by P. N. Elrod
The effect was the same as though he’d tripped. He landed forward, and from the thumps and cursing, one of his pals also discovered the pain of gravity. They took a minute to sort themselves; the other two thought it was funny. I was ahead of them by then.
They’d paused, looking downstairs, focused on the first man, who insisted that he’d been grabbed. I went solid and shoved the nearest two hard in the lower back, vanishing before they crash-landed.
No one was in a mood to laugh at that point. There were a lot more thumps and curses, and at least one got a serious injury to judge by the wail he made.
The first man to recover rightly assumed an attacker lurked just above them. He broke off and charged upstairs.
I caught him as he passed me and tried that swinging routine again. His own momentum helped; I just shifted his direction and added force. He slammed into the wall even harder than the other guy, but not as much plaster came away. It caved in a bit, sticking to the lath underneath.
He was out and had dropped his gun. I kicked it away. It skittered toward the stairs and clunked down exactly one step.
This made an impression on the remaining men. Someone ahead of them in the dark had gotten their pal and had purposely discarded his gun. They’d heard the violence, but couldn’t see us from their angle. The ambulatory ones were cautious about going up, the other one—something was wrong with his ankle—was making a hopping retreat downward, calling for reinforcements.
Before they arrived, I took out the two that were left. I got bruised knuckles; they got a trip to dreamland. Neither had seen much. A blur in the shadows, that was me; Lamont Cranston would have been proud. Six down, counting the guy I had in storage, one on the sidelines, but he could still shoot.
I slipped after him and shut him up. Seven for me, zero for them. The odds were getting better every minute.
No familiar faces among them, so that left Swann and two of the bruisers I’d come with somewhere below.
Izzy had mentioned a big palooka. None of this batch qualified, though to her every palooka was big. Keep it simple, assume there were more, and allow for it.
But my trip down to take care of them halted in mid-step when she screamed my name and a gun went off.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
I rushed upstairs as fast as I dared, going incorporeal on the last flight, and swept low along the floor toward Izzy.
That’s how I blundered into one of them. He was in the hall, probably looking into the room. I went solid and got him in the kidneys from behind, spun him fast, and put him out before he had time to gasp.
In the room was the man matching Izzy’s description. She’d been conservative. He was the kind of guy who’d be nicknamed “Tiny” as a bad joke. He was bigger than my pal Gordy, who was built like a mountain.
And he had Izzy by the throat.
His hands were enormous. He could only fit his thumb and two fingers around her neck, but those were enough. She hung onto his massive arm for dear life. He’d lifted her clean off the floor, and if she didn’t ease the pressure of her own weight she’d strangle. Her legs twitched in that macabre dance that hanged men do when the fall from the trap hasn’t broken their necks.
He had a gun in his other hand, aimed it at me, but I froze because of Izzy. There were other men in the room, but I didn’t care about them.
“Put her down,” I said.
He grinned. It made him ugly.
I raised my hands, palms out, and thought that if I got close enough to launch I could tackle him. But he could crush her windpipe and not even notice. One reflexive squeeze would finish her.
Someone prodded something hard against the back of my head.
I froze just a little bit more.
“Thank you, Mr. Kaiser,” said Swann a few feet to my side. “Mr. Thorp has him covered. Please put the lady—yes, very well, that’s fine.”
Kaiser simply opened his fingers, letting Izzy drop. She sprawled, gasping and coughing. For all that, she scrambled toward a gun on the floor, but another mug came forward and put his foot on it.
“Feisty thing, ain’t she?” he observed, grinning at her in a way I didn’t like.
Thorp must have sensed it and prodded my skull with what had to be a gun muzzle, reminding me who was in charge. He patted me down, taking away my borrowed semi-auto and the pocket knife.
“Mr. Taylor?”
It took me a second to remember that was the name I’d given Swann. “Yeah?”
“A little common sense, please.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“That we peaceably leave here.”
“Peaceably? Your gorillas were going to toss my friends out a window.” I could see Barrett lying in the same spot with my coat over him. He’d stopped shivering; his eyes were shut. Maybe he’d recovered enough to be aware of things and was playing possum.
“That was a misunderstanding,” Swann said.
I snorted.
“I put it to you this way: we leave in an orderly manner or Mr. Kaiser will resume his mistreatment of the lady. You don’t want that.”
“All right,” I said. “But I want to know a few things first.”
“I’m sure you do, but I haven’t the time.”
