Henny Ault’s nasal voice said, “My helper Nick is bringing the car around back. Don’t get impatient.”
Amatti said amiably, “Ault is a real careful planner. He don’t miss a trick. He figured, for instance, you might ring in a helper to set a countertrap.”
Sands felt a slight chill. “Yeah?” he said cautiously.
“Yeah. So he checked all around the building. The way those trash barrels were lined up to cast shadow in the cellarway looked funny to him. When he took Sam outside for a look, Sam told him they’d been moved since early this evening. It wasn’t hard to figure your plan. I loaned him a man to wait at the bottom of the steps for your helper to show. So your helper walked into a gun instead of a hiding place.” Turning, he called toward the rear table where the two dim figures sat, “Benny!”
One of the figures rose and gestured the other erect. They moved forward into the light. The first was Jack Carroll, his face glum and his eyes downcast. Behind him, covering him with a gun, was Sands’ former chauffeur, Benny.
“Hi, Mr. Sands,” Benny greeted him cheerfully.
Sands looked from Benny to the blond bartender. In a disgusted tone he said, “You’re lucky, Carroll.”
Carroll looked at him.
Sands said, “If an ape like Benny can take you, you’d have been dead if you tried for Ault. Even with a gun in his back.”
Carroll flushed. He muttered, “How’d I know he’d be standing down there with a gun in his hand?”
CHAPTER XXV
A RAP came at the back door. Henny Ault faded away to answer it. When the door opened, the light from the parking lot momentarily framed the plump figure of the man Ault had referred to as Nick. Then the door closed again.
Henny Ault and his partner moved forward into the light For the first time since he had arrived in town Sands got a clear look at the hired killer’s face. The sharp-pointed nose gave it the appearance of a weasel’s. The face was totally without expression, but the eyes glittered with a rather repellent light of anticipation, making Sands think of some nocturnal animal preparing to pounce on a victim.
The weasel was a nocturnal animal, Sands thought.
“Okay, Sands,” Ault said. “Let’s take an automobile ride.”
Sands said to Amatti, “I don’t understand your going along with this, Renzo. Wasn’t it enough revenge to frame me for Thompson’s killing?”
“Me frame you?” the racketeer inquired. “I don’t know any more about that bombing than you do.”
Sands stared at him. “It wasn’t one of your boys who tossed the grenade?”
“Who uses that kind of stuff any more?” Amatti inquired. “You can’t get any take from a dead man. That’s for the 1920’s. The first I heard of the bombing was when some Homicide lieutenant looking for a promotion phoned me from the scene.”
“But that hearing was rigged. You must have been behind that.”
“Sure,” Amatti admitted with a shrug. “Who does the public think of first when something that looks like a gang killing happens in Ridgeford? Me, is who.” He sounded a little aggrieved.
“Isn’t the public usually right?”
“Not this time it wasn’t. I wanted this wrapped up fast and clean. You were around to take the heat off me, and I owed you a black eye. So I passed the word to stick you with the rap.”
Sands digested this slowly. He didn’t think Amatti was above lying, but he also didn’t think the racketeer would bother to go into such detail if what he said wasn’t true. If he had ordered the bombing, it wasn’t likely that he’d admit it, but he probably wouldn’t admit having ordered Sands’ conviction either.
“Then who did toss the bomb?” Sands inquired.
Henny Ault said with a snicker, “Maybe it was your cute little girl friend, wanting to get rid of her husband. Wouldn’t that be a laugh? You walking into this like a lamb to the slaughter for the dame who set you up with a murder rap.”
Sands stared at him.
Amatti said cheerfully, “It could be, Sands. According to the papers, she was in the kitchen when the bomb went off. But she could have been in that alcove. She could have ducked out the door to the street the way you claim the bomber did, have run around the corner, down the alley and in the back way again while all the excitement was going on.”
Sands felt a little sick. He looked at Carroll, whose expression had grown indignant.
“Ginny wouldn’t do a thing like that!” the bartender said hotly.
Sands continued to look at him. And suddenly the sick feeling left him. He turned back to Amatti.
