by P. N. Elrod
Burton’s intended conclusion to explain the broken neck—that I’d shot Alby, then in a fit of remorse stepped off the roof for a hard landing—had been scotched. He’d would think up something else once he found out I wasn’t where he’d dropped me, and he would march free.
To hell with that.
However much I wanted to go home and have a nervous collapse I’d have to put it off. The only way for Burton to get his proper payback required that I stick around and get some payback of my own.
Had Burton looked over the side to see how my body had landed? Of course he would, but the spot would be pitch black from his vantage. He might stroll out later to check, but not while the cops were watching.
The gun, with my prints, was still on the roof, too.
I had to get up there.
The fastest method was the way I’d come down, but just thinking about it made me sick. My ordeal with gravity aside, I hated heights even on my best night. After this incident I expected the condition to get worse.
Fear is a healthy emotion. It keeps you from doing stupid things like walking too near a fatal edge; something I would not choose to do, but Burton had taken that choice from me. With his history he’d taken choices from a lot of others. Alby and I were just the most recent.
Crap, I wasn’t letting that bastard keep the upper hand. I had to get over that hurdle, so to speak, right now, before it got too high to jump.
At least by vanishing I didn’t have to look down. I felt the press of the wind on what should have been my back as I floated up the side of the building. The brickwork seemed to go on forever. I didn’t dare go semi-transparent to check my progress. Pushing things this far was all I could ask of myself. If I drifted to the side and rose at an angle, I still rose; the wall would end at some point.
With vast relief I bumbled over the lip of the low barrier and onto the tar and gravel surface to go solid again.
Burton and Ruthie were gone. Nothing else had changed.
Poor Alby—I was feeling quite sorry for him by now—was exactly where he’d been dropped, and so was the gun. I picked it up and wiped it clean on my already ruined clothes, then wrapped a handkerchief around it.
Gun in my pocket and hoisting Alby over one shoulder, I found the service stairs. The elevator would be too noisy to call up from the penthouse level. I went down one flight, put him next to the kitchen entry of Burton’s flat, and listened at the door.
Voices. I’d been right: Gordy had influence. One of the cops was Lieutenant Nick Blair of homicide. He was good at his job. We’d had a few run-ins, and he didn’t like me despite my evil-eye whammy suggestions to the contrary.
Hypnosis was quirky and sometimes unreliable. A suggestion that went along with a person’s normal inclinations, such as I done with the cops outside the club, could last for weeks, even months. A suggestion directly opposed to one’s inclinations did not last long at all.
Lieutenant Blair was one of those with a decidedly mistrustful attitude toward me; I never could make him a friend. There was no point trying to change him, so I did my best to keep out of his way. I didn’t dare let him catch me here with Alby’s body and the murder weapon. Even if I stuck around to persuade him that Burton was the killer I’d still get hauled in on general suspicion. I could not risk that; the city jail had no facilities for vampires.
The voices were muffled. I could make out the conversation, though.
Burton was a perfect impersonation of mystified resentment as he tried to determine what could have prompted such an invasion of his home by the cops. Blair wasn’t sharing much, and from the shrill noises Ruthie made the other men must have been enjoying a quick, uninvited search of the penthouse looking for bodies. I could assume they’d already covered the kitchen since it was empty.
Alby was as well placed as I could hope for, giving the circumstances. If he’d been killed in Burton’s flat, then the logical spot to leave him would be the service hall and its convenient elevator. If the cops found him they might conclude Burton had planned to carry him out of the building via that route.
There was a matter of fingerprints on the murder weapon, though. Ruthie’s prints were on the bullets; I wanted Burton’s on the gun.
But how to separate him from the herd? I couldn’t think of anything. I’d have to bide my time and hope for an opening.
I was tired, though. I’d lost blood and had used up much of myself with all the vanishing. A trip to the Stockyards would cure things, but no time for that now.
The kitchen door was unlocked. I quietly let myself in. Everyone was in the living room. Blair’s men hadn’t found anything; he had no reason to stick around. Soldier Burton was about to phone his lawyer.
Right, no time to plan, just throw a monkey wrench in the works and hope something breaks.
With a silent apology to Alby, I dragged him inside the kitchen, shook rounds from the revolver onto his chest, slammed the door loudly, and vanished.
There must have been a cop just outside. I sensed him charging in to check the noise. He paused, probably staring, opened the hall door, and grunted disappointment that no one was there. In a wonderfully calm tone he invited Blair to come see something interesting.
The next few minutes were entertaining, better than listening to Gangbusters on the radio.
When confronted, Burton squawked his innocence, Ruthie just squawked, and Lieutenant Blair phoned for more cops to join the party. He now had a bona fide murder investigation. His first question to Burton was to ask about the accomplice who had brought the body in. Burton had no reply. In his world the less said to a cop the better.
While they were distracted I floated past, trying to figure the layout of the place. The living room was easy to guess simply by location and size. I couldn’t tell how many were in it, and kept going. I bumped into walls, found furniture, and eventually made my way by touch through the maze toward what I hoped was a bedroom.
