Convertible Hearse

by William Campbell Gault

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t think he expected one.

  My eyes were smarting now. Smog? Not in the western end of town and I’d assumed that was the way we were heading. Trying to guess the route was hopeless, I decided.

  I was expendable. They’d never dare pull this on a Department man; life wouldn’t be worth living for them, their friends or their relatives. Ten thousand trained men would be looking for them every minute of the day and night. But I was expendable. They had already violated the state’s “Little Lindbergh” law by kidnapping me. That made them eligible for the death penalty and me doubly expendable.

  So there was no point in trying to make a deal. My only hope was to try to get away at the very first slim chance I had. If I didn’t get away, the odds were strong that I’d die.

  And then I realized I’d been assuming they were going to take me somewhere, to some hide-out. But could I be sure of that? Maybe when we got far enough out into the country, the big man would simply pull the trigger of that gun he had on me. And they would dump me, right there.

  If I could only see the arm hanging over the back of the seat, and the hand holding the gun. I carefully put my hand in front of my face again, trying to move the blanket.

  And the man said, “Once more, Callahan, and you’ll never finish this ride. That’s the absolutely last warning.”

  I said, “I was trying to shift over. My hand’s asleep.”

  “Once more, and you’ve had it. Reno was a friend of mine.”

  The Imperial hummed on, her big tires singing. It was in the lap of the gods. I couldn’t make a try for freedom while we were moving; that much was certain. I had to hope we were going to some hide-out.

  Now we seemed to be climbing. My knee throbbed steadily and sweat trickled down my side and across my stomach. My mouth was full of dehydrated cotton and there was a buzzing in my ears. I began to hate them more than I feared them.

  Now we were going downhill again, a curving road, and the big tires complained on every curve. Maybe some traffic officer would see us; we must be exceeding the speed limit.

  I couldn’t rely on an outside “maybe”; my life today depended on my luck and my guts. The speed of the car diminished, we turned right and began to climb again, but for less than a block. And then it seemed we were riding across either a very bumpy dirt road or an open field. Was this the spot where the big man would pull the trigger?

  I was glad to hear him say, “Pull right into the garage. I’ll close the door and then we’ll unload him.”

  I heard the crunch of gravel under the tires and then finally the big car stopped. There was the sound of an overhead garage door closing, and the car door at my feet opened.

  “All right, Callahan, get out.”

  I rose clumsily, my muscles stiff from the cramped position they had been confined to. I put a hand on the back of the seat ahead and came out of the car slowly.

  It was a big garage, should hold half a dozen cars. There was a draped paint stall in one corner and a battery of infra-red heat lamps for drying. The banana smell of lacquer spiced the air.

  Two hard-tops, a Buick and an Olds, were the other cars in the garage. The Olds looked newly painted.

  “This way,” the big man said, gesturing with his gun.

  I followed the smaller man through what undoubtedly had been a breezeway, but was now walled shut. From here we went up one step into a huge farm kitchen and through that to the entry hall. It looked like a fairly new and very expensive house.

  Down a narrow hall, past an open bathroom door, past two closed doors, from behind one of which I could hear voices.

  At the end of the hall there was another closed door, and the little man took his gun out before opening it. Then he opened it quickly — and the big man shoved me from behind.

  There was a step down which I didn’t see. I stumbled and went down, jarring my sore knee, as the door behind me slammed shut. I heard a key turn in the lock.

  It was dim in the room. Bamboo shades covered the only windows, high windows on the wall opposite the door. It had been a den, but the only furniture was three cots and a battered dresser. Empty bookcases lined two of the walls.

  On one of the cots a man was half-asleep and groaning.

  I went over to look down at Hans Deutscher. One eye was closed and blue-black, blood was caking on his chin from his torn mouth.

  He muttered something, his good eye looking at me sickly. In the wall that held the door, I could see a small bathroom. I asked, “Some water, Hans?”

  He nodded painfully.”

