You — son of — you — Scott — that’s the last — It was largely unintelligible, and all the while that queer blend of anger and surprise and fright was on his face, like the expression of a man astonishingly aware that he was simultaneously experiencing hemorrhages, heart attacks, and bowel movements.
And that, finally, calmed me down. Reason came back in a rush, suddenly, as if the temperature of my brain dropped ten degrees between one second and the next. The lava still lay in my middle, but the volcano had stopped erupting.
Both Cherry’s hands were on the edge of his desk, fingers clamped tight, knuckles bloodless. He sputtered a little longer, then stopped. The fingers pressed the desk for a while and at last relaxed. In control again, he reached into a drawer on his right, then placed his fist, holding a long-barreled revolver, on the desk top.
Wrap him up, he said to Pot. He wants it hard, he gets it hard.
Pot found some more tape, and bound my wrists behind me again. I didn’t wiggle much, not this time. I didn’t say anything, either. Pot went at the job like a man preparing a mummy, winding the tape not only around my wrists behind my back, but halfway up my forearms.
Cherry said, Let him cool off in there, and jerked a thumb toward another carved-wood door on his right.
Pot slapped his hand on my back and shoved me toward the wall. He opened the door, pushed me inside the room, banged the door shut behind me. He didn’t come in, but stayed in the room with Cherry.
I could hear the rustle of movement, voices, but even with my ear pressed to the door, I couldn’t make out words. Except for a couch, two overstuffed chairs, a long black table with half a dozen wood-and-black-leather chairs around it, the room was empty. There was only the single door, and no windows.
A few minutes dragged by, five, maybe ten. I tried to sit comfortably on the couch, and wondered what these bums had in mind for me. A little sweat oozed out on my forehead, my chest, under my arms. I heard a sharp sound, muffled by walls and distance. It seemed to have come from where my car was parked. It had sounded like a gunshot. A little more sweat oozed out. Maybe a bullet was what they had in mind for me. I wondered if Cherry had shot Jake because of his broken mouth, the way people shoot horses with broken legs. That was too much to hope for, but the sound puzzled me. The trouble was, everything puzzled me.
Giannomo Ciari, I thought. I sure hadn’t been prepared to see Joe Cherry here — though I should have been, now that I thought back over the last couple of days. I thought, too, about all the blondes; because one of the few things known for sure about Joe Cherry was how often he was seen in the big night clubs, the expensive restaurants, with a lovely young gal, and the lovely young gal was always a blonde. It was said a brunette or redhead in some chorus line or at a hat-check counter might catch Cherry’s eye, and she might even become one of his frequent companions; but, if so, she did not remain a brunette or redhead for long. Maybe Cherry just liked the contrast, his dark and their lights or maybe he couldn’t enjoy a woman unless her hair ranged in color from wheat to platinum, but it was always dark, black-haired Cherry with the eye-catching, light-haired lovely — at the clubs, the race track, wherever he was seen in feminine company.
And I’d sure run into enough blondes lately. Three here at the pool — even remembering them, failed to help time pass quickly. I couldn’t see my watch, but at least half an hour passed while I sat or paced in the room. The silent treatment? Let me sit here and sweat?
So I sat. Sweating.
The door opened. Pot loomed in it. Come on. When I was seated in the chair before his desk, Cherry said to me, Think we can have that talk now? Or do you want to go back in the next room again? With Pot and Jake this time.
Jake had washed his face. In fact, he looked as if he’d taken a shower. His thin hair was plastered to his skull, and he’d changed clothes. The new shirt and coat had no blood on them. It didn’t help much. His mouth destroyed the neat effect.
I said, We can talk, Cherry. But it just can’t be all sweetness and light, under the circumstances.
Make an effort. You got no idea the patience I’ve had with you. And why? Because I want it friendly. Understand?
I understand the sap on my head last night. And Pot’s boot in my ribs. How friendly can you get?
