by P. N. Elrod
I love you—B
I read the note several more times, folded it carefully, and realized I didn’t have a pocket to put it in. Standing, I kicked the rug back into place and picked up the sack of earth, carrying it into Bobbi’s bedroom. My clothes were hanging neat in her closet, looking sternly out of place amid the feminine froth. I put the sack in the back corner where she usually kept it, found a towel, showered, and shaved. My neck was healed up.
There was fresh underwear and clean shirts in a bureau drawer she’d set aside for me, so I was soon ready for another night out. All I needed was a date. I called the club but Bobbi was already backstage busy preparing for the show. Fine, I’d catch up with her shortly. A call home went unanswered. On the slim chance Escott might be there on a Sunday, I tried the office. Nothing. Answering service. No message from him but they had one from Mary Sommerfeld. She said Jason McCallen had broken into her house that day, could Mr. Escott please, please help? She’d called several times in the last couple hours.
She must be scared as hell. As Mr. Escott seemed to be missing, it would be up to me to do something about the crisis. I grabbed my hat and coat and slammed out the door.
6
FORTUNATELY, I remembered how to get to her Swiss-chalet house. When I pulled into the street I saw that all its lights were on. Her form was clearly silhouetted in one window as she peered out, probably drawn by the sound of my car door slamming. Coming up the walk, I loudly whistled “Shanghai Lil” and called hello before stepping onto the porch, having not forgotten that Miss Sommerfeld was bound to be very nervous and owned a .22. It’s a little bullet, but makes a mean hole.
“Mr. Fleming?” she called back. Her voice was on the high, quavery side tonight.
“I got your message and came right over.”
She hastily opened the door and hurried me in, then locked it fast behind me. The whites were showing around her eyes, and she had a small revolver in one shaking hand. “Look . . . look what he did!” She gestured at her house, pretty much beside herself with fury and fear.
It had been turned over, not as messily as some searches I’d seen, but plenty to show there had been a break-in. Her paintings hung crookedly, books leaned to and fro on shelves, newspapers and magazines were scattered, throw rugs flipped up, that sort of thing. None of the stuff was damaged, no ripped cushions, but it was enough to let Miss Sommerfeld understand about payback time for what I’d done to McCallen’s place.
“Anything taken?” I asked. “Jewelry? Artwork?”
“No, he’s not interested in those, only this.” She pointed to a familiar envelope on her coffee table. “I’ve kept it with me the whole time today when I was out.”
“Kept it? You should burn it, then he won’t have a reason to bother you.”
She looked outraged. “Burn it? I’m not burning anything. He’s not going to beat me on this.”
I went over the whole place and determined that McCallen could have used a thick piece of cellophane carding to slip the easy lock on the front door and then just walked in. Miss Sommerfeld listened carefully as I told her what kind of new locks she should get to prevent another invasion. She wrote it down. Then I tried to imitate Escott’s “tell me everything” face, made her sit, and got her talking. She’d been out all day visiting friends and had an early dinner with them. When she got back around five she found the mess.
“Escott told you to call the cops first if anything happened.”
“No. No police. I don’t want my name in the papers over this. I don’t want my family finding out.”
I couldn’t blame her; it might jeopardize her engagement plans with that prince. “So you called Escott?” I prompted.
“I tried. I left messages and have been trying the other numbers since. Then I happened to look out the window around six and saw Jason’s car. He was just sitting in it, smoking and staring. When he saw that I saw him he started it up and drove off. I decided to leave the house again, but every time I got up the courage to go out, he’d come back, driving slowly up and down the block.”
“He’s trying to scare you, is all.”
“He’s making me mad. And scared. But mostly mad.”
“Probably thinks he can get back at you.”
“He wants the papers again, not revenge.” She paced once around the room, pausing to peek through the lace curtains. Apparently the street was empty of big Scottish threats.
“I think he’s after both. If you really want McCallen off your back for good, you need to burn them and send him the ashes.”
She got a stubborn cast to her face. “That’s not going to happen.”
Never argue with a client. “When do you get your locks changed?”
“The man’s coming tomorrow.”
“No good. You got a place you can go to for tonight? Someplace Jason doesn’t know about?”
“I was going to my parents’ house.”
“He’d know about that, you don’t want him calling you there. We’ll find a hotel for you. You got cash for it on hand? Good. Pack what you need and I’ll get you out.”
“But I don’t know—that’s so drastic.”
“Miss Sommerfeld, a man has broken into your house. Do you really want to be here if he comes back? Even with new locks, all he needs is a brick to let himself in again.”
She gulped and worked her mouth like a guppy for a moment as my words sank in, then finally nodded. “But what about tomorrow? And the next day, and after that? I can’t very well stay away forever.”
She was hinting around for the Escott Agency to do something about McCallen for her. I wasn’t so certain that intimidation was quite in Escott’s line, but I could be pretty good at it—providing the subject was sober.
“I’ll talk to my partner when he turns up. I’m sure we can work out something to discourage McCallen.”
“You’re very kind. What will it cost?”
“If there’s any charges, you can take it up with Escott. Now, is there someplace you’ve never been before?”
“Lots.”
