Death on the Waterfront
Page 8
Moving against the wall away from the window, he stood still, accustoming his eyes to the half light. He had no sure way of knowing whether the penthouse was occupied or not and, if it was occupied, whether the occupants might have a gun. He squared his shoulders with a slight shrug, pulled his hat down firmly on his head, and stepped away from the wall.
The bedroom door was unlocked and swung open noiselessly. Half-closed Venetian blinds made the room darker than the rest of the house, but there was still light enough to see the big double bed jutting out from the wall at his left. Jackson had expected a man or perhaps a man and a woman. His eyebrows lifted in surprise when he saw that the bed contained only one occupant—unmistakably female. He closed the door and moved forward cautiously until he stood beside the bed. The girl stirred uneasily, turning her head so that a shaft of light from the Venetian blinds fell upon her face.
Jackson grinned. He reached forward and switched on a reading lamp over the bed head.
“Hello, Mayme,” he said.
The girl’s eyes popped open, and she sat up immediately. She was a redhead, and her hair, even under the confines of a hair net, looked decidedly attractive. Her eyes were queer-shaped and black, now, in the sudden light, and her wide mouth needed no lipstick to accentuate its fullness. The face was a trifle too square, a trifle too prominent of jaw and chin line for beauty, but it was a handsome face with a challenge that men turned to stare at. Under blue silk pajamas her breasts were high and firm, and the curves of her figure, ineffectively hidden by the silken bed covering, were excitingly seductive.
She put up a hand with long magenta nails to shield her eyes from the light. “John,” she said, “you——”
Without warning, her hand darted toward the drawer of a small table on the other side of the bed. Jackson threw himself across the bed and grasped her wrist, but only after she had got the drawer open. Still holding the wrist, he took the gun from the drawer and righted himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, releasing his hold only when out of reach of the long nails.
“Easy does it, Mayme,” he said softly, slipping the gun into his pocket. “Sorry to rough you up that way.”
The girl straightened herself in the bed, breathing heavily, her eyes flaming. She cursed him deliberately and with exhaustive emphasis. Her language exceeded even Jackson’s water-front experience. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and cupped a knee in one hand, letting her cuss herself out, grinning appreciatively both at her eloquence and at the strip of very white flesh showing through the front of her pajama top that had become unbuttoned in their brief struggle.
“Not bad, Mayme,” he said. “Not bad at all for so early in the morning.”
Her eyes followed his, and she halted her tirade abruptly to jerk savagely at the blue silk. The action served to quiet her, and when she looked up again there was speculation and a hint of fear in the black eyes.
“You’re Jackson.” She appraised him. “I’ve heard plenty about you. I don’t know how you got in here or what you want and I don’t give a damn but if you don’t get out in one hell of a hurry I’m going to call the cops.”
Jackson’s grin broadened to a laugh. “Now, baby, how would that look? The cops finding you in Mr. Murdock’s bed. You know better than that.”
The fear in the girl’s eyes grew, and her belligerence collapsed suddenly. “Did Tommy——?”
Jackson shook his head. “No, Tommy didn’t tip me. My guess is, he doesn’t know.”
“Then how——?” She paused and bit her lip. “What do you want? Why did you come here?”
“And how did I know where to come?” Jackson mimicked her. “Look, sweetheart, I’ve had this layout spotted for months. Not that I like to play this way. This is a free country, and what you do and what Murdock does that doesn’t concern the water front is your own business. But I’m not particular when I’m fighting a murder frame.”
“Murder?”
“Yes, murder!” Jackson’s voice hardened, and the grin left his face. “Look, Mayme, let’s cut the horseplay and get down to cases. Where’s the boy friend?”
“Boy friend?” Mayme began, but Jackson interrupted harshly.
“Cut it, Mayme. You’re too smart to play games. Where’s John Murdock?”
Again the girl’s expression changed. Her eyes narrowed speculatively, and she was silent and thoughtful for a moment.
