The Twentieth Day of January

by Ted Allbeury

  “Why did he do that?”

  She leaned up on one elbow to look at him.

  “I wanted to make money, mister. He didn’t mind. He understood. We liked each other but it was like, not love. He was too unhappy then to love anyone, and I was too young; and I knew that because of the way I’m built I could earn a fortune.”

  “Why was he unhappy?”

  “I don’t really know.” When she saw his disbelief she went on. “It was something that happened in Paris when he was painting there. I think that’s where he met Kleppe. I think it was a love affair that made him unhappy.”

  “Tell me about Dempsey and Kleppe.”

  She sat up slowly, brushing the hair from her face so that she could look at him.

  “Are you in New York often, Pete?”

  “Quite often.”

  “D’you think I’m attractive?”

  “Sure. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

  “How about a deal, Pete. I’ll screw any time you want. And I’ll tell you what I know about Kleppe. But we leave Andy out of it. Yes?”

  “Why are you so protective about Dempsey?”

  “You won’t believe it, mister, but I love him. He wouldn’t believe me either. But I’d do anything for him.”

  “Did you ever pay back the five grand?”

  “Not in money.”

  “How?”

  She shrugged. “He sometimes wants me to screw with friends of his. Business people or buddies. He said he’d rather have it that way.”

  “Does he sleep with you?”

  “Oh, sure he does.”

  “What’s Dempsey’s relationship with Kleppe?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “No more about Andy. Let’s go in my bedroom.”

  “Tell me about Kleppe.”

  “I don’t know much. He’s rich and tough. And he knows everybody. Not just in New York but all over. He’s in jewellery. A loner.”

  “D’you sleep with him?”

  “No. I think he wanted to but Andy headed him off. He’s got girls. I’m too old for him, he likes teenagers.”

  “Does he live alone?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “What do they talk about, Jenny?”

  The big, blue eyes looked at him, and she shook her head.

  “You can do anything you want. Anything.”

  He sighed. “Jenny, you’re very beautiful but I’m a policeman. You know I can’t do deals like that.”

  “There’s at least ten from NYPD who come here for free. Lieutenants, captains, you name it.”

  “Jenny. Andy Dempsey is already involved. There’s no way you can protect him. He doesn’t need to know that you told me. Stay out of it.”

  There were tears in the big eyes and her lips trembled as she reached for a Kleenex.

  “If I tell you …”

  There was a ring on the door and the girl stopped speaking. She looked at Nolan.

  “Is it somebody for you?”

  “Are you expecting anyone?”

  “No. It’s phone appointments only.”

  He stood up, walked to the door and looked round. There was a paperback on the table and he picked it up and slid it behind the far edge of the mirror on the wall. It tilted the mirror so that it reflected most of the door. He nodded to the girl and whispered, “Don’t check. Just open the door about a foot but keep on one side near me.”

  She stood up and tied the belt of the emerald robe. She was trembling as she stood beside him. He saw her hand close round the ornate brass knob and turn it slowly. Then his eyes went to the mirror. He saw the hand and the Walther and he slammed the door shut with his shoulder. He felt it crunch against flesh and bone and somebody screamed as the pistol clattered to the floor. He gripped the hand and flung open the door, and pulled in the man with one long movement. Still holding the man’s wrist, he bent down and gathered the gun. There was a silencer, and the safety catch was off.

  The man stood there, his top lip curled back in pain, his right hand hanging limp and useless. He was tall and thin, pale blue eyes in a sallow face, and one eyelid quivered as he looked at Nolan. The girl stood by the telephone, holding her robe with folded arms.

  “What’s your name?”

  The man stood silently, the only movement was the quivering eye.

  Nolan pulled back the slide of the pistol and a round flew out and rattled against the leg of the coffee table. Another round went in as he slowly released the slide. Without taking his eyes off the man he spoke to the girl.

  “Go and get dressed, Jenny. Stay in your room and lock the door. Don’t come out until I tell you.”

