by P. N. Elrod
“What?” he asked, when I just shook my head. “Is it the car?”
“You could say.”
“I guess that was sort of my fault. We should have taken one of Gordy’s. Tell you what, pick whatever you like, and I’ll have Derner put your name on it.”
“I don’t want one of Gordy’s cars.”
“You’re right. You should have something new.” He pulled out one of the wads he’d taken from Michael and counted off a grand in hundreds. “This should set you up.”
I took the money. The car was Kroun’s fault, and that much cold cash did ease the sting. I was still mad and shaken that he’d shot at me, though there wasn’t much I could do about it. As for what led to it…“Someone wants you dead and anyone with you. Why?”
That took his smile away.
“Nobody followed us out there. Your Mrs. Cabot called for help, and it came fast and packed grenades. Not a lot of farmers keep that kind of stuff in the toolshed. I wanna know what’s going on. Everything.”
Again, visible indecision as his mental gears spun and finally stopped. “Not now. I don’t know when, but later.”
“Why?”
“You’ll know when I tell you.”
It would be bad news, not that I expected any different, but he had a reason for having me along, and it wasn’t just so I could tell tales to Michael.
With the wind freezing my ears and the street slush soaking my already wet shoes, I was in no mood to walk. The hotel had a taxi stand. I crossed to the first cab and got in. Kroun followed, and I gave directions. We got out again behind the Nightcrawler, and I tipped well since the drive was so short.
The delivery truck and mugs who had been in the alley were gone, but other mugs stood in their place. Soon as one of them saw us, he hurried inside.
“We’re expected,” said Kroun. He ran a hand over the white patch of hair and settled his hat in place. “Dammit.”
Before we reached the back steps to the kitchen, Michael slammed the door open and came down. He was hatless, with no overcoat, evidently impatient.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. He stopped and pushed his glasses up, giving us a once-over. “And what happened?”
“You tell me.” Kroun put his hands in his pockets, apparently ready to stand outside all night and discuss it. “Where’s Broder?”
“Back at the hotel. Why?”
“You sure he’s at the hotel?”
Michael looked at me. “What’s happened?”
I shifted in my soggy shoes. My feet were damned cold. “Somebody ran us off the road, then blew up the car. Does it bother you we got clear?”
He digested the news pretty quick. Smart guy, unless he’d known already. “You think it was Broder?”
“Unless it was you.” I checked his shoes and pant cuffs—dry—but he’d had plenty of time to change from walking in knee-deep snow. “Give me proof to think otherwise.”
“You—” Michael shut himself down. “Inside. We’ll talk there.”
“Mike,” said Kroun. “Did you send Broder after us?”
He glared at me—I had the same idea, and it showed on my face—then he turned to Kroun. “No, I didn’t.”
“And you think he’s at your hotel?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Did you come after us?”
Michael shook his head. “I’ve been here all night waiting for you to turn up. Derner and half the dancers will tell you—”
“Only half?
“Never mind. Are you okay? You look like hell.”
“I’m just peachy. Word to the wise, Mike: if it was Broder, you keep him out of my way. If it was some other mutt you let loose, you keep him out of my way.”
“Are you done?” The wind was getting to Michael. He’d hunched in his suit coat, fighting off an initial bout of shivering.
“I’ll tell you when I’m done.”
“What’d the old bastard say to you?”
If the question was meant to surprise him, it didn’t. Kroun took a moment, apparently considering his answer. “Not a damn thing. He’s crazy, you know that?”
I got the sense that Michael was being careful not to look at me. He’d want to hear my version of tonight’s fun and maybe hope Kroun wouldn’t figure it out. I was tempted to vanish and let the wind carry me clear, but had a more prosaic option to take. “I’m leaving. See ya tomorrow.”
“Not yet, you stay put,” said Michael.
“I’ve punched my card for the night, I’m going home.”
“And I need to talk to Derner,” Kroun said. He stepped around Michael and went up the stairs, banging the door shut.