He said slowly, “If you’re telling the truth, Renzo, there aren’t many other people who had possible motives to kill Thompson. Ginny may be one, but there’s a better suspect.”
“Yeah?” Amatti said.
“What would you do if I turned the real bomber over to you? With proof.”
Amatti considered. “Turn him over to the cops and let him take the fall,” he decided. “I really don’t care who takes it, so long as it pulls the heat off me. The real bomber would probably be less trouble to convict.”
Sands turned to Sam Durkin behind the bar. “You got an ink pad around here?”
“A stamp pad, you mean?” Durkin asked. “Yeah. In my office.”
“Go get it. And a smooth sheet of paper. Also a magnifying glass, if you’ve got one.”
Henny Ault said impatiently, “Let’s cut this guff. Come on, Sands. We’re leaving.”
“Let’s see what he has on his mind,” Amatti said. “A couple of minutes won’t hurt you.”
The beer-bellied proprietor came from behind the bar and made for his office. In a few moments he returned with a rectangular stamp pad, a sheet of typewriter bond and a small magnifying glass.
“I kept a stamp collection,” he remarked obscurely, apparently meaning the comment to explain how he happened to possess a magnifying glass.
Taking the equipment from him, Sands laid it on the bar in the circle of light from the night light. “Come over here,” he directed Jack Carroll.
With a puzzled expression on his face, the blond man moved over to the bar. Sands took hold of his left hand. “Relax your fingers,” he instructed.
Carroll suddenly seemed to realize what Sands had in mind. “What do you think you’re doing?” he protested. “You’re not taking my fingerprints.”
He tried to pull his hand free. Sands applied thumb pressure to a spot on his wrist. Carroll emitted a squeal of agony.
“Relax your fingers or I’ll break off your hand,” Sands said coldly.
With an aggrieved expression on his face, Carroll allowed his hand to be directed to the ink pad.
One at a time Sands rolled the two center fingers gently across the pad, being careful not to press too hard. Then he rolled them with equal gentleness across the bond paper. Two clearly defined fingerprints appeared. He released Carroll’s hand and the man stepped back and began to wipe his fingers with a handkerchief.
Sands drew Solomon Swartz’s letter from his breast pocket, Unfolded it and took out the photostat. Laying it on the paper immediately above the two prints, he studied it and the prints through the magnifying glass.
Even to his unpracticed eye, one of the prints exactly matched the photostat.
Sands handed the glass to Amatti. “Take a look,” he invited.
The racketeer peered through the glass. Then he gave Sands an inquiring look. “You’ve got a make, I guess. But where’s the photostat print from?”
Sands handed him the letter that had accompanied the photostat. Spreading it in the circle of light on the bar, Amatti carefully read it. When he finished, he looked up at Sands again.
“This lock he talks about in the letter. That’s the one from the street door to that alcove?”
“Uh-huh,” Sands said. “Carroll is one of the few people who had access to the key. He’s got a perfect motive, too. He’s nuts about Ginny, and he didn’t have a chance as long as her husband was alive.
He phoned me at the Centner and disguised his voice to make me think he was a customer from the tavern. He said Ginny wanted me there right away. He must have had the street door to the alcove cracked open enough to see me arrive. Then he carefully rolled the grenade under the bar so no one but Thompson would take any of its blast.”
Jack Carroll’s face had paled. Amatti examined him curiously for a moment, then turned back to Sands.
“Why’d he want to frame you?” he asked. “He could have left you out of it without being suspected. Everybody would have assumed I ordered it.”
“Jealousy,” Sands said. “I think he was afraid I’d step in and take Ginny away from him after her husband was dead. He was eliminating two rivals at once.” He looked at Carroll. “That was no coincidence when the cops showed at the tavern right after I lifted the lock, was it? You phoned them a tip to check the place as soon as you could break away from Ginny.”
Carroll said huskily, “You’re way out in left field, Sands. Where would I get a grenade?”
“That’s a point,” Amatti said. “Where would he?”
