Richards, cold and cunning as a prairie wolf, an operator with many connections and many angles, had been trapped and murdered. Before that, three men had disappeared and were probably dead.
Clearing away the Marcy collection, Morgan packed it up, then shifting the gun to a spot beneath his coat, which lay along one side of the bed, he stretched out and fell into an uncomfortable state of half awake, half asleep.
Hours later, his mind fogged by sleep, he felt rather than heard a faint stirring at the door. His consciousness struggled, then asserted itself. He lay very still, every sense alert, listening.
Someone was at the door fumbling with the lock. Slowly, the knob turned.
Morgan lay still. The slightest creak of the springs would be audible. Perspiration dried on his face and he tried to keep his breathing even and natural. Now the darkness seemed thicker where the door had opened. A soft click of the lock as the door closed.
His throat felt tight, his mouth dry. A man with a knife? Gathering himself, every muscle poised, he waited.
A floorboard creaked ever so slightly, a dark figure loomed over his bed, and a hand very gently touched his chest as if to locate the spot. Against the window’s vague light, he saw a hand lift, the glint of a knife. Traffic rumbled in the street, and somewhere a light went on, and the figure beside the bed was starkly outlined.
With a lunge, he threw himself against the standing man’s legs. Caught without warning, the man’s body came crashing down and the knife clattered on the floor. Kip was up on his feet as the man grasped his fallen knife and turned like a cat. Blocking the knife arm, Kip whipped a wicked right into the man’s midsection. He heard the whoosh of the man’s breath, and he swung again. The second blow landed on the man’s face, but he jerked away and plunged for the door.
Going after him, Kip tangled himself in a chair, fell, broke free, and rushed for the door in time to see his attacker go into a door across the hall.
Doors opened along the hall and there were angry complaints. He whipped open the door into which the attacker had vanished, a light went on, and a man was sitting up in bed. A window stood open, but his attacker was gone.
“Who was that guy?” the man in bed protested. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Did you see him?” The man in bed showed no signs of excitement, nor was he breathing hard.
“See him? Sure, I saw him! He came bustin’ in here and I flipped the switch, and he dove out that window!”
The alley was dark and the fire escape empty. Whoever he had been, he was safely away now. Kip Morgan walked back to his room. They had killed Richards when he got too close for comfort, and now they were after him.
When the hotel quieted down, he pulled on his shoes and shirt. It was not as late as he had believed, for he had fallen asleep early. He went downstairs into the dingy street; a man was slumped against a building nearby, breathing heavily, an empty wine bottle lying beside him. Another man, obviously steeped in alcohol, lurched against a building staring blearily at Morgan, wondering whether his chance of a touch was worth recrossing the street.
It was early, as it had been still light when he stretched out on the bed. It was too early for the attacker to have expected Morgan to be in bed unless he already knew he was there. That implied the attacker either lived in the hotel or had a spy watching him.
Weaving his way down the street through the human driftwood, Morgan considered the problem. The killer of Richards used a knife, and so had his attacker. It was imperative he take every step with caution, for a killer might await him around any corner. Whatever Tom Marcy had stumbled upon, it had led to murder.
Back to the beginning, then. Marcy had straightened up and quit drinking after the disappearance of Slim Russell. He had known enough to arouse his suspicions and obviously connected it to the disappearance of Happy Day.
It was not coincidence that the two men who vanished had been known to him, for the winos along the streets nearly all knew each other, at least by sight. Many times, they had shared bottles or sleeping quarters, and Marcy might have known sixty or seventy of them slightly.
What aroused Marcy’s suspicions? Obviously, he had begun an investigation of his own. But why? Because of fear? Of loyalty to the other derelicts? Or for some deeper, unguessed reason?
Another question bothered Morgan. How had the mysterious attacker identified him so quickly? How had he known about Richards? Richards, of course, had been a private operator for several years, but he, Kip Morgan, had never operated in that area and would be unknown to the underworld except by name from his old prizefighting days.
Something had shocked Tom Marcy so profoundly that he stopped drinking. The idea that was seeping into Morgan’s consciousness was one he avoided. To face it meant suspicion of Marilyn Marcy, but how else could the attacker have known of him? Yet why should she hire men, pay them good money, and then have them killed?
If not Marilyn then somebody near her, but that made no sense, either. The distance from East Fifth to Brentwood was enormous, and those who bridged it were going down, not up. It was a one-way street lined with empty bottles.
Instead of returning to his room, Morgan went to the quiet room where Tom Marcy had lived when not drinking heavily. It was a curious side of the man that during his drinking spells, he slept in flophouses or in the hideouts of other winos. In the intervals, he returned to the quiet, cheap little room where he read, slept, and seemed to have been happy.
At daybreak Morgan was up and made a close, careful search of the room. It yielded exactly nothing.
Three men missing and one murdered; at least two of the missing men had answered ads. What of Marcy? Had he done the same?
The idea gave Morgan a starting point, and he went down into the street. The crowding, pushing, often irritable crowd had not yet reached the downtown streets. The buses that fed their streams of humanity into the downtown areas were still gathering their quotas in the outskirts, miles away.
