by Brad Latham
“Shut up,” Wade’s high-pitched voice answered.
Were Cynthia Jones and Cyrus Wade in bed together? How cosy.
Lockwood eased his .38 out of the spring holster. Slowly, he opened the door. He stepped over the bedroom’s threshold. His shoes made a creaking sound.
“Who—who’s there?” Wade’s voice nervously asked.
Lockwood snapped on the light switch by the door. “Surprise!”
“Lockwood!” Wade’s eyes almost popped from his snake-like head. He reached to pull the blanket over himself.
Cynthia Jones didn’t seem to give a damn that she was naked. She still didn’t look so bad, but not great either.
“Sorry to spoil your party,” Lockwood mockingly apologized.
“How did you get in here?”
“Save the outrage, snake, for your trial. For murder, mass murder. Now, this is a gun, see? Show me a poison prescription you had Robin Mobley fill for you. And the thermos—where’s that?”
Wade smiled, “If I killed Jones, I’d be pretty dumb not to dump the evidence, wouldn’t I?”
Cynthia sat up. “Cyrus, this man threatened me at my house. Disarm him and call the police.”
“My dear, he has the drop on us.”
“All right now, get your clothes on,” Lockwood said. “We’re going to look around here together.”
Lockwood heard a loud bonk. That’s a funny sound, he thought. Kind of like a fish jumping back in the water of a calm lake.
Then the air got soupy around him, and then smoky. The room spun around, and the couple on the bed sank. The ceiling became the wall.
Then it got dark, as dark as in a mile-deep well.
When he came to, Lockwood’s brain was pounding like a bass drum. Damn, someone must have hit him on the head and nearly cracked his skull. Someone must have snuck up while the happy couple kept him occupied.
He tried to move his hand, but discovered that he was handcuffed behind his back. Handcuffs not rope, a good sign. Cops use handcuffs, killers use ropes.
At least he wasn’t in the trunk of a car, being driven to some swamp. He was sitting on the sofa in Wade’s living room.
He heard someone say, “He’s coming around now. His head’s hard as hell.”
It was the voice of Detective John Early. The red-haired Scot bastard was one of the Bobbsey twins who was always after Lockwood. The other cop, who came slowly into focus, was Bob Knapp.
Knapp had a whiskey glass in his hand. He put it to Lock-wood’s lips. The whiskey tasted good, and as Lockwood sipped, his head cleared a bit as it burned its way down.
Knapp took the drink away. “He’ll be okay now. These private dicks live on liquor.”
Knapp and Early lifted him up by both arms.
“All right, Lockwood, down to the station now.” Early laughed loudly. “Looks like your snooping days are over.”
Wade was at the station.
“I was alone, sleeping, when this maniac—” he pointed at Lockwood, who stood groggily, hardly able to stand—"broke in and pulled a gun on me. Lockwood’s teamed up with that murderess, my secretary. I managed to overpower him, and after a struggle, finally got the better of him.”
Woozily, Lockwood wondered. Who did hit me?
It was all cut and dried. The cops booked him, took mug shots and fingerprints, and threw him in the holding pen.
By the time Lockwood’s head stopped swimming and he realized what was going on, he was behind bars—thick, steel bars that wouldn’t move no matter how hard he rattled them.
“I want a lawyer! Call Gray! Get me a phone.”
The turnkey sneered at him, “When we get around to it, creep!”
CHAPTER
22
Lockwood kept up his yelling for hours, mixing his demands with obscenities.
“You goddamn cops got the wrong man. Wade did it. Every last stinking bloody bit of it. You creeps! You pricks!”
“What was that, Mr. Lockwood?” The turnkey came to his cell and stood just outside the greasy bars.
“What was that last word, Mr. Lockwood?”
“I said, ‘You cops think you’re pretty slick.’ “
“I don’t think that was it. I’m gonna have to clean you up a little. We don’t like no dirty-mouthed prisoners.”
The beefy turnkey unrolled a firehose that hung against the wall.
