The Devil You Know

by P. N. Elrod

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Use that brain, my lad. What have I been doing for the last decade?”

  Oh. No love lost between a crime columnist and the criminals. He’d be the last person on earth they’d believe. “There’s more,” I said.

  “Yes. Come hell or high water you’re to get Naomi Endicott out of here in one piece.”

  “What? Because Gordy called me Houdini?”

  “Brogan can’t trust his own men. He isn’t sure how far Swann’s corruption’s gone.”

  “Why not you?”

  Clapsaddle fell into that withering glare again. “Are you an idiot? I’m a stumbling, out-of-shape, moderately clever drunkard. While that is in high demand at the Algonquin Round Table, it’s of no use here.”

  “Why can’t we all leave?”

  “You can get Barrett out, too, if it won’t endanger Naomi. I’m staying to look for Isabelle. Brogan has to make a stand, win or lose. This is a fairly isolated area; there’s less chance of an outsider getting shot or for anyone to notice and call the police.”

  “The cops are coming anyway once Izzy gets to a phone. If Swann’s smart he’ll disappear himself right now.”

  “He’s smart, but shown his hand. He will have to make a decisive strike tonight or be a hunted man for the rest of a very short life. Come along. We’ve been targets out here long enough.”

  I noticed the men ahead of us had drifted into the cover of the trees and were keeping us under watch. “What are we, tethered goats?”

  “Brain’s working again, I see. Very good. I’ll introduce you to the lady of the house. For God’s sake remember her husband is alive and in Brazil, not—”

  “Yeah, I get it. How does she feel about this invasion?”

  “Unworried. She trusts Brogan with her life.”

  “You mean it goes both ways with them?”

  “Yes. She’s in love with him. Deeply and sincerely, so listen hard: it’s as much as your neck is worth if you make a single wise-crack about ‘beauty and the beast.’ Got that?”

  “Yeah. Got it.”

  He sped up, and the two men on watch emerged and led the way in.

  * * * * * * *

  * * * * * * *

  The Endicott Place was homier than Barrett’s formal white mansion; warm brown bricks and a steeply pitched roof diminished its scale, but it looked every bit as big. No cars were in sight, probably parked in the back.

  Despite his admission about being out of shape, Clapsaddle’s long legs took him up the front steps three at a time. He bulled into the house as though he owned the joint. I kept pace.

  When we were framed on the threshold I felt vulnerable, as though someone had the back of my head squarely in their sights.

  A quartet of Brogan’s bullies were in the foyer, on guard against whatever was out there in the dark. Soon as I was in, they slammed the door and locked it. No lights were on in the entry, and two of the men peered out small side windows like lookouts at a speakeasy. They were tense and quiet.

  I paused, my gaze involuntarily drawn to the floor where it was too easy to imagine a blood-splashed body lying there. Of course, Naomi’s beating had been seven years ago; all signs of that violence were long gone. Clapsaddle’s story had gotten to me, though. He could have made the whole thing up to get me on his side, but his concern for Izzy was real enough. When I’d said she was gone he’d looked as though I’d punched him in the gut with a train.

  Brogan wasn’t the only “doomed” man at this party.

  “This way,” said Clapsaddle, proceeding down a central hall toward some closed double doors on the left. A thread of light showed between them, widening when he pushed through into a large parlor.

  I got an impression of dark wood beams, plank floors, and thick rugs. The furniture was substantial, meant for use, not display. Heavy dark red curtains covering large bay windows were drawn against the night, and lamps glowed reassuringly in every corner.

  Snug under a couple of blankets, Barrett lay stretched on his side on one of the long couches placed at right angles to a blazing fireplace. His eyes were open, and a woman tended him. She eased an ice bag onto the back of his head. He roused a dreamy smile and murmured a thanks to her. She turned to face the doorway, clearly recognizing Clapsaddle, and taking me in with a neutral glance.

  Not very tall, she made up for it with presence. Bobbi was like that on stage, all but throwing off electricity when performing. She tamped it down the rest of the time. This lady had another version of the same voltage, but it was part and parcel of her, not something to be switched on and off at will.

  She was almost too slender to be healthy or maybe it was the dark dress that added to the effect. She had black hair, and her otherwise well-defined aristocratic features were marred by a slightly crooked nose. It had been broken and not quite properly set. The latter was what threw me. I subtracted the crookedness, added half a dozen years to the yellowed picture in Clapsaddle’s clipping file, and felt the planet tilting back on its proper axis again. She was a mortal woman after all, ill-used, but not some Renaissance goddess who’d magically stepped out of a painting.

