Slade said, “He forgot his cigarettes.”
Uncle Al shook his head, abruptly, once, but he didn’t say anything.
I said, “He went upstairs and killed Mr. Agricola with that knife. I don’t know where he got it.”
“It was in the room,” Clarence said. “A letter opener is what it was. But I still say you were the one used it.”
I asked him, “Did you know Al Gatling had come back into the house?”
He frowned a little and shook his head. “No. So what?”
“Wouldn’t you have heard him if he’d made a normal amount of noise? I mean, after all, you were supposed to be guarding the place.”
“I’ll hear anybody that comes in the front door,” he said, getting truculent now. He didn’t like being reminded he’d failed in his duty. He was like a watchdog after a successful burglary; so irritated and embarrassed he’s liable to bite any leg that comes close.
I told him, “You didn’t hear Albert Gatling come in, though.”
He shrugged, sullen. “So what?”
“That means he must have been moving extra special quiet, doesn’t it?”
“If he came back in.”
Slade said, “He went back in, I saw him go. I waited for him.”
Mahoney said, “But why kill Agricola? What’s the point?”
“Maybe Uncle Al will tell us,” I said, and looked at him, but he just glared and wouldn’t say a word.
Slade said, “Listen, there’s a name you said before.”
I turned to him. “Me?”
“Yeah. A cop or something.”
“Touhy?”
Slade nodded. “Right. Gatling mentioned that name.”
“To Agricola?”
“Yeah. I remember. Something about he had no idea why his nephew would pass news like that on to this guy Touhy.”
I turned back to Gross. “Would that do it? Should there have been any way for my Uncle Al to know which policeman was getting the information?”
Mr. Gross shook his head. “Not unless Mahoney told him.”
Mahoney said, “Why should I tell him? No point in it. I never dealt with him at all.”
“So that’s why,” I said. “Uncle Al realized he’d made the mistake, and he was afraid Agricola would catch on a little later, and he panicked. He’s been running scared the last few days, terrified out of his head. Trask and Slade can tell you. From the time he found out the organization was after me for the squealing he’d been doing he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t take the rap for me, and he was even too scared and panicky to try to help me. He made a mistake with Agricola, and killed him because he was so panicky. And since then he’s just been sitting around waiting for the whole thing to be over.”
Mahoney said, “From the look on Gatling’s face, and from everything everybody’s said, it looks like you’re telling the truth, kid. Except for one thing.”
“What thing?”
“Tough Tony.” Mahoney pointed a finger at me. “He identified you in my office this afternoon. Not your Uncle Al, you.”
“The only thing I can figure,” I told him, “is that he suspects you. He’s on to you now.”
“That’s right,” said a voice from the doorway. We all turned our heads, and there was Tough Tony Touhy smiling in the doorway, a revolver in each hand and a hall full of cops behind him.
“Stick ’em up, gents,” said Tough Tony. “It’s the end of the road.”
Chapter 27
Riding toward New York in the back seat of the police car, sitting next to Tough Tony Touhy, I got the rest of the story.
“We’ve been on to that Rockaway Grill for months,” he told me. “For instance, Patrolman Ziccatta isn’t really a patrolman at all. He’s a detective third grade, working out of the Mob & Rackets Squad, on special detached duty to the 69th Precinct in Canarsie so he can keep an eye on the Rockaway Grill. There’s nothing like disguising a cop as a cop to allay suspicion.” He laughed, a big healthy hearty sort of a laugh, and slapped his own knee.
I said, “You mean, all this time he’s been watching me?”
“Not you so much,” Tough Tony said. “The bar, the customers, that’s what he’s been watching. The other night, when he saw Trask and Slade in there, he figured they were just coming by to make another drop or pick up another package. But a little later, when he saw part of the sign knocked down, and saw the back door broken in, and saw you nowhere around the place, he began to think there was something up, and he called me right away.”
I said, “So you’ve been hanging around me the whole time.”