The commotion faded with distance, and I took a chance, going semi-transparent.
Bingo.
The big bed was still neat, covers turned down and waiting. A red silk scarf draped over one bedside lamp threw a rosy tint on the walls. Drinks were ready on a table, the ice melted. My initial intrusion must have interrupted a romantic celebration.
Good. They’d spoiled my evening and certainly Alby’s.
No point in planting the gun until it had prints. The cops would find it in Burton’s sock drawer easily enough, but proving he’d fired it was something else.
Then I saw his suit draped over a chair, and things suddenly got simple. His belt was still inside the loops of his pants; change and a wallet were in the pockets. I slipped the little revolver into the right-hand front pocket. The gun was a perceptible weight, but if he was distracted he might not catch on right away.
Voices. . .coming closer. . .Burton made threats about what his lawyer would do to them all. I retreated to a closet and left the door ajar to watch. It was dark inside, and I could vanish quick if anyone opened it.
Two uniforms were with Burton, both grinning. He let drop that he’d make it worth their while if they treated him with some respect. He was told to get dressed so they could respect him downtown.
He stepped into his pants, one leg at a time, same as anyone. I looked for some hint of reaction when he became aware of the gun, but he gave nothing away, not even puzzlement for its presence. It was impossible for him not to be aware of it, especially when he sat to pull on his socks and shoes. That done, he reached for his suit coat, but one of the cops was faster and grabbed it. He checked the pockets.
Damn. I’d considered putting the gun in his suit coat and changed my mind. A man might leave home without his coat, but never his pants, hence my choice. I’d been smart and not realized it.
When he was ready I expected them to put the cuffs on, but Blair must have been wary of going too fast. You have to know when to set the hook before reeling in.
They walked out, and Ruthie came in, a
ccompanied by a matron who’d arrived with Blair’s reinforcements. Ruthie snarled at the other woman, but unselfconsciously dropped her robe and began to dress. I had a fine view, but it was nothing I’d not seen before, and the goods were tainted past the point of all appeal. She’d participated in two murders, my own included, and had tried to seduce Burton right in front of my dead body. That was one cold, cold dame.
She finished and was about to leave when I dragged a suitcase from a closet shelf and slammed it through the closet door, and I mean through. Big noise, lots of splinters.
Then I vanished.
It made a terrific crashing racket. Both women yelped, and the men charged in to investigate. I slipped past to the front room, found a corner as far from everyone as possible, and went semi-transparent.
There’s an art to it; I had to concentrate to not go too solid, but if I held still I’d get to watch without being spotted.
Everyone looked toward the bedroom. Blair was out of sight, probably checking things for himself. A couple plainclothesmen, one with a big camera, called questions. The same two uniforms flanked Soldier Burton, and the matron had a guiding hand firmly on Ruthie’s elbow, keeping her in place.
I needed another monkey wrench.
An armchair would do, something heavy, noisy, and impressive.
Getting behind it, I went solid long enough to lift and throw it across the room, vanishing immediately after.
That livened up the party. Maybe too much. I heard shouts and scrambling, and then things suddenly went dead quiet.
I was itching to peek.
The flat had a broad bank of windows, very modern. The windows had long curtains. I retreated behind them.
Solid again, I felt like I’d been running for hours. I had to grab a wall to hold steady against a wave of dizziness.
Later, I’ll collapse later. I forced myself to stand and peered around the edge of the curtain.
My stunt with the chair had been thoroughly upstaged by Burton. He’d taken advantage of the opportunity better than I’d hoped. He had the small gun in his big fist, covering the cops while he backed out through the kitchen. Ruthie was right with him, holding the door wide, a crazy smirk on her face. She was having the time of her life.
Blair was in front now, his hands palm down, telling his men to take it easy, and advising Burton to do the same. None of them knew the gun was empty, but no one was taking chances. Burton was in charge, though, and made predictable threats.
He backed into the kitchen. Ruthie would get the service door for him, and then what, the service elevator or the stairs? The latter would be less confining.
Figuring out what to do, I stopped being solid. I rushed past and got to the stairs first, materializing on the other side of the access door. Sure enough, a few seconds later Ruthie tried to push it open. I had my full weight against it. She’d have better luck shifting the Rock of Gibraltar.
She yelled at Burton, who put a shoulder into it with no effect.
They’d have to take the elevator.
It was ready for them, since he’d left it on the penthouse floor after his business on the roof.
I had just enough left for one more vanishing and then I’d have to rest for longer than half a minute. I quit the stairs and slipped in with the escapees just as they began to descend.
“They’ll be waiting for us at the bottom,” Ruthie fretted.
“We can do this. None of ’em wants to get drilled. Move over, lemme operate it.”
Ruthie protested. I found myself abruptly bumping against the ceiling. Burton was taking us down at top speed.
“You’ll kill us!” she screeched.
He laughed. “We’ll beat ’em, doll.”
I started to re-form. Not wise of me, but I’d had enough.
It was a big elevator, tall and deep. You could haul some sizeable things in it. Still, Burton and Ruthie must have found it to be much too small when they noticed me hovering a yard off the floor like. . .well, a ghost.
