It came to me in a flash.
* * *
The bumpy dead-end lane where the thug with the wood-slatted pickup had gotten a wad of cash from Al looked even less inviting at night than it had by day. A place with only one way in and out, easy to watch and fine for trapping someone. A place where, inside any of the hulking industrial buildings, sound could be muffled. I rolled past the lane without pausing, drumming my thumbs on the steering wheel and trying to think. The gate of the nearby coal yard was locked for the night, but traffic on Findlay was scarce, so I did a U-turn and went past again. Hard to tell without turning in so my headlights could show me, but the short scrap of thoroughfare looked deserted.
If I was right about this location, chances were Beale had a lookout. Driving past a third time would be too risky. Parking close enough for a quick escape was also out of the question. I’d have to take my chances on foot. The corner warehouse where I’d pretended to relieve myself my first time here had a strip of concrete next to a loading dock on the Findlay Street side, out of view of anyone in the lane and good for a quick getaway. I parked and sat for a minute letting my eyes adjust. I watched for movement at the mouth of the lane, the glint of a light, anything. Pulling my hat snug I got out, .38 in hand.
Again I waited, mostly listening now while my vision continued to sharpen. A freight train wailed in the night on the tracks several blocks behind me. From my day visit I remembered that some sort of rail spur was partly responsible for the dead end at the foot of the lane. That meant I’d be keeping my eye out for hobos as well as Beale’s men. Slowly I began to move. When I reached the mouth of the lane, it looked to be empty of cars.
Half an hour or so later I’d crossed the lane and worked my way down to the place where I wanted to be. A train whistle sounded, this one distant. A dog barked. I was standing a few feet away from where the cocky guy with the truck had leaned against Al’s car smoking and talking. At the time I hadn’t paid much attention to the building behind them. Now I did.
It looked like any other mid-sized two-story warehouse. Brick. High ceiling on the ground floor. Hard to tell in the dark, but it looked like it might be empty, or little used. There was a small door in front, but one of the two windows in what had probably been the office was boarded up.
Given the size of the lane, it could be the meeting I’d witnessed hadn’t been set for any particular spot. But I was guessing the one I was looking at was a place Al knew. Or more likely one Beale knew from his bootlegging days. With lives at stake it was worth a try.
I inched my way to the side of the warehouse. There was a loading door midway and a regular door toward the rear. A wide dirt area, long enough for trucks to load and pull around and leave, separated the building from its neighbor. The area was empty of vehicles and I didn’t hear anything, so I made a slow circuit of the building watching and listening. My arm was tired from holding the .38. When I got back to where I’d started, I decided to have a look inside.
Since no one had unlocked the door for me, I shifted the gun to my left hand to use my trusty #2 Boye. I’m an indifferent shot with my left hand, but I’m strictly a right handed lock pick. After a couple of minutes I felt tumblers fall into place. A minute later I was in.
It took some more adjusting to the darkness in here. Outside there’d been light from stars at least. Meanwhile I breathed softly, checking for smells. Cigarette. Men’s cologne. Not very strong. Hard to tell if someone was in here, but someone had been, and recently. Straining my ears I hugged the perimeter of the warehouse, moving toward what from the outside looked like an office. At every step I was glad I’d put on matronly lace-up shoes with noiseless soles.
The office had the look of disuse about it. No shape suggesting a lunchpail or cup on the single desk. I went out silently and made my way around the opposite wall. By now I could see well enough to make out shapes. There were a few barrels lined up in one corner; some crates stacked in another. That was it except for what looked like a bucket or paint can in the middle of the floor at the end where I’d entered.
Crouching behind the barrels I took my flashlight out of my coat pocket, made an arc with its beam and snapped it off waiting for shots. When I’d tried it in other directions with no ill results I made another circuit around the inside. The stairs leading up were covered with cobwebs, but some primal instinct told me others were here.
