“Where, Steve?”
“Kutner,” I almost screamed. “We’ve got to see Kutner right away.”
Then the voice came across the room, from the little hallway opposite the couch.
“Relax, Conacher,” said Horace Kutner. “I’m here.”
CHAPTER 24
He was there, all right. He was all there, complete with his inevitable jaunty derby, and Chesterfield coat and his thin and bony smile. And the black nose of an automatic in his right hand.
He advanced our way, still the great general in command of the emergency. I heard Lila suck in a gasp of astonishment. Her hand gripped me in a reflex of insecurity. But I barely felt her. I was too busy watching Kutner. I was dazed by him, stabbed by the sight of him. Something about him had changed for me. His commercial smile still froze his lean jaw, but there was a fillip of madness in it now. His face seemed harder, younger; more purposeful somehow. And then I saw the reason for the subtle change in his appearance.
He was wearing his pince-nez glasses. Through the lenses, his eyes took on a sharp and sprightly air. He was younger because the usual squint was gone. He could see clearly, that was it.
“Better put your hands up, Conacher.” He waved the gun friskily in my direction. He snaked his eyes at Lila. “You, too, my dear.”
“Horace,” she gasped. “What on earth is the matter with you?”
“Tell her, Conacher. Tell her what’s the matter.”
“Tell her yourself, you bastard.”
“Your language,” said Kutner adjusting himself in the center of the rug. “You always did have a filthy tongue.”
“I use it to spit with, Kutner. Look out.”
“You won’t spit, Conacher.” He stepped into me with a sudden gesture. He slapped the gun across my face. He had strangely strong hands for a man of his age. The gun stung high on my cheek. The shock of the blow sent me falling backward. I found myself on the floor, my head up against the leg of the couch. He kicked out at me then. His toe caught me under the ribs, sending the air out of me in one great and weakening grunt.
“Now watch your nasty tongue,” Kutner said. “Stand up and keep your hands raised and control your foul mouth.”
“What’s the deal, Kutner? You figure you’re ready to add two more stiffs to your list?”
“Not a bad idea, is it? You’re too clever, Conacher. I overheard a few minutes of your sparkling conversation with Lila. How could you possibly suspect that I killed Greg and Hess?”
“You telegraphed it, bright boy.”
“Interesting.” The old face smiled at me tolerantly. “And how did I telegraph it?”
“Your glasses.”
“What about them?”
“You didn’t wear your glasses when you went to the Toy House. You thought you were killing Hess in the locker room. But how could you be sure? All you saw was the vague blur of a fat Santa Claus. It was enough for you, because you didn’t know that Hess was missing at that point. So you shot Wilkinson, thinking he was Hess. Then, when you discovered your mistake, you used the same gun on Hess, in the liquor storeroom.”
“And why did I kill them, Conacher?”
“You know why, you old louse,” I said. “You were the higher-up, the man who worked with Hess in the store heists. You had Hess arrange the dirty end of the stick. You stayed in the clear, collecting the loot. Later on, when Hess came to you for the pay-off money for Malman, you welched. Malman threatened Hess. When Hess decided to leave the country, you cooked up your little scheme. You offered him shelter in the Cumber store. You told him to play Santa during the Christmas season. In the Santa disguise, he would be safe from Malman. But he’d be a sitting duck for you, Kutner. You planted him as the store Santa, so you could knock him off. You didn’t want a frightened partner around.”
“A man must be practical, Conacher.”
“Is that why you almost butchered Helen Sutton?”
“My, my,” he breathed. “You are the clever lad. Can’t you guess why Helen bothered me?”
“You figured she could identify Hess. You paid her a visit and burned the portrait she did of Hess. But that wasn’t enough for you. You tried to kill Helen Sutton.”
“A necessary incident.”
“You’re loaded with mayhem,” I said. “You almost killed me, too. At Wilkinson’s place.”
