Triple Slay

by Lawrence Lariar

  “That could have been his idea.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What do you believe?” he shrugged.

  “That you wanted to keep me out of here.”

  “What for?”

  “Because of Mari Barstow,” I said. “Because you didn’t want me to disturb her.”

  “A brain,” he said condescendingly. “I underestimated you, Steve. But let’s assume that you’re right. What then? There’s nothing wrong with Mari wanting to be left alone.”

  “There’s plenty wrong.”

  “You’re playing it heavy. She’s entitled to her privacy.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Now you’re talking nonsense.”

  “You know me better than that, Luigi.”

  “Break it down for me,” he said. His impatience with me was building again and he stepped off to the left a bit, as though he might be working toward a better view of the house behind me. Or was he listening now? Was he straining to keep me in focus while wondering about Mari? “What’s on your mind, Steve?”

  “Murder,” I said.

  “Easy,” he said angrily. “I don’t want to forget we’re old friends, Steve.”

  “Forget it, forget it now. Because what I’m going to tell you will hurt, Luigi. I’m going to prove that Mari Barstow went out of control when Jan Flato brushed her off.”

  “Out of control?” he smiled. “Is that illegal?”

  “Not within reason. But your friend Mari has a long record of irrational temper. You know that, Luigi. You know her well.”

  “She didn’t care that much about Flato, Steve. Mari has plenty of boy friends.”

  “Playmates, yes. But Flato was the real thing for her. She wanted him, and Mari usually gets what she wants. For the first time in her life she found herself the unloved female. She couldn’t take it, Luigi. Especially when she discovered she was carrying a bastard child by him.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” he said with the proper amount of aroused manliness. He came at me, only a few steps, his fists tight. I stood my ground and let him come, waiting for the letdown, the quick simmering of his ridiculous rage. And he slowed down, as I expected he would. “You’re all upset, Steve. Let’s be rational about this thing.”

  “I’ve never felt more rational in my life,” I said. “Especially since I saw that she was pregnant. Knock it off, Luigi. Don’t you know that she’s been half crazy, ever since she knifed Flato?”

  “How could she? She was in Chicago when it happened.”

  “That’s what you think. That’s what she wanted everybody to think. She played her little game skillfully. She had a dummy register under her name in Chicago. But she was here, in New York, at the time Flato was killed. She planned her game carefully, worked out the details with skill. She set up a patsy for the police, Linda Karig, a girl whose habits she knew well. She wanted Linda on scene at Flato’s, and she wanted Linda drunk. It was here that she made her big mistake. She called in an ally—Jeff Masterson.”

  “You’re crazy, Steve. Mari and Masterson? Ridiculous.”

  “No man is ridiculous for Mari. Jeff Masterson was an old college flame of hers. She gave him the job of getting Linda Karig drunk and delivering Linda to Flato’s apartment at the right time. She killed Flato and rigged it to look as though Linda did the job. It was a masterpiece of indirection, a perfect detour for the city police. And it almost worked. She made only one serious mistake. She employed a brother psychotic to help her—Jeff Masterson. And he immediately began to blackmail her. Did you know that? Did you know that he came out here yesterday?”

  “Why?”

  “She called Masterson out here.”

  “Ridiculous. Why would she want to see him?”

  “To buy him off. She must have decided against murdering him because of what happened to Max Ornstein. Your boy Grippo doesn’t see too well. Mari assigned Grippo the job of killing Masterson. Grippo took a crack at it in Margaret Lane. But Grippo killed the wrong man.”

  “You’re out of your mind. Grippo would have told me.”

  “I think not.”

  “You’re wrong, Steve. You’re wrong about him.”

  “Grippo can maybe be had,” I suggested.

  “You think that Mari—?” He came at me again, full of fresh anger.

  “Relax, Luigi. Mari has a way with the boys. All types. Even the gorillas.”

  “No.” But the truth was beginning to eat at him. He was in shock. He put down his drink and stared hopelessly at me. Over his shoulder the sky was lightening.

  “She had to get rid of Masterson,” I said. “She knew that he might be back, once his blackmail worked. She paid him off and he rushed back to town to shave off his beard and change his identity. Masterson was afraid. He knew her violent temper, her madness, out of his college memories of her. He also knew that she was a killer. Masterson was no fool. He must have twitched when he saw Max Ornstein dead in Margaret Lane. It was time for him to hit her for money and then fade. But she didn’t see it his way. She paid him off and then sent Grippo after him. Grippo did a good job.”

  “It’s crazy,” Luigi whispered.

  “It’s quite logical,” Mari said. “Your detective friend is very, very clever, Luigi.”

  She was standing in the doorway dressed for casual boating. She wore a blue turtleneck jersey and a matching skirt that made her figure look almost normal. Her hair was cut in an offbeat Italian style, giving her wonderful face a gamin look. She smiled easily and the brightness of her beauty was startling and almost unreal. Pregnant or not, she was the all-American type, the sweetheart of the boy next door, the Miss Fire Island cup winner, the cover girl, the dream girl, the Hollywood starlet. She could be all things to all men.

  But to me she was only a bad little girl with a gun.

