Forbes ducked down and ejected the new empties.
Near his window St. Clair sat with his back to the wall. Wonderingly the old man said, “They’ve stopped shooting.”
“Damn right.” Forbes reached for the cartridge box. “They’re not heroes any more than we are. Most of ’em are middle-aged men with homes and families in the suburbs. And now that they’ve been blooded they’re probably talking it over.”
He risked another look outside. Nothing moved.
“I told you,” he said, “to fire four times. But it seemed to me you fired more than that.”
“I didn’t keep track. Just pulled the trigger until the gun was empty. You wanted to make a lot of noise, didn’t you? And you’re right, it kicks like—”
“Damn, we needed those cartridges. All I have left are the six in my gun.”
On the hill a slight man in a homburg hat and a blue-black raincoat emerged from behind a thick screen of shrubbery waving a stick with a handkerchief tied to it. It was Morris Maxwell.
A hidden voice yelled, “Forbes? No sense anyone else gettin’ hurt. You talk to Maxwell, hey?”
Hands deep in his coat pockets, Maxwell stopped at the foot of the steps. His shoes and trouser cuffs were caked with mud, but he seemed oblivious of the rain.
Forbes went out onto the porch while St. Clair hovered in the doorway.
“I suppose,” Maxwell said, “Saralee told you everything.”
“She did.”
“Very well. This is Claude’s juvenile idea of a trick. He wants to take you with a minimum of noise and risk to his own people. I’m supposed to say all he cares about is his million dollars, he’s willing to negotiate. A big finder’s fee for you and no retribution for anyone if you help him recover the money and promise to keep your mouth shut. But he’s already sent men to patrol the roads and search the woods, looking for Saralee and Iris. That was Iris, wasn’t it, crossing the stream with Saralee? We couldn’t see her face, but we assumed—”
“No,” Forbes said. “It was the sister. Carmelle.”
Maxwell frowned. “Too bad. If they’re found, she’ll be killed with Saralee. And whether you agree to meet with Claude or not, you and St. Clair will be killed too.”
“It won’t be easy. We have guns. And plenty of ammunition.”
“No matter. Your phone line’s cut. When they’re ready, they’ll rush from all sides. You won’t be able to stop them. But I suggest you pretend to meet Claude. We’ll all get in your car. Supposedly we’re to drive to the top of the hill and see Claude alone. Of course, you’d never make it up the hill. They’d disable the car, take you, learn what you know, and then shoot you. But instead of driving up the hill, you’ll push me out, drive as far across that clearing as you can go, and then run into the woods. That way at least you’ll have a chance.”
Maxwell was right.
“If you’re smart,” Forbes said, “you’ll join us. Claude won’t leave you alive now either.”
“On the contrary, he wouldn’t dare harm me. I had a talk with his superiors this morning. They need me more than ever. With me alive, Giveaway can fight to the last ditch in the courts. They’ll have time to siphon several million more out of the operation. But if I’m killed, there’ll be no doubt Giveaway’s a swindle. They’d be closed tomorrow, and that gives me a substantial lease on life.”
Maxwell looked at St. Clair. “You mind telling me how you switched those satchels?”
Thinly the old man smiled. “Not at all. One bold stroke, right under your courier’s nose. Iris’s suitcase was a shell, a duplicate satchel inside it. I’d bribed someone for the Major’s room key and photographed that satchel from all angles so I could have an exact duplicate made.”
“So while you distracted the Major—”
“Iris slipped the shell off the duplicate and over the real one. Her body screened the move from the lobby. If anyone else got in line behind her, she wouldn’t have tried it, we’d have attempted something else on the next pickup. But when the Major looked around last week, he merely saw what appeared to be his satchel alongside someone else’s suitcase.”
“And Iris Dean? If you had to hire Forbes to find her—”
“She ran off with it all,” Forbes said. “She planned to hole up here, but someone else had another plan. Iris is dead. Murdered. Her remains are out back, and whoever killed her has the money.”
