by P. N. Elrod
I couldn’t understand right away why the hell they were doing such work. Just as well my mind doesn’t go to places like that without some effort. It took a minute, but realization finally came. We were smack in the middle of winter. The ground was too hard to dig a hole for a grave, so why not use one already dug? They intended to drop Sarah’s body into a pit where it would never be found, probably filling the rest in with the broken wood. If they left the intact roof on top of the mound, people would guess what had stood there and avoid the area. Dugan or one of the others had some brains to have thought this up. No heart, but lots of brains. I felt like beating them till gray juice leaked out their ears.
Taking on two surprised men while I was this pissed off was effortless. The hard part was holding myself in check so as not to kill them. I’d spared the near rapist, Ralph; I could spare these undertakers. For what they’d planned and what they’d put Vivian and Sarah through I wanted them to live long, miserable lives in a federal lockup.
I left their unconscious bodies in the snow, returning to the house to make sure no one else lurked behind the doors. All was quiet. I checked Sarah more closely this time. She wore the same clothing from the photo, and when I happened to take a breath, it was plain she had on the same outfit as when she’d been grabbed two weeks ago. Didn’t matter to me, I only breathed regular when talking. God knows, Vivian wouldn’t care so long as her girl came home.
Sarah refused to wake. Disturbing, but perversely convenient if she slept through the trip home. Pushing her sleeves back, I found needle marks on the inside of her elbows and sniffed the bruised area. There was a taint to the bloodsmell under her skin. Morphine. Jeez, if they’d turned her into an addict . . .
Couldn’t worry about that now. Her mother was waiting. Wouldn’t you know the damn place didn’t have a phone so I could tell her to relax. The calls had to have been done from booths to make them hard to trace. Smart, smart boys.
I wrapped the blanket close around Sarah, then went out to the car. It had plenty of space once I’d thrown the junk clear. I shoved Dugan and Ralph into the trunk. Tight fit for them, they might smother or freeze, but life’s tough. After tying Ponti and Vinzer up, they got the backseat to themselves along with the suitcase of cash.
Sarah I eased onto the passenger side, where she slumped down with a sigh. Poor kid.
With no idea where I was, I started the car and followed its tracks in the frozen mud until reaching paved road. Since we’d turned right on the way in, I turned left and kept my eyes peeled for a clue to our location. The stars were out; I found Polaris and drove toward it. Soon a garishly painted road sign urged me to Phil Your Tank at Phil’s Phil-Er-Up! only half a mile ahead. At this hour the place was closed, but it had an outside booth. The phone book hanging from a chain in the glass box was a skinny volume for Lowell, Indiana. The name didn’t mean anything to me. Maybe Escott would know.
I got a handful of change ready and asked for the long-distance operator. She told me how much for three minutes. My hands were shaking. I dropped more coins than I put in. Not a lot of traffic on the lines; she got me straight through. Vivian Gladwell answered before the first ring had finished.
“Yes, yes? Where is she?” she blurted. “Please give her back!”
God, what a terrible mix of agony and hope was in her quavering voice. A big load of weight slipped from my hunched shoulders as I identified myself and delivered the good news. She let out a scream that nearly broke my eardrum, but it was one of joy, not anguish; then she started sobbing in relief. The next voice I heard was Escott’s.
“Mrs. Gladwell is rather overcome,” he stated, his British accent very pronounced. It made him sound lofty and calm, but I knew better. Inside his head he was probably grinning like a chimp. “I expect once she recovers, she will have questions.”
Anticipating what those might be, I supplied answers, which he relayed to her. Most of it was reassurance that Sarah was alive and well, what her mother needed to hear the most. Such was Vivian’s state that she forgot to ask how in hell I’d managed to pull off this stunt after being left behind in the first place. Later on I could hypnotize her into forgetting that detail completely.
The operator interrupted, wanting more money. I dropped in change.
“I’m in Lowell, Indiana,” I said to Escott. “Where is that from Chicago?”
Over the wires, paper rustled. He’d kept maps ready by the phone. “You’re about twenty miles due south of Gary, twenty-five more miles from there to the house.” He gave me highway numbers and directions to follow.
“I’ll get Sarah home as soon as I can. Have a doctor on hand; they pumped morphine in her to keep her quiet. You calling in the cops?”
“That’s up to Mrs. Gladwell. I shall recommend it, though.”
“Convince her. These bastards need locking up. Hard time.”
“I trust your judgment, old man. In the meanwhile—”
“Already on my way.”
THE reunion was a real heart-warmer. Vivian, a couple of housemaids, a medical-looking man, a nurse, and even the French poodle swooped on the car before I’d quite stopped, accompanied by tears, gushing, shouted orders, and excited barking. I carried the still-sleeping girl upstairs to her room, then got out of their way so they could take care of her.
Escott had hung clear of the circus, waiting in the entry hall for me to return and give him the details of my outing. He was a great one for self-control, but the dam finally burst. His eyes flashed a smile, and he wrung my hand and thumped my shoulder a few times.
“Bloody fine work, Jack. Bloody fine!”
