I said, “Take it easy, Yukon. I’ll take care of you in a minute.”
CHAPTER 13
Gregory Yukon’s wound was nothing more than a bullet nick and the big man was suffering more from shock and fear than pain and bloodletting. I washed his shoulder and after a while he stopped bleeding and I covered the puncture with a wad of cotton and antiseptic and adhesive tape. I let him sleep.
I revived Alice next and she came awake with a mixture of embarrassment and relief.
She said immediately, “Gregory—is he all right? What have you done with him?”
“I’ve got him inside on the couch. He’s okay.”
“The police—did you—?”
I shook my head. “That comes later.”
She bounded away from me and ran over to where big brother lay. She kneeled beside him and began to whimper a bit.
I tapped her on the shoulder and when she turned her head I put a hand under her arm and lifted her away from him and over toward the easy chair. I said, “Your brother is as healthy as I am. Look, he was shot, but the bullet only nicked the fleshy part of his shoulder and then buried itself somewhere else. Brother Gregory is suffering from shock—a common disease among the uninitiated in battle.”
“But who could have shot at him?” she whispered. “Who would want to hurt Gregory?”
“He’ll let you know in a minute. I’m going to bring him out of his nap.”
I wet a towel thoroughly in the kitchen and when I returned Alice was back at the couch again, breathing heavily over her brother’s head.
I said, “Step back, honey. He’s liable to come out of it waving his hands like a traffic cop.”
I slapped Gregory gently with the wet towel. He blinked his eyes and opened his mouth to suck in air. His gestures were wild and stupid and funny, all at the same time. He was a child having a nightmare, a drunken adolescent, a heavy clown. I shook him gently.
Gregory jerked himself upright. His eyes were wide open now and I noticed that they were heavily bloodshot. Alice went to him but he pushed her away and made a great show of concentrating on me.
He waved a hand, shakily. “Where did you come from?”
Alice said, “Jeff was visiting me. We were in the kitchen, eating, when you—”
He interrupted her with a short sob and a gentle quiver, accompanied by a grimace of pain that a dying man might use in a B picture. His dramatics brought Alice to his side again and this time he didn’t push her away when she comforted him. It made me sick.
I said, “You’re breaking my heart, Yukon. I’ve seen featherweight infantrymen stay at their posts for two days with better wounds than you’ve got. Maybe the antiseptic will sting a while, but you’ll be playing the outfield with the rest of the team tomorrow morning. Who shot you?”
His face fell into its accustomed angry groove. “That, my friend, is none of your business.”
I said, “I can make it my business.”
He looked from me to Alice and I thought I saw her color a bit. He said, “Exactly what are you driving at?”
“You’re slow on the uptake, Yukon. The police might be interested.”
“The police? Why should you tell the police?”
“It’s the law. When a man gets a slug in his shoulder, the police like to know who aimed the gun. They’re liable to accuse me of aiding and abetting a criminal. They can slap me in the clink and hold me for a year or two.”
Yukon was unimpressed. “You cannot prove that I was shot. Neither can the police.”
Alice said, “You’re both talking like fools. I don’t see any reason for your telling the police, Jeff. Why should you be concerned about who hurt Gregory?”
“I’m a curious Joe, Alice. I like to stick my long nose in other people’s vestibules and smell out what makes them panicky. I had an impulse to come down here today for a visit. Why? Maybe it was because I felt that I wanted to know you better, Alice. Then again, it might have been only the effect of your figure upon my artistic brain. Cartoonists like the dames when their figures are encouraging.”
“Charming,” said Alice. “I’m flattered.”
“You shouldn’t be. My impulses move in strange ways. For instance, I can’t understand why you rebel against telling me more about Paula. She was a pal of yours. Yet you refuse to talk about her, or worry about her disappearance. You’ve been sidetracking me for the past two hours. You’ve been making me chicken sandwiches and loading me with heavy cocktails. You’ve been giving me your eyes and your conversation and not a damned thing else. You don’t want me to know any more about Paula Smith. Or do you?”
