The Dead of Winter

by William H Hallahan

  Lyons noted the time in his log.

  The limousine returned at 10:25, and the chauffeur carried two cases of Scotch into the house.

  At 10:45 a van drove up and parked in the driveway. “POINTE CATERERS” said the lettering on the truck panel. The driver wheeled two metal cabinets into the house, each containing racks of food trays.

  The chauffeur reappeared at 11:00. He carried a pair of women’s salmon-hued suitcases. He backed the limousine out of the garage, placed the two suitcases in the trunk well, then returned for more luggage. Lyons counted nine pieces. All women’s. Two styles. Two colors: salmon and green. He clicked off several frames of film, reading every detail through the Kholmann Superlex Reflex monocular lens.

  The chauffeur-bodyguard re-entered the house, leaving the engine running. Gray exhaust covered the damp ground and slowly drifted away in the still air.

  At 11:30 the door opened again and a man emerged. Middle-aged, thin as a stick, he stood encircled by Lyons’ binoculars, clad only in a light business suit.

  Lyons squirmed out of his seat and quickly focused his camera on the head. Using the trigger lever, he clicked off several frames. The man strolled to the middle of the cement driveway apron, looking casually about the grounds in the dead-calm gray light. He exhaled plumes of cigarette smoke and breath in the damp, biting air. He appeared to be thinking deeply.

  Abruptly he returned to the warmth of the house.

  For practice, Lyons focused the camera on the smoking butt where it lay in the snow-whitened crack in the driveway. He took a picture of it. Then he made an entry in his log.

  He and the dogs resumed watching the back door. Waiting.

  A middle-aged woman appeared at 11:45. She had her hair done in a skull-stretching bun and wore a mink coat. A younger woman, obviously her daughter, followed, also in a mink coat. The man came next, now wearing an overcoat and hat. Last came the chauffeur, now wearing a black cap. A matronly woman in a domestic’s uniform stood at the doorway and flapped a hand at the two women.

  The bodyguard seated the three in the back seat of the limousine, then backed slowly down the driveway.

  Lyons was so intent on filming the family through that one myopic, confining lens that he hadn’t seen the arrival of the other car, a similar limousine. It waited at the curb near the Pell driveway, and then it followed Pell’s car closely.

  Lyons managed to get two shots of the car, but in the gray light the faces of the four men inside were probably lost to the camera. Lyons watched the two cars drive quickly away.

  From the back door the domestic again waved a matronly hand, then slowly shut the door. The two dogs resumed their prowling in the runway. The squirrel returned from his trip, hurrying fitfully across the lawn toward his tree.

  Lyons looked at his wrist watch. Time to meet Basche and Tyler at Metropolitan Airport. He packed up his equipment and descended the tower.

  A large flake of snow floated slowly down. It tumbled along the ground and sank into a long jagged crack in the motel driveway. Heavy snow was likely to start at any moment.

  The air inside the motel room was hot and dry, and Lyons opened the door a crack. Then he turned and watched Roger Basche flip slowly through the photo enlargements. Joe Tyler stood next to Basche, studying each print with him.

  “He looks the part,” said Basche. “Look at that one.” He held up to Lyons a picture of the man looking thought fully at the two Dobermans. The dogs were solemnly watching the man watch them.

  Lyons picked up one of the prints and looked at Anthony Pell’s face. Skull. Skull with a grimace. Skull with a grimace that showed very bad teeth—horsey, crooked and stained a brown yellow. Sickly face, eyes sunken in bags of flaccid purple skin. Thin, slack-limbed, thewless body. Saturnine man with a saturnine view of the world. Pickle juice for blood. Sour as a locker room. Indifferently capable of anything.

  Basche glanced at Lyons. “Well, what’s next?”

  “Pell’s having a meeting at his home tonight. Probably a dinner meeting. The caterer has already delivered the food. I don’t know who’s coming. I don’t know how many. I don’t know why.”

  “Take a guess,” said Tyler.

  “I guess it has something to do with that meeting at Charlie Ha Ha’s that never came off. It has something to do with all our other questions.”

  “Starting with the hole in your arm.”

  “Yes.”