“Someplace you never mentioned to McCallen?”
“Well, there’s—”
“No, don’t tell me.” Actually, she could tell me and it would be perfectly safe, but I thought she might enjoy the drama. “And don’t tell your family and friends, either.”
“But if they try to call or telegram me—”
“Get around that by phoning them as usual and pretend nothing’s wrong. And you call the agency at intervals to see how things are going.” Escott would love that one.
While she got packed I tried the office again, and then the house. Escott was finally home. He’d succumbed to cabin fever and gotten out to take in a movie, then visit some gymnasium for a workout.
“If you really want to build some muscles, our latest client needs some moving help,” I told him, then explained the situation.
“I’ll come right over,” he said.
“I got things under control.”
“No doubt, but one of us should stay in her house for the evening.”
He said to give him half an hour and hung up. I called the club to leave a message for Bobbi that I was working tonight and might be late. Gordy would see that she got home all right.
McCallen drove by twice more.
Miss Sommerfeld had a guest bedroom window in front that looked on the street. I turned the light off there and opened the curtains just a crack to keep watch, and occasionally wondered why she hadn’t destroyed her love letters. Either she was foolishly sentimental or maybe she was the one doing the blackmailing. That screwball thought entertained me until Escott arrived and she let him in. He was slightly informal with a golfing sweater pulled over his shirt instead of his usual coat and vest, so he must not have changed from the gym.
She’d cleaned a few things up during the wait, but there was still enough damage left for him to cluck over sympathetically. “Dear me, but this won’t do at all. I think we shall have to have a littl
e talk with Mr. McCallen.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said, catching his eye.
Escott got my meaning, grimaced, but nodded. Maybe my hypnosis was temporary, but it would last long enough to get McCallen to cool down and find some other occupation besides breaking and entering.
While Escott and Miss Sommerfeld discussed the business end of things, I went back to my post at the window. Not too very long afterward McCallen cruised by again. When his Ford rounded the corner I went out front.
“He just left. Load the car now and go. You’ve got maybe ten minutes before he comes back.”
I helped Escott play porter. For an overnight stay she had two large and remarkably heavy suitcases and carried a smaller case along with her purse. Maybe the hotel she wanted was in Europe. He assisted her into the backseat of his Nash and told her to lie down out of sight, then got behind the wheel and spun them out of there with eight and a half minutes to spare. I locked the house, for all the good it might do, and stayed outside, standing lonely under the thin shadow of a bare-branched tree, its trunk helping to conceal my still form.
McCallen pulled into the street pretty much on schedule. He slowed down as he neared the chalet, which suited me just dandy. I went invisible and shot over the pavement, aiming for his car.
Having no sight was a real disadvantage for this situation. I was aware of shapes around me, the press of the wind, and the low chugging hum of his car motor. It more or less gave me a direction to go to, and I did finally bump up against a solid, smooth-surfaced moving form. I tried to sieve through, but the metal was too dense, so I probed for cracks around the door and eventually found one.
The positioning of it seemed off to me, but I could feel McCallen start to speed things up as he passed by the house. Time to hurry. Once through the narrow crevice, I realized I’d gotten it wrong; the confined area I found myself in was too small. I’d managed to filter into the car’s trunk.
Still invisible, I poked and prodded around for some means of entry into the front. My sense of touch wasn’t the same as when I was solid. I’d not done any blind exploration in a while and was out of practice, but eventually I found a quarter-sized hole in the metal body that served. I smoked through, finding my way around the slab of backseat cushion, and finally settled like a pocket of fog on the floorboard behind the driver.
When I slowly materialized I half expected to find my hair rumpled and tie askew from all the effort, but nothing was out of place. As always, the image was strictly in my mind.
I took quick stock of my surroundings. The car was in steady motion, going at a moderate pace. McCallen wasn’t about to break any speed laws. That suited me; I didn’t want to break anything either, myself in particular.
While I kept quiet and bided my time, he made a few turns, but never stopped long enough for me to safely interrupt his driving. It’s not a good idea to surprise someone while they’re trying to steer a ton or so of car at thirty miles an hour; the property damage can be disastrous. I expected him to make some sort of a wide circle, then return to run past the house after a suitable period. Maybe he’d pull over and fill the time with a smoke. It’d be easy enough to make my move then.
Luck seemed to be with me; he made a slight turning and pulled up, but did not cut the motor. Instead he touched the horn briefly. A moment later someone opened the passenger door and climbed in and they took off again. I hunkered down even lower and let my ears flap.
“What’s the story?” asked the newcomer, a man with a soft voice, like he had a cold.
McCallen growled and grumbled with displeasure. Even those sounds seemed to have a Scottish accent. “My lady Mary’s barricaded herself in and called for help to come over. I caught a glimpse of her company. Looked like one of those gits from that so-called detective agency she hired. Couldn’t tell which one, they both have the same build.”
“Damn.”
“Damn indeed. I should have gone in sooner, but all those lights, an’ her neighbors are still up, she’d scream bloody murder.”
“What about the cops?”
“She won’t call the police if she can help it. But if I force things too much . . . ”
“You won’t be able to get it back from her.” Soft Voice sounded morose. “I just know it.”
