by Otto Penzler
CHAPTER XV
DEATH STRIKES AGAIN
Joe Gorgon walked into the room. His eyes flashed and his lips twitched as he saw me. He had known I was there, all right. There were no two ways about that. He hardly noticed the quick steps of Carleton, but he did spot the bottle of whisky the servant placed on the table, poured himself a quick and generous drink and threw it into him before he spoke a word. Somehow I felt that Joe was the kind of a lad for me, the kind of a lad to do business with. His first words were classic, as I understand the classic. He looked at his brother and jerked a thumb toward me.
“What’s he here for?” And then quickly, “Williams and me had words tonight. I have a message for you, alone. God in—”
He stopped, poured himself another drink, knocked it off, stared at his brother, Michelle Gorgon, a moment, half raised a hand as if to slap it down upon the table, changed his mind and threw himself into a chair, crossing his legs in a position of ease. Just a position, mind you. Joe Gorgon was a worried man.
“What’s he here for!” Michelle Gorgon repeated his brother’s words. “I might ask you the same question about yourself, Joe. I invited Mr. Williams up to pay me a visit. That’s more than you—but no matter. My home is chaos. My—” And suddenly, “Why am I indebted to you for this visit?”
“I want to see you alone,” said Joe. And leaning forward, “I’ve got to see you alone.”
I liked the byplay between the brothers. The one, Joe, the best known character on Broadway. The other, well, no man could lay a finger to Doctor Michelle Gorgon.
“Got to!” Michelle Gorgon leaned slightly forward. “Got to—Joseph. Really, I’m afraid you forget—” and a smile, at least a smile with his lips—or anyway, a twist to his lips, “You forget the duty of a host to his guest.”
“Cripes!” Joe Gorgon came to his feet. “Williams is here. He knows something. He—. Damn it, Mike—he’s not going out of here a—”
I fingered my gun, of course, raised my pocket slightly too. Even thought of pulling the rod out and laying it on my knees, in a sociable way. But I didn’t. I took another sip of the wine and understood why Joe drank whisky. Not that the wine wasn’t good. It was probably great stuff, great stuff for a garden party. But you’d have to go at it wholesale to get a kick out of it.
“When thieves fall out honest men get their due,” was going strong with me—of course, fully realizing that the honest man must have his hand on a rod and a finger caressing a trigger— or he’d get a “due” that would be surprising to him.
Joe Gorgon stopped talking. Michelle’s eyelids never flickered. The good natured twist to his mouth, that might be better described as tolerance rather than a smile, never changed. But the pupils of his eyes seemed to contract, as if you looked too long at a thing in a bright light, and found it getting smaller and smaller, yet sharper, as it got smaller. His right hand went below the table, and he lifted a book and tossed it across the polished surface so that it spun slightly before it struck Joe’s outstretched hand and lay still.
Joe’s hand fell upon the book. His mean little eyes grew large as his brother’s contracted. He sort of clutched at his side when he spoke.
“For me?” he said. “Good God! you’re not giving that book to me!” And his face cleared slightly as he glanced at me. “For Williams.”
“Maybe. I hope not.” Michelle Gorgon turned his eyes on me, and I looked down at the expensively bound volume. I saw the title stamped in gold upon the cover.
“The Tanglewood Tales,” I read, “by Nathaniel Hawthorne.”
I took another sip of the wine, leaned out, and with my free left hand flipped back the pages. It was a de luxe edition, and the volume opened at once to THE GORGON’S HEAD. I grinned up at Michelle.
“For me?” I said, fingering the book.
“I hope not,” said Michelle Gorgon again. “Indeed, I hope not. But it’s not all fancy, Race, that mythical tale of Hawthorne’s. History repeats itself.”
“I want to speak to you alone.” Joe Gorgon threw off another drink, and his brother glanced disparagingly at the bottle and sipped his wine.
“Anything you have to say, Joe, can be said in front of Williams, here.”
