Doorway to Death

by Dan J. Marlowe

  She nodded. Tears flooded the brown eyes and spilled over. “I thought he was going to s-shoot you,” she whispered. “He came in with the gun in his h-hand—”

  “He didn't even know I was here, Sally. The whole show was supposed to scare you into callin' me off. It takes a certain kind of adrenalin to use a gun in the daylight, and besides, you could see he wasn't told to go that far. I'll tell you one thing—I don't care if it takes a .30-30 at a thousand yards, I'll sicken that little rat the next time I lay eyes on him.”

  “You don't like guns, you s-said,” Sally sniffled, and he smiled down at her. “For him I'd make an exception. You sure you're all right?”

  “Yes.” Her voice strengthened, then rose in alarm as he lifted her up and set her on her feet. “Where are you going?”

  “Over to see Joe Dameron.”

  She followed him into the bedroom. “Why? I thought you didn't like him?”

  “I can get along with him.” He skimmed into his clothes, fixing Sally with a hard eye. “Listen. New ground rules around here. Door stays locked all the time. You don't open it till you see who it is out there. That's what they put the one way glass in for. Think you can remember that?”

  She nodded. “Will you be gone long?”

  “Can't tell. I'll see you at work tonight, anyway.”

  “Johnny, please be careful—”

  “Sure, ma. Sure.” He finished dressing with Sally forlornly trailing him around the apartment; he left hurriedly before she could tie him up in further conversation. On the street he whistled for a cab going in the opposite direction, and it made a sweepingly illegal U-turn and came back and picked him up.

  At the precinct stationhouse he ran up the worn white stone steps of the old red brick building and nodded to the incurious uniform at the door. Inside he turned left on oil-darkened wooden floors and walked down a narrow passageway that widened into a large room whose front section was taken up by a massive desk, head high. Johnny returned the inquisitive stare of the white-haired figure enthroned behind the desk.

  “Yis?”

  “Lieutenant Dameron.”

  “And who wants to see him?”

  “Killain.”

  “What about?”

  “The lieutenant might tell you if you asked him.”

  Thin lips tightened as the old man picked up the phone. “Sweeney, Lieutenant. A fresh moose by the name of Killain says—” He broke off to listen, leaned forward in his chair, and replaced the phone silently. “Inside. Second door on the left.”

  He knocked on the second door on the left, and a chair scraped noisily inside and a bolt snicked back in the lock before Jimmy Rogers opened the door. Johnny stood on the threshold and looked in at the blackboard walls and the battered desk and mismatched chairs. A single desk lamp illuminated the gloomy room.

  “Come in, come in!” Lieutenant Dameron barked irritatedly from the interior shadows, the big body sprawled loosely in a swivel desk chair. He beckoned with the half-filled glass in his hand.

  “You boys afraid of a raid?”

  A chair was kicked in his general direction. “Don't like to be interrupted when I'm drinking. I've given the dear taxpayers their dollar's worth today.” The red-faced man nodded to the chair. “Park it.”

  Johnny remained standing. From the looks of the half-empty bottle on the desk and the overflowing ashtrays this war council had been a lengthy one. “I came by to see if your offer to sign up was still good, Joe.”

  Lieutenant Dameron set down his glass and leaned forward over his desk to look at Johnny more closely. “You're serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  A five second pause. “Say please.”

  Johnny focused his eyes on a point two and a half feet over the lieutenant's head. “Please.”

  Lieutenant Dameron grunted in surprise. “Down on your knees, Jimmy. The world is positively coming to an end within the next twenty minutes, I'd say.” He leaned back in his chair, picked up his glass, and took a swallow from it. “I'm a little curious over this switch.”

  Johnny remained silent, and the frosty gray eyes studied him carefully above the rim of the glass before switching to the watching Detective Rogers.

  “Jimmy? What do you think?”

  “He's already given us about all we have to date, if you look at it one way,” the sandyhaired man said mildly. “And knowing him, I don't think he'd walk in like this empty-handed.” He grinned at Johnny. “Course, as to why, that's your problem, Lieutenant. I imagine you'll get the due-bill later.”

