He exhaled a cloud of smoke and idly dabbled the tip of his cigarette in it before replacing it in his mouth. “He was a specialist, Jimmy. No machinery. No guns, no knives, no blackjacks; all he had to do was reach you. He can give any circus strong man you ever saw cards and spades, and when he gets mad you wouldn't believe it. He warms up on brick walls.”
The cigarette's tip glowed redly. “Willie brought him back here with him... that's Willie Martin, the owner of this place. Our sourpussed friend here was Willie's hatchet man, and he pulled Willie through a couple of mighty snug knotholes. Willie stuck him in a uniform here and gave him the run of the place, and he developed a sideline. Women. What I hear, they had to enlarge the place a couple of times to get them all in.” He studied the growing ash on his cigarette. “This Willie Martin's a story himself. He was head oddball in a strictly oddball outfit; he inherited some money, and while I never did hear of him making any, he'll probably always be able to buy and sell the crowd here. He's the type that lives every minute like it's going to be his last on earth; a little frantic for the pedestrian caliber like me, geared a little lower.”
Lieutenant Dameron leaned forward in his chair, head turned up sidewise to the listening detective. “I'm telling you this, Jimmy, because I know that he's what happened to Max and Co.; his brand was stamped all over them. All except the bullet, the way I see it now. With the buzz we'd had on this deal, I offered him in; he was on the ground, and he's got a nose for this kind of thing. He thought I was holding the Armistead thing over his head, and he wouldn't buy. I figure he's lonewolfing it now; none of us knows what we're doing here anyway, and he thinks he might find a spot to cash in. Right, Johnny?” He shrugged at the glowering silence. “All right, then. What happened here tonight?”
“You tell me, you're so goddamn smart.”
“Temper, temper.” The lieutenant turned back to his assistant. “I forgot to say, Jimmy, that Armistead had braced him first, before I did, but he didn't like Armistead. When Max tried to push it a little, Johnny dropped him in the alley on the second bounce, and whoever was behind Max figured he could do without him.” He turned back to Johnny. “All right. Let's hear it.”
Johnny drew a deep breath, and for the first time in minutes wrenched his eyes away from the red-faced man. He looked up at Jimmy Rogers. “I can tell you what you already know. Whoever it was, they had a key to something. No sign of forcible entry. They just didn't know old Dutch had insomnia and often sat here nights. When they stumbled over him, the one on the floor got nervous and started after him, probably wavin' a gun. He violated the number one rule for drawing your social security; never go after a chef in his own kitchen. Dutch split him like a chicken from a dozen feet away with the cleaver he always had on this desk. The boy that caught the cleaver put two out of two into Dutch, which was pretty good shootin' under the circumstances. That was a little noisier than his partner liked to work, so the partner pumped in a couple of convincers alongside the cleaver to make sure no talkee and blew. Game, set, and match.”
“How'd you know the man the chef got was shot, too?” Detective Rogers asked him curiously.
“I looked. He wasn't layin' right for a knife wound, even a smash like that. A knife, they got time to get down easy, usually. A gun belts 'em down hard. This guy was belted.”
“He was, for a fact.”
“Now I'll tell you something you didn't know. The guy on the floor was registered into 1421 here last night under the name of Dumas. He was visitin' a guy named Lustig up in 938 early this morning; I brought him up some beer. Dumas checked out at nine thirty this morning. Lustig turned out to be a no-pay; room clean and no sign of him.”
“You can see why I thought he might be useful, Jimmy,” Lieutenant Dameron said briskly. “He has a nose for trouble.”
“He also has a nose for facts; he laid out a pretty straight story.” Rogers frowned down at his notebook. “The bar boy heard the first two shots and started right in here. On the way he heard a pop-pop; silencer on the second gun, evidently. He ran right back out when he got a look around and says he didn't pass anyone either way.”
“How do you figure the second bird got out of here, then?” Lieutenant Dameron asked him.
“Same key he came in with, I'd say, sir. Mighty cool character. Changed horses at flood tide and never batted an eye.” He closed his notebook. “I'll talk to a few more of the help now, if we've finished here.”