“No, it can’t,” said Joe. And the liquor was doing him some good, for he glared back at his brother now. “This talking around corners may be good stuff with your crowd, not mine. Williams, here, is one of my kind. He wants straight talk. At least, he gives straight talk. You’re—. Yes, damn it, I’ll get it in. You’re sitting on the edge of a volcano and—. I have a message to deliver to you, alone.”
And that was my cue. I thought I knew why Joe Gorgon had visited his brother. I thought I knew the message he had to deliver. I had seen that message of mine throw Joe higher than a kite. Why not work it for a double header? Why not find what effect it would have on the Third Gorgon, the brains of the three brothers? Why not deliver that message myself? And I decided to try it. I said:
“Why argue the point out? I delivered a little message to Joe, here. He wants to pass it on to you. I’ll save you trouble and give it to you myself, Doctor.” And before Joe could horn in I shot it out, with all my flair for the dramatic, and with the memory of Joe’s contorted map when he heard it.
“Michelle Gorgon,” I said. “The Devil is Unchained.”
It worked twice on Joe. He stretched out a hand quickly and grabbed his brother’s arm. His face twisted, and his lips parted at the corners. And he watched carefully the features of his brother, Michelle; watched, I thought, for Michelle to give a single shriek, lie down and roll over.
But Michelle Gorgon still smiled with his lips. He said simply:
“How droll. What a droll message!”
“Don’t you understand?” Joe Gorgon shook his brother by the arm. “Have these years so dulled your—”
“Stop!” Michelle Gorgon shot the words through his teeth. There was an animal-like viciousness in the way his head shot forward, as he glared at his brother. “You’re trying to push a peanut wagon across this living room, just as you pushed it on Canal street twenty-three years ago. You had your stand then, Joe. You protected that stand. You enticed rival vendors up an alley and put the fear of Joe Gorgon into their hearts, and went your way and protected your corner, and sold two bags of peanuts where you had sold one before. And now, in your heart you’re still running the same peanut racket, still entertaining the same fears, still drinking the same poison. Now—” Michelle Gorgon paused. The phone rang sharply on the table beside him.
“You’ll pardon me, gentlemen.” He half bowed to me, very seriously, and to his brother with a touch of sarcasm. “I think that I am to have a message that will be of much interest to each one of us, more so than Williams’ rather em—epigrammatic reference to the devil.”
He picked up the phone and said:
“Doctor Gorgon speaking. Yes, I understand. I have not been at home. Oh, I see. No, I was not asleep. I am interested in all that affects the life, the tranquil life, of our city.” A long pause, and then, “Thank you very much. I shall read of it at breakfast, in the morning.”
He placed the receiver on the hook. Carefully filled up his wine glass, lit a cigarette and settled back comfortably in the chair. He eyed us now. Those same unblinking globes, his elbows on the arm of his chair, the tips of his fingers on either hand coming slowly together. It was some time before he spoke, and then only in way of forestalling the sudden words that started from Joe Gorgon.
“It’s a funny world,” said Michelle Gorgon slowly. “A very funny world indeed. It will hardly interest either of you. But I just received a message that an Italian gentleman, lately landed in this country, was stabbed to death at Doctor Elrod’s Sanitarium. Ah—most distressing. Most distressing.”
CHAPTER XVI
ON THE SPOT
Of course I understood what Michelle Gorgon meant. Giovoni, whom Colonel McBride and I had gone to so much trouble to protect— Colonel McBride very nearly losing
his life when we moved the Italian gentleman from the city hospital to Doctor Elrod’s Sanitarium—was dead. Murdered within a few hours. I knew it. I believed it. But—.
“No—” I cried out as I jumped to my feet. “What time—and where were you, Doctor Michelle Gorgon?” I stopped and sat down again. But this time when I stretched out my hand, it reached for Joe Gorgon’s bottle of whisky and not the No. 1 Sherry.
“Really,” said Michelle Gorgon, “your emotions, Williams, do you proud. A poor Italian gentleman. How distressing. But you were saying something about—. Was it—er—that an evil spirit had broken his chains?” And leaning forward slightly, “Or was it that the devil was chained again, chained this time forever, in death.”
