by John Lutz
“No,” Stockton said. “Which is kinda what brings me here. This thing is getting nastier by the day, Nudger, and I’m afraid someone else is going to die. Count those poor people on the airliner, and already the death toll’s goddamned horrendous.”
Nudger couldn’t argue with that and didn’t. He sat listening to the traffic swish past two stories below on Manchester. People on their way here and there, some of them rolling toward trouble.
“I’ve been in contact with my employer, Sloan Trust,” Stockton said. “Way this works, they contract me to find the missing insured property—in this case, the stolen diamonds—and if my investigation leads to the recovery, my fee’s ten percent of the insured amount. In this case, since the diamonds are insured for slightly more than a million, my commission’d be a little over a hundred thousand dollars. Nothing to sneeze at.”
Nudger said, “I didn’t sneeze. Nose didn’t even itch.”
“They pay me that much because I’m good at my work.” There was unmistakable pride in Stockton’s voice. “And to be good at the kinda work I do, sometimes you have to step outside what unenlightened people might think of as regular channels.”
Ah! Nudger thought. He already had an idea what Stockton had in mind.
“Even half my commission’d mean a lot to my bank account. I’m sure it’d mean even more to yours.” Stockton paused for a moment and let the drift of his words reach Nudger. He ran his fingertips down the lapel of the checkered sport coat. It wasn’t his style at all; he looked like a banker dressed like a barker. “Point is, Nudger, I have permission from my company to cut you in on the commission if you were to lead me to the diamonds and save them a million dollars.” He smiled unctuously. “Makes sense all around, huh?”
“Would if I knew the location of the diamonds.”
Stockton’s smile stayed pasted on. “I think you do know where they are.”
“Yeah, I guess you must, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“This is a good deal for you, Nudger. Maybe the deal of your lifetime. You won’t be able to get more’n twenty cents on the dollar for those diamonds from a fence. And then you gotta worry the rest of your life about the law coming down on your ass. Gotta tell you, that’s no way to live.”
“Why do you think I know where the diamonds are?”
“Because I’ve turned over every rock in the New York area, and believe me, I know where they are and what lives under them.”
“And what lives under them wasn’t wearing diamonds?”
“Exactly. I’d bet ... well, I am betting fifty thousand dollars those diamonds aren’t in New York. I say they’re in St. Louis. I say you know where.”
“How would I have found out?”
“From Vanita Lane, before she died. After all, the last man known to possess the stones, Rupert Winslow, was her lover.”
“Hadn’t been for a while, though.”
Stockton shook his head almost sadly. “I told you, it’s not smart to believe what Vanita says—said. Trust me, the woman was a pathological liar.”
“So was Rupert Winslow. That’s why they called him Ropes. Maybe he lied to her.”
Stockton shoved his hands in his pockets and seemed to think about that. Rupert Winslow had conned his way into Vanita’s affections, and she’d been able to lie with the best. Then Stockton snorted through his beaklike little nose. “No, Nudger. So maybe Winslow lied to her; that still doesn’t put the diamonds in New York.”
“Not necessarily in St. Louis, either.”
“Now there’s where we disagree. I know how people like Winslow think. They’re like beasts of prey who roam within the confines of familiar hunting territory. He was St. Louis connected. Believe me, if the diamonds aren’t in New York, they found their way to St. Louis.”
“‘If,’ you said.”
“Oh, nothing in this world’s for sure. I admit I’m theorizing. But that’s how I make my living, by theorizing my way to where I need to be. Which in this case is sitting on top of the truth.”
Nudger said, “I’d be happy to split your commission with you, but really I don’t know where the diamonds are.”
“Would your feelings be hurt if I said I didn’t believe you?”
“Not like I’ve been turned down for the prom, no. I don’t care whether you believe me.”
