“You want to play?” Manny asked.
“I’m fresh out of cash, Manny.”
“How the hell you know my name?”
“This dick,” said Mario, “he knows everything. A real clever boy, this one.”
“Thanks, Mario. Got a minute?”
“Blow. You can see I’m busy.”
“I can’t wait,” I said.
“Teach him how, Manny.”
Manny was an anxious teacher. He started to get up, whistling some personal opera between his teeth, grinning at his associates to advise them of the fun and games to come with me. I dug in and pushed hard at his beefy shoulders, holding him down. He began to squirm, shifting his weight in the chair until he had me on the way to his lap. I stepped away at that moment, almost spilling him.
I stepped toward Mario.
“Lucca won’t like this,” I advised him. “Why get your tail in an uproar? We’re both working for the same man, Mario—Max Orlik. I’m with him.”
“Since when?”
“Last night.”
“On the same deal?”
“I wouldn’t cut into your cake, Mario,” I assured him. “My deal is different.”
“Then take it out of here,” he said, coughing up at me. “Now, I’m busy.”
Manny had me by the lapels, enjoying the business of lifting me toward the exit. The two others continued to study their poker hands. It was all very casual, as well organized as a tatting bee. I kicked back at Manny’s shins and connected with the bone. He gurgled an oath at me, but his hands relaxed and I grabbed at that important moment. I broke away from him and slid back to the table.
“I can save you a headache, Mario. I can get you a vacation from George Newberry.”
The name had a toxic effect. He coughed loud and long, his eyes bright with a few important memories out of his Safe and Loft adventures with the city cops. He would be recalling Newberry with disgust, remembering his maggoty habits. He would be reckoning with Newberry in a way that only professional gunsels think. A joust with Newberry could only spell trouble for him. Trouble and money.
“That crumb’s out of town,” Mario said. “He can’t bother me any.”
“He can bother Orlik,” I said. “And Orlik can include you in.”
“How does Orlik do that?”
“You want me to tell you here?”
He jerked his head at the group and they faded. “Sit down, Gant,” he said. “And make it good. Make it very good or you get a Swedish massage from Manny.”
“There was a murder out at The Glades Beach Club last night,” I said. “Orlik is on the dirty list.”
“How does that reach me?”
“He sent you out to the home of the murdered woman. You were seen there by another dame, remember?” I sat back and enjoyed his paroxysm of sudden croup. He surveyed me with the regard a small boy has for a magician. “How do I know, Mario? I was there. Simple?”
“Orlik told you why he sent me to the dump?” He asked the question weakly. He was beginning to sweat a bit, along the edges of his bony cheeks.
“That’s why I’m here. Did you find the junk?”
“I drew a blank.”
“You’d better be telling the truth.”
“Why should I lie? He was paying me ten grand to do the job for him.”
“You’ve lied before, Mario.”
“Easy,” he said, grinding his anger through his teeth. “Don’t push your luck with me, Gant. I tell you I didn’t find the stuff. No more smart talk, you understand?”
“I understand.” I got up. He was being as honest as his degenerate nature would ever allow. “Thanks for the time, Mario. You’ve been a real help.”
“Drop dead,” he coughed, as I left the table.
CHAPTER 15
4:48 A.M.
Linda slurped black coffee and said nothing. We were sitting in the dark, across the street from Hersh Saxon’s residence. I had bought her a container of coffee on the way uptown, a sop to my concern about her. I wanted her on the beam.
“You’re on the beam?” I asked. “You’re sure that’s Saxon’s dump?”
“Ring the bell and find out.”
“A hell of an hour for making a mistake, baby. If you’re wrong, I’ll have to take you home and put you to bed.”
“Is that a promise?” she giggled. “Look over there, darling. Who else but Saxon would be entertaining at this hour?”
The odds were in her favor. The big gray house was alive with light upstairs, a long picture window glowing in the gloom. It was a fancy trap, but Saxon could afford a gross of nests like this on the profits he made from his filthy sheet. A figure appeared against the filmy drape up there, a woman who looked good even as a misted silhouette. Then a man joined her. There was no mistaking this character, a small and skinny one who held a glass and stood close to the woman.
“Recognize her?” I asked Linda.
“Please, lover boy. On three gulps of coffee?”
“Stay where you are and finish it. I’ll be back before your last gulp.”
I danced across the street and rang the bell. From somewhere deep inside a cadenza of chimes went off, a tinkling rhapsody from out of the classics, refined and delicate. Saxon had rigged his entrance to stink of class. At eye level there was a fancy coat of arms, a bronzed plaque probably plucked from some bankrupt British castle: two griffons rampant on a field of lilies. Underneath this extravaganza, on a simple brass plate, the dignified italics:
H. Saxon
And in the doorway, facing me, an unsmiling character with the shoulders of an ox and a nose to match. He stood there, arms akimbo, as pleasant as a bad appendix.
“Yeah?” he inquired.
“Mr. Saxon,” I said. The gorilla looked familiar, a face out of the tabloids
“Busy,” the face said.
“Not to me, he isn’t. Why not tell him I’m here?” I argued. “It’s important.”
