by Otto Penzler
“But you are married.” The thing just blurted out.
“So I am, so I am.” He playfully tapped me on the chest with a long, delicate finger. “But I have a feeling that it will not be for long. There are times when I really believe I have psychic power. This is one of those times.”
“But who are you to—”
“Tut, tut, Williams. A man does not announce a bride while he has a wife living. But take care of yourself. My car will follow yours closely. Do not fail to visit me. I shall make you a most enticing offer of money, and introduce you to my future wife.”
“But a man does not announce a bride while he has a wife living.” I repeated his crack half sarcastically.
“Quite so, quite so,” he told me. “And I repeat—I shall introduce you to my future bride.”
With that he was gone, stepping into the huge Rolls Royce, the door of which a man held open for him.
CHAPTER XXIV
HIGH-PRICED INFORMATION
I started toward my car, hesitated and stood in the middle of the sidewalk. Had that last crack of his been a threat against his wife’s life? Should I go and tell O’Rourke? Should I—. But the Rolls still stood at the curb and O’Rourke surely expected more than I did that the woman’s life might be attempted. Also O’Rourke and another cop were already in that private hospital. One thing was sure. O’Rourke was a thorough police officer. Only the best men would watch over Madame’s life, and—
“The night air grows chilly,” Michelle Gorgon was calling from the window of his car. “If you would rather postpone our little talk, and chat with the genial Sergeant O’Rourke, it is perfectly agreeable to me.”
“Be right with you,” I said confidentially, hopped into my car, stepped on the starter, shoved the old girl in second gear, and was away, shooting down the street before the big Rolls Royce could even get moving.
No, sir, I didn’t believe that business of taking me off the spot, or if I did believe it, I wasn’t going to test out the accuracy of my instinct in such matters. It might be easy for Michelle Gorgon to pass the word along to certain racketeers, “Empty your machine gun into the car I’m following.”
I burnt up the city streets, lost track of the Rolls entirely, and had my car parked around the corner and was waiting in the pretentious lobby of the Park Avenue apartment when Michelle Gorgon came in.
“An astounding man, Williams, most astounding.” He shook my shoulders playfully. “You do everything with such enthusiasm. Now, when I wish speed,” he went on, as we rode up in the elevator, “I take the airplane. I’m a great believer in the future of air travel, perhaps, even the present. I have more than one plane of my own.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve heard about your plane. Your wife likes it too, I suppose.” And the sneer would not keep out of my voice.
Michelle Gorgon looked at the elevator operator, but said nothing until we had alighted at the top floor and the elevator door closed behind us. Then he said:
“That was untactful, and if not unkind, at least thoughtless. I am a man, Williams, who is no longer young. It has only been given me in life to love two women.”
“Then you were married twice.” I wasn’t trying to be tactful.
“Not yet,” he told me, let himself in the heavy steel door, and we walked across the roof, up the steps of the porch and into the bungalow. Once again I found myself in the library. Once again the old servant brought the No. 1 Sherry and left us alone.
I got up, walked about the room, spotted the door behind the curtain, that Madame had left by on a previous occasion and found it locked. Michelle Gorgon watched me without objection, but with a little twist to his thin lips, and perhaps a narrowness to his eyes, though they never blinked. Just regarded me steadily, like the unblinking orbs of a young baby.
One thing I made certain of. That was—that no one was hiding in that room, or behind those curtained windows. Now, I’d fix my chair, back against real solid plaster and keep it there. I wouldn’t be trapped again. Not twice in one night, by a Gorgon, anyway.
“You are perfectly safe here,” Michelle Gorgon told me. “Besides, Sergeant O’Rourke knows you came with me.” And he added, rather suggestively I thought, “Sergeant O’Rourke also knows that I came here with you, as does my servant.”
I looked up.
“What do you mean?”
“That Sergeant O’Rourke probably knows why you came here.”
“Do you know why?” My hand was on my gun now; I was leaning slightly forward. “Do you know why I took a chance like this, coming here alone with you, to your home, again?”
