by Craig Rice
Then he sat back to think. Cats Gavin. Cats was small time. No, that didn’t quite describe him. He was big time, but in a small-time way. That meant that he had high connections but had never learned to allocate authority, a glaring weakness for a man in the top echelons. A really big syndicate wheel kept several thicknesses of padding between his own person and the filling of a contract. Anyone trying to trace back always got lost in the maze. But Cats liked to cut out the middlemen. In this case, he’d gone direct to the trigger and saved a couple of commissions.
Cats was only a broker and there was utterly no reason, Malone was sure, that Cats would want him dead. So who was trying to have Malone scrubbed?
It occurred to the little lawyer that with this trouble on his hands he had no time for Helene Justus’s difficulties. But then, perhaps they were one and the same. Malone could trace no connection, he had insufficient data, but again instinct and experience came into play. As a general thing, two serious gobs of trouble seldom arrived on the same train. Destiny, although not the kindest of mistresses, usually gave Malone time to clear up one mess before shoving him into another.
Malone made a quick time estimate, regretting he hadn’t kept Toothy on the wire long enough to find out exactly when the contract had been let. He began tracing back. He’d left Joe the Angel’s bar shortly after noon to meet Helene Justus. That had been his first inkling of Helen’s situation. But only an inkling. He certainly hadn’t known enough about it to get knocked off for. Then, back in the office, the Massey thing came up at about the same time Toothy phoned to say he’d been sprung.
Toothy certainly hadn’t had the contract then, or he would have conducted himself differently. He wouldn’t have called at all, or he would have tried to set Malone up for the rub-out. Toothy wouldn’t have been able to hide such an important thing. It would have reflected in his “voice.
So he’d gotten the contract later. But why?
There had to be a reason. Malone searched his current picture for places where lethal hostility might lurk. He could think of none.
But on another tack—why was he so absolutely sure Helene was in serious trouble? She’d acted strangely, but he had no proof of danger. So she was going to a psychiatrist who was being peeped on from the next room. Malone could not definitely say she wasn’t there merely as a patient.
After fifteen minutes, Malone gave it up. He was dog-tired and he needed sleep. The thing to do now was to go home and sack out. If von Flanagan was going to tag him on Toothy’s mistake because the kill had been in his neighborhood, he’d look for him in either place. But maybe destiny would be kind and let Malone sleep for a few hours so he could face his troubles fresh and rested the next day.
As he left his office, he wondered if the body had been found yet. It was a deserted corner late at night. But if the cops had already arrived, he’d take his chances on sneaking in and up to his room. He knew the hotel very well. There were three ways to reach his room.
The cops were there. He saw the flashing of their prowl-car lights as he approached the hotel. So he chose the third way to his room and some well-earned rest—into the loft building next door through a broken window he knew about. Up three flights of stairs to the roof. Across the roof to the fire escape of the hotel. In through his window from the fire escape. He didn’t use that route often, but there had been times and there would probably be others.
Malone was so tired he turned in without showering. As sleep grabbed at his mind, he had one last question to ask: I wonder who that guy was and what he wanted to talk to me about?
Chapter Six
So the night was over for Malone, but not for others. Two conversations took place about the time he dozed off that he would have gladly stayed awake to hear. One of them began when the phone rang in the Justus apartment. Helene answered. It was a male voice.
“Is your husband home?”
Helene hesitated before answering. “No, he’s at the Casino.”
“Then you can talk.”
“Yes—who is this?”
“My name is Blane. I’m taking Fletcher’s place.”
“Why?”
“Fletcher is dead. He was killed a little while ago. Shot.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Relax. Take it easy. There is nothing you can do.”
“But it’s murder! I hadn’t expected—”
“Neither did I. But it mustn’t affect the operation. Did you see Fargo tonight?”
“Yes. I went to his apartment.”
“How did he react?”
“He tried to rape me.”
“You were able to handle him?”
“I—yes, I guess so. I wanted to claw his face and walk out, but I didn’t. I think he expects some payment later.”
“Good girl. Don’t worry about him.”
Helene’s nerves were raw. “That’s very easy for you to say,” she snapped. “He didn’t have you on the lounge panting over you like a bull with your skirts up around—” Helene bit her lip and stopped.
“Now, now—relax, Mrs. Justus. It didn’t end in a rift between you, did it?”
“No. I told you. Everything is still all right. But there’s something else. I wanted to tell Fletcher. I went to meet him but he didn’t show up at the coffee shop.”
“I got a report on that. Fargo came by. He just happened along. Fletcher had been in, and out of Walden. He was afraid Fargo might recognize him. He probably tried to get a note to you but found it too risky.”
“It’s all become so frightening. Do you think Mr. Fargo had anything to do with—with what … what happened?”
“With Fletcher’s murder? No. I don’t think so. You said there was something you wanted to talk to Fletcher about.”
