‘Miss Fayne,’ she corrected me. ‘And I found you.’
I couldn’t argue with that. ‘Now that we’ve established the point,’ I said, ‘let’s get down to business.’
She took a pack of cigarettes from a box on the table behind her; she threw one over to me. I got up close to offer her my lighter but she waved me back. I lit my own cigarette.
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ I said.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This business is making me forget my manners.’
I got another chair from the other side of the room and dragged it over.
‘That’s far enough,’ she said.
I sat down opposite her. We smoked in silence for half a minute or so.
‘So Nathan employed you to find my whereabouts,’ she said. She started laughing to herself in the gloom. ‘That really is rich.’
‘I don’t think the doctor was bothered about you,’ I said. ‘It was the money that worried him.’
‘What money?’ she said sharply.
‘The fifty thousand,’ I said. I told her what the doctor had said. She studied the tip of her cigarette intently. She seemed highly amused. ‘So that’s what he told you,’ she said. ‘Well, it’s a new angle.’
‘It isn’t true, of course?’ I said politely.
‘Would you believe me if I said so?’ she asked.
‘Probably not,’ I said.
‘Well, then …’ she added with a quiet note of triumph.
‘We aren’t getting anywhere, Miss Fayne,’ I started to say when there was a sudden rap at the communicating door. She put her finger to her lips and got to her feet so quickly she just seemed to melt into position. I went and stood in the far corner of the room, out of range of the lamp. I stood behind a bureau which shielded me from the door. She went over and I heard a key scrape in the lock. She closed the door behind her. There came a low murmur of men’s voices from behind the panels; occasionally I could hear Zarah Fayne’s voice. She seemed to be trying to persuade her companions about something. I stood in the shadow of the bureau and felt my flesh crawl. There was something peculiar about the whole set-up.
After about five years she came back. I heard the key turn in the lock behind her. She was breathing heavily like she’d been running. She put her hand on my arm. I couldn’t see her face in the darkness at this end of the room but I could feel a pulse racing in her arm.
‘You got a gun with you?’ she asked in a low, strained voice.
I shook my head. ‘I left it home tonight,’ I said.
‘You’d better go,’ she said quickly. ‘There’s some men in the next room. I think they’ll kill you if you don’t leave at once.’
‘What’s this all about?’ I said.
I must have raised my voice more than I intended. There came a sudden knock at the communicating door. It had a galvanic effect on Zarah Fayne.
‘You must go,’ she repeated. ‘I haven’t time to explain. I’ll get in touch with you.’
She dragged me over towards the door through which I’d come in.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘It may be dangerous for me too.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘But I’ll be back.’
She nodded, fright evident on her face.
‘I’ll ring you tomorrow night,’ she said. There came another crash at the door.
‘I’m in the book,’ I said. She half-pushed me into the corridor. I got out, cursing to myself. I melted down the hallway pretty fast. I couldn’t be sure but it might have been Starr in the next room and I didn’t want to meet him without a gun in my hand. I went down the corridor so fast it seemed like I was on wheels. I put plenty of carpet between me and Room 27. Nothing stirred when I got down to the ground floor hall. The night clerk sneered to my back as I went through. He probably thought the Fayne woman’s husband had come back in a hurry. The street was quiet when I got to the Buick and I couldn’t see anyone behind me. I looked at my watch. It was already a quarter of two. I stopped the car at the nearest public booth and dialled Crisp’s home number. Nobody replied for five minutes. Then I heard a woman’s voice; she sounded cross. It was the housekeeper.
‘Dr Crisp’s away from home,’ she said. ‘Any message?’
‘No message,’ I said. I put the phone back on its cradle and stood looking at the pencilled graffiti on the wall of the booth. Two strikes in one night was a little much to take. But there wasn’t any percentage in being bitter so I got back in the Buick and drove home to bed.