Confused? Yes, I was confused, and mad. Was this the reason that Michelle Gorgon had brought me to his home? So that I would be with him? So that he would know I could not be interfering with this murder he had planned? For that he had planned it I had little doubt. As to Joe, it seemed a cinch that he wasn’t in it. His eyes just bulged.
Michelle Gorgon walked slowly around the table and laid a hand upon his brother’s shoulder.
“Like our good friend, Williams, here, Joseph, you are a man of action. And I daresay it serves our purpose and is necessary in our every day life. But we must not forget that the physical is only an impulse, directed by the mental. When it is not so, we are told that it is reactionary, impulsive, instinctive, maybe—which is simply the polite way of placing us on the level with animals. When the brain ceases to function and leaves the body, it becomes a useless thing, no matter, Joe, if that brain is not a part of that particular body.” A pause. “I see I confuse you there. But try and remember that a brain is necessary to the body, to your body, whether it be your brain or my brain, Joe. One brain, then, may control many bodies—but many bodies can not control one brain. It—” Michelle Gorgon stopped and looked at the bewildered face of his brother. “But no matter,” he said quickly. “You understand that I am always ready to help and advise you. Ready and anxious, even, but never compelled to. In plain words, your visit here tonight was unnecessary and inopportune. You have seen that.”
“Yes—” said Joe, “I have seen that. And, the visit of Williams?”
Michelle Gorgon smiled at me.
“A weakness of mine, Joe. A petty vanity, which all great minds are subject to. For the present you have nothing to worry you. You may sleep and play and—” He looked at the bottle and shrugged his shoulders. “Mr. Race Williams has been taken care of for tonight.” He put his hand before his mouth, stifled a yawn or an affected yawn. “The hour is late. You will excuse me, Williams, I know. The interview is over.”
I hadn’t had my say; hadn’t had half a chance to open up, and now, damn it, he didn’t give me the opportunity. Joe Gorgon had moved toward the hall door. Of course I moved with him. Maybe I should have held my ground and believed in the Sanctity of the Home stuff. But I didn’t. And it was too late now. Like a woman, Michelle Gorgon had had the last word. He turned, sought the little door that his wife had gone through before, and left us flat.
There was nothing for me to do but leave— leave with Joe Gorgon, presumably New York’s biggest and most feared racketeer.
We passed out the front door, across the roof under the covered canopy, and through the thick, steel door which let us into the upper hall of the apartment house.
“He’s a great guy, isn’t he, Race?” Joe pushed out his chest and looked me over.
The elevator door clanged open, a sleepy eyed operator banged the door closed, and we descended to the street.
Silently Joe and I made our way through the spacious hall with its great pillars and towering plants—out onto Park Avenue.
“Williams,” Joe Gorgon didn’t threaten. He spoke his stuff like a man. “You know me and I know you. Judgeships have been bought and sold before your time and before my time—and will be long after it. Things haven’t changed any in the city. It’s simply newspaper competition. My world—our world—is a rather small one, after all. I’ve never laid a sucker on the spot. Men want money—you and me and them. You’re a persistent bird and no mistake. You rile a guy— rile him bad. But you can’t change life. I daresay there ain’t a lad in the city today better informed than you. Yet, you can’t do anything to me—nor Mike.” He half looked back up the apartment as he chucked in the “Mike.” “Well—Michelle may talk in circles, but when he strikes he strikes straight and hard.”
“Well,” I said, “come to the point.”
“Yeah.” He bit at a match and spat a piece of it in the gutter. “It’s a bad time for too much excitement. How much do you want to chuck the game and take up golf?”
“I don’t play golf,” I told him.
“Oh—I mean—” He paused, scratched the other end of the match on the box and stuck it to a black cigar. “All right. You and me have made our names stand out a bit. We’ve both seen plenty of trouble. Now, you’re asking for it. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“I guess so, Joe,” I said.
“Okay!” He looked at me a moment and grinned. “The look of a Gorgon.” But his smile was pleasant. “It’s a silly racket. But it’s paid dividends in the right places. You’d be surprised if you knew the sales increase in Hawthorne’s bit of work. But—take care of yourself. S’long.”
