The Eighth Circle

by Stanley Ellin

  Murray felt an unexpected pang at that. “Yes, but she’s not in town now. And I probably will be busy then.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry,” Murray said. “But even if I can’t go, would you do me a favor?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Well, there’s a man—Charles Pirozy—and I think you once spoke to me about him. Do you remember that?”

  Megan looked blank. “No, I don’t.”

  “You don’t recall the name at all?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t, Murray. Oh, yes, I do. He was on television.”

  “On television? What would he be doing on television? He’s an accountant.”

  Megan looked up at the ceiling, her eyes glazing over. It was obviously her method of bringing memory into play. “He was on television,” she said remotely, and then turned to Murray, her eyes now glowing with recollection. “Only he wasn’t exactly on it; they were talking about him. Remember after we got done watching Private-Eye Brannigan, that newscaster came on? He said Charles Pirozy was killed in an accident. He said a hit-run driver—What’s the matter, Murray? It is right, isn’t it? Why are you looking like that?”

  The file on Lundeen was suddenly open before him, everything in it whirling down on him like the deck of cards whirling down on Alice to end her dream. A whole deck of cards, all jokers, fanning out before him while he stared at it wide-eyed and wondering, Frank’s voice in his ears telling him to turn away and forget it—put it aside when there was everything to lose and nothing to gain—and other voices trying to drown that warning out, yammering at him to forget Frank Conmy, to forget all the hard lessons learned—

  He saw the Harlingens watching him with bewilderment. They heard no din; it was all inside himself, and to end it he had to move one way or the other. He moved, and the voice of Frank Conmy was heard no more.

  “Ralph,” he said, “I think we’ve broken the case wide open. Don’t tell Ruth anything about it yet. Don’t tell her anything about the talk we had. I’ve got to run now, but I’ll keep in touch with you. Just sit tight.”

  The last thing he heard as he went through the door was Megan’s voice raised in baffled query to her parents.

  “But what did I say?” she asked.

  4

  (New York City, November 25) Charles Pirozy, 60, was struck by an auto late last night and dragged for two blocks before his limp body dropped from the hit-run vehicle, police believed.

  Pirozy, a resident of New Rochelle, was found unconscious in East Sixty-second Street about thirty feet east of Madison Avenue at 10:10 P.M. by a passerby.

  He died in an ambulance en route to Roosevelt Hospital.

  At Sixtieth Street and Madison Avenue police found a hat and gloves which were identified as belonging to the dead man.

  Police said Pirozy apparently was hit by a car at that corner as he emerged from his office in the building there. He was then carried on the front of the auto to Sixty-second Street. When the car turned east into Sixty-second Street, they theorized, the body was dislodged and dropped off.

  Bruno put down the newspaper clipping and picked up the police report. “That’s a great way to go,” he commented. “What’s this report say about it?”

  “A lot,” Murray said, “considering there were no eyewitnesses. The car was a last year’s model, green Buick, and it was going more than forty at the moment of impact.”

  “How’d they find that out?”

  “Condition of the body, some paint stains on his coat that they analyzed, some other little things. You can’t get away with anything nowadays. Remember that, next time you aim at a pedestrian.”

  “I’m like that with pedestrians,” said Bruno. “But what’s it all add up to? What makes you think the car is up in the Catskills right now?”

  “Because as soon as this happened, the police were out looking for it, and a smart man would hide it out at the Acres, where nobody would think to look. You know, it’s funny the way that car jumped into my mind as soon as the kid remembered about Pirozy. That is, it’s funny the way the picture of no car came into my mind. It’s like that Sherlock Holmes bit where they broke the case because the dog didn’t bark. Did you ever read any Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I got four kids,” Bruno said. “When would I get time to read anything?” He walked to the window of the office and drew aside a corner of the curtain to look down at the street. “What a life,” he said. “Yesterday we’re running like hell to get away from Wykoff. Today you call him up to wait downstairs so I’m scared to even move out of here. I wish we could go down now, and get it over with. How much longer do we have to wait, anyhow?”