  The gray eyes came back to Johnny. “All right,” the lieutenant said suddenly. “Against my better judgment, but all right. We've been sitting here getting knots on our head. You got anything for the pot?”

  “I've got a candidate good for a laugh, anyway.”

  “I could stand a good laugh right about now.”

  “I think it's Fearless Freddie.”

  “Freddie? You mean the manager, Frederick? Is he the one you were hinting at the other night when you called me and asked me if I'd checked out the help?”

  “He's the one. I got to admit he's not much of a candidate, for looks.”

  The ruddyfaced man tipped back in his chair, forehead creased. “You can play that contract vulnerable, redoubled. Still... Jimmy, what did we turn up on him?”

  Detective Rogers spread his hands widely. “Almost nothing, literally. Hotelman all his working life, never in any trouble, unless you call a divorce trouble. I went through his folder from end to end.”

  “You got a picture in that folder?”

  Lieutenant Dameron's eyes swiveled from Johnny to Rogers and back again.

  “No picture,” the slender man admitted.

  The lieutenant's voice was mild. “You think we should have a picture, Johnny?”

  “I'll tell you why I think so. This week there was a guest at the hotel who knew Ronald Frederick when he managed a hotel in the south. She went by the office and sent her name in, but he was too busy to see her, even to say hello.”

  Jimmy Rogers shifted in his chair. “So we could have a bogus Frederick? I'd have to say possible—”

  “—but not probable,” Johnny finished. “I know.”

  Lieutenant Dameron's heavy voice broke the little silence. “Do you have anything substantial on him, Johnny?”

  “I know he got his feet wet. After the fracas in the kitchen the other night, I followed him upstairs and listened in on him. He was shook, but good. He called someone and resigned from the human race, most especially from the information furnishin' branch of it.”

  “Maybe we're getting somewhere,” Lieutenant Dameron said thoughtfully. “Any chance he made you listening in?”

  “No way he could.”

  “Who'd he call?”

  “Didn't mention names,” Johnny said. “I had the switchboard alerted, but the gal missed it somehow.”

  “Why did you call me that night asking if I'd checked on him?”

  “Because after he'd listened to you buildin' me up in his office that afternoon, he popped up to my room on the late shift and bummed me for a drink. He sat in my place and apologized almost on his knees for taking me strictly for an oversized rigidity before on the strength of what he'd heard around the hotel. He asked about four dozen questions, gave every sign of a man about to hurdle the gap with some kind of proposition, and then said goodnight and tiptoed down the hall.”

  Johnny looked around for the chair he had ignored originally and sat down in it. He looked from one to the other of his silent audience. “There's one more thing. When he backed off that night on the proposition—if he ever actually was goin' to make one—it figured that if he was in the chain of command he'd turn in a bad report card on me, in which case I was due to hear a noise.” He smiled and leveled a finger at the lieutenant. “I came out of the phone booth after callin' you, Joe, which wasn't ten minutes after that happened, and I was spread all over the sidewalk. So did he have a goon squad in his pocket waitin' f
or me? Or didn't he have anything to do with it at all? I haven't been able to make up my mind.”

  The lieutenant nodded slowly. “I heard about that sidewalk caper, second or third hand. Fact is, I had a little talk with the party who thought two or three whacks with a gun butt would stop your clock, even temporarily.”

  “It damn near did, mister. I thought his friends got him away.”

  “They did, but the doc they took him to got palpitations. He didn't report it officially, you understand, but he reported it.”

  “You got 'em everywhere, haven't you, Joe?”

  “You were spread all over the sidewalk.”

  “Yeah. I almost quit on Freddie then, because my first reaction was that it happened too quick for him to have had much of anything to do with it. I'll admit, Joe, for a while I thought he might be your original walkie-talkie.”

  “My original walkie-talkie seems to have dismaterialized.”

  “Permanently?”

  “No body. Yet.”

  “Cement takes care of that.”

  “It does. I think, though, that someone, scared him.”

  “Seems to be a well organized crowd, Joe.”

  “Too damn well organized. That's why I can't see Frederick. He doesn't look like he could organize the ladies' aid society.”