  “What could they be meeting for?”

  “Maybe,” said Lyons, “the subject is us.”

  When the containers of coffee came, Basche sat down on a chair and spread the enlarged photographs around his feet on the floor.

  “Back door. Front door. A side door.”

  “They use only the back door,” said Lyons.

  “Where do these bodyguards in the car stay?” “Varies. Sometimes they travel in the car as a group.

  Sometimes they park the car near the house and stand duty in twos. Basically, they’re where Pell is.”

  Basche looked at Lyons and smirked. “Three days in a bell tower, huh? You’re something and a half, Lyons. How far in yards is the tower from the house?”

  “Too far for your rifle. You’d get only one shot at him, and if you miss we’d have to pack it in. He wouldn’t expose himself again for months.”

  “It’d have to be the shot of the century,” said Tyler. He tapped a picture with his foot. “Two dogs?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tyler sat down. “This is going to be a bitch-kitty.”

  “I think I know how to get him,” said Lyons. “Let’s take a tour of Pell’s neighborhood.”

  A light snow had begun to fall.

  The light on Charlie Ha Ha’s desk went on.

  The gold pull chain swung in the circle of light, casting a swaying shadow. A pair of hands put down an attaché case and opened it. The wooden swivel chair creaked as the man sat down. He leaned forward into the desk light. His flat black eyes showed no more expression than they’d had when he examined Fleagle’s corpse in the marsh.

  The man removed Fleagle’s white billy from the case, a few miscellaneous papers, a brown envelope marked “Reece” and a legal pad.

  He stood up and went to Charlie Ha Ha’s safe. From it he removed the hypodermic syringe and the rubber-capped bottle and brought them back to the desk. He consulted the legal pad. The top of the page was captioned “Reece” and under it “Friends & Neighbors” with a list of names. Below that was a heading: “Habits.” He lifted the sheet. The next page was titled “History,” and it was filled with biographical information on Vincent Reece.

  At the bottom of that page the man copied in pencil the two words on the medicine bottle: “sodium pentothal.” He drew a heavy circle around the two words and then a thick question mark.

  He lifted that sheet and examined another titled “Ha Ha.” He examined the facts listed there, and then gazed out of Charlie Ha Ha’s window at the lights of Staten Island across Buttermilk Channel. He remained there for some minutes, drumming his fingers, then returned the syringe and bottle to the safe, swept the material back into the attaché case and put the light out.

  He had a night flight to Detroit to catch.

  Slow snow fell twisting through the cones of light thrown by the street lamps, twisting and falling lightly through the many outside lamps around Anthony Pell’s house.

  The two dogs looked at it indifferently as they stood in their pen, watching the house. At whiles they shrugged the snow from their backs and stirred restlessly.

  Lyons, Basche and Tyler looked down from the campanile. Below them on the church lawn was the Christmas crèche, a pat scene in which the snow, glowing in the floodlights, looked contrived.

  Using the binoculars and the telephoto lens of the camera, they studied the house and grounds.

  Lyons examined a black limousine parked near Pell’s driveway. A cigarette tip glowed in the darkness behind the steering wheel.

  “That’s one,” he said, pass
ing the glasses to Basche. “And around the corner near the front door, there’s another.”

  Basche studied the two cars, switching back and forth with the glasses several times. “Ten’ll get you eight they’re using walkie-talkie radios.” He peered at the house.

  “I don’t see anyone inside—but it’s lit up like Grant’s tomb.”

  At eight o’clock the speakers above their heads went on, and recorded bells chimed Christmas carols over the expensive slate rooftops of Grosse Pointe.

  A moment later Pell’s limousine rolled into the driveway, followed by two taxicabs. Another limousine followed and parked at the curb. Its lights went out.

  Eleven men stood briefly in the driveway, scanning Pell’s house like strangers, adjusting their overcoats and murmuring to one another as the cabs drove quietly away in the muffling snow.

  The chauffeur strolled down the drive to the limousine and spoke briefly into the car window, then strolled back to the house, checking everything as he walked, even the stirring dogs. He hung his cap on the door as he entered.

  He reappeared a moment later with the housekeeper. And the two drove off in the limousine.