They didn’t react right away, just stared open-mouthed.
I started laughing. Couldn’t help myself. It was silent. Not enough of my lungs and larynx were there to make noise.
Ruthie spoke first, her voice down to a hoarse whisper. “You said you took care of him!”
“I did take care of him!”
Now that was funny. They’d said almost exactly the same thing in the kitchen. I shook my head, grinning, which caused Ruthie to shrink against Burton.
I pointed at him, index finger straight, thumb up. . .used by kids everywhere when playing cops and robbers and mimed shooting him.
Bang-bang, you’re dead.
He couldn’t take it and pulled the trigger on his empty gun. He kept pulling it, one empty chamber after another trying to kill a man he knew was dead.
When he worked out its uselessness I expected him to throw it at me, but he didn’t get that far.
The elevator had safety measures, which was just as well for these two. Burton had forgotten to keep track of things, like how fast we were dropping. A buzzer went off, and some kind of emergency brake kicked in. While I continued to hover, my companions on the ride were thrown off their feet by the jolt and abrupt stop.
Good enough.
I went solid all the way, and knocked Burton out completely.
Ruthie fled to the back of the car. I was between her and the exit. She looked to be just this side of screaming, but held her own.
I wanted to knock her out, too, but something in me—another useless bit of self-knowledge—rebelled at smacking a woman around, however much she deserved it.
Instead, I bent and removed Burton’s necktie. It was a nice one, real silk. Strong.
Ruthie ended up screaming bloody murder and fighting like mad, but she had a right. It’s not every night that a man comes back from the dead to hogtie and leave you on the floor of an elevator.
She was still screaming as I opened the doors, but there was a different tone to it. Maybe she’d decided that Burton hadn’t snapped my neck after all. Fury replaced her fear and her curses followed me as I made my way across a dark basement to some stairs and let myself out.
The alley again. Crap, was I ever tired if it.
At one end was a police car with a couple of uniforms hanging around.
I yelled at them, sounding urgent.
One had a flashlight, but I put a hand up to obscure my face and crouched to hide my height. I waved them closer.
“They’re in here! It’s the killers! Hurry!”
They came running. I kept up the act until they were past, then sprinted down the alley. Too tired for more disappearing games I could still run like hell. I slowed after a block and turned for a look back.
Nothing to see, all the fun would be inside. Those guys would be busy for the rest of the night trying to figure it out.
My Buick rolled up, Gordy at the wheel, looking concerned.
“What happened to you?” he wanted to know.
“Be glad to tell you, but first I need a drink.”
“No problem.”
“You owe me a new suit, too.”
“No problem.” he said in the same tone and drove me to the Stockyards without another word.
I like that about Gordy. Anyone else would be eaten alive with curiosity and give in to questions, but he held his peace. A patient and remarkable man, he held it even after I emerged from the Yards, eyes still flushed blood red from feeding and feeling two hundred percent better.
“Back to the Nightcrawler?” I asked.
He nodded. At this late hour the streets were fairly clear. I filled him in on the details.
His head bobbed back and forth. That was his version of a belly laugh. It took him a while to get control of himself. I laughed a little as well, but it didn’t feel right. I was tough, but needed some internal healing, the kind that I couldn’t get simply from a fresh dose of blood.
I’d downplayed the part where my neck had been broken, and the p
art about being dropped off the building. Gordy was a friend, but there are some things about myself I don’t talk about to anyone.
That knot of fear was still there, slightly looser than before. It would ease with time, given how I’d made myself go up the side of the building.
“How do you think they’ll explain the suitcase and that chair you threw?” Gordy asked.
I shrugged. “If they’re smart, they’ll ignore it.”
A few nights later we got an answer, of sorts.
I was back at my favorite table at the Nightcrawler, wearing my new suit and watching the show when Gordy came up again, this time sitting with me.
The band was once more in the midst of the big horn and drum number. The players got through it flawlessly, crash-bang-boom, followed by applause.
“Poor Alby,” I said.
“He’s covered.” By that Gordy meant that he was paying for the funeral. It turned out that Alby didn’t have any family at all, but he wouldn’t wind up in Potter’s field.
“That’s square of you.”
“I owed him. Between the two of you Burton’s off my back for good.”
“Give Alby the credit. He’s the one who lost the most.”
“He’s getting the credit.”
“Oh, yeah?”
The band swung into a new song. Couples quit their tables to dance to it.
Gordy pulled out a newspaper folded to an inside page and slid it over to me.
We’d been keeping up with the headlines about Soldier Burton and his arrest for the murder of Alby Cornish. Burton wouldn’t be marching away from this one; the DA—in possession of the murder weapon, prints, and with half a dozen of Chicago’s finest to testify to Burton’s violent resisting of arrest and escape attempt—was a happy man.
In all those stories no mention was made of flying suitcases or furniture. . .until tonight.
The paper was one of the lesser tabloids, not worthy of sharing newsstand space with the Tribune, but the headline was bold: Did the Ghost of Alby Cornish Nab His Killer?
