Some Die Hard

by Stephen Mertz

  The puzzle of Carlander Court's murder just wouldn't leave me alone.

  Sure, I like mysteries. The kind in books. But this was real life. And death. The two combining to create a puzzle that had to have a solution...but didn't.

  Not yet.

  I found myself giving a mental roll call of the people involved.

  Tommy Court. Murray Zucco. Chief Medwick. Susan Court. Jinx Moran. Dr. Hanley. George Bishop. Helen Bishop.

  Who, dammit?

  Who had committed a murder that was definitely one for the books?

  Tommy Court was the obvious answer, of course, and through him Zucco and probably the Chief. Zucco had certainly maneuvered the attempted hit of Stanley Hochman. He'd admitted as much. But maybe, regarding the Court kill, it was too obvious.

  Jinx had already shown his hand, and had pretty well convinced me without trying that he just wasn't brainy enough to pull off a homicide scam like this one.

  Dr. Hanley? Susan Court? Helen Bishop?

  I was pretty sure I was in love with one of them, and I liked the other two. And besides, where was the motive?

  That left Attorney-at-Law George Bishop. There was one s.o.b. I didn't like, but that was hardly grounds to suspect him of murder. And again, where was the motive?

  And that's when I got tugged back into the here-and-now. I guess Helen Bishop wasn't as wrapped up in herself as I'd thought.

  "Mr. Dugan. Are you listening to me?"

  I blinked across at her, realized I wasn't.

  "Sorry, kid. I was off somewhere."

  She sighed. "And I was just getting to how well I'd done in high school forensics. Oh well, so much for my abilities as a storyteller! And for my self-pity." She set down the fork she'd been jabbing her cold food with and grew very serious. "It's what you're working on, isn't it, Rock? Mr. Court's death."

  "Yeah, I guess it is."

  "Would you like to talk for awhile? I assure you I'm a better listener than I am a speaker. Maybe you just need a sounding board."

  "Helen, I'm sorry I wasn't listening before."

  She pushed back her chair and stood up, smiling. "Don't worry about it," she said sincerely. "Let me make a little trip and when I get back, you're in the spotlight."

  I smiled back and watched her walk off.

  I found myself wishing then, out of nowhere, that I hadn't given up smoking. That I could sit back and fiddle with a cigarette and matches, anything, to keep my mind busy. To keep it from running around in circles like a hamster in a toy-cage, chasing after answers that just didn't want to be found.

  There had to be some way someone stuck that knife in Carlander Court. It sure as hell wasn't an avenging angel.

  Okay, Dugan. Let's try a new front. Let's try the classic French procedure. The reconstruction of the crime. Consider the suspects, their motives, their opportunities and backgrounds, the murder itself, and—voila, you should have your killer!

  It sounded easy. As a waitress slipped the check next to my plate, I closed my eyes...and joined the past.

  Yesterday afternoon, to be specific. The murder afternoon. With Carlander Court and Friends.

  I started working backwards.

  There we were, running across the field to the just-landed glider. Susan Court was the first one there but the rest of us were right behind her, circling around. I saw myself leaning over and pulling back the sliding plexiglass roof, and then I saw Carlander Court just as he'd looked then! Dead, the hunting knife up to the hilt in his upper abdomen, the sweater soaked in blood, his white-knuckled hands clasping either side of the pilot's seat, his wide eyes staring up at me...

  I opened my eyes and sipped some coffee. Some things are a lot harder than they sound. Like trying to remember finding a corpse.

  So all right, nothing there. He had the knife in him when I found him.

  I backtracked further. I backtracked to the group of us—Susan, Tommy, Hanley, Helen and George Bishop, myself, and Jinx Moran up in the jeep—watching the glider's short flight.