I bent down and ran my light along the floor and picked out my own footprints in the thick dust. I saw other prints, too. One had the small heel of a woman’s shoe. They led to the paint can I’d noticed. The can looked brand new and there was a brush beside it and a canvas drop cloth spread underneath. What would you paint in a warehouse that hadn’t been used in months, maybe years?
I moved the canvas aside and saw the trapdoor. Dousing my light I lifted the panel as quietly as I could and felt for the stairs. Thanking the Holy Mother there were treads instead of rungs, I made sure my footing was firm and started down, gun at the ready and darkened flashlight ready to use as a club. When I thought my lungs would burst from holding my breath, I heard a whimper. Someone was here, left in pitch darkness, hurt or terrified.
Shifting the flashlight and holding it half against me to keep it from blinding, I switched it on. Ahead of me on the floor, hands and feet bound and a gag in her mouth, Thelma stared up in fear.
Something crashed against my head and I heard a faraway voice.
“Sweet dreams, princess.”
Forty-three
Someone was shaking my shoulder, only it felt odd. I heard a thread of sound like a tire leaking air.
“Miss Sullivan!” The thread firmed into a whisper. I opened my eyes. It was mostly dark but a faint glow showed somewhere. Enough for me to make out a shape and gather in the memory of where I’d been.
“Miss Sullivan! It’s me – Thelma. From Throckmorton Stationery,” said the shape.
I nodded and squinted my eyes and when I opened them again I could see her. The gag that had covered her mouth bunched on her lower lip.
“I’m going to work your gag loose so we can talk. If somebody comes, push your tongue out hard to hook the cloth and pull it back up.” She wiggled around and worked at my gag with her bound hands. Within a matter of minutes she’d moved it down. “Try the thing with your tongue a time or two so you can do it fast,” she said.
My wits were returning enough now to see she was plenty scared. If she could soldier ahead, so could I. After I tried the business with the gag a few times I turned my head, which repaid me by pulsing irritably, and looked for Peter. He wasn’t far away. His eyes were open and glassy. I was pretty sure it wasn’t the glassiness of death. His gag was in place and from what I could see in the dimness, he’d taken one hell of a beating. Dark patches that were either blood or bruises covered most of his features.
“He – they hit him so hard!” Thelma whispered. “And he kept telling them to let me go or he wouldn’t tell them anything. I couldn’t even get him to open his eyes until I was trying to bring you around. Is he – will he–?” Her voice caught.
“Don’t fall apart on me, Thelma. He’s probably got a concussion, but he’ll be okay.” I could be lying, but it was what she needed to hear. “Peter – are you awake? Do you know where you are?”
The glassy eyes moved fractionally.
“Where’s the guy who clobbered me?” I asked Thelma.
“I – I don’t know. He tied you up and called you terrible names and said somebody named Al might want to see to you personally. Then he left. He – he took your gun. But he must’ve forgotten your flashlight. He had one too.”
That explained the glow, then. And maybe we had a weapon.
“Okay, listen fast, in case he comes back. You and Peter are going to be okay. The cops know you’re missing and they know who has you. So does Flora Throckmorton. There’s a razor blade inside the brim of my hat. It feels like a dent. The two layers come apart easy. If we get split up before we get out of here, make like
the hat is yours and hang onto it. Understand?”
“Yes. Does–”
“Is the guy who was down here with you the only one?”
Thelma’s head shook. “There’s two. Watching us now, I mean. There were others at first, when they beat Peter. Then they stuffed us in the trunk of a car and brought us here. Since then I’ve only seen two. One went somewhere close where there’s a phone. I think - I think maybe from what I heard they killed the night watchman in some building.”
It made sense. I’d been bothered not seeing a car. If they were somewhere close it wouldn’t be long before at least one of them returned. As long as it took to make sure no one saw him moving stealthily to one of the nearby buildings; make sure whoever was waiting there didn’t shoot him; call Al or maybe somebody who’d reach Al. Maybe wait for a call with instructions. After that it would be a fast trip back. And both goons would probably come.