  He saw her go, from the corner of his eye, and he turned to the man.

  “Take off your coat.”

  He watched as the man slid off the heavy overcoat. He reached out for it and threw it on the floor beside him.

  “Now strip. Undress.”

  He took a long time with only one hand and the injured wrist was puffing up tight and swollen, a livid mass whose colour was spreading to the back of the hand. When the man stopped he was down to his briefs. Nolan waved the gun.

  “Take those off, too.”

  When the man was naked Nolan told him to sit down, and pointed with the gun at the chair.

  “What’s your name?”

  The man didn’t answer and Nolan reached for the swollen hand. It flapped loosely as the man tucked it between his knees. He was trembling violently as if he had an ague.

  “What’s your name?” Nolan said softly.

  “They’ll kill me. They’ll kill me.”

  “Who will kill you?”

  The man gave a shuddering sigh. “Katin’s men.”

  “Did Katin send you?”

  The man nodded without speaking.

  “What were your orders?”

  “To kill.”

  “Why should they kill the girl?”

  The man’s haggard face lifted, surprise in his eyes, his mouth open.

  “Not the girl,” he said. “You.”

  Nolan’s voice sounded thin and tense when he spoke.

  “Who am I?”

  “You’re CIA. Peter Fleming Nolan.”

  “What makes you think that’s my name?”

  “They showed me photographs of you. They told me who you were.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Chicago?”

  “Name?”

  “Frankie Spadone.”

  “How did they know I was here?”

  “They’ve got a tail on you.”

  “Why did they hire you? Why didn’t they do it themselves?”

  Spadone shrugged. “There’s too much heat on them. They wanted an outsider.”

  “How much was the contract?”

  “Five grand.”

  “Who gave you the orders?”

  “The old fella with the glass eye. Katin. Yuri Katin.”

  Nolan lifted the phone and tucked the receiver under his chin while he pressed the buttons. When the voice answered he watched Spadone as he talked.

  “Ziggy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Send two cars. One for me and another for the girl. There’s also one of their hit men, a local from Chicago named Spadone. Check the files on him. He needs medical attention. Bones and tendons. He’s to be guarded full-time and I don’t want him logged or booked.”

  “You’re at the apartment on 38th, Mr. Nolan?”

  “Right.”

  “No more than ten minutes, sir.”

  As Nolan put down the receiver he waved the gun at Spadone.

  “OK. Get dressed.”

  Nolan pressed down the silencer ratchet on the Walther and turned the cylinder so that it slid into his palm, and he pushed it into his jacket pocket. He knocked on the girl’s bedroom door.

  “Jenny. You can come out.”

  She was dressed in a vivid-green jersey suit, a string of knotted pearls around her neck and a mink coat slung
over her arm.

  “Why the coat, Jenny?”

  “I heard you on the phone.”

  “You’ll be safer with us for a day or so.”

  He turned to look at Spadone who stood with his eyes closed in pain.

  The door-bell rang, and Nolan walked over. The CIA driver and the two agents stood there, and he nodded to Spadone and the girl.

  “Let’s go. Lock up properly, Jenny.”

  She pressed the spring on the lock and pulled the door shut.

  “I’ll take your keys.”

  She hesitated for only a moment but that was enough, and he slid the keys into his pocket and nodded to the driver.

  “Take them on. I’ll be along later.”

  The girl looked back at him, the big eyes apprehensive and pleading. When the others were in the elevator he took out the keys, walked back and let himself into the flat. He took off his coat and threw it across a chair. There was just the living-room, a bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom. He walked across to the bedroom.

  The dressing-table had a few bottles and packs. A bottle of “Je Reviens,” an antiperspirant aerosol, eau-de-Cologne, three used lipsticks and a beautiful, silver hand-mirror. There were a few jars of creams, a box of cotton wool, tissues and a manicure-set in a leather case.