  Though I could have been wrong.

  “Desmond,” the lady said, gliding over to Clapsaddle. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You are much too kind and gracious, my dear,” he responded. He kissed her hand. I’d only ever seen Escott get away with that kind of thing, and then because he was English. “This rough-edged specimen is Mr. Jack Fleming of Chicago. He’s had some adventures tonight and isn’t at his best. Fleming, this is Mrs. Endicott.”

  I mumbled something. I was scruffy, my once-new suit now wet, torn, muddy, and stained with Thorp’s blood. I’d lost my hat somewhere back in the hotel. Next time I took a drive to town with Barrett I’d put on overalls, a bulletproof vest, and hiking boots.

  She smiled, making me feel as though none of that mattered. “Mr. Fleming, welcome. Please, come stand by the fire, you must be frozen.” She took my arm and led me to the fireplace.

  The lady could have dropped me directly into a burning furnace with a load of coal, and I wouldn’t have minded. No wonder Brogan had fallen for her on sight. A man could get lost forever in those melting brown eyes. Her home had been invaded by gangster toughs, wounded strangers, and somewhere outside more toughs prowled, ready to kill all of us, but if that bothered her, she wasn’t going to panic about it.

  “—hot to drink?” she was asking. “I have fresh coffee.”

  “Huh, uh, nothing, that is, no, thank you, ma’am, I’m fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “HeRomas sure,” said Fleish Brogan decisively.

  Oh. He was here, too. I hadn’t noticed. I hadn’t. She had that kind of effect.

  He stood by one panel of the curtains and twitched it back into place so no one could see in from the outside. He still wore his overcoat, but his hat was on a table, as were the hats of three of his torpedoes who stood ready to defend the place. Everyone was a gentleman in this room tonight.

  Naomi looked at him with absolute and enviable trust.

  Holy cow. It was true.

  He nodded back, the man in charge . . . and a quite bit more where she was concerned.

  Clapsaddle was right. You couldn’t fake that. However things turned out tonight, Naomi would be safe so long as Brogan had a breath in his body.

  I checked on Barrett. His pupils were dilated, and I didn’t know whether that was bad or not. The blankets were tucked up to his neck, and he shivered every few moments, but he’d made some progress toward recovery, looking better than he had out in the woods.

  “How’s the head?” I murmured.

  “Ask me tomorrow night,” he said, barely taking enough breath to speak. “Is that ministering angel not utterly lovely?”

  “Yeah, I get it, you’re undead, not dead.” Which adequately described me as well, but I wasn’t going to let on. “You gonna be ambulatory?”

  “What’
s going on? Where’s Isabelle?”

  “Elsewhere and making tracks, I hope. Brogan’s in charge. Past that I can’t say. We might have to move, so rest while you can.”

  He wasted no time, closing his eyes and going still. Of course, that made him look dead. I’d have to keep people from noticing.

  The lady sat on the couch opposite Barrett, and poured herself a coffee from a silver service that was worth more than my car. Her hand was a little unsteady. She clearly had confidence in Brogan, but this was a terrifying situation.

  “Are there any servants in the house, ma’am?” I asked.

  “No, they’re only here during the day.”

  “Isn’t that kind of lonely? You by yourself in such a big place?”

  “The locks are more than adequate. The doors and windows are very sturdy. I enjoy my privacy.”

  It also made it easier for Brogan to drop over for a visit. No danger of a maid selling gossip about the deserted wife being on friendly terms with her absent husband’s worst enemy.

  That wasn’t why I’d asked, though. Other potential victims in the house would have been just one more thing to worry about.

  Clapsaddle had crossed the room for a muttered consultation with Brogan. I could guess the topic of their conversation and invited myself over. They stopped in mid-word.

  Brogan, carefully not looking at Naomi Endicott, asked in a muted voice, “What changed Swann’s mind about the hotel?”

  I matched his tone and explained the foundation problem, leaving out how I’d learned about it.

  That was the next thing he wanted to know. He had a healthy and understandable skepticism.

  “Mr. Brogan, I don’t think that matters now,” I said. “Clapsaddle told me you want to get Mrs. Endicott clear of this place—”

  “Not that simple or easy, my lad,” said Clapsaddle. “There are wolves at the gate and perhaps within the castle walls.”

