by FRANCES
“Somebody could have cut his finger,” O’Hara said, and Shapiro said, “Sure.”
Item: people had been living there. There were dishes which needed washing in the kitchen sink. Several beds had been slept in. In a tightly closed room—window nailed shut, which was interesting—on the second floor Shapiro, also, thought he smelled tobacco smoke.
Item: In a storage room off the kitchen there were bits and pieces of cut cord, scattered on the floor. There was also a dish towel on which it appeared that someone had been chewing.
Somebody tied up and gagged, and then cut loose? It looked very like it. The girl?
Nathan Shapiro thought, unhappily, that that also was very likely.
It was something that there was no more blood on the linoleum of the kitchen floor than might have been sprinkled there from a superficial cut. Of a finger, as O’Hara said. Not of a throat. That was something.
Meanwhile, only an empty nest. A nest to be examined for spoor, which was the job of the lab boys—of, since Riverdale is in the Bronx, the lab boys of the Bronx. Shapiro found a telephone, put a handkerchief (which would blur prints, which couldn’t easily be helped) around it and called Bronx headquarters. He was greeted with elaborate sighs and, as he had expected, given the each-borough-to-its-own treatment. He was, as he had known, promised a consignment of lab boys.
He called his own office and told Lieutenant John Stein of the flight of birds. “We stay a lap behind,” Shapiro said, gloomily and Stein said they seemed to, at that, and what did Shapiro plan to do next?
“I haven’t,” Nathan Shapiro said, in deep sadness, “the least idea, John.”
He might, then, as well come in. A rather long cable had arrived from England and, although it could do nothing to help them find a fleeing poet who splattered blood behind him, there were one or two points that were rather interesting.
Shapiro left O’Hara and Hallahan to greet the lab boys—and, of course, any returning birds. He drove Claude Wilson back in the police car to West Twentieth Street, where they found that Wilson’s cab had acquired a ticket for illegal parking.
“Listen!” Wilson said. “I lose a lot of dough being off the street and—”
Shapiro took the ticket from under the windshield wiper and put it in his pocket. He said, “Thanks, Mr. Wilson. We’ll let you know when we want you.” Wilson drove away.
Shapiro walked half a block through rain and fog. New York had had its November allotment of sunshine. He went into the West Twentieth Street police station and stopped at the desk and asked the sergeant to do something about the parking ticket. He climbed a flight to the office of Homicide, Manhattan West, shaking water off his hat. Sometimes it seemed to him that that flight of stairs was a treadmill.
XI
At about the time Shapiro climbed a flight of stairs, shaking water off his hat, the man he wanted parked a black Porsche in East Twentieth Street, between Gramercy Park East and Third Avenue. He was a good deal wetter than Shapiro and, in all that mattered, he was as baffled. The cut over his eye was bleeding again, slightly, and his face, in general, ached. In addition to everything else, he was now subject to a charge of car theft. But beyond these things, which under the circumstances he could consider minor things, there was a major thing—a thing which might be very major indeed.
The chances were high, Reginald Grant thought, moving quickly off through the rain, that he had flubbed it once more. And if he had, it would be the girl who paid for it. He knew that much now, whatever he didn’t know. He moved fast through rain and fog—a tall man, hatless and without a coat, stooping a little; a man moving fast because he was desperately afraid that he was late.
Now I could use a policeman, Reg Grant thought. I’m off that high horse now; it isn’t adventure now. Where, for God’s sake, is a policeman? Why, for the love of God, isn’t there time to go looking for one? What’ll they do to my red-haired filly? If not a cop, anybody’ll do—anybody to go for help while I go to help.
Reg could guess where everybody was, as he went a short block through an empty street and turned right on East Twenty-first Street. Everybody on this cold and wet November evening was under shelter—the lucky sat in front of fires, and mixed the evening’s first drink; the lucky stood or sat in cozy pubs. People didn’t even walk dogs on a night like this.
