by Craig Rice
Still thinking, Malone dressed and went down to the lobby. It wasn’t much. The Wells Hotel rented its ground floor out to sick little businesses that hadn’t qualified for Blue Cross, so the lobby was a narrow hallway leading to the elevator with the desk in a niche near the entrance. There was a chair where Harry sat. Harry was older than eternal hope, and when a call for service came, he creaked to the coffee shop down the street or the newsstand on the corner and brought what was wanted. Otherwise, he sat.
He was sitting when Malone arrived. Malone asked, “How goes it, Harry?”
The ancient bellman raised a watery eye. “I brung your coffee.”
“Uh-huh. It was good. How are things?”
“And your paper.”
“Sure.”
“You wuz in the bathroom.”
“Oh, sure.” Malone put a quarter in the withered palm that just happened to be upturned on a knobby old knee.
“How’re things?”
“Okay.”
“No trouble around here last night?”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It seemed to me I heard sirens. But maybe I dreamed it.”
“No sireens. The cops come, though.”
“Yeah? What for?”
“I dunno. False alarm, I guess. Maybe some guys fighting in the alley or something.”
“Nobody hurt? Nobody killed?”
“Uh-uh. I got up when I heard the noise and put my pants on and when I got out there two prowl cars full of bulls was futzing around. But they didn’t find nothing.”
“Hmmm. Well, take it easy.”
“I brung your coffee,” Harry reminded again. But then he seemed to notice the quarter in his hand and decided that Malone must have put it there because it hadn’t been there before, and went back to sleep.
Malone turned right in front of the hotel and went back along the building. He stopped at the mouth of the alley. He found nothing. He hadn’t really expected anything, had only vaguely hoped for a little spot of blood under the street lamp. It wasn’t there, but there was really no reason that it should be. A single bullet in the heart wouldn’t bleed much.
Malone walked on, considering the situation. Only one thing could have happened; at least only one thing he could think of. The guy hadn’t been dead. He’d gotten up and scrammed out of there ahead of the cops.
But damn it—he had been dead! Malone knew death, even when he saw it under a street lamp after midnight. The thud of the slug. The way the guy went down. The way he didn’t move.
He could conceivably have been only badly wounded. But in that case he would have needed help. Had there been others hiding in the alley?
Trying to figure this out with the information he had was a waste of Malone’s time. His brains, at this point, could be put to better use. They could be occupying themselves with the problem of Malone’s survival. There was no reason to believe that Cats Gavin would stop at one unsuccessful try. It behooved Malone to plot some counter-moves—and fast.
He plotted over ham and eggs in a joint on Lake Street. He planned to see von Flanagan in the not too distant future. Maybe he should find von Flanagan right away and blow the whistle on Cats. That would at least steer von Flanagan in the right direction if Malone turned up dead in Lake Michigan.
But another approach held greater appeal. Why not go straight to Cats? It wouldn’t do any harm. Malone finished his breakfast and called a private number on Lake Shore Drive not far from where Jake and Helene lived. A grunt of inquiry signified the phone at the other end had been picked up.
“This is John J. Malone. I want to talk to Gavin.”
“Go - - - - yourself, shyster.”
Unperturbed, Malone said, “Gavin’ll want to know what I’ve got to tell him.”
Another grunt and silence until a new voice came on. “What do you want, Malone?”
“I want to see you. We’ve got something to talk over.”
“Sure. Come on up.”
“Like hell! I’ll meet you at the northwest corner of State and Randolph at high noon.”
There was silence while Cats considered this. “Okay.”
Malone was surprised. The meeting would have been a good opportunity for Cats to line Malone up for somebody’s gun-sights, but not at State and Randolph at high noon. In the old days, Capone, or McGurn, or the O’Donnels might have taken a chance like that—run a sedan alongside after instructing the triggermen to keep the slaughter of innocent bystanders as low as possible. But not in the enlightened mid-Fifties. And certainly not Cats Gavin. He had higher-ups to account to, and they took a dim view of crude work.
