Black-Eyed Stranger

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “That so? Like it?”

  Ambielli shrugged. “Did Emanuel like it, Sam?”

  “He should have. It was a pack of lies.”

  Ambielli showed his teeth. “Come, eat with us, boy?”

  “Sure. Glad to. Hello, Baby. You back, too, eh?”

  The big one was on his feet, his body bent over the table. His head turned on the thick neck, so that the short hair bristled on the fat creases. “Oh, it’s you,” he growled.

  “It’s only me.” Sam started to shove into the booth, but Baby said, “Wait, get away. I got to sit on the outside.”

  Amiably, Sam let him out, and then slid into the corner. “What’s the matter, Baby? Nervous?”

  “He’s habitually nervous,” said Ambielli in his well-spoken way. “That’s his quality. Over here, Fred.”

  The waiter brought Sam’s rolls. “Everything all right, Mr. Ambielli?”

  “Bring me a bottle of ale.”

  “Me, too,” Sam said. “Company makes me thirsty.”

  “What d’you mean by that crack?” said Baby angirly.

  “Never mind,” said his boss with a certain weariness.

  “What would this nervous wreck do,” asked Sam with an eyebrow up, “if anybody took a notion to make a real crack?”

  “You want to try?” snarled Baby.

  “Shut up. Eat your potato chips.” Ambielli cut meat. “They pay you money for those pieces, Sam?”

  “They do. Inside stuff, you know.” Sam pulled his mouth awry. “You might make me a good piece of copy.”

  “It’s possible,” said Ambielli, amused.

  “Been West, I understand.”

  “I’ve been West.”

  “You didn’t die.”

  “I didn’t die.”

  Fred brought Sam’s food and the coffee.

  “I presumed not,” Sam said when he had gone, “or we’d have heard.”

  “Listen,” Baby’s hackles rose, but Sam patted his sleeve, patted him down.

  “You pay this sensitive soul for hanging around?” he kidded.

  “Has his quality,” Ambielli took cream. “It’s well known that he would kill whoever hurt me.”

  “With or without pay, eh?” Sam blinked understanding.

  “Without question,” Ambielli said. “It’s insurance, Sam.”

  The big man’s expression was ludicrously like a small child hearing praise. He fidgeted. He growled. “You don’t need to make cracks about pay. I’ll get paid. I don’t need to—”

  Ambielli moved a finger, and the big man’s mouth closed.

  “Seems to me,” said Sam gently, “I did hear that the organization was more or less dispersed, at the time. Or so I heard.”

  “Boss,” pleaded Baby, “you like this earsy, nosey guy?

  “Keep quiet.”

  “AW, everybody likes to talk a little shop,” said Sam easily. “Relax, Baby. I may be earsy and nosey, but mouthy I am not.” Ambielli looked up briefly. “For instance,” said Sam airily, “I could say a lot about a certain Emanuel. But I don’t say.”

  “You keep well that way,” Ambielli remarked mildly.

  “Tell you.” Sam grinned. “I’ve got to have a pretty complete idea of the facts or I can’t cover them up neatly in my little pieces I write.”

  “I can see how it is,” said Ambielli sympathetically.

  “I’d have thought though,” Sam continued daringly, for he had a demon, and it was curiosity, “a man like you would’ve had a little nest egg someplace.”

  “Doctor’s bills,” said Ambielli ruefully. “We’re in the wrong professions, Sam. The doctor takes the money. Took mine.” He shrugged. “Also, there was always a great deal going out. Maintaining discipline.” He smiled faintly. “Overhead.”

  “You were quite a disciplinarian, yeah,” Sam said. He could calculate a risk. He could test, with some extrasensory antenna, a mood. It seemed to him that the man across the table was hungry for an exchange of thought, lonely for speech. He took a chance. “Discipline comes free, sometimes, eh? You see where the old man had an accident?”

  “What old man is that, Sam?”

  “Watchman. Night watchman on the warehouse. Died Monday in the night. It was in the paper.”

  “Oh, that watchman,” Ambielli’s mouth smiled. “I saw it in the paper.”