He reached a familiar flight of sandstone steps. He’d know, soon enough. If they had put two and two together, they’d be waiting for him; he would be doing precisely what they most hoped for. If the little pro hadn’t been found, he’d be getting damn uncomfortable—which was all right with Reg Grant, although he hoped mildly that the little pro hadn’t choked on the dish cloth. It had been several hours since Reg had left him in the storage room and gone cautiously along a corridor to find a girl with red hair who might be for him in this strange, incomprehensible business, and might as well be against him.
The corridor had ended with a closed door. Reg listened at the door and heard nothing, and pushed at it carefully. He discovered that that was wrong, and pulled at it. When it was open far enough, he looked around it. Beyond was the square entrance hall he had been brought through when they brought him to the house to see a “captain.” There was light there; the light was far up, in a stair well, lighting curved staircase and upper hall and lower hall; not brightly lighting anything. There was nobody in the square hall. He listened and heard nobody anywhere.
He was doing no good to anybody peering around a door. He went, cautiously, out into the hall, hugging close to the stairway structure on his left. He was in a shadow there. At first, he listened; concentrated on listening. The house sounded empty. After a time, concentrating, he began to hear small sounds which were inexplicable only for a moment, then recognized—the little, anonymous sounds of an aged house, settling moment by moment as for years it had settled. The ancient—far more ancient—house in London in which he had rooms made such little, aging sounds.
It occurred to Reg Grant that perhaps the light-weight pro had been alone in the house by the time he himself got into it; had been alone on guard. The other men—the tall man in the dark raincoat; the man who had been driving the car—had merely stopped by and then driven away again. No way of telling. Brought the girl there and deposited her and left the little pro to guard? Then gone about other business of their own. (For the love of God, what was their business?)
As likely as anything else in this utterly unlikely business. Very convenient, if true. Find the girl and either release her or, if it was really the other way around, abduct her. In any case, take her to the police to tell one story or the other. He went, still cautiously, toward the foot of the winding staircase, still in the shadow of the staircase.
He was almost at the foot of the stairs, just stepping into the light cast down from above, when he heard the sound of a key in the front door. He ducked back into the shadow. The door opened.
The shadow was by no means all that deep. Reg retreated farther, back toward the door to the kitchen corridor. He’d never make it, if they came in looking.
He saw, then, a low door let into the wall on his left, opening, it was obvious, on a cupboard, or low closet, under the stairs. He ducked and pulled at the door. Momentarily it stuck; then it opened. Reg Grant squirmed in.
It was a little place. It was used for the storage of fireplace wood, and fortunately was only partially filled with wood. There was just space, just barely space, for a tall man if he didn’t mind being a jackknife. This was no time to mind being a jackknife.
There was no knob on the inner side of the door. Reg clawed the door almost closed. He hoped the scratching of his nails on wood was not audible across the square hall.
He could see nothing, even when he looked out the crack he had left—nothing but a narrow slice of the wall opposite. He could, however, hear. The man who spoke first had, Reg thought, a young voice—young and American. The young American—that would do to go on with—said, “Satisfied?”
There was a
moment without answer. There was the sound of feet—four, at a guess—moving on the wooden floor. Reg guessed that the men were taking off coats. He heard what he thought was a door opening. And putting coats in closets.
“Looked like the same taxi to me, mate,” the second voice said. There was a kind of shrug in the words. There was a good deal of cockney in the intonation and accent.
Reg was fairly certain he had never heard either voice before.
“Couple of hundred cabs could look like the same cab,” the young American said. “I tell you, we weren’t followed. Think I wouldn’t have known?”
“Could be, mate. Like you say, one taxi looks like another. Could be you thought one was another, couldn’t it?”
It was an interesting way of putting it, Reg thought. Succinct.
“Bennie, quit worrying. Who’s to follow?”
“The client.”
There was an audible, a tolerant, sigh.
“Bennie, Hunter was late. That’s all. The girl was early. On her way to her job. Walks into our waiting hands and we do as ordered. Where does the client fit in?”
