Death Wore Gloves

by Ross H. Spencer

  44

  Thursday

  Bruised and exhausted, Willow climbed the stairs, left foot, right foot, one step at a time, laboriously, the way very old men climb stairs. He ached from the top of his hat to the bottoms of his shoes, he was drained physically and emotionally. He slumped wearily onto his couch, rubbing his eyes, hunching forward, elbows on his knees, head cradled in his shaking hands. It was a rotten world, he’d known it since kindergarten, but in the last few hours he’d learned just how rotten it could be.

  Willow had never been an avid reader of anybody’s stuff, but over the years he’d committed a few lines to memory—a chunk of Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Requiem,” a couple of short shots from Macbeth, two or three of William Blake’s gems, and there’d been something by an Algernon Swinburne, a drunken, fit-throwing, maniac atheist: “Dead dreams of days foresaken, blind buds that snows have shaken, wild leaves that winds have taken”—and now Willow knew exactly where Algernon Swinburne had been coming from. There was another line: “Desire is a two-way street and you damn well better look in both directions!”—not Swinburne, not Blake, not Shakespeare or Stevenson. Who? Monroe D. Underwood? Willow shrugged. He didn’t know, but whoever it had been, Willow should have read him thoroughly. Then he should have given the writings to Buck Curtin.

  He didn’t know Curtin’s home-telephone number and information said that it was unlisted. He tried to call him at Homicide and ran into a platoon of underlings who didn’t know whether they were afoot or on horseback, but he managed to glean the rough impression that Lieutenant Curtin just might have taken part of the day off. He’d probably be on duty tomorrow, someone thought, but he shouldn’t be quoted on that because the schedule was so unpredictable at this time due to—

  Willow cut in, left his name, hung up, and went to bed. His sleep was spotty and he’d expected that, the nightmares came in vivid clusters and he’d anticipated them, but his telephone didn’t ring and somehow he’d been dead certain that it would. Well, two out of three wasn’t to be sniffed at, not by Tuthill Willow who’d been betting on the Chicago Cubs since 1947.

  45

  Friday

  At ten-fifteen Willow’s windows were a dismal gray, color-toned to his morning mood. He sat up in bed to peer out at the most eventful day of his forty-nine years and was tempted to shove his head under a pillow and let the rest of the world go by, but he didn’t. Instead, he made a cup of the world’s worst instant coffee and sat nursing the vile concoction, smoking, jamming the spurs to his sluggish mind, and feeling it rear in protest like a horse at the edge of a precipice. The telephone rang. That was one of Willow’s main beefs with telephones—they rang, and this would be bad news, he knew it. He was right—it was Florence Gambrello. Florence said that she was taking a half-day off and she’d probably come around in about an hour, so they could practice for tonight, wasn’t that one hell of an idea?

  Willow said well, yes, it was one hell of an idea and all that but he hadn’t realized that they needed any practice.

  Florence reminded Willow that practice makes perfect.

  Willow told Florence that maybe it did, but perfection realized affords no pleasure.

  Florence told Willow that he might be right but on the other hand he might be wrong and that it represented a gamble that she’d be willing to take.

  Willow told Florence that he’d be forced to take a pass on this particular leg of the trip to perfection because he had an important appointment in less than an hour.

  Florence inquired as to whether Willow’s appointment was with a blonde or a redhead.

  Willow chuckled weakly and said, “She’s bald-headed.”

  Florence said, “She’ll be bald-headed when I get through with her!” and she hung up with a crash that rattled Willow’s left eardrum.