Stockton cocked his head sharply to the side and puffed out his barrel chest. Looked more than ever like he belonged in an aviary. “Okay, Mr. Nudger. But my offer stands. If something jolts your memory and you want your fianancial problems solved, give me a call, huh? You’ve got my card.” He buttoned the gaudy sport coat and moved confidently toward the door. He figured he had his beak in Nudger now; money talked, and it would keep talking fifty thousand dollars’ worth even after he’d left the office. Money was persistent.
He stopped suddenly and turned. “By the way, you got any idea where Marcy Lou Dee is?”
“Not much of one. Why?”
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with her. Wanna speak to her about her sister. And about the diamonds.”
“You’ll be wasting your time. She’s one of life’s unfortunate innocents.”
“Norman Rockwell’s dead, Nudger. There’s no such thing as innocence where money’s concerned. just people haven’t had the opportunity. That’s one of the prices we pay for living in the land of upward mobility. So I still wanna talk with her.”
“If I see her,” Nudger said, “I’ll let her know.”
“Obliged,” Stockton said. He proudly puffed up his chest again and strutted out the door.
As if he’d found a worm.
24
Nudger spent the morning in his office, paying the bills in his Way Past Due pile, shuffling other bills from the Due to the Past Due pile. He couldn’t help but muse that with fifty thousand dollars he could wipe out all his pesky creditors with a few swipes of the pen. Mightier than the sword for sure.
If he knew how to find the diamonds.
After a gastronomically daring bowl of chili at the B&L Diner down the street from the office, he sat and chewed antacid tablets and thought about where the diamonds might be. People didn’t hide a million dollars’ worth of gems just anywhere, so a certain psychology should apply. Let’s get into someone’s mind here. Suppose Vanita stashed the diamonds in Marlou’s apartment without telling Marlou? It was possible. Vanita had been more than devious enough to do such a thing.
Nudger paid for the chili, dismounted his counter stool, and walked back out into the summer glare and heat. The exhaust fumes of passing cars rose wavering like taunting spirits. Someday this city was going to get hot enough for spontaneous combustion.
He strode back to where the Granada was parked across the street from his office. Waved to Danny and hand-signaled that he was leaving. Danny waved back through the grease-spotted doughnut shop window, and Nudger climbed into the Granada and drove to Marlou’s apartment.
He remembered a chain lock on the inside of her door, but the only lock that would be set would be the cheap apartment latch built into the doorknob. Did burglars manufacture those things?
Nudger was prepared to use his expertise and his honed Visa card to slip the lock, but when he inserted the plastic card between door and frame he met little resistance. Knew at once the door was unlocked.
Oh-oh.
He rotated the knob and pushed the door open, his heart hammering and his stomach looping and diving. Surely there was something else he could be doing for a living. He’d better start paying more attention to the insides of matchbooks.
The air in the apartment was hot and stale. Gave the impression no one had been there for a while. But there was no way to be sure.
Nudger stepped all the way inside and saw that the living room was a mess. Pictures had been removed from the wall and smashed. The chair and sofa were overturned and their upholstery slashed. A cheap floor lamp was bent and broken. Even the curtains had been ripped partly from the windows and were hanging like
shrouded figures next to the slanted venetian blinds.
“Go eeeeeasy!” Nudger’s stomach warned. If there was anyone else in the apartment they might have heard it.
Nudger walked quietly on the balls of his feet to the short hall leading to the other rooms. He glanced in the bathroom. A mess there, too. Towels heaped on the floor, plastic shower curtain torn and dangling, the acrid scent of spilled soap or shampoo.
He reached Marlou’s closed bedroom door and stood listening.
The silence seemed to buzz and after a while became more ominous.
Swallowing hard, he rotated the knob and swung the door open.
The bedroom was empty. It was also disarranged like the living room, only more violently. Drawers had been pulled from the dresser and turned upside down, then flung to the side against a wall. So hard that one of them had split apart. The contents of the drawers were scattered and trampled. Clothes from the closet were heaped on the floor. The bedding had been stripped from the mattress, and the mattress itself was slashed so that its stuffing bulged like the internal organs of the dog that had so recently lain dead on it. Recollection of the dog made Nudger realize the stench of its death still clung to the room. Made his stomach lurch.