“It’s okay, then?” Malone asked.
“Sure, why not?” Cats could apparently not have cared less.
Malone said, “High noon.” Surprised at how things had gone, he found himself off-stage—floundering. “What I want to find out is why Toothy leveled on me last night. I didn’t know I had an enemy in town.”
Cats laughed. “I ain’t one, Malone. That’s for sure.”
“Toothy said different.”
“As a matter of fact, it was all a big mistake. You know that goon. Never got a name straight in his life.”
“Then nobody—?”
“Like I said, a mistake. We’ll talk it over.”
“Sure,” Malone said doubtfully, and hung up.
Cats hung up too, and chuckled. A real break. The shyster had set himself up. Not only that, but he was saving Cats the cost of another torpedo. Malone, not the most expensive mark in town, was still in the three-grand level. It had been in order to cut that price that Cats had gambled on Toothy. A saving of two grand. So far, Cats was out only the five hundred it had cost to get Toothy cooled off after his blunder. And now, the way things shaped up, Malone wasn’t going to cost Cats a red cent. He glanced at his watch and went to the south wall of the room where he had a very good oil painting of a naked broad. He pulled the picture aside, opened the safe behind it, and took a cigar out of a box there. A very special cigar. He put it into his jacket pocket along with those he smoked regularly, and went to keep his appointment with Malone….
Cats arrived first, a little before noon. Malone arrived shortly after, walking lightly, alertly.
Cats pushed out his hand. “Hi, Counselor.”
Malone took the hand warily. This was a trick from the old days; get the victim by his right hand and hold it so he couldn’t go for his gun while a confederate pumped him full.
But not at State and Randolph at high noon. At least Malone didn’t think so.
Cats let go of Malone’s hand after a reasonable time. “You got me all wrong, Counselor. Look—would I send a halfwit like Toothy after anybody? I mean even if I was in the business of sending somebody to see people, which I’m not, would I pick a creep like Toothy?”
“It doesn’t seem logical,” Malone admitted.
“Besides, what could I have against you?”
“I figured you were just handling the deal.”
“Not me, Counselor. I’m legitimate. I been on the level for years. Ask anybody at City Hall. Walk up to anybody and say, ‘Cats Gavin. What about him?’ And they’ll say, ‘Cats? Why, he’s been legit for years.’ That’s what they’ll say.”
“They will?” Malone asked doubtfully.
“Sure. Why, I like you, Malone. Anybody roughing you and you want ’em cooled, come see me. Like I said, I’m legit, but I still got a few connections.”
“Sure,” Malone said. He was confused. None of this made sense. If Cats was after him, he would have at least made an attempt to set this meeting up differently. But if he was not after him, why had he bothered with the meeting at all? It wasn’t Cats Gavin’s way to waste time standing on street corners with guys he wasn’t interested in.
But he certainly seemed sincere. Cats had a lot of sincerity when he wanted to turn it on, and he was turning it on now. He seized Malone’s hand and shoved a cigar into his pocket at the same time.
He put an apparent duplicate between his teeth and lit it, holding the light for Malone, who took the first cigar out of his pocket, bit off the tip, and let Cats apply the flame.
They puffed like a pair of old friends and then Cats said, “Gotta rush, Counselor. Gotta date.” He grinned and moved off toward Wabash Avenue, walking fast. Malone stood watching him. When Cats disappeared into the crowd, Malone turned and walked slowly toward his office. Maybe he had been wrong about Cats….
Malone missed the sound of the explosion because when it came, he was on the elevator in his building. He got the news half an hour later on his office radio.
