Doctor Who - [New Adventure 29] - [Vampire Trilogy 2] - Blood Harvest

by Terrance Dicks

  "He was doing criminological research," said Thompson uneasily. "Tell them that."

  "Well, I can tell them your honour. But there are things people won't believe, even in Chicago."

  There was a moment of silence. Both men knew that if the full extent of McSwiggin's involvement with the underworld came out, the resulting scandal could be bigger than that of his murder.

  "What about the Jake Lingle killing?"

  "There's nothing to connect Capone with the Lingle case at all - and as far as I can see, no motive either. What's more, Jake Lingle was no angel. There's a lot of political mud to be stirred up there too."

  The Mayor's secretary appeared in the doorway that led from his outer office. She was a classic dumb blonde - the Mayor picked his secretaries for looks rather than character - and she was rather flustered. "There's a gentleman who insists on seeing you, Mr. Mayor, even though I've told him - "

  "There, there, my dear, don't trouble your pretty little head," said the Doctor, slipping neatly past. He took off his hat and coat and handed them to her with a beaming smile. "Look after these will you, my dear? And a cup of coffee would be most welcome."

  Thankful that Ace wasn't around to witness his outrageously sexist behaviour, the Doctor turned to the two men in the room. "This is an honour, your honour. And it's a great pleasure to meet you again, Captain Reilly." He glanced at Reilly's expensive suit. "Plain clothes, I see."

  Proudly Reilly stroked his lapels. "And haven't I been promoted? Head of the Special Detective Task Force no less!"

  "Well deserved, I'm sure. Though it's a pity in one way. Nothing sets off a fine figure of a man like a uniform."

  "Sure, it's a silver tongue you have Doctor," said Reilly. "Where would you be from now, originally?"

  "Well, I've travelled a great deal but I'm originally from a place called Gallifrey."

  "Sure I know it well!"

  "You do?"

  "A little town in Ireland, not too far from Dublin. I've a cousin there meself."

  Deciding it was better not to go into that one, the Doctor turned back to the Mayor. "I must apologize for this intrusion your honour but I'm here on important business." The Mayor stared at him in amazement and the Doctor added, "Party business." When the Mayor still boggled the Doctor said, "Republican party business."

  The dime dropped at last and the Mayor said, "I see. Captain Reilly, if you will excuse us?"

  Reilly looked suspiciously at the Doctor. The Doctor smiled blandly back at him. Reluctantly, Reilly heaved himself out of his deep leather armchair. "Very well, your honour. But I'll take the liberty of reminding you that the City of Chicago has no need for gold bricks - and the Brooklyn Bridge is definitely not for sale!"

  He stomped out of the office.

  By now the Mayor was thoroughly confused. "What the devil's got into Reilly?"

  "Strain," said the Doctor soothingly. "Great responsibilities, difficult times."

  Big Bill Thompson rubbed a weary hand across his face. "You can say that again, Doctor."

  Resisting the temptation to do just that, the Doctor went on, "And of course, no one suffers the burden of that strain more than you do, your honour."

  "Damn right," said the Mayor. The pretty blonde secretary came in with a silver tray holding a silver coffee pot and cups and saucers of fine bone china. She put it on a nearby table, poured out two cups, smiled at the Doctor and went out.

  Thompson watched her go, sighed and said, "How about a little something to liven up the coffee, Doctor?"

  "Just a touch," said the Doctor resignedly.

  Big Bill went to the drinks cabinet, splashed expensive Napoleon brandy into crystal and handed one to the Doctor. He raised his glass. "Chin chin!"

  "Chin chin!" said the Doctor solemnly, taking a sip. If he stayed in Chicago much longer, he thought, he'd be the first alcoholic Time Lord in Gallifreyan history.

  "Now then," he said sternly, "to business. Last time we, er, made contact, I was unable to be too specific about my reasons for being in Chicago. Since then events have moved on. As you know, Calvin Coolidge, our beloved President, has announced that he feels unable to stand for a further term. With elections on the horizon the party has been forced to cast round for a suitable candidate. Its eyes have fallen upon Chicago."

