The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  The guy with the ammonia flask said: “Jeeze, he looks green!” He was a small chunky man with eyes almost as naive as Kleinschmidt’s. Canavan tried to hit him in the mouth but for some reason he couldn’t get his hands up. Later he found that this was because they were tied to the chair he was sitting in.

  Beyond this first guy there was a second, also small, though not so chunky. He had sallow skin and a habit of sucking air into his lungs through the right-hand corner of his mouth. Canavan figured him for a reefer smoker, and this conclusion was borne out by the faintly sickening odor of burning weeds which saturated the atmosphere. It smelled like the inside of an incinerator after the gardener leaves.

  The room belonged in a decrepit and abandoned farm house. The floor was of well-worn pine, the walls covered with stained and moldy wall-paper, with here and there a cleaner area where once had hung a picture. Aside from Canavan’s chair, a cumbersome Morris, there was only one article of furniture in the room. This was a chipped iron bed with a stained and lumpy mattress. On this unbeautiful couch lay Miss Hope Carewe, wearing only shoes and stockings and a slip. She was not there from choice apparently. There was adhesive on her mouth, and presumably there was more around her wrists and ankles, though Canavan couldn’t be sure of this. Her eyes looked at Canavan with horrified fascination.

  In lieu of more authentic names Canavan dubbed his jailers Tubby and Reefer. Tubby smelled of the ammonia bottle. “Jeeze!”

  Reefer’s eyes narrowed. “Cut the clowning! You gonna go back and find a phone or will I?”

  Tubby licked his lips. “Let’s ask the punk a couple of questions first.” He looked at Canavan. “Where’s the letter?”

  “What letter?”

  Tubby made a V of his first two fingers and gouged Canavan’s eyes. Canavan essayed a kick, but here again he was thwarted. His legs were also bound to the Morris chair. All he could do was yell, and he did this quite effectively. Nobody seemed to mind. Obviously there was no possibility of a rescuer within earshot. Canavan ceased yelling. “Listen, lice, this is the first I’ve heard about any letter.”

  Tubby winked at Reefer. “He says he don’t know about no letter.”

  “I heard him,” Reefer said. “You don’t have to translate.” He now addressed Canavan directly for the first time. “Why don’t you make this easy on yourself, copper? You ought to know we can’t afford to let you circulate again, but a good clean slug in the right place is a lot nicer than some of the things we could think up.”

  Canavan, strangely enough, was quite calm. He could blow his top over some little inconsequential thing, but in an emergency he took the breaks as they came. “I know what you guys can do to me. The thought turns my stomach.”

  Tubby managed to look actually sympathetic. “Then why don’t you spill?”

  “Because I can’t, you fool! Believe me, I’d give you all the letters in the Los Angeles post-office if I had them. I’m a cop, not a hero.”

  “Sure,” Reefer said, “sure.” He stared meditatively at Miss Hope Carewe on the bed. “Funny, she says she don’t know about any letter either.”

  “Maybe there isn’t any,” Canavan said brightly.

  Tubby considered this. “Matter of fact, there might not be, at that.” He twirled the cylinder of his gun. “Only if there ain’t we’re all going to a hell of a lot of trouble for nothing.” He looked at Reefer. “We’d better get in touch with the boss.”

  “Kolinski?” Canavan said.

  Both Reefer and Tubby ignored him. Presently they held a whispered conversation and finally, after flipping a coin, Reefer went out. Somewhere there was the sound of a starting car.

  Tubby sat on the edge of the bed beside Hope Carewe, nursing his gun and a cigarette. The utter silence was enough to set your teeth on edge.

  After a while Canavan said: “Look, you didn’t mind my yelling. Certainly the girl can’t yell any longer. Why don’t you take that damn tape off her mouth and let her breathe comfortably?”

  “Why not?” Tubby said. He reached over and worked a none-too-clean thumbnail under a corner of the adhesive. Then, with a sort of sadistic enjoyment, he ripped the strip free and watched the tears start from her golden-brown eyes. “How you like it, babe?”

