When you wait for one thing and something else happens, you wind up with either egg on your face or a lump on your head. I got the egg. The footsteps didn’t walk right in. They stopped outside the door and knocked.
I recovered all my reflexes. “Come in,” I said in my best Clark Gable imitation.
The yellow panels disappeared and the hallway was visible. The hallway and someone standing between me and it. I got one of the biggest surprises of a hard career. Something I hadn’t figured on at all.
“Oh, I say—” said Sir Stewart St. James with all of his Oxfordian aplomb intact on such a quick cue. “This is rather a sticky wicket, isn’t it?”
He made his point and Linda Gates got her golden opportunity. She whipped up a silver deskweight that was shaped like a horse. It had been lying on the desk someplace. She flung it at my head with all the venom she could muster. Rump first.
I had it coming.
“Oh, that this too too solid flesh might melt…”
SEVENTEEN
I only had time to do two things. I did them.
Diving across the desk, I accomplished the first thing. The silver deskweight thudded against the wall behind me and caromed off into my sight again, bouncing toward the opposite wall. The second thing was a little harder but I did that too. I got a savage hold on Linda Gates’ wrist and spun her around. To the extreme distaste of the stage Englishman in the doorway, I slapped Linda Gates twice. Once across each flawless cheek. The Sir bounded into the room with gentlemanly flourish and fixed me with a stare that was supposed to tell me what a cad I was. Linda Gates just fell back, the rapidity of my blows sending her to the wall by the door where she just looked at me with more surprise than she had registered since the day she lost her virginity.
“See here, Noon—” Sir Stewart was outraged. “The lady seems to have lost her head. No reason why you should lose yours. Consider her condition. A gentleman should never strike a lady no matter what the provocation—”
I was mad too. I let him know it.
“A gentleman shouldn’t have to dodge the family silver either.” I glared at Linda Gates. “You act cute again, sister, and I’ll rap you across the teeth with a gun butt. Now light someplace and behave yourself.”
She moved dumbly to a chair and stared down at her shoes. I’d given her something to think about. I turned my attention back to my own client. He was shaking his head at me and arranging himself neatly in a horsehide chair that was turned from the window. The Henry Higgins hat was pulled down firmly over one eye and his lean figure was encased in grey tweeds that made him more last-centuryish than ever. The walking stick was nowhere in sight. That bothered me for some reason I can’t explain. It seemed to me like he’d left the house without his pants on. I forgot about it and sat on one corner of the desk where I could keep my eye on the door and both of them.
“Would you mind telling me how the hell you got here, Sir Stewart?”
He looked askance at Linda Gates who was still looking at the floor. I shook my head to show him it didn’t matter.
“Chap rung me up about an hour ago. Name of V. Devlin. Suggested I meet him here. He wasn’t very specific but he mentioned the name of our dear friend Morgan and here I am. I see this is a private detective’s office. Curious business. And the lady?”
“Linda Gates. His secretary—it says here. You ever see or hear of this Devlin before?”
His simple wag of the head was magnificent. “Not so much as a syllable. But it does suggest something to me, Edward.”
He was back to Edward again so all was forgiven.
“What’s that, Sir Stewart?”
He bristled suddenly. “It would be quite like that minx, Savannah Gage, to have employed this fellow for reasons of her own, don’t you think?”
I considered that. It made sense. Shakespeare wasn’t driving Mr. Devlin but according to the condition of his office, money certainly would. I had a flash memory of his cold smile, huge meanness and ugly manners.
“Not bad,” I admitted. “I’ll buy it. When the gentleman gets here, we’ll ask him.”
His brown eyes regarded me keenly.
“Tit-for-tat, Edward. Why do I find you here?”
“No time for comparing notes now. I’ll tell all later. But I’ll tell you this much. The quiet lady here who likes to throw things was one of the two people who snatched Memo Morgan from the hospital this morning.”
That got him out of his chair quicker than a costume change. He seemed to grow another two inches. His eyes swung back and forth excitedly from me to Linda Gates. She wasn’t looking at her shoes anymore. She was smiling a half-smile to herself and not caring whether we saw it or not. She seemed peaceful for the first time since we had met. No more worry—not for her. I didn’t like it. I got off the desk.
