Murder Most Foul

by Robert Bloch

  “Something, but she’s over twenty-one.”

  “Not more than a couple of years over twenty-one.” His eyes darkened, and his thin mouth twisted sideways angrily. “I hate to see it happen to a pretty little twist like Fern. Not that I yearn—”

  I broke in on his nonsense rhymes: “Who’s the big boss you mentioned, the one Fern went to live with?”

  “Angel. Who else?”

  “What heaven does he inhabit?”

  “You must be new in these parts—” His eyes swiveled and focused on something over my shoulder. His mouth opened and closed.

  A grating tenor was behind me: “Got a question you want answered, bud?”

  The pianist went back to the piano as if the ugly tenor had wiped me out, annulled my very existence. I turned to its source. He was standing in a narrow doorway behind the drums, a man in his thirties with thick black curly hair and a heavy jaw blue-shadowed by a closely shaven beard. He was almost the living image of the dead man in the Cadillac. The likeness gave me a jolt. The heavy black gun in his hand gave me another.

  He came around the drums and approached me, bull-shouldered in a fuzzy tweed jacket, holding the gun in front of him like a dangerous gift. The pianist was doing wry things in quickened tempo with the dead march from Saul. A wit.

  The dead man’s almost-double waved his cruel chin and the crueler gun in unison. “Come inside, unless you’re a government man. If you are, I’ll have a look at your credentials.”

  “I’m a freelance.”

  “Inside then.”

  The muzzle of the automatic came into my solar plexus like a pointing iron finger. Obeying its injunction, I made my way between empty music stands and through the narrow door behind the drums. The iron finger, probing my back, directed me down a lightless corridor to a small square office containing a metal desk, a safe, a filing cabinet. It was windowless, lit by fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. Under their pitiless glare, the face above the gun looked more than ever like the dead man’s face. I wondered if I had been mistaken about his deadness, or if the desert heat had addled my brain.

  “I’m the manager here,” he said, standing so close that I could smell the piney stuff he used on his crisp, dark hair. “You got anything to ask about the members of the staff, you ask me.”

  “Will I get an answer?”

  “Try me, bud.”

  “The name is Archer,” I said. “I’m a private detective.”

  “Working for who?”

  “You wouldn’t be interested.”

  “I am, though, very much interested.” The gun hopped forward like a toad into my stomach again, with the weight of his shoulder behind it. “Working for who did you say?”

  I swallowed anger and nausea, estimating my chances of knocking the gun to one side and taking him bare-handed. The chances seemed pretty slim. He was heavier than I was, and held the automatic as if it had grown out of the end of his arm. You’ve seen too many movies, I told myself.

  I told him: “A motel owner on the coast. A man was shot in one of his rooms last night. I happened to check in there a few minutes later. The old boy hired me to look into the shooting.”

  “Who was it got himself ventilated?”

  “He could be your brother,” I said. “Do you have a brother?”

  He lost his color. The center of his attention shifted from the gun to my face. The gun nodded. I knocked it up and sideways with a hard left uppercut. Its discharge burned the side of my face and drilled a hole in the wall. My right sank into his neck. The gun thumped the cork floor.

  He went down but not out, his spread hand scrabbling for the gun, then closing on it. I kicked his wrist. He grunted, but wouldn’t let go of it. I threw a punch at the short hairs on the back of his neck. He took it and came up under it with the gun, shaking his head from side to side.

  “Up with the hands now,” he murmured. He was one of those men whose voices go soft and mild when they are in killing mood. He had the glassy impervious eyes of a killer. “Is Bart dead? My brother?”

  “Very dead. He was shot in the belly.”

  “Who shot him?”

  “That’s the question.”

  “Who shot him?” he said in a quite white-faced rage. The single eye of the gun stared emptily at my midriff. “It could happen to you, bud, here and now.”

  “A woman was with him. She took a quick powder after it happened.”

  “I heard you say a name to Alfie, the piano-player. Was it Fern?”

  “It could have been.”

  “What do you mean, it could have been?”