The ruddyfaced man stood up slowly. “You go ahead; I'm running along. Begins to look like one of those things around here; this is the second stone wall we've hit.”
Johnny looked at Detective Rogers. “Manuel tell you what Dutch said?”
The slender man nodded and looked at the lieutenant. “The kid said that the chef said something that sounded like 'clocks.'”
“Clocks?” The big man circled the room with his eyes and stopped at the big kitchen clock. He pointed to it. “Have the lab boys dismantle that and go over it. There won't be anything to it, bat we might as well make a noise like we knew what we were doing, especially since it doesn't look like the rush of witnesses is going to knock us down.” He led the way out to the bar, stopped, and turned to Johnny. “You have a key to this thing?”
“Yeah, but Willie's a little fussy who he sets them up for.”
The apple cheeks darkened, but the lieutenant bit off any reply he might have been going to make. He turned and strode out through the lobby, his heels hitting heavily,—and Jimmy Rogers shook his head disapprovingly at Johnny. “What does it get you, man?”
“A little satisfaction.”
“He'll wear you out, if he takes a notion.”
Johnny looked at him. “I don't work for him, kid. He'll play hell gettin' an angle on me. And when I was workin' for him, I'd leave it up to him who wore who out.”
Detective Rogers laughed. He started to say something and then broke off as Ronald Frederick emerged through the swinging doors from the lobby, in pajamas and plum colored robe. He came directly to them. “A dreadful accident, dreadful.”
“Accident?” Jimmy Rogers' tone was amused.
“I meant to say—that is to say, not an accident, most assuredly not, but a shocking—ah—occurrence. They woke me to let me know.”
The sandyhaired man nodded. “If we could have three minutes' conversation now it might save fifteen or twenty in the morning,” he suggested.
“Certainly,” Ronald Frederick acceded promptly. **We can use my office.” He turned to Johnny. “You'll take care of—ah—things?”
“Yeah.” He looked at the sandyhaired man. “I got something for you I wouldn't give that lardhead just walked out of here. There's an automatic pilot elevator touches on that kitchen; we use it for room service. The kitchen outlet is supposed to be locked at ten every night, but for a client with keys it's the easiest route.”
“Where does it go?” Detective Rogers demanded.
Johnny grinned at him. “Only to the sixteenth floor.”
The slender man grimaced. “I already had no appetite for breakfast; now I'm losing it for lunch.”
“The kitchen outlet can be locked either from the kitchen side or the elevator side,” Johnny suggested.
“So?” Jimmy Rogers began, and then his eyes narrowed. “Then whatever floor that elevator is on now is where the guy got off?”
“If he used it,” Johnny amended. “And if he was cute enough not to get off at his own floor you won't have lowered the odds a nickel's worth.”
“Give me your keys,” Detective Rogers said briskly. “I'd like to start lowering the odds around here even a little bit.”
“I have mine,” Ronald Frederick said interestedly, and produced them from a pocket of his robe. “May I accompany you?”
“You two go ahead,” Johnny told them. “I haven't checked the front in an hour.” He watched the oddly matched pair pause in the service door entrance to the again darkened kitchen while Rogers flipped on lights; when the door swung shut behind
them, Johnny left the bar for the lobby. He glanced over at Sally's switchboard; and regretted it immediately; she beckoned imperiously, but he shook his head. Making a circle of thumb and forefinger of each hand, he lifted them to his eyes, and then pointed upward. Sally shook her head in a furious negative, but Johnny grinned at her and headed for the elevator.
As he started upward, he could hear the impatient, persistent ringing of the unanswered bell captain's phone.
Chapter V
If he was afraid of anything in this world, he was afraid of confinement. Johnny could feel his nostrils thinning in anticipatory rejection as he knelt before the heavy walnut desk in his own room and from the right hand bottom drawer removed flashlight, screwdriver, and icepick. On his way back to the door he could see in the mirror the hard line of his lips as he carefully patted bulging pockets to make sure he had forgotten nothing.