“Out with it, my girl.” You would have sworn Sir Stewart St. James was talking to the parlormaid. “It’ll go easier if we have his whereabouts. You can’t get away with this sort of thing. Deuce it all, why the devil does anyone want to keep the glories of Shakespeare from the world?”
His Sherlock Holmes patter was funny but I didn’t feel like laughing. I walked over to Linda Gates’ chair and looked down at her.
“Okay,” I said. “Let us in on it. What’s so funny?”
A sneer curved her face. “You are. You both are. Shakespeare. That’s a laugh. He’s got nothing to do with this.”
That one did throw me. The dumb girl sounded a little smarter now. Not like a dame who’d wandered into trouble with her eyes closed.
“What does that mean?” I asked quietly. Sir Stewart had gone rigid in his chair. As if his dream of a lifetime was walking the plank.
Linda Gates’ eyes traveled over us. Not with interest in our male beauty. Her expression was sorry for us.
“I don’t have to tell you a thing, wise guy. But it fractures me that you two smart bastards don’t know why Morgan is such hot property. So go stew in your own juice and leave me alone. Devlin gets here, you’re both going to wish you hadn’t pushed me around.”
I winced. “If that’s all you have to say, shut your trap. You give me an earache.” I frowned at the office door and looked at an alarm, clock squatting on a portable radio on the mantelpiece behind the desk. Going on five-thirty. Where was Devlin and just how much alive was Memo Morgan?
“Okay,” Linda Gates said suddenly. “If we make a deal will you let me walk out of here without an escort?”
I blinked. “Hit me with that again.”
She sighed hard. “Don’t you understand English? I’ll tell you where the Morgan character is if you turn me loose. I’m not going to play the chump for anybody—”
Just like a woman, she’d switched horses in midstream. Just like a man, I didn’t trust her.
“This is kind of sudden isn’t it, Linda?”
She grimaced.
“I’m going to be a mother. So I want out while the getting out is good. Well, are you interested or aren’t you—?”
“We’re interested, my lady,” said Sir Stewart St. James. “Pray continue.”
“A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse.”
EIGHTEEN
Sir Stewart St. James sat down in his chair and crossed one gentlemanly leg across the other. The pose he assumed in looking at Linda Gates would have done justice to a peer in Parliament. Me, I just waited for the important words to come. The words that might mean the life or death of Memo Morgan, missing.
Linda Gates had reached some kind of decision. An urgent one for her anyway. She set her lush mouth in a thinner line and wet her lips decisively.
“Well?” I prodded her quietly.
Her black eyes flashed. “I tell you where this guy is and you let me walk out of here without calling the cops, right? I got a plane reservation for Vegas that I’m sure as hell going to use. This town’s been a jinx for me. To hell with Devlin and his hot ideas—”
“My dear girl—” Sir Stewart said impatiently.
That got her going. “Okay, okay.” She took a deep breath that made her breasts jiggle ever so slightly. “We snatched Morgan. I admit it as long as you’re on to it. I don’t really work for Devlin. Met last year when I hit New York from Chi. I’m a—showgirl. Used to help him out once in a while for a couple of bucks. You know—be the other woman in the bedroom when a husband is framing a divorce. It’s not a bad living but the pay won’t make you give up eating at the Automat. Then I met a bum and got in ‘trouble.’ I needed dough and got in touch with Devlin a few weeks ago. That’s when he let me in on this deal. So I started working for him because he said I could make some big money and have my baby in style—”
“But what of Morgan—?” Sir Stewart just didn’t care about anything except where it touched Shakespeare. I shrugged him off. Linda Gates was going to get around to the important part of the story in her own good time. Which I hoped wasn’t too far off.
“Go on, Linda,” I said.
