Tweak the Devil's Nose

by Deming, Richard

  “Why the orders?”

  His bony shoulders moved in a shrug. “I’m just common labor. I don’t ask why. You’d have to go to management to find out.”

  “I’ll do that,” I told him. “I think I need a talk with Mr. Davis.”

  “Yes, you do. That’s why I intruded on your little tête-à-tête. Tuesday Mr. Davis left you his phone number, with instructions to call in any progress. This is Thursday, and he’s beginning to wonder why the phone doesn’t ring.”

  “There hasn’t been any progress. Except negative.”

  “You mean you’ve eliminated some possibilities? Even that would interest Mr. Davis.” He examined me with his mouth open for a moment. “Suppose you give me a brief run-down, I’ll pass it on, and you won’t have to bother phoning Mr. Davis.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Willard Knight didn’t shoot Lancaster. Neither did Warren Day, Fausta or I. End of report.”

  “Very concise, Mr. Moon. What did you find out at Mohl and Townsend?”

  “The receptionist is single, but she leans backward when she runs. Alfred Mohl believes in gilt-edged securities and votes Republican.”

  The look he gave me was the same one he had employed the first time we met. Not belligerent, nor threatening, but merely a quietly informative look which let me know if I wanted a contest, he would gladly tear off one of my arms and beat me over the head with it.

  I said, “I don’t deal with common labor. I’ll get in touch with top management.”

  “Yes, do that,” he said quietly.

  Lifting his glass for the first time, he drained it in one continuous swallow, rose from his seat, inclined his head at Fausta and sauntered off.

  19

  That evening Don Bell, the local radio gossip, had the full story of Fausta’s narrow escape from poisoning on his nine o’clock broadcast. I was rather surprised, inasmuch as the evening papers had carried nothing but the bare announcement of the waiter’s death, with the additional information that the police were investigating. Apparently Warren Day, for reasons of his own, had not wanted the incident publicly connected with the Lancaster and Knight murders, but there had been the usual leak resulting in a Don Bell exclusive. If the inspector was listening to the broadcast, his nose at this moment would be dead white, I reflected.

  Fausta’s phone rang just as the broadcast ended, and Fausta went into her bedroom to answer it.

  When she returned to the front room, she announced, “That was Lieutenant Hannegan. Inspector Day wants you to meet him at your apartment right away. The inspector is already on his way, and Lieutenant Hannegan has been phoning everywhere trying to reach you.”

  “Hannegan said all that?” I asked, surprised. “Usually he isn’t so voluble.”

  Then, not because I had the least suspicion the call was faked, but merely from the habit of double-checking, I went into the bedroom and phoned headquarters. Since both Day and Hannegan went off duty at five, I was not surprised to find neither there. The sergeant on duty at Homicide knew nothing about their whereabouts.

  I tried Day’s apartment, but when the phone had rung six times without answer, hung up. Then I tried my own number, and again hung up after six rings. Apparently Day had not yet arrived, for while I kept my apartment locked, the apartment manager knew the inspector well enough to let him in with a passkey, and I was certain Day would not stand out in the hall waiting when he could just as easily be inside drinking up my rye.

  I made one more call, this time to the bar phone downstairs, and this time I got an answer. I told the bartender to send up Mouldy Greene.

  When I returned to the front room, Fausta was freshening her lipstick with the obvious intention of going out.

  I said, “You’re staying right here in this nice safe apartment.”

  “I thought you were going to protect me twenty-four hours a day,” Fausta said. “Suppose that was not Lieutenant Hannegan at all, but the killer trying to lure you away so I would be alone?”

  “You won’t be alone. Mouldy’s coming up. And wasn’t it Hannegan?”

  Fausta shrugged. “I suppose. I haven’t heard him speak more than twice, and never over the phone.”

  “I’m reasonably sure it was the lieutenant,” I assured her. “Warren Day is out, and he rarely goes anywhere except on business. He hates spending the money on foolish things like women and strong drink. His idea of a good time is to run down to the bank and deposit his pay check. And since the banks aren’t open at this time of night, he must be out on business. Anyway, if our killer was trying to get at you, he’d probably assume I was dragging you along, and plan to pot you from some ambush.”

