The Eighth Circle

by Stanley Ellin

  “I don’t know why not,” Wykoff said, “but it better be on the level. I’d hate like hell to think some lousy TV show was making a sucker out of me every week.” Mona, looking drugged, was seated between him and Dowd, and he patted her thigh. “Be a good girl, baby. Turn the set off now, and then beat it. Maybe the cook’s still in the kitchen, you can talk things over with him. Get yourself a new recipe. I’ll tell you when it’s all right to come back.”

  He waited until she had left the room, and then drew two cigars from his pocket. One he handed to Dowd. The other he fitted into an amber holder and lit for himself. It reminded Murray of a time long ago when Frank Conmy had put him in his place by carefully not offering him a cigar.

  Wykoff drew deeply on the cigar, which seemed to leave a sour taste in his mouth. “All right, Kirk,” he said in a hard voice, “stand up.”

  “Why?” Murray asked matter-of-factly. “I don’t have anything to talk over with the cook. I’m loaded with recipes.”

  “Don’t be so smart, Kirk. When we talk business we do it my way. That means Joe frisks you before we start. It won’t hurt any.”

  “You’ve been watching too much television,” Murray said. “I don’t carry a gun.”

  “I’m not worried about guns. But I hear they make tape recorders now, you could stick one in your tooth, for Chrissake, and nobody would know. So let’s get with it. Up on the feet and hold out the hands.”

  Murray stood up slowly, and the Japanese said, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Kirk,” and went over him thoroughly. It was a professional frisking, down to the way his wrist watch, wallet, and pen were removed and examined. The Japanese returned them to him. “You know how it is, Mr. Kirk,” he said.

  “Sure, Joe,” Murray said. “What’d they have you doing in the big war, counterintelligence?”

  “Three years of it in the South Pacific, Mr. Kirk. My C.O. looked something like you, too. I didn’t like his face, either.”

  The atmosphere around him, Murray saw, was certainly frosting up in a hurry. As if to confirm this, Wykoff said, “I’ll let you in on something, Kirk. Joe ain’t very big, but he’s even tougher to handle than Billy Caxton. And I figure from that lump on the jaw you already found out about Caxton. So if you don’t want a busted arm to go along with that jaw, y’understand, you’ll sit down and be a little gentleman. I don’t go for rough stuff myself, y’understand, but if a guy walks in here and asks for it I’m entitled to protection, ain’t I?” He turned to Dowd. “If it happens like that I got the law on my side, don’t I?”

  Dowd looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think Kirk is looking for trouble,” he said. “He seems to be a smart young fellow.”

  “Smart?” Wykoff said with elaborate surprise. “A creep like him hires himself a fancy limousine to cart him out here with everybody looking, he walks into my house which is the last place he should be, God knows, and you call him smart? Believe me, if I didn’t know how Mona gets so upset about everything he would have been bounced out of here as soon as he stuck his nose in the door.” He drew on the cigar, evidently savoring it now, and darted a sidelong glance at Murray. “Y’understand what I’m saying, Kirk?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good, because I really got you hung up by the thumbs, don’t I? How do you think your friend LoScalzo would take it, if it got back to him you were out here trying to put the muscle on me?”

  “I don’t know,” Murray said affably. “Anyhow, I thought he was your friend. That’s what a lot of ex-cops are saying nowadays.”

  Wykoff’s face darkened. “Don’t you worry what they say, Kirk. Before I went down for the count they made enough off me, so I don’t owe them a handshake now. And as far as LoScalzo goes I’ll let you in on something. Anybody who’s my friend don’t fix me up with two years on Riker’s Island.”

  “Now wait, George,” Dowd protested. “You’re not there yet, are you? The appeal hasn’t even been reviewed yet.”

  “Ah, lay off,” Wykoff said impatiently. “Don’t oil me, Mitch, don’t fix me up with any grease job, because that’s not what I’m paying you for. We both know the appeal don’t stand a chance. I’ll put in my time, all right, but what I want Kirk to know is, one squawk from me, and he’ll be right there in the same place. You hear that, Kirk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then sit down and listen.” Wykoff waited until Murray, taking his time, had made himself comfortable, then said, “First, what’s with this cop Lundeen?”