He started to back toward the door, and something brushed his ear, startling him.
He whirled and saw that the Raggedy Ann doll that had been propped against Marlou’s pillow was hanging from the ceiling fixture in the center of the room. A length of coarse brown twine had been twisted around its neck and yanked tight. The other end of the twine was looped around the bare light bulb. The doll’s head was cocked at a sharp angle, and with its wide button eyes it actually did look as if it had been strangled.
Nudger left the bedroom and stood in the center of the ruined living room. There was something about the hanged doll that struck a chord in him and made him shudder. Roger Bobinet apparently had a macabre sense of humor. Should be no surprise.
In the sunlight angling in through the blinds, Nudger considered what he was looking at. For a moment he thought of Bill Stockton and ambition and greed. But even if Stockton was thinking along the same lines as Nudger and had searched Marlou’s apartment, he wouldn’t have searched so violently. And he didn’t seem the type to lynch Raggedy Ann. Bobinet and the skeleton had been here, no doubt. And from the thoroughness of the destruction it appeared they hadn’t found what they were looking for. Which meant it would be pointless for Nudger to comb the wreckage.
Thinking about how Marlou would feel when it came time to return to her apartment, he absently righted the upended chair. There. Better. He took a last look around. He could see the shadow of the hanged doll through the open bedroom door.
Suppressing the wave of dread and anger that ran through him, he left the apartment. He didn’t see much use in locking the door now, but locked it anyway.
When he’d parked the Granada and was jogging across Manchester toward his office, he glanced into the doughnut shop and saw it was empty. Nothing unusual about that. The ratio of doughnuts to customers at Danny’s was astronomical. But even Danny himself wasn’t visible behind the counter, and the CLOSED sign wasn’t hanging on the door.
Nudger bounced up onto the curb and strode across the sidewalk. Pushed through the door into the doughnut shop. Heat and sugary aroma hit him.
He glanced around. “Danny?”
There was a garbled reply from somewhere.
Nudger walked around the counter on his way to the back of the shop.
And almost tripped over Danny.
He was lying on his back behind the counter. His hands and feet were tied with strips of the grayish towel he usually had tucked in his belt. His face was swollen and purple and his eyes were rolling desperately. Again he made the garbled, gagging sound.
Nudger said, “Goddammit!” and knelt down beside him. Rage and pity turned to near-panic when he saw the nasty welt on Danny’s throat.
Only it wasn’t just a welt. Peering closer, Nudger saw that the same kind of coarse twine used to hang Raggedy Ann had been looped around Danny’s neck, pulled tight, and knotted. It was imbedded deep in his flesh.
Nudger said, “Hold on, Danny!” and tried to loosen the knot. No way to do that. He attempted inserting a finger beneath where the twine was knotted. Felt the twine dig into his fingertip. Danny’s eyes bugged out and he began banging the floor with his feet. Christ, the twine was tight, almost hidden in tortured flesh.
Helpless, enraged, Nudger straightened up and looked around. Moved toward the phone to dial 911, then saw a knife behind the counter. Grabbed it and held the sharp edge flat against Danny’s neck and the twine. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Danny!”
Danny blinked and gazed up at him like a man staring from underwater.
Nudger began a gentle sawing motion with the knife. Blood ran. Nudger’s stomach flipped. Danny moaned and his sad basset-hound eyes widened in pain. Nudger couldn’t help it; he closed his eyes as he continued the sawing motion. Don’t press too hard! Movement, not depth.
He felt resistance now. Peeked to see progress. But blood had obscured the twine. Oh, Christ!
Blood was all over Nudger’s right hand. Staring at it, he became light-headed and almost fainted. Danny’s face was even more purple. His teeth were clenched and his lips were drawn tight in a rictus of agony.
Sorry, Danny!
Keep the blade moving.
The twine snapped apart, flicking blood up on Nudger’s face. He didn’t care.
There was a noise like a jet taking off. Danny sucking in air. Another harsh intake of breath. Another. A hoarse voice said, “Nudge ...”
