Night Lady

by William Campbell Gault

  As he scrambled after me now, he reached, and as he reached I kicked and my bare foot caught him in the shoulder. It slowed him only enough for me to get to my feet, but that was all I wanted. That was where I had to be to get back to my strategy on this one.

  I was on my feet and he got to his. Blood dripped down from one corner of his mouth, and he paused, studying me, balanced evenly on his feet, ready to move either way.

  In his eyes I thought I saw the first faint glimmering of doubt, and I hoped I could fan it to the madness of frustration. The wall was behind me now, and I could guess he was waiting to see which way I’d move, so he could pin me against something solid. I moved the way he probably hadn’t anticipated; I moved straight for him, and I brought a hook along. There was no point in trying to hit him in the belly; that, like his neck, was corded steel. Boxers are hard there, but a boxer can’t possibly afford the muscle development of a wrestler or he would never be able to move around a ring.

  So I hooked the left high, toward the jaw, and it missed. But he had moved his head to avoid it, and my right hand caught him close enough to the button to stagger him.

  I didn’t go in after that. I had a different strategy. I could hit him hard enough to put him down, perhaps, but the finish was to be by wrestling rules. He would need to be flat on his back for that and not able to squirm a shoulder free, which would stop the count.

  So I jabbed him off balance and moved away. I stepped in again, and slapped him sharply with the flat of my right hand and the dullness in his eyes went away and a gleam came back and I was hoping he would remember his night of ignominy under the hands of Mike Petalious.

  I think he did. He rushed, both hands reaching, his vision imperfect and his intent dishonorable. He muttered something as he rushed, and I moved lightly to one side and stuck a foot out.

  He stumbled to his knees and stayed there for seconds, shaking his head for clarity, on all fours. If he had pawed the floor, the symbolism would have been complete. The golden bull was summoning his strength and his cunning.

  “Drop on him,” Macrae called. “Now’s the time, Joe.”

  I shook my head. My strategy was sounder, I felt. With both of us on the floor, the advantage would be his. That much he must have remembered from college.

  He rose slowly and I had a moment of indiscretion, looking at the dulled hate in his eyes. I moved in.

  He moved fast, faster than I thought he presently could, and he had the arm again, and started to swing. This time I took a chance, and fought his momentum, coming in, my head high.

  He saw that expanse of open neck and the lure was too much. He let go of my arm and reached for the neck as I brought my head down sharply into his face.

  This time he shouted shrilly and one hand went to his battered nose as I stepped quickly free, backing away from him, my hands up.

  He rushed to my right; I moved to my left. He rushed to my left, I moved to my right. If I had held a cape, I couldn’t have worked him much better. I didn’t need a cape and I wouldn’t be permitted a sword. I taunted him quietly: “Charge, Toro, charge. Come and get me, muscle man, break me with your big hands.”

  He paused, a sight to see, his face bloody, his nose awry, his eyes holding nothing human at the moment.

  He charged and I moved away, toward the wall.

  He turned and put his head down and charged again, and his shoulder scraped my hip, throwing me momentarily off balance, and he turned quickly, his head lowered, his eyes watching my feet, knowing where they went, I had to go, knowing that if he could center on my belly, that battering-ram of a head on top of that massive neck would fold me like an accordion. At least, it had always worked that way in front of the television cameras.

  There was another pause, two seconds before the moment of truth, while his eyes watched my feet, his arms went out to his sides and he shrugged his big shoulders.

  This time he came faster than he had in even that first second of the fight, much faster than I had thought he could ever move. I saw that hard head approaching and was frightened for the first time, because it was so damned close and coming so damned fast.

  But I made it, though I felt the wind of his body hurtling past. I stepped clear and put my right hand on his rump, adding that needed dash of impetus to his blind and raging charge.

  His head went into those four-by-fours with a sickening thunk and even from the calloused audience behind the counter, there was a sigh of horror.

  For anyone but a wrestler, that would have been the end. But those absurd neck muscles had withstood the shock, and he went down, but he wasn’t out.