  I filled a paper cup that was standing on the sink and soaked a soiled hand towel with lukewarm water.

  I put an arm behind his shoulders and lifted him up. He drank slowly and carefully, and lay back. Gently, I washed the blood from his face with the wet towel.

  He opened his mouth and the jagged edge of a broken tooth came into view. He said, “Big one is Tony Vanyo.”

  “You mean the big one that used to travel with Louis Reno?”

  He nodded.

  I said, “I’ll remember that. They were ransacking your apartment and I walked into them. Who are you working for, Hans?”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s no time to play it coy,” I said. “I’m working for Mrs. Dorothy Dunbar. Are you working for Tomsic?”

  He said nothing, staring at me with his open eye.

  “How about those windows?” I asked.

  “Look,” he said.

  I pulled a cot over to one of them and stood on the edge. I lifted the bamboo drape — and stared out into space. This house was built into the side of hill and this room of the house had been cantilevered out over the canyon.

  I stepped down again and dragged the cot over next to his. I sat on the edge and said quietly, “The time has come to determine where your best interests lie, Hans.”

  He stared at me like one of the Cyclops, big and invincible.

  “I don’t think they will let us live,” I said.

  He said softly, “What’s to be gained by killing us?”

  “I don’t know. I killed Vanyo’s partner. He reminded me of that.”

  He said nothing. He grimaced and stirred painfully.

  I asked, “Do you know where we are?”

  He moved his head from side to side.

  “Are you too weak to make a try at them, if we get the chance?”

  He nodded slowly. “Dizzy, awful dizzy. Concussion, do you think?”

  “Maybe not. Maybe just shock. What’d they beat you with?”

  “Gun. Fist. Maybe I’ll get better. Maybe I’ll get stronger.”

  “You’re still alive,” I said. “Hang onto that thought. If we don’t make the try, we won’t be alive for long. I’d make book on that, Hans.”

  “So what does it get me to tell you anything? If I live, I’ll be sorry. And if I die, I won’t be benefited.”

  “I don’t want to wave a flag at you when you’re this sick, Hans, but justice might be served if you tell me what you know.”

  The good eye closed. “Jesus Christ …! Justice, he says. When did I ever get any of that?”

  I was silent for a few seconds. Then I asked, “Is that why you were beat up? Wouldn’t you tell them anything, either?”

  “I told them lies and they found out. If you want to talk, talk about some way we can lick ‘em. Stay off the justice kick.”

  His ethics I couldn’t admire, but his guts impressed me. I looked around the room, but there was nothing even vaguely resembling a weapon.

  I went into the small bathroom and studied the faucets of the sink. They were not removable without tools. I opened the door to the shower stall.

  Nothing, and I started to close the door. And then I opened it again. The shower head was big, of heavy brass. And it was at the end of a bent pipe jutting out of the wall. The bend would give me enough leverage to unscrew pipe and head and all.

  I was about to step into the stall when I heard a key
in the lock of the other room. I stepped out quickly and went over to sit on the cot next to Hans.

  Tony Vanyo came in with the little ugly man. The little man stayed at the door, his gun out, while Vanyo walked over to us.

  Hans said, “Hello, Tony. Going to release us now?”

  It was his way of telling me this was Vanyo.

  Vanyo looked down at him without pity. “I think you’re going to need medical attention. It’s likely you’ve got a concussion. You aren’t going to get any medical attention unless you start leveling.”

  “And he isn’t going to get any if he does level,” I said.

  Vanyo turned to look at me, and then the back of his hand swung almost casually around and caught me in the mouth. I tasted blood and hate and the impulse to strike back surged in me until I thought it was going to blow off the top of my head.

  I sat there, making no move.

  He said, “You’ll talk when spoken to. I’ve no reason to treat you easy.”

  I licked the torn inside of my lip and said nothing.

  Vanyo nodded toward the third cot. “Sit over there.”