The newscaster said: “Word has just been received that Frank (Cats) Gavin, reputed Syndicate overlord, has just been slain on Wabash Avenue under mysterious circumstances. Details are scanty at this time, but the rumor that a bomb was thrown seems in error because no bystanders on the crowded street were injured. Nor do shots appear to have been fired. However, Gavin’s head was mysteriously blown off. As one shaken spectator put it, ‘It was weird. The guy had a head and then he didn’t.’ Additional details will be broadcast as they are received …”
Malone pondered the situation and came to only one clear conclusion. His luck was in. He’d been marked for death and so far two men had been killed as a result, John J. Malone being neither one nor the other. This bungling did not in any way add to Chicago’s reputation for getting such things done with promptness and efficiency, but Malone was happy with the goof-up.
He knew exactly what had happened. Cats, in his effort to eliminate middlemen and save money, had gotten cute. He must have been reading detective stories or watching TV to come up with that cigar gimmick. Malone shuddered. It could so easily have worked, and he would not have relished being turned into the headless counselor. His fate had hung on so precarious a mistake as Cats handing him the wrong cigar! But now he shrugged, realizing that, historically speaking, the fate of empires had often hung on blunders no less ridiculous.
Unfortunately, his chances of finding out who had placed the contract were now infinitely more difficult with two connecting links removed. He would just have to walk softly and keep his eyes open. He took out one of his own cigars and peeled it as he considered his next move. After two long, thoughtful puffs he decided it should be a talk with a certain knob-headed public servant named von Flanagan….
Chapter Eight
She was a dish. This had been Kent Fargo’s unqualified opinion from the start, from the first moment DuBois had pointed her out across the dance floor of the Casino and said, “The tall blonde—the one with the legs.”
“A dish.”
But Fargo was cautious. He hadn’t jumped at the proposition. He’d studied Helene Justus and done a little pleasant fantasizing. But he said, “She’s married.”
“To the tall, red-headed guy … who happens to own the joint.”
“He looks tough.”
“So?”
“I don’t like husbands. In particular, I don’t like tall, red-headed, tough-looking husbands.”
“You’ll have no contact with him.”
“What if he finds out and arranges a contact?”
“He won’t. Nobody will find out.”
Fargo was slim, handsome, and attractive to women. He had matriculated in the stalking of the female and he was good at it. He had studied women as other men study mathematics, theoretical physics, and racing forms.
“Exactly what is it I’m supposed to do?”
“Hire her.”
“Okay—call her over. I’ll tell her to report for work.”
“That won’t be necessary. She’ll apply at Walden. You just have to see to it that her application is expedited.”
DuBois didn’t bother to tell Fargo how this had been arranged; that the suggestion had been made by one Dr. Barnhall, the urge to be useful skillfully planted. He didn’t tell Fargo for two reasons. First, it was none of the bastard’s business. And second, DuBois didn’t like Fargo. He had only contempt for the man. He wondered how a superficial jerk like Fargo, with only one thing on his mind, had gotten a responsible job at a vital government plant like Walden. But of course Fargo did have an impressive front, and he was not a complete fool. He could play the part of a dedicated executive if necessary, and there were no black marks against him.
“Okay,” Fargo said. “Consider her expedited. What do I do after she’s on the payroll?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean—nothing?”
“Just that. Everything else will be taken care of.”
Fargo scowled. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” The broad was a dish, but he didn’t like the secrecy. It wasn’t as though he was suffering from a poverty of women. He wasn’t. Given his head, he could walk out with any of ten chicks lapping it up in this gin mill right now. It would be simple.
But maybe that was the lure. Maybe he was tired of simple conquests. It might be fun to seduce the beautiful, blonde, loving wife of a dangerous redheaded husband. Besides, there was the money.
“I can’t figure out,” he said, “why you’re paying to get this chick into Walden.” He didn’t add that she could probably have gotten the job by simply applying for it.
But DuBois sensed this trend of his thoughts. “We just don’t want any slip-ups and we’re willing to pay you to see that there aren’t any.”
“Who is we?”
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“All right,” DuBois snapped. “Do you want to get involved?”
