Doom Service

by Dan J. Marlowe

He watched the renewed tide of color roll up from beneath the prim white blouse as without another word she opened the door, which eased back silently on its heavy hinges. He blew her a kiss from just inside as the door closed behind him. He listened to the solid-sounding chunk with which it fitted into the sill again, and he shook his head. Take a tank to breach that baby...

  He looked around expectantly at the small, brightly lighted room, which didn't have a stick of furniture in it. The walls and ceiling were a pale green, and the only break in the monotonous expanse was a single-paned opaque window high up on the opposite wall. A lookout, Johnny thought. One-way glass. His eyes were still upon it when beneath the window a door, painted the same pale green and set so flush with the wall as to seem a part of it, opened quietly, and Johnny's expectations were realized as a squat man in a dark business suit stepped through.

  “Well, well, Monk!” Johnny greeted him elaborately. “Small world, huh? You screenin' the admissions here? I always did wonder what you did for a livin', besides escortin' shysters.”

  “So now you know.” The squat man stooped swiftly and began a light-patting manual examination of Johnny's slacks and sport coat from ankles to shoulders, front and back, with particular attention to hips and armpits.

  “You think you know me that well ?” Johnny asked mildly.

  Monk didn't reply. Stepping back from Johnny, he raised his voice and addressed the window in the wall ahead of them. “No iron,” he said clearly, and motioned Johnny ahead of him. They waited at the front wall until the door silently opened inward. Electric, Johnny decided. Or electronic. From the doorway he glanced upward casually. The observation post was enclosed; the man behind the one-way glass who operated the door below upon an all-clear was not visible. And his one-way glass, Johnny realized, permitted him to see every movement in the room—except straight beneath him.

  “Let's go, Killain,” Monk said impatiently. “Third door on the right inside. Walk right in.”

  “Sure,” Johnny said soothingly. “You put everyone through this windmill?”

  “We know who to do it to.” The dark face was arrogant.

  “Is that right?” With the sound of his voice still in the air, Johnny turned slightly and hammered a solid muscle-punch to Monk's right arm. The squat man's mouth opened and closed, soundlessly; his features turned gray as he sagged against the door frame. Johnny reached quickly beneath a wide lapel, removed a snub-nosed revolver from the holster slung right-to-left across Monk's body and dropped it into his own jacket pocket.

  Monk gamely pulled himself off the door jamb as he tried to recover; he lowered his head to charge. In the split second before momentum developed Johnny reached out and took the straining neck in his right hand, fending off wild swings with his left. Monk thrashed valiantly in the constricting grip, and then Johnny's searching thumb moved over a quarter inch and found the pressure point he sought. Monk's eyes rolled up until only the whites were visible, and he slumped loosely in Johnny's grasp.

  Johnny eased him floorward quietly, listening for investigatory sounds overhead, but the little scuffle had apparently attracted no attention. He pushed the still figure back inside the bare room, and, as he had expected, when he cleared the inner side of the opened door it swung back into the wall by itself, eerily silent.

  He entered briskly through the third door on the right and realized immediately he was in Lonnie Turner's private office. The decor was impressive, lavish, lush. The carpeting was luxuriantly thick, the lighting indirect and subdued. The promoter's desk was a massive mahogany monument, the four pastel telephones neatly arranged in its center its only touch of color. The chairs scattered liberally throughout the room were overstuffed armchairs.

  Johnny eyed the huge room; despite the presence of five men in it, including himself, it by no means gave the impression of being crowded.

  From behind the big desk Lonnie Turner lifted a casual hand and pointed to a chair. He was a well-set-up individual, not quite so wide in the shoulders as the carefully tailored suit suggested. His face was healthily tanned, its apparent youthfulness belied only by the near-white hair combed straight back from his high forehead. His mouth was a thin, straight line, and a cigar stub smoldered between the clenched fingers of his beringed right hand.

  “With you in a minute, Killain,” the promoter said easily. His attention was given the man standing before his desk, a middle-aged, dapper-looking specimen with pink cheeks and rimless eyeglasses. Two men sat to the right of the big desk; both were fat—one corpulent and pasty-faced, a belly set on legs, and the other larded up over what Johnny decided had once been an athletic frame. The ex-athlete had a pepper-and-salt crew cut and protruding teeth, which gave his smile the appearance of a slightly cynical rabbit.