The warehouse at the address in the advertisement was closed and still. He walked along the street on the opposite side, then crossed and came back down. Several places were opening for business, a feedstore, a filling station, and a small lunch counter across the way.
The warehouse itself was a three-story building, large and old. There was a wooden door, badly in need of paint, a blank, curtained window, and alongside the door a large vehicle entrance closed by a metal door that slid down from above.
Kip crossed the street and entered the café. The place was empty but for one bleary-eyed bum farther down the counter. The waitress, surprisingly, was neat and attractive.
Kip smiled, and his smile usually drew a response from women. “How’s about a couple of sinkers? And a cup of Java?”
She brought the order, hesitating before him. “It’s slow this morning.”
“Do you do much business? With all these warehouses, I should imagine you’d do quite well.”
“Sometimes, when they are busy, our breakfast and lunch business can be good. As for the late trade, there’s just enough to keep us open. We get some truck and cab drivers in here at all hours, and there’s always a few playing the pinball machines.”
Kip indicated the warehouse across the street. “Don’t they hire men once in a while? I saw an ad a few days ago for a handyman.”
“That place?” She shrugged. “It wouldn’t be your sort of work. Occasionally, they hire a wino or street bum, and not many of those. I imagine it’s just for cleaning up, or something, and they want cheap labor.
“There was a fellow who came in here a few times. I think he went to work over there. At least he waited around for a few days waiting for somebody to show up.”
“Did he actually get a job?”
“I believe so. He waited, but when they actually did show up he did not go over. Not for the longest time. He was like all of them, I guess, and really didn’t want work all that bad. He did finally go over there, I think.”
“He hasn’t been
in since?”
“I haven’t seen him. But they haven’t been working over there, either. If they’ve been around at all, it was at night.”
“They work at night?”
“I don’t know about that, but one day I saw the shade was almost to the bottom, and the next day it was a little higher. Again, it was drawn to the bottom.”
Kip smiled and asked for a refill. A smart, observant girl.
“I’d make a bet the guy you speak of was the one I talked to. We were looking over the ads together.” Kip squinted his eyes as if trying to remember. “About forty? Forty-five, maybe? Medium height? Hair turning gray? Thin face?”
“That’s the one. He was very pleasant, but I think he’d been sick or something. He was very nice, but jittery, on edge, like. He was wearing a pin-striped suit, neatly pressed, and you don’t see that down here.”
So Marcy had been there, too? Kip sipped his coffee while she worked at the back bar doing some of her side work.
“What kind of business are they in?” He turned his side to the counter so he could look across the street. “I could use some work myself, although I’m not hurting.”
“You’ve got me. I have no idea what they do, although I see a light delivery truck, one of those panel jobs, once in a while. One of their men, too, comes in once in a while, but he doesn’t talk much. He’s a blond, stocky, Swedish type.”
Morgan glanced down the counter at the somnolent bum whose head was bowed over his coffee cup.
Through another cup of coffee and a piece of apple pie, they talked. Twice, truck drivers came in, had their coffee and departed, but Kip lingered, and the waitress seemed glad of the company.
They talked of movies, dancing, the latest songs, and a couple of news items.
The warehouse across the street was rarely busy, but occasionally they moved bulky boxes or rolls of carpet from the place in the evening or early morning. Some building firm, she guessed.
The bum got slowly to his feet and shuffled to the door. In the doorway, he paused, and his head turned slowly on his thin neck. For a moment, his eyes met Morgan’s. They were clear, sharp, and intelligent. Only a fleeting glimpse and then the man was outside. Kip got to his feet. How much had the man heard? Too much, that was sure. And he was no stewbum, no wino.
Kip walked to the door and stood looking after the bum, if such he was. The man was shuffling away, but he turned his head once and looked back. Kip was well inside the door and out of view. Obviously the man had paused in the door to get a good look at Morgan. He would remember him again.
The idea disturbed him. Of course, it might be only casual interest. Nevertheless there was a haunting familiarity about the man, a sort of half recognition that would not quite take shape.
There was no time to waste. The next step was obvious. He must find out what went on inside that warehouse, who the two men were who had been seen around and what was in the boxes or rolls of carpet they carried out. The last carried unpleasant connotations to Kip Morgan. More than ever, he was sure that Tom Marcy had been murdered.
Except for the narrow rectangle of light where the lunch counter was, all the buildings were blank and shadowed when Kip Morgan returned. Nor was there movement along the street, only the desolation and emptiness that comes to such streets after closing hours.
Like another of the derelicts adrift along neighboring streets, sleeping in doorways or alleys, Morgan slouched along the street, and at the corner above the warehouse, he turned and went along the back street to the alley. No one was in sight, so he stepped quickly into the alley and stopped still behind a telephone post.
He waited for the space of two minutes, and nobody appeared. Staying in the deeper shadows near the building Morgan went along to the loading dock at the back of the warehouse.
A street lamp threw a triangle of light into the far end of the alley, but otherwise it was in darkness. A rat scurried across the alley, its feet rustling on a piece of torn wrapping paper. Kip moved along the back of the building, listening. There was no sound from within. He tried the door and it was locked.