I didn’t have nothing to do with that — and I don’t give a damn if you believe it or not. Here’s how friendly I feel. You ever been in Paris, Scott?
No.
A man can have a lot of fun in Paris — with a little money and the right connections. I’ve got the money, and the connections. I can fix you up with a year you’d never forget.
You mean you’ll give me an expense-paid year in Europe? Or anywhere else that’s not in the States?
That’s it.
I like it here.
You won’t. Not if you turn down this offer. He shook his head, looking puzzled.
Scott, don’t you get it? Hell, you haven’t got any choice. This is gravy. I’m giving you a chance to get out. Turn it down and — He paused for a few seconds. Well, you’ll never see Paris.
I didn’t say anything.
He stared at me, eyes dark under the black brows. Ten G’s — and you must have your own pile stashed away. One-way ticket to Paris. Doors opened for you — by me. You’d live like a king. Better. He smiled, thinly. Anyway, you’d live. Well?
I’ll admit I thought about his offer. It was something I would have enjoyed doing under other conditions. But Cherry’s way would take all the fun out of it. Out of it, and the rest of my life. I thought sourly, the rest of my life?
I said, Cherry, I don’t get this. You must have known when you hauled me here that I wouldn’t go for a payoff.
I had to try it this way. O.K., I didn’t think it would work, but there was always a chance. He looked at Jake and said, Remember, don’t mark him up.
The words dropped into my mind like little half-frozen squids — chilling, gently moving, ugly, with soft tentacles that brushed bare nerves. I thought of Paris and sidewalk cafés and steamy night clubs and girls with flirty hips and eyes but I couldn’t get my mouth open, even for that.
Pot hauled me to my feet, gave me his usual banging shove toward the door. Jake stood next to the door, smiling as if it was painful. Undoubtedly it was painful, but not enough to keep him from smiling.
Then Cherry said, Hold it a minute. Take this junk.
I looked back at him.
He pulled the little gold key from his pocket, unlocked his middle desk drawer, took my stuff out and pushed everything across the desk.
Pot picked up the items, walked in front of me. He slipped the wallet into my inside coat pocket, jammed the Colt Special into the clamshell holster I still wore, dropped the other things into a side pocket of my coat — except for the car keys, which he handed to Jake, saying, You drive his heap this trip. Jake took them, opened the carved-wood door.
I thought of something and said to Cherry, By the way, was one of those blondes out at the pool Mrs. McCune?
He stared at me silently for four or five seconds, black brows pulled down.
Then he said, Who in hell is Mrs. McCune?
Pot gave me another shove, and we started down that long hallway again.
Back, I thought, to the cemetery.
Chapter Nine
When we were half a mile from Rand Brothers Cemetery I tried to jump out of the car.
It was nearly dark. We were in the Cad again and its top was down; there was a grove of trees a few feet off the road. My hands still were taped behind me, but my legs weren’t bound. If I managed to topple from the car, and didn’t land on my head, and got to my feet in a hurry, I could run toward those trees, and get shot in the back. But at least it was better than not even trying.
So I sprang — a good three inches into the air.
Jake was driving, and Pot had one h
and wrapped in the cloth of my coat. I went up three inches and Pot’s hand gave a yank and I went back down three inches. Then Pot’s other hand sailed through the air like a large ham hock and whacked me on the side of the head.
Don’t be so twitchy, he said mildly. We’re practically there.
That was the part I didn’t like. We were practically there, and there was the lousy cemetery. My head was ringing. Pot hadn’t walloped me very hard — not for a Pot wallop — but he could bust three of your ribs in front by slapping you jovially on the back. My head was ringing with the sound of millions of bells, like Sunday morning in heaven, or testing time in an alarm-clock factory. Man, I hadn’t known there were so many things loose inside my skull. Or maybe they hadn’t been loose until Pot clobbered me and loosened them.
Over the clanging of those bells I said, You miserable clunk. You won’t get away with this. Pot. You won’t — you won’t — I stopped. Why wouldn’t he?