“Okay,” she said finally. “This is Murdock’s place, but what does that prove? It’s only your word against mine that I was here at all, and any one of twenty girl friends will swear I wasn’t. So what have you got, you——“ She cursed him again.
Jackson shook his head sadly. “So you’re not smart after all. Do you think I’d let you out of here? Look, baby, I mentioned murder. I came up here expecting to find Murdock and maybe you or some other twist and I came prepared to get what I want if I had to beat hell out of whoever asked for it. If you want to play that way say so, but I’m warning you, you won’t be pretty when they find you....Think of the scandal and the publicity. Murdock wouldn’t like that. ‘NIGHT-CLUB SINGER FOUND BEATEN IN SHIPOWNER’S LOVE NEST.’ See the headlines, Mayme? And think of what would happen to Tommy! He knows you have been playing around but doesn’t know how far you’ve gone. He probably thinks you still do it for love. My guess is he’d kill you.”
He watched the fear grow in Mayme’s eyes. “You know I’m right,” he finished. “You’re in a spot.”
A little crease of concentration appeared between the girl’s carefully plucked brows, and white teeth caught her upper lip and worried it. She reached out to a small blue box on the table, offered it to Jackson, and, when he shook his head, took a cigarette and lit it with a chromium-and-gold lighter. During the process her eyes never left his face.
She blew out smoke with a little sigh and nodded slowly.
“You’d do it, wouldn’t you,” she said. It was not a question but a statement of fact. Then suddenly her brow cleared, and she held out her hand with a dazzling smile. “Okay. You win. No hard feelings.”
Jackson ignored the hand. “No hard feelings,” he repeated. “Where’s Murdock?”
“I don’t know. He was here early last evening but he went out about eleven and didn’t come back. What do you want him for?”
Jackson laughed mirthlessly. “Blackmail. Just a little nice, quiet blackmail. He’s going to call off that frame on me and turn up the snake who killed old man Riorden and maybe sign a contract with the union while he’s in the mood, and I’m going to promise to be a gentleman and not tell his wife about little Mayme.”
“You’re crazy,” said Mayme scornfully. “He’d throw you out of the house.”
“That’s not my guess. He’s too smart.”
“But suppose”—Mayme’s dark eyes widened as she considered—“suppose John—Mr. Murdock—doesn’t know who did it or, suppose he does and can’t turn the guy up without being dragged into it himself.” She reached out a hand toward the phone. Her wide eyes were innocent.
“Look—let me try to reach him. Perhaps——”
Jackson caught her wrist and slapped the hand playfully. “Baby makes another move like that,” he said, “and I’ll black both her pretty eyes.”
The pretty eyes glared hate at him. “You’ll pay for this, you water-front bum. John Murdock’ll——”
“Can the chatter. John Murdock’ll play ball like a good little guy.”
His jaw thrust out, and his tone became cold as ice. “I’m not fooling, Mayme. I’m desperate. The man doesn’t live that can frame me and get away with it.”
He reached across the girl’s thighs and picked up the phone. “What’s that number you were going to call?”
Mayme hesitated, then said sullenly, “Clearfield 3793.”
A suave voice spoke from the other end of the line. “Mr. Murdock? I’m sorry, sir. He worked very late last night and left orders not to be disturbed before ten o’clock. Is there any message?”
“Yes sir,” the voice said blandly. “I’ll tell him, sir, as soon as he’s awake. Thank you, sir.”
Jackson replaced the phone. He reached over and took Mayme’s left wrist, turning it so that he could see the small diamond-studded watch. It said seven-thirty. He stood up.
“Where’s your car, Mayme?”
“Well, of all the nerve,” said Mayme. “Take the ferry and the bus, you big lug.”
Jackson hesitated, pondering the idea of taking the girl with him. He decided against it. He didn’t trust her, and she’d be more bother than she was worth anyway.
He shook his head. “Nope, no ferry and bus for me, sweetheart. You’re gonna be a pal and lend me your car. You’ll get it back okay if I’m lucky.”
Mayme argued, pleaded, and lied, but Jackson was obdurate. Finally she gave in and said disgustedly,
“All right, you stubborn maniac, take it, and I hope you drive it off a dock.”