  “He wasn’t important,” Sam said deliberately. And he read, in the turn of Ambielli’s eyeballs where pride was leaping to deny and in the tension existing in the lump of Baby’s body on the bench beside him, a truth he had only suspected. All right. There it was. Now, he knew. The old watchman’s death had been no accident, and to Ambielli, anyone who interfered with him was important enough to be disciplined.

  There it was. Yet, who could take the jump of an eyeball, the stiffening of a spine, before a jury? Sam knew, but how could he tell? Probably, somewhere in the Police Department, it was known, also, and some cop cursed the same helpless conviction.

  Sam leaned back. “Never could understand why they had to have a watchman for a warehouse full of biscuits,” he grinned, keeping it light, keeping it easy. “That was a funny angle. Old man got excited, saw mysterious black automobiles in the nighttime. It was none of his business. Nobody was after his biscuits.”

  “Should have remained a private affair,” said Ambielli in soft regret.

  Oh, yes, the man was hungry, lonely for speech. Sam’s demon pushed from behind. “I always figured it was the watchman, calling in the law that night, last year, that threw the monkey wrench into your … uh … plans.”

  “You did?” The words said nothing.

  “Well, because,” Sam said, lightly, easily, “Emanuel’s boys were never all that shrewd. Something must have happened that gave them a golden opportunity.”

  Baby Hohenbaum twitched convulsively where he sat.

  But his boss leaned over, erasing the big man’s impulse to speak with a wave of his hand. “You could write a book, Sam,” he said, and the words came spitting from the bitter line of his lips. “You know what I was. Emanuel’s boys took the golden opportunity to shoot four bullets into me.” The red-brown eyes had a yellow flame behind them, and Sam could feel, tangible as heat, the danger in this man. “Emanuel saw to it that, as you say, the organization dispersed. While I went West with holes in my chest, I didn’t die. I’m back. I’m broke. I’m sick, I’m out. You going to write a book?”

  “Someday,” said Sam flatly. “Yeah. But I’ll wait for the end of this story because I don’t know how it’s going to end. It hasn’t ended yet.”

  The eyes warmed. Then the cheeks were sucked in on Ambielli’s face. White lids went down, shutters over the windows. When they lifted, you could no longer see in. He began to eat, once more. “You know, Sam,” he said, “a roadhouse in the country is a good place to convalesce.”

  “So nice,” Sam nodded. “Money in it, too.”

  “Darned right,” said Baby, and he, too, was happier in the more relaxed atmosphere.

  “Takes a little capital,” Sam said. “Got a backer, boss?”

  “In a way,” said Ambielli. Baby snickered and slurpped food.

  Sam paid no attention to him. “How much do you figure to start with, place like that?”

  “Oh, fifty thousand.”

  “Lot of dough.”

  “Some people got lots of dough,” Baby said, with elephantine glee.

  They ate silently a little while. Sam was pleased, as pleased as a hunter with his first duck down. But he was still curious. Also, sifting back into his mind came some words he had heard. Something about groceries. Something about a dame.

  “So you’re going to write a book, Sam?” Ambielli used his napkin daintily.

  “It’ll be fiction, you know. The big book. The one I keep telling myself. Someday.”

  “That’s the piece in which you’ll use the facts,” said Ambielli shrewdly.

  “That’s the piece,” Sam admitted.

  There was an amiable silence.<
br />
  “Started to write a piece of fiction once,” Sam said, half laughing, and never knew if he stumbled or if he was led. “Going to do one of those mystery stories. It was good, too. It was so good, I couldn’t finish it. I couldn’t figure out how anybody could solve the mystery.”

  “Too good, eh?” Ambielli grinned.

  “It was good.”

  “What was the plot, Sam?” Ambielli was amiable.

  “Oh, murder, naturally. Fellow kidnapped a banker.”

  “A snatch, eh?” said Baby Hohenbaum. He turned his big body in the booth and unmistakably he had the air of one who greets with surprise a charming coincidence.

  There was a moment of queer, not entirely amiable, silence. Of waiting to see.

  Sam said, dreamily, “I wonder where I put that manuscript. You know, I’m smarter now than I used to be. I ought to look it over.”

  Ambielli said, casually, “Maybe you could finish it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s a bad way to be,” Ambielli was thoughtful. “Too smart for yourself.”

  Sam grunted. Baby was glancing under knotted brows from one to the other.