“I’m having trouble. There are gaps in my memory. That’s about the only way I can describe it. I can’t seem to resist Dr. Barnhall.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Justus. It’s a part of a pattern we’re studying. We’ll find out in due time—”
“But he’s doing it to me! Don’t you understand? There are holes in my days—time I can’t account for. That is—I—”
“There are things you are entitled to know that you haven’t been told. If you can meet me tomorrow morning, I’ll try and fill you in on the entire case.”
“At the same coffee shop?”
“That would be fine. How early can you be there?”
“I’ll be there at nine—if you will.”
As she faced a sleepless night, it occurred again to Helene that this was the first thing she’d ever done that she couldn’t tell Jake about….
“All right,” Vivian Conover said, “what are we going to do when the police come?”
“There won’t be any police, sweet.”
“When they find the thief who got into that room—”
“They won’t. There was nothing there of value except your watch. Those trial tapes were worthless. Why did you take the watch off?”
“It was chafing my wrist. You left the door unlocked. In fact, we didn’t have to be there in the first place.”
“I wanted to put Barnhall under observation.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“I wanted to check his effectiveness first hand. He’s been around a long time.”
“We didn’t observe much.”
“We had to clear out after the robbery. But there’s no danger. The police won’t even bother to look for the guy. And if they do, there’s no way of tracing him to us.”
“It was still a useless risk.”
“Not entirely. I heard and saw enough to convince myself Barnhall is every bit as good as he claims.”
“I hope so.”
“I’ll buy you a new watch. One with twice as many diamonds. Does that make you happy?”
“You seem to forget my initials were on that watch. And those tapes might make somebody curious.”
“What good would they be to a sneak thief? He’s probably thrown them a
way by now.”
“You’re so very certain it was a sneak thief?”
“Who else?”
The conversation was taking place in Vivian Conover’s room at the Craymore, between Vivian and a handsome, foreign-looking young man who had several names, but at the moment was using André DuBois. They were both wearing the same pajamas, Vivian the top and Du Bois the bottom. But if there had been love, it was now over. André DuBois sat cross-legged on the bed while Vivian paced the floor, her slim, lovely legs moving in quick, short steps.
“I don’t like it,” Vivian said. “And I’m beginning to not like it more and more.”
André DuBois regarded her with quizzical amusement. His was the look of a person very sure of himself. “Exactly what don’t you like, angel?”
“None of it.”
“Then let’s take it bit by bit. First, of course, you understand why I can’t appear in the picture—ah, officially?”
Vivian almost said, “Of course. So if things go wrong, you can disappear and save your own skin more easily.” But she didn’t, because a woman in love hates to admit even to herself that the man who enthralls her is a heel.
She said, “Yes, I understand that.”
He watched her legs flash back and forth, and as she passed close to the bed, he reached out and seized her wrist. She resisted, pulling away from him until he jerked violently and brought her down beside him.
“Don’t be difficult,” he murmured.
“This isn’t the time!”
She continued to struggle until he locked her arms into helplessness. When she became quiet, he smiled in satisfaction and made an amused face at her, as though he were dealing with a rebellious child. He kissed her lightly.
“Hi, pet.”
It was obvious that he was “handling” her; getting her back under control with a most dependable weapon—himself. Vivian had proved her inability to resist him even though she rebelled at times. He ran his hands down her smooth body with a practiced skill. Her resistance was gone.
“You—bastard.” Her tone was one of hopelessness.
“Now—now, darling,” he mocked. “You should be a realist. You should know you can’t love without hating. The two go together.”
“Your philosophy is as phony as your French accent.”
“But I should be admired for both because I acquired them without help. While other children were being loved and cherished, I ran the streets. While other young people were being tutored and educated, I was attending the school of experience.”
“Oh, stop it!” Vivian writhed. “And stop—that.”
But he had no intention of exciting her and allowing things to develop into the frantic twistings and writhings and passionate curses that marked the intimate moments of their relationship. There was no time.
He marveled, however, at the hidden depths in Vivian that these moments revealed. She was a nice girl—good background, the best schools, fine home. Where, then, had she learned that gutter language? How had she managed to perfect the love techniques that for sheer inventiveness would have embarrassed De Sade and would definitely have forced Kinsey to add a chapter to his book?
“Relax, pet,” he murmured, and kissed her lightly. It fed his ego to realize that he inspired Vivian to those heights. It also bemused him to see a com petent, otherwise completely self-possessed young woman go so violently animal in his arms.
But where Vivian lost her self-possession, he never lost his. She was, for him, a means to an end and he never allowed this fact to become obscured.
“You realize, pet, that everything I’m doing is for us.”
“It had better be,” Vivian whispered. “But it’s gotten so—so complicated—and so brutal.”
“Life is brutal, dearest. We must meet it on its own terms. But you’re wrong about the other. It’s a very simple, foolproof plan.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s the most complicated thing I ever heard of.”
“Complication is a comparative term. Simple arithmetic is complicated for a schoolchild. On the other hand, nuclear physics doesn’t confuse—”
She brushed his cheek as though he were something she feared to lose. But still, there was contempt in her voice. “Modesty was never one of your virtues.”