“Well, Devlin said he had a special job for me. Worth a lot of bread. Said he had a client who wanted to nab a guy who happened to have a lot of information that was worth a fortune. That’s all he told me. But he offered me ten grand for my help. He never told me all the details. Just said I’d make a little decoy in that hospital. Boy, was I surprised both to see all those cops and that it turned out to be a snatch. But Devlin’s a smart cookie. Me being pregnant—those cops fell over themselves not bothering me. I never figured on all the shooting though. I need money but I don’t want to die for it.”
I looked at her closely. She was talking turkey all right. She was dumb but she did have guts. And she was smart enough to pull out of a house where the roof was obviously falling in. Either that, or approaching motherhood had worked its usual magic.
“Okay. So we’re up to the part where your connection is explained. Now where did you take Morgan and more specifically, what did you do with him?”
Sir Stewart was all for this line of questioning. He leaned forward in his chair like a bird dog.
Linda made a face.
“After we dodged that cop car, Devlin drove to a garage on West Seventy-ninth. Private garage. He let me out there and I took a cab back here to wait for his call. I’ve been waiting all day. I haven’t budged for even a cup of coffee. You don’t know Devlin. He threatened to kick me in the stomach if I crossed him—”
“I know he’s a sweetheart,” I cut in. “Do you think you could take us back to this place where he dropped you off?”
Her eyes got frightened again. “You are nuts. When he finds out I’ve crossed him, I’m dead. Believe me, Buster, soon as you’ve finished with me, Las Vegas here I come.”
“Morgan—” Sir Stewart said softly. “What of Morgan? How is he, dear lady?”
She shrugged with a nearly contemptuous movement. “How the hell should I know? He was wrapped up like a mummy with those bandages they had on him.”
It didn’t sound good. The lame, the halt and the sick Memo Morgan being lugged around town like a sack of potatoes in his condition. Devlin was a sweetheart, all right. A real peach. I didn’t like the time nor the fact that he hadn’t shown up yet. Devlin’s plans might have laid an egg. Memo Morgan might be dead.
Sir Stewart looked at me.
“Hadn’t we better shake a leg and get out to that garage as soon as possible? If he dies before we reach him, we may never learn the truth.”
“No dice, Sir Stewart. Shakespeare will have to wait. We can’t budge till Devlin gets here.”
“But our man will give us the slip. And Morgan may be dying or dead right now. Don’t you think—”
I smiled. “I think a lot of things. One: Linda here may not be telling the truth. Two: Devlin may not trust her and just let her think he was stopping at that garage, And then went on to another destination. Three: simmer down and take it easy. The guy has to show up sometime.”
That eased Sir Stewart’s impatience and nobody felt much like saying anything after that. So we just started to wait by mutual consent. The three of us reacted each in his or her individual way because of the kind of people we were.
Linda Gates fidgeted nervously because I’d reneged on my deal to let her go. She kept throwing looks at the cheap alarm clock on the mantelpiece. I knew what was bothering her mostly. She’d been ready to clear out after telling all and now she didn’t want to stick around to face Devlin from the stool pigeon’s corner.
Sir Stewart had sighed and sat quietly after settling his impeccable self into his chair. He had tilted his classic head back and seemed to be engrossed in the ceiling as if his next lines were coming from there.
Myself, I just stayed put in Devlin’s chair behind the desk and kept my right eye on the street window and my left on the door. My hands were out of sight below the desk and close to the .45 butt poking from my waistband. I was trying to concentrate without thinking at all about the dizzy doings, but I wasn’t having much luck. I’d seldom come along so far in investigation with such little headway in the what-in-hell-is-going-on department Why the Voice and why Savannah Gage and why Devlin? Was Sir Stewart only interested in Shakespeare-Marlowe? The whole thing had started with Memo Morgan and it looked like, without him, it could never be sorted out and put together. I was stumped. I had to wait for other people to make the moves before I could even consider jumping. That’s a bad way to play chess or checkers and no way to solve a crime.
The next move came all right.
It didn’t come from the door.
It didn’t come from any direction I had decided on. The door didn’t open, the phone didn’t ring and nobody screamed.
I had to figure it all out later because the last thing I remember was looking out the window for a minute to see how dark it was getting. Linda Gates was in full view all the time, twisting and fidgeting that sexy body of hers. But Sir Stewart St. James wasn’t. He was slightly behind my line of vision, on the other side of the desk, and near the door.