  Eyes shining, Big Bill Thompson leaped to his feet. "I shall be proud," he boomed, "nay honoured -"

  The Doctor held up his hand. "We must not be premature - I am not yet empowered to make any specific offer. My task here is to observe, and to recommend."

  Disappointed but still hopeful, Big Bill subsided. "I understand, Doctor. If there is anything, anything I can do..."

  Glitz would have been proud of him, thought the Doctor. Then again, conning someone as vain and stupid as Big Bill Thompson was almost too easy.

  Remembering Glitz's motto, "Never give a galactic sucker an even break," the Doctor went on, "If I may be frank, your honour?"

  "Please do."

  "The situation in Chicago gives some cause for concern. It's a question of the public image, you see. Chicago the booming city of industry and commerce, under the leadership of Big Bill the Builder is one thing. The Chicago of tommy-guns and gangsters is quite another."

  Big Bill was on his feet again. "I am planning a cleanup that will scour the filth of crime from the face of our fair city..."

  "Please," said the Doctor wearily, "Save the speeches for the voters. As long as this Prohibition nonsense lasts, there will always be bootleggers. The appetite of the people for drink and gambling and - other diversions has to be satisfied." The Doctor leaned forward. "But it must be satisfied discreetly in quiet, well run establishments. It is open, blatant crime which must be put a stop to - and when it comes to the murders of three prominent citizens in swift succession ... I have been asked to enquire what you are proposing to do about it."

  "I have set up a Special Task Force, under Captain Reilly." The Mayor scrabbled on his desk. "His reports are here, if you'd care to see them." He picked up three files and waved them at the Doctor.

  "May I?" The Doctor whisked the files from Thompson's hands and returned to his chair. He flicked through them with apparent carelessness, taking in every word and committing the files to memory.

  The McSwiggin and Weiss files contained little of interest. The witnesses in each case had apparently seen little and remembered less. Dekker and Ace would just have to dig deeper, thought the Doctor. But in the Lingle murder the assassin had been seen by a traffic policeman, a certain Anthony L. Ruthy, and his report was in the file. He was home on sick-leave at the moment, and the report gave his address.

  Officer Ruthy was reluctant to talk to the Doctor at first: he was all talked out, he said. But the Doctor's hint that his newspaper, the London Times, provided a handsome expense account, did the trick. He was invited into the seldom-used front parlour of the Ruthys' little house, and they talked as the Elevated rumbled by.

  "Though it's little enough I can tell you," said Ruthy. He was a bulky man with a round face and strangely childlike blue eyes. "I heard a shot, heard people shouting Stop him, stop him!, and saw this feller running away."

  "What did he look like?"

  "Nothing special. Tall and thin."

  "Then what?"

  "I chased him and he turned down a blind alley. I had him trapped. He swung round on me..." His voice faltered. "Then he disappeared."

  "How, exactly?" asked the Doctor gently.

  "That's what I can't tell you. One minute he was there staring at me ... Then he was gone."

  The Doctor nodded. "Why are you home on sick-leave, Mr. Ruthy?"

  "It's the visions," said Ruthy simply. "I can't get his eyes out of my mind. Since then I've been seeing things, everyone from the good Lord himself down to Abe Lincoln." He shook his head. "Now, I know I never met Lincoln in my life! Then there are the dreams, slaughter and bloodshed and all kinds of horrors ... What's happening to me?"

  "You've suffered a ki
nd of psychic shock," said the Doctor authoritatively. "Just take it easy and the dreams and visions will fade. You'll be back on duty in no time."

  He thought for a moment, then took a silk handkerchief from his pocket. In it was wrapped a miniature, a portrait of a man in eighteenth-century clothing - not surprisingly, since the portrait had been painted in the eighteenth century.

  "Would you be good enough to take a look at this for me?"

  The policeman took the miniature and peered hard at it. Then he looked up, the blue eyes wide with horror.

  "It's him," he whispered. "It's the very man!"

  19 THE TRAIL

  When Ace got out of her taxi outside Schofield's flower shop, she saw a tall bald-headed old negro scrubbing at the sidewalk with the help of a stiff broom and a bucket of soapy water. She paid off her taxi and went over to him.

  "Won't it come out?"

  He rested on his broom. "Blood don't shift easy, missy. It kinda soaks into things."