She gave him the keys and directed him to the parking lot around the corner. “Tell the guy I said it was okay. And now get the hell out of here, will you?”
“Thanks,” said Jackson, pocketing the keys. He glanced about him. The door of a closet across the room stood open, and he went to it and collected an armload of feminine apparel. There was a small overnight bag on the shelf, and he took that also. Mayme sat up in bed. “What the hell are you doing?” she screamed.
“Just making sure you don’t run out on me.”
He returned to the bed with Mayme’s clothes over one arm and gave the telephone a sharp yank, breaking the wire.
“Okay, now.” He grinned down into the girl’s furious face. “You’ll stay put, sweetheart, unless you want to go parading in your pajamas. They’re swell-looking pajamas, but there’s a law against indecent exposure—and, sister, are you indecent!”
He left Mayme sitting up in bed, gasping and making incoherent noises. He closed the bedroom door but found no means of locking it. He shrugged, stuffed the clothes into the overnight bag, and stepped through the door into the foyer that contained the automatic elevator.
9. Highway
Mayme’s car was a snappy blue Packard roadster. Jackson had remembered seeing her drive it and had chosen it as an effective cover. Even his pals on the force wouldn’t recognize him in an expensive job like this.
He got the car out of the lot without trouble, tossed the suitcase containing Mayme’s clothes into the rear compartment, and drove east away from the water front. On Sixth Avenue he stopped in a lunch and had wheat cakes and coffee, sitting at the rear of the counter and keeping his hat pulled well down over his eyes. When he had finished he flipped the waitress a half buck and went into the phone booth beside the swinging door that led to the kitchen. He dialed the number of the union and said, “Whitey?”
“Yeah. Where are you?”
Jackson told him. “Listen,” he said, “I’m going out to Murdock’s. I just thought I’d let you know.”
“You crazy fool,” said Whitey. “I still think you’re making it tough for yourself playing hide-and-seek with the cops. What are you going to do at Murdock’s? Commit another murder?”
“I might at that.”
“Look, Jack,” said Whitey seriously. “I don’t think you ought to go out there alone. What about my meeting you? There’ll be less chance of the cops picking up the two of us, and I might be some help. I don’t get what you think you can do with Murdock but I know you when you get to throwing your weight around.” Jackson laughed. “Come on if you want to. We’ll form a delegation. But hurry up. Better hop a bus and come over here. I’ll drive around the block a couple of times and park on the north side of the square. Look for a blue Packard roadster.”
“Cripes,” said Whitey, “a hot car?”
Jackson assured him that the car wasn’t hot, told him again to hurry, and hung up. He bought a paper at the stand on the corner and drove north and then east, turning south again and finally west along the park. The tree-lined street was quiet and almost devoid of traffic at this hour, and the likelihood of his being spotted here was slight. He parked in front of one of the old brownstones.
The News had a shot of Riorden’s crumpled body captioned “GANG WAR FLARES AGAIN ON WATER FRONT” on the cover. Jackson was reading the story when Whitey arrived.
Jackson tossed the paper on the ledge back of the seat and drove through to Sixth Avenue. He turned south, obeying traffic rules meticulously.
“We’ll take the Cortney Street Ferry,” he said. “Less likely to spot us down there.”
As they drove south to the ferry he told Whitey briefly of his visit to the penthouse and what he found there.
“Boy,” said Whitey when he had finished, “some fun. You think we got enough to make old Murdock say ‘Uncle’?”
Jackson took out Mayme’s gun and slid it into the side pocket of the car. “I don’t know. Murdock’s wife is social-register. He wouldn’t want this to get out. I’m going to throw a bluff about how much evidence I have and see if I can make it stick.”
They turned into the ferry entrance and stopped to buy a ticket, Jackson scanning the slip ahead for cops. A ferry had just pulled in, and traffic was moving onto it in a steady stream. Pulling his hat further over his eyes and crouching behind the wheel, Jackson drove into the covered passageway aboard the boat and stopped.