  Johnny shrugged. “Getting back to the story, Joe, there was a little sequel this afternoon to the sidewalk caper the other night.” His glance fixed itself on the red-faced man behind the desk. “The partner of the guy you talked to showed up at the apartment of Sally Fontaine, the night telephone operator at the hotel. Somebody had sent him to scare her into tellin' me to lay off. I happened to be there, which was a big surprise to him. When I busted in on the conversation, he started to go for a gun and changed his mind. I missed him from across the room with a chair, and he took off.”

  Lieutenant Dameron was sitting up straight in his chair. “I know that I predicted it, but you surely are getting a lot of attention from these people. They seem to have you taped pretty damn well, which of course brings us back to Frederick.” His fingers drummed impatiently on the desk top. “I still can't—” He shook his head.

  “If it isn't classified, Joe, what'd you find out about the one Dutch got with the cleaver?”

  Jimmy Rogers spoke up after glancing at the lieutenant. “A hired gun from the west coast. Frenchie Dumas.”

  “Usin' his own name, too; they're not bashful. Any tie-in?”

  “Not on the surface.”

  Lieutenant Dameron cleared his throat heavily. “This Frederick character. Where'd he work last before this job, Jimmy?”

  The sandyhaired man blew out his breath sharply. “'Frisco.” The silence lengthened, and he rose briskly. “I'll get the wheels turning on that picture of Frederick.”

  “It'll put him in or out,” the lieutenant agreed. “I'd like to know.” He looked over at Johnny as the door closed behind Rogers. “Maybe you've got something. Maybe.”

  Johnny looked down at his hands. “I want you to do me a favor, Joe. Charge it off to that due-bill Jimmy mentioned.”

  The gray eyes studied him. “I'm listening.”

  “Stake out a man on that apartment, Joe. I can't be there all the time.”

  It was the lieutenant's turn to look down at his hands. “I won't say you haven't got a point.” He frowned, picked up the bottle, and poured a half inch into his glass. “Write out the address for me before you leave. It's only the taxpayers' money.”

  “Thanks, Joe.”

  “That leaves me with the due-bill. I'll be presenting it. You going back to the hotel?”

  “Yeah. How long'll it take Jimmy to get that picture?”

  “Twenty-four hours, if he's lucky. Write your own ticket, if he's not.”

  “Yeah.” Johnny stood up. “Throw the dice, the losers say. Come on over to our happy home when you run out of things to do, Joe.”

  Outside it had started to rain; he turned up his collar and walked down the white stone steps. All the cabs that approached him were full; he shrugged and lengthened his stride as he set off for the hotel.

  Chapter VII

  The dim lights in the single open section of the long bar in the Villa Nueva struggled ineffectually with the pale rays of the late afternoon daylight slanting through the port hole window as Johnny entered. On the deserted looking bandstand the instruments lay sheathed in their canvas covers, and the persistently stale aroma of last night's cigarette smoke hung in the air. Johnny sat down on a middle stool and contemplated the bartender's back and the double reflection of artificial and natural light from the oddly shaped bottles on the back bar.

  “I'll have the usual, Dave.”

  Dave Warren looked up from his preoccupied glass-washing, a smile breaking out on his sallow face. “Johnny! Am I ever glad to see you.” He advanced purposefully to the center of the bar, drying his hands on his apron. “C'mon and take a little walk with me.”

  “Walk? I came in to sit, boy. And drink.”

  “C'mon and take a look at someone who had the same idea first.”

  “I don't give a damn about any drunks you might have tucked away in a back booth, Dave.”

  “You might give a damn about this one.”

  “Shirley?”

  “In the flesh. In the very, very sloppy flesh.”

  Johnny silently slid off his stool and followed the white-shirted Dave to the booth in the farthest corner of the empty club. The tiny booth light shone faintly on the dark girl who was sprawled over the booth table with her head down on her arms. She was dressed in a rainbow hued harlequin shirt and gold toreador pants, both of which trimly enhanced the superlative figure. She had scuffed, dirty sneakers on her feet and filigreed bronzed hoops in her ears, and the nearer hand on the table top was so tightly clenched the knuckles glistened.

  Johnny turned to Dave. “She get loaded here?”