  He took a shot at getting through to Buck Curtin at Homicide and got the old runaround—yes, Lieutenant Curtin was on duty today, but he was out. Willow cranked his willpower up to maximum and rang Gladys Hornsby’s number. Might as well come to grips with the matter and get it over with. A man answered and Willow hung up. He showered and dressed and opened a can of Kennessy’s. It was eleven-thirty when the thought ambushed him, and he responded in the fashion of a scalded ferret, galvanized to sudden action, throwing an arm into a sleeve of his sports jacket and clattering down the stairs two steps at a time, nearly decking Martha Strotman, who was checking her mailbox. Willow sprinted to his Buick and gunned it to River Road, then north. He hadn’t visualized Kathy Bucknell as amounting to more than an unresisting dupe in this murderous chess game, and she probably didn’t, but the proverbial ounce of prevention wouldn’t hurt a thing. At the Belmont Avenue traffic light, he realized that a telephone call would have been a more expeditious approach to the situation, if indeed there was a situation, but he’d moved on reflexes as he’d have reacted to a firecracker under his chair. Well, he was on the road now, he’d pick up the Kennedy Expressway, and by bending several traffic ordinances he’d be at the Saxon Hotel within the hour. Willow glanced into his rear-view mirror, did a double take, and frowned. There was a black Ford sedan behind him and it looked familiar. Windshield glare had blanked out the Ford’s driver, but Willow knew an unmarked Chicago police vehicle when he saw one. He turned east on Belmont and drove a mile. The black Ford followed. Willow circled a block, returning to Belmont, and the Ford tagged along, hanging thirty yards back. He went north on River Road to Irving Park Road and turned west, so did the Ford, and now, behind the Ford, he noticed an old bronze Mercury. There are moments when coincidences can no longer be regarded as coincidences, this was one of them, and at a crucial point in the ballgame, Willow could brook no interference. Under the Soo Line viaduct he slowed, biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to slash across the oncoming stream of eastbound traffic. It came just west of the viaduct, and Willow jammed the accelerator to the floorboards, whipping onto Prairie Avenue to bore south at high speed. The Ford and the Mercury were still tailing him, but both had lost considerable ground during the maneuver. At the first corner Willow swung to the west for half a block before bending the Buick north into an alley. Two or three more strategic moves and he’d be all alone. He was twenty feet into the alley when a gate opened and an elderly lady emerged from a back yard, carrying a basket of apples. Willow hit the brakes and stood on the pedal, bringing the Buick to a fishtailing, screaming halt mere inches from the old woman, who stood transfixed, spilling apples in all directions. The black Ford came boiling around the corner on wailing rubber, its operator leaning over the wheel, urging his mount to greater effort. Willow bailed hurriedly out of his car, wincing. The driver of the Ford didn’t stand a chance. He threw up his hands and plowed full-tilt into the back of Willow’s Buick with a sound like a clap of thunder. Willow’s trunk lid popped open and so did the hood of the black Ford. Glass tinkled and dust clouded the gray October noonday. The Ford’s door flew open and the driver piled out to stumble groggily against a chain-link fence just as the old bronze Mercury barreled into the alley to crash into the rear end of the black Ford. There was a prolonged series of little jingling sounds, a great amount of steam, and the Mercury’s horn was stuck, sounding like the shriek of a banshee with a hot poker up her ass. Out of the steam stalked Florence Gambrello with measured and purposeful strides, reminding Willow of Godzilla departing the waters of Tokyo Bay. Florence approached the dazed Lieutenant Buck Curtin. Above the unwavering scream of the Mercury’s horn Willow was able to catch a few words—“ottuso,” for one, “ignorante,” for another, and “asshole,” more than once. Florence administered a scorching right to Curtin’s jaw, Curtin tumbled head-over-heels into a row of plastic garbage cans, and Willow opened a gate to scramble through a back yard, ducking a withering, rolling barrage of apples and epithets unleashed by the old lady. He reached comparative safety on the sidewalk and jogged north to Irving Park Road, where he located a tavern and a pay phone. He grappled with a lop-eared telephone directory, found the number
, and made the call. When the Saxon Hotel answered, Willow asked to be connected with the Raven Room. He recognized the booming voice of Steve, the Raven Room bartender. Steve said no, Kathy Bucknell hadn’t come in yet. Probably any minute now, he said. He asked if there was a message and Willow said, “Just tell her that the philosopher called.” He hung up, dialed the Saxon again, and requested Mrs. Bucknell’s room. The phone buzzed a dozen times before the switchboard girl cut in, “Mrs. Bucknell’s room docs not respond, sir—will you try later, plee-yuzz?”

  Willow called a cab.

  46

  Friday

  The Saxon Hotel had two elevators, one busted-down, the other not far from it. Willow shared the other with a tall, bony woman in a bright orange dress. She nibbled nervously on her lower lip as the ancient conveyance groaned, then shuddered into action, struggling valiantly upward. The bony woman crossed herself. She said, “Oh, dear God, this thing belongs in the Smithsonian!”