There was a platform and a large loading door, but the door was immovable. There were no windows on the lower floors, but when he reached the inner corner of the building he glanced up into the narrow space between the warehouse and the adjoining building and saw a second-story window that seemed to be open. The light was indistinct, but he decided to chance it.
Both walls were of brick and without ornamentation but to an experienced rock climber they offered no obstacle. Putting his back against the warehouse and his feet against the opposite building he began to work his way up. It needed but two or three minutes before he was seated on the sill of the warehouse window.
It was open but a few inches, propped there by an old putty knife. Hearing no sound he eased the window higher, stepped in, and returned the window to its former position. Crouching in the darkness, he listened.
Gradually, his ears sorted the sounds—the creaks and groans normal to an old building, the scurrying of rats—and his nostrils sorted the smell. There was a smell of tarpaper and of new lumber. Cautiously, he tried his pencil flash, keeping it away from windows.
He was in a barnlike room empty except for some new lumber, a couple of new packing cases, both open, and tools lying about.
Tiptoeing, he found the head of the stairs and went down. In the front office was an old-fashioned safe, a rolltop desk, and a couple of chairs. The room was dusty and showed no signs of recent use.
It was in the back office where he made his discovery, and it was little enough at first, for the lower floor aside from the front office was unfurnished and empty. And then he glimpsed a door standing open to a partitioned off room in a corner.
Inside was an old iron cot, a table, washstand, and chair. There was a stale smell of sweaty clothing and whisky. The bedding was rumpled. On the floor were several bottles.
Here someone had slept off a drunk, awakening to what? Or had he ever awakened? Or forfeited one kind of sleep for another? The heavy sleep of drunkenness, perhaps, for the silence of death?
Morgan shook his head irritably. What reason had he to believe these men dead? Was he not assuming too much?
He moved around. Kicking a rumpled pile of sacks, he disclosed a blue, pin-striped suit!
Tom Marcy had worn such a suit when last seen! Dropping to his knees, Kip made a hasty search of the pockets, but they yielded nothing. He was straightening up when he heard movement from the alley entrance and a mutter of voices.
Dropping the clothing, he took one hasty glance around and darted for the stairway. He went up on his toes, swiftly and silently, then flattened against the wall, listening.
“Hey? Did you hear something?” The voice was low but distinct.
“I heard rats. This old place is full of them! Come on, let’s get that pile of junk out and burn it. If the boss found we’d left anything around, he’d have our hearts out. Where’d you leave it?”
“In the room. I’ll get it.”
Footsteps across the floor, then a low exclamation. “Somebody’s been here! I never left those clothes like that!”
“Ah, nuts! How do you remember? Who would prowl a dump like this?”
“Somebody’s been here, I say! I’m going to look around!”
They would be coming up the steps in a minute, and he had no chance of getting across that wide floor and opening the window, then climbing down between the walls. Even if the boards did not creak, the time needed for opening and closing the window and the risk of their hearing his feet scraping on the brick wall were too much. He glanced up toward the third floor. Swiftly, he mounted the steps to that unknown floor.
Morgan was fairly trapped, and he knew it. The weight of the .38 was reassuring, but he had no desire to shoot. A shot would bring the police and he had no right to be where he was.
Whatever was going on there was shrewdly and efficiently handled and, at the first hint of official interest, wou
ld quiet down so fast that no clue would be left. There were few enough as it was.
He could hear the two men stirring about down below. The blond man mumbling to himself, ignoring the protests of the taller, darker man. Twice, in the glow of their flashlights, Kip got a good look at them. Meanwhile, he was working fast. There was a window, and he eased it up. Down was impossible…but up?
He glanced up. The edge of the roof was there, only a few feet away and somewhat higher. Scrambling to the sill, his back against the window, he hesitated an instant, then jumped out and up.
It was a wild, desperate gamble, but the only alternative to a shootout, which he did not want. If he fell and broke a leg or was in any way disabled, they would find him and kill him.
He jumped, his fingers clawed for the edge of the parapet on the roof opposite, and caught hold. His toes scraped the wall, then he pulled himself up and swung his feet over the parapet just as the blond man reached the window. For a startled instant, their eyes met, and then he was up and running across the roof. He heard the sharp bark of a pistol shot, but the man could only shoot at where Morgan had been.
Crossing the roof, he looked down at the next one. Only a few feet. He dropped to that roof opposite, but this time he did not run. There was a narrow space there, and he could go down as he had come up. Bracing his back against one side, his feet against the other, he worked his way swiftly down.
He was almost down when he heard running feet on the roof above. Somehow, by a trap door, no doubt, they had reached the roof. “Where’d he go?” The voice was low but penetrating in the silence.
“Across the roofs! Where else! Let him go or we’ll have the cops on us!”
“Let’s get out of here!”
Dropping to the alley, Kip Morgan brushed himself off and walked to his car, almost a block away. He had barely seated himself when he saw a light gray coupé whisk by. The man nearest him was the blond man, and they did not see him.
Collection 1983 - The Hills Of Homicide (v5.0) Page 13