She shrugged. “I’ve told you all I know.”
“Malarkey. You haven’t even begun to spill and you know it.”
Gregory interrupted. “You are absolutely wrong, Keye. You’re on the wrong track if you think Alice is holding back information about this Paula Smith.”
“More malarkey,” I said. “You’re going to get yourself into a mess of trouble one of these days with your double-talk. You should be anxious to have the police latch on to the gent who just winged your shoulder. And how do you react? You want to keep your secret to yourself, isn’t that it?”
“There is no reason to involve the police in my personal affairs.”
“The police have a bad habit of involving themselves in such things as gunplay.” I crossed the room and stood over him. “You’re quite a character, Yukon. I don’t figure you. I can’t understand, for instance, why a big strong man like you faints dead away from a bullet scratch. You’ve been around. You know the law. You know, too, that if I report this little incident you’ll have a couple of strong willed gentlemen from the police department down here who might sweat the information out of you. They figure that every bullet wound is caused by a bullet and every bullet comes from a gun. And that brings them to trigger fingers and maybe attempted murder, or attempted robbery, or attempted blackmail. Put them all together, Gregory, and they smell to high heaven. I figure that all of this horse play may somehow be tied to the mysterious disappearance of my girl friend, Paula Smith. Do you follow me, or am I talking too fast?”
Alice stared at me unbelievingly as I mouthed my dialogue. Gregory Yukon lit a cigarette but I caught the quaver in his hand when, he raised the match to it.
He said, “You are talking nonsense, my friend.” He stood up and made a small face at the pain in his shoulder. “I’m going upstairs for a minute. You will do me the favor of not phoning the police until I return?”
“I’m not in the mood for doing favors. When do you return?”
“I want to change my shirt. We can talk after that.”
“I’ll wait.”
Alice watched him go with worried eyes.
I said, “Anything left in that cocktail shaker?”
She poured me a drink. “Are you sure he’s all right? He looked pale.”
“He’s the anemic type, I guess. He’s only got a glorified scratch on his shoulder. Why doesn’t he want the police to nab his mysterious assailant?”
“You’ll have to ask him that one.”
“You don’t seem to know much about your brother’s private life, or are you pulling the same starry-eyed act you handed me about Paula Smith?”
She sat down beside me and gripped my hand and the grip was hard and full of meaning. “It’s getting so that you worry me, Jeff. You shouldn’t be mixing into other people’s affairs the way you do. You’ll get into trouble someday.”
“Trouble like this?”
She didn’t mind the kiss. “Suppose I were to tell you that whatever happened to Gregory has absolutely nothing to do with Paula Smith. Would you believe me?”
“Would you want me to?”
“Don’t be so stubborn. Forget about Paula, can’t you?”
“Not today.”
“I co
uld help you forget,” she said, and kissed me again.
I got up and looked at my watch. It was seven-thirty. Gregory must have decided to make a new shirt for himself. Or had he?
I said, “Get your big brother down, it’s time for more double-talk, only this time maybe the police will umpire the game.”
She laughed at me gently. “Gregory is gone, silly. He left some time ago by the back door.”
“And you kept me interested so that he could scram?”
“I kept you interested because I wanted you interested.”
She wanted another kiss, but I brushed her off and grabbed my hat and made for the door.
“I’ll be seeing you again, lovely,” I snarled.
CHAPTER 14
Bull awaited me in Hank’s studio. I told him my story.
He said, “I’m glad you didn’t call Trum. He would have loused things up a bit. If Yukon was winged, I’d like to find out about all the details before our good friend Trum goes into his departmental mumbo-jumbo. Sometimes the police can ruin a good lead by following through according to their own set of rules.”
Hank said, “Funny about a big guy like him fainting that way, isn’t it?”
“Shock,” said Bull. “The bigger they come, the harder they collapse, sometimes. I wish we knew where he got that shot. It might help.”