  He pulled out the two small drawers and then the two full length drawers. There was nothing but underwear, briefs, suspender belts, and a collection of scarves and linen handkerchiefs.

  In the small right-hand drawer was a kaleidoscope of necklaces, brooches and ear-rings. All things bright and beautiful, but nothing particularly expensive. There were a dozen or so postcards from holiday places around the world with brief messages on the lines of “See you baby—Joe (Chatanooga)” and more pointed efforts like “Sit on it until I get back next Wednesday—Charlie M.”

  In the left-hand drawer was a red leather notebook with dates and initials. He put it on the window-sill. There were receipts in a spring clip, mainly hairdressing, doctors, and food and drink payments. There was a large, brown envelope and he tipped out the photographs. They were all of Jenny. A few glamour portraits and the rest were figure shots, erotic but not pornographic. In all of them she was naked, and the lighting so arranged that it emphasized and high-lighted her breasts and her crotch. He turned over one print and there was a negative number and a telephone number. He noted them both. There was a letter from an address in Pasadena that was obviously from her mother, and another letter from a pilot on an aircraft-carrier, which described in vivid detail what he was going to do to her when he next got to New York.

  He stood up, hands on hips and looked across the room. There was no expensive jewellery, no odd cash or valuables, yet there had been that scared look in her eyes when he took the keys.

  In the wardrobe there were dozens of pairs of shoes, a squashed row of dresses and coats, and two flowered hats on a shelf. On the bedside table was a pink-shaded lamp, a small traveller’s alarm clock in a leather fold-case, a Mars bar and an empty ashtray. In the drawer there was a box of condoms, a Kleenex pack and a copy of the current Penthouse.

  He pushed the bed to one side and pulled back the carpet but the boards were clean and untouched. He moved on to the kitchen. There was nothing of interest on the shelves or in the cabinets. There was a combined freezer-refrigerator, an upright Westinghouse. The refrigerator was packed full of food, and cans of coke and beer. The freezer held four drawers marked “Meat,” “Fruit,” “Packs,” and “Misc.” He was swinging the door to when he noticed that the pilot light was not working.

  He pulled out the drawer marked “Misc.” There were bundles of ten-dollar notes, still banded from a bank. About twenty thousand dollars. There were thick, brown envelopes crammed with used notes of all denominations. There were four bank pass-books with credits that totalled nearly a quarter of a million dollars and a safety deposit key.

  In the drawer marked “Meat” there were eight envelopes packed with photographs.

  There were thirty or forty 10″ × 8″ prints in each envelope. They all showed the girl having sex with a man. The man in the third envelope was Powell. The photographs were explicit and comprehensive, with the action-stopping graininess of photo-journalism rather than the studio. The faces of the participants were clear and instantly identifiable, and in each envelope were a dozen strips of negatives in a transparent pack. He closed the freezer door, collected the envelopes and the black notebook, and left.

  Nolan stood eating a chicken sandwich. The girl sat at the table, finishing her meal.

  “I’ve fixed for you to go up to Albany. You’ll be safer up there.”

  “Am I in custody?”

  “No way, Jenny. You can walk out of here right now if you want. But you wouldn’t last a couple of hours.”

  She put down her knife and fork and turned to look at him.

  “You really think they would kill me?”

  “I’m sure they would.”

  “But why? I’m not part of anything.”

  Nolan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “I took the photographs, Jenny. And the little black book.”

  “So what?”

  “Those photographs link you with Powell. You are already linked with Dempsey. You and I know that you’re linked with Kleppe, even if only indirectly. You’re in the same position as Siwecki. He didn’t know much but he was a piece in the jigsaw. They killed him and his wife and they killed Maria Angelo who knew even less. Why shouldn’t they kill you?”

  “Andy wouldn’t let them.”

  “My love, Dempsey wouldn’t lift a finger. And if he would, he couldn’t stop them.”

  “Who’s them? What’s it all about?”

  Nolan shook his head slowly.

  “Just do as I say, Jenny, and maybe we’ll be able to keep you out of it.”