The grinning guy pushed Izzy toward me. I steadied her, but didn’t keep hold, wanting my hands free in case there was an opening I could exploit.
“I almost got one,” she said, her voice hoarse. “They came up the fire escape, got me from behind while I was looking downstairs. If King Kong hadn’t been so fast. . .”
“We’ll get out of this,” I murmured.
Thorp looked amused.
Kaiser flicked my coat away and picked up Barrett, slinging him over one shoulder. His head and arms swung loose. If he was faking, he was doing too good a job.
The grinner scavenged the rope that Izzy had slipped out of and undid the knot. He used it to tie my hands behind my back. The rough hemp bit into my wrists as he made it tight. Good thing I didn’t have to worry about circulation.
“Swann?” I said. “Let the lady have my coat. She’s freezing.”
He had no objection, fetching and handing it to her himself. He didn’t seem to have a gun, but I couldn’t rely on that. Izzy slipped the coat on, threading her much shorter arms into the sleeves and holding the hem up so it wouldn’t drag.
“Thanks, Fleming,” she said. “You’re a stand-up guy.”
I winced.
“Fleming?” said Swann. “Now where have I heard that name before?”
When dealing with people you don’t trust, never ask a question unless you already know the answer. From the expression on his bland, pleasant face, Swann knew plenty. Gangsters live in a small world; they tend to know each other and trade stories faster than old ladies at a church social. Izzy had shouted my first name to get me up here, now they had the rest. It was no secret that a certain Jack Fleming of Chicago stood in for Northside Gordy for over a month, running his operation while he recovered from bullet wounds.
I gave Swann a hard look, wishing like hell that I could still use hypnosis. “You got me. Let’s talk.”
Anything to buy time. If Barrett could snap out of it and lend a hand we could leave this clambake and figure out what to do later. Even running on empty, he’d still be more than a match for any three of these guys. Not Kaiser, but any of the others.
“Of course,” said Swann. “Downstairs, everyone. Mr. Fleming, be aware that Mr. Thorp’s aim is directed at the lady. Behave yourself or she will pay for you. Young woman, you will also behave. Your sex is no protection. Mr. Thorp will shoot you.”
He spoke as though reading off a train schedule, but there was something under the calm, polite tone that put ice in my guts.
Izzy glanced at me, her face white under its tough cookie shell. She’d heard it, too.
She led off first, though, stepping over the guy I’d punched out. We all stepped over him. She was in no hurry to get to
the bottom landing and set a slow pace. Kaiser was impatient and trundled past, probably anxious to get rid of his burden. Barrett continued to look dead.
Our first check was the motley string of unconscious gorillas I’d left on the stairs. As with the last man, Swann showed no interest in checking to see if they were alive or attempting to revive them. We picked a path around the bodies. Izzy gave me a look, which I pretended not to notice. I was having enough trouble keeping balance. Walking downstairs with my hands tied behind was harder than I’d expected. I considered faking a fall and use that in some way to my advantage, but at this point I’d only end up bruised or worse. The steps were wood. I could injure myself to the point of not being able to vanish.
Besides, I had no doubt that Thorp would use any action on my part as an excuse to shoot Izzy; I took great care not to trip.
On the ground floor we passed the hall with the storage closet. The metal door was open, and the mug I’d clobbered had been dragged out. He was in no condition to explain how I’d escaped, and looked to remain so for the next few days.
Izzy paused, but Thorp urged her forward toward the exit.
The car was gone, the remaining crew hung by the truck. Its rear doors were open. Inside was the tarped bundle, the two diggers and their tools, including the jackhammer. They watched our approaching parade without alarm, just another night’s work with overtime and a bonus.
Barrett’s body was propped against the truck’s metal wall, his head lolling. His eyes were still shut, and deathly pale would do to describe his face, emphasis on deathly. For the first time I worried that he might not recover after all. Getting hit with wood was one thing, but with someone as big as Kaiser swinging that wood . . . maybe that had done the job, picking up where a more traditional stake in the heart left off.
One handed, Kaiser reached for Izzy’s throat. She squawked and shrank back, preferring Thorp’s gun to strangulation.
Swann got between them. “Gently, Mr. Kaiser, if you please.”
The giant found that amusing. This time he grabbed Izzy by the waist with both hands and tossed her into the back of the truck. Then it was my turn. He had to put some effort into it because I’m heavier than I look, and I landed on my side, my back to Barrett. Thorp climbed in next, then Kaiser.
