by Jerry eBooks
Sergeant Odell stuck his head in the door. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Where’s Neelan?”
“He’s not back yet. I sent him over to a taproom at Eleventh and Maple. He called just awhile ago and said he’d be back in an hour or so.”
Odell glanced from Ramussen to Mark, and back to the Lieutenant. “Want me to call him and have him come in?”
“No, never mind. That’s all, Sergeant.”
Odell hesitated momentarily, obviously consumed with curiosity: but finally he turned and lumbered from the room.
“Well, what now?” Mark said.
Ramussen put his finger tips together. “I’m not sure, Mark. Frankly, I’m worried. He’s been gone two hours now. I don’t believe in sixth-sense or intuition, of course, but Neelan is a cop, and he might just smell trouble. He may know his luck is running out. I don’t want to send out an alarm for him, because that might make him bolt.” And catching him would be dangerous.” He stood up, frowning. “What’s the number of that singer?”
“Why do you want her?”
“She’s got Neelan’s money, or Espizito’s, depending on how you look at things. Anyway, if Neelan starts on the run, that will be the first thing he’ll head for. I don’t want her to be in his way.”
“She’s at the Simba now, of course.”
“And where’s the money? At her apartment?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s different. But supposing you give her a ring anyway, and tell her not to see him tonight.”
Mark called the Simba, and after a considerable delay, got Jim Evans on the phone. He learned then that Linda wasn’t feeling well, that she’d called earlier to say she wouldn’t be in that night.
“Call her apartment, then,” Ramussen said, his voice worried. “Let me talk to her. We’ll send a police car for her it necessary, or an ambulance. Damn it, Mark, I’ve got the feeling that all hell is going to break loose.”
NEELAN realized that he was getting drunk. He was swaying slightly as he poured the last of Linda’s bottle into his glass.
“Kid, this is living,” he said.
“Barny, you shouldn’t be drinking so much.”
“Why?” Her concern pleased him.
“Well, you’ve got to get back to work, don’t you?”
“Work?” He laughed and put the bottle down on the table. “I may never go back. Work is for slobs.”
His face was uncomfortably warm, and his fingers felt thick and clumsy. He decided that some cold water might make him feel better.
“Excuse me a second, will you?” he said, and went into the bathroom. He filled the basin with cold water and unloosed his tie and collar. Bending over, he splashed the water on his face and onto the back of his neck, and then he ran his damp hands through his hair.
That made him feel better. He dried himself with a woolly blue towel and looked around with a grin on his face.
There were bottles of colognes and perfumes, and jars of cold cream and bath salts on a shelf beneath the medicine cabinet. Neelan studied them with interest. The bottles were pretty, and their contents looked gay and colorful. Everything about the immaculate bathroom was like her, he thought—clean, dainty, gracious.
THE phone was ringing as he walked out of the bathroom. Some instinct made him pause. He heard Linda’s light footsteps, and then her voice, high and rather nervous.
Neelan stepped quickly into the archway of the living room. Linda stood with her back to him, holding the receiver to her ear with both hands. She listened tor a moment, and then she said, in low voice: “Yes, Lieutenant. I’ll do what you say.”
Neelan closed the distance between them with one long stride. He caught her throat in one hand, and ripped the phone away with his other. He put the receiver against his ear and heard Ramussen’s hard precise voice.
“We’re going to pick up Neelan tonight, Miss Wade. Mark has told me you have Neelan’s money, so I want you to leave your apartment immediately. He’s a dangerous man, and I don’t intend to give him the opportunity to kill anyone else. Is that clear? Hello! Hello! Can you hear—”
Neelan put the phone slowly down in its cradle, cutting off Ramussen’s sharply pitched voice. He swung Linda about and stared into her face with murderous eyes.
“Double-crossing slut!” he shouted at her, his breath coming in uneven heaving gasps. He could feel the rage in his body, as if it were some tangible, physical thing that might blow him apart with its intensity, and he struck her across the face with the back of his hand.
“No, Barny, no!” she cried, clinging to his arm.
He threw her to the floor and stared about wildly. A lamp caught his eye, and he knocked it halfway across the room with a blow of his fist. Then he dropped to one knee beside Linda and caught her shoulders in his big hands.
“Where’s my money?” he said, his voice hoarse and wild. “Where’s my money?” He shook her until her hair loosened and fell in disorder about her face and shoulders.
“In the closet, in the closet,” she cried, and the words sounded as if they were torn and shaken from her body. “On the shelf, behind the shoes.”
Neelan shoved her away from him, and she rolled on her side, sobbing uncontrollably. He ran into the bedroom and jerked open the closet doors.
Shoes were arranged in neat rows along the top shelf. Ankle-strap sandals, spectators, blue suede pumps, moccasins, evening slippers.
Neelan pushed them aside and saw the paper-wrapped package of money at the rear of the shelf against the wall. He grabbed it in both hands and walked to the middle of the bedroom, holding it tightly against his body. This was his, all his, and it was the only thing that meant a damn. Tearing off an end of the wrapping, he saw the green bills, and nodded with satisfaction. Then he shoved the package into the pocket of his coat and strode into the living-room.