  She left a list of things she wanted from the flat and went off by road to the safe-house just outside Albany.

  The CIA doctor eased across the three velcro straps on the splint. He lifted Spadone’s forearm and started wrapping the bandage over the dressing and the splint. He looked up at Nolan.

  “There’s a simple fracture of the ulna and probably fractures in some of the smaller bones. I’ll know better when I can X-ray the wrist area. He won’t be able to use the hand for at least six months and I suspect one finger at least won’t articulate again.”

  Nolan looked at Spadone who was sitting alongside the small table. The doctor packed his case and left them alone. Nolan pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Where did you meet the Russian?”

  “In the parking lot at the medical centre.”

  “Which medical centre?”

  “NYU.”

  “How did you recognize him?”

  “I’d seen a photo and he was carrying a copy of a magazine. We both had one.”

  “What magazine?”

  “Popular Photography of last June.”

  “How much did you get?”

  “Three and a half grand. The balance to come when it was done.”

  “How did they originally contact you?”

  “Kleppe arranged the deal with O’Reilly. I work for him.”

  “A hood?”

  “I guess you’d call him that. He’s got a plumbing and air-conditioning business in Chicago, out by the race track in Cicero.”

  “Are you ready to sign a statement?”

  “If we can do a deal.”

  “No way, Frankie. You’ll be charged for possession of a firearm without a licence.”

  Spadone’s face was vacant, and then the penny dropped and he smiled.

  “OK, Mr. Nolan. I’ll sign.”

  President Grover had extended every courtesy to the President-Elect, and Logan Powell and Andy Dempsey sat together in the Presidential compartment of Air Force One for their journey to Los Angeles. When the meetings were over they left the evening sun behind as they flew out across the Texas panhandle, and two hours later the
plane was under the cloud cover and they could see the lights of Charleston as the plane came under Washington control.

  Powell sat back with his head against the soft, white pillow from his bed and Dempsey gazed out of the window, his face tense and pale. He turned to look at Powell.

  “Just find an excuse to talk with Harper. He’s a political appointee. You haven’t said you’ll let him stay at CIA. Let him know that he could be out in three weeks’ time.”

  Powell spoke with his eyes still closed.

  “You don’t know that they’re doing anything, Andy. It would be the FBI if it were anyone at all. It’s not CIA territory. They won’t want to tangle with me so soon.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Logan. The people have been positively identified as CIA. They had to deal with Siwecki to head them off.”

  “That’s absolute crap, my friend. I’d put my silver dollar on Siwecki’s murder being the usual union Mafia at work. By the way, what’s the Vice-President-Elect doing today?”

  “He’s at the White House meeting the new Senators.”

  “He’s gonna be OK, you know. He’s hard nosed but that ain’t bad in a Vice-President. He’s going to be a strong link with Congress and we’re gonna need one.”

  “Will you let me see Harper?”

  Powell opened his eyes and slid the pillow from behind his head and put it alongside him on the seat. They could see the White House below and ahead, looking like a wedding cake in the glare of the floodlights. He looked back at Dempsey.

  “Have you seen Laura lately?”

  “Not for ten days.”

  “What did she have to say when you saw her?”

  “I told you. She won’t make any trouble. She’s agreed not to file for divorce until we’re ready, but she wants the house made over to her.”

  “That’s OK. Get Jim Oakes’s outfit to deal with it.”

  “Aren’t you worried at all, Logan? Don’t kid me.”

  Powell smiled and slid his arms into his jacket.

  “In a few weeks’ time, Andy, these people won’t dare do a thing. And if they try anything then, they’ll have their arses out in the snow.”

  “You’d be out there with them, Logan. They mean business.”

  Powell leaned forward to watch the landing and without turning he spoke as he shaded his eyes.

  “Leave it to me, Andy. You’ve been over-impressed by these people. The CIA and FBI won’t play games right now. The public and the media are agin ’em.”