  “Why not have the inspector come here?”

  I said, “In the first place I can’t reach him. In the second, he’d only swear at me and tell me to get home fast even if I did reach him. And in the third place, I forgot my pajamas and toothbrush, so I can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “It is too hot to sleep in pajamas,” Fausta said. “And you may share my toothbrush.”

  “Stop acting like a suspicious wife,” I told her. “You’d think we were on a honeymoon and I was trying to sneak out with the boys.”

  Mouldy arrived at that moment. I told him he was Fausta’s bodyguard until I got back and I wanted him in the apartment with the door locked.

  “How about my job?” he asked. “Nobody’s on the door.”

  “The customers will just have to put up with a bow from the head waiter instead of a slap on the back from you,” I said. “You stay here and don’t unlock that door for anyone but me.”

  As Mouldy’s single military efficiency had been guard duty, I felt no qualms about leaving Fausta in his custody. As a sentinel he followed orders implicitly, his sole drawback being lack of flexibility. Having been instructed not to unlock the door, he wouldn’t unlock it even if the place caught fire, nor would he permit Fausta to. So while there was a remote possibility I would return to find both Mouldy and Fausta roasted alive, I could be reasonably certain no killers would get to Fausta while I was gone.

  I left my car in the “no parking” space in front of my apartment inasmuch as I was on police business, and I have noticed the police pay little attention to parking regulations when on official business. As I expected, I found my front door unlocked, but when I opened it, the front room was dark.

  Assuming the inspector was in the kitchen investigating my refrigerator, I pushed the door shut behind me and felt for the wall switch in the dark. When light sprang into the room, I found myself looking into the familiar bore of a short-barreled revolver.

  The flat-faced pseudocop who had dumped me in the center of Midland Park sat in my favorite easy chair and it was he who held the gun. His driver, Slim, reclined on the couch with his feet on my cocktail table.

  Before I got over my surprise, I heard myself saying, “Get your oversized shoes off that table!”

  Startled, Slim dropped his feet to the floor, then scowled at me and rose from the sofa.

  “You should be more careful of other people’s property,” his flat-faced friend admonished him. Apologetically he explained to me, “Slim never had much bringing up.

  And sitting here in the dark, I never noticed what he was doing.” His pistol bored unwaveringly at the center of my stomach.

  I asked, “Which one of you is Lieutenant Hannegan?”

  “Slim,” Flat-face said. “Slim can be real clever when he manages to stay awake.”

  Slim growled something and his partner went on, “You wouldn’t believe it, but the whole idea was Slim’s. Phoning Warren Day to make sure he wasn’t home, in case you got suspicious and checked back. Imitating Lieutenant Hannegan to Miss Moreni. Ain’t he a little genius?”

  “Shut up and let’s get going,” Slim said.

  “Sure,” Flat-face said. His tone shed its mock politeness. “Turn around with your hands on top of your head, Buster.”

  Since the order was accompanied by the snick of his revolver ham
mer being drawn back, I turned around and clasped my hands atop my head. An instant later his left hand snaked under my armpit from behind and removed my P-38. I heard it clank as it was laid on the mantel.

  “Let’s go,” Flat-face said, prodding my spine with the cocked revolver.

  Assuming he meant go outside, I opened the door and preceded both of them. I continued to lead down the half flight to the main entrance, out to the street, which, as was usual for that time of night in my neighborhood, was deserted, and across the street to the blue sedan parked there.

  Following instructions, I got in the back, where I was joined by the man with the gun. Slim took the wheel.

  I said, “It may be a shock to you, but I haven’t the vaguest idea who you guys are, or what you think you’re accomplishing by kidnaping me every few hours.”

  “Not kidnaping, Buster,” my seatmate said quickly. “Abducting.”

  Although the distinction seemed unnecessary hairsplitting, and his correction a bit too quick, I let it pass. “Do you fellows just get a kick out of dumping people off places so they have to walk home?”