“Take it easy, Danny. Stay down.” Danny had begun trying to sit up despite his bound wrists and ankles. Blood was streaming down his neck and chest, but not so thickly that it seemed any major artery had been severed.
Nudger used the knife again to cut the strips of towel. Danny curled on his side in the fetal position, rubbing the welts left on his wrists by the strips of cloth.
“Stay down,” Nudger said again. “I’m just going over to the phone, and I’ll be back. Can you understand me?”
Danny gave a kind of nod. It seemed to hurt his neck. Nudger decided not to ask for any more answers. He shuffled sideways to the far end of the counter and picked up the phone. Dialed 911 and explained to the emergency operator that someone was injured. He gave her the address and the doughnut shop phone number.
She called back less than a minute after he’d hung up, checking the authenticity of his call, interrupting him as he was kneeling and holding a compress of paper napkins against where he’d cut Danny’s neck. He was about to get profane with the operator when she hung up again.
She’d taken him him seriously, though. In less than five minutes Nudger heard sirens. A red-and-white emergency ambulance coasted to a halt in front of the doughnut shop. Doors slammed.
The two paramedics who came bursting in were efficient. They had Danny bandaged and on a gurney in no time. Danny’s face was more red than purple now. Surely a better sign.
As they were wheeling him out and trying to fit an oxygen mask over his face, he was croaking, “Tell ’em at the hospital I got medical insurance. Not to worry, I got insurance.”
Nudger wasn’t sure if that was true. He hung the CLOSED sign on the doughnut shop door, then got in the Granada and followed the yowling ambulance to St. Mary’s Hospital to help perpetuate the bluff.
25
The hospital bundled Danny away to a room almost as soon as an Emergency doctor had examined him.
Nudger stood in the medicinal atmosphere of Emergency and looked around. There was a plump and busty redhead sitting at a counter with a sign on it that said ADMISSIONS. She was no priest and Nudger had nothing to admit to her. He tried to avoid her glance, but she’d noticed he was with Danny and beckoned him over with a smile and a wave. It wasn’t the kind of invitation he could refuse.
When he leaned on the counter she looked at him with knowing gr
een eyes and said, “Your friend doesn’t seem to carry medical insurance.”
Nudger sighed. “I’ll co-sign for him.” He wondered how long the thousand dollars Vanita Lane had given him would last at this rate.
The woman behind the counter asked myriad questions, keyed information into a computer, and made some entries on a form. Had Nudger sign the form. The hospital was now authorized to perform surgery on his bank account. The redhead thanked him, told him where he could wait for word about Danny, and began fastening papers together with a gigantic black stapler that made a grinding, metallic crunch! each time she brought the heel of her hand down on it.
Nudger sat in a molded plastic chair in the waiting room and listened to the stapler, then he read and reread a Fortune magazine for about an hour. He knew the federal discount rate was going to drop. Knew he should get out of stocks and into bonds. Had no stocks. Had no bonds. Still, these things were nice to know.
After a while a middle-aged man with black eyes and jetblack hair emerged from behind some wide, swinging doors and looked around. There was a weary and calm air about him. He locked gazes with Nudger and walked over to him. “You’re Mr. Nudger?”
Nudger said he was. He stood up out of the hard plastic chair and dropped Fortune into it.
The man introduced himself as Dr. Rashnad. He had a highpitched voice and an Indian accent, a reassuring smile.
Nudger waited for the reason for that reassurance.
“Your friend Daniel Evers is going to be fine, Mr. Nudger. We did a series of tests on him. His larynx is bruised and there’s some cartilage damage in the neck area, but it will heal soon enough and return to normal. And tests indicate there was no damage due to decreased supply of oxygen to the brain, as there sometimes is in traumatic asphyxiation cases.”
Nudger felt relief settle deep into him, as if he’d downed a slug of good scotch.
“We’ll keep him overnight for observation,” the doctor said. “He should be able to leave in the morning.”
“Can I see him now?”