  In the little silence Lonnie Turner's eyes wandered back to Johnny as though conscious that he was remiss in his duties as host. “You know everyone?” He nodded across the desk. “Doc McDevitt, of the commission staff.” He flapped a hand at the cynical rabbit. “Ed Keith, of the Chronicle.” The cigar stub leveled at Pasty Face. “Al Munson, my publicist.”

  Johnny exchanged nods with the group, his gaze lingering on Al Munson as the promoter leaned forward over his desk and planted his elbows upon it firmly. “Now, Doc. You were saying—”

  “I've said it, Lonnie,” Dr. McDevitt said drily. “I'll be running along now.”

  “Just a second, Doc.” Lonnie Turner lounged back deeply in his padded chair, his hands locked idly behind his head. He looked the picture of indolent ease, but the firecracker voice spoke only in exclamation points. “You realize good matches don't grow on trees? I need Brubaker! I need him like bread!”

  The pink-cheeked man shook his head decisively. “I can't let him fight, Lonnie.”

  “Do I have to say it again, Doc? He's half of the biggest attraction I can hope to put on this winter!”

  The dapper-looking doctor removed his glasses and twirled them in his hand; he looked from the promoter to Al Munson, who looked uncomfortable. “You were listening when I told you that Brubaker had a semidetached retina?”

  “Semi, shmemi. Probably aren't three fighters in the country without semidetached retinas. Who complains? Not the fighters!”

  “Not the promoters, certainly,” Dr. McDevitt said sharply. “Perhaps I made a mistake trying to be nice and letting you know personally so that you could change your plans. I could have called Keith here and let you read it in the Chronicle, you know.”

  Al Munson was on his feet instantly. “Lonnie didn't mean it the way it sounded, Phil,” he said smoothly. “He's upset, naturally, at the idea of losing the match. He doesn't expect you to do anything you can't do. Do you, Lonnie?”

  At the pointed question the man behind the desk grunted something that might have been anything. He scowled, rubbed a hand over his chin and leveled a finger at Al Munson. “Can we get that eye certified?” he demanded.

  “It had better be by a good man,” the pink-cheeked doctor said grimly.

  “All this is off the record, Ed,” Al Munson said patiently.

  “It had damn well better be off the record!” Lonnie Turner barked nastily. “Damn it, Jake could have gotten the certification—”

  “Now that you've got everyone mad, Lonnie, how about a little sense?” Al Munson asked agreeably. He smiled placatingly at the others. “A diplomat he's not, but he doesn't mean—”

  He broke off sharply as Monk charged into the room, closely followed by a gangly, tweed-suited man with a puzzled look on his face and a hand out of sight beneath a tweedy lapel.

  At sight of Johnny in his chair the thick-set Monk changed direction in mid-stride and pulled up in front of him. “You—” he said deeply, and motioned with his head. “Outside! Move!” Dark, angry blood suffused his battered features, and the half-clenched hands at his sides trembled with rage.

  “What the hell is this?” Lonnie Turner's voice cut like the rasp of a file. “What's the matter with you, Monk?” His hard sta
re shifted to the tweed-suited man. “You, Zip! Get the hell back on the door!” Zip departed hurriedly without ever having said a word, and the promoter turned back to the furious Monk. “Well? Can you talk?”

  “He had a little accident outside just now,” Johnny interjected easily. He removed Monk's revolver from his pocket, tossed it lightly in the air, caught it by the short barrel and returned it to the pocket.

  The squat man crouched. “I'll show you, you wise—”

  “Monk!”

  The promoter's voice was a roar. “What the bell happened?”

  Unconsciously Monk's hand went to his neck. “This—this character conned me outta my gun.”

  His employer looked at him. “He conned you, Monk?”

  “So he dropped me!” Monk flared irascibly. “He couldn't do it again in a thousand years!” He whirled on Johnny. “Gimme that gun, Killain!”

  “Where I'll give it to you they'll do the extraction with forceps,” Johnny told him positively, and came up on the arms of his chair as Monk started for him.