  "You sound as if you've had lots of practice."

  "I surely have. I mopped up inside here when they shot down Mr. O'Bannion a few years back. Want to see? I'm about done out here." He picked up the bucket and led her inside the shop.

  It was a sizeable place about twenty-five feet wide and a good fifty feet deep. There were plants and ferns all around, and a huge display rack in the centre of the room. It was filled with red roses - the colour of blood, thought Ace.

  "Them's American Beauty Roses," said the old man. "Same kind we had in the shop that day" He pointed to a faint stain on the floor just in front of the rack. "That's where I found Mr. O'Bannion's body. I been scrubbing that floor quite a few years now and I still can't get all the blood out."

  "What happened?" asked Ace.

  "Mr. O'Bannion was in here fussing with some chrysanthemums. We had a big funeral order coming in. You know that man really loved flowers? Lots of people thought he bought this place just for a front, but that ain't so, he had a real gift for the work. He liked to do all the big displays himself."

  There was something distinctly odd about the idea of a gangster with a talent for flower- arranging, thought Ace, but she didn't say anything. The old man went on with his story. Ace realized that he enjoyed telling it, that he'd probably told it hundreds of times.

  "There was a whole mess of petals all over the floor. Mr. O'Bannion he says to me, Bill, you mind cleaning up those petals? He was always very polite, Mr. O'Bannion. So I sweeps up the petals into a big dustpan and carries it out the back. Just as I go through the workroom door I hear some people coming into the shop, and Mr. O'Bannion says, Hi boys, you here for the flowers? I go on out to the trashcan in the back alley, and suddenly I hear all these shots. I run back into the shop and there's Mr. O'Bannion lying there dead, and three guys disappearing out of the door. I hear a car engine, and by the time I get to the door they're gone."

  "So you didn't really get a good look at them? Didn't recognize anyone?"

  "I'm still here, ain't I?" Ace nodded understandingly, and suddenly realized she was investigating the wrong murder.

  "What about when Mr. Weiss was shot?" The old man chuckled. "That time I really didn't see anything. I was working out the back when I heard one of them tommy-guns blazing away. By the time I got out front Mr. Weiss was dead on the sidewalk. I didn't really know Mr. Weiss too well, he wasn't friendly like Mr. O'Bannion."

  "I hear the shots came from the boarding-house next door?"

  "That's what they say." Ace took a five-dollar bill from out of her purse and slipped it into his hand. He looked at it in surprise.

  "A fin - that's way too much."

  Ace smiled. "My pleasure."

  As the old man tucked the bill away in his overalls pocket, a young man came out of the back of the shop. He wore a grey suit, a loudly striped shirt and a flashy tie held down by a jewelled tie-pin. One of those round straw hats called skimmers was stuck on the back of his head and there was a cigar between his teeth. Ace could see the bulge of a gun under his left lapel.

  "Still playing tour-guide, Bill?" he said in a loud raucous voice. "How about earning your pay for once? Get out back and clean up some of that mess in the workroom." The old man looked at him without replying, then picked up his broom and went out through the back of the shop.

  The flashy young man gave an uneasy laugh. "I don't know why we keep that dumb old nigger on here. Can I help you, lady?" His contemptuous dismissal of the gentle old man made Ace feel like killing him on the spot. She remembered the Doctor's warning and forced herself to smile. "Sorry, that was my fault. I was asking the questions."

  "How come?"

  "Just another curious tourist."

  The young man nodded. He was used to dames from out of town looking for a few cheap thrills from Chicago's sinful reputation. He usually did pretty well with them, and this one looked classier than most.

  "If you want the low-down on life in Chicago, lady, you've found the right guy."

  "I have?"

  "Sure thing. I could tell you stories would curl your hair."

  "Stories about the Hymie Weiss murder?"

  "Sure, I was there, I saw the whole thing."

  Ace was pretty sure he was lying to impress her, but she decided to play him along just a little longer. She gave him a seductive smile. "Really?"

  He came closer. "Sure! Why don't we talk about it over a drink? There's a speakeasy just down the street." He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close. "They got rooms as well."