Linda was sitting up, supporting her weight on one arm. She raised her head, and he saw the tears in her eyes, and the angry red imprint of his hand on her cheek. “Barny, you can’t keep on like this,” she said, and the words were indistinct and blurred.
He stared at her in silence, watching the rise and fall of her bosom. There was no sound in the room but her ragged breathing.
“You told them, didn’t you?” he said.
“No, no, Barny.”
“You sold me out. I trusted you, and you sold me out.”
“No, no! Barny, everyone knew about it. You—you never had a chance. But stop now, Barny, for God’s sake.”
Neelan laughed and drew his gun from its holster, he saw her now as part of the shame and deceit that had always filled his life. She was in the same class with Petey Felickson, and his wife, and Dave Fiest. They’d never believed in him, trusted him, given him a break. They were all waiting to lie to him, to cheat him, to betray him, as everybody had always done.
“Please, Barny, for my sake, sit down and put your gun away,” she said. “Don’t go on this way.”
He saw her clearly, pleading with him, crawling toward him, seeking to get his defenses down.
He laughed suddenly, but the sound broke in his throat and he felt stinging tears in his eyes. She had been what he’d always wanted. And she was the worst of all.
Linda screamed as he raised his gun. He fired one shot at her, and saw her spin as if struck by a giant fist, and then he waited, staring down at her, his breath coming slowly, until he saw the blood spreading through her robe.
WHEN he saw that, he put his gun away, and went out of the apartment. He went down the steps to the sidewalk and turned right, not knowing where he was going, but reasoning calmly to himself that he’d better be somewhere else when the police arrived. Ramussen would be coming, of course, and neighbors would be phoning the police board to tell them they’d heard a gunshot. The area would be crawling with police cars within three minutes.
Neelan walked to the first intersection and glanced back toward Linda’s apartment. A man was standing in the street star
ing at him, but when Neelan looked back, the man ran up the steps of a building, and out of sight.
Neelan hesitated for a few seconds at the intersection, then walked quickly down the block that intersected Linda’s street, and at the next corner turned left and broke into a run. When he reached the next block, a well-traveled street, he stepped off the curb and waited for a cab.
Within a minute or so he stopped an empty one. The driver, a small young man with a blond mustache, glanced at him as he climbed into the rear seat. “Where to, sir?” he said.
“Just drive for a while,” Neelan said. “I got a little time to kill before an appointment. Stop at a State store.”
“Okay.”
The driver swung into the traffic and followed it for several blocks before turning off and coming to a State liquor store.
“I can’t park here long,” he told Neelan. “The cop at the next corner is murder. If he spots me here, he’ll make me move.”
“Well, circle around and pick me up if you have to,” Neelan said. “Cops—they’re all rock-heads, you know.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” the driver said.
Neelan bought two fifths of blended whisky and walked outside to find his cab driver still waiting.
“Well, I guess he didn’t see me,” the driver said. “They’re all rock-heads,” Neelan said. “I told you that before.”
He opened one of the bottles and took a long drink of the burning liquor. Somewhere off to his left he heard the whine of a police siren. Or an ambulance, maybe. Then he heard another.
“Hey, something’s up!” the driver said.
“You should have been a cop,” Neelan said. “You’re bright. You hear half a dozen sirens, so right away you know something’s up.”
The driver said nothing.
Neelan had another drink before thinking about his own problem. He didn’t know what to do, or where to go; but he couldn’t stay in Philly. The cab was safe for a while, but he couldn’t ride around indefinitely.
“Drive me over to Camden,” he told the driver. Camden, N. J. That was it. The cops over there wouldn’t get the alarm from Philadelphia until a three-State flyer went out. They crossed the beautiful span of the bridge, stopped at the tollgate on the Jersey side, then rolled on into Camden’s main street.
“Where to now, sir?” the driver said.
“Can you take me to Atlantic City?”
“No, we’re not allowed to go that far.”
Neelan realized that this cabby would put the finger on him when he returned to Philadelphia. The police would check all the cabs that had been in Linda’s neighborhood when the shot was fired, and they’d find this driver, of course.
“Well, can I get a cab to Atlantic City here in Camden?”
“Sure, they make all the shore points.”
“Well, Atlantic City is good enough for me.”
Neelan wanted the driver to report that his fare had gone on to Atlantic City. That might give him an extra few hours.
THE driver stopped at the County Building and pointed to a row of cabs. “Any of those fellows will be glad to take you,” he said.
Neelan paid him and got out. “Thanks, pal,” he said, and watched the cab until it disappeared on the route back to the bridge.
He walked along Main Street for two blocks, then turned down a block that led to a quiet residential area. Couples strolled along hand-in-hand, glancing idly at Neelan, but he passed them without a thought. His mind was calm, undisturbed. The only reality was the money in his pocket and the liquor under his arm.
When he came to a frame house that had a “Rooms” sign in the front window, he went up the rickety stairs and rang the bell. The woman who answered the door was a friendly, garrulous person, who showed him a small hot bedroom on the third floor, and collected nine dollars in advance for a week’s rent.
“That’s customary for folks without luggage,” she said. “Just like hotels, you know.”
