“You’re out of your head. Why should I want you to take your time?”
“The phone,” I said. “You had a phone call to make.”
She laughed. “Honest to God, Stevie, I believe you’re jealous.”
“Forget it. For my money, you’re nothing but an overstuffed whore who thought I was a soft touch. You’ve been playing me for a sucker from the moment I saw you on the door at Mary Ray’s.” She struggled under my grip, sighing her pain and mumbling feeble entreaties to me. But her free hand was snaking back behind her, fumbling under the yellow pillow.
So I hit her across the face with my open hand. The sound of the slap was a sharp and flat noise in the silence. She jerked her body forward in the reflex of shock, and her hand came away from the pillow. But only for a moment. Then she was diving for it, her big body moving fast in a rolling reach for whatever she had buried back there. I dove over her and beat her to the hiding place. There was a gun under there, a tiny automatic, pearl-handled and cute enough to decorate an evening bag.
I saw only the flash of the ornamentation on the barrel before Tiny leaned her weight against me. She was willing to wrestle for it. She was willing to clutch and claw at me, working her nails into the flesh of my neck as we rolled toward the edge of the couch. She had hidden springs in the long muscles of her thighs, and her arms and hands were no longer soft and feminine. She beat up at me, using every ounce of strength she could command. She was an odd adversary, and for a moment the subtle inhibitions of convention worked in her favor. Until she made a few frantic passes at my eyes. Her long nails it into my cheek and stung me into an appreciation of my battle with her. She could blind me with those fingers. She could stun me if I played her easily. And when I saw my chance, I decided to change my tactics. I hit her with my fist.
I hit her hard, a sweeping shot across her cheek. The force of the blow made her cry out in pain, and her body went limp as she gasped her shock. She buried her head in her hands. I jerked her hands away and stood over her, showing her a close-up of her own gun.
I said, “After I phoned you, you called Noonan?”
“Suppose I did?”
“Why?”
“Maybe he’s my boyfriend.”
“And maybe he isn’t. Is he on his way up?”
“You should know, detective. You know everything else.”
“Stop blubbering,” I shouted, and pushed her head back so that I could see her eyes. “You were in this with him, all the way. You got the knife from Haskell Moore’s studio, didn’t you?”
“Oh sure, I collect knives.”
“You posed for Moore—and often. I saw your gallery of paintings up in Noonan’s room last night.”
“You get around,” she said, trying for her casual snide curl for her lips. And failing. A little tic had developed along her upper lip, on the right side. She was no longer brazen. She was brazenly nervous. “Suppose I did pose for Haskell Moore? So what?”
“Plenty, lady. A painter like Haskell Moore may have been an idiot, but he was a slow and meticulous worker when it came to his art. It took him quite some time to do a picture. And if he did so many of you, it means that he knew you well. You were an old visitor in his oil and canvas den.”
“What are you trying to sell?”
“An idea. A simple idea. I figure you kept your friendship with Haskell Moore a secret.”
“Why the hell not? No girl would be proud of what he painted.”
“Nuts. Your reason was altogether different,” I said. “You kept it quiet because you had ideas. You were building up a scheme with your friend Noonan. You were formulating plans for knocking off Mary Ray.”
“Oh, God, what a Sherlock Holmes,” she sneered. “You’re off your trolley.”
“Am I? Why did you let him paint you so often?”
“Maybe I’m an art lover. Or maybe he paid me well.”
“No sale. You don’t sell yourself at model’s rates. You don’t need the dough that badly, Sister. You conned Moore into thinking that you and he were pals. You kept him happy so that you could use him. You needed a patsy for the day when you planned to bump off Mary Ray.” She was getting restless again under the nose of the gun. She was squirming, as uncomfortable as a dowager in a tight girdle. I let her squirm, watching her carefully. “Your idea was foolproof, wasn’t it? Or was the idea Noonan’s, all the way?”
She didn’t answer, so I told her.