He aimed the nozzle into Lockwood’s cell and turned the valve with his other hand. The water shot into the filthy cell. It splashed off the walls and drenched Lockwood no matter which way he turned. The guard lowered the nozzle and hit his target directly.
The water slammed into Lockwood like a giant’s fist. It lifted him off his feet. He hit the back wall and slid down to his knees. The powerful jet followed him.
“Clean yet, murderer?” The jailer aimed the high-pressure jet right at Hook’s head.
Water covered Lockwood’s face. He tried to breathe, but only liquid came shooting into his mouth and nose. He was drowning. He was a mile under the ocean and trying to swim to the top. He stroked the air frantically as if he could swim out of range of his tormentor’s weapon. Just when he could take no more, it stopped.
“We don’t like murderers here. Especially guys that kill our favorite baseball players.”
Lockwood was quiet and wet. The idiots had it all wrong, but he couldn’t do a thing. They weren’t going to listen to him.
Soaked to the skin, he sat on the wet bed in his dripping worsted suit. Water, water everywhere but—where the hell was Gray when you needed him?
He stayed that way all night, huddled and shivering in the one corner of the crummy little cell. In the morning he was sneezing and coughing, and his suit still felt wet and cold. He kept shivering. Jesus, he’d never go swimming again. Not for the rest of his life. Which didn’t look like it was going to be too long, the way things were going.
The cops finally came for him and brusquely hauled him out of the cell. They handcuffed his hands behind him. He felt like a goddamn criminal.
They brought him in front of a judge. The guy didn’t look too bad. Kindly face, gray hair. Maybe someone’s not an idiot around here, Lockwood thought, but his hopes weren’t too high.
The assistant D.A., a slimy wimp in a bankers suit and oiled-down hair named Bill O’Hara, went over the details of Lockwood’s alleged romp.
“Your honor, this madman has killed someone every week for the past month. Three in New York, two in Larchmont. He is also suspected in the disappearance of a woman who is a fugitive from justice on another murder charge. Last night he was caught breaking and entering the home of Mr. Cyrus Wade and threatening the man with a gun. I recommend he be kept in the city jails without bail until the state can establish its full case against him.”
“Who are you?” the judge asked, looking down at Lockwood from his bench. “What’s your job?”
Lockwood tried to talk, but his jaws seemed frozen shut. The D.A. stepped forward to answer for him.
“Your honor, he’s supposed to be an insurance investigator.”
The judge looked out at the group of law officers and other people who were awaiting a hearing.
“Does anyone here know this man?”
Early stepped forward. “Your honor, this is William Lockwood, a mean customer from Times Square. He drinks and bar brawls a lot. He consorts with hardened criminals and reporters who interfere in the prosecution of those criminals. He is a blot on the community, your honor.”
That bastard! Lockwood, though handcuffed, shot a kick at Early as he passed by and got him in the thigh. Cops and bailiffs happily leaped forward to help Early. They manhandled the investigator back onto the prisoner’s bench.
The judge looked down sternly from his perch of justice. “I see he’s indeed homicidal. I remand him to the penitentiary on Centre Street until the beginning of trial. No bail.”
He slammed the gavel down like a guillotine.
“Get me Gray!” Lockwood screamed. He had
finally found his voice.
Jimbo Brannigan walked in.
“Ah, you have gone and done it now, haven’t you? Maybe syphillis has gone to your brain from all those women. Tsk-tsk. You look awful.”
Lockwood was glad to see him.
“Your honorous majesty,” asked Jimbo. “May I be so rude as to approach the bench?”
There was a mumbling conference between Jimbo and the judge. They smiled and nodded a lot. The judge kept peering down at Lockwood as if trying to size him up through his judicial powers of observation.
The judge nodded. Jimbo asked him something else. The judge nodded again. Jimbo smiled.
The judge slammed his little hammer again several times. He liked doing that.
“Change in disposition. Prisoner is remanded to Bellevue for observation. Dismissed.”
“Wham! Wham! Wham!” went the little hammer.