The doorbell rang and Hank answered it. It was Bellick.
Hank said, “Here’s your friend, Homer. Bellick is here with a couple of aces up his sleeves.”
Bellick turned his derby in his hands, full of a nervous modesty.
“I am happy to see you, Mister Bull. I am busy on this case for you all day long.”
Bull whacked him on the back and gave him a chair and a cigar. “You are the most dependable man on the force, Bellick. There are too few detectives who operate the way you do. I’m proud to have you working with me again.”
Hank said, “So am I. You want a drink, maybe, Bellick?”
“I could enjoy a small drink. I am not supposed to be having these things when I am on duty, of course. But right now I am supposed to be having supper, so why can’t I have a drink with my supper?”
Hank said, “Are you hinting at a sandwich?” He faded into his kitchen.
Bull dropped into an easy chair. “Let it spill, Bellick.”
Bellick said, “I am considering calling my stuff to MacAndrews. Then I draw the conclusion maybe I better tell you first.”
“A good idea, Bellick. Start at the beginning and give it to me.”
Bellick nodded at his notes. “Like MacAndrews tells you, I’m down first at this Mrs. Preston’s house. I am standing there watching the place and I see a messenger boy walk up on the porch with a big package. I allow Mrs. Preston to grab hold of this package and take it inside.”
“You’re sure it was Mrs. Preston who took the package?”
Bellick smiled. “I am familiar with this woman. It is Mrs. Preston who takes the package. After she takes the package, I follow the messenger boy up the street and ask him what this package is that he delivers. He is a fresh kid and does not talk. I break him down and he admits that he is from the Boucher Galleries. This leads me to decide that this package is maybe a picture.”
I swallowed my laugh and Bull coughed over his cigar.
“Well done, Bellick. Anything else from the boy? The price of the picture, maybe?”
Bellick swallowed hard, embarrassed. “I unfortunately do not inquire about this, Mr. Bull.”
“What size picture was it?”
“Big—it is not a small picture at all.”
“And, of course, you weren’t interested in the artist who painted the masterpiece? You’re slipping, Bellick, you’re slipping. What next?”
Bellick consulted his book. “This Mrs. Preston walks out of her house at ten-thirty prompt. She takes a taxi and goes uptown on Fifth Avenue. I am following her, of course. She gets out of the cab at Ninety-Seventh Street, walks up to a big house there, one of the private ones, not an apartment house. I see her go inside and then I walk up to the door and catch the name on the bell. This house belongs to a Mrs. Shay Carruthers.”
Bull leaned forward in his chair and jerked the cigar out of his mouth. “Are you sure it was Mrs. Shay Carruthers? There weren’t any other names on the bell plate?”
“I am positive it is Mrs. Carruthers for the reason you mention, Mr. Bull. It is a one family place, big and old, like the spot where the society stiff Reynolds is murdered last year. You recall?” Bull urged him on. “Mrs. Preston stays in this Carruthers place for one hour and forty minutes and then comes out, takes another cab and heads down town again.”
“Is this Mrs. Preston carrying anything out with her?”
“Nothing at all. I follow her down to the Village and she stops at Fifth and Waverly. She stands there, sort of looking around like as if she has maybe spotted me tailing her. Then walks West, ducks down a couple side streets and winds up in front of Boucher’s Galleries. She goes inside for maybe five, ten minutes. She comes out with a tall guy.”
‘White hair and mustache?”
“Exactly correct,” said Bellick. “She and this tall guy walk back to her house. They go in and the tall guy stays with her for maybe a half hour. He comes back out and puts me on the spot. I do not know what to do—should I follow this guy or watch Mrs. Preston? I think fast and follow him.”
Bull whistled a tuneless dirge through his teeth. “You should have thought slow, Bellick. You’ve got a better mind when you keep it in first gear. MacAndrews assigned you to watch Mrs. Preston, not Boucher.”
“That is correct,” stammered Bellick, “but, I thought—”
“You should never think, Bellick. You should follow. I think I can tell you what happened. You followed Boucher to his gallery, then returned to Mrs. Preston’s?”