  “You ran into the collection problem, I imagine. In your story,” Ambielli went on smoothly, “how did you figure out a foolproof collection, Sam?”

  “You mean, of course, the ransom money,” Sam said, looking as dreamy as he could manage. “As a matter of fact, I think that was easy.”

  “Have them throw it off a train,” said Baby. “I still think—”

  “Been done before,” Sam interrupted. “Too old-fashioned, Baby. Naw, I had a way. Seems to me I had them send the banker’s wife a long complicated rigamarole to follow. You know. She was to go to a place and find a note that told her to go to another place, and so on. Well, so they let her get started. Then, they just simply held her up, early in the trip.” His palms turned up. “Took it away from her.”

  Ambielli made a murmuring sound. “Yeah,” said Baby, “but …”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Wasn’t she followed?” Ambielli looked skeptical.

  “No, because in my story they didn’t dare.”

  “That’s plausible.”

  “What if she was? Anyway?”

  “Surprise?” said Ambielli.

  “Sure.” Sam flicked a finger at the waiter’s watching face. He’d had enough of this. He needed a break in the flow of talk. He felt confused and guilty, like a hunter who had shot over the limit without meaning to do so.

  “It’s not bad,” said Ambielli.

  “Yeah,” said Baby Hohenbaum, “but a stick-up, that’s a crime. You could—” His head turned. Crouching, he rose. His big paw closed over the waiter’s arm. “You? You want something?”

  “Never mind, Baby. Let him go, Baby.” Ambielli’s voice was thin and disgusted.

  “I want coffee,” Sam said.

  “Yes. Yes, sir.”

  “Listen, he came pussying up—”

  “Let him go.”

  The waiter went like a mouse to his hole. Baby leaned on a big hand. “But what if he heard something?” he whispered conspiratorily.

  Black eyes met the red-brown eyes. Both pair were sorry. Sam twisted his mouth and shook his head.

  Ambielli said wearily, “Sit down. Sit down.”

  “Bad case of nerves.” Sam kept shaking his head. “Little dangerous?”

  “Stupidity is always dangerous.” Lids were white in the tan face. Baby Hohenbaum sat without breath. He was scared. “Nearly as dangerous as being too smart,” said Ambielli.

  “There’s middle ground,” said Sam, pleasantly. He was scared, too.

  He was glad when Nick, himself, appeared with the coffee. After greetings, after Ambielli had said, “I want a word, Nick, a little later.” After Nick had said, “Sure. Sure, boss,” and withdrawn, Sam Lynch, who had squirmed silently during all this, pulled his hand up from the seat of the booth slowly, and looked at what was in it.

  His eyes remained, as they had been, half closed against the smoke of his cigarette. His hand remained steady for he knew how to ride a shock. He didn’t often show surprise. He turned the piece of rotogravure, letting it drop off his fingers. “Anybody drop this?” he asked, keeping it light, keeping it easy.

  Chapter 3

  HE didn’t need to see Baby’s hand jump and then retreat. He didn’t need to hear Ambielli say, “What is that, Sam?” with such lazy indifference.

  How could he prove it? He could never prove it but he knew.

  He put the piece of paper on the table, removing his hand, because he knew he could keep shock in the brain only so many seconds before the reaction ran down the nerves to the wrists, to the fingertips. “Picture,” he mumbled. “Cut out of the paper. Dulain. Oh, that Alan Dulain.”

  There was a way to let the shock run through the body and out of him and he had found it. He let himself get angry. “That Dulain,” he repeated, angrily.

  “You know him, Sam?”

  “If you mean is he a friend of mine,” Sam snapped, “no. But I met him. I talked to him for an hour once. I cannot look at that face without wanting to—”

  “What did he do to you?” Ambielli was amused and curious.

  “Not a thing. Not a thing. That’s the funny part of it. You ever take a dislike to anybody at first sight?” Sam ran his fingers through his hair. “I just cannot stomach the guy.”

  “Why not, Sam?”

  “You know who he is?” Ambielli did not react at all to the question. “He’s a wealthy son …” Of what was in Sam’s furious voice. “He’s blue-blooded, second generation millionaire. Blood blues easy if there’s money enough. He’s got religion or the current equivalent. He’s studying to be a do-gooder, and I hate his insides.”