In the corridor he passed the exit door with its prim red overhead light, and stopped at the door beyond it with its neatly lettered metal sign, Maid. He opened this door, groped around behind the mops and the broom handles and removed a short stepladder whose bulk had effectively sealed the narrow opening behind it.
Johnny drew a deep breath, took a final look along the deserted corridor, and squeezed into the closet; he reached back a long arm and carefully closed the door upon himself. The warm, humid darkness closed in upon him, and he listened. Somewhere off to his right water dripped steadily, and the monotonous repetition set his teeth on edge.
He removed the flashlight from his hip pocket and experimented with its sharp finger of light upon the white plastered inner walls which enclosed him. He could feel the almost physical restraint of the tightly walled envelopment with its airless, fetid odor, and without giving himself time to think he inched sideways into the cramped passageway which would not admit the breadth of his shoulders.
Step by step he advanced, crabwise, feet always in the same relative position as he placed them carefully in the path delineated by the flashlight's slender beam upon the white walls which seemed now to stretch narrowly away before him to infinity. He pressed onward with body rigidly braced to withhold contact from the thin shell of plaster on either side of him.
Mentally he counted rooms in his slow progress, hoping he was keeping track correctly. He came to a stop finally, and ineffectually tried to shrug the clinging shirt from its moist contact with his neck and shoulders. He restored the flashlight to his pocket and removed the icepick. Selecting a spot head-high in the darkness which had again enveloped him, he gingerly inserted the point of the pick. Locking his wrist and arm solidly, he exerted a steady, unhurried forward and downward pressure as the needle point attacked the yielding plaster. Patiently he guided its fractional advance until a tiny jolt warned him of the breakthrough.
He removed the pick carefully, and a pinpoint of light rewarded him; he grunted softly as he applied his right eye to the minute aperture and tried to focus on the swirl of color in the room before him. A cream-colored wall reflected light so successfully that his eye watered involuntarily; he blinked it impatiently as he waited for his vision to adjust. The tiny peephole strained his sight intolerably; the left eye ached in sympathy with the staring right. Details of the room filtered through to him in agonizing flashes of recognition: the kneehole desk in its center, the small, neat bookcase in the corner, the imitation-leather easy chair, the partly opened door to the lighted bathroom beyond.
At least it was the right room; he removed himself from the aperture, and in the heat and darkness settled down to wait. He had needed the extra time to take up residence here within the walls before Ronald Frederick should return. Johnny had an increasing interest in the doings of Ronald Frederick.
The sound of a closing door alerted him; it might have come from anywhere in the sticky midnight which pressed in heavily upon him, but he was expecting a particular closed door. An inquiring eye at the peephole again at once disclosed the plum colored swirl of Ronald Frederick's robe as the little manager moved rapidly about the room. As the ache mounted behind Johnny's eye again from the intensity of his stare, the man he was watching broke off in his rapid movements and plopped down in the chair at the desk; Johnny barely had time to focus directly upon him before he leaned forward and picked up the phone. Johnny could see the thin lips moving, and he strained to hear, but a low, indistinguishable murmur was all that came through the plaster. In desperation he turned his head and applied his ear to his newly-manufactured listening post, and perspiration trickled down the back of his neck. He relaxed a little, then, because the clipped tones, though still indistinct, were understandable.
“—speak to Wilson—”
In the earpopping silence Johnny flicked water from the end of his nose. In these moments of aversion to the claustrophobia which gripped him, he had a recurring fantasy: he could feel the sweat which bathed him seeping down his body in tiny rivulets until it seemed to fill his shoes. He could feel it so vividly that involuntarily he flexed his toes. He tensed again as the blurred voice beyond the plaster continued. “—is Ronald Frederick. No, wait. Would I call if it were not an emergency? Never mind your surprise; I was surprised myself so spectacularly a few moments ago, sir, that it seems to me to quite alter the —ah—terms of our contract.”
Johnny tried to hold his breath, which seemed to him to be so loud that it impaired his hearing.
“—must be entirely unaware of the evening's activities, Mr. Wilson, when you can speak so urgently of caution?”
He could picture the thin-lipped, supercilious features hovering over the mouthpiece.