Michael started after him, then turned back to me. I picked up that he was worried, grimly worried.
“If you’d tell me what the problem is…” I said, slowly and calmly, though inside I was kicking myself. This was officially sticking my neck out. Or putting my foot in, I wasn’t sure.
“Whitey didn’t?”
I missed my hypnosis gag. It made many, many things a lot easier. “I think he means to.”
“What happened with the old man? You were there, right?”
Kroun had allowed me into the small room with that two-legged snake, knowing I’d talk to Michael. Maybe it was why I’d been there. “The old man’s crazy.”
“Yes. But what did he say?”
“Whitey tried to get him to talk about that cabin, going up there for the fishing. The old guy seemed to think that would be a lot of fun. The rest of the time he was cussing us out or tearing pictures of women from a newspaper.” I threw out the last bit to get Michael’s reaction.
He pulled in on himself just that much more, nothing to do with the cold.
“That’s why he’s in the booby hatch, because of how he treats women?”
He kept his gaze fixed, unreadable.
It had long past come to me that if I showed too much interest, then dire consequences could follow. It might already be too late.
He gave me a long, assessing look. “About this car trouble—what exactly happened?”
“We were taking a drive in the country…” I made out that Kroun hadn’t told me our destination, gotten us lost, and when we finally turned back to Chicago, the guy in the Caddy tried to kill us. It was a risk. If the guy was Broder, then Michael would learn his end of it and know I was lying for Kroun.
I wasn’t exactly siding with him, but I did owe him for saving Escott’s life. Besides, it might goad Michael into telling me something useful about whatever feud he had going. “If your boy Broder’s behind this—”
“He won’t be,” Michael said quickly.
“You don’t know that. He could have his own operation running, like the late, unlamented Mitchell. If that’s the case, you may need a friend.”
“You?”
“Uh-uh. Derner.” I let that sink in. “I’m just a saloonkeeper. Soon as you guys leave town, I’m going back to my bar and keeping my nose clean. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, it’s no secret. For now I’m getting out of the cold, that was a hell of a long walk.”
I turned to look for another cab, but he caught my arm. “Your car’s wrecked?”
“Grenade, tank of gas—what do you think?”
“Here…” Damned if he didn’t dig out a wad of cash and peel off ten portraits of Ben Franklin. “Get another on me.”
He shoved the bills into my hand, then hurried back to the club, hunching low against the cold.
“Thanks!” I called after him. He raised one hand to show he’d heard, shot up the steps, and hustled inside.
I looked at the money. It was real. I would keep it. That Kroun had already bought me a replacement didn’t matter. After tonight’s excitement, I deserved a tip.
KROUN
GABE took the stairs to Gordy’s office one at a time, but quick-stepping it. He wouldn’t have much of a respite before Michael finished with Fleming and followed.
Derner didn’t stare too
much. “Have some trouble, Mr. Kroun?”
“You could say. I need a car. A good one, gassed up and with some heavy blankets in the back. No one’s to know about it. Especially Michael.”
“Uh…okay. Now?”
“Sooner.”
That done, he crossed to the bathroom and shook out of his once-new coat. It wasn’t a total loss, but the slush and mud stains annoyed him. No time to have it cleaned or get another.
He checked his faint reflection in the mirror and scrubbed the scrapes and dirt from his face. The hot water warmed his hands. He’d not realized how cold they’d been. Aware of the problem, he checked his shoes. Yeah, soaked and freezing, no wonder Fleming looked so miserable.
Gabriel gingerly touched the ridge in his skull, bracing for pain, but nothing blazed up. Holding that snowball against the damage had killed it. He’d have to buy an ice bag sometime.
He emerged, coat over one arm and a pistol in each hand. Derner was on the phone giving orders about the car and only looked a little curious when Gabe dumped the coat and put the guns on the desk. Gabe opened each, removing the empty cartridges from the revolver and checking how many bullets were left in the semiauto. He opened his hand in a “gimme” gesture. Derner pointed to a chrome-trimmed liquor cabinet against one wall and mimed opening a drawer.