  “It’s no secret. I’m doing a job for him.”

  “There’s more to it than that, Kirk. A guy like this Lundeen, y’understand, is nobody. The only guy less than him is somebody goes around the park, picks up papers on a stick with a nail in it. So this nobody Lundeen suddenly gets a lawyer name of Harlingen which I hear is the classiest kind of Wall Street stuff. Is that right, Mitch?”

  “It’s one of the outstanding law firms in the country,” Dowd agreed.

  “Right. In the whole country, y’understand. And the kind of place it is, no ordinary cop could even get in the side door. Then that ain’t enough, so this Lundeen shows up at the Conmy-Kirk agency, which is also very classy. And who does his job personally for him there? The big cheese himself! Mr. Murray Kirk, who can sit around and collect an arm and a leg for unscrewing some millionaire creep from his wife, don’t want to bother about such stuff now. Not now, he don’t. All he wants to do is get off his fanny and hustle around on a case for a down-and-out cop!” Wykoff sat forward and jabbed a finger into Murray’s knee. “Only this cop ain’t really so down-and-out, is he, Kirk? He’s got a lot of pull somewhere. He’s got big people backing him up. Who are they, Kirk? What’s their angle?”

  “No angle,” said Murray.

  “No? Then how come the Harlingen office is handling the case?”

  “It isn’t. The old man’s son left the office to take the case on his own.”

  “Why?”

  Murray smiled. “He’s an idealist. He wants to be the new Clarence Darrow.”

  “You kill me,” Wykoff said wearily. He turned to Dowd. “What do you make of this, Mitch?”

  “It’s not very convincing, I’m afraid,” Dowd said. “I can look into it, if you want me to.”

  “You do that,” Wykoff said. He regarded Murray with narrowed eyes. “How about you, Kirk? You in on this, because you’re maybe some kind of an idealist, too?”

  “No, what happened to me is pretty funny. I went overboard for Lundeen’s girl friend, and I took the case to prove to her he was guilty. Then when they’ve got him locked up I figure to marry the girl. That’s all there is to it.”

  Wykoff’s face indicated that he did not think this was pretty funny. It took him time to find words, and when he did they came out choked with black rage. “You miserable, double-talking monkey,” he said thickly, “who do you think you’re fooling around with? You think I’m so stupid I’d believe one word of that?”

  “No.”

  “No. But it’s all right to kill time with. If I ask you about it again, you tell me the same thing, and we go around and around that way. Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  Wykoff stood up threateningly, and Dowd came to his feet almost at the same moment. He laid a restraining hand on Wykoff’s arm. “Listen to me, George,” he said. “Either you get hold of yourself, or I walk out of here right now. You’ve got to consider my position, too.”

  Murray felt an old familiar knot tighten in his belly. He had estimated from the start that Dowd’s presence was his surest safeguard, because Dowd was obviously a man who wanted no part of violence. Not, at least, if he might be a witness to it. Without his company anything could happen, and, according to Bruno Manfredi’s somber philosophy, it probably would. It came as a relief when Wykoff pushed aside the restraining hand and sullenly said, “What’re you making such a fuss about? You think I want to get you mixed up in some trouble? You’re worse than a fat-assed old woman.”

  Dowd’s face re
ddened. “Maybe I am, but I’ve got sense enough to see you’re not getting anywhere this way. Why not come to the point? You want Kirk to drop this case, no matter who’s behind Lundeen or what he has up his sleeve. All right, put it to the man that way, and see what he’s got to say about it. He’s no fool.”

  “Thanks,” Murray said. “Only I’m not so smart either. What’s George here got against Lundeen?”

  Wykoff said with venom, “He’s making trouble for Ira Miller, that’s what. No, don’t go giving me the fishy eye, Kirk. If you don’t know how things stand between Ira Miller and me you better find out quick, because it ain’t any joke. I’m not talking about somebody just happened to work along with me, y’understand. Ira Miller is like my kid brother. He’s high class and his wife is high class, too. They’re the finest people I know in the world, and they got enough trouble without you pushing them around like Ira says you did. That means all I want is to comb you out of their hair, and, between you and me, I don’t care how I do it!”