  “Well,” said Tyler, “what do you make of it?”

  Basche shook his head. “Could be anything from a poker party to a plot to blow up City Hall.”

  “What do you think, Lyons?”

  Lyons shrugged. “Trouble: that’s what I think. That Pell flew all the way to Ha Ha’s place for a meeting. And he tore up half an acre of house and office. Now he’s having a meeting with men who obviously arrived from the airport. Out-of-towners. I think they’re taking a chance meeting like this. It smells like a what’ll-we-do-next’ kind of meeting.”

  “What makes you think they’re taking a chance?”

  “Well, Pell took his wife and daughter somewhere today with a whole load of luggage. A month in Florida, I’d say. The housekeeper is driven somewhere—maybe a movie, maybe an overnight stay at her sister’s. And there are three carloads of muscle sitting in cars down there. And I bet they all have return flight reservations for late tonight right in their pockets.”

  Basche shook his head. “You can get more information from a bunch of nothing than anybody I ever heard of.”

  “All except the most important thing, Roger,” said Lyons. “Why are they meeting?”

  The bleak December sky of Michigan was still there at dawn the next morning. Lyons woke at a quarter to six after a night of light, tense naps.

  He sat up and put his feet on the rug. He promised himself a reward for his weariness, for his fears and extreme reluctance to go any further.

  He didn’t want to kill Anthony Pell.

  He took a fast shower and shaved. The gauntness of his face shocked him. His freshly shaved beard seemed gray and unhealthy. He had a knot in his stomach. Anthony Pell’s body—cut, bleeding, shot, bruised, however—Anthony Pell’s sick old yellow body repelled him like a snake.

  A few hours more and he’d be done with this. Back in New York. Nothing could go wrong.

  He put on his jacket and said aloud, “Lady Macbeth.”

  They had the Saturday morning at dawn to themselves. The icy roads were empty. And the ugliness of the city depressed Lyons. Everything seemed stale and bitter. He hated it all, hated himself and drove in a slump.

  Grosse Pointe Farms was in a deep sleep under an inch and a half of snow. The cathedral-like atmosphere of the towering elms was like the spare, lean trappings of a Greek play.

  Pell’s house was quiet, draped, closed up. The two dogs stood watching the back door. The three cars were in the garage. Lyons circled the block, then parked in the church parking lot.

  Basche handed him a hot container of coffee. “Twenty to seven,” he said.

  Lyons looked around at the two of them and at himself. In business suits, ties, winter overcoats and hats.

  “We look like the office car pool,” he murmured.

  Tyler was tense, ready for a quarrel. He didn’t answer Lyons’ remark. “The son-of-a-bitch,” he said, looking at the house.

  Basche quietly, patiently sipped his coffee. Occasionally he glanced at his watch.

  The cold began to penetrate the car. Soon Lyons could see a faint plume of breath.

  Nothing moved. No cars. The streets were empty. The morning light was pale and haggard, and Lyons’ spirits sagged further.

  He reached into his overcoat side pocket and felt the butt of the pistol. With the silencer, it felt like a long piece of lead pipe. For the first time he realized they could get shot themselves.

  “The son-of-a-bitch,” said Tyler. He looked at Lyons. “He is.”

  Lyons nodded and drank his coffee. He was shivering. Waiting was forever. He wondered where all those bodyguards were. Inside the house? Were they all inside?

  Seven o’clock came. The dogs stood expectantly. The back door remained closed.

  “Maybe they left,” said Tyler.

  “No,” said Lyons. “They’d have done something with the dogs.”

  At ten after seven, Tyler grew restless. “Christ! It’s freezing in here. Where is that guy?” He shifted his weight.

  “Maybe he already …”

  Lyons shrugged. He was trembling and his armpits were soaked.

  “What’ll we do if he doesn’t come out?” asked Tyler. “It’s something we didn’t plan on.”

  Basche looked sidelong at Lyons.

  Dan Lyons looked at his watch. “Twelve after.”

  “Couple of minutes more,” said Basche.

  “Yes,” said Lyons. “Couple more.”