Joe Gorgon turned, and was gone. There were no two ways about what he meant. In the language of the underworld, Race Williams was on the spot.
I went home. Any way you look at it, it had been a busy night. On the spot. Well, it wasn’t the first time I was put on the spot and wouldn’t be the last, I hoped. If I took a little trip for my health every time I was threatened I’d have been around the world a hundred or more times, and still traveling. No, sir, there would be nothing for yours truly, Race Williams, to do for a living unless it was conducting world tours.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t take the threat of the Gorgons seriously. Besides which, it rather pleased and flattered me. In the first place, they had something to fear from me. A dope fiend might be knocked over on the public street. An unknown Italian might be stabbed to death in a hospital. But the doing in of Race Williams is a different thing, again. Besides, which, some of the best racketeers in the city have been after me, and missed. But they didn’t stay after me very long.
I’m not a lad who runs when the bullets fly— at least, if I do run, I run forward and not backward. And if Joe Gorgon wouldn’t have any touch of conscience about putting a bullet in me, I wouldn’t have any either about putting one in him. An even break, that.
Jerry was waiting up for me.
“There’s a lad been calling you on the phone. Sputtered, he did—and seemed to think you spent your time with the receiver clamped to your ear. Trying to make a telephone operator out of me too, and—”
“Did he hang a tag on himself, Jerry?” I asked.
“No. He said you’d know. And for you not to go out again until he got you. He’d ring every fifteen minutes. But, Gawd! He’s been buzzing up the bell every five, I think. There you are. Seven minutes, by the clock.” Jerry pushed his hands out as the phone rang.
It was my client, Colonel McBride. His mouth was full of words, his words full of sputters. He sounded like a bunch of Japanese firecrackers.
But I got enough.
“The man, Giovoni—dead—murdered— stabbed to death in the hospital.”
“I know,” I said. Giovoni, of course, was our little friend that I had carted about.
“How—how do you know?” he demanded breathlessly.
“Does it matter?” I asked him. “The question is, how did they know where he was? But here’s a surprise for you. I spent the evening, or the last hour, with Doctor Michelle Gorgon. Some one was kind enough to ring him up and tell him of the murder. How important was Giovoni? I mean, to you, not himself.”
“Important!” He fairly gasped the words. “Giovoni was Michelle Gorgon’s father-in-law. He was everything. Th
e man who could return Doctor Gorgon to Italy for a brutal murder— clear him out of the country—straighten—”
When he stopped for breath I encouraged.
“His father-in-law?” I didn’t get that. The woman called Madame had not looked like a wop.
The fire-crackers went on.
“Yes, at least, I think so. I was told that. Oh— damn it—I have nothing to go on, now. Giovoni never talked much, never gave me much information. He wanted to confront Michelle Gorgon and denounce him. Pay him back for—Michelle Gorgon killed Giovoni’s daughter years back, in Italy. It was a brutal murder. Damn it, man, he saw his daughter murdered, watched it, helpless and—”
So he, Giovoni, was not the father of Madame.
“He told you this? He—”
“No, he didn’t tell me. He was an old man. He lived his life, spent his days, in an Italian prison. It was vengeance to him. Toney, who you said was killed, told me, the little drug addict. I brought Giovoni from Italy. Now he’s dead. How did they know where he was?”
“You must have talked to some one.”
“No one, not a soul. I learned enough from Giovoni and Toney. I have sent an agent to Naples to investigate the story that Michelle Gorgon killed his wife there, over twenty years ago. She was Giovoni’s daughter, and her name was Rose Marie. The story is that Michelle Gorgon was convicted of the crime, and escaped. It may be another week before I learn the truth from Italy. In that week of waiting we will leave Michelle Gorgon alone—make him feel that he is safe from the crimes of the past, that he actually committed himself—at least, if the whole thing is not a fabric of lies or the hallucinations of a drug crazed mind. It is possible that Toney may have misled both Giovoni and me.