  “This time we ain’t dumping you.”

  “Your plans a secret?”

  “Just shut up, Buster. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Since he said this in a tone indicating the alternative to my shutting up might be a bump on the head, and accompanied the words with a hefting of his revolver, as though preparing to use it as a club, I shut up. At a moderate speed Slim drove along side streets in the direction of the river. At that time of night bridge traffic was slight, and we made the approach to the bridge without even having to shift gears.

  In the center of the bridge, I chanced further conversation. “Kidnaping and crossing a state line,” I commented. “You boys are right brave, thumbing your noses at the FBI like this.”

  “You don’t know your laws,” Flat-face growled. “Kidnaping is when you steal somebody and keep him. It’s only abduction if you just steal him temporary-like. And who the hell would want to keep a blabbermouth like you?”

  So it was not a death ride, I thought. I found the thought cheering, but it did nothing to sate my curiosity.

  I said, “Whoever hired you for this sold you a bill of goods. Abduction, as a legal term, applies only to women. You’ve just committed two federal offenses: kidnaping and crossing a state line during the commission of a felony. But you’ll have lots of time to explain you thought it was only abduction. About forty years.”

  In the front seat Slim said thoughtfully, “If this guy is right, maybe we better bump him, huh?”

  I said hastily, “Of course if I didn’t make a complaint, you wouldn’t be in any trouble. And if we turned around and went home, naturally I wouldn’t have anything to complain about.”

  “Why don’t you shut up?” Flat-face inquired in a bored tone.

  So I shut up for the rest of the ride. It wasn’t long, for our destination was Maddon, and a four-lane highway leads almost from the bridge ramp on the Illinois side straight into Maddon. Within ten minutes of the time we left the bridge we were pulling into the driveway of a neat white cottage on the outskirts of the little town.

  At a prod from the revolver, I climbed out of the car and preceded my companions to a side door. Stepping ahead of me, Slim opened the door and led the way into a small hallway. When he gestured me on, I followed past an open doorway through which I caught a glimpse of a tastefully furnished living room, we turned left into a narrower hallway and marched toward the rear of the house. Just short of the kitchen Slim opened another door and led me down a flight of stairs to the basement. During the whole journey Flat-face stayed one step behind me with the barrel of his pistol almost touching my back.

  The basement, or at least that part of it we found ourselves in, had been converted into a large playroom. The ceiling was white acoustic board, the walls unstained knotty pine and the floor alternate black and red squares of asphalt tile. In one corner was a bleached-oak bar before which stood a half-dozen red leather stools, and behind which was a back bar containing at least fifty bottles. Diagonally across from it in the corner was a round poker table with a green felt top. The other two corners respectively contained a regulation-size pool table and a jukebox. Two slot machines against the wall, a TV console, a couple of small round cocktail tables and a number of chrome-and-leather chairs completed the furnishings.

  Other than we three new arrivals, only one person occupied the playroom. Attired in formal trousers, a purple smoking jacket and leather loafers, Barney Seldon sat on one of the bar stools watching television.

  The moment we entered Barney jerked a thumb at the television screen. Slim walked over and cut off one of TV’s highest paid comics in the middle of a gag.

  Seldon said, “Evening, Mr. Moon,” drained the highball before him and lit a cigarette with a gold lighter. Frowning at his two hirelings, he said, “Took you long enough.”

  “After we phoned you about that business this morning we never had a chance,” Flat-face explained. “He was stuck to Miss Moreni all day, and we figured you wouldn’t want us pulling nothing with her around. We finally pried him out of her apartment with a fake call.”

  Barney Seldon’s face darkened as he swung toward me. I felt mine darken too, but more with shame than with anger. That Farmer Cole had been tailing me without my being able to spot him I knew, but the Farmer had been trained by the FBI. The discovery that two run-of-the-mill hoods had also managed to stay on me all day without detection touched my vanity where it hurt.