From that direction, a twenty-ton truck roared from out of nowhere and slammed to a stop on the back of my head, just above the left ear. As I fell into Grand Canyon with all the lights out, all I had to think of was one thing.
Sir Stewart had left his cane at home but he must have had a chance to borrow Savannah Gage’s Webley. Because he hit me with something that felt a lot like a gun butt.
But that’s all I had time to think about.
“To sleep, perchance to dream …”
NINETEEN
Machine gun, machine guns. Who’s got the machine guns? I’ve got one right here, Mr. Noon. Here it is, Edward. Now hold still, silly Eddie, while I blow your head off. Tac-tac-tac-tac-tac. Brrrrrrrrr. Quick sight gag: Comedian comes out on stage, smiling. “Hi, folks. This’ll kill you!” Produces machine gun from behind his back and riddles the audience. The place dies laughing.
My head hurt.
It was a boiler factory with a thousand triphammers pounding like ninety. A music store with all the players going round and round. Five o’clock time on a construction job. The head shall be filled with music. Kleine nacht music. All hit parade numbers. And oh how they hit.
I tried to forget about my head and concentrated on my eyes. Brown eyes. Blood-shot eyes. “You don’t sleep enough, Ed. Want to wear yourself out?” Was that Monks talking or the actress-girl friend or who? Clouds of smoke and confusion rolled in and memory trains roared by like the streamliner going home. Somebody had hit me in the head again and I was unraveling slower than ever.
My head still hurt but I got my eyes open by putting one foot on each lid and prying up toward the sky. The effort cost me in pain but I got the lids separated like half-shells.
I opened my eyes.
No ceiling mirror this time, no soft bedroom with frills. No, that wasn’t right either. Savannah Gage was not the frilly type. I blinked and tried to adjust my vision to new light
.
“Well, well, well,” a thin, pipsqueak voice said. “The boy detective is sitting up and taking notice.” Before I could attempt to identify the pipsqueak, a solid hand connected with my face and left me with more memories. That really got my eyes open.
The Monster was sitting across from me, his solid bulk looking like it was growing off the end of his cheap desk. I saw the same ruler-thin nose, the fleshy, tanned jaws and the sneering arc of the lower lip. The brown eyes surrounded by marshmallow whites mocked me again. Only it wasn’t the Monster, of course. Just V. Devlin, Private Eye. Have gun, will shoot.
“I could learn to hate you without even trying,” I said.
He hit me again. He was fast. I didn’t even have to turn the other cheek. He picked it out all by himself.
“Where did they go, you bastard?” he snarled. “Lip from you I’m not going to take.”
I cursed around some warm red fluid that bubbled at one corner of my mouth. He wasn’t fooling and until I got my bearings, I’d better be polite.
“Fair question, Vince old sock. Where did who go?”
He wanted to hit me again but he didn’t. He eyed me quietly and the mocking expression on his face didn’t go away. Which gave me time to realize that we were still in the ratty office of V. Devlin, that the shades were drawn, that I was tied to the client’s chair and the lone bulb of the hooded lamp on the desk was trained on my face. Memories are made of this. Shades of Police Headquarters.
I also remembered the lump on my head and the missing team of Linda Gates, secretary and Sir Stewart St. James, actor. I tried to think but the smog in my brain was worse than Los Angeles.
Devlin sighed. A human sound that just didn’t fit him.
“Look, Noon. You took a bump on the noggin. I got back here a little while ago and found you on the floor. The lights were off and the door was locked. I left a dame here who isn’t here now. She wouldn’t take off on her own without leaving a message. I also found a cigarette stub in the ashtray. Player’s. I don’t smoke them but I can think of a limey bastard who does. I’m sitting on a big one, Eddie boy, and I can’t afford a mess-up. I don’t have to bluff you, right? I could carve you into French fries without thinking twice. So suppose you talk like I asked you. Otherwise, you’re hurting, baby. Hurting bad.”
There Is Something About a Dame Page 10