“Yes,” he said, “I do know. To threaten me with physical violence unless I disclose certain information to you. That would be your way.”
That startled me. In fact, that was almost exactly what was on my mind, but not altogether.
“You’re partly right,” I told him. “But not to threaten you, Michelle Gorgon, to act. You know my ways. You took your chance when you brought me here. Colonel McBride has paid me, trusted me. He has disappeared.”
“Not an affair of the heart, I hope.” Michelle Gorgon looked up at me from his easy chair.
And that was that. Not heroic, nor moving picture stuff. Not the sort of blood that runs through the body of a hero, maybe. But I was alone in that room, with probably the greatest murderer who ever cheated the hot seat. I took two steps forward, and had him by the throat. And I was talking.
“Now, where’s McBride? You don’t believe in the physical, Doctor Gorgon, except in the abstract. Well, you’ll believe in it now. Where—” My fingers started to tighten upon that throat, but stopped. Those eyes held me, still staring, still unblinking, and yet there was nothing of alarm in them. Perhaps, just a touch of the curious. He spoke very slowly as he watched me.
“You are acting rather childishly, Race Williams. Just a moment—” he cut that in quickly, as my fingers started to tighten and I started to talk. “Let me assure you,” he went on, “that all arrangements are made for such a contingency as this. I believe, if I wished, I could go through physical violence, even torture, with a silent tongue, but,” and he actually smiled, “I will not put myself to the test. I am just as determined a man as Colonel McBride. I imagine he has resisted pressure. But the point is—if you so much as close those fingers on my throat, the place will be alive with servants, not gunmen, maybe, but servants. I assure you that my system of protection here is unassailable.”
He didn’t speak like a man who was bluffing. He didn’t—I let go of his throat and stepped back. I had something else up my sleeve.
“You may be right,” I told him. “You may have a system that will protect you from physical violence. But what would prevent me placing a bullet smack between those cute eyes of yours?” Somehow, O’Rourke’s words crept in then.
“Well,” he smiled with his lips, and actually sipped the sherry, “you and I would call it, shall I say, ethics. My brothers would call it ‘lack of guts.’ And do you know, Williams, I think that my brothers would be right.”
Maybe he was right. Maybe he wasn’t. I was fingering my gun speculatively. Oh, it’s a weakness. I guess he was right, after all. It’s the “woman” in all of us. I just couldn’t bring myself to press that trigger and snuff him out. Couldn’t? And I wondered. The men he had murdered, the man, Colonel McBride, whom he now spoke of as being under “pressure,” which probably meant “torture.” And, I let the trigger of my gun slip back and forth slowly. Who was the woman he was going to marry? Was it The Flame? I half raised my gun.
Did he read what was in my face, or was there anything in my face? I don’t know, and so he couldn’t. But I have always had an idea that at that moment Doctor Gorgon was nearer to death than he ever was before. And so did he, for he cut in quickly, and his eyes blinked now.
“Also,” he said slowly, “it would be most disastrous for the Colonel, most disastrous.”
“What you’re telling me practically amounts to a confession
.” I tried police work.
“Hardly.” And his smile came back as my gun went down on my knees. “Let us not be children at play. You knew that I knew where Colonel McBride was before you came here. O’Rourke knows that I know. At Albany they know that it is my hand that guides the destiny of our courts. The rookies on the police force know that, when a man dies who has displeased the right people, that it is the hand of a Gorgon who directs that death. But what does it avail them? Nothing. Absolutely nothing! Protection is money. I have that. Protection is influence. I have that. Protection is fear. I have established that. Big men have sought my influence because it gratifies their ambition. They have taken my money because it gratifies their greed. And they’ve taken my orders because they recognize fear. And I can gratify that emotion to the last degree.”
He was leaning forward now. And suddenly he unclosed his hand and hurled a bit of paper across the table at me. I unfolded it with my left hand as I watched him.
“The soul of Rose Marie cries out for vengeance,” was all that was now written on that paper. But a word, two words or perhaps three, following the word “vengeance” had been carefully erased.