  I took a bar stool a seat or two away from Seldon, leaned my back against the bar and made a point of slowly studying the room. Slim seated himself at the poker table and idly shuffled a deck of cards. Flat-face leaned against the pool table, his gun still in his hand and still cocked.

  Barney examined me coldly, finally said, “You were a little bit rough on my boy, Percy Sweet.”

  “Tit for tat,” I told him. “Percy tried to be a little rough on me.”

  “And then you yelled cop,” Barney said. “Really I was a little disappointed. Fausta built you up as such a tough guy, but instead of fighting your own battles, you yell cop.”

  I looked at him in astonishment. “My own battles? When you try to scare me off a murder case, it isn’t a simple matter of Moon versus Seldon. It becomes Seldon versus the People.”

  Barney’s eyebrows went up. “Murder case? You talking about the Lancaster affair?”

  “That and Willard Knight. You had anyone else bumped recently?”

  Barney laughed a short unpleasant laugh. “Is that why you think you’re on my stink list?”

  I merely looked at him without answering.

  “What did Percy say to you?” he asked.

  I simulated his short unpleasant laugh. “He intimated in his terse, ungrammatical way that he was going to learn me to kick a field goal, my head being the ball. And the lesson was to teach me to stay out of your hair.”

  “No explanation of how you got in my hair?”

  I shook my head. “Since our sole contact concerned Walter Lancaster, I assumed my looking into his murder ruffled your toupee.”

  Barney snorted smoke in my direction. “We also discussed a lady.”

  For a moment I didn’t get it, and when I finally did, it filled me with such a mixture of disgust and rage, I slid from my stool and reached out to gather a fistful of smoking jacket.

  Across the room Flat-face said tonelessly, “You’ll get a slug in your guts.”

  That deterred me from slugging Barney, but did nothing to abate my anger. Gripping the seat of the bar stool between us instead of his jacket, I leaned toward him and said impolitely, “You underdeveloped cretin! I’m up to my neck in a double murder investigation, trying to prevent a third, and you bother me with a lot of teen-age nonsense over a girl! In grammar school, boys sick their gangs on fellows who mess with their girls, but they outgrow such juvenile stuff by the time they get to high school. Of course, never
having attended either one, a paleolithic moron like you wouldn’t know that, but — ”

  “Hold it, Moon!” Barney said in a strangled voice.

  “You ape-brained simpleton!” I yelled. “Grown men don’t win women by having their rivals beat up. What in hell do you think you’re accomplishing with this nonsense?”

  Leaving his stool, Barney gripped the opposite side of the same one I was gripping and put his handsome nose an inch from mine. “I’m going to marry that girl! That’s what I’m accomplishing!” he yelled back at me. “And I’m keeping you away from her if I have to beat your brains out every hour on the hour!”

  I straightened up. “She wouldn’t have a triple-plated jerk like you if you had every man in a radius of fifty miles beaten up.”

  That released his trigger. Stepping away from the bar, he started a fast left hook at my head. Unfortunately, for him, this put him between me and the gun in Flat-face’s hand.

  Deflecting his hook with my open right palm, I leaned my back against the bar, brought up my aluminum foot, planted it in his groin and snapped my leg straight. He shot across the room on his heels, crashed into Flat-face and took him to the floor with him.

  I was vaulting the bar while Slim dropped his cards, leaped to his feet and began to reach under his coat.

  With a pinch bottle of Scotch in one hand and a quart of Irish whisky in the other, I spun toward him and hurled the former end-over-end just as his gun began to clear. The Irish I flipped two feet lower an instant later.

  Slim ducked the Scotch just in time to catch the Irish squarely on the nose. The pinch bottle burst all over the wall behind him, but the Irish didn’t even break. It rolled one way, Slim rolled the other, then both lay still.

  The instant the Irish left my hand, I was re-armed again, this time with a square bottle of gin and a quart of bourbon. Both started toward the corner containing the pool table just as Barney rolled from Flat-face’s lap. Seated spread-eagled on the floor, Flat-face tried to duck and fire at the same time. Both bottles missed, but so did his bullet, burying itself somewhere in the ceiling above me.