  “I’d like to carve you into seven hundred small pieces,” she said frankly. She tried to wipe her eyes on a bare shoulder, without much success because her hands were tied behind her. Giving up the attempt presently she regarded Canavan. “I seem to have caused you no end of trouble.”

  “And that’s a fact,” he agreed. “For a gal whose father owns seventeen million dollars you do get in the damndest jams.”

  Tubby became suddenly alert. “What’s this about seventeen million dollars?”

  “Didn’t Kolinski tell you?” Canavan said.

  Tubby looked positively sick. “Kolinski! That’s twice you’ve— You mean to tell me Big George is … ?” He broke off to leer cunningly at Canavan. “Let’s hear some more about this seventeen million bucks, copper.”

  Canavan, feigning a sincerity he did not feel, framed his next words carefully, like an artisan laying bricks. “It’s no skin off my nose, monkey, but I hate to see even a punk like you suckered into anything. How much are you and your side-kick getting paid for all this?”

  Tubby’s pale eyes shifted. “A grand.”

  “There you are!” Canavan said triumphantly. “The boss gives you a cock-and-bull story about looking for a letter. Because why? Because if he told you this was a snatch job involving millions you’d want more dough!” He snorted. “Here you are, risking the G-heat and worse, and all for a lousy thousand bucks.”

  Tubby brooded on this for a moment. Then, muttering obscenities, he stood up. “Thanks, copper. Thanks too much.” He went out, banging the door behind him.

  Hope looked at Canavan. “You didn’t believe a word of that.”

  “No,” Canavan admitted.

  e considered the possibility of escape, but there seemed little chance for it. His hands weren’t even tied together. They were bound at the wrists, each to one of the rear legs of the Morris chair, and his arms were practically numb from being bowed over the broad arms of the chair. “No, I didn’t believe it, but when in doubt it’s always a good idea to get the other team fighting among themselves.”

  “You’re a smart man, Canavan.”

  He made a bitter mouth. “Yeah, that’s why I’m here.” He glared at her. “Look, babe, I don’t know how long this respite will last, but it would please me if I knew a little more than I do now. Is this Ed Carroll, this Ed Stengel, really your brother?”

  A slow flush crept up around her eyes. “Yes, Canavan. His real name, as you may have guessed, is, or was, Edward Carewe.”

  “But when the cops checked back on you they found no record of a brother!”

  “They will,” she said, “if they check back far enough.” She rolled a little on the bed to ease her cramped muscles. “Edward got into trouble when he was just a boy. He kept on getting into trouble. My father is a proud man. Finally he just erased Edward from the family album, and we didn’t even speak of him any more.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Fifteen. Edward was eighteen.”

  “But you kept in touch with him?”

  “I heard from him occasionally,” she admitted. “Indirectly. I didn’t know he was the much-wanted Ed Stengel. And then, on a shopping trip to Los Angeles, I ran into him. He was ill, and he told me he was going to the hospital for an operation.” She caught her breath. “You know what happened after that.”

  “Damned if I do,” Canavan said. “I know he died, but beyond that—”

  “He was broke,” Hope Carewe said. “I didn’t have a great deal of money either, and I couldn’t make up my mind to wire my father. Finally I decided to get him to an undertaker’s at least.”

  “But he said nothing to you of a letter? What about his personal effects?”

  “I got those,” she said dully. “
There was nothing. Some keys, the usual stuff a man carries in his pockets, a bag with a change of linen. Then, early in the evening, I had a phone call—the one asking me to go to the Cathedral. The man said I would learn something to my advantage—something to do with Edward. So thinking that possibly there might have been some money after all—”

  Canavan took a deep breath. “So you ended up in Night Court!” He laughed a little wildly. “My God, that must have been a blow to somebody!”

  She stared at him. He said: “Look, from what has happened since then it’s perfectly obvious that the dinner date was just to get you out of your room while it was searched. But whatever it is they’re looking for wasn’t found. So they came after you and discovered you’d been pinched. After that—well, we’ve all been going around and around.”