“Blow.” He snapped the word, like an angry mastiff. He looked down at me and showed me his snarl. And at that moment I knew him, of course. He was showing me his press picture, the pose he usually assumed in the days when the police gave him free rides in the paddy wagon. He would always be snapped this way, a dog with his fangs bared. He was the hood who went straight after Saxon hired him as bodyguard.
“I know you,” I said. “You’re Buck Fratig.”
“So you know me. Now scram.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll push your face in.”
“Push.”
He pushed, laughing as his hand went my way. This time he made a fist and poked. It was a stab, the punch of a pug who moves fast, out of habit. But Buck had bad habits. His left hand was still at his side, relaxed, instead of up near his stone jaw. I stepped away from his right easily, throwing him off balance. It embarrassed him.
He was further surprised when I planted a fist in his gut.
“Oinnngh,” he said.
He found himself bent double by my attack.
Then I hit him again, this time a bit higher, but still in the area of the stomach lard. He buckled. He began to sink, muttering weird noises at his navel. He was caught off guard, leveled by the sort of stab he would use himself in an emergency. But he had the strength of a bull and just as many brains. He held himself half erect and worked to straighten his spine. He mumbled vague obscenities and braced himself for another lunge at me.
So I hit him again, determined to put him away for the rest of the morning. I hit him with my knee this time, high on the groin, a French trick, but always useful against stubborn idiots like Buck Fratig. The air went out of him in a sickening sigh and he sucked and shivered and began to drool on the fancy pink carpet. He stubbornly sat there, like a sick Arab at prayer, swaying and rolling on his weak knees.
But he fell on his face by the time I reached the marbled stairs beyond him.
“Buck?”
Somebody was shouting from up above, a hoarse voice full of authority.
“That you, Buck?”
“Okay,” I said into my handkerchief, still climbing.
“What the hell?” Saxon stood at the top of the steps, scowling down at me. He carried a glass and smoked a cigar and showed me how mean he could look. On the landing, he faced me with legs apart, a skinny knight defending the feudal parapets. He had the ability to murder his henchmen with his eyes, the sourest looking punk this side of a funeral parlor. He applied the heat to me, stepping forward to meet me as I came off the steps. But his routine left me cold. I was more interested in the woman who stood looking at us from the living room.
She was Jean Russicoff.
“You?” she whispered to herself. She wore a simple outfit, probably plucked from her wardrobe of college togs, a black skirt tight on her hips, a light lavender blouse that made her a standout above the navel. Her blonde beauty added spice to her wardrobe, but she was out of place here. She belonged on a campus, at a frat dance, or in a canoe, nuzzling a football hero. Only they’d expel her from college if they ever caught her this way. She was crocked. To the ears. She held fast to the side of the couch to steady herself. She tried to adjust her pretty face to sell me nonchalance. She failed.
Saxon leaned over the balustrade.
“Buck?” he called.
“Buck’s asleep,” I told him. “Dozed off.”
“And who the hell are you?”
“The inquiring reporter. Aren’t you ashamed, Saxon, making passes at a college girl? If I had a gossip sheet, I’d headline you for this.”
“You know this man, Jean?” He held his fire, boiling slowly. He faced her with the poise of a college prof asking a student a test question.
“Met him at the club,” she said, her smile unsteady. “Detective.”
“Gant’s the name, Jean. Remember? We meet in the funniest places, don’t we? I’m here on business,” I said. “What’s your reason?”
“Job.” She tried for brazenness. She elevated her chin to parlay her pride, her dignity. It didn’t play. She was a poor liar. “Mr. Saxon wants me to work for him. Secretary. Simple as that.”
“Started to work yet? He paying you overtime?”
Saxon stepped forward, steaming now. All of a sudden he had a gun in his hand. He waved it at me, indicating the stairs. On him the gun looked good. His hand was steady, his gesture purposeful. I let him come at me, slowly, grinning at him as he came.
“I can get away with this, detective,” he said. “I can play it dumb. For all I know, you’re a cheap con, in here on a stick-up. I could kill you and make it look easy.”
“No, no, no,” gasped Jean, running toward us.
“Put it away, strong man,” I said. “The idea stinks.”
“I’ll give you another minute. Move.”
“Coax me.” He was standing with his back to the stairs now. A little trickle of panic skittered down my spine. I was playing against his reputation for bravery. The odds were in his favor, out of his background of brash behavior. He was known for his cocky confidence, his bravado. He would be working to prove his reputation. “Sell me, Saxon,” I said. “Sell me the idea that this chick’s going to do typing for you.”
“It’s true,” Jean said, frozen and frightened. “Why don’t you go away?”
“And Chuck?” I asked. “Does he know about this, Jean?”
“It’s none of his affair.”
“Your time’s about up,” Saxon said.
I disregarded him.
“You want me to tell Chuck I found you playing mattress games with this heel?” I asked. “You think Chuck’ll enjoy it?”
“Please,” she said, turning away from me. “Please go.”
“You heard the little lady.” Saxon said. “Step over here. Now.”