  I went in with my five-fingered sword. He was trying to get up, and helped him. I swung him away from the wall and brought up the right hand from my knees, trying to drive the fist all the way through to the back of his neck It’s all in the follow through, you must remember, it’s all in the follow through.

  They could have counted to a hundred.

  I took a shower right there. There wasn’t any point in hurrying home. Deborah must have been asleep by now. And if she wasn’t, there was still that bottle of Jack Daniel’s we hadn’t opened.

  She was a big girl now, but I owed her the solace of that, just for tonight.

  THE END

  of a Crest Novel of Suspense by

  William Campbell Gault

  If you liked Night Lady check out:

  Run, Killer, Run

  Chapter 10

  JEAN TOOK two backward steps and the man came in and Tom kicked the door shut behind him.

  Neilson turned, his bland gaze going to the gun in Tom’s hand and then up to meet Tom’s apprehensive glare. Neilson shook his head. “What’s the gun for?”

  “Protection.”

  “I haven’t any gun. Have the lady search me, if you don’t believe it. You don’t need a gun around me, Tom; I work for Nannie.”

  “I know it. You’re bigger than I am. This gives me the edge. What’s happened to Delavan?”

  Neilson frowned. “How do I know? I talked to him yesterday. I told him to have you get in touch with Nannie. Didn’t he tell you that?”

  Tom said quietly, “If you talked to him yesterday, you must have been the last man to see him.”

  Neilson’s face was suddenly guarded. “I left him in his office. Something’s happened to Delavan?”

  “You know as much as we do, and probably more. Why were you parked in Venice so long?”

  “Watching that Garrity broad. I checked her from time to time from the minute we heard you’d made the break. Joe’s best girl, wasn’t she? And isn’t Joe the key to this thing? Were you there, at the Garrity girl’s joint? You never showed.”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” Tom said. “I’ve got the gun. Who told you I was here?”

  “Nannie.”

  “And who told Nannie?”

  “I don’t ask him those kind of questions.”

  Jean said hoarsely, “We know who told him. Jud Shallock told him. He was supposed to be Tom’s friend.”

  Neilson’s glance went between them and settled on Tom. “What makes her think he isn’t your friend, Tom? Are you sure you know who your friends are?”

  “I used to think so.”

  “Sure. Like Joe Hubbard, that shyster. Nannie sent him to St. Louis to defend you. You know that, don’t you, now? Nannie paid for that.”

  “And ordered him to throw me to the wolves.”

  Again, the bland face frowned. “You can’t believe that. We won’t talk about Joe Hubbard. He’s dead. And there are things Nannie has to say to you he won’t trust me with, or anybody else. Just look back over your career with him, Spears, and then start figuring your friends over again from that angle. You can’t be too stupid, the regard Nannie’s got for you.”

  “There are two reasons,” Tom said quietly, “why I’m not going to talk to Nannie just yet. Both of them are buried out at Forest Lawn.”

  “He’ll talk about that, too. You owe it to him, Tom. Nanni
e’s a sick man.”

  “My wife’s worse than that; she’s dead. And I was framed for her killing. And you track me around town, working for Nannie. Well, it looks to me like he’s gone heavy, and that scares me.”

  Neilson stared at the gun in Tom’s hand. “It looks to me like you’re the one that’s gone heavy. So, there’s another man looking for you, too. And he’s armed. And he doesn’t work for Nannie. You’re playing it real stupid, Spears. But it’s your neck.”

  He turned his back on the gun and reached for the door.

  Tom said, “You can tell Nannie that I know about him and Lois. I know a hell of a lot more than he gives me credit for. And when I get enough, the police will know it.”

  Neilson looked at him almost pityingly. “Cops. Now we’re hollering cops. Stupid, I know you are, now, but a stoolie — ? Nannie sure had you pegged wrong.”

  He went out, and slammed the door behind him.

  Jean stared at the door for seconds. “Do you still trust Jud Shallock?”

  “Jud’s an organization man. I’m sure he thought it was the best for me.”