“Keep your head down,” said Whitey, peering through the rear window. “There was a dick back there on the slip, but I don’t think he spotted us.”
A truck pulled up behind them, effectively blocking the ferry slip from view. Jackson set the emergency brake and, opening the door, slid out into the narrow space between the car and the wall.
“Sit tight,” he told Gordon. “I’ll take a squint at our friend.” He walked back alongside the line of cars to the rear of the boat. The last passengers were scurrying aboard, and two roustabouts were putting up the chain across the driveway. A man in a gray suit stood to one side of the slip, scanning the passengers as they went by. Jackson waited until the gangplank went up and the ferry began moving out from the slip. The man turned his back and moved unhurriedly up the slip, lighting a cigarette.
Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. He went through the side entrance marked “Men,” visited the lavatory, and strolled back to the blue roadster. Whitey was sitting on the back of his neck with one foot through the open window reading the News. He grunted and sat up. “Lot of hooey, this,” he said, indicating the paper. “See anything?”
Jackson got in and closed the car door. “That dick’s just going through the motions,” he said. “I think we’re in the clear.”
They left the ferry on the other side without incident and turned right along River Street paralleling the water front. For some distance they drove in silence, then Whitey said reflectively, “You know, Jack, there are a lot of angles on this business.”
“You mean who bumped Riorden?”
“Uh-huh.” Whitey shifted in his seat and crossed his legs with difficulty. “Jeez,” he complained, “you’d think there’d be room for a guy’s legs in a swanky boat like this. Yep,” he continued when he had finally achieved a degree of comfort, “I’ve been thinking. There were a couple of guys didn’t like Riorden. Any drunken longshoreman with a grudge might have stuck that hook in his neck.”
Jackson swung over carefully to pass a lumbering truck before he answered. They were driving up a long slope on a narrow macadam road with a bluff to the left and a slight gully on the right that deepened as the road rose.
Jackson nodded. “I know. It’s screwy, but maybe we’ll get something from Murdock that’ll make sense out of it.”
They had reached the top of the slope now and were driving along the windi
ng rim of what had become a thirty-foot ravine. A horn sounded behind them, and Jackson, glancing in the rearview mirror, saw a long black sedan come tearing over the shoulder of the hill. He pulled to the right, and the big car, traveling fast, came alongside. Then, too late, he realized what was happening. Instead of passing, the driver of the other car swung the wheel sharply over, sideswiping the blue roadster and sending it out on the shoulder of the road. Jackson had one glimpse of a leering face in the window of the sedan and cursed the redheaded Mayme. He slammed on the brakes and fought the wheel, but the car had too much headway. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Whitey open the car door and shouted, “Don’t jump, you fool.” But Whitey was already halfway out. The roadster struck the low fence at the edge of the gully and hung suspended for a moment, and Whitey’s body hurtled out and went rolling over and over down the slope to disappear in the weeds at the bottom. Then the rotten fence gave way, and Jackson was thrown violently forward and to one side. He threw up his arms to shield his face from flying glass, and his head brought up against the side of the car with a sickening thump. The car pitched sideways through the fence and came to a sudden halt against the trunk of a tree.
Jackson was not completely out. Through a red haze of pain and nausea he felt rather than heard the big sedan come to a squealing stop a hundred feet up the road. The rats. Oh, the dirty, scab-herding rats. They were coming back to finish the job, were they? Okay, let ‘em come. He fumbled frantically in the side pocket of the car, and his hand closed on Mayme’s gun. He had the gun half out of the pocket, was shaking his head furiously to clear his eyes of the blood that ran into them from a cut on his head, when a shadow loomed at the open car door.
Someone laughed, and a voice said, “Will ya look at the crazy bastard?” Jackson was trying to pull the gun free of the pocket and level it at the voice when a weight like a whole sling load of bricks fell on his head, and he plunged forward down a gully ten thousand feet deep into unconsciousness.
“Leave him,” said the man in the black sedan. “Get the other son if he’s still alive and let’s scram out of here before someone shows up.”