  “Until Rigaud calls from the Acres and says he located the car. Figuring it took him two hours to drive up there and another half-hour to hunt around, it shouldn’t be long now.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Bruno said, his eyes still fixed on the street. “Look at that! A cop walks right by and don’t even give him a ticket. You got to be in a Caddie limousine not to get a ticket for parking like that. Now the chauffeur’s getting out again to wipe the hood; that makes three times already. Say, is he the guy that flattened you?”

  “He’s the one.”

  “Such a little guy? He must be a head shorter than you.”

  “He said he used to be a fighter. I believe him.”

  “Even so,” Bruno said. Then he shrugged in self-deprecation. “Ah, what am I talking about? When I was a kid I went into the Golden Gloves once, and I only lasted until the other guy had a chance to catch up to me. He was a little guy, too, but what a monster! I’m telling you, Murray, he had hair all over him like an ape; you stick a glove into him it was like sticking it into a haystack. And all he wanted to do was kill me. I knew it right from the bell, so I—”

  The telephone clicked demandingly, and Murray reached for it. “That’s Rigaud,” he said. “Go out to the switchboard and listen in on the extension there.”

  He heard Bruno pick up the receiver of the extension as Miss Whiteside’s voice came lilting over the wire. “It’s your call, Mr. Kirk. Mr. Rigaud calling person-to-person from the Acres,” and immediately after, Rigaud’s voice broke in. “It’s me, Mr. Kirk, and the car’s here, the way you said.”

  “Where are you calling from?” Murray asked. “Can anyone hear you?”

  “No, I’m in one of the stores here in the hotel.”

  “All right, what kind of car is it, and how does it look?”

  “It’s a green Buick sedan, last year’s model. There’s a wrinkle and some scrapes on the right front fender, still fresh, no rust marks yet. There’s a little dent in the grille next to it, and some stains on the grille that’re probably blood. And the headlight on that side is twisted off base a couple of inches. I don’t think anybody’s been near this job since it was put here.”

  “Did you find out who put it there?”

  “Yes, one of the garage hands was called down to New York to pick it up in a rush the Saturday right after Thanksgiving. He said they told him to pick it up in a garage in the city and just run it back here and put it away.”

  “Who told him to do that?”

  “He said it was Mr. Bindlow. That’s the big cheese around here.”

  “Bindlow?” Murray’s heart sank. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, but he said the car don’t belong to Mr. Bindlow. He says it belongs to another one of the bosses around here. Ira Miller.”

  Murray’s heart rebounded. It took him a second to find his voice. “That’s great, Gene. That’s fine work. Now what you do is this. Get to the nearest town there—there is a town around there, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, about two miles away.”

  “Good. Get over there and talk to the sheriff or the police chief or whatever he is. Tell him—”

  Bruno’s voice suddenly cut in. “Hold it, Murray. Anybody from the Acres can buy and sell those local cops for a dime. You don’t want them; you want the State Police. You hea
r me, Gene?”

  “Sure,” said Rigaud. “I go to the State Police, and then what? Hey, is that you, Bruno? Jeez, you ought to see this place here. It’s—”

  Murray said sharply, “What is this, Old Home Week? Listen to me, Rigaud. Get the license number of that car and then head for the nearest State Police barracks. Show them the New York police report on the accident, give them the license number and description of the car, and tell them you want it impounded immediately. Tell them if they have any questions about it to call here and ask for Mrs. Knapp. Do you have that straight?”

  “I got it, Mr. Kirk.”

  Murray put down the phone as Bruno ambled back into the room and closed the door behind him. He looked at Murray musingly. “Ira Miller,” he said.

  “Ira Miller,” said Murray. “That’s what I meant when I was telling you about the Sherlock Holmes bit. As soon as the Harlingen girl spoke her piece I remembered there was one thing missing from your report on Miller. No car. No car at all. How likely is that for a man like Miller? Especially when he has to travel back and forth to the Acres on business every so often. The dog that didn’t bark, and the car that wasn’t there. You know, Frank would have liked that touch.”