“Well, not exactly,” he said. “To tell you the truth, we didn’t know where you were or what the hell was going on till last night, when you showed up in Canarsie again, asking about a policeman named Patrick Mahoney. Ziccatta called me and then tried to stall you until we could get a tail on you. Up till then none of us could figure out what was going on, but when you asked about Mahoney dawn began to break. I remembered telling him you were the source of the dope we’d been getting, and I could see how he’d get the idea I meant you were the one talking to us, and slowly the pieces began to fit into place.”
“So,” I said. “You’ve had people watching me ever since last night.”
“No, not precisely,” he said. “Ziccatta didn’t manage to stall you long enough, so you were gone before our man could get there from Queens. But we knew you were going to try to reach Mahoney, so we surrounded him with men and waited for you to show up. That was easy, surrounding him with men, since there he was right in Police Headquarters anyway.” He laughed again and slapped his knee some more.
“Well,” I said. “So you had me in view from the time I got to Police Headquarters.”
“I wouldn’t entirely say that,” he said. “To tell you the truth, we didn’t expect such a direct approach from you, and none of our special-detail men even knew you were in the building. If Mahoney hadn’t called me to come into his office, where I could get a look at you, I don’t know what would have happened. Still, all’s well that ends well. And when saw you there, I knew exactly what was going on, and I knew Mahoney wanted to see if I’d recognize you or not, so naturally I said what I did, in order to keep Mahoney from getting suspicious. I figured then we’d watch you, see where you were taken and what happened next.”
“Ah,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “So you were on hand the whole time out at Orient Point and I really wasn’t in danger at all.”
“Well, no,” he said. “The fact of the matter is, they moved you on out of Headquarters faster than we expected. We lost you again practically as soon as we’d found you.”
I said, “Then how did you show up at Mr. Gross’s house?”
“We followed Mahoney.”
“Oh.” I looked out the window and we were in Queens. “You can let me off at the subway,” I said. “Any subway.” I looked at him. “You can find the subway, can’t you?”
He gave me a tough look. “Is that supposed to be funny?” he said. “We saved your life.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I forgot.”
Chapter 28
It was rush hour. When the train reached West Fourth Street I had to claw my way through a mass of sullen humanity to get through the door and out onto the platform. That was possibly the most dangerous moment I’d lived during the past week.
But I did make it to the platform, and the doors snicked shut behind me, and the subway raced its squirming mass of innards southward through the black tunnel. I went up stairs, and up stairs, and up stairs, and eventually got to the street. I walked west through the begining of evening, through the Village.
I didn’t know her home address, and I didn’t know her parents’ address in the Bronx. This was the only place I knew her, so this was where I came.
I walked down Perry Street and I saw light gleaming in those windows, but did that mean Chloe or did it mean Artie back at last from his unexplained disappearance? Although I wanted to know
what the hell Artie had been doing the last couple of days, at the same time I wished desperately for it to be Chloe up there.
Murder wasn’t the only thing I’d been figuring out this afternoon. I’d also been figuring Chloe. I’d come to some realizations about Chloe, and I was eager to get started acting on those realizations.
Like for instance her telling me her life story last night, all about her marriage and her little girl and everything. She wouldn’t have told me all that if she thought we were just a couple of ships passing in the night. No, it meant she was interested in me, interested in me, and willing to see where the interest might lead.
And also, like for instance, her telling me she knew I had a letch for her because she heard me tossing and turning until practically dawn. What I didn’t stop to realize at the time, what I only figured out hours later when my brain was all tuned up and figuring out everything that came its way, was if she had heard me tossing and turning until practically dawn that had to mean she was awake until practically dawn herself. And what did that mean?
You betcha.
So I hurried across Perry Street toward those lighted windows, second-floor front, hoping it was Chloe and not Artie, and I dashed up the steps outside the building, found the door unlocked yet again, and bounded on up the stairs to the second floor. I knocked on the door, and waited, and knocked again, and at last it opened.
Chloe.
She had changed clothes. She was wearing a black skirt that flared out over her hips, with a lot of fluffy petticoat sort of things underneath to make the skirt stand out even more, and she had a scoop-neck white blouse on that did nothing bad at all for her breasts, and she was wearing stockings and high heels, and she had a good moderate amount of make-up on, and she looked absolutely fabulous.
I suddenly felt raunchy. Still in the same slacks I’d been wearing since this thing started. Same shoes too. Borrowed underwear. Borrowed white shirt that was too small for me. Borrowed raincoat.