Fargo considered that. “No.”
As it was, he had nothing to worry about. Helene Justus was an entirely legitimate prospect as a Walden employee. He would have to do little or nothing to earn the money DuBois wanted to pay him—in cash, in unmarked bills that could not possibly be traced.
In fact, Fargo suspected that DuBois was way off base. He probably had the wrong idea of how things worked at Walden. To get the job in question, Helene Justus would not need other than semi-security clearance. The pattern of Walden was that of inside security. The top-secret area was like a fortress inside the plant. Anybody could walk into the plant itself. Even an unidentified visitor could circulate at will through seventy-five percent of the place. But no one could get into the remaining twenty-five percent without identification and clearance straight from Washington. Even Fargo did not have this top clearance because there was no need of it. He handled no top-secret material.
Maybe that was where DuBois had made his mistake, and if so, Fargo was happy to let him go on making it. As things were, there was no possible way a security break could be traced back to Fargo. So why not take the money—and a crack at that luscious blonde chick? Whatever DuBois was planning, he’d never get away with it.
“Okay,” Fargo said. “Where’s the dough?”
“Outside,” DuBois said. He’d been restless during the whole visit to the Casino. He wouldn’t have come here if this jerk hadn’t insisted on looking Helene Justus over, and even there at the remote side table, DuBois might be seen by the wrong people.
So Fargo had taken the money and been pleasantly surprised at how little he’d had to do to earn it. In fact, he’d ended up owing DuBois a debt of gratitude. If he hadn’t been alerted to Helene Justus, some other department head might have scooped her up. As it worked out, Fargo had been there waiting. He’d turned on the charm and the blonde chick had responded, even to the point of visiting Fargo’s apartment for a pre-job briefing.
Fargo had not been completely satisfied with that visit. Helene Justus had arrived on time and had given every indication of being a pushover. But then, at the last minute, she’d rebelled. Fargo had backed off or it would have been pure rape, but still, there hadn’t been enough resistance to discourage him. He’d begged forgiveness and gotten it. Obviously she had wanted only a little time and Fa
rgo was willing to give it to her. Charm and sympathy were the keys. It wasn’t difficult to see that the red-headed husband had neglected his home work.
So now Fargo had the charm turned on full blast as he began showing Helene her new duties….
And Helene appreciated Fargo’s obvious interest. She’d come to Walden that first day with a sense of dread and she was glad of someone who took a personal interest in her, even an interest as personal as that of Kent Fargo.
Under other circumstances, it would have been a pleasant experience. The Walden Chemical Laboratory was housed in a modern, one-story building covering perhaps five acres and surrounded with trees and neatly clipped lawns and flower beds. The interior was clean and the equipment of the very best. The time clerk at the employees’ entrance checked her identity card and explained, “You’ll always have to come in and leave this way in order to punch your time card, Mrs. Justus.”
“But if I forget and use the front door—?”
“You won’t get paid,” he smiled, “so I don’t think you’ll have any trouble remembering.”
Helene went through the accounting department, past the filing department, to the secretarial pool. She was met there by Kent Fargo.
“This is where we hang our hats,” he said. “Welcome aboard. That’s my office over there. This is yours.”
The pool consisted of a long corridor with cubbyholes along its entire length. Each cubbyhole housed a stenographer. There was a clatter of typewriters because the walls were only five feet high, with the top two feet made of frosted glass.
“I think you’ll be comfortable here,” Fargo said. There was a small modernistic desk, a file cabinet, a wastebasket, and a tape recorder on a small table of its own.
“It’s very nice.”
“We try to make everybody happy.” He had an attractive laugh. “You’d be surprised how hard I had to fight to get those mirrors for the girls.” He pointed to a mirror on one of the otherwise bare walls. “First there were the cost men. They complained about fitting twenty-two mirrors into the budget. Then the efficiency men had their say. The girls would spend all their time primping. But I was resolute and I won.”