For a long moment Maxwell pondered the news. “That,” he said, “is the final irony, isn’t it? When Claude hears, he’ll—but never mind. Forbes, if you and Saralee get out of this alive, tell her I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do it her way. Her way, prison would be inevitable. I’d go mad in prison. And tell her that if she hadn’t told the whole story to you, I think I could have stopped Claude from killing her. That’s out of the question now though.”
“We’ll get out alive.”
“I hope so. It’s why I’m helping you. I saw enough slaughter in the war, and more slaughter now would be pointless anyhow. You must have associates who know what you’re up to.”
“More than that. I’ve already discussed this with the police.”
“Exactly. They wouldn’t put Saralee in prison for talking though. So you can also tell her that if she turns state’s evidence I’ll fight back and deny everything. The Major’s body was found in the Potomac this morning, incidentally, not far from the embassy where he was officially last seen. We’ll dirty Saralee’s name. Invent incidents, with witnesses to testify to all of them. Promiscuity, perversion, blackmail, theft—I’ll smear you too. Claim you tried to blackmail me months ago, a payoff to stop you from spreading false rumors about hoodlums behind Giveaway Stores. I’ll say Saralee worked with you, and your secretary’s murder forced your hand. You’d lost influence and clients, you pressed harder for money, and I still refused.”
“And your presence here today?” Forbes asked. “At the house where Iris Dean’s remains were found? Your gangster friends and the bullets they fired into this place—how’ll you explain all that?”
“There’ll be no need to. I’m not here. We’re all elsewhere, and there’ll be witnesses to establish that too.”
Yes, Maxwell could make it tough. Forbes began to understand Saralee’s reluctance to go it alone.
“You’ve made your position clear. One more question. How’d you follow us? I thought we lost you west of Milwaukee.”
“You did, but early this morning Powell got an anonymous phone tip at his club. Someone said you and St. Clair might turn up in Wautoma over the weekend.”
“A tip? It doesn’t make sense unless, knowing I was out of town, one person could have guessed I might come here. Iris’s killer. That means Claude’s playing into the killer’s hands. He’s a dupe, he’s being used as a murder weapon. You tell Claude that. For some reason, whoever killed Iris wants me dead now.”
“Claude,” Maxwell replied, “is enraged beyond reason. If he doesn’t recover that money soon, I think he’ll be killed himself. And if we don’t walk out to that car soon, he’ll lose patience and order his people to storm this place right away.”
“All right.” Forbes looked at St. Clair. “Got all that ammunition in your pockets?”
“Oh, yes,” St. Clair said blandly.
“Let’s go.”
They hiked out to the car, and after Maxwell gave a jaunty wave toward the hill they all got in the front seat, St. Clair in the middle.
Forbes kicked the engine into life and turned on the windshield wipers. “Maxwell, for the last time—”
“No. It’s much too late now. And if I can avoid prison after Giveaway’s collapse, I’ll spend my golden years quite comfortably. Some of that money in Switzerland is mine.” He opened the door slightly. “Ready? This’ll have to look good. They would kill me if they knew I helped you escape.”
“Yes. And thanks.”
/> With a loud grunt, Maxwell threw himself out and went sprawling in a puddle. St. Clair slammed the door; Forbes floored the accelerator. They veered into the clearing, going parallel with the stream and toward the forest that had shielded the half-hidden lake. A ragged volley of shots was fired at them and a few slugs crunched into metal. Then they bounded out of range and into scrubland, steering a wild course through trees, bushes and stumps. Forbes aimed at what seemed to be a small opening at the forest’s fringe, and not too far from it they slammed deep into a thicket, jolting to a stop.
The nearest of Claude’s men was almost two hundred yards behind.
“Walter, you all right?”
St. Clair huddled on the front seat. “I don’t know. I—I’m kind of shaken up.”