“Sure. I’m meeting my brother here tomorrow, and he’s got the suitcases in his car. We had some engine trouble, so he stopped at Harrisburg, and I came on to do what work I can until he arrives.”
“Oh? What line are you in?”
“Lighting fixtures,” Neelan said, for no reason at all. “Well, Camden’s a nice lively town.”
She left him alone finally. Opening a bottle of whisky, he stretched out on the bed without taking off his coat.
Chapter Seventeen
MARK SAT IN A WAITING-ROOM AT THE Hospital, chain-smoking, and wondering what he would do if she died. Nothing probably, he thought. You just didn’t do anything when people died, he knew. You just wished they hadn’t . . . Ramussen came in and sat beside him in a wicker chair. “Any news at all yet, Mark?”
“No, the doctor is still with her. He said he’d let me know what’s happening.” He glanced at the Lieutenant. “And what’s with Neelan?”
“He got out of the city, it appears. We picked up a cabdriver who took him over to Camden. According to his story, Neelan was trying to get a ride to Atlantic City.”
“That doesn’t seem very smart.”
“I know. He’ll have his back to a wall there. But he might be trying to get us started in the wrong direction. He might be in Philly now, or holed up somewhere in Camden.”
“You’ll get him, of course.”
“Yes, I suppose so. The eight-State alarm is out, and that will make it tough for him to move around. If he didn’t have money, I’d take a small bet that we’d have him by morning. But that twenty-five thousand could make a difference. He’s liable to buy some help.” Mark glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. She’d been in there an hour and a half now.
“She’ll be all right, Mark,” Ramussen said.
“Thanks,” Mark said.
They were silent a few moments, staring at the walls without seeing anything. Then Ramussen said: “You were right, Mark. The Department does hang onto a bad cop too long. Cops protect each other, right or wrong, and that gives the rogue cop too much of a break.” Mark nodded, not caring much whether he’d been right or not; but he could appreciate what the admission meant to Ramussen.
A young man in a white jacket came into the room, glanced at Mark. “You waiting for that girl in Operating?”
Ramussen stood up. “Yes. What’s the story?”
“She’s not in the best of shape, of course. Lost a lot of blood. But it was a clean wound, and barring complications, she should be all right.”
Mark let out his breath slowly. “Any chance of seeing her now?”
“Lord, no. She’s still under the anesthetic. Maybe by tomorrow morning she’ll be strong enough to talk for a while, but that’s no promise, mind you.”
Ramussen grinned and patted Mark on the arm. “I told you she’d be all right.”
“Yes, you did,” Mark said, smiling back at him.
“I’ve got to get back to work. Odell lined up some stoolies to send over to Jersey, and I want to talk to them before they go. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
“No, I’ll stick around for a while.”
“You can’t see her until morning.”
Mark shrugged. “I’ll wait,” he said.
“Okay.” Ramussen patted his arm and walked out. Mark settled down and lit another cigarette. Surprisingly it tasted fine.
NEELAN sat at the window of his room the next morning watching the glittering patterns of sunlight in the trees along the street. He held a glass of diluted whisky in his hand and his eyes were red-rimmed and tired.
There was a knock on the door and he came to his feet in a half-crouch, his hand moving to his gun.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mrs. Bailey. I was wondering if you wanted some breakfast.
“No, never mind.”
“I could bring you something if you aren’t feeling well.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” he said. “I’ll be down shortly.”
“Well, all right.”
N
eelan listened to her move away down the corridor, and then he wandered about the room, his thoughts inevitably coming to a dead-end. He was red-hot by now; the Camden police would be looking for him; and when they didn’t find him in Atlantic City, they’d scour this area from top to bottom. He knew he had to move soon. But where?
He sat on the bed and counted his money. The twenty-five thousand of Espizito’s was intact, of course, and he had about thirty dollars of his own money. The six thousand under the hubcap of his car would make some mechanic happy, he thought.
That was plenty of money, but he didn’t know how to put it to work.
Standing, he paced the room awhile, and finally an idea occurred to him—an idea he didn’t like but which was about his only chance. He went to the bathroom, washed his hands and face thoroughly and went downstairs. Mrs. Bailey popped out of her living-room.
“Going out, eh?” she said brightly.
“Yes, that’s right. But first I’d like to use your phone.”
“Certainly. It’s at the end of the corridor, and you’ll need a nickel.”
“Thanks.”
“Calling your brother, eh?”
HE fought down his anger. “Yeah,” he said, and walked back to the telephone, which was on a table under a light. There was a city directory there also, and he thumbed through it until he found the number he wanted. Dialing, he was conscious that Mrs. Bailey had returned to her living-room, but hadn’t closed the door.
The man who answered said, “Hello,” in a pleasant cultivated voice.
“Mr. Reynolds?”
“This is he speaking.”
“We’ve got some mutual friends, Mr. Reynolds. Ramussen over in Philadelphia, for instance. I’d like to talk to you about a little problem I’m facing.”
“Ramussen? Oh, just a moment.” He was gone a few seconds, and Neelan began to get anxious. Then Reynolds was back. “I just wanted to close a door. This is Barny Neelan, right?”