He saw the would-be killer, lean and hatchet-faced, sheltering behind a fir tree. Eddie snapped a shot, winged him. The machine-gun stopped abruptly and Eddie dashed forward again, keeping under cover, moving nearer the house.
He glimpsed three G-men, flat on their stomachs, firing into a copse. A grenade landed in their midst, exploded, blew them to small shreds. Eddie saw the bomb-thrower dodge through the trees. He aimed, fired. The slug caught the killer low down, in the kidneys. The man rolled on the ground, writhing, moaning.
He heard the chief of the G-men shout:
“Get into the house! Get Shapirro!”
Eddie plunged on, recklessly. Shapirro might be getting away under cover of the gunfight. He could easily lose himself in the confusion. A barrage of lead ripped long furrows in the soft earth at Eddie’s feet. He threw himself sideways, firing back. His Luger stopped suddenly; the hammer thudding on an empty chamber. Cursing, Eddie ran for cover, shoving a new magazine in place as he ran.
Gunfire was sporadic now. The G-men had wiped out most of the opposition. They started grimly forward, determined to take the fortress. New reinforcements came out of the house.
A sharpshooter with a rifle fitted with telescopic sights shot down two G-men in cold blood before Eddie got him. Another grenade exploded, close by. The blast lifted Eddie off his feet, threw him into a bush.
He picked himself up, dazed, and went on again. Another dog hurled itself at him. Eddie dropped to one knee, steadied his hand, fired. The weight of the dead body landing on him knocked him backwards. Machine-gun fire blasted from the veranda of the house, sending G-men sprinting for cover.
Someone was moving near Eddie. Friend or Foe? He glimpsed a hatchet face, an upraised arm. The mobster snarled and leapt at Eddie, knife in hand. The steel blade glinted in the moonlight, flashed as it came down in a vicious arc. Eddie fell backwards, hitting the ground with a thud. The knife buried itself in the earth, an inch from his ear.
Eddie brought up his knee as the killer came down on top of him. He caught the hatchet man full in the stomach, winding him. Eddie threw the man away from him, brought round his Luger, blasted him with a heavy slug.
They were nearly to the house now. Eight G-men had fallen; the others pressed on, shooting their way through Shapirro’s gunmen. Eddie caught up with them, joined in the battle. The lead started flying again. Shapirro’s mob had good concealment behind the stonework of the veranda. They took advantage of it, blazing away with their tommy-guns.
The G-men were going in. They broke cover, raced across the open ground, firing continuously. Two of them dropped in their tracks. The others reached the veranda engaged the mobsters in pitched battle. The walls of the house reverberated with gunfire.
Eddie stumbled on a corpse, stopped to grab a machine-gun. He climbed on the veranda, spraying lead into the hatchet men grouped about the door of the house. They scattered. Eddie and the G-men went after them, through the wide doors, into Shapirro’s fortress.
Eddie had no time to marvel at Shapirro’s choice of interior decoration. He had an impression of black and white, sombre lighting, and a spiral staircase that swept up to a balcony. Then the lead was flying again. Blood and dead bodies covered the black and white tiles. Shapirro’s mob was desperate. They knew they’d go to the electric chair if they were taken—so they fought to a finish. Like rats cornered, they snarled and spat and shot down the G-men.
But Eddie and the G-men were not going to be stopped, not now. Guns blazing, they swept forward, shooting their way to the bottom of the stairs. The half-dozen remaining hatchet men retreated upwards, exchanging shots with the G-men below.
The G-men concentrated their fire—poured a deadly hail of lead up the staircase, driving the mobsters back. The spiral stairs were empty except for the dead. From the balcony, the last of Shapirro’s mob fired back; then he too, fled.
It was silent for a moment. Eddie raced up the stairs, lips tight, eyes cold. His gun was levelled and he was thinking of Sylvester Shapirro. Suddenly, fresh shots echoed from a room on the balcony. Eddie’s legs moved quicker. Again he remembered Carla. A burst of machine-gun fire was followed by a brief silence—then came a single shot. And silence.
Eddie pushed back the black drapes and passed through swinging glass doors to a fantastic room with black glass.
