This Way for a Shroud

by James Hadley Chase

  “I’m going to make a grab for the tools,” O’Brien said. “We’ve got to get that pencil.”

  “Watch it,” Conrad cautioned. “Better wait.”

  O’Brien crawled forward, ignoring Conrad’s warning. He got his head and shoulders beyond the doorposts and his hand had hold of the tool-case when a burst of automatic rifle fire made him duck down. Bullets whizzed over his head. He began to move back cautiously.

  “I’ve got it.” He looked back into the darkness. “Here, Mallory, see if you can get the drain cover off.”

  More machine-gun fire started up and for a long moment the three men lay pressing themselves into the floor as a hail of lead tore down more plaster and pulverized the walls.

  “Look out!” Conrad snapped as he raised his head. He had seen two men come running along the tiled walk, guns in hand.

  Both O’Brien and Conrad fired at them. One of them swerved and fell into the pool. The other tossed his gun high into the air, took two staggering steps and fell flat on his face.

  “That’s three up,” Conrad said. “I’ve only four more slugs left. What have you got?”

  “I’ve a couple of spare clips,” O’Brien said. “You hold your fire and let me take care of this.”

  He crawled nearer to the door.

  Mallory said “I’ve got it! The sonofabitch didn’t want to come, but it’s come.”

  “See if you can find the pencil. Careful how you handle it,” Conrad said, watching O’Brien. “Don’t let them see you, Tom.”

  O’Brien fired out into the darkness, cursed under his breath and fired again.

  Two machine-guns opened up on him. In the brilliant flashes Conrad saw him suddenly lifted off the ground and swept backwards as if riding a giant wave.

  “Get his gun and guard the door,” Conrad said and crawled over to O’Brien. He bent over him trying to see in the darkness. “Tom! Are you hurt?” He knew it was a stupid question. O’Brien had caught the full blast of the machine-guns.

  Conrad pulled out his flash-light and shielding it with his coat, he turned it on.

  O’Brien looked up at him in the dim light, his face, the colour of putty, was twisted in agony.

  “It wasn’t an accident, Paul,” he gasped, struggled to say something else and then choked blood.

  Conrad lifted his head.

  “Take it easy, Tom. Don’t try and talk.”

  O’Brien struggled, clutching hold of Conrad’s arm.

  “Ferrari… my kid…” He managed to get out, then his eyes rolled back and he slumped against Conrad.

  Conrad touched the artery in his neck, shook his head and lowered him to the floor. He turned quickly as Mallory started firing.

  He was in time to see three men coming along the tiled walk, bent double and running. Mallory hit one. The other two opened up with riot guns.

  Conrad fired over Mallory’s ducking head and saw the second man pitch into the pool. The remaining man rushed forward, spraying lead in front of him, sending a creeping carpet of death towards the open doorway.

  Conrad wriggled back, dragging Mallory with him. For a long moment of time, they huddled against the wall while slugs sang around the room.

  Then more guns started up on the far side of the pool: sharp reports of revolvers, and then the yammering sound of a Thompson.

  The man firing into the changing room stopped firing. Conrad was in time to see him bolt back the way he had come.

  Gunfire raved and crashed outside.

  “Sounds like our boys have arrived,” Conrad said shakily. He went cautiously to the door. As he looked out into the darkness the gunfire suddenly ceased and a silence fell over the pool that could almost be felt.

  Out of the darkness came the burly figure of Sam Bardin.

  “Paul?”

  “Right here.” Conrad came out into the open. “Phew! That was quite a battle.”

  “Got the pencil?”

  “I haven’t had time to ask. Poor Tom bought it.”

  “He did? That’s tough.” Bardin turned on his flashlight and swung the beam around the ruined changing room. “They certainly made a hash of this. There’re five of Maurer’s mob outside, deader than mackerel. Two others got away.”

  “Find that pencil?” Conrad asked Mallory.

  “Sure,” Mallory said. “I’ve got the sonofabitch,” and he waved the gold pencil above his head.

  III

  A black Cadillac swung into the narrow lane that ran alongside the east wall of the Paradise Club and drove fast down the lane to the gates that guarded the rear entrance to the club.