And the face that I had seen once before in that room was looking at me now. The face I had seen that first night, when Michelle Gorgon found his wife in the library. The contorted, evil features that Michelle Gorgon couldn’t control. What a rotten soul the beast must have. The distorted mouth, the eyes now protruding, the lips quivering like an animal’s. Yep, Michelle Gorgon was just what Joe was, what Eddie had been. Just an underworld rat. And this time his face stayed coarse and evil when he spoke.
“I’ll give you one hundred thousand dollars for the name of the person who wrote that message, who for the past week has been sending those messages. Who—”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean!” He fairly cried out the words. “Who is it that rings the phone at night? Who is it that speaks that same message in the cracked voice of a man who tries to imitate a woman? Yet, it is a woman’s trick. But there can be no woman, no man either, no living man, now. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? No one in the world but myself knows who that— who Rose Marie is.”
“Your first wife, in Italy.” I tried to throw him.
He only laughed.
“McBride thinks of a first wife, in Italy. The shrewdest Italian detective on the Force has visited my home town in Italy, traced me until I left for America, traced every move I made since leaving the boat in New York, twenty-three years ago. But they know nothing. Giovoni told them nothing. Williams, I offer you one hundred thousand dollars for the name of the person behind McBride, behind O’Rourke. The person who tells them so much, but no more. The person who seeks a personal vengeance against me. The only thing in life I have feared. And I don’t know, don’t know who it is, nor why it is.”
“Rose Marie, eh?” I was looking at the name.
“Yes, Rose Marie. Let that help you. But, one hundred thousand dollars for the name of the person. It’s a lot of money.” He was calmer now. “I have the cash here, ready to pay. Crisp, new bills.”
“But suppose I don’t know who wrote it?” I wouldn’t admit I didn’t know, yet. Which, from his next words, was an unnecessary precaution on my part.
“Of course you don’t know. If you knew what this person—” he spread his arms far apart. “Colonel McBride don’t know, or he would have acted. But Colonel McBride knows who the person is, for that person gave him such information as he has. That person suddenly decided to work it alone. Yes, McBride knows who it is, and McBride won’t tell. Won’t tell yet.” A drawer in the table came open.
“One hundred thousand dollars. I have it here. It is yours if you will tell me the name of every one, and what’s taken place, to the least detail, since you entered this attempt to eliminate the Gorgons, last week.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“You’d be wasting your money,” I said, but I was trying to think. Was some one onto Michelle Gorgon? Did some one know what that little Italian, Giovoni, had known, and was that some one waiting to get a good price for that information from Colonel McBride? But that couldn’t be. If it was simply a question of money they’d blackmail Michelle Gorgon. So I tried that question on him while he seemed ready to talk.
“Has any one tried to shake you down?”
“No, no. There is something deeper than that, far deeper. I can not understand it. But this person who knows, keeps it, keeps the knowledge from all but me. Why? Why?”
“Why do you tell me, why put anything into my hands?”
“Put anything into your hands!” His voice was scornful. “McBride was told, and O’Rourke was told, that I murdered my wife back in Italy. They—. But no matter. You have been told it too. But like every other accusation against me, it fell through, when—”
“Giovoni died,” I tried.
Michelle Gorgon ignored that. He said:
“I tell you because, because it may be that such—certain information may come to you— and I assure you, Williams, that it will be to your best interests to sell that information to me. But some one told McBride of Giovoni, some one told McBride of—but no matter. The subject is dropped. You will remember it only when you wish money. If I could, could—” He took his head in his hands and pressed the temples at the sides.
Then he changed suddenly.
“And now, Williams, for my little treat. I wish to take you below with me. Just a few floors. It is perfectly safe. Really, you’re not alarmed? I promise you that I shall interest you.”
CHAPTER XXV
APARTMENT 12-D
But I was alarmed. Not afraid, you understand. There’s a deal of difference between the two, at least, in my way of thinking, there is. And you’ve got to admit that I’ve got to live or die on my way of thinking, and not some one else’s.