  I went over to sit on the couch. He took out his gun, a service automatic, and held it loosely in his right hand. “Now, Callahan, we warned you right from the first. But your damned nose is too big and you’re in a real bad spot. We’re not going to kill you unless we get word to. So maybe you still got a chance, if you coöperate.”

  I said nothing, waiting, trying not to look at him. From his cot Hans groaned. At the door the little man swung a brief glance that way and then looked back at us.

  Vanyo asked, “Who are you working for?”

  “Mrs. Dorothy Dunbar, Leo’s first wife.”

  “And who is the stoolie you got your names from?”

  I thought of Mavis and of Mary Macarty. I said, “Leo Dunbar. He got suspicious of Tomsic a week ago, and put me on him. At least he claimed to get suspicious. The way it looks now, I was being played for a patsy, wasn’t I?”

  The gun came around as casually as the back of his hand had. The heft of it caught me on the cheek and temple and I went over sideways on the cot. Pain moved from the left eye to the right and my stomach threw up something bitter.

  “We’ll start over again,” he said calmly. “We know you came in there with your girl to buy a car.”

  “That was Leo’s idea. I was also working for the Better Business Bureau, if you want to know. Look at my records; everything’s there.”

  “We’re getting ‘em,” he said. “How about this Macarty broad?”

  “If she knows anything, she didn’t tell it to me. She was threatened and I told the police that and they put a twenty-four-hour watch on her place.”

  “Don’t lie. You soft on her, Callahan?”

  “No. I have a friend she used to work for, the girl who bought the Cadillac. They’re both decorators.”

  From the doorway, the little man said, “That checks out. They are both decorators.”

  So Jan too had been under observation. I felt cold and hopeless.

  Then Vanyo asked casually, “Where’d you go last night? We lost you between eight and ten.”

  “I went to see a man in Beverly Hills. Tomsic called me and told me to meet him at a certain address. When I got there, it was the home of a perfectly innocent citizen and he couldn’t figure why Tomsic had used that address. Though he admitted he used to know him in Pasadena. He knew the Dunbars, too.”

  Vanyo said steadily. “Tomsic never called you. He called that Macarty broad, but he never called you. Should I hit you again, or do you want to start over?”

  I met his gaze candidly. “Somebody phoned and said he was Tomsic.”

  The gun started toward me and I ducked away from it — and his left hand smashed into my mouth.

  I licked the blood and asked quietly, “Getting your kicks? You freaks should try the normal sex outlets some time.”

  “You …” he said harshly, and this time the gun came quicker than the eye.

  And it brought the darkness with it.

  I came to on the floor, on my back. Hans Deutscher was sitting up on the edge of his cot now, staring at me doubtfully.

  I asked him, “How long was I out?”

  “Ten minutes, twenty minutes — I don’t know. I’m feeling better. I think I can navigate.”

  Vanyo had caught me on the button with that gun. It had been a clean knockout and there were only a few rattles in my brain. I sat up, reached over and used the cot to help me to my feet.

  I said, “Keep an eye on the door. Signal, cough, if somebody comes.” I went to the bathroom and into the shower stall.

  It was easier than I’d hoped for. The pipe threading had been well greased; the whole assembly turned out in seconds. I brought it back into the other room.

  Deutscher looked at it and at me. “That — against a gun?”

  “This and the element of surprise. I figured we could open that window there, and you could be standing on the cot, looking down through it. As soon as the door opens, you pretend you’re talking to me down below. What are they going to think?”

  “They’re not going to think you went out that way. That’s too much of a drop and they know it.”

  “If they stopped to think, maybe. But as soon as the door opens, they see you and the open window. Maybe they won’t stop to think. And when the first one rushes through …” I lifted the shower head high. “… kerplunk!”

  “And what does the second one do?”

  “He goes for his gun. But the first man has dropped his by this time. And we’ve got it.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “And maybe only one will come, next time.”

  Deutscher said, “You overlooked one thing. I’ll bet there’s more than those two in the house. I heard voices before, when they were gone.”