  I said, “Well, Mari. We meet at last.”

  She no longer smiled. She stood there and her eyes telegraphed her internal dialogue, her obvious intentions. In the quiet moment she seemed completely dedicated to me. Luigi made no move to bring himself into focus. He was staring at her unbelievingly.

  “Surprised, Luigi darling?”

  “Why?” he asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now. Frightened?”

  “Do I look frightened?”

  “Frankly, yes. Want out?”

  “Of course not,” he said.

  “Do you know what that means, darling?” She slid her beautiful blue eyes my way. “It means we’ll have to get rid of this monkey.”

  “Not a chance,” I said. “What about the man who brought me out here? He’s waiting for me.”

  “He can be had,” said Luigi. “Gruber can be had.”

  “You’ve changed, Luigi,” I said. “You’re not as smart as you used to be. You’ll be throwing your life away. And for what? You may take her to safety. You may buy some time with her. But, will you ever enjoy it? Will you ever convince yourself that she’s really yours?”

  “Quiet!” said Mari.

  “She’ll play you the way she did all the others. She’ll drain you dry and then drop you—”

  “Quiet, little man—”

  “You can run with her, Luigi, to the ends of the earth. But will you ever be able to run from yourself? Will you ever sell yourself the fact that it’s worthwhile? You’ll be watching every passing man, wondering whether he’s the next for her. You’ll be—”

  “Quiet, I said!”

  And then she fired the gun.

  The impossible noise hammered at me as I moved to escape the bullet. Instinct pulled me off balance, failing to the right. In the electric moment, Luigi was running forward toward her, his hand upraised, shouting a line I could not hear. The bullet hit high on my right shoulder. I went down clutching the pain and yet never really f
eeling it. Luigi must have reached her before she could fire again because after that I could hear no sound but the sucking wind that pulled me deep into the black pit. I was falling a million miles into nowhere. All the lights went out for me.

  And then I, too, was out.

  CHAPTER 17

  I revived slowly. The sound of water came through to me first, the sucking, slapping noise of little waves against wood. My shoulder hurt pretty badly. I was on my side, on a cushion in the stern seat of a boat. It was a very big boat, probably forty feet. Up forward I heard the sound of voices. The door to the cabin was open but I could see nothing. It would be dark for quite a while, too dark for anything but listening.

  “Where did he go?” Mari asked.

  “Back. Left something in the house.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He just said I should go on the boat.”

  My ears caught him clearly now and I knew him. It was Grippo, of course. Nobody else on earth had that much gravel in his throat.

  “You know what to do?” she asked.

  “The boss won’t like it.”

  “Do we care what the boss likes, darling?”

  “Listen, baby—”

  But they had no more time for listening. There was the sound of footsteps on the dock and Luigi climbed aboard almost over my head. For a moment he stood there, looking down at me. Then he moved off into the cabin. Mari joined him there and they talked, two silhouettes against the cabin lamp.

  The dull glow from inside allowed me a fair view of my surroundings. It was a broad deck, spacious and built for sunning. On the starboard side was the rubber mat, tacked down here to prevent scuffing. Alongside this mat, the metal cover of the gas tank intake. The feel of the thing made me think. In several directions.

  Because we were beginning to move out into the bay.

  Mari and Luigi were standing near the cabin door.

  “The clever little man is awake?” Mari asked.

  “No thanks to you,” I said.

  “I’m no Annie Oakley,” she laughed. “I do much better with a knife.”

  “Please,” said Luigi. “Cut it out, will you, honey?”

  “But, darling, aren’t you used to it yet? Your friend is a softy, Conacher. Wouldn’t you say he’s a softy, detective?”

  “Not soft,” I said. “Stupid, maybe.”

  “Did you hear that, darling? Why don’t you kick his face in for that remark?”

  “Please,” Luigi said again. He turned to shout an order to Grippo at the wheel. He told Grippo to slow down and be careful to watch for the channel markers. I took a cigarette out of my pocket and asked Luigi to favor me by lighting it, because I couldn’t do it with one hand. He lit my cigarette, cupping the flame from the wind. His face was pale and sick-looking in the quick light.

  “Where are we headed?” I asked him.

  “Don’t tell him, darling,” Mari said, stepping close to me. In the east the sky must have begun to lighten with the dawn. I could see her more clearly now. She was beautiful, even at this crazy hour. And she was evil. “Let the clever detective guess,” she laughed. “Give him three guesses.”

  “I’m not good at ship games,” I said. “Not even shuffleboard.”

  “A very clever little man,” she said. “Tell him where his cleverness will take him, darling. Or shall I?”

  “What do you mean, Mari?” Luigi asked.

  “You know what I mean.”

  ‘Not that again. I thought I told you that idea was out.”

  “You thought you did,” she laughed. “And did I say the idea was out?”

  “Hell, Steve and I are old friends,” he pleaded. “He’ll listen to reason, I tell you.”

  “Ask him, darling. Ask him to listen to reason.”

  “I’m listening,” I said. “What’s the angle, Luigi?”