  “And for what?”

  “A letter,” he said. He was quite sure by this time that there was a letter. “A lousy piece of paper that is dangerous as hell to somebody.” His mind went back over the trail.

  Big George Kolinski had been in Night Court. He, or his punks, could have trailed Canavan and the girl back to her hotel. Later he had turned up at the Weems Mortuary. All of these things together couldn’t be called mere coincidence. First the girl had been caught, then Canavan, because it was thought that if Hope Carewe didn’t have the letter, Canavan might. The murder of Luis Renaldo was a little more obscure, though it was possible that he too had scented something important in the furor created over the girl. It would not have been hard to trace back to the bungalow-court address of Ed Stengel. The record was there for all to see, and certainly the police department itself had made no attempt at secrecy.

  anavan stiffened at a sudden thought. Renaldo’s killing was merely a protective measure. He had recognized, and been recognized by, someone else in that unit at the bungalow-court. So he had got his throat slit. Canavan said a very naughty word indeed. “Have you seen anyone else in this case but the two punks, Hope?”

  Hope shook her head. “They were the ones who were in my room at the hotel.” She added with a measure of pride: “It took both of them to handle me too. I fought like a wildcat and before we were through I’d lost all the buttons that kept my clothes on. One of them put his coat around me and they carted me off just as I am.”

  “Look, hon, these monkeys aren’t going to stay away forever. Think you can hop, wiggle or roll over to me?”

  At another time her efforts would have been ludicrous. Now they were just painful as hell. The sweat stood out on Canavan’s brow as though he himself were going through all those contortions. Her wrists were strapped behind her and her ankles bound together. Every time she would attain her feet she would fall down again. It was heart-breaking. But finally, after what seemed like hours, she reached Canavan’s side, stood up, teetered drunkenly a moment and fell across the arms of his chair. He attacked the adhesive on her wrists with his strong white teeth. Presently she was free and was busy freeing him.

  He stood up, flexing his cramped muscles. Outside and below, as if this room might be on the second floor, there was the muted roar of a car motor and the creak of protesting springs. Probably Reefer coming back, Canavan thought. The single lamp at the end of a cobwebbed drop-cord glowed yellowly. Naturally Canavan’s gun was gone. He had expected that. But at least he was free, and for this he was properly grateful.

  Two pairs of feet climbed the stairs beyond the door, and there was a whispered colloquy. Canavan motioned Hope to a spot behind the bed. Then, for want of a better weapon, he caught up the leather cushion from the Morris chair and waited, one hand on the snap-switch of the light-socket. It was odd that in that moment he should see humor in one old leather pillow against a couple of guns, but he did. He was actually grinning when Tubby opened the door.

  There was just the fraction of a second that Tubby, paralyzed by surprise, forgot the gun in his hand. Canavan hurled the cushion and followed it with a plunging dive for the chunky man’s knees. He didn’t know that he was carrying the light bulb and the drop-cord with him until he hit. The bulb banged loudly, then a gun, and Tubby came down like a ton of lead on Canavan’s back. Another gun banged, two or three times, and Tubby quit kicking suddenly. Canavan crawled out from under in time to see Reefer, backing away from what he had done to Tubby, lift his gun with a shaking hand.

  “Stand still, you!” Canavan said, just as though he had a cannon in each fist. He was propped on his spread hands, with Tubby’s body weighting his legs, as defenseless as a man could possibly be. But Reefer, who had just killed his own partner, was in no condition for careful analysis. He kept on backing away, nerveless fist trying to steady a shaking gun, and quite suddenly there was no floor under his feet. He went down the stairs, end over end, and the gun banged just once. Reefer only screamed once too; then there was a sound like a snapping stick, and silence.

  Inside the room, Hope Carewe whimpered like a thoroughly frightened child.

  Canavan got to his feet and examined Tubby. Reefer couldn’t have done a more thorough job on purpose. All three slugs had entered Tubby’s heart from the back. Cursing a little, Canavan went down the stairs. He felt no pride of accomplishment in finding that Reefer had suffered a broken neck. That was Reefer’s own doing, not Canavan’s. Swiftly he searched the hood’s pockets, without result. Nor was he any more successful with Tubby. There was not a thing on either of the men to finger their employer.

