“And was it?” I asked.
She looked at me wide-eyed. “Of course. You don’t think Madeline shot her own brother on purpose, do you?”
By now we had both finished the entree, and my reply was interrupted by Fausta reappearing to take our orders for dessert.
When Fausta had moved off again and I had poured coffee for both of us, I said, “I understood there was some question as to whose bullet hit Lloyd.”
Bubbles shrugged. “Oh, that. Barney was just being gallant. He told me and Tom Henry privately he was sure his shot wasn’t high enough to have reached Lloyd.”
I asked her how long Barney Amhurst and Madeline Strong had known Walter Ford.
“For years in a casual sort of way, I guess. I only met him about six weeks ago myself, but from remarks I’ve heard Barney and Madeline make, he was an old acquaintance of theirs. I suppose Lloyd must have known him too, though I never heard him mention Walter. I don’t know how Walt got involved with the Gimmick, but I’m pretty sure Barney and Madeline weren’t close friends of his until he became one of the company directors. You knew it was Walt who introduced Ed Friday to Barney and got him to put up the money for manufacturing, didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t,” I said.
“Well, it was. Walt worked for Friday once about ten years ago.” She stirred her coffee thoughtfully. “You know, it’s funny I happened to know that, but didn’t know Walt was married. I guess he wasn’t in the habit of letting drop much information about himself.”
“He had a good reason. Did you know he had an interesting little sideline of blackmailing women with pornographic photographs of them that he had taken?”
She stopped her coffee cup halfway to her lips and slowly set it down again. An expression of startlement grew in her eyes, but for some odd reason I got the impression she was deliberately forcing it, and if she was actually surprised, her surprise stemmed more from my having knowledge that Ford had been a blackmailer than it did from the dead man’s nefarious activities.
“Walt did?” she asked with patently false amazement.
“Among other shady activities,” I said dryly. “His wife characterized him as ft liar, a crook and a blackmailer. She also said he didn’t pay his alimony.”
Fausta brought our dessert then, again interrupting the conversation.
“Was the spaghetti sauce all right?” she asked. “Wonderful,” I said in a flat voice. She didn’t reappear again.
On the way out of the club I stopped to talk to Mouldy Greene while Bubbles visited the powder room. Mouldy was in typical form. Just as I stopped, a famous but aging matinée idol who was reputed to wear a toupee entered the club. Mouldy’s face split into the terrifying expression he fondly believes is a smile of welcome.
“Hi, baldy,” he called. The famous stage lover winced, gave a hopeless shrug and called back equably, “Evening, Mouldy.”
Then El Patio’s official customer-greeter turned to me. “Still in one piece, huh?”
“I have a few inner scars,” I said. “Where’s your delectable boss?”
“Over there a minute ago.”
He pointed toward the archway into the ballroom, and I saw Fausta standing unobtrusively to one side of it looking toward us. When I crooked a finger at her, she came over reluctantly.
“For a grown woman that was a pretty childish idea,” I said to her.
Across the cocktail lounge I saw Bubbles emerge from the powder room. Giving Fausta a cold look, I started to walk away.
“Wait, Manny!” Fausta called. “Are you mad at me?”
Stopping, I said over my shoulder, “Enraged.”
Moving up beside me, she looked up into my face and said in a small voice, “Now you will stand me up tomorrow night.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I told her. “I’d probably get a bomb in the mail.”
“You will be here?” she said, pleased. “I will make it up, Manny. I will be awful good and not even frown when you smile at other women.”
“I’m sure of it,” I said dryly.
In a burst of generosity she said, “Why do not you and Bubbles go into the ballroom as guests of the house instead of leaving now? The first floor show will be soon.”
But having watched all the performance I cared to for one evening, I politely declined the invitation.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I THINK BUBBLES planned on making the rounds when we left El Patio, but I took her straight home.
It was only a little after ten when we arrived at her apartment door. She seemed a trifle chagrined that we weren’t going to make a night of it, but not angry enough to stop crowding me.
“You’re not much fun,” she said, wrinkling her nose at me.
“Old men usually aren’t. What you need is some young hepoat with stamina.”
I gave her a paternal kiss on the forehead and left her in front of her apartment door.
It was around ten-thirty when I slipped my key into my own door. As I pushed the door shut behind me, I simultaneously reached out for the wall switch to my right. The result was that when light sprang into the room, I had one arm out at a right angle to my body and the other behind me with the palm pressed against the door.
“Just hold that position,” said the slim young man who had been waiting in the dark in my favorite easy chair.
He couldn’t have been older than twenty-two and he had a thin, sharp-nosed face whose length was emphasized by lank black hair worn full across the temples in the manner of actors. Lips, oddly full for that long face, curled in a condescending smile. His dress was razor sharp and in his right hand he held a light blue Homburg.
In his left, he held a .22-caliber Woodsman Colt automatic.
I held my awkward position while he came lazily to his feet, set the Homburg on his head at a rakish angle and moved forward to pat my pockets and feel underneath my arms. He held the muzzle of his pistol an inch from my nose while he made this investigation.