  “So did I,” I said. “Hans, the question is simple. Would you rather be alive, with a gun in your hand, or weaponless and dead? The way I see it, it’s one or the other. And if you’ve got a better plan, I’m waiting to hear it.”

  “I had a plan, but maybe not as good. I figured we could drop a burning piece of paper out that window. The hills are dry, and this whole damned area would be in flames in minutes.”

  “That brings the fire department, if it works. But it doesn’t bring them into the house here.”

  He nodded. “I know. That’s the part I was trying to think through. But we couldn’t attract their attention, could we? Maybe we wouldn’t even be alive.”

  “I think my plan is better,” I said, “but I’ll submit to your vote.”

  He looked at the window, at the door and at the weapon in my hand. Then he said, “I vote for your plan.”

  “And which part do you want to play, the man at the window, or the man with this?”

  Again he looked at the window. “I’ll be up there.”

  “Okay. And the second the door opens, start talking. Then turn and say, ‘That crazy Callahan must have killed himself or something like that. Make it look like I’m down there, for sure.”

  He nodded, licking his torn lips.

  “And as soon as I clobber him, get the gun. That’s the big thing, understand? Get the gun! I’ll keep this pipe.”

  He nodded slowly and almost happily. “I’ll get the gun. And their blood will run. Don’t worry, I’ll get the gun.”

  He stood up shakily and rotated his big shoulders. He massaged his ribs with the flat of his hand. “I’m feeling better every second. I’m glad you came along, Callahan.”

  “Who you working for, Hans?”

  His smile was gruesome because of his torn mouth. “Justice. Their blood will run.” He dragged the cot over to one of the windows. He stood on it and opened the window and stepped down again. He looked at me in a moment of rare honesty. “One of us ought to make it. Feel lucky, Irish?”

  “Desperate,” I said, “and battered. I can’t feel beyond that.”

  “I feel lucky,” he said.

  We’d need
a lot of luck. One of us ought to make it…. He would have the gun and I’d have a piece of plumbing and he felt lucky. Why hadn’t I stayed with the Church?

  Hans walked slowly and quietly back and forth, back and forth, getting the feel of his legs again. My stomach was tight and I was sure the sound of my heartbeat could be heard in the hall.

  Then there was the grate of a footstep in the hallway and Hans looked at me, and I nodded.

  He went over to climb up on the cot as I flattened against the wall on the latch side of the doorway. The sound of the lock turning, and I held my breath.

  In a voice loud enough to be heard on the other side of the door, Hans called, “Callahan, you all right?”

  The door opened quickly, and Hans turned to face it. He read the line like an Oscar-winner: “I think that damned fool has killed himself!”

  It was the little man who came in, gun in hand. I didn’t wait to see if there was anyone behind him. Just as the little man waved the gun and said, “Get down, you …,” I swung the plumbing.

  I caught him above the left ear and he crumpled, the gun still in his hand. Blood seeped out from his torn scalp as Hans stepped down quickly and wrenched the gun from his hand.

  He’d been alone. But now a door in the hallway opened, and a short, stocky man came out of it, calling, “What the hell is going on down …”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. The gun in Hans’ hand barked and the stocky man went slamming back into the door frame.

  Hans said, “Move, damn it, go!” He shoved me.

  I’d expected him to go first; he had the gun. But it was no time for a strategy conference. I went running down the hall, the shower head heavy in my hand, my legs wobbling in the excitement.

  We got to the entry hall, and I opened the door and saw the graveled parking area and the hills all around us.

  From the direction of the garage, Vanyo came running and I saw him lift his gun. But now we were both through the door and running across the gravel, and I saw Hans turn back to throw a shot at the open doorway behind us.

  And then someone called, “Get Deutscher; he’s got the gun.”

  I turned to see Vanyo in the doorway, taking careful aim, and I saw Hans turn again and the puff of smoke from Vanyo’s gun and Hans stumbled, turned, and went down on the gravel.