  The driver slowed down, flicked his lights off and on: twice fast, twice slow, and then sent the car forward as the guard opened the gates.

  The guard stepped up to the car and peered at the driver. He caught his breath in a gasp of surprise, stiffened to attention and saluted.

  The Cadillac moved on up the circular road and pulled up outside the rear entrance to the club.

  A short, thick-set man got out of the car, looked uneasily to right and left, then walked up the steps and rapped on the door.

  The guard who opened the door gaped, and his florid face changed colour.

  “Why, Mr. Maurer…” he gasped.

  “Shut your goddamn trap!” Maurer snarled. “Where’s Gollowitz?”

  “In Mr. Seigel’s office,” the guard said, stepping back hurriedly.

  Maurer’s swarthy face was tight with rage, and there was a bleak murderous expression in his eyes.

  He walked down the passage, paused for a moment outside Seigel’s office, his head bent to listen. A murmur of voices came through the door panel, and Maurer’s face tightened. He turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  The office was full of tobacco smoke. Seated near the desk in a semi-circle were Seigel, McCann and Ferrari. Gollowitz sat behind the desk, a cigar in his fat white fingers.

  The four men looked around sharply as Maurer came in. The only one who didn’t react to his sudden appearance was Ferrari. The other three stared at him as if they were seeing a ghost.

  “Why, Jack…” Gollowitz gasped, his face going white. “For God’s sake, Jack… !”

  Maurer came in and shut the door. His right hand was buried deep in his bulging coat pocket. He stood looking at the four men, his little eyes insane with rage.

  “What’s he doing here?” he snarled, pointing at Ferrari.

  “Jack! You — you can’t come back here!” Gollowitz said, getting unsteadily to

  his feet. “Did anyone see you? Don’t you know there’s a warrant out for your arrest?”

  “What’s he doing here?” Maurer repeated, his voice deadly.

  “He — he’s come to take care of the girl — the Coleman girl,” Gollowitz spluttered.

  “Did you send for him?” Maurer asked.

  “The Syndicate thought…”

  “—the Syndicate! Did you send for him?”

  “What else could I do?” Gollowitz wailed. He had a horrible feeling that Maurer was going to shoot him. “We had to get Weiner and the girl. He was the only one who could get at them!”

  Maurer glared at Gollowitz, his mouth working.

  “You goddamn fool! Couldn’t you handle a little thing like that without calling in outside help?”

  “It wasn’t possible.”

  McCann said quietly, “Take it easy, Mr. Maurer. You shouldn’t have come back. Every cop in town’s on the look-out for you. Forest has cooked up a castiron case against you.”

  “Yeah,” Maurer snarled, “thanks to the bungling way you three have handled it.” He didn’t include Ferrari in the wave of his hand. “I’ve come back to handle it myself! For the first time in fifteen years there’s a warrant out for me! The first time in fifteen years! That’s what happens when I take my hand off the helm!”

  “We did what we could,” Gollowitz said earnestly. He felt the danger was receding. “We got Weiner. Now we’re going to get the girl. It’ll be okay, Jack, only
you must keep out of this.”

  “I’m not keeping out of it,” Maurer said, and walked to the desk.

  Gollowitz hurriedly stepped away, and Maurer took his place behind the desk. He sat down.

  Gollowitz pulled up a chair and took his place with the others. Sweat beads covered his forehead. He was sick with frustrated rage and fear. To be suddenly shoved aside to lose his authority in a few seconds, to be deprived of his position which he had believed to be unassailable for a long time, was a devastating blow to his pride.

  Ferrari caught Maurer’s eye. The two men looked at each other. Seigel, an interested spectator, was startled to see what could have been uneasy fear in Maurer’s eyes. Ferrari was completely unruffled and indifferent.

  “Hello, Maurer,” he said softly.

  Maurer shifted his eyes away.

  “Hello, Ferrari.”

  “Big Joe sends his love,” Ferrari said, and smiled.

  Maurer nodded. He knew how dangerous Ferrari was, and he was dismayed to find him here. He had to make an effort to get a grip on the situation.