The tableau was building to its inevitable conclusion. In another tick of time he would have had me marching down the marble stairs. But my ears held me a bit longer. There was a small noise down below. Buck? If the ape was conscious there was no point in standing still anymore.
So I moved in on Saxon.
And he fired his gun.
The shot was aimed deliberately high, over my right shoulder, a flat clap of thunder that exploded in the room. I saw Jean duck and fall to the floor, holding her throat. I had dropped automatically when the noise slammed at me. Saxon stood over me, laughing in a sly and evil way. He toyed with the gun, letting his arm swing free with it, waving it under my eye. The moment built quickly, punctuated by the sound of Jean’s sobbing. The silence was a blanket after the great burst of gun talk. Saxon enjoyed his role in the scene. He was giving me time to climb back on my heels, to get up and move.
He was completely unprepared for what followed.
Because Chuck Bond came bouncing up the stairs.
He leaped at Saxon from behind, catapulting him forward. Saxon fell flat on his gut, the gun dropping out of his fingers, his face filled with wonder. Chuck stayed with him, climbing all over him, wrestling him to the wall and holding him there. I picked up the automatic.
“Let him be, Chuck,” I said. “He won’t bother us anymore.”
He didn’t hear a word I said. He was busily engaged in massaging Saxon’s jaw with his fist. I pulled him off.
“Relax,” I said. “Your girl’s all right.”
“Why?” he shouted at Saxon. “Why did you bring her here?”
“Ask her,” Saxon snarled. “She came under her own power.”
“You’re a liar.” He whirled, grabbed Jean and began to shake her. She was too far gone to care. She had collapsed in tears, unable to face him. “Tell him he’s a liar, Jean. Tell him.”
“It’s true,” she whispered. “I asked to come.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I do,” I said. “It fits. It figures now.”
Chuck looked at me hopelessly. “What are you talking about?”
“True love.” I was getting through to Jean. She stood slightly behind Chuck, suddenly alert now, trying to signal me to kill my dialogue. Her eyes had brightened again. All of a sudden she came through to me clearly. She was a real heroine. She was Joan of Arc, Edith Cavell, or a girl out of a Steinbeck yarn. And she didn’t want Chuck to know the details.
So I told him.
“You’re a lucky boy, Chuck. You got yourself a girl who’s willing to give her all for you.”
“Please,” Jean interrupted.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” I asked her. “Weren’t you grubbing around in Ziggi’s dressing room for that manuscript? Didn’t you go on the prowl for it because you knew Chuck would be featured in it? You figured maybe you could stall publication of it by getting it last night.”
“That’s partly true,” she said quietly. “But I was only guessing. It was just a rumor that Ziggi might be writing articles like that.”
“Rumor, my eye,” Chuck said. “Ziggi’s been on this rat’s payroll for a long time. He’s a star reporter, isn’t he, Saxon?”
“Why not ask him?”
“Because I’m asking you.” Chuck stood over him menacingly. He reached down and clutched Saxon’s throat. He squeezed. The skinny scandal tycoon wriggled under the pressure, all the light going out of his eyes. He gulped and squirmed, his breath a hoarse gasp. Jean stepped forward to stop Chuck, but I held her near me. What Chuck was doing could be important now. The fear blossomed on Saxon’s face, his skin going waxy gray, his mouth drooling a bit. He began to sag.
Chuck shook him awake.
“About Ziggi?” Chuck asked.
“Let up,” said Saxon. “You guessed him right.”
“He’s one of your informers? S
ince when?”
“Two years,” said Saxon, coughing the line. “My throat. For God’s sake, my throat.”
“Greater love hath no woman,” I said. “Jean came up here to see if she could buy Saxon off the old-fashioned way.”
“Please,” Jean sobbed, turning away from me.
“Is that true, too?” Chuck continued his systematic terrier tactics, shaking Saxon’s head on its hinge. “You would have taken her to bed to stall the filthy article?”
“She asked for it.”
Chuck hit him before he dropped a period on the sentence. Saxon fell back, upsetting a decorative table and two bottles of liquor. Chuck stepped over the debris and would have hit him again, but the sound of Jean’s weeping held him. He went to her and folded her in his arms.
“You would have done that for me, Jean?” he asked. “I don’t deserve a girl like you. You’re too good for me, too damned sweet for a crumb like me.”
“I don’t think so, Chuck.”
“Let’s get out of here. Let’s go somewhere where we can breathe, baby.”
“Whatever you say.”
He led her to the stairs and told her to go down and wait for him. Then he turned to Saxon.
“One last word,” he said. “Stay away from me, Saxon. Leave my girl alone. The next trick you try, I swear I’ll kill you.”
Then he spat at Saxon and walked out of there.
CHAPTER 16
5:22 A.M.
In the lobby Buck Fratig still snored where I had dropped him. I had my hand on the hall doorknob when a figure moved in from the street to fill the doorway.
“Somebody hurt?”
George Newberry looked beyond me, sucking a toothpick and making clucking noises at the figure on the floor.
“Heart attack,” I said.
“Sure, sure.” He leaned over the body and scowled down at it. “Buck Fratig, isn’t it?”
The Corpse in the Cabana Page 9