“I figure the idea was yours,” I said. “Because Noonan doesn’t impress me as a heavyweight thinker. I figure you took Noonan in on the deal for convenience. All you had to do was keep quiet about letting him into Mary’s that night. After he killed her, it was easy to drop the knife near the alley exit to set up Moore as the fall guy. And your little plan worked perfectly until I knocked at the door. You must have been scared silly when I appeared. You held me at the door until you were sure that Noonan realized I was down there. Then you let me in and went through your act, setting me up in the bedroom so that Noonan could level me and grab the little green book. You were playing for high stakes. You knew, through Noonan, that the little book would be worth a load of blackmail loot from King Barchy. You estimated that you and Noonan would take maybe a hundred grand on that item alone. And in addition to the book, you had the bracelet. It was an elegant heist, all the way down the line. But you were too greedy. You didn’t know when to stop. The prospect of even more dough intrigued you. That was why you sent Noonan up to my place sometime yesterday, to grab the picture of Joy Marsh. You overplayed your hand there, Tiny. You practically telegraphed your guilt to me. Because you were the only person who knew about the painting being in my flat, aside from Slip Keddy. And when I remembered telling you, I began to distrust you. If you had passed up the chance to make extra profit from Joy Marsh’s boy friend, you might have gotten away with the murder deal.”
She was blubbering now, her face a weird combination of brilliant make-up and leaky mascara. She blinked her eyes shut against the sight of the gun. She fidgeted and rolled on her rounded hips. But I held myself outside her reach, where I could watch without danger. She was as dangerous as a cornered cobra. She would strike, suddenly and swiftly, if I gave her an opening.
I continued to hold the gun high and close to her cheek. In the silence there was a subtle noise pricking against the wall of my listening brain. Downstairs? A door opening? A footfall on the stairway outside, a long way off, through the weight of a wall? Tiny was stalling me skillfully, waiting for Noonan. I grabbed for her arm and shoved the gun into her navel.
“Get up,” I said. “Somebody’s coming.”
“You’re wrong, Stevie. Listen to me.”
“I’ll listen to you later. Move!”
I pulled her to her feet and then prodded her into the little hall. There was a lamp out there, a bright item on a small table. I switched it off. The little noises of the night filtered up and around us from a long way off. Somewhere a baby cried in his sleep, muffled and remote. A horn blared vaguely, a delicate blur of noise. The silence burned my ears. There was another noise, soft and meaningful. Outside. The pad and shuffle of a footstep. Close. And closer.
And in that moment, the door to the hall opened.
And a man walked in.
CHAPTER 30
It was Noonan!
I knew him at once, because he was silhouetted against the dull light from the hall. The tilt of his hat gave him away, and the rolling movement of his stride as he advanced was positive identification. He moved forward into the hall and in the split second of his crossing the threshold, Tiny began to scream, a high-pitched and hysterical shriek that converted the scene into a mad moment. Because she hit me from behind as she yelled, a powerful thrust that almost knocked the gun out of my hand. But not quite.
Noonan pitched into me, hitting me low and hard. He had no time for fancy gestures. He must have seen th
e gun in my hand, because he came at me with the force of a backfield man breaking up an end run. He bucked me into the living room, rolling me under him and knocking the wind out of me. We were in the light now, close to the broad couch, so that I could see the room beyond him from a worm’s-eye view. In the hectic scramble, I had lost sight of Tiny. But I was aware of her now. She advanced on the other side of the room, pulling a quick sneak, her arms outstretched for a brass lamp on the table near the window. She was a remote figure beyond Noonan’s shoulder, pivoting for position, jockeying slyly so that she could bean me with the lamp.
I jerked my hand up and shot the automatic at her. The noise was a clap of thunder in my ears. I saw Tiny drop the lamp in a convulsive gesture. She grabbed her wrist and yammered at it. There was blood on her forearm, a bright crimson blot below her elbow. She went down to the floor suddenly, limp and lost as she gave way under the strain of the shock. She was fainting. I saw her drift down toward the rug, her action blurred and strangely slow now, because Noonan was not giving me any rest.