  It was said with a savage intensity that left no doubts about Wykoff’s sincerity, and Murray knew that he had struck a fine vein to explore. He laid his hand over his heart. “That gets me right here, Wykoff. But if you don’t see me crying, it’s because I already met Ira Miller. If you want my honest opinion, he is hardly what I would call the kid-brother type.”

  “Who the hell wants your opinion? What do you know about it, a professional sneak like you?” Wykoff held up a trembling forefinger. “Let me tell you something, Kirk. In my whole operation there was just one man who could run a losing book and get away with it. Right in the middle of town, in the fattest district I had, Ira Miller ran a loss for me one year after another, and I never blinked an eye! He was into me for fifteen, twenty thousand dollars, and it didn’t bother me, because that’s how it is with us two.

  “No one ever double-crosses George Wykoff, Kirk. No one, y’understand? If anyone else ran a losing book like that he knows what would happen to him. Only Ira Miller could do it, because when he said it wasn’t his fault I knew he was telling the truth. The bets went bad, the cops kept pushing for bigger graft, that’s how it went. My own accountant knew every book in the organization inside-out used to say to me, ‘Ira’s running in hard luck, but he’s strictly on the level.’ And he didn’t have to tell me. You think when it comes to a showdown between Ira and your cop that Ira ain’t on the level? You better think again!

  “So now you know something, don’t you? And if you got any brains, Kirk, tomorrow you’ll tell this Lundeen to take a jump for himself. I don’t care who’s in back of him or why. You do what I say.”

  “That’s a fine proposition,” Murray said. “What do I get out of it?”

  “Your neck. What more do you want?”

  “Oh, some way of backing out of the case. Take those records you were talking about. If you look them up right now and give me evidence that Miller paid off Lundeen, I’m in the clear. That’s the kind of thing the people I’m dealing with would understand.”

  “Yeah?” Wykoff said coldly. “And what makes you so sure the records are right around here?”

  “Where else would they be? You wouldn’t keep them in a bank vault where they could be impounded, would you? You wouldn’t turn them over to somebody who could bring the income-tax people down on you like a ton of brick, would you? What’s the odds they’re right under your mattress while we’re talking here?”

  Wykoff regarded him curiously. “You been wasting your time,” he said with unwilling admiration. “I could have used somebody like you in my business. Well,” he asked Dowd, “what do you think? You think it’s all right?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Dowd said.

  “But you’ll have to take my word for it,” Wykoff warned Murray, and when Murray looked doubtful he said, “You got a lot of gall, Kirk, the way you take over. All right, Mitch here can look at the books with me and back me up. Will that suit your royal highness better?”

  “The date was May third,” Murray said.

  There was no mystery about where the records were kept. The door he heard opened was that of the room directly across the hall; the sound that followed was that of a wooden drawer being creakily pulled out. It was the purloined letter all over again, he reflected. Put it under everybody’s nose, and it would be the last place they’d look for it. He smiled at Joe, who leaned on the bar watching him warily. “Take it easy, soldier,” he said. “Can’t you see the war is over?”

  He got up and strolled to the window, humming the theme from “I Can’t Get Started.” It was snowing. The first real snow of the winter, and where else but out in the wilds of Staten Island. In the winter, he thought, he and Ruth would head up to the mountains for the skiing. If she didn’t know how to ski, so much the better. He himself was the world’s worst skier.

  Dowd said behind him, “No question about it, Kirk. Miller made a pay-off to Lundeen May third just the way he said he did.”

  “Well, all right,” said Murray. “We’ll have a drink on that.”

  He traveled back to the St. Stephen in Caxton’s limousine. Dowd had offered him a lift to Manhattan, but Wykoff had curtly said, “No, Billy’s waiting to take him,” and that had settled it.

  Caxton, it turned out, had been briefed before the departure. Just before they drew up to the St. Stephen he said, “I’m glad everything worked out all right, Mr. Kirk, you know what I mean? So now you forget about it, and make time with that piece down in the Village. A real nice girl. You want to make sure nothing happens to her.”

  He had a great sense of humor, Caxton did.