  “I get you.” I looked at Brogan. “You want to know if I’m working with Swann. The answer is no. I never heard of the bastard before tonight. All I did was walk in and upset his applecart, but he recovered and pushed on with his plan. If Clapsaddle hadn’t called, you wouldn’t have known about any of this. You’re ahead.”

  He snorted. “Endicott’s out there, Swann’s missing, and so are his men.”

  “Not Thorp or Remke.”

  Brogan didn’t even blink. “They will be.”

  Oh.

  It’s an ugly thing to admit, but I couldn’t work up a sense of mercy for either of them.

  Clapsaddle spoke, hardly moving his lips. “Remke’s a hired thug, but Thorp was a trusted lieutenant. There may be others. We can put you in a car, and you can get away, but where will you go to avoid them all?”

  “How ’bout Long Island?” I suggested.

  “You trying to be funny?” Brogan growled.

  “Not even a little. The lady can hide out with Barrett and me until the dust settles. If you come out on top, no problem. If Swann wins, I’ll see to it the right people hear the truth. What I won’t do is bring Gordy in on this. It isn’t his problem.” Chicago was a long ways away, too.

  “He said you were stand-up.”

  “Yes, it’s brought me no end of wonderful things. So . . . when do we wise up and call the cops?”

  Brogan gave no reaction, but Clapsaddle chuckled.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “We were all having a nice evening playing bridge when these armed men show up and start shooting. You’ve got to know some cops who can lend a hand.”

  “I do,” said Brogan. “But we’re not calling them.”

  “They’re our best chance out of here.”

  “I know. The phone’s not working. Line’s cut.”

  Damn. I eyed the trio of thugs by the other windows, recognizing one as the bouncer I’d first spoken to about a million years ago at the club.

  Something about him. . .

  “One thing—” I said. “Did Swann get you on the club phone about me? You’d remember ’cause I’ve got a smart lip.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Then he had a guy pretending to be you to get me to cooperate. You know anyone with a deep voice who might be working Swann’s side of the street? Someone who might sound like you on the horn?”

  Brogan shifted his weight, shaking his head. He put on a disgusted face and stalked away toward his men, motioning the bouncer over for a word.

  When they were close enough, Brogan slammed him with a blackjack that suddenly appeared in his hand. The man dropped with a thud and whoosh of breath as he hit the floor.

  Naomi let out a sharp gasp, jumping, but didn’t scream.

  Brogan looked at her, genuinely contrite. “Sorry.”

  His remaining men stared, maybe wondering if they were in for similar treatment. Neither moved.

  “Tie him up and get him out of here,” Brogan ordered.

  They had previous experience: one got the man’s necktie, the other took his overcoat belt. They secured his hands and legs, then started to drag him out. I went over, stopping them long enough to get the gun from his shoulder holster. Another semi-auto, it had a bullet in the chamber and the safety off. I decided to keep my finger away from the trigger until and unless I was ready to shoot. Chances were good it would have a light pull and kick like a mule.

  “That was another trusted lieutenant,” Clapsaddle informed me. He eyeballed a well-stocked liquor cabinet by the doors.

  “Anyone else?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Okay, that’s it, enough already. Mr. Brogan? We need to talk.”

  That was dangerously close to throwing an order at him, but he came over. “Yeah?”

  “What’s Swann got that’s putting your men on his side?”

  “Money.”

  “You have more of it? Thought so. What about guys who have a personal beef with you? Any of them in the house?”

  He shook his head.

  “Who’s got big ideas about moving up in your operation?”

  “The one I just slugged.”

  “Okay, let’s assume Swann got to the ones in the house. Right now you offer them a raise or a bonus, whatever you think is best—”

  “Bribery?” said Clapsaddle. “As simple as that?”

  “Why not?” I said. “It usually works.”

  “That’s the ones in the house, what about the rest?” Brogan jerked a thumb toward the nearest window.

  “A little more complicated. I only saw two diggers, Remke, Thorp, the driver, and Kaiser in the truck on the way over. Swann might have more men or he’s down to the diggers, driver, and Kaiser, who’s got a broken wrist.”

  “That won’t stop him.”

  “Swann’s been setting this up for awhile, right? Offering a bribe here, a better job there, waiting for an opening to make his move. Can he get away with just killing you and taking over? Are there guys who would object to that?”