  Canavan stood up presently and draped his topcoat around the shivering girl.

  “Come on, hon,” he said. “Let’s go bye-bye now.”

  She nodded a wordless acquiescence. They went down the stairs and out to a weed-grown yard. The car was Canavan’s own.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE KEY

  anavan stood for a moment, considering the car and its implications. There was no other car in sight; consequently Reefer had used it a little while ago when he had gone out to find a telephone. Just as obviously, then, it was the one in which they had brought Canavan away from the Hollywood bungalow-court. With a little tightening of the lips he remembered the exact scene. Then, putting the girl in the car, he recalled something else, a ridiculous, everyday happening that was so common it had been forgotten in the press of events. “Look, hon, when you got out of the car in front of your hotel you dropped your bag, remember? You happen to mention that to anybody?”

  She stared at him. “Why, no!”

  He flicked on the dashlight and searched the floor. At the moment he couldn’t have told her what he was looking for. It was just a hazy idea that in scooping up the bag’s contents he might have missed something. Presently he slid the floor mat out from beneath the seat and a tiny object, bright and shiny, lay there winking up at him. It was a key—perhaps the key to the whole frantic chase. He held it up. “Yours?”

  She shook her head. “It could be one of the three or four that Edward had. What is it?”

  “Safety deposit box,” he said shortly. “Only trouble is, we don’t know which one. There isn’t anything on the key but a number. It’ll take hours, maybe days, to check up on it.” He put the key in the fob pocket of his pants, looked at the gun he had taken from Tubby, finally put that in his pocket and climbed in.

  Canavan started the motor and they bumped out over a rutted road to the main artery. Hope Carewe said: “Bill?”

  “Yes?”

  “Isn’t it possible that whoever is behind all this will come out here?”

  His mouth made a thin hard line. “Meaning we should stay here and wait?” He shook his head. “I’m not much good at waiting. Besides, we’ll stop in Arcadia and send a couple of troopers back.”

  After a while he pulled up at an all-night café where a couple of white motorcycles bore evidence of the presence of coppers. He went in and used the telephone. Then, in passing, he mentioned almost casually that he thought he had heard shots over by one of the abandoned rock crushers. The cops made a hurried exit.

  It was almost one o’clock when
he parked beside the Club del Rey. “I want you to stick close to me, Hope. Close and a little behind. I wouldn’t take you at all, only I’m afraid to leave you alone.”

  “Isn’t this a job for the police?”

  “I am the police,” Canavan said. “Not that you’d think it, the way I’ve been pushed around tonight.” He pushed in through double glass doors with the girl. On the right, through an arch, was the bar, and on either side of the main salon broad stairs climbed by gradual stages to the mezzanine.

  The lights were romantically dim. Canavan, ignoring a beckoning headwaiter, pretended he had business in the men’s lounge and went past the private dining-rooms to a blank white door. He was about to knock when the door opened suddenly and he was face to face with Big George Kolinski. “Hello, George,” he said. His fist was wrapped around the gun in his pocket, but his face gave no sign that he was on edge.

  Kolinski’s eyes opened wide, sighting the girl behind Canavan. Then, ponderously polite, he stood aside. “Why, hello, Lieutenant! Come right in.”

  anavan went in sidewise, watchfully. He was not too surprised when a weasel-faced man in a snap-brim and midnight-blue Chesterfield stepped from behind the door. “Hello, Maury.” Maury’s right hand was buried in the side pocket of the Chesterfield.

  He didn’t say anything.

  Kolinski closed the door behind Hope Carewe. “Well—Miss Carewe, isn’t it?”

  Hope admitted this. She was having trouble keeping behind Canavan and still avoiding Kolinski and Maury. Kolinski finally solved the problem himself by going over to his desk. He looked at Canavan out of sleepy-lidded eyes. “I take it you’re not here alone?”