*
Uccelli’s was a double-fronted restaurant that was probably once smart but had now degenerated into a series of greasy panelled booths with a fly-blown bar at one end. The super-heated air, filtered in from grilles in the ceiling, brought the smells from the kitchen to your table a treat. I was a little early so I ordered a drink from the bar. A demoted post-captain wearing a crumpled jacket with epaulettes and a perpetual scowl brought me the iced beer like he was Moses bringing down the tablets. I sat back in the booth and studied the menu. That was too depressing so I started in on the beer. That completed the circle.
It was another twenty minutes before Hud Gibson arrived. He was wearing a brown rubberized wind-breaker over a red open-neck shirt. He wheezed like he’d been breaking track records at the Mexico City Olympics. He nodded to the barkeep as though he knew him, saved his best smile for me. It didn’t make him look any more attractive. He put a string bag full of groceries down on the booth seat beside him and eased in back of the table.
The waiter scowled his way over; we both ordered steaks with green salad and coffee to follow. It was the only order on the menu that looked reasonably safe. Saliva ran down Gibson’s chin at the very thought of it. He wiped it off with his sleeve and looked around the room.
‘I’ll pick up this tab,’ he said.
‘That’s good of you,’ I said, trying to look grateful. I figured it would come to at least three dollars. Hud Gibson wouldn’t go down as a philanthropist in my book.
We were halfway through the meal before he spoke again. Surprisingly, the food was almost eatable. That is, if you could avoid looking at Hud Gibson’s greasy chin. Fortunately most of the grease ran back into his plate again. He didn’t seem to notice. We were drinking the thick, syrupy coffee from none too clean cups when he broke silence.
‘I got the stuff with me,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Like I said, you don’t know from nuthin’.’
‘Like you said,’ I agreed.
‘Let me give you a tip, Faraday,’ he said. ‘I got half the film with me. I cut it before the other party could be identified.’
‘What’s the use of that?’ I said. ‘Or are you titillating me with the trailer?’
‘Let me finish, he said patiently. ‘My woman’s got the other half. It’s insurance. Just in case anyone gets to you first — or me.’
‘You got her address?’ I said.
‘She knows what to do,’ he said. ‘She’ll be in touch. Name’s Tacey Dillon. Just remember that. She’s in the book.’
‘I’ll remember,’ I said.
‘And don’t write it down,’ he said warningly.
‘Anyone would think you were in danger,’ I said.
He cleared his throat with a low rasping noise. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and finished off his coffee before he replied.
‘If you’d been in this racket as long as I have,’ he said.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Don’t play me the record again.’
He looked round warily and then fumbled in the shopping basket. He came up with a small black enamel circular tin, just big enough to hold the regulation four hundred feet of 16mm movie film. I looked up towards the window. Starr was outside the cafe. He picked his way through the tiled surround, walking precisely like a cat. He was carrying a brown paper parcel. I didn’t see what it was until it was too late.
‘Take care of this,’ said Hud Gibson. They were the last words he ever spoke. He started to hand me the tin when the firing began.
Starr had torn off the paper from his parcel and flame lanced from the muzzle of the squat Thompson sub-machine gun. He directed a close concentrated fire through the window of the restaurant.
Glass disintegrated with a harsh tinkle and bullets flew among the tables; bottles exploded and woodwork splintered into sharp lances of murderous ferocity. Somebody screamed but most of the people in the cafe were down on the floor by this time. I hit the deck and rolled several booths away, reaching for the Smith-Wesson. I heard Hud Gibson groan but I had no time to see what was happening.
A line of glassed-in sketches on the wall danced into nothingness as Starr shifted his line of fire; he powdered the wall, leaving only the wires which had been supporting the pictures remaining on the hooks. I lifted my head slightly above an upturned table; Starr was crouching by the front of the window, half-seen in the smoke. He pumped another burst towards our table. My ears were singing with the concussion and splinters of stone whined angrily about the bar.
The bartenders and the waiter had gone flat hours ago. I moved over cautiously; a middle-aged man in a smart blue suit was lying against a ruptured partition. His face was ash-grey; blood oozed stickily through his fingers where he held them pressed against his thigh. He looked like he was trying to hold his life in with his bare hands; his knuckles showed white. He tried to smile as I got up to him.