  “Or for the organization. Maybe they’ve worked out some kind of deal, Tom. Maybe they can clear you with some cooked up evidence, some shenanigans, prove you didn’t kill your wife. And you’d be free.”

  “Maybe. She wasn’t much. But she was my wife. I want to know who killed her. I want the law to know.”

  Her smile was bitter. “You’ve come over to my side?”

  “I was a bookie,” Tom said softly. “Never any more than that. It’s illegal, but millions don’t think it’s immoral. When was I ever on any side but yours?”

  She didn’t answer that. She stared at him a moment and then she whispered, “Would you kiss me, please, Tom Spears?”

  The slim body close, the light perfume soothing and then his cheek was damp from her tears and he stood back.

  “What now? Why do you cry?”

  “Oh — you and the gun. The lamb with the gun. Why should the lambs have to carry guns?” He didn’t answer.

  “What if he’d made a move for you, Tom? Could you have pulled the trigger?”

  “I don’t know. But neither did he. It was all the edge I needed at the moment, his doubt. You’re no tiger, yourself, Miss Jean Revolt.”

  “I’m beginning to find that out.” She rubbed at her wet cheek with the back of one hand. “Well, this haven is now lost. You’d better come home with me.”

  “He knows you, too, now. I mean Neilson does.”

  “Didn’t he before? Who sent that other man to my place, the one who pretended to be a detective?”

  “Ames Gilchrist, I think. There’s a battle on, Jean, and we’re in the middle of the battleground.”

  Jean picked up her purse. “We mustn’t waste any time. I suppose if Joe worked for Nannie, Nannie knows about me. But I’ve a better hiding place in the house. There’s an entrance to the attic through that closet in Dad’s study. It leads to a separate wing of the house. You couldn’t live up there; the roof’s too low. But you could be safe there if somebody came.”

  “And cornered, if somebody should discover it. I like open ground around me, Jean.”

  “There isn’t any open ground left. Not with two thugs and the police looking for you. Let’s hurry, Tom.”

  It was still gloomy out, and cool. The Plymouth at the curb was the only parked car in the block. “We’re clear enough so far,” Jean commented. “Those glasses do change your looks. You don’t look like a bookie, at all.”

  “I’m not,” Tom said. “Not any more.”

  There was some mist in Santa Monica, deepening as they came toward Ocean Avenue. She turned right on Ocean, traveling to its end, following the steep road down to Entrada in the Canyon.

  In the Canyon, the fog was heavy enough to slow traffic to a crawl; visibility was no more than ten feet. It didn’t improve as they climbed toward Jean’s house on the other side of Entrada.

  She was moving in low gear, her gaze concentrated on the unseen road ahead. “Don’t you hate fog?”

  “I don’t mind it. I lived in it for years.”

  “Where? In Frisco?”

  “No, with Lois. Joke.”

  “You and millions of others. How about me?”

  Tom thought of Connie Garrity’s scorn, and the scorn Connie claimed Joe Hubbard had felt for Jean. He said, “Joe was the man in the fog. He didn’t know when he had a good thing.”

  “Thank you, Thomas Spears. It was a gallant thought, but the reality is that Joe had a lot of good things, which is even better, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m monogamous by nature.”

  Nothing from her. The car jolted as she rode too close to the edge of the drive. Around them, now, an almost indistinguishable thinning of the mist as they came to the clearing about the house. Above them towered the mist-shrouded ghost of the giant eucalyptus tree that dominated the parking area.

  “Safely home, anyway,” Jean said, and turned to look at him. “To paraphrase Stevenson, home is the hunted, high on a hill.” A pause. “That was a poor joke. But so was yours about Lois.”

  He climbed out and waited for her and they went across the macadam of the parking area together.

  As she was unlocking the door, she asked, “Are we any closer, Tom? Are we any closer to the truth than we were the day I picked you up in Arizona?”

  “Some. Maybe the murderer isn’t in sight, but we’ve certainly learned enough, haven’t we, about our — friends?”