Bellick nodded to his knuckles.
“But Mrs. Preston didn’t show after that?” Bull asked.
“I waited there, but she didn’t show up. I figure maybe she went out while I’m tailing this Boucher. So I give up after a few hours and come here.”
Bull got up and shook Bellick’s hand. “Good enough, Bellick. I think you can leave Mrs. Preston alone now. From now on you continue with your new love—the tall man with the mustache. His name is Boucher—Henri Boucher. Don’t let him out of your sight. Just watch—don’t think.”
Bellick accepted one of Bull’s cigars and went away with renewed enthusiasm. Bull picked up the phone and dialed a number. He said, “Gurney? Check your files on Mrs. Shay Carruthers, will you? Find out whether she’s been off on another fine arts spree recently.” He turned to me with a grin. “This Mrs. Shay Carruthers is an original Thorne Smith character, Jeff. Her particular mania is picture collecting. She’s a bit unhinged mentally, buys originals by the gross and has the biggest collection of phony art in the world. Old man Carruthers left her five million dollars to play with and ever since his death she’s been gathering pictures for a forthcoming Carruthers Collection.” He stopped to listen to his friend Gurney. He nodded his head sagely and then shook it sadly. “You say she’s given up announcing her purchases? Since 1941, eh? Thanks, Gurney. Drop by some afternoon for a slug of Bourbon.”
Bull sighed. “The old lady was swindled so beautifully back in 1941 that she’s decided not to announce any more of her purchases. In 1941 she swallowed the bait of a phony Italian Count who told her he had unearthed an original Rembrandt, done secretly for the Prince Regent of Italy or Flatbush. It was a classic fraud, netting the Italian Count a cool $250,000. He was soon caught spreading his largesse among several of his aristocratic family in the tenement section of Williamsburg, a dark part of Brooklyn. The Count, it was discovered, was the son of an Italian fish peddler named Rocco Beneviti. The Count had learned enough art jargon in Erasmus Hall High School to gain confidence for t
he master stroke.”
“I remember the case,” I said. “I’m an Erasmus Hall boy, myself.”
“It was well publicized, that swindle,” said Bull. “It convinced Mrs. Carruthers, evidently, that she might better limit her purchases to the moderns. It also convinced her that she should keep her discoveries to herself. Publicity of that type can be very embarrassing to a dilettante.”
Bull lifted the phone again, asked information for the phone number of Mrs. Shay Carruthers. He dialed the number. He said, “Is Mrs. Carruthers at home? I’d like to speak to her. I’m an art dealer, I’ve just discovered an original—”
Bull put the phone down. “Her butler says that Mrs. Carruthers is not interested in pictures at present. It could mean that the old bag is involved in a deal and won’t consider another until the current swindle is climaxed.”
“Swindle with who?” asked Hank. “Mrs. Preston?”
“I don’t know.” Bull studied his cigar. “If we could only get closer to the Preston dame.”
“I can do that chore,” I said.
“She knows you,” said Bull. “It would be impossible.”
“There’s Lucy.”
The fat man chuckled. “Of course. Can you get inside the house?”
“If I haven’t lost my touch.”
“He’ll get in,” said Hank. “Give him your keys.”
Bull told me what he wanted and gave me a ring full of assorted keys. I would search Mrs. Preston’s rooms thoroughly, examine all records, look for cash, and especially pictures.
“What sort of pictures?” I asked.
“All sorts. List them, if you can—the originals.”
I returned to my hotel to freshen up. I called Lucy and found her a bit coy, but not unwilling to share my company for the evening. She went off duty at nine o’clock. It would be too late for a movie, she suggested. I asked if I could visit her at home. She giggled girlishly and told me Mrs. Preston might not like the idea. She told me to come at nine-thirty, finally. Mrs. Preston always went out to a bar at nine-thirty.
The Girl with the Frightened Eyes Page 14