Forbes helped him from the car. “Come on, you can’t conk out now. They’re running this way. Take that path. Don’t stop to rest until you have to. I’ll delay them as long as I can and then catch up.”
The old man wobbled out of sight behind a thick screen of birches and tamaracks.
Kneeling in the brush, Forbes waited. When their pursuers had closed to within a hundred yards, he fired once, sending them darting for cover again. He kept them cautious with two more shots spaced about twenty seconds apart. Then he turned and ran into the woods after St. Clair.
* * * *
The clearing around the old Taylor place was full of cars, most of them bubble-topped emergency vehicles, when the first of the men from the FBI parked under the oak. It was mid-afternoon and the rain had ended.
As the FBI man got out, a state police lieutenant came over and said, “Hi, Tony.” They shook hands. “A gasser, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say. Found any gangsters yet?”
“Afraid not. Plenty of cartridge cases lying around, but no trace of whoever fired ’em. And it’s still hard to believe that a bunch of Chicago hoodlums would come up here and—”
“They’re real enough. A Chicago police lieutenant named Shanahan’s driving up now. This ties in with something he and our people have been working on for more than a week. Missing person—a foreign military attaché. It’s believed his boss ferries mob money to Switzerland. Finally found his body today, but there’s a big question about where he was killed.”
“Well, if I were you,” the trooper said, “I’d hurry to the hospital in Wautoma. An hour ago the ambulance arrived with the two they found in the woods, way up a trail that starts where that car’s stuck. And they say one’s a goner for sure.”
CHAPTER 16
Grimly, Shanahan walked to a hospital room guarded by a sheriff’s deputy. He displayed identification, opened the door, and found St. Clair sitting up in bed, puffing on a cigar and thumbing through a sheaf of typewritten pages.
St. Clair nodded and drawled, “Let’s see. I’ve met so many of you chaps today, I’ve forgotten—”
“Shanahan. Chicago police.” The bespectacled lieutenant pulled up a chair. “In the next few months we’ll get to know each other very well. You’ll be a key witness in establishing motive in the murder case we’ll try to build against Claude White, Louie George and others for killing the Major.”
“Yes, of course. But the Government wants my services too. The courier deal was quite illegal, and—”
“We’ll work it out. I’ve read your statement, but I’d like to hear from your own lips what happened this morning. Just the last part, after the escape from the Taylor place.”
“Matter of fact, I’ve written it up, narrative form, first person, under my byline, just as it happened to me. A bright young journalist polished up the rough spots. We spent most of the evening on the collaboration. He’s in town now phoning around to sell it. We’re trying Life first.”
“Jesus! That it?” Shanahan snatched the manuscript away.
“Poor Forbes,” St. Clair went on. “How is he? The last time I saw him they were wheeling him into…”
Ignoring St. Clair, Shanahan located the passage that interested him and began to read:
…heard them start their cars, but we remained hidden in the brush for another ten minutes. My feet were soaked. I was developing a chill and told Forbes it must be safe now, it was highly unlikely they would return. Forbes finally agreed and we stumbled back to the path.
“They may be patrolling the road,” he said, “so we’ll go deeper into this forest. All the way to the lake, that’s where the path seems to be heading.”
“That far?”
“Damn right. There may be cottages on the lake—people, telephones. Anyhow, I want a very good look at that body of water.”
“What’s so important about it?”
Above, the trees formed a porous roof, blocking much of the rain. There was no wind and the air was dank and raw, the ground beneath us covered with vegetation growing from what seemed to be black muck.
“Iris’s picture.” Forbes was oddly abstracted, a man seized by an idea. “The one you gave me in Lincoln Park, the one she’d been reluctant to give you. There was a lake in it, a little island in the lake, one tree on the island. Quite a landmark, and it occurs to me that the picture could be the key to everything. She told you her father took it in Indiana on a last outing before his death, but she lied. She hadn’t been on speaking terms with her father since her teens. If she lied about who took it, she might also have lied about the locale.”