I’d had harder cracks on the head but it hurt anyway as I tried to think.
“How’d you get your gag down in the first place?” I asked to get my mental wheels going faster. “Not with your tongue.”
“No, I sort of scraped it off. I couldn’t reach my own shoulder so I scooted over and rubbed my chin against Peter’s shoulder. I was awfully scared I’d hurt him more, but–”
“You think fast on your feet, Thelma.”
She was making her way toward Peter again by flexing her haunches, walking on her backside like an animal with very short legs. Peter was the weak link in an attempt to escape. He was in bad shape. I saw his eyes had fallen closed again.
“Peter!” I whispered sharply. They fluttered open. “Did you hear what I said before? About people looking for you? Your cousin Flora nearly blew my head off with a gun, she’s so determined to find you.”
As I’d hoped, that part proved as effective as smelling salts. His eyes snapped wide. I knew he was listening now.
“No more heroics. We’ve got to outsmart them. I’m pretty sure I’ve found what Al’s been after. I can get them to bargain, or at least think they’re bargaining. The important thing is for you to do whatever I tell you to, or what Thelma tells you. Don’t do anything to get yourself punched again or you won’t be able to move, and Thelma won’t leave without–”
Thelma’s feet kicked my leg. She was watching the stairs. I saw her gag flip up just as I heard the trapdoor. It took me two tries to get my own gag back into place. I glanced at Peter just in time to catch a small nod as his eyes snapped shut.
“Not so feisty now, are you?” A voice I suspected was Al’s lashed at me and I was blinded by a light in my face. He laughed at my muffled growl. “What happened to that smart mouth of yours?”
Two pairs of hands yanked me to my feet. Somehow Thelma had managed to douse my flashlight in time. Was she sitting on it?
“This one still alive?” Al asked from in front of me. Still blinded by the light in my face I could make out little more than smudgy movement as his leg reached out to nudge Peter. “Not that it matters,” he assured the men with him. “Go to the club. Make sure you’re seen. At half past one come back and torch this place. It’ll take care of these two.”
I heard Thelma whimper. I tried to look in her direction, but Al seized my shoulder.
“And you, you meddlesome bitch, have a special invitation from Mr. Beale.”
* * *
I didn’t get to ride up front. Al stuffed me in the trunk of his car just as the boys who worked under him had done with Peter and Thelma. When he hauled me out again, the silence and the feel of the air told me I was somewhere out in the country. In a matter of seconds my eyes, already accustomed to the dark of the trunk, confirmed it. Amid landscaped grounds big enough for a couple of football fields sat a swank modern house. A chill climbed my spine as Al began to muscle me toward it.
With every step I was assessing my situation. I didn’t have a weapon. No one knew where I was. I doubted there were any neighbors close enough to hear. Beale’s property probably had a fence and at least a couple of guards. And unless Thelma somehow managed to get herself and Peter out of their prison – or I could get back to them – they’d burn to death when Beale’s boys torched the warehouse.
A sinewy fellow whose shoulders were rounding with age beneath his white jacket opened the door.
“Where the hell’s Jimmy?” snapped Al as we stepped in.
“Maybe watching from the bushes, sir. The boss told him be extra careful tonight.”
The butler or valet or whatever he was had an accent. Italian, Spanish. He took no notice of me. Guests probably showed up here bound and gagged all the time.
“Boss in his office?”
“Yes, sir.” The rounding shoulders bowed as he took Al’s hat.
Al marched me past gleaming blocks of wood supporting a staircase. We were heading toward the back of the house. We turned down a hall that led to the left and marched some more. Al rested the hand with the gun lazily on my shoulder, ready to spin in an instant toward my head. At the end of the hall an open door gave a glimpse of a sitting room on one side. We turned the opposite way toward a thick paneled door.