Client? Reg thought.
“The idea was,” Bennie said, “he might go there to put the squeeze on. It’s all balmy, if you ask me, mate.”
“I don’t. Nobody does.”
“Where’s Hunter?”
“You’ve got me there, pal. Hitch-hiking up, for all I know. Could have been telephoning, and we were out looking for Grant.”
“Who’s gone to the coppers.”
“So he’s gone to the coppers. With a yarn who’s goint to swallow? Only he hadn’t an hour or so ago, which was after Miss Larkin said she’d be delighted to take a little ride, under the circumstances. On account of, Bennie, they were still looking for him then.”
“Says who?”
“Says our beloved leader, Bennie. So quit fussing and let’s have a quick one, huh?”
“I could do with it,” Bennie said, his voice brighter.
Then the footsteps were resumed, and came toward the wood closet in which Reg Grant was uncomfortably fitted and Reg froze and held his breath, and all he could see through the crack was two pairs of trousered legs. Both men were wearing dark suits, or at any rate dark slacks. Which was nice to know, possibly.
The men opened the door into the kitchen corridor and went through. He did not hear the door close behind them. Now?
“Hey, Slash?”
The voice came from the kitchen. The voice was raised.
Reg didn’t doubt who Slash was. He’d met Slash. He had evidence to prove it. The cut above his right eye seemed to have stopped bleeding.
“Slash?” This was louder. Then, not so loud, “Where the hell?”
And then Reg heard footsteps coming back, and coming more rapidly. The man—the young American, from the pace he kept; Bennie had seemed to drag his feet a little—came back along the corridor, past the hole in which Reg had gone to earth, and went up the stairs. His feet were heavy on the stairs beyond the closet.
He was gone only briefly. The other man came out from the kitchen and, Reg thought from the sound, stood at the foot of the stairs. He probably looked up them, perhaps anxiously.
“O.K.,” the young American—too bad there wasn’t a simpler name to think of him by—called down the stairs. “Snug as a bug, Bennie. You know what—” He came down the stairs. “The Slasher was due to pick up the groceries. That’s where he’s gone.”
“And left the lady all alone? Suppose there’d been a fire, mate? Suppose—”
“Give him a break,” the young American said. “He was here when we came in. Did we say, keep an eye on things on account we’re going out in the rain to look for a man was maybe in a taxi? Nope, we didn’t. So he went to market, which is his job, Bennie. Anyway, nothing happened to the lady, so how’s about the quick ones?”
“I could do with it,” Bennie said, repeating himself with some eagerness. They went back to the kitchen.
Now?
Now if ever. Reg came out of the wood-closet and moved as silently as he could, which was not too silently, and as fast as he could, to the foot of the stairs, and up the stairs. He hoped the quick ones wouldn’t have been too quick.
The room at the rear of the house—the room they had locked him in—would be the place to start. No assurance they had used the same room; merely a place to start. He went down the corridor, with doors on either side, until he came to its end, and the blank door of the room. No key conveniently in the door. He hadn’t really expected there would be, but a man can always hope.
There was a transverse corridor here, narrow and brief. Reconnoitre; that was the drill. At one end of the corridor a narrow flight of stairs leading up; beside it a similar flight leading down. Backstairs. The one leading down might come in handy. A key to the door would come in even handier. First—was she behind the door?
He went back to it. The keyhole was big, old-fashioned. He bent down—and was uneasily conscious that in this position he was extremely vulnerable—and tried to peep through the keyhole. He had heard of that being done; never tried it. Not, as it turned out, at all rewarding. A keyhole-size view of a window, nothing intervening. It occurred to him that, if this were the age of miracles, the door might be unlocked. And that, if it were, there would be little point in turning the knob, since the room would inevitably be empty. Nevertheless, he tried the knob, carefully. It was not the age of miracles.