  “She was there in the room, apparently. If you can give me a description of her?”

  His hard brown eyes looked past me. “I can do better than that. There’s a picture of her on the wall behind you. Take a look at it. Keep those hands up high.”

  I shifted my feet and turned uneasily. The wall was blank. I heard him draw a breath and move, and tried to evade his blow. No use. It caught the back of my head. I pitched forward against the blank wall and slid down it into three dimensions of blankness.

  The blankness coagulated into colored shapes. The shapes were half-human and half-beast and they dissolved and reformed. A dead man with a hairy breast climbed out of a hole and doubled and quadrupled. I ran away from them through a twisting tunnel which led to an echo chamber. Under the roaring surge of the nightmare music, a rasping tenor was saying:

  “—I figure it like this. Vario’s tip was good. Bart found her in Acapulco, and he was bringing her back from there. She conned him into stopping off at this motel for the night. Bart always went for her.”

  “I didn’t know that,” a dry, old voice put in. “This is very interesting news about Bart and Fern. You should have told me before about this. Then I would not have sent him for her and this would not have happened. Would it, Gino?”

  My mind was still. partly absent, wandering underground in the echoing caves. I couldn’t recall the voices, or who they were talking about.. I had barely sense enough to keep my eyes closed and go on listening. I was lying on my back on a hard surface. The voices were above me.

  The tenor said: “You can’t blame Bartolomeo. She’s the one, the dirty treacherous lying little bitch.”

  “Calm yourself, Gino. I blame nobody. But more than ever now, we want her back, isn’t that right?”

  “I’ll kill her,” he said softly, almost wistfully.

  “Perhaps. It may not be necessary now. I dislike promiscuous killing—”

  “Since when, Angel?”

  “Don’t interrupt, it’s not polite. I learned to put first things first. Now what is the most important thing? Why did we want her back in the first place? I will tell you: to shut her mouth. The government heard she left me, they wanted her to testify about my income. We wanted to find her first and shut her mouth, isn’t that right?”

  “I know how to shut her mouth,” the younger man said very quietly.

  “First we try a better way, my way. You learn when you’re as old as I am there is a use for everything, and not to be wasteful. Not even wasteful with somebody else’s blood. She shot your brother, right? So now we have something on her, strong enough to keep her mouth shut for good. She’d get off with second degree, with what she’s got, but even that is five to ten in Tehachapi. I think all I need to do is tell her that. First we have to find her, eh?”

  “I’ll find her. Bart didn’t have any trouble finding her.”

  “With Vario’s tip to help him, no. But I think I’ll keep you here with me, Gino. You’re too hot-blooded, you and your brother both. I want her alive. Then I can talk to her, and then we’ll see.”

  “You’re going soft in your old age, Angel.”

  “Am I?” There was a light slapping sound of a blow on flesh. “I have killed many men, for good reasons. So I think you will take that back.”

  “I take it back.”

  “And call me Mr. Funk. If I am so old, you will treat my gray hairs with respect
. Call me Mr. Funk.”

  “Mr. Funk.”

  “All right, your friend here, does he know where Fern is?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Mr. Funk.”

  “Mr. Funk.” Gino’s voice was a whining snarl. “I think he’s coming to. His eyelids fluttered.”

  The toe of a shoe prodded my side. Somebody slapped my face a number of times. I opened my eyes and sat up. The back of my head was throbbing like an engine fueled by pain. Gino rose from a squatting position and stood over me.

  “Stand up.”

  I rose shakily to my feet. I was in a stone-walled room with a high beamed ceiling, sparsely furnished with stiff old black oak chairs and tables. The room and the furniture seemed to have been built for a race of giants.

  The man behind Gino was small and old and weary. He might have been an unsuccessful grocer or a superannuated barkeep who had come to California for his health. Clearly his health was poor. Even in the stifling heat he looked pale and chilly, as if he had caught chronic death from one of his victims. He moved closer to me, his legs shuffling feebly in wrinkled blue trousers that bagged at the knees. His shrunken torso was swathed in a heavy blue turtleneck sweater. He had two days’ beard on his chin, like moth-eaten gray plush.