  “Hold it!” Lonnie Turner's voice rang with authority. He looked across his desk at the dapper little doctor, who was staring at Johnny as though at some strange animal. “Doc,” the promoter said glibly, “you delivered the message to Garcia, and I thank you.” He waited.

  “Ah... yes,” Dr. McDevitt said reluctantly. He replaced the rimless glasses and examined Johnny again. “I'll be— ah—running along.” He smiled carefully. “I trust I'll not be missing anything.” At the door he turned for a final look around before departing, and when it closed after him Johnny was on his feet, watching Monk.

  “None of that in here!” the promoter ordered flatly. “You hear me, Monk?”

  “I hear you,” Monk mumbled sulkily.

  “All right, then.” Lonnie Turner's tone turned silky. “Now what's your business here, Killain, besides troublemaking?”

  Johnny's voice had a honed-down razor edge. “I want the check for the kid's end of the Williams fight.”

  “I see.” The staccato tone softened still further as the promoter leaned back in his chair and looked up at Johnny from beneath semiclosed eyelids. “That purse money could be held up.”

  “Don't give me that crap, Turner.” Johnny edged forward. “Purse money is held up when the commission acts immediately. Any investigation now will be at the criminal level.”

  Lonnie Turner nodded slowly. “Nice of you to instruct me in my business,” he said pleasantly. He slid open a desk drawer and removed a green check, which he placed face down on the side of his desk. “Gidlow had a claim against this check, of course; his estate will have it now. I believe he'd advanced Roketenetz money, also.”

  “He's got paper for it, of course,” Johnny said ironically.

  “Some transactions in this business are a little informal,” the promoter said smoothly. “Between manager and fighter.”

  “I'll personally guarantee Gidlow's estate no payoff on anything that isn't in writing,” Johnny informed him harshly.

  Lonnie Turner slid still more deeply into his chair and locked his hands behind his head. “Do I detect a note of hostility in your tone, Killain?”

  “You sure as hell do.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Ask Monk here. Ask Munson.”

  The promoter's face was bland. “I believe there was a little misunderstanding originally. It's been straightened out.”

  “Sure. I'll take that check now.”

  “You have status that would permit my turning it over to you?”

  “Oh, of course,” Johnny said cheerfully. He removed a power of attorney from his pocket and flipped it at the desk. “I had excellent instructors.”

  Lonnie Turner picked up the document and ran through it briefly. When he set it down on the desk he placed the check on top of it casually. “This is small potatoes, Killain. When Gidlow's papers are examined there could be ramifications.”

  “There'd better not be,” Johnny said steadily.

  A harsh edge crept back into the white-haired man's voice. “And what do you mean by that, exactly?”

  Johnny's temper went off-leash. “Exactly this, wise guy. Somebody put the kid in the tank on that fight. Somebody had him killed because they were afraid of his testimony in an investigation. It could have been you. I know a couple of things the police don't, yet, an' if Miss Fontaine has any trouble that I can trace back to you—like this mornin'—I'll do some talkin' in places that'll fetch you right up to the teeth of the buzz saw.”

  The man behind the desk stood up slowly, his mouth a slit, his expression withdrawn. He slammed the butt of his cigar into the wastebasket beside his desk, his cold eyes never leaving Johnny's face. “You've somehow got a completely false impression of the situation, Killain. I don't fix fights. My business is promoting them, and any loose talk about fixed fights doesn't help my business. It's just as simple as that.” He pushed the power of attorney and the check across the desk to Johnny. “I'd suggest you take this and get out of here and stop meddling in something that's none of your business.”

  “Sally Fontaine's apartment at six in the morning is your business?”

  “I've already explained that that was a mistake. A misunderstanding.” The voice deepened. “You've acquired a little dangerous knowledge, Killain. Don't abuse it. Keep your nose out of my affairs.”

  “You keep your goddam affairs outta my nose, then,” Johnny told him. He picked up the power of attorney and the check.

  Lonnie Turner's eyes narrowed. “You strike me as a pusher, Killain. You don't know when to leave well enough alone. You get in my way and I'll be right in the front row when you get it.”

