Sudden, brilliant light hurt his eyes, and he tipped forward into a long, inclined chute...

  He came to, sitting on the sidewalk with his back propped against the building wall with someone he couldn't see mopping the blood streaming down his face and neck.

  “—jumped him. Two of 'em. I seen it,” a voice announced excitedly over his head.

  “Who is he? Where's—?”

  “—big bellhop from up the street. Man, 'd you—”

  “—got away. Two more in a car across—”

  “—an ambulance. A doctor, anyway—”

  “—see the other one? Hope his wife had a picture of him—”

  “Hey! Don't all crowd around!”

  Johnny cleared his throat; vision was returning on one side. “Gimme a hand up here, one of you.”

  “You can't make it, Mac.”

  “Gimme a hand. I'll make it.”

  They struggled with his bulk and got him to his feet. The night air felt wonderfully cool as he took deep, deep breaths; he felt better. He fixed a younglooking face with his good eye. “Hustle on up to the hotel, son, and tell Paul I want him.”

  He waited, releasing himself from the supporting arms; he tried a tentative step and grimaced as his knees twinged. He could feel his strength returning; with his sleeve he dabbed at the slow trickle running down the side of his face. He looked impatiently at the increasing crowd milling around; he had to get out of there. He looked up with relief when Paul pushed through its fringes. “Little difference of opinion, Paul.” The stolid Paul nodded. “Get Doc Phillips started up to my room. Then drop the service elevator to the sub-basement, and I'll get on from the alley.”

  “Can you make it to the alley?”

  “I'll make it.” He motioned the crowd out of the way as Paul hurried back up the street. “Goodnight, folks. Repeat performance tomorrow night by special request. Admission will be charged; refreshments will be served. Come early; seats are goin' fast. All right; back up now—”

  He marked a line on the sidewalk and started off, bearing down with such a conscious effort to maintain- it that he almost missed the turn into the alley. He swerved at the last instant, and the two or three stragglers who had followed him stopped and stared silently as Paul opened the door and helped him inside. The fifteen feet to the cab seemed longer; inside it he propped himself against a side wall and slowly released breath he seemed to have been holding almost indefinitely.

  He could feel Paul's eyes on him as the elevator started up. “Never kid a southerner about Antietam, Paul.”

  At the sixth floor he peeled himself off the supporting wall, and with Paul's hand under his elbow started down the corridor. He thought about telling Paul he didn't need the hand and decided he couldn't spare the breath.

  Doc Phillips' white shirt was dazzling in the light. “Get him out of those rags, Paul, so I can see what I'm doing.”

  “'S nothin', Doc. Scratch. 'N rap on the head.”

  The doctor grunted finally as he swabbed and probed. “For once you seem to be right. And a concussion, probably.”

  “No concussion. Little headache. Paul?”

  “Yes?”

  “Bourbon in the closet.”

  “You want a chaser?”

  “Spit in the glass a couple of times.” The doctor was unwinding gauze. “Never mind the bandages, Doc. Little tape will do; thanks, Paul.”

  “Listen, tough guy—”

  “Save the, speeches for the patients, Doc. I said tape. Paul?”

  “Yes, Johnny?”

  “Skip on down to the switchboard like a good fella and send Sally up here? Somethin' I've gotta know.” He drank deeply from the glass in his hand, waited for the impact, shuddered, and drank again.

  Doctor Phillips pressed a final bit of adhesive into place and stepped back and looked at Johnny. “Purely as a matter of professional curiosity, with what am I competing these days in my effort to keep you stitched to
gether?”'

  “I wish to God I knew, Doc. Nobody made any speeches, although come to think of it I didn't give 'em much of a chance. Both those boys were pretty good operators with the off end of a gun.”

  The doctor shook his head and indicated the drink in Johnny's hand. “I'd dilute that prescription a little, if I were you.”

  “You stick to the needles and saws, Doc.”

  “I want to see you in the morning. I want a look at that jaw when the swelling subsides. You could have a hairline fracture.”

  “You know better'n that, Doc.”

  “You come by my office anyway. I want to X ray. And I—let—“

  Two sharp raps barely preceded Sally's flying entrance. The thin face was anxious, and the brown eyes apprehensive. “Johnny—”

  “All right, ma. Take it smaller. Thanks, Doc.”

  “Don't forget I want to see you in the morning. Goodnight. Goodnight, Sally.”

  “Goodnight, Doctor Phillips.” She closed the door behind him, and turned immediately.

  “Save it, ma. I know it all by heart.”

  “But what are you up to now—?”

  “You got the list?”

  “L-look at you—!”

  “Now quit blubberin', or I'll penalize you fifteen yards.”

  “But what happened?”

  “Well, now, I'll tell you. You never saw a blonde could run like this one, but I was gainin' when she ducked around a corner. I made the corner on a wheel an' a half and zowie! She lowered the boom on me. Them blondes are hittin' mighty good these days.”

  “I should have known better than to ask you. Are you all right?”

  “My knees hurt worse than anything else.”

  “That ought to curtail your most prominent activity.”

  “You come up in the morning, and I'll show you different.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “Kiddin', hell. We'll let you drive the wagon. You ought to earn your way once in a while, anyway.”

  “You get out of the gutter. As far as possible, that is.”

  “Yes, ma. You got that list?”