He returned the mockery with a lazy smile. “Dream child, modesty is weakness, not virtue. A man should know himself and measure his talents carefully. Being modest about them is stupid.”
“Your talent is using people.”
“Inspiring people. I have vision. I take advantage of opportunities when they are presented. Did I not visualize the value to us of your friend Helene Justus? Did I not see her as a tool from those restless letters she wrote you? Was it not through me that you advised and guided her—sent her to Barn-hall?”
Lying relaxed and physically content in his arms, Vivian said. “That was where you began getting dangerously complicated. And I think you did it purposely. Things were too simple for you as they stood. You like complication—danger. I’ve never been convinced that we need Helene at all.”
He sighed patiently. “Angel, we had hit a stone wall. Marcus refused to bring the plans out of the laboratory. He is a coward. He was perfectly willing to handle the inside details, but he would not risk bringing them out through government security. Don’t you understand that? We had to furnish him with a patsy.”
“Then you should have concentrated on Marcus. You’re so sure of your persuasive powers—”
His anger broke through. His fingers tightened and squeezed and Vivian’s hips jerked upward as she yipped in pain. “How could I do that, you little idiot!” he hissed. “I don’t know who Marcus is. He’s hiding under that code name.” His control was slipping, the urge to lash out coming strong.
Vivian was jabbing him in the weak spot she had found and which she dug on occasion. He needed praise. Always, he had to be patted on the head and admired. If he did not get this praise—if she went too far—he was likely to channel his frustrations into abuse. A situation of that sort had brought about the greatest crisis in their relationship. He fancied himself a playwright, and back in the Village, one of his things had been done off-Broadway. Criticism had been sharp, and when Vivian sided with the detractors he turned on her with fists and feet and reduced her to naked, sobbing surrender there in the deserted theater on the empty stage.
“… Then you did like it, my pet?”
“Oh, yes—yes! It was wonderful! …”
The beating had coincided with Helene’s arrival in New York. He’d abused Vivian with careful afore—thought—no bruises below mid-thigh or above her breasts—specializing in retching belly-blows. So Helene had seen no marks of the abuse.
The beating had served two purposes, both to his advantage. He had vented his frustrations and proven to Vivian that she could not get along without him under any conditions. After thus being outraged, she’d crawled back.
“You’re a masochist,” he had accused contemptuously.
And she had not denied it.
This self-admitted psychosis was probably the reason for her later baitings. There was a thrill in skirting danger; in coming close to his violence and avoiding it by a hair’s breadth.
Vivian had puzzled over this weakness in herself. What confused her was the fact that beatings were attractive only from one man. As a true masochist, she should have welcomed pain from any source. But only his fists fascinated her. She described it to herself as masochism in a very specialized form and let it go at that, telling herself, for lack of more solid words of comfort, I’m completely normal in other ways….
“You’re being purposely dense,” he now accused. “You know this thing must be done on their terms. They are all timid little worms. They can only be approached through their greed. They want the money but they also wish to take no risks whatever. That was why I had to devise this plan.”
“Helene Justus is the one who stands to lose! Helene is my friend! I’ve betrayed her!”
/>
His fingers squeezed again, deep now in tender flesh. Vivian quivered, afraid to fight, or perhaps not really wanting to.
“She loses nothing! She will not even know she has been used.”
“Then why was it necessary for Barnhall to put her under control?”
“You’re being deliberately stupid. You know she must be under hypnotic control or she wouldn’t obey orders.”
“But suppose she hadn’t taken my suggestion to go to Barnhall in the first place?”
He hissed, but maintained control. “But she did. If she hadn’t, I would have found some alternative.”
“I’m sure you would. But can we be sure of Barnhall? Your opinion of his talents may be exaggerated.”
“We have proof to the contrary, haven’t we?”
“Not proof that satisfies me.”
“You coded her over the phone, didn’t you? She put the yellow ribbon in her hair and responded to the key word. Barnhall said she arrived at his office with the ribbon in her hair and a bag of confetti.”
“We have only his word for that.”
“Of course, but I didn’t tell him when we would make the test. Besides, when she came here did she ask you anything about your fictitious wedding plans?”
“No, but—oh, I suppose it will work out all right. How long must it go on?”
“Marcus has promised to make his move within ten days.”
“And we have to accept that?”
“He’ll alert us. He wants the money as badly as we do.”
“I wonder what his real name is?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Vivian frowned as she absently caressed the hand that lay poised to abuse her. “Another thing that confuses me—”
“I’ve had about enough,” he whispered ominously.
“But I’m still confused. An operation of this sort, with the fabulous payoff involved, should attract professionals. And we aren’t professionals. We’re rank amateurs beside the experienced agents who would take any sort of risk for that money.”
That should have brought grinding pressure from his fingers. Vivian had tensed herself for it. But instead he laughed.