“Not heeled, huh?” he said, stepping back. “Okay, you can drop them.”
Letting my arms drop to my sides, I examined him carefully. I had never seen him before, but I had met his type many times, usually in police line-ups.
He let me look him over thoroughly, a mocking light in his eyes, then said in a deliberately quiet voice, “Turn around and open the door again.”
When I hesitated the barest fraction of a second, his trigger finger instantly began to whiten. The small bore was centered accurately between my eyes and the gun was steady as a rock.
I turned then, quickly but without abrupt movement. It wasn’t necessary for him to elaborate orally, because that warning convinced me that if he didn’t get instant obedience to his commands, he would put a bullet through my head without hesitation.
When he glanced past me and saw the hall was empty, he said, “Start moving.”
I went out into the hall. Behind me he switched off the light and closed the door. With my captor only a pace to the rear, I went down the half flight of steps and outdoors. Usually I prefer a quiet neighborhood, but tonight I mentally cursed the location of my apartment house. The only person in sight was a half block away and walking in the opposite direction.
“Across the street,” my abductor said.
Our destination was a dark blue Chrysler coupé parked directly across from the apartment building. He urged me around to the curb side of the car, which required passing behind it. For no particular reason except that I make a habit of mentally recording such information, I noted the license number was X-17-304-G.
At the gunman’s direction I slid under the wheel.
“It doesn’t need a key,” he said. “Just start it up.”
So much for my careful noting of the license number, I thought. No key being required meant a wire bridge across the ignition lock, which in turn meant a stolen car.
I examined the gun in his lap. It was pointing steadily at my right ear. “You sure you’ve got the right guy?”
“The description fits and the right name was on the apartment door. There couldn’t be two as ugly as you living in the same flat, could there? What’s your name?”
“Reginald Walsh. You should see my apartment mate, Manny Moon, if you think I’m ugly.”
He gave me an indulgent grin. “Just start the car, Mr. Moon.”
Then as he idly flicked on and off his gun’s safety, I pressed the starter. “Where to?”
“Head for the river road and turn north. I’ll direct you from there.”
We had been moving in the direction of the river road about five minutes before I ventured, “Any reason you can’t tell me what this is all about?”
“Nope,” he said. “Somebody who don’t like you wants you out of circulation.”
“Permanently?”
“I don’t think he’d care much. Not necessarily, if you behave. I got sort of free rein about that.”
I drove in silence for a few moments more, then asked, “Decided whether or not you’re going to make it permanent?”
He shook his head. “You decide that. By how you behave, like I said.”
“And if I behave?”
“We just hole up for a couple of weeks. I hope you brought some money along. I like to play gin rummy.”
“Who is it that wants me out of circulation?”
“The chamber of commerce. They think you’re an eyesore to the city. Now just shut up and drive.”
So I shut up and drove. When we reached the river road, I turned north as instructed and continued to drive.
We rode in silence for another five miles, then my guide abruptly ordered me to turn right onto a secondary gravel road. After a mile of this we turned into a dirt lane which ran about two hundred yards before it ended at an isolated cabin on stilts not fifty feet from the river bank.
“Park right under the cottage,” my abductor said.
As were most summer cabins along the river, this one was on stilts because of the annual spring floods. Beneath it was a carport just large enough to receive the Chrysler.
A Wooden stairway led from the carport up into the cottage. Still under my captor’s gun, I climbed the stairs. Just before we started up, he flicked a switch at the bottom of the steps which illuminated a small bulb at the top.
When I stopped before the closed door at the top, he said, “See if it’s open.”
Trying the knob, I shook my head. He handed me a slim key. “This is a skeleton key,” I said. “It’ll work. Just open the door.”
The door had an old-fashioned lock and the skeleton key opened it easily. Apparently my captor was not only covering his identity by using a stolen car, he was even using a stolen cabin. He seemed to be familiar with it, but the skeleton key made me suspect the place’s owner had no idea his cabin was being used as a kidnaper’s hideout.
The cabin’s interior contained a large kitchen, two small bedrooms and a bathroom. The furnishings were about average for a summer place, mostly discards from some home. The stove was an old coal burner, as the place had no gas, but there was an electric refrigerator. It was ancient, but it ran when my companion turned on its switch.
Glancing through the open bedroom doors, I saw that each was furnished with an old-fashioned brass bed, a double one in one room and a single in the other.
“Not much to look at,” my companion said, “but at least it’s got electricity and running water. That’s your room.” He pointed his gun toward the bedroom containing the single bed.
“You might have let me bring along a toothbrush,” I said. “And am I supposed to wear this dinner jacket for two weeks?”
He snapped the fingers of his free hand. “I forgot to have you bring up the luggage. I packed you a suitcase and stowed it in the Chrysler before you came home. Guess we’ll have to go back downstairs again.”
He motioned with his gun, and I went back down to the car with him following. In the car trunk I found two suitcases, one of which I recognized as my own. Staggering upstairs with them, I dumped his on the kitchen floor and took my own into the bedroom he had indicated. He watched while I opened it on the bed and checked the contents.