I wished I’d thought to stop off at my place in Canarsie first to get cleaned up.
She looked at me standing there in the hallway, and she smiled in a tentative kind of way and said, “You looking for a place to hide out, mister?”
I shook my head. “It’s all over,” I said. “We won.”
“What? Really?”
So the first thing I had to do was come in and sit down and have a cup of coffee and tell her what had happened, tell her the whole day in the tiniest detail. Which I did, and she made suitable comments here and there, and when I was done she said, “So you came back to get your own clothes and leave Artie’s stuff here, is that it?”
I shook my head again. “No. I came back here to get you.”
“Me?” Said as though she had no idea what I was talking about.
So I reached out and pulled her close and kissed her. We melted awhile, and then we split and looked at each other and both started giggling. “And here I’d given up on you,” she said, giggling.
“The hell you did,” I said.
“What do you know about it?”
“Plenty.” I kissed her again, and then I said, “Shall we spend the night here or at my place down in Canarsie?”
“We? What do you mean, we?”
“You know what I mean.”
She disengaged herself from my arms, backed up a couple of steps, and looked me over. “You’re going to run that bar again?”
“I guess not,” I said. “The organization won’t be operating it any more, and my contract with the organization ended with Uncle Al. I guess I’ll just have to settle down and find myself a sensible job somewhere with good pay and nice fringe benefits and a top-flight retirement plan.”
“You’re overstating it,” she said. “But you do really mean to settle down and start behaving like an adult.”
“Definitely,” I said.
“In that case,” she said, “I imagine you’ll ask me that question again a little later this evening, in a more acceptable manner.”
“I imagine I will,” I said. “And how would you like to eat dinner in a real restaurant?”
“Fine. Just—”
The doorbell rang.
We looked at each other. Chloe said, “Do you suppose that’s Artie?” Her voice was hushed.
I said, “I don’t know.”
“What if it is?”
“You mean, because of us?”
She nodded.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said. “Don’t worry, I know Artie pretty well. He never had any long-term plans with you anyway, you or anybody else.”
“I know,” she said.
So I went over and opened the door and it wasn’t Artie, it was a Western Union boy. He handed me the envelope and went away, and I shut the door and opened the envelope and Chloe came over and put an arm around my waist and rested her cheek against my upper arm, and we read the telegram together.
It was from Huntsville, Alabama. It was addressed to both Chloe and me at this address, and it said:
ALTHEA AND ME MARRIED HERE THIS AFTERNOON STOP FLYING SWITZERLAND MORNING STOP WHY DON’T YOU TWO GET TOGETHER QUESTION MARK
ARTIE
“Oh!” said Chloe. “If that isn’t the end!”
She was right.
About the Author
Donald E. Westlake (1933–2008) was one of the most prolific and talented authors of American crime fiction. He began his career in the late 1950s, churning out novels for pulp houses—often writing as many as four novels a year under various pseudonyms—but soon began publishing under his own name. His most well-known characters were John Dortmunder, an unlucky thief, and a ruthless criminal named Parker. His writing earned him three Edgars and a Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America.
Westlake’s cinematic prose and brisk dialogue made his novels attractive to Hollywood, and several motion pictures were made from his books, with stars such as Lee Marvin and Mel Gibson. Westlake wrote several screenplays himself, receiving an Academy Award nomination for his adaptation of The Grifters, Jim Thompson’s noir classic.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1965 by Donald E. Westlake
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5164-4
This 2018 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.MysteriousPress.com
www.openroadmedia.com
DONALD E. WESTLAKE
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.
MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FOLLOW US:
@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom
MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing part
ners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.
The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.
58 Warren Street
[email protected]
(212) 587-1011
Monday through Saturday
11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.
FIND OUT MORE AT:
www.mysteriousbookshop.com
FOLLOW US:
@TheMysterious and Facebook.com/MysteriousBookshop
SUBSCRIBE:
The Mysterious Newsletter
Find a full list of our authors and titles at www.openroadmedia.com
FOLLOW US
@ OpenRoadMedia
The Fugitive Pigeon Page 17