Pot chuckled. You’re in for a surprise, Scott. This aint gonna be so bad.
The Buick Electra was still parked where it had been earlier in the day. Jake stopped a few feet in front of it. He turned off the engine, left the keys in the ignition, got out and walked to the Buick. Pot jerked me around, pulled at the tape on my wrists.
I had been jerked around, slammed around, and shoved around enough in the last twenty-four hours to last me more than a lifetime, and if this was the last act, I was going to play a little part in it. I stomped on Pot’s feet, roared, gnashed my teeth and tried to butt him with my head. Maybe I did butt him with my head; at least something happened to it. And there were those bells again.
Faintly, I felt the burn of tape on my wrists as Pot pulled several loops free. Dimly, I heard him say, A smart dude like you oughta be able to get the rest of it off. So long, cousin.
He slid out the door and trotted toward the black Buick, jumped inside. I shook my musical head, twisted around and got my eyes focused on the car as its lights were turned on. As Jake swung onto the road and started past the Cad, the bright headlights swept over me, blinding me, momentarily.
I ducked, then dived for the floorboards. They could still send bullets through the car door, but it would help if they didn’t see me. I shoved with my knees, pushed my body forward, started butting my head against the door handle, trying to get the door open, so I could run. The Buick’s engine got louder — and then fainter.
Fainter? They’d driven by, raced on down the road. For the first time I thought: Maybe those apes aren’t going to shoot me. I got my feet under me, slid up onto the seat, cautiously raised my head.
Sure enough. Far down the road the Electra’s red taillights blinked. I blinked back at them. For a while I was too surprised to do anything except stare at those diminishing red dots. They got fainter, disappeared.
What the hell? I thought. I looked around at the gathering darkness, but couldn’t see anything unnerving. After another minute, I got busy on the tape and managed to work it free. I wadded the black tape, stuffed it under the Cad’s seat, and reached for my gun. I flipped on the car lights and checked the Colt’s cylinder. Still loaded, five slugs in the cylinder and the usual empty chamber under the hammer, all normal.
Wallet, change, everything — even my gun, still loaded and ready for action. I thought about it, more than a little puzzled — and much more than a little relieved. But then I stopped thinking, started the car and left.
A lot of questions remained unanswered, but they could wait. I was driving with a single happy thought in my mind: I was in my own Cad, operating under my own power — and going away from the cemetery.
Usually, I park on North Rossmore in front of the Spartan Apartment Hotel, but tonight I drove to the alley behind the Spartan and pulled into one of the slots there.
It didn’t seem likely, after what had just happened, but what had just happened didn’t seem likely, either, so if anybody was planted out front with a gun or a bomb or embalming fluid I saw no point in asking for it.
I went in the back way, stopped at the desk and got my key. Nobody had come looking for me, but there’d been a few phone calls while I was out. I went up the stairs, down the hall and into my apartment.
Nobody was waiting there, either — all was undisturbed. I fed the frisky tropical fish in the community tank inside the front door and the color-splashed guppies in their smaller aquarium, momentarily eyeballed Amelia, the yard-square oil painting of a most daring tomato on my living-room wall, then undressed and showered.
I was in the bedroom climbing into a clean beige gabardine suit when the phone rang in the living room. I went in and grabbed it, said hello.
Hello, Mr. Scott? It was a woman’s voice.
Yes.
There was something familiar about the voice. While I was trying to recall where I’d heard it, she said, This is June, Mr. Scott. June Corey. Do you remember me?
June? Then I remembered. It all came back to me: the gal who could make corpses kick open caskets to give it one more try. The gal who moved like hot mercury, tall and lovely, with the shape like an experimental design for tomorrow’s production model, with blue eyes and red lips and long blonde hair. Oh, hell, I thought, another blonde.
But that is not what I said.