Early threw his hat on the floor as the judge rose: Lockwood had slipped through his fingers again.
A padded cell in Bellevue? At least Early and some of these other cops wouldn’t be able to kick Lockwood around there.
Hook was getting very annoyed with Gray. Surely if Gray had been here, he would have called the president of Transatlantic who could call some big shots and explain how it was all a horrible mistake. The big shots would call the mayor, and soon the word would come down to give Lockwood a bouquet of roses and spring him. Sure.
At Bellevue the doctors looked into his eyes with little flashlights. They thumped his head with little rubber hammers the size of the judge’s. That hurt. Everyone seemed to want to hit Lockwood in the head. They took his blood pressure. They consulted intensely with each other.
“I’m not crazy,” Lockwood insisted.
“You all say that,” said one of the doctors, a skinny guy, just out of med school with pimples still on his face.
“I suppose we do. But I didn’t kill anyone. I’m an insurance investigator. Hey, call this number for me, okay?”
The doctors didn’t, but a young nurse who took a liking to the investigator at last slipped out and dialed the number.
They had Lockwood in a straitjacket when Gray walked up to his bed.
“Lockwood, you fool! Have you completely lost your marbles?”
Molly was with him. She looked white as a ghost. “Ooooh, Mr. Lockwood, you look awful!” she said.
Good old Molly.
“I know I look awful. I feel awful. In fact, I feel more awful than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.”
“Listen, Lockwood. I’m trying to get you out. I’ve arranged with Mr. Gordon Junior to call a certain high-placed official.”
CHAPTER
23
Boy, those doctors hated to let me go, Lockwood thought to himself, as he drove toward Westchester in his Cord.
This was the first time in thirty-six hours that he wasn’t restrained in some manner. Under his second-best snap-brim his head was bandaged. His best hat was waterlogged, ruined forever in the shower he had been given in jail.
There were still charges against him; and there would probably be an indictment against him for breaking and entering Wade’s apartment.
But now he was just taking a ride. He never felt more relaxed than when he was just tooling around in his Cord listening to her twelve cylinders purr away.
He wanted to see Robin. He was afraid to call her at the Happy Arms Hotel. Her picture had appeared in the Daily Mirror this morning with the caption “Have You Seen This Woman?” No, better she stay in the cottage and not come to the office phone.
Besides, there were things he could only say in person. He wanted to hold her, comfort her. Jesus, she must be going crazy by now, wondering what the hell had happened.
Lockwood made sure no one was tailing him by taking a few turns, then zoomed up to the little motor hotel.
Robin flew into his arms the second he opened the door. She was dressed only in a blue bathrobe.
She pulled him inside. He kicked the door shut behind him.
“Oh Bill! Bill!” It was all she could say, over and over, clutching him as if he were life itself.
He dried her tears and filled her in on the events of the last two days.
“Who hit you on the head? I can’t imagine that Half-Pint or one of the other hoods was invited to stay in Wade’s other room, while he—”
“I don’t know who bashed me, but I bet he’s the same one who helped Wade torture Doc. Robin, I hate to say it, but I think you’d be better off in police custody. You could give them your side of the story.”
“No! I had enough of the police—before. Back there,” she said. She looked as if she might cry.
“By turning yourself in, it’ll show your innocence. I’ll go with you.”
Robin said, “I can’t live like this, afraid of my shadow, hiding indoors in this cabin. But—oh, I don’t know.”
He kissed her. “Get dressed. We’ll make it as painless as possible, Robin. I’m going to clear you. I swear, everything will be all right.”
Robin looked wistfully into his eyes. “Can’t we spend some time together before we go?”
Lockwood saw that the belt on her robe had loosened and that the robe had fallen partly open.
She was naked. The blonde V of curls where her legs met her taut midsection, clearly visible, tempted him. What difference would it make if they spent a blissful hour together before rushing off to be incarcerated?
She cooed, and her lips traced a soft path on his chin and down to his tie, which she loosened.