  “What the hell have you three been playing at?” he demanded. “Why haven’t you got rid of the girl? It’s three weeks since I’ve been away. She should have been hit days ago.”

  “Not so easy,” Seigel said. “We don’t know where she is, for a start.”

  “You knew where she was!” Maurer snarled. “Why didn’t you hit her then?”

  “We took Weiner first,” Gollowitz said quickly. “He was the easiest.”

  “The easiest! Don’t you realize she is the dangerous one? With her out of the way Weiner’s evidence wouldn’t have amounted to a thing! You should have taken her first!”

  Gollowitz had long ago realized his mistake of killing Weiner instead of Frances, and it bothered him that Maurer had so quickly spotted the weakness of his strategy.

  “You know she’s talked?” McCann said. “She claims to have seen you knock off the Arnot woman. That’s why there’s a warrant out for you.”

  Maurer’s face turned a dusky red.

  “Then she’s lying! I didn’t touch June!”

  “They have pretty solid evidence,” McCann said slowly.

  “Enough to convince any jury.”

  Maurer looked at Gollowitz.

  “What evidence?”

  Gollowitz told him of Frances’s statement and about the gold pencil.

  “We tried to get the pencil,” he concluded, “but they beat us to it.”

  Maurer stiffened.

  “What do you mean — beat you to it?”

  “Seigel went out there with a bunch of boys and surprised Conrad and a couple of coppers who were digging up the pencil. There was a gun fight, and before Seigel could clinch it, a bunch of cops took them in the rear. We lost five of our boys.”

  Maurer looked as if he were going to burst with fury.

  “Was that one of your stunts?” he snarled, leaning across the desk and glaring at Gollowitz. “You crazy fool! You should have left it alone. I knew about that pencil. I had a story to cover it. Five of our men killed! You must be out of your head!”

  Gollowitz dropped back in his chair, his face ashen. He felt Ferrari’s eyes on him, and in a moment of sick despair he realized that the story of his failure would get back to the Syndicate.

  “You not only throw lives away, but you underline the importance of the pencil,” Maurer went on. “I dropped that pencil down the drain two days before June was killed.”

  “But there was her blood on it,” McCann said sharply.

  Maurer’s little eyes gleamed.

  “It was my blood. I cut my hand on a bottle. The blood smeared the pencil and as I was wiping it clean it dropped out of my hand and fell down the drain.”

  “That won’t do,” McCann said curtly. “Sorry, Mr. Maurer, but it won’t do. The blood on the pencil belongs to Miss Arnot’s blood group, and it happens to be a fairly rare group at that.”

  Maurer jutted out his chin.

  “What group is it?”

  “B group.”

  “Would it surprise you if I told you I’m also in B group? I had a Wasserman a few years ago, and I was told I was in B group. How do you like that?” He swung around and glared at Gollowitz. “If you hadn’t tried to be so goddamn tough, this would have been a soft touch if it ever came to a trial.”

  Gollowitz wiped his face. He looked suddenly old and very tired.

  “I didn’t know.”

  Maurer looked at him contemptuously, then turned away with a shrug of his shoulder.

  “Where’s the girl?” he asked McCann.

  “I wish I knew,” McCann returned. “Forest has hidden her somewhere, and no one knows where.”

  “Don’t you?” Maurer snarled. “Goddamn it! You’re still Captain of Police, aren’t you?”

  “No one knows except the D.A., Conrad and twenty of my best men, who are guarding the girl. Conrad took her away the night Weiner died. Forest tells me no one but his office is to know where she is until the trial.” Maurer clenched his fist and thumped on the desk. “We’ve got to find her and wipe her out!” He looked over at Seigel. “That’s your job! I want to know where she is the day after tomorrow. Understand? If you slip up on this I’ll damn well see you don’t slip up on anything else!”

  Seigel started to protest, but the murderous gleam in Maurer’s eyes stopped him. He turned white and glanced over at Gollowitz, appealing to him for help, but Gollowitz had all the trouble he could handle and he didn’t even look at Seigel.