Hello! I remember. You bet I remember. Ha, do I remember? what a question. Well, how are things at the — It didn’t seem like the question to ask. Instead I said, Well, how are — things?
Fine, she said. I mean, not so good.
Things aren’t so good? We must not be talking about the same —
I’m afraid you’re in awful trouble, Mr. Scott. Danger. I mean, it’s — hard to say like this, on the phone. She paused. Where have you been? I’ve tried and tried to reach you.
I was at — a strange place. What do you mean, I’m in trouble? Hell, I already knew I was in trouble.
She said, I heard some men talking on the phone — I was on an extension — and they were talking about — She stopped.
About me?
Yes, but it was the rest of it. About — She stopped again.
Will you, for Pete’s sake, tell me what they said?
It just sounds so strange now. But they were talking about killing you.
I digested that. Or tried to. Then I said, Is that all?
Is that all? Isn’t that enough?
I didn’t mean it that way — it’s much more than enough. But did they say anything else? How and where and when they meant to kill me, that sort of thing.
Yes. A little. It sounded awful to me.
It sounds awful to me, too.
Could you meet me some place, Mr. Scott? I don’t like using the phone here — that’s how I happened to overhear them talking. And I’m a little afraid to stay here, anyway, now. I’m still at the mortuary.
It sounded a bit odd. But I could sympathize with her desire, and said, Sure, June. Want me to pick you up there?
Oh, goodness no! she said. I can’t afford to be seen with you. I mean — I hope it doesn’t sound awful, but with people going to kill you and all, I just can’t be seen — you understand, don’t you?
Of course. It was quite clear June had a head on her shoulders — and she wanted to keep it on her shoulders. You name it, I said.
Well, I’ll take a cab home, the Weatherly Hotel, then meet you around the corner on Normandie. Is that all right?
Sure. I looked at my watch. It was nearly eight p.m. About eight-thirty? That O.K.?
Make it nine. I have to get home, then shower and powder my body. And dress.
Powder — Everything got sort of far-off and faint for a moment. My mind had wandered away somewhere, and you know where.
She laughed, Oh, I don’t know why I said that. It’s just something I always do after I shower. After I walk around and get all dry, I mean. It just popped out, I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorr
y.
Don’t be sorry.
Nine then? Halfway down the block.
Fine. You rush home and — all. I’ll be waiting.
All right. ’Bye.
June. Before you hang up.
Yes?
I know you’re anxious to get off that phone and go, but I’m naturally curious. I would really hate to get shot on the way to meet you. So if you heard —
Oh, goodness, she interrupted. Of course. They said they were going to — do it at one in the morning. So there’s lots of time.
Sure, I thought. Loads of time. Whole hours of life stretched ahead of me. June seemed fairly casual about my impending demise — and that idle thought stuck in my skull with another one, less idle.
I asked her about it. June, how did you know where to reach me? I didn’t tell you my name.
I know. But I asked Mr. Truepenny. After you left, I went in and asked him. She paused, and added very casually, Not that I was interested or anything. In you, I mean. It’s just that you seemed nice, and — unusual. And you were so big, and kind of rough-looking, and the wild way you looked at me, and all, I — She paused again, then laughed. I’ll be honest. I was interested. Is that so bad?
I was looking at Amelia and smiling. No, I said, that’s not so bad. In fact, it’s dandy —
June was saying, Anyway, I wouldn’t want you getting killed, even if I’d never heard of you. There seemed something missing in that one, but she went on. And anyway, they’re not going to shoot you like you said, they’re going to blow up your bed. With you in it naturally.
Naturally.
I’d better go.
Yes.
I heard her hang up, but I kept staring at the phone for a half-minute or so. Then I shook my head gently, put the phone on the hook, and finished dressing.
So many interesting items had come at me during the brief conversation that it was difficult, if not impossible, to sort them out properly. There was plenty more for June to tell me, I felt certain; and I was increasingly eager to hear it all.
Dig That Crazy Grave (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 7