He slammed hard at my head, grazing my jaw with a hot fist, and I kicked up at him as he threw himself off balance, taking advantage of the thrust of his body, putting my foot where I knew it would do the most damage, where no foot should ever be put.
Noonan doubled up, clutching his groin.
“You dirty little bastard!” he gasped.
I hit him again, higher this time, catching his iron chin with the butt of my toe, snapping his head up so that his body bent backward and over, in the stiff movement of an upset statue. I grabbed him by his oiled haircut and jerked his head up and slammed it against the wall. Once. Twice. Until his tongue fell out of his mouth.
“Why did you kill Mary Ray?” I asked.
“You’re wrong,” Noonan gasped.
“You killed her for the green book?”
“Not me, Conacher.”
“Or was it for the bracelet?”
“Not me, not me!” he slurred.
I unloosened the hot rush of frustrated anger inside me. I played a drumbeat on the plaster with his vaselined dome. Crack! Crack! Until a patch of pink showed under the oily stain on the wall. Until his head bobbled in my hand—as limp as a puppet on a string.
Then I ran into the kitchenette and filled a bowl with water and came out and threw it at him. He slobbered under the impact and his head rolled crazily. His eyes opened, narrow slits in his puffed face, as tired as a dead fish. And his mouth blubbered hoarsely. I leaned over him, alerted to his feeble whispering. He was spilling out words, gurgling and blowing from somewhere deep in his throat. I had hurt him badly. And now I slapped his face to bring some order to his garbled speech.
“Enough.” Noonan responded weakly to the pressure of my patty-cake.
“Start talking,” I said. “Why did you kill Mary Ray?”
“No.” He bobbled his head, as loose on his shoulders as a punching bag. “No… You’re wrong. It was Tiny.”
“What about Tiny?”
“She conned me into it.”
“She planned it?”
“She did it,” Noonan gasped.
“She killed Moore, too?”
“Ask her. It was her deal.”
“All the way?”
“The works,” said Noonan. “She only needed me to sell the book to Barchy.”
I unloosened my hold on him and his head rolled over to one side. I was in close, leaning over him, and the shock of his dialogue brought me to one knee. He was going out again, his slitted eyes showing the whites as he let himself slide into oblivion. The outpouring of my anger had left me as weak as an amateur after an eight-round go. The starch was out of me and my head whirled with the impact of Noonan’s revelations, so that the sight of him blurred and fogged before me. I was lost in the reflex of speculation, running back over the entire adventure like a quickened movie, skittering its incidents on the screen of my memory.
Tiny! The thought of her acting the role of murderess stung me into a tense review of the last few days, from the time Joy Marsh summoned me to Mary’s.
Tiny! She had been my tormentor. She had been the quiet one who came back into the bedroom to slug me and grab the little green book out of my hands.
Tiny! It was she who followed Haskell Moore back to his studio and hung him to the rafters. She was powerful enough for the chore. She was big and strong.
Tiny!
And as I turned away from Noonan, her voice came through the deep mists of my reflections, stinging me awake. She was no longer on the floor in a faint. She was standing a few feet away from me. And there was another gun in her hands.
“You stinking little fool!” she said. “I’m going to kill you for this!”
She shot at me and the bullet hit high on my shoulder as I made a dive for her. Her hand was up and the gun was cocked for another crack at me, but I caught her as she aimed and carried her backward and down to the couch. Something was missing in my right arm, where her bullet had winged me. The strength was gone and the pressure of her body against my shoulder made me scream with pain. She could damage me permanently if she could work her advantage against that arm. She had the body for mayhem. She continued to shift her weight and slap at me with the gun, catching me twice, high on the forehead and again on the neck. My mind backtracked to my army days, groping for a one-armed judo hold that might be used against such an adversary. My mind gave me nothing. She was clawing and scratching at me, using her nails to cut deep into my throat. And the gun was coming up closer, in a position for another shot at me. I slammed out at her face with my free hand. I felt the flesh of her cheek under my fist once, but my power was running out because of her activities around and about my head. She was biting now. She breathed a fevered breath on my throat and lay all over me and her sharp teeth were grabbing at my neck.