  Willow said, “That’s where it came from.”

  “Then they should return it!”

  Willow shook his head. “They’ve tried. The Smithsonian won’t take it back.”

  She gripped her cheap purse with quivering fingers, obviously glad for the conversation. She said, “You’ve been to the Smithsonian?”

  “No, ma’am, they might not let me out.”

  Her forced giggle reminded Willow of the time he’d gotten a beer can tangled up in a power mower. On the fourth floor he stepped out, then turned to give the bony woman a thumbs-up sign. She smiled gallantly, setting her jaw, as the elevator lurched drunkenly up the shaft. Willow walked down the hall, the odor of mildew heavy in his nostrils. He knocked on Kathy Bucknell’s door, a trifle timidly—if she was in the hay with a jocker she wouldn’t appreciate this interruption. If she wasn’t, she’d probably be tickled pink to get it. Kathy Bucknell was one of the world’s ten most lonely women and Willow hadn’t met the other nine. There was no answer and Willow knocked again, glancing up and down the long, gloomy hallway, half-expecting to see a vampire bat flop erratically into view. There was no response to his second knock, the Saxon’s second floor was quiet, there wasn’t a soul in sight, and Kathy Bucknell’s lock was a Flexner, of all things. As Willow worked on it he wondered about the Flexner Safeguard Corporation. Securing a door with a Flexner product was like lashing it shut with a cobweb. He went through the flimsy device like a strong dose of salts and he opened the door just a crack. The lights were out and the night chain wasn’t hooked, so Kathy Bucknell was napping or she’d gone down to the Raven Room. Willow said, “Kathy?”

  Silence.

  He raised his voice. “Hey, nice lady!”

  More silence.

  He pushed the door open and stepped inside, flipping the wall-switch to illuminate the room. He closed the door behind him and looked around. Kathy’s bed was neatly made, her black leather handbag was on the nightstand, so was a capless half-empty bottle of Canadian Club whiskey and a single shot-glass. Willow opened the bathroom door and found her. She wore a skimpy sheer pink nightgown and she was sprawled facedown, dried blood forming a glazed irregular pattern fanning out from under her chest. Blood had oozed from her mouth onto the white tiled floor and Kathy Bucknell would be lonely nevermore.

  Willow wiped the doorknobs and the wall-switch, going out to close the door quietly. The elevator was descending creakily and Willow got in to meet the bony woman. She said, “Oh, Jesus, coming down is worse than going up! What if the cable snaps?”

  Willow shrugged. “Well, it won’t be the fall, ma’am, it’ll be that sudden stop.”

  She shivered. “My party wasn’t in, What about yours?”

  Willow said, “Out, ma’am—checked out.”

  47

  Friday

  His northbound Yellow Cab inched through a pounding rain and Willow riffled through the dilapidated morning edition of the Chicago Globe he’d found on the back seat. According to the Globe, Sister Rosetta had dispatched Belle and Bonnie to the low minors. Sister Rosetta had been positively identified in thirty-eight states and in Singapore. In the course of this remarkable woman’s crime binge she’d held up three banks, seventeen supermarkets, a used-car dealer, a circus box-office, and two filling stations. She’d taken shots at eleven sheriffs, half-a-dozen deputies, and a hot-dog vendor. She’d rustled a herd of cattle near Tulsa and she’d set fire to a whorehouse in Abilene. What she was up to in Singapore was unknown, but the very worst was anticipated. Willow chucked the trashy tabloid into a corner of the seat and stepped from the cab into the chill twilight rain. The good weather had slipped away, the days were noticeably shorter, the time would drop back an hour at the end of the month, and Chicago would return to the big dark cooler with another October a long way up the road.

  He went quietly up the stairs to his apartment. He was on his last legs in the River Grove area, and he knew it. Florence Gambrello was tightening the noose, Martha Strotman had gone sex-bonkers, and Willow knew exactly how Jim Bowie had felt at the Alamo. He kicked off his shoes and was heading for his refrigerator and a cold Kennessy’s when there was a staccato knocking on his door, a no-nonsense, Gestapo-type summons that would allow very little margin for delay.