“Greg was my best friend. He was nice enough to hold some important—ah—jewelry for me.” His long face flooded with a sadness that made him look suddenly very old, very ancient. “I didn’t want to kill Greg Wilkinson.” He paused to let us feel the impact of his keen eyes. Through the glasses, they were great pits of shining evil. “Any more than I want to kill you two fools,” he said.
“You’re mad, Horace,” Lila gasped.
“Am I, Lila? You and Conacher have made it very easy for me. Your habit of entertaining gentlemen guests at all hours will come in mighty handy for me.” His hand was steady on the gun. His face was a mask of horrible purpose. He barely moved his lips when he spoke. “You’re thinking about the doorman, downstairs, is that right, Lila? Please forget about him, my dear. Nobody saw me come into the apartment house. There are other ways of entering this place. I can leave in the same way I came.”
Lila shivered with fright. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Keep your hands up.” He slapped her across the face with his free hand. She recoiled, blinking at him unbelievingly, sucking in a great fresh gasp of dismay.
I took a step his way, but he was as quick as an old animal.
“No tricks, Conacher. Get over there with your lady friend.”
He stood that way for a long pause. His brain now went straight to the business at hand, casing the room thoughtfully. His scheme was coming to a boil. You could see it in the way he licked his thin lips and smiled at us.
“The lock,” he said. “I want you to lock the door to the hall. Start over there, Lila. And you, too, Conacher. I don’t want tricks.”
Three steps! The way to the hall door was a simple trek, across the mauve carpet and then a jog to the left for only a yard or so. But such a trip can stimulate a man’s mind. Especially if death waits at the end of the one-way street. Lila moved ahead of me and I stared at the crimson ripple of her pajama pants, oblivious of their normal appeal. Because Kutner had the nose of his automatic pressed against the edge of my spine.
Four steps!
The distance remaining was short enough for spitting. Yet, in the cluttered recesses of my brain, my intellect gave me nothing I could hang onto, nothing I could use. Instead of planning a sneak attack on Kutner, my mind raced with the beat of my pulse. I was caught up emotionally. Every muscle in me screamed for action. Every idea was colored with the blood-red memories of Chuck Rosen. This was the dog who had killed my partner. This was the sly fox who had pushed Chuck off the terrace. His were the hands that stabbed the sharp spears through Chuck’s neck and spilled Chuck’s gore along the parapet!
Five steps!
Each watch-tick was an epoch in my march to the door ahead. Everything paled for me, including Lila’s figure and the faint swishing noise of her, the silken rustle of her figure. Everything died around me, except the feel of Kutner’s gun in my back, stabbing my hate and anger to white-hot heat. It would be almost worthwhile to turn on him, suddenly, to take the bullet from his gun in exchange for a reasonable grip on his skinny throat. My hands seemed miles above my head now. My body seemed to float on a great gray cloud, off the rug and somewhere up in space. But Kutner—was up there, still right behind me. And the gun was still in my back!
Six steps!
At the turn into the hall, things began to happen.
Lila fainted in front of me.
She sagged and went down and I was close enough behind her to trip over her. I fell down muttering my thanks to her. I went down clawing at her, s
o that I could use her body as a jumping-off place, to wriggle away from Kutner. I felt his bony knee sink into my back. He was thrown off balance and falling, too. It was the split second for a sudden inspiration. He rolled over me, beating at my head with the gun. He connected behind my ear. Once. Twice. Three times. He was a demon now, as young and spry as a college wrestler. He came at me to work me around for one last blow. We fell against the wall and I reached up blindly for his face. If I could only jerk his glasses off! If I could deprive him of his eyes, there might be a chance for me.
Kutner guessed my ambition. He fought away from me now. He used his gun hand to lacerate me. One of his blows landed on my forehead. The room began to spin for me, but I clawed again at his face. And this time, my groping fingers came away with the string to his pince-nez. I slapped the glasses up against the wall and they cracked under my hand and when I pulled my hand back my palm was an oblong of blood.