“Not bad,” I said, but I couldn’t help grinning, too. It would have been good to have a drink to celebrate, which, of course, was impossible. My body refused to take in booze anymore, but old habits, customs, what have you, die hard. I settled for a cigarette. Couldn’t inhale, but it was something close to what living used to be like.
“It would be for the best if you avoided telling Mrs. Gladwell of Ralph’s carnal intentions toward her child,” he said after he heard the short version of my outing.
“No problem. He can do that himself when he and the others go before a judge, anything that might get him a long sentence. That is, if she’s willing to prosecute.”
“She is, now that Miss Gladwell is back. I’m to phone the police. I take it you intend to persuade the gang to make a full confession of their misdeeds?”
“Every last one of those bastards is in for my special evil-eye triple whammy. Once I’m done, Clarence Darrow couldn’t clear them if he brought in Jesus H. Christ as a character witness.”
Escott bounced one eyebrow. “You seem a touch peeved.”
I jerked a thumb at the stairs. “I got a sister with almost the same name. Sarah Jane. She’s older than the kid and got all her brains, but still . . .”
“Quite,” he agreed. “Thank you for saving her.”
“Anytime.” I’d saved him, too. He had very much been in over his head, had needed me and the advantage of my special condition to change the odds. He wasn’t shy about asking for help, but we both knew I was the one who made the miracles happen. There was no competition going on; neither of us was stupid enough to go down that road. Without him there would be no jobs; without me on some of them, no successful finish. We each contributed, so far as I was concerned, an equal share of effort. Corny as it sounds, what really mattered was looking out for our clients.
He fished a cigarette and lighted up, a sign of a shift in his mental gears. After inhaling a deep draught of smoke, he nodded toward the car. “Well, shall we see to it?”
“Yeah, but include me out of the official investigation.” My condition precluded all daylight activity; when the sun was up, I was literally dead to the world, meaning I could never testify in a court. Too bad, but the hypnosis would make that unnecessary.
We briefed the now-happy household to forget about me, but it was a headache-making hour before we were set to call the law. I�
��d knocked the gang out good, and it took a while to bring them around. Their collective grogginess helped shove my Svengali act on them, though. My kind of hypnosis works best when the subject is off guard and sober. Escott saw to it I had plenty of privacy to prime the boys to be chatty as parrots for their confessions. His contribution was evidence: the notes, shorthand transcriptions of each phone call, along with his exhaustive report on the whole business. He’d been waiting for my arrival to type the last of it, but legally it was thin pickings. Circumstantial, unless Sarah could identify her abductors, and any lawyer could muddy that up. The confessions were crucial.
“This is the tricky bit,” said Escott. “What made them turn themselves in?”
I’d thought that through on the long drive back. “A two-fisted Good Samaritan happened to stumble across their country hideout, caught on to their game, and tackled the gang. He slugged information about the girl from them, dropped them off here for the law, then vanished into the night. That’s the story they’ll remember. None of them got a look at me, and neither did you. You only just heard the car drive up and went outside. I kept my gloves on, no prints for the cops.”
“Most dramatic. Let’s hope the authorities don’t assume you were a member of the gang who chose to remove himself.”
“They won’t. The girl’s back, the money’s back, the bad guys are marching themselves to jail, nice, neat, tied with a bow, and you’ll be the hero of the hour.”
“I hope not.” He seemed alarmed at the prospect. Couldn’t blame him. The bulk of his trade depended on keeping his face out of the papers. His clients liked their privacy; a too easily recognized detective—or private agent—didn’t get a lot of business.
Escott would soon have his hands full, but it’d give him a chance to work off the nervous energy he’d bottled up. He was an expert at showing a poker face but couldn’t quite keep his fingers from twitching. He’d taken on a hell of a responsibility and had felt its bone-breaking weight, though he never said anything, always projecting a staid, confident front to Vivian. Once the matter was over and done, he’d probably sleep for a week.
“Eat something,” I told him by way of farewell. Don’t know if he heard me.
Like my mythical Samaritan, I faded into the night, taking a casual exit down the driveway, guiltlessly pleased to be clear of the approaching mess. I’d just left the front gate behind when a cop car zoomed past, heading for the house. More cars followed; some were police, others could only be reporters.
Blocks from the hubbub, I flagged a cab and went home. The Gladwell chauffeur was gone from his guest room by then. Escott must have told him the coast was clear. Fine with me. I don’t mind company, but I have to whammy them so they don’t think it odd about my snoozing the day through in the basement and not eating. Not a whole hell of a lot of people believed in vampires anymore, but why take chances?
After a shave and a change of clothes, I was ready to get back to my own trade, that of being a glorified, high-hatting saloonkeeper, loving every minute of it.
Time to go see Lady Crymsyn, the second most important woman in my life.
2
THE building housing my nightclub took up its own small block. Once in a while I had to remind myself that this was indeed my place. So what if the bankroll had come from stolen mob money? I’d more than earned it, washed it clean, and was an honest, taxpaying citizen, or so my accountant assured me. People treated me like I was important and called me Mr. Fleming. Stuff like that made me stand straighter to fill the role.