  “Gino informs me that you are investigating a shooting.” His accent was Middle-European and very faint, as if he had forgotten his origins. “Where did this happen, exactly?’’

  “I don’t think I’ll tell you that. You can read it in the papers tomorrow night if you’re interested.”

  “I am not prepared to wait. I am impatient. Do you know where Fern is?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I did.”

  “But you know where she was last night.”

  “I couldn’t be sure.”

  “Tell me anyway, to the best of your knowledge.”

  “I don’t think I will.”

  “He doesn’t think he will,” the old man said to Gino.

  “I think you better let me out of here. Kidnapping is a tough rap. You don ’t want to die in the pen.”

  He smiled at me, with a tolerance more terrible than anger. His eyes were like thin stab-wounds filled with watery blood. Shuffling unhurriedly to the head of the mahogany table behind him, he pressed a spot in the rug with the toe of one felt slipper.

  Two men in blue serge suits entered the room and stepped toward me briskly. They belonged to the race of giants it had been built for.

  Gino moved behind me and reached to pin my arms. I pivoted, landed one short punch, and took a very hard counter below the belt. Something behind me slammed my kidneys with the heft of a trailer truck bumper. I turned on weakening legs and caught a chin with my elbow. Gino’s fist, or one of the beams from the ceiling, landed on my neck. My head rang like a gong. Under its clangor, Angel was saying pleasantly:

  “Where was Fem last night?”

  I didn’t say.

  The men in blue serge held me upright by the arms while Gino used my head as a punching bag. I rolled with his lefts and rights as well as I could, but his timing improved and mine deteriorated. His face wavered and receded. At intervals, Angel inquired politely if I was willing to assist him now. I asked myself confusedly in the hail of fists what I was holding out for or who I was protecting. Probably I was holding out for myself. It seemed important to me not to give in to violence. But my identity was dissolving and receding like the face in front of me.

  I concentrated on hating Gino’s face. That kept it clear and steady for a while: a stupid, square-jawed face barred by a single black brow, two close-set brown eyes staring glassily. His fists continued to rock me like an air-hammer.

  Finally Angel placed a clawed hand on his shoulder, and nodded to my handlers. They deposited me in a chair. It swung on an invisible wire from the ceiling in great circles. It swung out wide over the desert, across a bleak horizon, into darkness.

  I came to, cursing. Gino was standing over me again. There was an empty water glass in his hand, and my face was dripping. Angel spoke up beside him, with a trace of irritation in his voice:

  “You stand up good under punishment. Why go to all the trouble, though? I want a little information, that is all. My friend, my little girl-friend, ran away. I’m impatient to get her back.”

  “You’re going about it the wrong way.”

  Gino leaned close, and laughed harshly. He shattered the glass on the arm of my chair, held the jagged base up to my eyes. Fear ran through me, cold and light in my veins. My eyes were my connection with everything. Blindness would be the end of me. I closed my eyes, shutting out the cruel edges of the broken thing in his hand.

  “Nix, Gino,” the old man said. “I have a better idea, as usual. There is heat on, remember.”

  They retreated to the far side of the table and conferred there in low voices. The young man left the room. The old man came back to me. His storm troopers stood one on each side of me, looking down at him in ignorant awe.

  “What is your name, young fellow?”

  I told him. My mouth was puffed and lisping, tongue tangled in ropes of blood.

  “I like a young fellow who can take it, Mr. Archer. You say that you’re a detective. You find people for a living, is that right?”

  “I have a client,” I said.

  “Now you have another. Whoever he is, I can buy and sell him, believe me. Fifty times over.” His thin, blue hands scoured each other. They made a sound like two dry sticks rubbing together on a dead tree.

  “Narcotics?” I said. “Are you the wheel in the heroin racket? I’ve heard of you.”

  His watery eyes veiled themselves like a bird’s. “Now don’t ask foolish questions, or I will lose my respect for you entirely.”