Kutner blinked and staggered away from me. He had me now. He had me if he could take aim and be sure of his target. But he must move closer. He must be within inches of my heart, the way he had to approach both Santas in Cumber’s. He started forward for me, squinting as he came.
Then, suddenly, Lila came to life!
She squirmed along the floor and dove at his legs and grabbed him, high up near the knees, clawing and screaming for me to get his gun. Kutner kicked out at her savagely and she went down like a lump, caught under the chin by his vicious boot. She sagged and slid off him, but her hands still clutched his pants with a desperate grip, tying him up in the legs, so that he couldn’t move my way.
“Bitch!” he spat and kicked out at her again. This time his murderous shot almost ruined her. There was a flat and sickening clop as he connected with his nimble foot. She fell back and away from him, screaming her pain as she dropped.
In the quick interval of her attack, while Kutner struggled to kick her away, I made my move. I hit him low in a flying tackle. He saw me before the leap was completed. He must have seen me clearly, because he flailed out at me in a blind rage, using the gun as a bludgeon. A cataract of stabbing pain fell over my eyes. He had caught me high on the cheek. I hit the floor heavily and felt him roll over on me.
I came out of the gray mist a moment later. Kutner wheezed and puffed over me, the sound of his breath a rushing, rasping noise in my ear. I held my eyes closed. Something was happening to Kutner. He should have shot me after the last crack at my head. He should have killed me, and gone. Yet, in the sticky silence, he made no move at all. The taste of blood was on my tongue. The gash on my cheek still oozed crimson, down the corner of my mouth. My breath was heavy with weakness, a dying sigh deep inside my throat. I lay there, knowing that any purposeful twitch would mean the end for me. He would kill me quickly if he had to battle me again.
And then I felt his hands, under my armpits, dragging me with a strength I never imagined the old crud could muster. He had steel bands in his hands. He had the strength and purpose of a college senior. He pulled me and tugged me along the wall, muttering a few classic obscenities as he dragged my limp body. Where was he taking me? What was his purpose? I struggled to rouse myself from the coma he had dropped me into. I fought to focus on the scene at hand.
But nothing happened to my sick head until he hauled me up before the window and I felt him drop me like a sack of wet wash. He was opening the window up there, above me. He was going to push me out!
His strategy came through to me as I struggled for strength. If he could drop me out, his troubles would be over. He could shoot Lila and then throw the gun out the window. He could set up a double murder again. I heard the grinding squeal of the window as Kutner began to raise it. Then, out of the terrible fog, I saw his bony hands come down for me.
There was only one way for me to play it now. I waited for the touch of his lean fingers. There would be a moment when his spindly frame must be off balance to grab me and haul me up. When that moment came, I was ready for it. I kicked up at him, a sudden, desperate effort aimed at a spot on his frame where no man should ever be kicked. My shoe connected with the soft underbelly of his groin, the seat of his ancient manhood. He came down in a screaming bundle, rolling over me and away toward the center of the room. I crawled after him, my legs as stiff and unreasonable as two pogo sticks. The gun! If I could only reach his gun!
But Kutner rallied before I reached him.
And the seams of the earth split open as he raised his arm and took aim.
The flash and crash boomed in my ears. The bastard winged me, high on the right shoulder. I yelped and screamed, stumbling to my feet and diving for the light switch, a million miles away to my left. My fingers clawed and clutched for it, finding it and jerking down to spill blackness through the room.
Then Kutner shot again.
He was off the beam completely now, his glasses lost to him, as blind as the proverbial bat without them. The flurry and roar came from the windowed side of the room, and before the echo could die in my ears I started for the source of the sound. For the flick of an instant, his thin and spindly frame was silhouetted against the dark gray of the window. He moved to the right quickly, aware of the target he was making. I heard only the sound of his breathing, high and rasping, like an unoiled machine about to break down.
I dove for the sound of his breath.
He went down under me, as strong as an ox despite his age. But he no longer had the gun. I heard it clop against the wall and reached beyond him for it, missing it as he grabbed my legs.