He had done a good job of packing, even remembering pajamas. In addition to toilet equipment, socks, shirts and underwear, he had included an old pair of slacks, a couple of sweat shirts and a light jacket, more suitable attire for a summer camp than the dinner jacket I was wearing.
Then in the bottom of the suitcase I found two pairs of handcuffs. All four links were open and there were no keys in evidence. Apparently my abductor had the keys in his pocket.
“What are these for?” I asked.
“I found them in one of your dresser drawers,” he told me. “Thought they might come in handy. Just throw them on the bed.”
Tossing the twin pairs of cuffs on the bed, I said, “I can’t just call you Hey You for two weeks. What’s your name?”
“Just call me Al, pal.”
I looked at my watch and saw it was now nearly midnight. “Mind if I go to bed?”
“Suit yourself,” he said indifferently.
I sat on the far side of the bed with my back to him while I undressed and slid into pajamas. In that position AI was unable to see that I had a false right leg. I didn’t conceal it deliberately, because I am not sensitive about my missing limb. I just happened to sit that way. But as I slipped on the pajama bottoms, it again occurred to me that quite possibly whoever had hired Al either did not know, or had not informed Al, my right leg is detachable below the knee. Thoughtfully eying the two pairs of handcuffs lying on the bed next to me, I decided there might be some advantage in keeping my infirmity a secret.
I kept my socks on, which effectively concealed the fact that my right foot is aluminum.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“WELL, GOOD NIGHT,” I said.
“Not quite yet,” Al told me. “It’s only a fifteen-foot drop from the window. I’m afraid you might walk in your sleep.”
Crossing to the wall, he removed the two sets of handcuffs.
“Stick out your left foot,” he ordered.
“I’ve got a boil on that ankle,” I protested. “Don’t go clamping a steel band around it.”
Shrugging, he rounded the bed and cinched the cuff around the ankle of my false right leg. He cuffed the other ring to the foot of the bed.
“You always sleep in your socks?”
“My feet get cold,” I said.
Rounding the bed again, he moved to the head, clicked one ring of the second set around my left wrist and attached the other ring to the center brass upright.
Then he put his gun away under his arm, said, “Sleep tight, pal,” turned out the light and left me alone.
I waited what I estimated to be about fifteen minutes, listening to him moving around in the bedroom next to me. Then there was a creak of springs as he crawled in. I shifted position slightly and my own springs creaked.
Instantly bare feet slapped to the floor next door. A moment later my door swung open, the light flashed on and Al stood there covering me with his tiny-bored Woodsman.
Opening my eyes, I said with simulated sleepiness, “Now what?”
“Nothing,” he said, switched off the light, closed the door and went back to bed.
Ten minutes later I heard the rhythmic sound of snoring.
This time I waited what I estimated to be a full hour before moving at all. Then I reached down so carefully that the old springs failed to creak at all, pulled up my right pajama leg and loosened the straps above and below the knee. When the stump was free, I slowly rolled to the right, set my left foot on the floor and pushed myself erect.
The ancient springs groaned horribly during this maneuver, but there was nothing I could do about it. Balanced on my good leg, with both hands gripping the head of the bed, I listened for some reaction from the next room while sweat trickled down the sides of my face. But Al’s snoring continued uninterrupted.
My left hand was still cuffed to the center upri
ght of the brass head, and without a hack saw I could see no way to get it free. The only alternative was to take the head with me.
Bending my knee, I reached down with my free right hand and felt the bed leg on my side where it touched the floor. It was equipped with a roller caster.
Rising again, I gripped the head firmly by its center with both hands, first getting my left hand set while I guided the handcuff upward along the shaft it ringed so as to avoid the rasp of steel against brass. When both hands were in place, I pulled outward with gradually increasing pressure.
The casters were old and probably rusty. They resisted my efforts until my face was dripping with sweat. Then suddenly they responded with a squeal that raised my hair on end, and the bed moved out from the wall a good foot and a half. Simultaneously I lost my balance and recovered it by planting my stump on the edge of the bed, which caused the springs to add their groan to the general racket.
Rigidly I held that position, listening to the sudden and ominous silence from the next room. Al’s bedsprings creaked as he shifted restlessly. Then I began to breathe again as his snoring resumed.
Still I held my uncomfortable position for a full ten minutes before again daring to move. Then I risked another slight creak by regaining my one-legged stance alongside the bed. Steadying myself by hanging onto the head with my left hand, I gripped the underside of the bed frame with my right and lifted. With only a slight rasping noise the frame lifted out of the slot attaching it to the head. When I let it down again, that side sagged but did not touch the floor because the left side of the frame was still joined to the head.
Holding the handcuff chain with my right hand to prevent its rattling, I squeezed myself between the wall and the bed to the other side. There I repeated the operation, but this time when I let down the frame, it rested on the floor and the head was free.
Give the Girl a Gun Page 8