  “That would break my heart.”

  “Then comfort yourself with this.” He brought an old-fashioned purse out of his hip pocket, abstracted a crumpled bill and smoothed it out on my knee. It was a five-hundred-dollar bill.

  “This girl of mine you are going to find for me, she is young and foolish. I am old and foolish, to have trusted her. No matter. Find her for me and bring her back, and I will give you another bill like this one. Take it.”

  “Take it,” one of my guards repeated. “Mr. Funk said for you to take it.”

  I took it. “You’re wasting your money. I don’t even know what she looks like. I don’t know anything about her.”

  “Gino is bringing a picture. He came across her last fall at a recording studio in Hollywood where Alfie had a date. He gave her an audition and took her on at the club, more for her looks than for the talent she had. As a singer she flopped. But she is a pretty little thing, about five foot four, nice figure, dark brown hair, big hazel eyes. I found a use for her.” Lechery flickered briefly in his eyes and went out.

  “You find a use for everything.”

  “That is good economics. I often think if I wasn’t what I am, I would make a good economist. Nothing would go to waste.” He paused and dragged his dying old mind back to the subject: “She was here for a couple of months, then she ran out on me, silly girl. I heard last week that she was in Acapulco, and the federal grand jury was going to subpoena her. I have tax troubles, Mr. Archer, all my life I have tax troubles. Unfortunately I let Fern help with my books a little bit. She could do me great harm. So I sent Bart to Mexico to bring her back. But I meant no harm to her. I still intend her no harm, even now. A little talk, a little realistic discussion with Fem, that is all that will be necessary. So even the shooting of my good friend Bart serves its purpose. Where did it happen, by the way?”

  The question flicked out like a hook on the end of a long line.

  “In San Diego,” I said, “at a place near the airport: the Mission Motel.”

  He smiled paternally. “Now you are showing good sense.”

  Gino came back with a silver-framed photograph in his hand. He handed it to Angel, who passed it on to me.

  It was a studio portrait, of the kind intended for
publicity cheesecake. On a black velvet divan, against an artificial night sky, a young woman reclined in a gossamer robe that was split to show one bent leg. Shadows accentuated the lines of her body and the fine bones in her face. Under the heavy makeup which widened the mouth and darkened the half-closed eyes, I recognized Ella Salanda. The picture was signed in white, in the lower right-hand corner: “To my Angel, with all my love, Fern.”

  A sickness assailed me, worse than the sickness induced by Gino’s fists. Angel breathed into my face: “Fern Dee is a stage name. Her real name I never learned. She told me one time that if her family knew where she was, they would die of shame.” He chuckled drily. “She will not want them to know that she killed a man.”

  I drew away from his charnel-house breath. My guards escorted me out. Gino started to follow, but Angel called him back.

  “Don’t wait to hear from me,” the old man said after me. “I expect to hear from you.”

  The building we walked out of stood on a rise in the open desert. It was huge and turreted, like somebody’s idea of a castle in Spain. The last rays of the sun washed its wall in purple light and cast long shadows across its barren acreage. It was surrounded by a ten-foot hurricane fence topped with three strands of barbed wire.

  Palm Springs was a clutter of white stones in the distance, diamonded by an occasional light. The dull red sun was balanced like a glowing cigar-butt on the rim of the hills above the town. A man with a bulky shoulder harness under his brown suede windbreaker drove me toward it. The sun fell out of sight, and darkness gathered like an impalpable ash on the desert, like a column of blue-gray smoke towering into the sky.

  The sky was blue-black and swarming with stars when I got back to Emerald Bay. A black Cadillac had followed me out of Palm Springs. I lost it in the winding streets of Pasadena. So far as I could see, I had lost it for good.

  The neon Mexican lay peaceful under the stars. A smaller sign at his feet asserted that there was No Vacancy. The lights in the long low stucco buildings behind him shone brightly. The office door was open behind a screen, throwing a barred rectangle of light on the gravel. I stepped into it, and froze.