I screamed my frustration. Her teeth had found their mark. The bullet wound in my shoulder telegraphed a thousand pinpoints of pain when I tried to shift my weight and crawl out from under her mad assault. She would kill me with her teeth. She would bite me to death, splitting my jugular and spilling my blood in an animal’s battle. I closed my eyes against her and struggled back and under the weight of her, sliding away from her mouth and conscious of the blur of her savage face above me. And in the electric moment, my desperation moved me to ungentlemanly tactics. I kicked up at her, kneeing her, feeling the soft belly above me give way as I applied the pressure. I kneed her again, deep and deeper still. She began to double up, shrieking a flood of epithets at me, gurgling for Noonan to wake up and help her.
She fell into the scattered pillows, and I reached for her throat and squeezed, one-handed and weak, but enough to dam the flood of air to her chest.
She rolled over on me.
And I fainted.
CHAPTER 31
I awoke in a shimmering tableau, a symphony of white that rolled in on my consciousness from the moment I opened my eyes. There was a white fog above my head and a white circle beneath the fog. There was a white wall beyond a white-coated figure standing close to the white sheet that covered me. The figure above me was white for a long moment, and after that the color filtered through and the flesh tones emerged and I saw that the figure close to me was a white-clothed nurse, leaning over me and flashing a very white smile.
“You feeling better, Mr. Conacher?” she asked.
“What hospital is this?”
“He’s all right,” a voice said. “He didn’t say ‘Where am I?’”
The voice belonged to Slip Keddy, who was standing somewhere beyond the rim of my personal horizon. He came out from behind the screen and stood there, shaking his head at me and grinning his usual sleepy smile.
I said, “You were up there?”
“I got around to it,” Slip said. “I figured you’d maybe run into trouble up at Tiny’s. But you didn’t need me, mister.
The place looked like a slaughterhouse when I arrived.”
“What happened to Noonan and Tiny?”
“You butchered them, little man,” said another voice. It was Sam Doughty, appearing from behind the screen on my right. He scowled down at me, shaking his head as sadly as though he were first pallbearer at my burial. He gave way to a smile finally. “You small stinkers have something, brother. Maybe a few of my boys could take lessons from you, Conacher. You sure mutilated those two, especially Noonan.”
“Too bad I didn’t have enough left for Tiny,” I said.
“You had enough,” laughed Doughty. “You laid her out, as cold as a herring. They’re still working on her downstairs. But they already revived Noonan. And he sang for me. That broad will get the chair for this operation.”
“I’ve got to get out of here,” I told the nurse. “Couple of things still to be done.”
“Relax,” said Slip. “I took care of everything, Steve.”
“Joy Marsh’s picture?”
“Naturally. I found it up in Tiny’s closet. I already delivered it to Lawrence Fanchon.”
He reached into an inner pocket and flipped a green check to my coverlet. It drifted down within reaching distance of my good hand. I reached. And I read and whistled. It was made out to my order, in the amount of five thousand dollars. But the signature was a shock, the check was signed by Eric Fanchon.
“This I don’t get,” I said. “Why is the fat boy paying me off?”
“The old bird said he owed you a personal apology,” Slip explained. “He herewith pays you off for the treatment you got from his chauffeur, something Eric never planned. When I saw him up at his son’s place, he was working hard to play the part of the loving father-in-law. He was big enough to admit that he had the cute girl figured all wrong. He had a man working on her family background, and when the report came in that her folks were good people living a good life in a small town, Eric sort of changed his point of view. All’s well that ends well, as the fellow says. You’re invited to the wedding. You feel better now?”
Murder for Madame Page 19