“Where’s Mr. Nolan?” asked Swann, looking around.
One of the remaining guys shrugged. “He was here a minute ago.”
“He’s supposed to be watching the truck.”
“Musta run out of cigarettes. There’s a drugstore just—”
Swann raised one hand, shaking his head. “We’ve no time to collect him. Will you drive, please?”
He shrugged assent and closed the doors. It got dark except for a little glow from a square window that overlooked the truck’s cab.
No one objected to my sitting up, so I managed that and turned so my back rested against a wall. Izzy pressed close to my left side. She put an arm over her nose, filtering air through the wool sleeve of my coat, but that wouldn’t be much help; the stench from the bundle filled the truck. I don’t know how the others could stand it.
“What is that?” she whispered.
I didn’t want to say the name too loud and spoke right in her ear. “I think it’s what’s left of Graft Endicott. Barrett and I found the body on his estate, then someone horned in and took it. I don’t know why. Keep quiet and play dumb.”
Izzy nodded.
I took stock of the opposition: the two diggers, Thorp, the grinning guy, and Kaiser, who I counted four times over because of his size.
Eight to one, Izzy as hostage for my good behavior, and me with my hands tied.
I tested the rope. It was strong stuff, but I was pretty sure I could snap it. That wasn’t as good as being absolutely sure. If I did break free, this truck was no place for a fight. They were all armed; Thorp still had his gun aimed at Izzy.
This trip took longer. For a time we were in the start-stop pattern of the city, our progress dictated by traffic signals. The driver, with a truck full of armed gangsters, two kidnapped people, one possibly dead and one definitely dead man, would be respecting every rule of the road.
The signal pauses became less frequent, indicating we’d reached some kind of highway. I didn’t feel the tug that hits me when crossing water, so we were still on Manhattan Island.
“Where we going?” I asked, sounding conversational.
No one was interested in answering.
Izzy put her lips to my ear. “I think we’re on East River Drive, heading north east.”
“How you know?”
“I know where the Pendlebury is, just taking a good guess. Sorry about dropping your name back there.”
“It’s okay. I think it did some good. Swann’s gonna want to talk. I think I can bring him around. He seems to be a reasonable man.”
She wisely did not react to that statement. “I’m scared, Jack,” she said, loud enough for the others to hear. I didn’t doubt she was scared, but the tremulous whine was out of character for her. It was in keeping with her playing it dumb.
Only the grinner found it entertaining. If there’d been more light back here he’d be trying to look up her skirt.
She buttoned the coat, shifted some more, and settled closer to me, hunching. It engulfed her like a blanket. She drew her knees up to her chin inside it and put her hands together so the sleeves covered them. She had no gloves. When she lowered her head, I thought it was either to pray or another attempt to filter the bad air.
Then I felt her hand on my lower back. I hoped no one noticed my twitch.
Somehow she’d gotten her right arm out of the sleeve and wormed it under the coat hem. Her fingers did some ticklish exploration, then she found the ropes and started working on them. The darkness and motion of the truck hid her small movements as she tugged and twisted, pushed and pulled on the knots.
If I wasn’t head over heels for Miss Roberta Smythe of Chicago, I’d have fallen in love with Miss Isabelle DeLeon right then and there.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
The truck made a right turn, gears grumbling, and I felt the discomfort of crossing free-flowing water. We’d driven too far for this to be the Queensboro Bridge. It might be the Triborough Bridge, which would put us on Wards Island, and I couldn’t think why they’d want to go there. Otherwise we were past that point, had crossed the Harlem River elsewhere, and were headed for the Bronx. I couldn’t think why they’d want to go there, either.
Izzy continued working on the knot, giving no outward sign of her activity. I couldn’t help, except to hold still, which was what she needed for leverage. It had to be hard on her fingers; the hemp was rough and prickly and reluctant to shift. Neither of us knew how long this ride would last.
Several times I was tempted to tell her to lay off. I was sure I could get free of the rope by vanishing. All I had to do was re-form with my hands in front of me, and if the rope was still in place after that I could snap it.
Of course, it would take a few seconds. Izzy could be killed in a few seconds.
I worried that her fingers simply weren’t strong enough, then remembered her manic pounding of the keys of Clapsaddle’s typewriter. The only thing faster and stronger would be that jackhammer when it was breaking up concrete. She couldn’t see what she was doing; that’s why it was taking so long.