“It’ll just take me a wee bit longer than I’d hoped.”
“Couldn’t you just write the stuff out from memory?”
“That’s next to useless, y’ daft squirrel. What good’s a copy? The original’s what we need for the job.”
“Well, it’s only because she’s not cooperating.”
“Paterno, you give me just five minutes alone with her, and I’ll have her cooperating beautifully. She’ll be begging for me to—”
“Watch out!”
McCallen hit the brakes hard and we skidded. I braced myself, but no impact came. Instead he let forth with a forceful flow of volcanic cursing at some other driver.
“Damned drunk!” he concluded, brutally shifting gears and hitting the gas as though to make up for lost time. I braced again in the small space, glumly reflecting that I wasn’t exactly getting paid for this little adventure.
“That detective she’s got, he can’t always be with her, can he?” asked the mystery man, Paterno.
“She’s got money enough to hire a dozen watchdogs twenty-four hours a day.”
“If you can’t get past them—”
“I’ll get past ’em, never you worry, and pay ’em back double. Bloody bastards, tearing through my house like it was bloody Grand Central Station.”
A gross exaggeration. I’d been very careful to put everything back again. Including the cat’s box. McCallen hadn’t been nearly so neat when he’d ransacked the Sommerfeld place.
“But when?” Paterno sounded impatient. “The people that want it won’t wait forever.”
“I said never you worry, I need their money too much to delay things. I’ll keep an eye on her, bide my time, and then as soon as she’s alone—”
“Bide your time?” Disbelief from Paterno.
“If that’s what it takes, yes, and bugger the buyers. They know how valuable the property is. They’ll wait if need be, but I promise you it won’t be long.”
“I should hope not.”
McCallen made a sharp turn, slowed, and stopped. “Come on, I’ve a bad taste in my mouth that wants changin’ for the better.”
They got out, slamming the doors, leaving me in silence except for a few cars going by. I waited a few moments, then cautiously raised my head. I saw McCallen and a smaller, thinner man walking away down the sidewalk toward a tavern. They went inside.
I let myself out for a look around, finally getting a street name and block number from the sign at the corner. The neighborhood seemed familiar, the houses at one end all having the same age and look about them. McCallen had taken us toward his home. This was probably the bar where he spent his evening hours.
If he was drinking, then giving him my special evil-eye whammy wouldn’t work. I decided to go into the bar anyway, just to try my luck. Maybe I could persuade him to step outside before he got oiled up. That would solve a lot of problems.
The street was lined with modest businesses—shoe repair, candy store, a clothing shop, and the like. The two largest were a drugstore on one corner and the bar on the opposite. All must have been there for a long, long time and verged on shabby, but weren’t mean enough to have completely toppled into decrepitude.
The red neon sign behind the tavern’s front window said MOE’S, in flowing script. I didn’t think it had anything to do with the Three Stooges. I pushed through the door. Nothing pretentious here: peanut shells on the floor, the smell of wood polish, beer, and booze. The bar ran nearly the length of the dim room, which was wider than it looked from the outside. The wall between this building and the one next door had been knocked through; tables and booths were set up in the extra open space. For a Sunday night the joint had a good crowd, mostly young twentie
s, mostly male, though some had brought dates. They all had that wholesome-but-willing-to-be-corrupted-so-long-as-their-parents-didn’t-find-out look of college students.
There was quite a knot of them gathered in one corner, where a man with a thick brush of salt-and-pepper hair perched on a tall stool and played his guitar. He was working a slow piece, crooning away in a whiskey-rough voice. No one listening to him moved a muscle.
I paused a moment. His song was about the Mississippi and lost love set to soft, evocative music that could break your heart. The words were poetry, the magical stuff that stops you in your tracks and stirs your heart until it turns inside out. I forgot all about chasing McCallen and drifted over to the crowd, easing down at an empty table on the edge of things.
My jaw was hanging by the time the man finished; he’d transfixed me so I was slow to come out of his spell and join the applause. I hadn’t heard a voice like that since my last visit to Coldfield’s place, but this guy was white. And yet it wasn’t all to do with his voice, a lot of it was the feeling he put into his song. There was something special here; I had to hear more, and to hell with the Sommerfeld case.
The singer picked things up with a faster number. He went from brokenhearted misery to triumphant satisfaction, with everyone clapping a beat out for him, then traveled back to heartache again. That’s what the blues were about, after all.
And then all too soon he was finished and passing a hat. I grabbed a business card from my wallet, scribbled a three-word message, and folded a five-dollar bill around it, dropping it in when my turn came. The other money was all quarters and dimes. The bill would get his attention.
When the hat got back to him his eyes widened with surprise, and he looked around the joint. I raised my hand slightly. He thought about it, frowning, probably measuring the five dollars against my flashy suit. I was the only one in the audience who could have given him such a huge tip. He finally nodded and set his guitar down, picking up a sturdy cane. There was something with his legs that gave him a stiff, strutlike walk as he came over to my table, and when he stood still he braced himself with the stick. He held my card and the folded bill between two fingers like a cigarette as I stood to greet him.