  “The police, Steve. You don’t have to tell them. I can make it pay off for you, but big. I can set you up so you won’t have to work for the rest of your life. It would be that kind of money. Real big, Steve. What do you say?”

  “I say stuff it, Luigi.”

  “Did you hear what the clever little man told you?” Mari asked. “Now will you admit I’m right?”

  He was leaning wearily against the cabin door and his face was loaded with worry. Facing her he seemed the weaker member of the partnership, a strange position for Luigi Calabrese. But the answer lay in his eyes, his hopeless, love-struck eyes, the eyes of a dreamy adolescent. He was hooked by her, all the way. Could he be so far gone that he would butcher his old friend? Or was some small spark of resolve burning in him?

  “You may be right,” he said, “but I can’t go through with it, Mari.”

  “Idiot,” she said. “You’re in this too deep. You can’t crawl out now.”

  The tension began to build as they faced each other. The scene hung above me in the morning light. Whatever had once held them together seemed cancelled out in her mind. She faced him resolutely, measuring him, scorning his silly, dewy-eyed pleading. It was happening fast, in a tick of time. Yet, certain elements came through to me clearly. Luigi would not change his mind about me.

  “I just can’t do it,” he said.

  “Then I’ll do it.”

  “No.”

  “Grippo!”

  And then the motor coughed and died and Grippo came from the cockpit. We were in the channel running off the edge of the inlet, out in open water. The seas rolled in broad waves here, nothing sharp or rough, but pitched enough to throw the boat around a little. Grippo came out and joined the group, rocking uncertainly on his short legs. They had turned to watch him arrive and I used the moment to loosen the screw cap of the gas tank with my free hand. I had it completely off by the time all three faced me again.

  “Get back to the wheel, Grippo,” said Luigi.

  “Sorry, boss. No can do.” He had an automatic and handled it as casually as he would a handkerchief. “Maybe you better go inside?”

  “A brilliant idea,” said Mari. “Grippo has a truly personal interest in the clever little detective. Isn’t that so, Grippo?”

  “Real personal,” Grippo said.

  “And it will all wash, darling. Don’t you see how perfect it is? Even the flesh wound on his shoulder won’t be challenged. He’ll be found back there on those rocks, a bruised and battered corpse. They’ll say he probably fell off a row boat while fishing. Come on inside with me, lover. It will all be over in a minute.”

  And it was.

  When Grippo turned my way again I saw that he had a metal bar in his left hand, the gun in his right hand. He came at me, the bar lifted over his head, ready to bludgeon me with it. At that moment, Luigi started after him. Grippo hesitated, unsure of his next move. And in that instant I leaned to the starboard side.

  And dropped my lit cigarette into the open gas tank.

  I was half over the side when the big blast came, a deafening clap of noise behind a great red wall of flame. Something cracked against my hurt arm, a stab of pain that made me scream out as I hit the water. Then I was diving deep, working to move away from the boat above me, fighting to shake off the shock of the icy ocean. My lungs were aching when I finally hit the surface and sucked hurriedly of the wonderful air.

  The first great shock was the light. Dawn had broken. The ocean was a rolling lake, a smooth and grayish mass. Overhead a few lazy gulls wheeled in the wind. I came up facing the mainland, watching the distant crest of breakers against the rocky barrier off the inlet. But when I swung around, the scene was altogether different. Straight ahead of me, her superstructure ripped completely off, Luigi’s cruiser burned with a fantastic heat, so strong that I could feel it from over a hundred yards away. Great tongues of flame licked at the hull and sent black clouds of smoke whirling into the morning air. Some of the oil and gas had e
scaped to the sea and now burned steadily on the water. Silence added drama to the mad scene. I could hear the hissing, macabre sound of the flames. The hull was charred and burned almost down to the water. Then, as I watched, the hopeless hulk rolled and slipped into the ocean. There was the brief hissing noise of sea against flame.

  And then I found myself swimming toward the edge of the burning oil. Luigi was there, clinging desperately to a torn section of the cabin, half of the mahogany door. His face was blackened and streaked with blood. The explosion had damaged his face badly and he seemed in deep shock.

  “Mari …” he moaned. “Mari …”

  “Easy, Luigi. Can you hang on? The dinghy’s in good shape over there.”

  “Mari …”

  He shouted her name out of delirium. He was still screaming it when I came back with the dinghy and managed to get him aboard. He passed out then and I collapsed alongside him, unable to find the strength for rowing ashore. We drifted for some time until the sun came out and we were picked up by a Coast Guard cutter. They gave me a shot of brandy and fixed my wound and clucked sadly over Luigi.

  “His face looks pretty bad,” one of the sailors said. “We’d better take him ashore to a hospital.”

  “Nobody else out there where the boat went down,” another sailor said. “The other two must have been trapped in the cabin. You want to give me their names, for the record, mister?”

  I had another stiff drink and gave them the names.

  THE END

  About the Author

  Lawrence Lariar (1908–1981) was an American novelist, cartoonist and cartoon editor, known for his Best Cartoons of the Year series of cartoon collections. He wrote crime novels, sometimes using the pseudonyms Michael Stark, Adam Knight and Marston la France.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.