“Maybe I am like you in some things, Williams. If I have made my plans I go through with them no matter what may threaten.” This, as we left the bungalow and entered the upper hall of the apartment. “Yes, go through with them even if they lead to destruction. For, like Aristotle, I must follow my star.”
“Like Napoleon, you mean.” For once I knew something that he didn’t and had to get my oar in like a kid.
“Napoleon. Yes, I said Napoleon.” He fairly snapped the words, and for the first time I saw color in his cheeks. He did have his weak side then, and, damn it! it was brought out by a reflection on his—well—I suppose the word is culture, which is rather a laugh there.
“I meant Napoleon,” he said as we entered the elevator, “if perhaps I didn’t say it. You can see, then, how disturbed I am tonight.” And in a louder voice, directed to the elevator operator, “Very much disturbed. Madame is very ill, John. I’m quite worried about her. The twelfth floor, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I hope it’s nothing serious.” The operator didn’t appear overinterested, but Michelle went on.
“Not serious from a medical point of view; not serious physically, John. But then, they have not watched over Madame as I have. It’s her mental condition. There have been times when I was afraid she’d do herself a harm. She’s threatened it. I spoke of it tonight, didn’t I, Williams?”
“No, you didn’t.” I looked at him strangely. He was a talker, there was no doubt about that. But I had not expected that he’d hold forth with the elevator operator on his domestic affairs, at least the mental afflictions of his wife.
“But I should have mentioned it to you, Williams. It worries me greatly.” This, as we stepped out on the twelfth floor and I followed him down the wide hall to a mahogany door, labeled 12-D.
A moment’s wait while a bell buzzed far back behind that door.
“It’s all right, Williams. I am going to introduce you to my future bride,” and as a maid opened the door, “I am expected, of course, Lillian.”
“Of course, sir,” said the colored maid, and held the door open for us to enter.
“A little surprise, Lillian. Don’t mention that I’ve brought a friend. Not a word, now.” And something passed from Michelle Gorgon’s hand to the maid’s hand as we entered a beautifully furnished living room.
Was I a fool to come? I didn’t know. But I’d have come anyway, and bride or no bride my hand still rested on the gun in my jacket pocket. I remembered that I wasn’t in the “sanctuary” of Michelle Gorgon now, and though I remembered also that the elevator man, John, had seen us get off at the twelfth floor and that O’Rourke knew I was in the building—Well, I’m noble minded and all that, but I wasn’t a good enough citizen to be willing to play the part of the corpse that finally roasted this inhuman murderer, Michelle Gorgon.
And that was that. There was a sound of laughter and running feet, and a girl was across the room. Two arms were around Michelle’s neck.
“It was nice, nice of you to come, and I stayed up. Who—” She dropped to the floor and looked at me. “What is he doing here?” And the girlish sparkle went out of those eyes; the youthful softness went from her face. It was the woman now. The woman of the night. As I had expected, but never let myself believe, it was The Flame, Florence Drum-mond. The Girl with the Criminal Mind. And perhaps half a hundred other aliases in her innocent young life.
Bitter? Yes, I was bitter. Only a short while ago she had told me that she loved me. Maybe Michelle Gorgon’s presence had some strange power over her. I had half thought that from her previous actions. But, she had not felt his presence when she ran from that room to greet him.
“You see, I’m disturbing the lady.” I half turned toward the door.
“Ah! Yes, yes.” Michelle Gorgon seemed to be enjoying himself. “We just stopped in, Florence. I have an engagement, and I wanted to tell you that I couldn’t visit you tonight.”
“If it’s a test—” The girl looked sharply at him.
“If it is, it’s not for you, my dear.” Michelle sort of plucked at her arm. “My confidence in myself, the beautiful things I can shower on you, in the wonderful places I can take you. In—” And turning to me, “Just a minute, Williams. For the last time, you are looking on The Flame, The Girl with the Criminal Mind. Now, that mind will be occupied with nothing more criminal than making a man happy by, by—.” He went very close to her but still watched me. “By allowing him to adore her,” he finished.