The second drawer held boxes of ammunition of various types. Kroun found what he needed in the jumble and loaded his guns. He thought about packing extra bullets, deciding against it. If he couldn’t turn a problem in his favor with the loads he had, then it was unturnable.
It griped that he’d had no chance to resolve matters with Mrs. Cabot, but the woman had surprised the hell out of him. Fleming should have done something then, damn him. He could have gone invisible and gotten the drop on her while they were there.
Instead, he hauls me clear.
But to be fair, Gabe hadn’t argued the point. Though more or less bulletproof, he had no desire to go through another night coughing his lungs out and feeling that burning inside as he healed. But what was Fleming’s excuse? On the other hand, any man with sense would have run from Mrs. Cabot and her six-shooter. The look she wore could scare granite.
What the hell had happened to her daughter in that cabin?
And was it my fault?
He felt cold sweat along his flanks, his usual reaction to the not-knowing.
“Got your car, Mr. Kroun,” said Derner. “It’ll be out back in five minutes with a driver.”
“I won’t need the driver.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“You remember my last visit here? When was that?”
“Uh, yeah. August.”
“August. Not December?”
“No, sir. I had to get you tickets for Wrigley Field, and it was hotter ’n hell you said.”
Gabe put his fists on the desk and leaned in; Derner blinked under the pressure but filled out the details. He had no idea who Ramsey was or where he might be. He did not know anything about a girl named Nelly Cabot or her mother. Gabe told him to forget and eased back.
A couple nights ago, Gordy had given the same story about Ramsey, didn’t know about Kroun’s December visit, and chances were he was ignorant of the Cabots. Whatever business had brought Gabe to Chicago two months ago had been very much under the table.
“Gabriel,” said Michael from the doorway. He always used that tone and that name when he thought things were truly serious.
He turned, on guard as always with Mike, which was a shame. He wanted to like the guy. He did like the guy, but couldn’t trust him. “You look cold. Why don’t you get one of those chorus girls to fix that?”
Michael scowled and couldn’t suppress a shiver, and it clearly irritated him. “Where did you go tonight?”
“You already know.”
“Besides seeing him.”
“I got a haircut.”
“A haircut?”
Gabe brushed the side of his head and put on his hat. “I got ’em all cut for that matter. The barber talked boxing, and I didn’t listen.” Gabe pulled on his damp overcoat and slipped the semiauto in the shoulder holster. As he reached for the revolver, Michael beat him to it.
“That’s mine,” he said. The gun rested lightly in his grip, not pointing at anyone, but ready for use. He had long strong fingers, and they reminded Gabe of Sonny’s hands.
“It’s reloaded,” he said cheerfully.
“Who did you shoot?” Michael’s tone matched the cheer.
“Doesn’t matter. I missed.”
“You?”
“It was a new gun.”
“Who’d you shoot?”
“Black Cadillac, last year’s model. It’ll have a damaged front bumper, a lot of scrapes along the passenger side, and a bullet hole in the windshield. Ask Broder. Let him explain.”
Derner, who had gone very quiet as soon as Michael walked in, made a soft sound from the back of his throat. It had to be involuntary, the man was trying his best to be invisible.
“What do you know?” Michael asked him.
“Uh, I got a call about that. One of the club Caddies was stolen earlier. The boys were hopping mad about it. No one saw anything. They figured some kids hot-wired it and drove off. Anyone else wouldn’t dare. We don’t know where it is.”
“Have them look within walking distance of Mike’s hotel,” Kroun suggested. “Was it stolen at about the time Broder left here? No, don’t tell me, Mike will deal with it. I have to go.” He pushed past, aiming for the door and hoping things were off-balance enough for him to make a clean getaway.
“Where?” Michael demanded.
“Wrigley Field. I heard it’s an ice rink now.”
Mike didn’t follow. Gabe had raised enough doubts to make him think twice about Broder.