  “Okay,” Maurer said, and stood up. “There’s nothing more we can do until Seigel reports where she is. We’ll meet here the day after tomorrow at eleven o’clock and decide on a plan to hit this girl.”

  “You won’t find her,” McCann said shortly, as he got to his feet. “I knew how important it was not to lose sight of her, and I’ve been searching for her. She’s vanished. If you ask me, they’ve got her out of town.”

  “Seigel will find her,” Maurer said grimly. “He damn well better find her!”

  McCann shrugged and moved over to the door.

  “Watch yourself, Mr. Maurer. This town’s hotter than a red-hot stove for you, and if one of my men pick you up, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Maurer said curtly. “I can take care of myself.”

  Seigel, looking white and shaken, followed McCann out of the room.

  Ferrari continued to sit in his armchair. He stroked his bony nose and watched Maurer with alert interest.

  “Okay, Ferrari,” Maurer said, softening his tone slightly. “Much obliged for taking care of Weiner. I can handle the girl. You can get back to New York.” He looked over at Gollowitz. “Have you paid him?”

  Gollowitz nodded.

  “Well, so long, Ferrari. Remember me to Big Joe.”

  Ferrari got out of the armchair, stretched his short arms, took a couple of steps towards the door, then paused.

  “I guess I’ll stick around for a couple of days,” he said. “You might need me. You never know.”

  “I won’t need you,” Maurer said, trying to speak quietly.

  “You never know,” Ferrari repeated. “Big Joe said I was to see this thing through. If you want me to get out, maybe you’d better have a word with him first.”

  Maurer glared at Ferrari. Their eyes locked, and Maurer’s was the first to give ground.

  “Well, okay, if you want to waste your time,” Maurer said indifferently. “But I don’t need you to handle this. Please yourself what you do.”

  “I’ll stick,” Ferrari said, smiled, and went silently out of the room.

  Maurer turned and looked at Gollowitz.

  “Pleased with yourself, Abe?” he asked softly. “Are you happy you’ve got that little snake into my organization? How have you liked being the boss around here? Think you’ve done well?”

  Gollowitz didn’t say anything. He sat staring down at the carpet, his face slack, his hands t
witching in his lap.

  “Do you imagine the Syndicate thinks much of you?” Maurer went on in the same deadly quiet voice. “An idiot child couldn’t have done worse. Everything you’ve touched up to now has been bungled. Everything! I know you’ve been hoping to take over the organization. I know you’ve been planning to take Dolores too. Do you think I’m not on to you? You couldn’t take over a flea circus let alone a set-up like this, and as for Dolores, you can have her if you want her. I’m through with her!” He leaned forward and suddenly raised his voice. “Why, you stupid, spineless, yellow-gutted punk! You make me sick to look at you. Get out of my sight!”

  Gollowitz got up. He walked slowly to the door. His feet dragged and his shoulders drooped like those of a man carrying an impossible weight. He went out and shut the door.

  Maurer sat down abruptly. He knew the danger he was in. If he didn’t handle this right, the Syndicate would decide he must go. He wasn’t ready to go just yet. He knew why Ferrari was staying in town. He was waiting for orders.

  For the first time in his vicious, ruthless career, Maurer felt afraid.

  IV

  It wasn’t until the afternoon of the following day that Seigel thought of Janey Conrad.

  He had feverishly organized a search for Frances when he had realized Maurer would show him no mercy if he failed to locate her. He had sent out every available man to tap the underworld for news of her, but so far he had drawn a blank.

  He was getting desperate when he remembered Janey Conrad. Immediately he cursed himself for being such a fool as not to have thought of her before.

  He hadn’t seen Janey now for two weeks. He had found her charms a little disappointing. She hadn’t lived up to her promising looks. Seigel had a high standard, and besides, there were any amount of pretty girls who were more than willing to accommodate him. He could afford to be choosy, and when he found that Janey wouldn’t tolerate some of his finer points of technique, he came to the conclusion that she wasn’t worth his time or his money.

  It was possible, he now reasoned, that Conrad had told her where Frances was, or at least let her know where she could get into touch with him, and he regretted having dropped her so quickly.