He knew, then, that he was too late.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was dark, dark and hot and stifling inside the coffin. Fortunately, King had been a tall, broad man, so Carla wasn’t cramped for space. She had room to move her legs, to wriggle into a more comfortable position.
She had no idea how long she’d been lying in the coffin in the room with black glass walls, waiting for Sylvester Shapirro to return. It seemed like hours; probably, it was only minutes.
She lifted the lid an inch and wedged the barrel of her automatic between the side of the box and the lid. It gave her a slit to watch though, let some air in. Air scented with incense. Carla watched and waited.
She heard footsteps, tensed expectantly. The glass doors swung open and Shapirro and three hatchet men came into the room. Carla didn’t move. She could have shot down Shapirro where he stood, but she didn’t want him to die that easily. She wanted to get him alone, to play with him a little before she killed him.
She hoped the hatchet men would go away soon. She knew the dope running through her veins was becoming more active, dulling her brain, reducing her steadily to the level of an automaton. She’d have to deal with Shapirro very soon, or it would be too late. She lay in the coffin, watching Shapirro through the slit she’d wedged with her gun barrel.
Shapirro was excited about something. He moved restlessly about the room, cracking his long whip, jerking his head. His mop of snow-white hair danced and his pink eyes gleamed in a strange manner. He said:
“Rufus dead! You say Carla was with him when he came through the gate? The fools! They should have known better than to let her in.”
“We’ve combed the house and gardens. There’s no trace of her anywhere.”
Carla smiled coldly and tightened her finger round the trigger of her .45. Shapirro didn’t know how close he was to death.
Shapirro said: “Turn the dogs loose. Search the gardens again. Post men at all entrances to the house. She must be found!”
Two of the hatchet men left the room. The third stayed on. Carla was tempted to shoot him, then deal with Shapirro.
She controlled her excitement, decided to wait a little longer.
Shapirro went to his desk and sat down. She could see the lines of dissipation on his chalk-white face, the pouches under his eyes. He suddenly looked very old. He was frightened. He knew he had a crazy woman in the house, a girl doped till she had only hatred and revenge left in her. And he was scared.
He whispered, and the sound crept eerily round the room, echoing from the black glass walls:
“She must be killed!”
Carla enjoyed lying there, watching him, knowing she could end his life at any second—watching him shake with fear. Fear that she was near—and out to get him. It pleased her that he knew she was so close—yet not knowing exactly how close!
Sylvester Shapirro stroked the lash of his whip and whispered: “Carla must die!”
The hatchet man glanced round the room. His sharp eyes passed over the glass walls, the transparent furniture. He ignored the coffin.…
“One thing, boss,” he said. “She ain’t in here!”
Carla amused herself by training the muzzle of her gun on Shapirro’s face, shifting it from one pink eye to the other. She could kill him any time she wanted…it was as much as she could do to stop the mad laughter bursting from her lips.
Suddenly, abruptly, there came the sound of shots. Bursts of machine-gun fire from the grounds outside. Shapirro grabbed a telephone and snapped into it:
“What’s going on out there? Have you found the girl? What…? What! The cops…!”
He listened for long seco
nds, slammed down the phone. His face was haggard when he looked at the hatchet man.
“G-men have surrounded the house. They’re attacking in force, with tommy-guns. And Eddie Gifford is with them!”
“G-men!” snarled the mobster. “Lousy—swine!”
Shapirro calmed himself.
“We’ve time to get away,” he whispered. “Go downstairs and organize the defence. The G-men must be kept out of the house till I’ve had time to arrange matters.”
His face took on a ruthless expression.
“The girls,” he said, “they can’t be allowed to live. I’ll deal with them myself. And there are papers I must burn. Tell Nansen to prepare the launch for a getaway by sea.”
The hatchet man hurried out of the room, leaving Shapirro alone—with Carla!
Carla eased up the lid of the coffin, very quietly. Shapirro had his back to her. She climbed out of the box, crept up on him, gun in hand. Eddie’s arrival with the G-men gave her the chance she’d been waiting for. Shapirro’s mob would be busy fighting—and she had the old man with white hair and pink eyes all to herself.