A wreck when I found it, but I’d turned a burned-out hulk into a palace. Since opening last summer, business had been good enough to put a down payment on the next structure over, which had been empty for years and likely to stay that way. I had that knocked flat and paved into a much-needed parking lot. The only complaint I ever got from customers was over where to leave their cars. I grumbled, on occasion, myself, but no more. The expense of the lot had been worth it the first night I glided my Buick into its own specially reserved space. So far, the satisfaction had yet to wear off. It always put me in a cheerful mood no matter what awaited inside the front door.
Tonight it was the smile of greeting from the doorman, the hatcheck girl who took my things away to the cloak room, and the bartender standing at his post behind the lobby bar. I smiled back, stepping into the tall, wide space with its polished marble floor and touches of gleaming chrome trim. On the wall opposite the entry, marking the route to the main room and stage, was the larger-than-life portrait of Lady Crymsyn herself. Deigning to smile mysteriously down at lesser mortals from her canvas perch, she was the figurehead for the club, giving customers someone to focus on that wasn’t me. A few thought she must be a real person, the true owner of the place hiding behind a stage name. There was no reason to disabuse them of the notion; it made for good business to keep them guessing. On special occasions I hired a look-alike actress to put on a red dress identical to the one in the painting and mingle with the crowds. Believers and those who knew better loved the gimmick.
The second show was nearly over; it would soon be time to close out the registers and count the receipts. When I first opened, I had an excellent general manager to sort out those important details. He left town, though, and I’d still not found quite as competent a replacement. One of the bartenders took on some of the run-of-the-mill tasks like ordering supplies, another man saw to the building maintenance, and a girl I knew who was a genius at accounting came in three times a week to keep the books straight. Still, there was always a big stack of paperwork and decisions only I could see to, which often meant scarce free time to play host, my favorite part of the job.
Real work could wait though; the band was into a hot number backing a woman’s strong voice. I passed under the portrait, going into the red velvet depths of the main room. About a quarter of the tables were occupied—busy for this late on a weeknight—and people were on the dance floor trying to keep up with the fast rhythm the drummer had set. It seemed like business as usual and felt like home sweet home. I couldn’t have pulled the smile off my face with a tow truck.
It turned into a grin (no doubt on the sappy side) when I spotted Bobbi Smythe, the number-one woman in my life. For a change she wasn’t belting out the song onstage but directing the show. Instead of a spectacular sparkly gown, she wore a plain dark suit so as not to detract from the current star. Not that she didn’t look great; in a potato sack she was a stunner. It made no difference to me. Whatever clothes she wore never failed to inspire in me an overwhelming urge to help get her out of them.
She was at the bar across the room, watching the singer and likely thinking of ways to improve the staging. Bobbi had initially begun booking acts and directing to help out at the club’s grand opening, and developed a real taste for it. Once she got herself noticed enough by the right people, she had plans to sing and act in Hollywood, though. She’d been brushing close to it for over a year now; with her talent, it was only a matter of time.
I tried never to think about that. It made my heart hurt.
She glanced toward the doorway, spotted me, and raised a hand in greeting. The way the place was laid out, everyone could see newcomers, a design I’d purposely worked into the plan of the room. Some customers were more comfortable sitting with their back to a wall, having a view of the door, so I obliged them. The booths were set out on three levels in a wide horseshoe shape marching down to the dancing and stage area. Plenty of walls to go around for everyone.
I took stairs to the topmost level, which was empty. Bobbi came up from the opposite side, meeting me in the middle for a big kiss and hug.
“You’re feisty,” she observed when she surfaced for air. “Does that mean good news?”
She knew all about the kidnap case. “The best. Over, done, happy ending.” I had a bear hug left in me yet and lifted her up, slow dancing in a circle while her heels dangled. She made an oofing sound but no other protest.
“Good, I was getting
tired of that long face you kept making.” Feet on the floor again, she drew me toward an empty booth. “Gimme.”
Okay, I was as fond of necking in the back row as any other red-blooded guy, so . . .
“Not that!” she fiercely whispered, squirming and trying not to giggle lest we upstage the singer.
“I know.” I reluctantly turned back into a gentleman again but couldn’t shake the smirk.
“Tell me what happened on the case,” she said, clarifying the vague “gimme” demand.
I told her, keeping it short, light in tone, and modestly heroic. With the danger past and the pressure off, I even felt heroic about having rescued the maiden and captured the villains. No one else would ever hear of my derring-do, but it didn’t matter, not when Bobbi looked at me like I was Galahad and Tarzan rolled into one.
“You should use that stuff for one of your stories,” she suggested when I finished.
I shrugged. “Charles seemed to think the gang saw a movie and stole the plot. It’s probably already been written into a book. Just about everything else has.”
She patted my hand sympathetically. I harbored forlorn hopes of turning myself into a fiction writer but had so far failed to sell anything or work on much lately. Maybe those years of hammering out news copy when I’d been a reporter tapped me dry. I was also damned busy running the club, and so on and so forth. One of these nights I’d get tired of hearing my own feeble excuses and get back to wordsmithery in earnest. But not tonight.