  “It’s the only thing he would have liked about this whole case,” Bruno said. “All right, you’ve got the car and you’ve got Miller. But Lundeen’s still up the creek, and Miller’s still safe on high ground. What about that?”

  “Let me answer a question with a question,” Murray said. “Do you play checkers?”

  “Sure, I play checkers.”

  “All right, that’s what we’re going to do now. Like this.” Murray pushed three paper clips into a line on his desk. “Here’s Wykoff, here’s Schrade, and here’s Miller—three pieces that we’re setting up. And when they’re all set we jump them—one, two, three—and take them off the board all in one shot.”

  “And what happens if one of those pieces gets out of line before we’re ready? What happens to us then?”

  “Then—” Murray said, and drew the edge of his forefinger across his throat.

  “That’s what I thought,” Bruno said. “Now I’m sorry I asked. All right, let’s get it over with. It might be cold out, but every minute Wykoff’s sitting there is only making him hotter.”

  “No, first check with Mrs. K. about Schrade. Who’s watching him now?”

  “It’s supposed to be Leo Morrisey.”

  “Then ask her when Morrisey called in last and what he reported.”

  Bruno, ordinarily a slow-moving man, departed and returned with fair celerity. “She says he called about twenty minutes ago, and Schrade is still there. Is that good?”

  “Very good. Now we go to work.”

  “Oh, if you knew how happy that makes me,” Bruno said.

  He waited in the doorway of the building, holding the portable tape recorder, while Murray strolled a few paces along the street and stopped to look in the window of the tobacco store there. Using the window as a mirror he watched Caxton leave the car and approach him.

  “Mr. Kirk?” Caxton removed his cap and held it to his chest, a gesture befitting the dignified chauffeur of a dignified magnate. “Mr. Wykoff says that if you want to speak to him, would you please step into the car? It’s right over there.”

  “I know it is. But you tell Mr. Wykoff for me that I want to speak to him right over here. Tell him he could use the fresh air.”

  Obviously, it was not up to Caxton to make decisions as long as Wykoff was on the scene. He retreated to the car, and in the shop window Murray saw him talking animatedly to Wykoff. There were other reflections in the window as well, Murray noticed; the reflections of two-dollar bettors passing up and down the street. Men and women of all sizes, shapes, and conditions of life, they walked by, not knowing that the man they glanced at as he was helped from his limousine—a man conservatively dressed, prepossessing, possibly an Elder Statesman—was what they had ordained with their two dollars. He had held the power of the High Justice, the Middle, and the Low over them for a long time, and they knew nothing about it and cared less.

  Wykoff moved alongside Murray, and the two of them stood studying the contents of the window, the handsome pipes and exotic tobaccos which, as any passerby could see, were their sole interest in life at the moment.

  “The price,” said Wykoff. “What’s the price?”

  “Cheap,” said Murray. “No cash involved. Just a couple of favors I want you to do for me.”

  Wykoff cast an admiring eye at a meerschaum. “You want! Who are you to tell me what you want, you son of a bitch? I want my book back. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Two books,” said Murray. “I’ve got a little machine upstairs that makes two out of one. One for you and one for me. Mine is in a box along with my life insurance. But I’ve got a surprise for you, Wykoff. If you make a deal with me now you can have both of them. I hate to say it, but your records aren’t worth anything to anybody.”

  “That’s what you say. What kind of deal?”

  “An easy one. First, I want you to drive me over to Brooklyn and wait there while I clear up some business. Then, around nine o’clock tonight, I want you to show up at Ira Miller’s apartment. And I want you to bring LoScalzo along with you. That’s all there is to it, and you’ll get your books tonight at Miller’s. It’s the biggest bargain you could ask for.”

  Wykoff tilted his head to read the price tag on the meerschaum. “You call that a bargain, making trouble for Ira? Take it from me, Kirk, I don’t sell Ira down the river for anybody or anything. And what’s this about LoScalzo. Since when do I give LoScalzo his orders? If you knew what he was like—”

  “I know, but you can make up some story that’ll get him there. And as far as Miller goes, you’ll be there to take care of him, won’t you? And it’s either that, or no book, Wykoff. You’re hung up by the thumbs.”