“—perfectly aware of our agreement, but hear me out.
Two men were killed on the premises here tonight, one of them an employee. I have not seen the other, but do you seriously question his identity?”
Again the enveloping silence as the saturated uniform molded itself to Johnny like a wet gunnysack.
“—do get the picture? Then I'm sure you'll agree that becoming involved in such a fiasco is a small world apart from supplying you with the bits of information you fancied? I personally feel so strongly about it that you shan't hear from me again.”
A biting cramp settled in the calf of Johnny's left leg; he jammed the heel down hard to ease the knotted pressure.
“—have something to lose, sir. I shan't change my mind. I was a fool to listen to you originally.”
Awkwardly Johnny lifted the leg and dug at the cramp with iron fingers.
“—sorry. Kindly don't bother to call again.”
The finality of the tone straightened Johnny up; in the darkness he felt all turned around, but with fingertips lightly on the plaster to guide himself, he exchanged ear for eye in time to hazily frame the little manager in the peephole again as he sat slumped forward in his chair at the desk. Johnny's eyes stung from the perspiration, and he sleeved them roughly. Vision was playing tricks on him now; in the inky blackness great white lights roared up and silently assaulted his retinas, and nausea was a cold, balled fist in his middle.
Enough was enough; he'd heard more than he had had any licence to expect. With painful deliberation he wormed his way backward out of the cavern whose walls seemed to press in more tightly upon him by the moment, pausing only to use the flashlight to prompt the positioning of his feet.
He noted wryly upon reaching his starting point that the comparatively cramped confines of the maid's closet felt like a ballroom after the constricting embrace of the passageway between the walls, and in the first instant of light, air, and space in the outside corridor he felt like a grain of sand on the beach.
He blinked at the light in the corridor, hurriedly replaced the ladder in its accustomed spot, and thankfully closed the door. On the way to his room only two things were in his mind: he had to call Sally and find out whom Ronald Frederick had called, and he had to get out of this uniform and under the shower.
With his own door closed behind him he pulled his cigarettes from his breast pocket, then sm
ashed the sodden pack against the wall in disgust. His throat felt parched, and his stomach uneasy; he stripped quickly, balling the soggy uniform trousers and jacket tightly and flinging them into the open closet on his way to the shower, but his impatience detoured him to the phone. “Sally?”
“Oh, Johnny—! Where've you been?”
“In the woodwork.”
“Isn't it terrible about Dutch?”
He could picture the thin, white face whose lips seemed always to turn blue in moments of stress, and he shook his head. “Don't take it so big, kid. He was an old man.”
“But he was alive an hour ago!”
He tried to keep the impatience from his tone. “He was an old man, Sally. He'd seen it all. And he went quick. A lot of us might like to go as quick some day.” He could hear the sibilant sounds as she sniffled into the operator's mouthpiece. “Pull yourself together, ma. There's something I want to know.”
“Y-yes—?”
“Who did Freddie call just now?”
“Freddie? He hasn't made any c-calls.”
“For God's sake, I heard him make it! Ten minutes ago, maybe. No longer.”
“He hasn't called anyone. Not from his room, anyway.”
He removed the receiver from his ear and stared at it questioningly before replacing it with a shrug. “So you blew one, ma. Forget it. You're a little shook. It's not the end of the world.”
“I didn't blow anything! He hasn't called a s-soul!”
He could hear the rising hysteria in her voice, and he made his own soothing. “Sure, sure, ma. Forget it. I musta blown a fuse up here. I'm gonna lie down for a few minutes after I shower. Tell Paul to call me if he needs me.” He hung up the phone and stared at the far wall, finger and thumb tugging absentmindedly at an ear lobe. “Now who in the hell could he have called?” He shrugged again. “Tough break. It's for sure the kid don't miss many.”
He worried it around under the steaming hot water, and after a cold rinse emerged no nearer a solution. He slid into fresh underwear, and glanced at his watch on the bureau; scarcely more than an hour since he had stood in the alley and watched the lights come on in the kitchen far down the side of the building.
Doorway to Death Page 6