Then Starr’s gun jammed or he stopped to put in another clip. The place was a shambles by this time though it couldn’t have been more than about ten seconds since the fun started; somewhere behind me woodwork had burst into flame. I saw the cook come through from the kitchen area; he threw a bucket of water over the panelling. He went back in the kitchen door like a blur in the air as the firing began again. I waited until Starr had shifted over and then fired twice. A chunk of marble near the entrance dissolved into fragments and then I let one more off; a piece of wood tore from the doorway with a high-pitched whine.
Starr whirled and went down; the firing stopped. The silence was like a great roaring after the hammer of the Thompson. I stayed put. I saw Starr’s knuckles come up over the edge of the window fitting. Blood showed against his white collar. He raised the sub-machine gun and then it fell from his hand with a clatter on the sidewalk. I fired again then but I couldn’t see whether he was hit. He went down below the window. The silence went on and on. Then I heard a car gun down the street. A black Cadillac sneaked past the window and went away very fast, heading eastwards across town.
I got over to the customer in the blue suit; I got a clean handkerchief from my pocket and packed it in the wound. I had to prise his fingers apart to do it. ‘Hang on to that,’ I told him. He gritted his teeth and pulled the pad tight against his body. I went on over to the doorway. Cartridges were scattered about the sidewalk. The hot sub-machine gun was lying where Starr had dropped it, together with the brown paper packing. There was blood on the barrel of the gun.
I went back into Uccelli’s; people were starting to get up. There was that jocular sort of conversation beginning, like you get after an earthquake or some other big disaster, when people are surprised to find themselves alive. I felt a bit like that myself. I put the Smith-Wesson back in my shoulder holster. I went on over to our table. Hud Gibson had painted his last picture. He lay on his back, hands outstretched, his eyes wide open. Blood and saliva ran out of the corners of his mouth. I knew it was no good then. He’d been stitched right across the middle. I reached down and closed his eyes. I picked up the black tin of film and put it in the inside pocket of my trenchcoat, which I’d carried into the bar.
One of the waiters came and looked curiously over my shoulder. He didn’t say anything.
‘What’s the tab?’ I asked him.
He smiled slowly, like he was waking from a bad dream.
‘On the house, buddy,’ he said. ‘We don’t get this kind of custom every day.’
I thanked him kindly and went into the pay booth to phone McGiver.
*
It was late when I left County Police HQ, but not too late to do a few more things I wanted. It was just coming up to nine when I got back to the hotel where Zarah Fayne had been staying. She had registered under the name of Louise Holt; I wasn’t surprised to hear from the desk clerk that she’d checked out early that morning.
I hadn’t got time to stake out the place and I didn’t want to let McGiver in on everything until I was sure the way things fitted together. I hadn’t told him about the film either; or why Gibson had been blasted. I was saving that for afters. The desk clerk seemed genuinely pleased when he told me Mrs Holt had left. He probably figured I was going to burst into tears. I was sorry to disappoint him.
I got back in the Buick and drove into town. I parked the car and walked a couple of blocks to a movie store that sold just about everything. It kept open late but I knew the owner well and he lived over the shop, which was why I’d chosen him. He was just closing but he unlocked again when he saw me tap on the glass. I left half an hour later with a large black case. Inside it was a 16mm silent movie projector, a take-up spool, flex and a few other accessories. The proprietor had given me a run-through but just in case I was as dumb as the run of his customers he’d thrown in the instruction book as well.
‘Knock a dollar off the hire-fee if you bring her back tomorrow morning,’ he said when I left.
“I’ll think about it,’ I said. ‘But I might hang on to it for a day or two. I got one or two more spools coming I want to run through.’