  Information or no information, thought Ace, enough was enough. There were limits to what she was prepared to do to help the Doctor in his mission - whatever it was. She brought her knee up hard.

  The young man bent forward with an agonized whoop - and encountered a three-fingered strike to the solar plexus that left him paralysed. Ace was tempted to follow up with a heel-strike to the septum that would drive splinters of bone into his brain, but she remembered the Doctor's words. Restraining herself, she delivered a chop to the upper lip that started a spectacular nosebleed, and a rabbit-punch that slammed him to the floor.

  Ace picked up the iron bucket, still half full of soapy water, tipped it over him and went out of the shop.

  The young man's name was Tony Ricotti and he was a very minor member of the Gusenberg mob. As he came painfully back to consciousness, he became aware that someone was helping him to his feet. It was a stranger, a tall thin fellow. He must have just come into the shop. He was somehow familiar - Ricotti had a vague idea he was one of Polack Joe Saltis's boys.

  "Lousy dame sucker-punched me," said Ricotti thickly.

  "I saw it," said the stranger.

  "When I get my hands on her..."

  "She went into the boarding-house next door," said the stranger calmly. "She's still there now, nosing around, asking questions." He handed Ricotti a towel.

  The mobster rubbed a mixture of blood and soapy water from his face and dried his dripping hair. "Yeah?" He clawed for the gun under his arm. "I'm gonna go round there and fill that bitch full of holes."

  "Take it easy," said the stranger. "Don't you know who that was? She's the one they call the Lady in Black, works for a guy named Doc."

  "That's the dame took out Swifty Morelli?"

  "That's right. And you know how fast he was. Go after her and you're liable to wind up dead, not just damaged."

  "But we gotta do something. Swifty was a pal of mine."

  "I can tell you how to get her, and get her good."

  "Yeah? How?"

  "She's a good-looking dame."

  "So?"

  "Joe's cat-houses can always use a little new talent. Listen..." The stranger began to speak in a low, persuasive voice.

  Ricotti listened with eager attention, saying, "Yeah, right!" as the scheme unfolded. He went to the back of the shop, unhooked the wall phone and made a number of urgent calls. When he'd finished he said, "It's all set"

  Ricotti broke off, looking around the shop in astonis
hment. The stranger had disappeared.

  Ace was getting nowhere fast at the boarding-house. The owner, Mrs. Rotariu, had gone off somewhere and in true Chicago style the other tenants knew nothing about anything.

  They didn't know where the landlady had gone or when she was coming back. They didn't know anything about the tenant of the now-empty first floor front. No one had spoken to him, no one seemed to have even seen him.

  The first floor tenant, a burly white-haired old railwayman, invited her into his kitchen for coffee and explained why.

  "Had a young nephew once, worked on the railway like me. Nice kid, kinda straight-arrow, keen church-goer. One night he's coming home off the late shift, sees two guys toss a dead man out of a car. Kid's got good eyesight too good. He gets a look at the two guys, takes down the car number. Police find the guys and pull "em in, kid picks "em out of a line-up. They get arrested, sent for trial."

  Eyes staring bleakly into the distance, the old man took a swig of coffee. "Then the phone calls start. They begin by telling the kid he can make a pile of dough just by having a lapse of memory. He turns 'em down. Then come the threats, saying what's gonna happen to him if he testifies. Kid's tough, he doesn't crack. Tells "em to go to hell. Few nights later he's coming home off the late shift, big black Caddy comes round the corner, smashes him off the sidewalk. Kid dies on the way to hospital, driver of the Caddy's never found. No witnesses, no case, the killers walk. Lady, if someone guns you down right here in this goddam kitchen I won't see or hear anything and neither will anyone else."

  "And the killers go on killing," said Ace.

  The old man shrugged. "That's Chicago. At least if you leave 'em alone they only kill each other."

  "Thanks for the coffee," said Ace, and went on her way. Back in the corridor she decided to take a look at the now-empty flat used by the machine-gunner. It was locked, but a few minutes work with a hairpin fixed that.

  It wasn't much of a room. The brass bedstead was creaky and tarnished and the dressing-table mirror was flyblown. There were a couple of rickety wooden chairs, a gas hot-plate, a tin food safe and that was it.