  “You think so?”

  “Don’t stall, Wykoff. Make up your mind quick, or start wondering who gets those records first—LoScalzo or the Treasury Department.”

  Wykoff turned away from the meerschaum. “Get in the car,” he said.

  “I’ve got someone who has to come along with me.”

  “All right, both of you. What the hell do I care?” said Wykoff, but when Murray signaled Bruno out from the concealing doorway he looked momentarily surprised. Then he recovered himself. “Oh, it’s you,” he said sourly. “How come you ain’t around fixing people’s fuses any more. Did you get a promotion or something?”

  There were sounds emanating from behind the door of Schrade’s room, the sounds of a piano badly played. When Murray knocked on the door the sounds abruptly ceased. “Yeah?” said Schrade. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Murray Kirk, Eddie. Remember, a couple of weeks ago you told me if I ever needed a little band to play at an occasion—”

  The door swung open. “Come on in, come on in,” said Schrade. “I’m glad you’re interested. If I—”

  Murray pushed him back into the room, and Bruno slammed the door and stood menacingly against it. Schrade gaped at them both. “Say, what is this? What’s going on here? You better watch out with the rough stuff, because I don’t like it.”

  “That’s too bad,” Murray said, “because the guy who sent us here does. But maybe you’ll get used to it, Eddie. Maybe after a couple of lumps you won’t even mind it.”

  Schrade found it hard to swallow. “What guy? What are you talking about?”

  “What guy?” Murray turned to Bruno. “He wants to know who sent us. You want to tell him?”

  Bruno smiled grimly. “Sure. George Wykoff sent us. Is that any surprise?”

  “I don’t believe you!” Schrade cried. “You’re a couple of fakers. What would Georgie want with me? What does he care about me?”

  “You little double-crosser,” Murray said, “he cares plenty. You didn’t really believe that story I told you last time, did you? It was George sent me then, because he heard all about
you and Miller and Pirozy, but he wanted to give you a chance to come clean. You had your chance, Eddie, and you blew it. What do you think of that?”

  No one made a move toward him, but Schrade retreated until he was backed against the wall, hands extended as if to fend off oncoming disaster. “I’m still telling you, you’re both fakers. How could Georgie know something that ain’t so? You’re not working for him. You got nothing to do with him. Now go away before I let out a holler and really make trouble for you. You hear me? Get out of here, both of you!”

  Murray took the tape recorder from Bruno, placed it on the table, and opened it. “Eddie, you’ve got one more chance coming to you. George didn’t want to see it my way, but I convinced him I could get a straight story out of you. That’s what I’m trying to do now. If you come clean, you’re out of it altogether, and Miller has to answer for himself. Just talk into this thing, and when George hears it he’ll know what side you’re on. Go ahead, it won’t bite you.”

  Schrade looked at the recorder and seemed to gather courage. “Who are you from?” he demanded. “That Lundeen, isn’t it? You think Georgie Wykoff would send anybody out to make people talk into this thing? What kind of fool are you trying to make out of me?”

  “Eddie,” Murray asked pleasantly, “do you know what George Wykoff looks like?”

  “Sure, I know what he looks like.”

  “And Billy Caxton. Do you know him?”

  “I know him, I know him. I seen him around.”

  “All right, Eddie, take a look out of your window and tell me what you see around now.”

  “What for? What are you trying to do now?”

  “I’m trying to do you a favor, Eddie. Take a look out of that window and you’ll see what I mean.”

  “You think I’m so stupid?” Schrade said, but he sidled along the wall toward the window, and then cautiously turned to look out of it. He fell back with a gasp, his eyes starting out of his head, his arms flailing out blindly, and when Murray caught hold of him it was like supporting a sack of flour that has been punctured, its solidity oozing out of it in a steady stream.