  19

  The banquet department of the hotel had been busy that night. The lobby was crowded with people in evening clothes ready for departure, but delaying it, because what had been a picturesque snowfall in Staten Island was an icy rain here, sluicing down savagely, daring them to come out. So they stood in small clusters, be-minked and overcoated, loudly repeating endless good-bys, complaining about the weather—you wait all year for the Affair, and look at the lousy weather!—and peering anxiously through the dripping glass of the revolving door to see if some passing cab had been lured up to the marquee.

  When Murray pushed his way through them they refused to give ground. One man said irately, “Hey, you!” and as Murray turned he knew what his own expression must be, because the man looked taken aback and weakly said, “Well, you ought to watch out, mister,” more in apology than protest.

  On the other hand, Nelson, the assistant night clerk who ordinarily wore a professional air of distaste for the world at large, looked relieved to see him. “You’ve been getting calls pretty steadily all evening, Mr. Kirk. Nothing wrong, is there?”

  “No,” Murray said. He took the message slips Nelson handed him, and moved to the side of the desk to riffle through them. There must have been a dozen. Mrs. Donaldson. Miss Vincent. Miss Vincent. Mrs. Knapp. Mrs. Donaldson. Mr. Harlingen. Mrs. Donaldson. At least half of them were Didi’s, which was unusual. As a rule, she never called more than once in an evening. If he didn’t answer she would let it go at that.

  When he got up to the apartment he had barely opened the door when the phone sounded. He sat down on the bed without taking off his overcoat, hoping against hope that it was Ruth. The clock on the night table, he saw as he picked up the phone, said twelve-thirty, which might still allow him time to see her tonight.

  It was Didi. “Murray,” she said, “I’m so glad you’re finally in, you just have no idea. Can you come over here now? Or would you like it better if I came over there? It won’t be any trouble for me. I’ve got the car parked right handy.”

  “Not tonight, Didi. We’ll have to make it some other time. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Oh. I suppose you’ve got someone there with you. Is that it?”

  “No, but it doesn’t make any difference,” he said impatiently. “1 told you I’d call you tomorrow.”

  “Murray, please. I want to see you now. I want to talk
to you. I never say no if you ask me, do I?”

  That stung him hard. “What do you do, keep a record of it?” he demanded angrily. “Look, Didi, you know how you are. Whatever’s bothering you can wait, can’t it? Why don’t you just try to sleep it off?”

  There was a long silence. “You don’t mean that,” Didi said at last.

  “Oh, yes, I do,” he said, and took a mean pleasure in saying it. Then it struck him that her voice had sounded odd. “What’s the matter? Do you have a cold?”

  “No,” Didi said, “I’m all right. Kind of weepy, but it’s no never mind. I told you I was awful dumb sometimes, didn’t I?”

  That was all. She hung up on that cryptic note before he could answer, leaving him with the empty humming of the dead line in his ear, and a hot resentment at the way she had chosen now, of all times, to dump one of her moods into his lap. Or was there another, more acute, reason for the resentment? There was, he knew. He had finally, after all these years, fallen victim to her peculiar talent for masochism. For the first time since they had known each other he had treated her the way every other man she knew sooner or later treated her. Kirk, the Great Exception, had joined the club, and that pathetic Mrs. Donaldson who so rejoiced in a slap across the face could now claim a perfect score. Was it his fault? The hell it was, Murray told himself. Any good, capable masochist could make a sadist out of a saint, and he was no saint to start with. And he had his own problems to solve.

  Ruth must have been within arm’s reach of her telephone when it rang. “Man, I could kill you,” she said breathlessly. “Where are you calling from? You’re not hurt, are you?”

  The query painfully reminded Murray of his bruised jaw and the place on his ribs where Caxton’s shoe had found its mark. But as far as he was concerned, Ruth’s breathlessness was all the ointment he needed. “Not a chance,” he said. “What happened was that something came up suddenly, and I couldn’t even leave word for you. It’s quite a story.”

  “Well, it better be,” she told him with unmistakable relief. “Considering the fuss I kicked up around here, you’d better make it an epic The O’Mearagh himself couldn’t beat. I’ve been calling everybody. I even had Ralph dig up your secretary’s home number, but she didn’t know any more than I did.”