“Please, Bill. Let’s make love. Now.”
Her breath was hot against his ear. What man could refuse?
“It would be bad if they caught us here before we gave you up on our terms.”
She was lost in sensuality. “Bill, just a ‘quickie,’ as they say. I’m experienced now, right?”
Lockwood caved in. He carried Robin to the creaky bed in the back room. In a short time, the springs were violently squeaking.
Their bodies moved in rhythm, slow at first, only gradually picking up tempo. The chirping of the bed became a full orchestra of sounds. Their bodies thrust together for even tighter union. Perspiration dampened the sheets.
He was ready to let loose, when she slowed down. He stopped, broke his lips away from hers, and held himself a bit aloft.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She smiled sadly, which made the dimple in her chin deepen. “Why the hurry?”
“No hurry.”
“Yes, you are.” Her hands played with his chin, then glided down the ridge of his back. She shifted under him, which gave him a quick wave of pleasure. “Let’s take our time. I can see why folks go on about sex.”
He laughed and kissed her. “You’re certainly learning fast.”
“Learning what?”
“To take it slow and easy.”
“It feels too good to rush.”
“Yeah, but people get in a hurry.”
“I didn’t think it’d be like this, Bill. Let’s not go back to the city.”
He sighed and mock-grimaced. “Do we have to argue about it at a time like this?”
She gave him a mock-pout back, “Maybe I won’t want to go on if you’re just going to insist on taking me to jail.”
“I’m not taking you to jail,” he answered, “I’m going to get you off the hook—see if I can get you out of this mess, and out of danger.”
He half rolled off, but she pulled him back into her.
“No, don’t go,” she said.
“I thought you wanted to stop.”
“Don’t take everything so seriously.”
Women! He grinned at her. They clasped each other tightly and went back at it. Lockwood took his time, rising to the crest of orgasm and then dropping back six times until he knew he wouldn’t have much fun holding back any more.
“Now,” he said.
“Hmmmmm, now,” she answered.
He let his pleasure build up sl
owly again, slowly enough so that she could easily follow him, and then thrust his way through, yet still not hurrying. She followed and her lithe body met him at every turn. He marveled at the way their bodies knew how to fit together so naturally.
A giant hand seemed to pick him up and gently throw him against her over and over again. He allowed it to happen, reveling in the waves of pleasure, and then it was over.
Cool sheets. Her damp skin. Shouts from the courtyard. The buzz of a fly.
“Unearthly,” she said and hugged him.
They lay together another ten minutes and then slowly, between kisses, dressed.
Several times Robin seemed to be on the verge of asking Lockwood something, but stopped herself. He knew what it was—not to go back to the city—and he dreaded going back through the necessity of it with her. Fortunately, she didn’t ask.
CHAPTER
24
Lockwood telephoned Brannigan from the crank phone in the hotel office, then he called Gray. He wanted the same smart lawyer, Bob Bleiberg, who had sprung him.
“And why should the company foot the bill for Miss Mobley’s legal defense?” Gray asked incredulously.
“Because if Robin Mobley did kill Lorenzo, Doc, and Sykes,” suggested Lockwood, “you’ll have to pay off on policies. I still think Wade did it. Him and the widow Jones. But if your fancy lawyer ties up the case against Robin in knots, then the police might be interested in nailing someone else. Like our chummy beneficiaries, Cyrus Wade and Cynthia Jones.”
Gray countered, “We probably stopped Wade and Mrs. Jones by threatening to expose their adultery.”
“You’re a bit old-fashioned, Mr. Gray, if you don’t mind my pointing out. Adultery is not the onus it once was. The gentlemen at Wade’s club probably all have mistresses.”
Lockwood listened to a long silence on the line. Come on, Lockwood said to himself, spend the money.
“I’ll send Bleiberg down to Criminal Court for Robin Mobley’s arraignment.”
“You’re a great man, Mr. Gray.”
“Merely practical, Lockwood. You no doubt have some personal reason to defend Miss Mobley by now. My interest is purely financial.”