“From the National Guard armory,” Sands told him. “He’s a major in the guard. When they take their next inventory, I’ll bet the armory discovers a grenade is missing. Which should about cinch the case.”
Amatti nodded. “You’ve got me sold, Sands. How about it, Carroll?”
Carroll said, “He’s trying to frame me so he can have Ginny for himself. He threw that bomb!”
Amatti looked him up and down. Then he turned to his bodyguard. “You ask him, Joey. This’ll be cleaner if we have a confession before we turn him over to the cops. Better take him in Sam’s office and close the door. Belle doesn’t like to see stuff like that.”
Belle said brightly, “I don’t mind, honey. I’ve got a strong stomach.”
After a glance at Benny to make sure he had Sands covered, Joey put away his gun. He drew a switch blade knife from his pocket and snicked open a seven-inch blade.
“Let’s go in Sam’s office,” he suggested to Carroll.
The blond man’s already pale face turned dead white. “What are you going to do?” he asked in a quavering voice.
“You’ll find out.” Joey gave him a push toward the office door.
“Don’t let him cut me!” Carroll said in terrified appeal to Sands. “It was all for Ginny. She didn’t love Harry. I could tell by the way she looked at me that I’d be the one if only Harry was out of the way.”
Then his face grew pinched and his body seemed to shrink as he realized what he had said. Hopelessly he stared from Sands to Amatti and back again. Amatti made a gesture and Joey reluctantly snapped shut his knife
“I guess that’s good enough,” Amatti said. “You’re off the hook for Thompson’s murder, Sands. You can read about this punk’s conviction in the Florida papers, if you ever get that far.”
Sands looked at him. “After cleaning up this case for you, you’re still going to let Ault walk me out of here?”
“Why not?” Amatti inquired. “I got nothing against Ault, and I have against you. You think you can push me around and put a bullet in one of my best men without making me mad? Why the hell should I care what happens to you?”
Sands said steadily, “This guy doesn’t intend to drive me to Florida, Amatti. He’ll only drive as far as the nearest dark alley.”
Amatti gave his head a shake. “Huh-uh,” he said pleasantly. “I haven’t asked Ault his real intentions, because I don’t care. But he’s got orders not to pull any kills in my town. Maybe he won’t drive you all the way to Florida, but he won’t stop in Ridgeford. After you reach the city limits, you’re both on your own.”
Henny Ault drew a sleek black automatic from beneath his arm. “Let’s go,” he suggested. “You lead the way, Nick.”
Sands’ eyes made a circle of the faces around him. Amatti was smiling. Belle gave him an indifferent glance and took a sip of her drink. Joey looked gratified at Sands’ impending fate. Sam Durkin was trying to pretend disinterest. Carroll was too engrossed in his own woe to pay any attention. Only Benny seemed to feel any sympathy. His expression was apologetic.
“I hate to leave such a pleasant gathering,” Sands said sardonically. “But it looks as though I have another engagement.”
He strode toward the rear door. The plump Nick galloped to pass him and reach the door first. They went out in exactly the order Sands had speculated to Carroll they would: Nick first, Sands second, Ault bringing up the rear with a leveled gun.
As they passed the shadowed cellarway, Ault snickered. “Too bad your pal only brought along a gun,” he said. “If he’d tossed a grenade in there before going down, Benny wouldn’t have nabbed him.”
CHAPTER XXVI
HENNY AULT ordered Sands into the back seat of the blue Ford, slid in next to him and kept him covered by his gun. Nick took the driver’s seat.
The light illuminating the parking lot was bright enough for Sands to be able to see clearly a small sticker on the lower right-hand corner of the windshield. It was a transparent decal, pasted on so as to be readable from the outside. Reading the letters backward, Sands decoded it to: “U-Drive-It Car-Rental Service.”
If there had been any doubt in his mind concerning Henny Ault’s real intentions, the knowledge that the Ford was merely rented resolved it. Obviously the professional killer had no intention of taking the car very far from town.
As they pulled into the alley, Sands said, “What would you do if I suddenly jumped you, Henny? Renzo wouldn’t like it if you burned me within the city limits.”