He leaned as close as he could to the keyhole. He said, as softly as he could with any chance of being heard, “Miss Larkin?” Then he put ear instead of lips to the keyhole and heard the sound of movement. He repeated his query, a little louder. The words sounded very loud indeed; seemed to echo in the corridor. Probably they could hear him from the kitchen. “Miss Larkin. Are you there?”
He heard movement again and this time was sure it was toward the door. Then she spoke. Her voice was low and clear, as he remembered it. He put his ear close to the big keyhole.
“Who is it?” she said, but then, at once, “Mr. Grant?”
So she had a memory for voices; a remembering ear. Voices were changed by telephones, but all the same—No time for that, now. Take that up later.
“Are you all right?”
“Locked up,” she said. “Kidnaped. If you mean—hurt. No, I’m not hurt.”
“Tied?”
Which was absurd. He had heard her move.
“No. Can you get me out?”
“Can try.”
“There are two of them,” she said. “One has a gun. The tall, dark one. Why are they doing this, Mr. Grant? What’s it all—”
“I don’t know. Oh—about your sister’s murder. But—I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t make any sense to me,” she said. She sounded, in an odd fashion, affronted; affronted of mind. Things ought to make sense, her tone said. It was as if this, as much as being kidnaped—apparently at gun point—perturbed her. And this, so evident in her voice, answered any questions left in Reg Grant’s mind. Any small questions; not what they—it was undoubtedly “they” from here on in—were up to.
“I know,” he said. “Rather, don’t know. The window’s nailed shut.”
“Yes.”
“Before long,” he said, “they’ll bring you something to eat. Anyway, they did me.”
“Delightful,” she said. “Do they set a good table?”
“That’s the girl.”
(Which, damn it all, she most certainly is.)
“Oh,” she said. “Chins up and all that.”
She wasn’t especially good at the intonation. Good try. But her voice had flattened on it; grown discouraged. Which was reasonable enough, God knew.
“You’ve no idea what they’ve got in mind?”
“No,” she said.
“Miss Larkin.” It seemed absurd, under these circumstances, to continue this formality. However—“Miss Larkin. Did they ask you anything about being able to identify me? As the man your sister—”
“I know,” she said. “No. But that must be it, mustn’t it?”
“Anything about a—I heard one of them call somebody a ‘leader.’”
“Not really.”
“Oh,” he said, “whimsy. But that word, yes.”
“No,” she said. “Wait—‘Come along, Miss Larkin. Somebody wants to see you.’ The man who had a gun. After—when I was going to telephone. A tall, dark man. Wearing a black raincoat. He spoke—I think it was cockney. Not the way you do but—”
“Bennie,” Reg said.
“Whoever,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Somehow, I’ll get you out.”
Which were fine, large words.
“Don’t forget one of them—maybe more than one—has a gun and—”
He heard sounds. He said, “Shhh!” loudly, through the keyhole, and turned from the door. He heard footsteps on the staircase and then a voice—a voice he remembered. “O.K.,” the voice said. “I slipped up. How was I to know the son—”
Come now, Reg Grant thought. The mater wouldn’t have liked that.
The square man, and how was he to have known? And, at a guess, two others. And I, Reg thought, am a target, complete with shooting gallery. Getting shot from a safe distance won’t help either of us. Staircases at the end of a short corridor. Go down? Or go up? Down and I can, probably, get out of the house and, probably, find policemen. And—meanwhile? They can be coming to get the girl, my spunky red-haired filly. Or—to do something to—
He went to his right, toward the stairs that led upward. He got out of sight on the stairs and went up out of sight. He also went up where he couldn’t see the men who came down the central corridor toward the locked room at the end. He was sure, now, there were three of them.
“Nobody blames you, Don,” one of them said—the “young American” said. “Happen to anybody.” But there was pleasure in his voice.
“It sure as hell would have happened to you,” “Don” said, and there was a snarl in his voice. Not the Three Musketeers, apparently. The third man said, “Blimey,” in a tone of disgust, which, it occurred to Reg, he was willing to spread equally. Nobody really palsy.