He made a mistake, grabbing my legs.
I kicked up and away, my toe connecting with bone. I must have broken his jaw with the impact. I must have smashed his face open. He began to squirm around, grunting and gasping like a wounded animal, jerking and rolling away from me in the direction of the gun. My shoulder felt as hot as a fresh fried pancake. My eyes closed against the pain as I moved my body after him. His lean fingers were on the gun now and he was beginning to laugh it up, blubbering his amusement as he adjusted his body so that he could shoot again. His face was a gory mess, split wide open by my last kick at him. But he held that gun steady, fumbling his arm for a good shot at me. He would be shooting blind now. His eyes were useless without the glasses.
I dove straight for his face.
I felt the gun go off, somewhere over my ear, a blast that made the bells ring in my head.
Then I kicked at his jaw again.
And this time, I connected in the right spot.
Kutner screamed once. Then he lost control of the last few workable muscles in his face. He slid back against the wall, as limp as a wet bag.
“One more for Chuck,” I shouted.
But my mind careened into a fog of pain. My last kick at him was like kicking air. I keeled over and tasted the carpet for a while.
When I awoke I was in a soft cushion.
“Midge,” I said weakly.
“Take it easy, Steve.” She was crying softly and holding her handkerchief to my bleeding head.
The room was a symphony of upset. Under the window, his face a welter of gore, lay Kutner. To my right, near the small lobby, Lila Martin’s figure was sprawled on the rug, her arms outstretched as though grabbing for an invisible crumb of dust. Every stick of furniture in the room was out of place.
The air stank of the smell of lead. Near my head, buzzing with an impatient sound, the telephone sang off the hook. I reached for it and dialed Lunt.
“Come up and collect the stiffs,” I told him.
Midge grabbed the phone and gave him the information.
She hung up and said: “Relax, Steve. Don’t talk any more.”
“I thought I told you to go home to bed a while ago.”
“In the middle of a salami sandwich?”
“Always thinking of something to eat, aren’t you?”
“Not always.” Midge laughed. “Aren’t
you glad I stayed?”
“I’m tickled silly, baby. I could kiss you for it.”
“Not a good idea. I’m full of salami.”
“Kiss me, my fair salami.”
She leaned down and did.
And on her, it tasted good.
Turn the page to continue reading from the PI Steve Conacher Mysteries
CHAPTER 1
The start of it was simple—until I met the old man.
Luke Yorke continued to amaze me. He was old and he was sick, but his voice still carried the overtones of seasoned authority. When he talked into his intercom, your ears snipped thirty years off his age.
“No visitors for a while, Kate,” he said.
He waited politely for the answering murmur. Kate Steen’s voice came from some mysterious void out in the reception room. The old man scowled at it.
“That means everybody,” he said sharply. “Including Arthur.”
He hung up and fussed with a bottle of Scotch, moving slowly and deliberately, his keen eyes studying me in the pause. He was using the quiet moment to measure me for the job at hand in the brazen, obvious manner of a business executive who appraises a qualifying office boy. His critical scrutiny could freeze a man and then soften him for a sudden verbal attack. I wondered vaguely how Mike Smith had reacted to this routine.
“A gay and high-spirited girl,” he said with a dry chuckle. “Quite a little person, Katie Steen.”
“An old friend of mine,” I said.
“Indeed? From where?”
“Inger’s. I used to know quite a few of the cartooning boys at the syndicate, Mr. Yorke. At that time, Katie was a receptionist there.”
“Talented,” said the old man.
“In many ways,” I smiled.
Luke Yorke considered his drink for a moment. He got off his ancient butt and advanced to the window, eyeing the wintry sky with the speculative air of an old, tired bird. He began to cough, a deep and rumbling fit of hacking and hawking, the sound of it filling the room. His pale face reddened under the attack and he leaned against the bar until the great gusts of coughing quieted.
Kiss and Kill Page 17