Shapirro pressed a button on his desk and a section of the glass wall became transparent. He stared at the lovely girls who posed for his amusement…his harem. It would be the last time he’d ever enjoy their exquisite forms, their fancy dresses. He couldn’t let them live—not now.
Carla hissed: “Move away from the desk, Shapirro—don’t touch any of those push buttons or I’ll blow your head off!”
Sylvester Shapirro turned in his seat. He saw Carla, in a skirt and sweater, glaring at him with a maniacal light in her jet-black eyes, her finger curling threateningly round the trigger of a .45 automatic. He slid out of his seat, away from the desk.
Carla laughed softly. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Shapirro shuddered. He knew enough of insanity to recognize it when he saw it. And he saw it now—staring at him out of Carla’s eyes.
“This is it, Shapirro,” she said. “The end—for you! No more doped girls to play with—I’m going to feed you to the worms!”
He backed away from her, slowly. He was ageing fast, sweating with fear. He croaked:
“Carla, my dear—my beautiful Carla—put that gun down and we’ll go away together. In my launch, far away.…”
She smiled. The sort of smile death wears.
“You forget I’m full of dope,” she said. “I wouldn’t live long…long enough to become one of your toys, then—”
“There’s an antidote,” he whispered. “I’ll give it to you. You’re too lovely to die, Carla.”
He was looking at her body, his pink eyes caressing her slender legs and tapering thighs. Even now, his mind couldn’t keep off her beauty.
“You think I’d trust you?” Carla played with him, let him hope she might fall under his spell. “After what you’ve done to me?”
The sound of gunfire was louder now. The G-men were closing in on the house. Carla wasn’t going to leave him for them to deal with. When Eddie arrived, Shapirro was going to be beyond help.
She took his whip off the desk and cracked it in the air.
“You know what I’m going to do?” she said softly. “I’m going to whip you—give you a taste of your own medicine. Only, I shan’t be playing.… I’m going to whip the life out of you!”
She lashed out, struck him across the face. The whip came away with skin on the tip.… Shapirro moaned and staggered back, holding his hands to his bleeding face. Carla slashed him again and again, striking his hands, reducing them to a pulp. His arms fell to his sides and Carla lashed his face till it was raw. Blood poured down over his white shirt, his black suit. Shapirro screamed with agony.
Carla laughed. Her peals of laughter shook the room, echoed eerily from the walls. Mad, crazy laughter of an insane person. She felt the dope course through her veins, felt hatred surge up inside her. This was the man—this…swine!—who’d filled her full of dope.
Carla wheeled towards the glass wall of the harem.
“See?” she cried. “Your lord cowers in fear! Watch him shrink from the lash—hear him scream. He’s paying for what he did to you.…”
The doped girls in ridiculous costumes stared blindly, seeing it all and not showing the slightest sign of emotion. They were past understanding. Will-less zombies who had lost even the desire for revenge.
Carla flayed Shapirro as he huddled at her feet. The lash broke through his flesh, touched a nerve. Carla concentrated on it. Again and again, the whip stung the same nerve, driving him mad with excruciating pain. Shapirro shrieked like a lost soul in hell.
Shapirro tried to crawl away from the stinging lash. Carla pursued him round the room, leaving a trail of blood across the black-and-white tiles.
“I hid in the coffin, Shapirro—you never thought of that, did you? King’s coffin! I was there all the time, waiting for you!”
Shapirro might not have heard her. He huddled in a heap on the floor, whimpering, hardly trying to keep off the cruel lash. His pink eyes were bloodshot, weeping continuous tears. His hair and face and hands were plastered with blood, stained a dark red. He lay in a pool of his own blood, staring up at Carla like a dog begging its master to stop beating it. He was no longer capable of coherent speech.
“You killed my father, you swine!” Carla grated. “The only person I cared for. He had a weak heart and you told him about me and King…murdered him with cruel words.”
She went on whipping him. Sweat poured down her face; her shoulders heaved with the effort. Her raven-black hair straggled down over her eyes—she pushed it back with the gun she still held in her other hand.