  It was a flash of reflected sky light that alerted them. A flash off the upper pane of the back door as it swung open. The bodyguard stepped through, shaking out the two leashes to disentangle them. He walked slowly as he worked toward the pens.

  The two dogs danced on their hind legs and spun and jumped up on the fencing.

  “Twenty after,” said Basche.

  The bodyguard worked at the leashes patiently.

  “Come on. Come on,” urged Tyler.

  At last he separated them and clipped them to the dog collars. Then he put the muzzles on them.

  “God, it takes him forever.”

  The bodyguard strolled down the driveway, studying the house and the grounds. He glanced in the direction of the church parking lot. Then he walked along the grounds. The two dogs darted restlessly on the leashes. He glanced again at the parking lot, then began the morning run.

  Tyler exhaled heavily as the bodyguard disappeared around the corner with the two dogs prancing.

  Lyons started the car. His hands were soaking wet in the gloves and felt as though they had no strength in them. He rolled quickly out of the parking lot, moved down the street to Pell’s driveway, entered it and pulled up to the garage door.

  He left the motor running.

  The three of them got out and softly pushed the car doors to without latching them. Feet crunched in the sheet of snow crust. Lyons studied the windows. All, all heavily draped. Roger Basche held up two crossed fingers and tried the handle on the back door. It opened softly.

  They were on a landing. Steps led down to the cellar and other steps led to a center hallway. Warm air touched their faces. There was a strong smell of soap and laundry from the cellar. A peaceful, orderly odor.

  A radio played softly somewhere in the house. Basche stepped lightly up the stairs and quickly gazed about the paneled hallway. And stopped and jabbed a finger at the kitchen. The housekeeper. Lyons grimaced silently. They expected her to be away.

  She stood at the stove and sink with her back to them, a thick middle-aged figure cooking something. The sound of the radio came from the kitchen.

  Basche urged them on with a silent waving hand. He glanced into the dining room. Then the living room. Statuary. Sculpting. Paintings. Thick rugs. Empty of people.

  Basche turned and mounted the carpeted stairs to the second floor. He paused before he got to the top and cocked h
is head. Water was splashing somewhere. The three of them reached the landing with Basche still trying to locate the sound.

  He stepped along the upper landing to a door that was pushed to but not shut. With one finger he pushed it open.

  Anthony Pell was in his undershirt, shaving.

  Involuntarily he stepped back, squinting. He dropped his razor. The white squares of shaving cream on his face where he hadn’t yet shaved looked improper, almost degradingly undignified.

  “Who’s that?” he demanded, raising his hands. “What do you guys want?” Shaving water trickled from his upraised hands down the thin bones of his forearms to his elbows.

  Basche’s shot went through his skull-like head just in front of his ear below his temple. It slammed him back against the wall. The gun made a sound like a great phoo!

  Under his undershirt his soft, distended, old-man’s belly protruded. As he fell his half-shaved face pushed between the radiator and the tiled wall.

  Anthony Pell’s glasses had fallen into the soapy water of the sink. A film of beard shavings floated around the lenses.

  Roger Basche put two more shots into Anthony Pell’s head and the entire skull collapsed.

  Lyons stepped back out of the bathroom like a man walking under water. He feared that Anthony Pell would shrug and wake, stand and, like some creature from the grave, stalk them across the land.

  Lyons turned and glanced into the bedroom. Beyond the rumpled bed was a large antique fold-down desk. He quickly entered the room and looked at the desk. He glanced around at the bed as Basche hissed at him, “Lyons! Come on!”

  Lyons leaned over the bed and seized a pillow. He shook the pillow out of the case and turned back to the desk. His nimble hands grabbed all the bundles of papers in the desk and desk drawers. He circled back toward the doorway.

  And there on the bureau was Anthony Pell’s wallet.

  Lyons seized it and skimmed it into the pillow case.

  Tyler’s face was a clenched fist of fury. He shook his outraged expression at Lyons.

  Quickly now the three of them stepped across the upper landing. They moved down the stairs as lightly as possible. Basche held up a hand and stepped to the front door. He checked the lock, glancing toward the kitchen. The radio still played softly and the garbage disposer growled.