  “Some,” the bartender admitted. His voice rose plaintively. “What the hell could I do? She had a skillful when she got here, but I didn't wise up in time. Then when I tried to shut her off, she got nasty. Threatened to yell the walls down. Started in to do it a couple of times, too, when I was a little slow refilling her glass. Can you get her out of here, Johnny? I hate to ask you, but if the boss should ever see her like this—”

  Johnny stared down at the girl in the booth. “I'll get her out of here.”

  “Geez, would you?” Relief beamed in Dave's round face, followed by doubt. “She won't go easy, though. She's been like this for a week. Not drunk... that's something new. Nasty. Starting to take it out on the customers, too. The old man said something to her about it the other night, and damn if she didn't take out after him, too. It don't make for longevity on the payroll, Johnny.”

  Johnny nodded in agreement. “Get a cab around to the back door, Dave.”

  “She says she won't go till she's damn good and ready,” Dave warned him anxiously. “She's meaner than a snake right now.”

  “You get the cab,” Johnny told him. “She'll go.”

  He reached down and tapped a rainbow hued shoulder and the shoulder twitched rebelliously. “Lea' me alone, Dave.” Johnny tapped the shoulder again, and the dark head came up from the forearms with what would have been a snap if her reflexes had been better, and Johnny noticed that the cameo-like quality of the usually flawless pale features under the jet black hair was marred by a puffiness around the eyes.

  She had difficulty in focusing on him, and when she did the beautiful mouth twisted. “Th' boy scou',” she said thickly. “Ged the hell oudda here.”

  “On your feet, Shirl. I'm takin' you home.”

  The red-lipped mouth did a reverse twist. “You're not taking me anywhere, you... you buff'lo. You get away from me.” The voice rose harshly. “Or I'll scream... like THIS—!” Beside Johnny, Dave winced visibly as she filled her lungs; almost casually Johnny took the nape of her neck between a thumb and forefinger, and the dark girl fell over sideways in the booth.
/>
  “Jesus!” Dave said in an awed tone, roundeyed. “What the hell was that?”

  “Nerve-end pressure,” Johnny said impatiently. “Will you for God's sake get that cab around here?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Right away.” Dave bustled off to the front, turning once to look back curiously. Johnny sat down across from Shirley's limp figure, lit a cigarette, and waited. After a moment he reached across the table and took hold of a wrist; he pushed the long sleeve of the harlequin shirt well up above the dark girl's elbow, and carefully inspected the smooth flesh of the inner arm as far as he could see. Disappointed, he released the wrist and took up the other one, pushed back the sleeve, inspected the arm, and thoughtfully released it. The wrist watch caught his eye; he removed it, turned it over and held it up to the light while he impassively read the inscription, and restored it to the wrist.

  The door behind him opened, and over his shoulder he could see Dave's white shirt and the cabbie's cap. He stubbed out his cigarette, rose, lifted the girl from the booth and carried her to the door.

  “I explained to him,” Dave was saying unnecessarily as Johnny stepped down with his burden and maneuvered into the back seat of the cab.

  “Doesn't need much explanation,” the cabbie said sourly. He was an elderly man with a pinched face; he slid back under the wheel, obviously glad he didn't have to help.

  “She lives at the Hotel Francis on 48th,” Dave volunteered. “Thanks a million, Johnny. I couldn't have handled it.”

  Johnny nodded; as the cab pulled away across Broadway and Seventh Avenue he leaned forward. “Never mind that Hotel Francis, Mac. Go on over to the first block of East 65th.”

  The cab slowed immediately; Johnny could see the driver watching him in the rear view mirror. “I'd have to hear her say that, mister. That's a good-looking girl. I know Dave, but I don't know you. I'm not getting mixed up in any white slave—”

  “Will you shut it off?” Johnny demanded wearily. “Take me there; you can come back with the cops later.”

  “Well—” Despite the reluctance in the cabbie's tone the cab turned right on Eighth and sped north; Johnny fumbled Shirley's purse out of her bag and looked for her keys. He was going through the contents for the second time when he realized that she had the apartment key clipped on with the Hotel Francis key. He slipped the keys in his shirt pocket, and returned the purse to the bag, and as if it were a signal Shirley stirred on the seat beside him and lifted her head. She looked around dazedly.