  Lieutenant Buck Curtin stepped into Willow’s living room and closed the door. His face was the color of a Grand Canyon sunset. He grabbed Willow by the lapels of his jacket and banged him against the wall. Willow said, “Uhh-h-h, yes, well, you see, I just happened to have a pressing downtown appointment this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, and you just happen to have one more this evening, which will be in a cozy little interrogation room down on South fucking State Street!” Curtin was wheezing, his barrel chest was heaving, and foamy white flecks of saliva were clustered on his chin. “I been waiting over five fucking hours for you to show up, you fucking irresponsible fucking menace to fucking society!”

  “I stopped at Berghoff’s for a few dark beers. Berghoff’s got real good dark beer.”

  Curtin dragged Willow clear of the wall and pushed him onto the couch. He said, “What the fuck you got against me, Willow? Yesterday you arrange to put me in the clutches of that sex lunatic downstairs, and today you try to get me killed! Who was that rhinoceros in drag?”

  “What rhinoceros?”

  “The one who coldcocked me! I ain’t been hit that hard since I got run down by a fucking hook-and-ladder unit! Put on your shoes or do you wanta go barefoot?”

  “You’re taking me in?”

  “Oh, you’re fucking right I’m taking you in! I should of taken you in a fucking week ago!”

  “On what charge?”

  “Oh, nothing serious—withholding evidence in three first-fucking-degree homicide cases, collusion with a fugitive, leaving the scene of a motor vehicle accident, suspicion of espionage for a fucking foreign power, rape, pillage, arson, gunrunning, bootlegging, counterfeiting, disturbing the fucking peace, inciting to riot, shoplifting—”

  “Aw, knock that crap off! Where’s my Buick?”

  “In the pound, where it belongs! Let’s go downtown, Willow.”

  “Hold it! Did you say three homicide cases?”

  “Don’t play it any dumber than you are! This morning that bughouse nun killed a guy named Bucknell down on Lincoln Park West. You’ve heard of Bucknell, haven’t you—Casey Bucknell?”

  Willow spoke in a monotone, like a science-fiction-movie robot. “Yeah, I’ve heard of Bucknell. What happened on Lincoln Park West this morning?”

  “Sister Rosetta dropped in on her niece, killed Bucknell, winged a couple slugs into a wall, checked out, and left your girlfriend in a state of collapse!”

  “Why?”

  “Because Gladys Hornsby was sleeping with Bucknell, and Bucknell was her own father! Boy, Willow, you do hang around with the nicest people!”

  Willow was silent.

  Curtin said, “I told you that this Sister Rosetta was some kind of daffy crusader—most nuns don’t appreciate that old incest jazz
—it goes against their training. Okay, Willow, put on your old gray bonnet and we’ll go for a ride.”

  Willow shook his head. “Not this evening, thanks anyway. Simmer down and have a cup of coffee. You should make a telephone call, and I’m expecting one.”

  “You should make a telephone call! You’re gonna need a lawyer, and I’d recommend Clarence Darrow! Now, get off your ass and on your feet!”

  “Look, Curtin, are you looking for a routine Friday-night collar, or do you want captain’s bars by early next week?”

  Curtin was searching Willow’s face. “By God, I better make a phone call! I better get some people up here with a fucking straitjacket!”

  “Call Homicide, Curtin—there’s a female murder victim in the bathroom of Room four-oh-eight at the Saxon Hotel.”

  “Who?”

  “A woman by the name of Kathy Bucknell.”

  Curtin frowned, scratching a buttock. “Related to the late Casey Bucknell?”

  “His wife. Shot in the chest.”

  “How many times?”

  “She was on her face—I didn’t roll her over.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Ask the coroner—I’ll take a flyer and say shortly before Bucknell got it.”

  “Why before?”

  “Because it figured to work best that way.”

  Curtin clawed at a gray-stubbled jaw, nodding rapidly. He growled, “Maybe we oughta have a cup of coffee.”

  Ten minutes later Willow’s telephone rang. She’d been calling every hour, Sister Rosetta said.

  48

  Friday

  The rain was heavier, a hissing gray wall, thunder boomed and billowed, lightning squirmed across the sky like bright reptiles, and Willow came into the vestibule on the dead run, slamming the door behind him and shaking water from his hat. He climbed the stairs without ringing the bell, one thing on his mind—get hold of that infernal Heffernan-Reese .38 pistol.