‘Suit yourself, Mr Faraday,’ he said. I saw his thin form behind the blinds as I got the case into the car. I drove on over to the office. That made it around ten. I hadn’t anything much else to do tonight and I didn’t want to be caught showing blue movies in my own house. I put my trenchcoat on, and made sure Hud Gibson’s film can was still in the inside pocket. The projector was built like a battleship and I was sweating by the time I’d carried it into the elevator and down the corridor into my office. A desk lamp was still burning in the corner. I must have left it earlier or else Stella had overlooked it when she went home.
I put the overhead light on and fiddled about with the machine. I put it on my desk and searched for a suitable plug. When I’d got the thing set up and running I threaded the film. It would have been frowned on by the professionals but I settled on the cream wall at the end of the room as a temporary screen. I wouldn’t be making a habit of this but just in case there were any curious citizens on the other side of the boulevard I pulled the drapes at that end of the room. There was a pilot light on the side of the projector and I left that on while I doused the room lights.
Then I ran the film. It lasted for about ten minutes; what I’d got of it anyway and Hud Gibson hadn’t exaggerated. It was beautifully shot, acted and put together; my pulse rate started to go up before the action had been on a minute. It had a proper title, fake cast credits and a story too; I’d seen some stuff in my time but this was the best ever. Like Gibson had said it would have fetched big money in the right market. I recognized one of the women as Zarah Fayne but no one among the male characters. The film cut off at one of the most interesting points and left me staring at the white light flickering on the wall and breathing heavily.
I switched off and examined the end of the reel; someone, obviously Gibson, had cut the film diagonally with a sharp pair of scissors. The camera had been panning upwards in the last shot and would have revealed the face of Zarah Fayne’s male partner in the next second or so. The film was cut just where his chin began to come into the frame. I lit a cigarette and sat smoking and staring at the wall.
So I nearly hit the ceiling when someone walked out from behind the screen where we brew the coffee.
‘That was pretty good,’ said Stella. ‘Can we run it again?’
10 - Reel Two
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I said when my nerves had shrunk back to their normal size. I felt my reaction had been pretty mild under the circumstances.
‘Sixth sense, chum,�
�� said Stella darkly. ‘I thought you were up to some dirty work.’
She went and sat down opposite me with just the faintest trace of a smile.
‘You wouldn’t say no to some coffee?’ she said.
‘Try me,’ I said.
‘I’d better put some bromide in it if we’re going-through that again,’ she said. ‘I warned you about Zarah Fayne’s old movies.’
‘This’ll never get a block release,’ I said. ‘More’s the pity.’ I rewound the spool of film while she fussed about with the cups and saucers.
‘I was working late,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect you back. I heard you come in and thought I’d see what you were up to so I hid behind the screen. Or should I say the partition.’
‘I hope you thought it was worth it,’ I said politely.
She didn’t answer that in words but I could see her smile to herself when I looked round. We drank the coffee and I dismantled the projector; Stella sat opposite me and got out her scratch pad. She pushed another cup of coffee across to me and I put her in the picture. She made a few notes and frowned at the neon signs on the opposite side of the boulevard.
‘So just where does this leave us?’ she said.
‘I’ve got a few ideas I’m chewing over,’ I said. ‘I’d rather not say until I get things clearer in my mind.’
‘You think Zarah Fayne’s on the level?’ she asked.
‘It’s been known,’ I said. ‘But I wouldn’t sign an affidavit.’ I stirred my coffee and drained the cup.
‘Some funny things about this case,’ I said.
Stella put some brown sugar in her coffee. She tasted it, frowned like it wasn’t some of the best she’d ever made and put a mite more sugar in. She put very pink, well-kept hands up each side of her blonde head and stared at me steadily.
‘Like what?’ she said.
‘Like Zarah Fayne disappearing and appearing,’ I said. ‘Like Starr and Esterbrook and Hud Gibson and his girlfriend. I’ve handled some messes but this beats all.’
Stella put out her hand and picked up her coffee cup again. ‘That’s what they pay you for,’ she said simply.
Scratch on the Dark (A Mike Faraday Mystery Book 4) Page 8