“Go ahead,” Ault encouraged him. “Who’d know where you got it when you were found in a ditch beyond the city line?”
Sands lapsed into silence. Ault made no attempt at conversation either. He sat far on his own side, his back to the corner and the gun in his lap unwaveringly centered on Sands at belt height.
Nick headed south, which at least was in the general direction of Florida. He kept the speed at a sedate thirty miles an hour.
Twenty minutes later Nick announced, “We just passed the city-line marker, Henny.”
Ault merely grunted. The car picked up speed to about fifty.
Ten miles on, Ault said, “There’s the church we picked as a landmark, Nick. The road’s just ahead.”
The car slowed, then turned left from the highway onto a graveled secondary road.
“Short cut to Miami?” Sands inquired sarcastically.
Neither Ault nor the driver made any reply.
Near the main highway farmhouses along the graveled road were spaced only fifty to a hundred yards apart. Then, as the farms seemed to grow larger, the intervals between houses increased. Finally they came to a wooded section where no houses at all appeared for over a mile.
The car slowed as they approached a small bridge over a ravine, obviously another landmark. Just beyond it the Ford turned right onto a dirt lane paralleling the ravine. Underbrush crowded both sides of the lane, which was little more than a rutted trail. Fifty yards from the graveled road they came to an open area where there was room enough to turn around. Nick swung the car in a circle and parked it heading back the way they had come. He cut the engine and dimmed the lights.
The moon was bright enough for Sands to make out Ault’s face dimly, even in the shadowed interior of the car. The man’s eyes had the same strange luminosity Sands had noticed that night in jail. Opening the car door, Ault backed from the car without letting his gun muzzle stray an inch from Sands’ belt level.
“Come out this side,” he directed.
Sands slid across the seat to obey. As he stepped to the ground, he dropped his right arm to his side with a quick, snapping motion.
He felt the haft of the open switch blade knife slide into his palm. Its slender blade remained up his sleeve.
Though his palms were sweating, he managed to remark in a calm tone, “You seem to have been here before, Henny.”
“I try to plan ahead,” Au
lt told him with an expressionless face. “There’s an abandoned farmhouse at the end of this lane. Hunters use the lane some, but never at night.”
“We’re a long way from Miami.”
“You didn’t really expect to get there, did you?” Ault inquired.
From the front seat Nick said, “For cripes sake, don’t drag it out, Henny. Get it over with so we can scram out of here.”
Ault gestured with his gun. “Move around so you face toward the car,” he ordered.
The moon was to Sands’ back, and he realized Ault wanted the light on his face when he pulled the trigger. This was the moment the killer loved, and he wanted to extract its full, delicious flavor. It would be merely a job, not a work of art, if he couldn’t see the expression on Sands’ face as he died.
In their present positions moonlight clearly illuminated Ault’s face. His thin lips hung slightly open and his eyes glittered with an almost sexual excitement.
Sands slowly circled the man until he half faced the moon. Ault turned with him.
“Get down on your knees,” the killer said huskily. A trickle of spittle ran from one corner of his mouth.
Sands slowly started to bend his knees. He swung both arms backward, as though for balance.
As his knees touched the ground, his right arm whipped around in the same movement softball pitchers use to throw a side arm fast ball.
There was a dull, plunking sound like a rap on a ripe pumpkin. Henny Ault stood still, his jaw gradually sagging until his mouth hung wide open. In the moonlight the haft of the knife protruding from the center of his chest glinted dully.
Swaying on his feet, Ault tried to bring his gun to bear. But it was too heavy. It drooped downward until it fell from his nerveless fingers. Slowly he tumbled over on his back.
Sands was scrambling for the dropped gun as the front door of the car began to open. With one leg out of the car, Nick swept a gun from beneath his arm at the same instant that Sands gripped the automatic. Sands tilted the automatic upward as Nick’s gun muzzle centered on him. He squeezed the trigger.
Nick came the rest of the way out of the car in a doubled-over position. Dropping his gun, he took two awkward steps and collapsed face down across Henny Ault’s waist.
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