  She pushed the door open. “Nothing I enjoyed learning. And quite possibly nothing that will do us any damned good.”

  He patted her cheek. “That doesn’t sound like you. That sounds like me. Are we exchanging characters?”

  They were in the entry hall, and Tom closed the door. “You’ve lost nothing, Jean. If I took off, tomorrow, you wouldn’t be in trouble.”

  She faced him bleakly, her eyes searching his.

  He smiled. “Don’t look at me like that. I couldn’t leave you. I was talking about your involvement in my trouble, not in me. You are clear of the trouble, you know. Nobody could prove you helped me.”

  “Nobody but Leonard. I wonder where he is?”

  “He’ll be around. Let’s see that attic hideaway.”

  The entrance to the attic through the study closet was above some shelves and the shelves were strong enough to serve as steps. Tom clambered up and lifted the plywood door. This part of the attic was about four feet high and walled off from the rest of the low attic by the mammoth chimney that served the fireplaces in the living room and study.

  Tom came down again and Jean said, “The obvious entrance to the attic is through that opening in the hall ceiling. This one can’t even be seen from the floor, you’ll notice.”

  “The police are pretty thorough, Jean.”

  “If they have reason to be. I didn’t get a chance to finish my coffee at that apartment. Would you like some?”

  “I guess.”

  Jean went out. From the mantel, Walter Revolt looked at Tom and there seemed to be some challenge in the pugnacious face. Through the windows, Tom could see the wall of mist, and the drip of moisture from the eaves was audible in the muffled quiet.

  Jean was dispirited and perhaps the disappearance of Leonard Delavan was the big factor in that. Leonard had been her strong right arm, her legs, her detecting eye. Leonard had been her lion; she was left with her lamb.

  He was standing by the window, looking out at the fog, when she came to tell him the coffee was ready.

  In the dim kitchen, he sat in the ell of the fireplace. He sipped his black coffee and smoked and thought back on the hours and events since he had last sat here.

  Jean said, “What kind of a girl is that Connie Garrity?”

  “Oh — cynical, I guess. She thinks you’re a suspicious character. Not that you’re a card-carrying Commie, of course, but — ”

  “But I’m a registered Republican, and Dad was, too. But
we have to work to maintain freedom. That’s the hell of it. We fight for a principle and in fighting for it, are forced to protect some scum.”

  “Maybe,” Tom said, “what you save isn’t worth the fight.”

  “Freedom?”

  “No, Tom Spears, for example. You can’t fight forever, Jean.”

  “Everybody fights as long as he lives,” she answered. “He either fights for what he believes in or he fights his conscience.” She managed a smile. “Do you see what you’d have to live with, Tom Spears, if you married me? Do you see why Joe Hubbard didn’t?”

  “I don’t want to hear about Joe Hubbard, Jean. I don’t ever want to hear his name again from you.”

  “He was no worse than a million others, honey.”

  “Yes, he was. Because he could have been so much better. That’s enough on that bastard, now.”

  Her eyes looked less weary. “Yes, darling. Yes, boss.”

  They sipped their coffee and smoked and the fog shrouded them from the sound of traffic and a view of the rest of the world.

  Tom said, “I wish I had a crystal ball. I’d like to know where I’d be a month from now.”

  “Nearer the window,” she said. “I’ll move this table back near the window after you’re cleared, and we’ll have a view when we eat.”

  “After I’m cleared — are you still that confident, Jean?”

  She started to answer, and then stopped. There was some moisture in her eyes. “I — oh, God, Tom, I don’t know — What could have happened to Leonard?”

  He shrugged. “Why don’t you phone?”

  She nodded and rose. “I will.”

  He poured himself another cup of coffee and lighted a cigarette. Jean came back in. “No answer. I wish that damned fog would lift.”

  Tom said, “Take it easy, honey. He could be chasing a very hot lead.”

  “It only takes a minute to phone. And Leonard is meticulous about keeping appointments.” She poured herself a half cup of coffee. “I don’t remember ever having the jitters like this, before, Tom.”