Al reached around with his free hand and yanked the gag down.
“Scream all you want. Nobody will hear.” He rapped on the door. “Boss. Brought you a present.”
“Come in,” a voice invited calmly.
Al nudged me once with the gun, then rested it on my shoulder again as he pushed me ahead, using me and his elbow to shove the door wide.
I had just enough time to register a man with wavy dark hair at a desk and another man standing beside him before a shot rang and a force I couldn’t fight plunged me to the ground.
Disbelief filled my parched throat as I fell. I hadn’t expected Beale to kill me the instant he saw me. The floor hurt as I hit it, which sparked the flashing thought that maybe I wasn’t dead. But when I tried to move I couldn’t. Was I paralyzed or was this how dying felt? I tried to feel my fingers and thought I could. I tried to wiggle my toes. Fighting the weight that seemed to hold me motionless I turned my head.
And looked into the unseeing eyes of Al.
Just inches from me.
With a bullet hole in his forehead.
Forty-four
“Who are you?” demanded a voice. A voice that teetered between authority and panic. “Don’t move, or I’ll kill you too!”
The door I’d come through slammed shut. I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to stare into Al’s. I tried to swallow but only managed a dry heave, not because I’d never looked at violent death before, but because it had so nearly been my own.
“Her name is Maggie Sullivan,” said the calmer voice that had bid us enter. “She’s a private detective. She’s been throwing sand in this whole operation and she’s sweethearts with the cops.”
On the other side of the door a quick knock sounded.
“Boss?” inquired the voice of the round shouldered servant.
“Everything’s fine. Just a business matter.”
I had the barest inkling I might be sliding into shock. Succumbing to it would seal my doom. The only chance I had of surviving – however slender it might be – was to show some moxie and keep my wits.
“How about letting me sit up so I’m not kissing a corpse?” I managed to say. Why had Beale had one of his goons pop his own lieutenant?
“Her hands are tied,” the voice I figured was Beale’s reassured. “She knows some things it would be to both our advantage to hear.”
“She knows.... Sit up! Sit up, dammit!”
Slowly it dawned on me Beale might not be calling the shots.
Using my feet and the heels of my bound hands I eased backwards from under the weight of Al’s body, put a little more distance between us and sat up. I didn’t look at Al from my new position. I knew the back of his head would be worse than the front. Instead I turned my attention toward the desk, and the man behind it whom I recognized from the newspaper photos as Woody Beale. Standing
at his left shoulder was the guy with the agitated voice, the guy whose marksmanship had put a clean hole between Al’s eyes.
It was Lyle Houseman.
He stood with his legs spread holding a pair of revolvers like some movie cowboy. One pressed the back of Beale’s head. The other pointed at me.
“I’m nearly as good with my left hand as my right,” he warned. “Don’t risk the percentage.”
His words were tight with nervous excitement, but the guns remained steady. I nodded.
“Which hand you shoot Al with?”
“The right. No taking chances after the mess the bastard made.”
“I’d give you a medal if I had one and wasn’t tied up. Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
“Ten years of summer camp with the cream of the East.”
His smirk of superiority confirmed Ed Viner’s assessment of him being stuck on himself.
I was getting my bearings now. Another body lay half visible to the right of Beale’s desk and a little behind it. His bodyguard, probably, sprawled face down. Houseman must be as fast as he was accurate.
“I think Lyle’s acquiring a taste for killing.” Beale’s silken tone held a mocking note. “It’s more exciting than hitting a target, isn’t it, Lyle? Makes you feel powerful.”
“Shut up.”
“But it’s made you jittery, too, that rush.”
“I said shut up!”
Tense as Houseman was, he’d go off as easily as nitroglycerine. I tried to figure out what I’d walked in on. Why were he and Beale on the outs? Beale’s eyes, which were almost as dark as his hair, told me nothing. Their lack of expression signaled more danger than anger would have, for it suggested calm calculation.
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