  Ambielli was laughing without making much noise.

  “Yeah, it’s ridiculous,” admitted Sam, able to grin. “At my age, to get steamed up about nothing. He’s nothing. A kid. But I don’t know. He’s got himself attached to Miller and Milford.”

  “Lawyers?”

  “This kid’s no lawyer. He’s getting a degree or something. He’s supposed to be getting experience. Or something. I don’t know what he does up there. Runs errands. He gets around. Takes himself big. Big. Crime, he’s interested in. The criminal type. Crime in society. Ugh, he’s so damn silly.”

  Ambielli laughed louder.

  “Had me up in his office once,” Sam said. “Wanted to pump a little information out of me. Or so I guess. Honest to Hannah, I’m telling you, we were speaking English, both of us, but …” He shook his head.

  “You give him any information, Sam?” Ambielli said, lightly, easily.

  “If I’d wanted to bare my soul to that Dulain,” said Sam earnestly, “if I’d wanted to tell him all I know from A to Z, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t communicate with him. It’s like we don’t live in the same world.” Sam held his head. “Listen, don’t let me bore you with my troubles.” Now, he let his eye fall on the clipping. “So Dulain is going to get married,” he sneered. “Well, God pity the girl is all I can say. Where did this come from?”

  “Do you know the girl, too, Sam?”

  “Hm? No, I don’t know her. Salisbury.”

  It was an error to say the name. Knowledge jumped, in his head, and he was afraid it could be seen through the bone of his skull. It was in a word and the word followed the name. Inevitably. It danced there in his head. He tried to cut it out of his attention, but it stuck with thudding finality, the knowledge he had. How Charles Salisbury, who was wealthy, had made his money.

  Salisbury’s Biscuits.

  For a minute, he was afraid he had said it. He looked across the table.

  The little man, who looked like ashes but who burned within, was sitting quietly enough, and there was nothing to be read on his face at all.

  Baby said, “Say, Sam, what’s this mulberry? A kind of color?”

  “A kind of red,” Sam said. He leaned back. He beg
an blindly. “You know, boss, I make a living writing up odds and ends.” His eyes were out of focus.

  “Odds and ends, Sam?” Softly.

  “Got to keep my sources. You should realize.” Ambielli sat listening, listening for a great deal more than words. Sam could tell. “People do different things in this world,” Sam said. “Some are like me. Like to know. Like to watch. Like to understand. But they are lookers-on, members of the audience, not in the show. You know?”

  Ambielli kept listening. He didn’t say whether he knew. “And it’s quite a show,” Sam grinned. “Or so I find it. I sure enjoy it.”

  Then, Ambielli smiled. “You called me a disciplinarian, Sam. Shall I tell you the secret of discipline?”

  Sam didn’t answer.

  “As I’ve found it?”

  Sam didn’t answer.

  “The secret is this. Before, I never worry. But after, my punishment never fails.”

  Sam didn’t speak.

  “Understand my system, Sam?” the voice pressed softly. “I take care of things when they happen.”

  “Or if,” said Sam.

  “If and when,” said Ambielli. The words were knives. The little man began to inch along his seat. “Now, I want to see Nick, so I’ll say good-by. Nice to see you, Sam.”

  “So long, Mr. Ambielli,” Sam’s voice was careful. Every note and tone was careful. “Good luck with the roadhouse,” he said, most carefully.

  The little man’s hand on the big man’s shoulder suggested that he wait. Then Ambielli walked away.

  Sam thought a dog would have smelled the fear on both of them who remained in the booth. The power that little man generated in the dark of his spirit and sent out, tangible as heat, but cold as a knife, drew fear to the pores. Beads of sweat wreathed Baby’s face, and he twitched. But he looked sideways with a certain pride, as if to say, “That’s my boss.”

  “Quite a little man,” Sam said gustily.

  “He’s murder. Murder.” Baby rubbed his palms on his coat.

  And I, Sam thought bitterly, mockingly, know too much. But there wasn’t time to sort it out and arrange it, now. Or check the pattern of his coming to know. He must ride the conclusion. He sent antennae to examine this lump beside him. How stupid was Baby Hohenbaum?