  “Don't get too close to the action, pretty boy. You might get your nose caught in the flywheel.” Johnny turned leisurely to the door, his eyes on Monk, whose eyes were on the man behind the desk. Disappointed, Monk stepped aside.

  On the way through the green-walled inspection station Johnny waved to the unseen tweed suit he knew would be behind the one-way window in the wall.

  Paul held out the phone to him as Johnny swung off the elevator. “The detective—”

  “Rogers?” Johnny picked up the phone. “Yeah, Jimmy?”

  “Come on upstairs.”

  “Upstairs where, for God's sake?”

  “Gidlow's suite. In going through his papers we found a couple of bankbooks, joint accounts in the names of Gidlow and Roketenetz. One of them shows a balance of six hundred and seventy-five dollars.”

  “Well, it'll bury him, that and the check I brought back from Turner's,” Johnny said philosophically. “I don't know if he had any insurance or not. I should ask Sally, but I don't like—”

  “The second bankbook,” Detective Rogers interrupted, “shows a balance of one hundred and eighty-nine thousand dollars.”

  There was a silence. “Take another look at the decimal point, Jimmy,” Johnny said finally.

  “I've looked, four times. One hundred and eighty-nine thousand dollars.”

  “Well, what do you know?” Johnny murmured softly. “What in the hell do you know? Shove over, investigator —I'm on the way.”

  CHAPTER V

  Johnny sat alongside Detective Rogers on the luxurious divan in Jake Gidlow's suite, with Lieutenant Dameron's beet-red, silver-stubbled features studying them impassively from across the room.

  “You need a new make-up man, Joe,” Johnny informed the big man solicitously. “You're showin' your age lately.”

  “I'm off today,” the lieutenant replied. “Officially. The taxpayers be damned.” He leaned forward in his chair. “What about these bankbooks ?”

  “They're on the level?” Johnny queried, still not quite believing, and at the lieutenant's confirming nod he shook his head slowly. “Who gets the gelt?”

  Lieutenant Dameron glanced at the silent Detective Rogers. “I've made a couple of telephone calls,” the latter admitted. “The lawyers are going to make a fortune on this one. It comes down to th
e time of death of the two deceased, Gidlow and Roketenetz. The police timetable at the moment is that Gidlow died first, by roughly twelve hours. If that held up in civil court, the joint account rights revert to Roketenetz and, upon his subsequent death, to Roketenetz's heirs.”

  “Roketenetz's heirs—” Johnny echoed. So far as he knew Sally and the kid had been alone in the world, the principal reason it had hit her so hard. She'd mothered him for years. “So Sally's an heiress.” The idea took a little getting used to, he decided.

  “She could be,” Detective Rogers said cautiously. “The man I talked to, though, wouldn't say positively. He said that it primarily depends upon the established time of death, but that there are other complicating factors.”

  “Sounds like a lawyer himself,” Johnny commented. “If there weren't any, they'd contrive a few.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and looked down at his shoes thoughtfully before looking up at Lieutenant Dameron again. “Where in the hell did that kind of money come from, Joe? It wasn't the kid's. He never had but one fight grossed him twenty-five hundred, an' I doubt he netted half of that.”

  “So it was Gidlow's money, then?” Lieutenant Dameron sounded only mildly interested.

  Johnny frowned. “I never figured Jake for any kind of real money. Jake was an operator—in an' out of a dozen shady deals a week. He'd rather beat you out of a hundred than pick it up on the sidewalk. This sounds like way too much for him.” He waved a hand at the rooms about them. “An' don't let the suite fool you—I've heard Jake brag many a time that it was a tax-deductible business expense. Say, doesn't Gidlow have a wife, or some heirs of his own?”

  “No wife.” The lieutenant's tone was firm. “We've checked. He left a will, though.”

  “He did?” Johnny straightened on the divan. “Who benefits?”

  “Gentleman named Alonzo Turner. Solely.”

  Johnny whistled softly through his teeth. “Lonnie Turner! Maybe this thing begins to make a little sense, now.” He jumped up restlessly and paced the length of the room before wheeling upon the silent lieutenant. “Suppose Jake was holdin' a bunch of cash Lonnie was hidin' from the tax people?”