“You mean it may have been taken here?”
“Sure. How’d Iris find the Taylor place? I checked most of the Wautoma real estate men, she didn’t go to them. Apparently she found it on her own and went direct to the owner to rent it. Those trips she took—suppose she went to a place on the lake where this path seems to be leading? Maybe she first saw the Taylor place while hiking along this very path.”
“But in the picture she was a blonde.”
“Then it was taken before she began establishing a new identity. But maybe nobody here knew her as Iris Dean either. Whoever she came here with hadn’t wanted to be seen with her in Chicago. Even up here they might be careful, keep to themselves, go to town as seldom as possible. False names…”
For another minute or so Forbes was silent, his face pursed in thought. The path swung into a slow turn. On our right we glimpsed portions of the deserted camp grounds—a parking area, some playground equipment, a few outhouses. Then the forest screened them from view again.
“Hell, that’s it!” he said finally. “The picture—what happened to it after I got it? I ordered blowups made. But the background was cropped out, nobody’d recognized the locale. Monday, after my last talk with Helen, the prints were delivered. Following orders, she mailed the original and negative back to you. A few hours later, she was murdered by someone who was going to tell her about Iris. Between our talk and the time she left the office she got a new lead. Where? When she first saw your original picture!”
“What makes you so sure,” I wondered, “she planned to talk to someone about Iris? I don’t recall anything in the newspapers about—”
“I’m sure, never mind why. But what happened later? Wednesday morning I got the picture from your mailbox and took it to my apartment. Wednesday night someone broke in and ripped everything to pieces, including the picture. Claude’s people didn’t do that. Someone else did—the person who killed Iris and then Helen. The person who told the Syndicate I might be here today. Why? Because I’d seen the picture too. If I turned up here, I had to be killed before I saw the lake.”
“Pure theory. And what you’re saying—it suggests that your secretary was acquainted with whoever killed Iris. If she recognized the photograph’s background—”
“Yes, she knew her killer, and—look!”
Abruptly the path broke out of the forest almost at the lake’s shore. We saw it then, about a hundred yards out in the water and partially obscured by mist and rain—a tiny dot of land with a tree growing from
it.
To our right a ramshackle wooden bathhouse marked the limits of the camp grounds. Forbes hurried past it to the water’s edge. Wearily I limped after him.
“Over there.” He pointed. “On the other side—a cottage with a pier. It’s where Iris was standing when the shot was taken.”
“I suppose so.” To me the cottage was a distant blur.
“It’s the motive for Helen’s murder,” he went on. “The picture put Iris at that cottage, less than a mile from the place where we found her remains. Someone who owns or rented that cottage killed Helen. We’ll go over there, break in, see what we can find inside.”
“Not me. I’m short of breath, and my feet hurt.”
“You’ll make it. We’ll rest a minute and…”
Behind us a hinge creaked. Then we heard the unmistakable click of a firearm’s hammer being cocked.
Neither of us moved.
Forbes said, “Rose? Is that you?”
“Yes,” Rose Huff replied. “Put your hands up and turn around.”
Stepping from the bath house, she held a repeating shotgun at the ready. The massive woman wore boots and a camouflage-hued poncho, its hood giving her a weird monk-like appearance.
“St. Clair, unzip Julian’s poncho and unbutton his jacket.” Her cheeks were flushed; her voice was unnaturally high, as though she tottered on the verge of hysteria. “Reach in with your left thumb and forefinger. Pull his thirty-eight from the holster, very slowly, and toss it here. This is a twelve-gauge; at this range one shell’d finish both of you.”
She held the shotgun with an assurance suggesting she had fired it many times before, so, gingerly, I extracted the revolver and tossed it to her feet. With a quick motion she scooped it up and dropped it into a pocket.
“Now you. Unbutton, let’s see what you’re carrying.” When she spotted the empty .45 in my belt, she said, “Take it out the same way, but throw it into the lake.”
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 74