Seems pretty obvious.
Gabe hadn’t been a hundred percent on it, but the timing worked out right.
Mrs. Cabot had called for help, and while he and Fleming waited in the woods, Broder came rolling up in his stolen car. He had no reluctance about running them off the road and dropping a grenade on the wreck. He was not concerned about consequences. That was Broder all over.
Was he on his own or working for Michael? How did the woman even know to call Broder? Or had she wanted Michael, and Broder answered instead? She’d have had to call New York first. No one there would have given up the name of Michael’s hotel, but they’d have passed on the message. How did she rate that kind of service?
Or had it been Ramsey? Maybe he’s still involved.
Michael wouldn’t lie to him, but neither would he tell him everything. Gabe was tempted to go back, put the eye on Mike, open up his head, and find out what lay inside.
Not here.
Not at the Nightcrawler. He’d need someplace more private. He needed better questions to ask, too. Gabriel didn’t know enough yet to ask the right ones.
The car was a new Hudson, painted a snappy green. It was warmed up, the tank full, and four thick wool blankets lay neatly folded on the backseat. What had Derner made of that request? Probably something to do with body disposal. He wouldn’t be too far off.
The waiting driver was a young, friendly, chatty sort, with a mouthful of chewing gum. Gabe thanked him and got rid of him quick.
Once behind the wheel, Gabe went easy for a block to get the feel of the gears, then headed toward Fleming’s house. He still had his crumpled and damp Chicago map in one pocket and only had to pull over once to get his bearings.
The lights were on, but no one answered the bell. He let himself in and listened. The house was empty, the only noise coming from the electric icebox. Good, else he’d have to put up with a bunch of questions from Fleming.
Gabe thought about tracking down the doctor who had treated Nelly Cabot. The man would have questioned Nelly and very probably called someone else for help with the problem. Not anyone in Chicago, or Gordy would have heard something. The disappeared doctor had apparently been high enough in the pecking order
to have a number direct to New York. If so, then some word of what had happened must have reached Michael.
Who doesn’t want me anywhere near that cabin.
That is, if Mike and Broder had been there…or had it been only Ramsey’s doing?
The lack of memory was a different sort of pain than the physical kind that often hammered at Gabe’s skull, but just as intense.
Gabe cracked open one of the suitcases and pulled on fresh clothes. The dry socks were the best improvement; he wore three pair since they were the fancy silk kind and thin. Wool would have been better for this trip. He wanted woodsmen boots, too, but had only the one pair of shoes. Wet, of course. None of the clothes he’d bought during that ten-minute shopping jaunt were suitable, but he’d survive. He left his discards draped on the stair rail for Fleming to marvel over and snapped the suitcase shut. He thought of taking it, but decided against. Better to travel light and make everyone think he’d be back for his stuff.
He planned to return, after all.
Thoughtfully, he relocked the door when he left.
The Hudson ran a little rough, but he got used to it. He checked his map again, compared its routes to the directions Fleming had so accurately copied down. It seemed simple enough: get out of Chicago, head north, follow this line, then that one.
Depending on the roads, he could make pretty good time before dawn.
11
FLEMING
I got one of the friendlier mugs at the Nightcrawler to give me a lift home and to take the long way so I could hear the club gossip. He filled me in, carefully not inquiring about my own state of scruffiness. Things in the trenches were copacetic, considering. Some of the guys were edgy about the Alan Caine murder, but only because the cops had hauled a few in for questioning. Chicago’s finest were looking for Mitchell, but they’d have to hold a séance to get him now. He’d had a summons to a higher court, and good riddance to the bastard.
When I asked about my called-off hunt for Gilbert Dugan, the mug didn’t have anything that could be called cheerful. Half the guys who’d wanted the reward money felt cheated, and the other half thought I’d just blown smoke to make myself look important. I shrugged it off as booze talk. Some of the boys were smart, like Derner and Strome, the rest couldn’t beat a monkey at checkers.