“You’ve lost your fancy ways now, haven’t you?” she jeered. “You’re not thinking of the girls in the next room now, are you? Phyllis, in her gym tunic—Iris, with her diaper! And the others.…”
Shapirro moaned with new agony. His moans turned to agonized screams as she bared a fresh nerve centre. Carla let him taste the whip again. He was dying, she knew that.
Outside, the gunfire was much closer. It sounded right outside the walls of the house, on the veranda. A grenade exploded somewhere. Carla wondered how much longer she had before Eddie arrived.
She smashed the glass wall separating the harem, and cried:
“Look at him cringe! Your lord is dying.…”
The doped girls stared helplessly, unmoving. If they knew what was happening, they didn’t show it. If they enjoyed watching Shapirro get his deserts, no one would have known from their expressionless faces. They went on posing, the way they’d been trained.
Carla paused, gasping for air. Her exertions were beginning to tire her. The dope seemed to be taking a more vicious hold on her. She felt weak. Her head swam and the grey mist started to come back. The room began to blur.
The black glass walls seemed to recede from her. She felt herself falling…there was a dark tunnel opening to engulf her. Carla clung to her hatred, dragged herself up out of the grey mist. She attacked Shapirro again.
“You killed my father,” she whispered venomously. “You murdered him!”
She said it over and over, as if she were in a trance—like the blonde who’d been in her cell at the sanatorium in Phoenix Springs. Her mind was going—snapping. She had almost exhausted her reserves of strength. The hatred that had kept her going was rapidly being used up. Shapirro was dying at her hand, before her eyes, and she no longer had an anchor to keep her in the world of the living.
Carla went after Shapirro again. He had stopped crawling now, and lay in a heap, moaning softly. He looked more like an animal than a man. His clothes were almost gone, whipped to shreds. His flesh was a raw mass of red weals. There was hardly an inch of white skin left on him; Carla’s insane laughter pealed through the room, echoed off the black glass walls. She knew she was crazy, beyond the help of any doctor. The dope had done its work too well. A white froth bubbled at her crimson lips as she lashed Shapirro. She laughed till the tears rolled down her lovely cheeks, till her
whole body shook and quivered.
The grey mist came back to engulf her. She felt herself being sucked down. This was the end—she knew it as surely as she knew she must finish Shapirro in her last few seconds of consciousness. The whip fell from her shaking hand.
She raised the automatic, aimed it unsteadily at the heap of flesh on the floor. She fired three times, reeling back as the gun exploded flame and lead in her hand. The .45 slugs tore into Shapirro’s heart and he stopped moaning, stopped writhing. Sylvester Shapirro was dead—dead as his innocent victims.
Gunfire on the balcony outside made Carla turn. She saw the glass doors swing open and the last of Shapirro’s hatchet men come in. He saw Carla, the dead body of Shapirro, and snarled. His tommy-gun sprayed lead slugs across the room.
Carla spun round as the stream of lead hit her. The bullets ripped into her dark flesh, tearing the life out of her.
She saw the figure of the hatchet man loom above her, a vague blur in the mist that darkened everything about her.
She jerked the trigger of her automatic, blasted a single shot at him. The last thing she was aware of was his falling body. Then she blacked out…knew nothing more.
Eddie Gifford came through the glass doors in a hurry. He saw Carla, sprawled under the body of the hatchet man. They were both dead. Then he saw the heap of raw flesh in the corner, and the bloody lash. He had to guess it was Sylvester Shapirro—he had to guess, even, that it had once been a man at all.
He felt sick in his stomach. Carla had got Shapirro, the way she said she would. He tried not to feel sorry for the man who had killed Martha. But, looking at the mess Carla had made of him, it was difficult.
He stood silent, looking round the fantastic room. He saw the doped girls, motionless, their faces blank. He didn’t know if they were aware that their tormentor was dead. He couldn’t face their blindly staring eyes; he looked quickly away.
Martha was avenged. All the people Shapirro had murdered were avenged. His job was over. He could walk out of the house at Montauk Point and drive back to New York. He could get drunk and try to forget this hideous room. He could try—but he knew he’d never really forget it. The scene was indelibly engraved on his mind for all time.
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