  Susan had been apprehensive, scared for her father. Jinx was rooting for the boss. Dr. Hanley was envious, if nothing else, wishing he could be up there with his buddy. Tommy...well, Tommy was just pretty much his usual, cocky self. And the Bishops...I realized then that there wasn't much I could pin down on either one of them. Friendly, mildly interested onlookers was the best I could do to describe them.

  Mr. Court had taken off, circled back, and had waved to us as he'd coasted by overhead, still obviously alive and in control.

  The flight in the opposite direction hadn't taken more than five or six minutes, and everything had been smooth until he had started to land. That's when Jinx had noticed something was wrong.

  I opened my eyes, finished the coffee. Nothing there, either. Just a cast of characters. A few possibilities, maybe. A few hints of some of the submerged emotions that were making this case such a bitch, but nothing that could pinpoint a how or a who...

  I wondered what the French cops did in a case like this.

  Well, one more time, I told myself. I closed my eyes again and this time ended up even a step further back; this time approaching the patio of the Court home with Susan and finding Mr. Court, the Bishops, Tommy and Hanley waiting for us. Jinx, it developed, was down by the field keeping an eye on the craft.

  As we approached, Mr. Court had clasped his hands together in obvious anticipation of something. There had been a few new additions to the sportsmanlike outfit he'd worn earlier in the study. He was wearing leather gloves and a baseball-type cap.

  "All right, everybody," he'd said enthusiastically, "the—"

  My mind screeched to a halt.

  ...he was wearing leather gloves...

  ...leather gloves...

  LEATHER GLOVES!!!

  I popped my eyes open, heard myself whistle softly.

  Let me tell you, friends: right at that moment I knew exactly how old Isaac Newton must have felt when he first beaned himself on the head with that apple and discovered gravity, or Alexander Bell when he made his first collect phone call...

  There are some moments when everything—or nearly everything—suddenly falls together. Suddenly makes sense.

  Damn, and double damn.

  Leather gloves, indeed!

  I was already at the front counter paying the tab when Helen joined me. She gave me a startled look as I led her from the place at a quick clip.

  "Sorry, honey," I said. "The party's over, for the time being at least. I'll have to drop you off somewhere. A motel, if you want, or—"

  She stopped, looked at me squarely. "Over? What do you mean?"

  "I mean there's more business to take care of. I think I've got the answers, now I need the proof."

  "But...why can't I come with you?"

  "I said it was business."

  "Well, so was Murray Zucco's club, wasn't it? And you took me along there."

  "This is different. I think I'm about to wrap the thing up. There could be trouble."

  "Oh, come on, Rock. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. I'll be careful, and you'll be there."

  "Helen—" I began, and then I shut up and gave the matter some thought. It might not hurt to have a witness along, and there weren't that many folks in town I was sure I could trust. And she was right there. I made my decision and nodded slowly. "All right, you can come if you want to," and I told her why I'd made up my mind, adding, "Just be careful, Helen. This may be a wild goose chase, but if things click the way I hope they will..."

  I let the sentence go. She assured me again how careful she'd be, and we were off.

  I crossed town again, heading east this time. The twin headlights of the Toyota pierced the darkness before us like fingers pointing the way, leading to the answers that had been there all the time, staring me right in the face, only too camouflaged to be delineated until I'd seen them just right.

  I did my best to keep below the speed limit, but it was hard. I was excited. The fuse was getting shorter;
things were going to explode soon.

  The chase was almost over.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I parked just below the Court home on the tree-lined residential road and, holding Helen's hand, made the last half mile down through the woods on foot, coming to a stop at the clearing just before the field.

  That field.

  The field where Carlander Court in his Schweizer 1-34 glider had made his final flight. The field where it all began, for Helen Bishop at least, and for most of the others.

  I'd already been involved, of course, courtesy of Stanley Hochman. But this was where the man I'd liked, though I'd only met him once, had died; had had his life ripped from him; had somehow become a flying dead man. And this is where it would end.

  This is where the answers would be found, along with the killer.

  If things broke right...

  The moon was full. The sky was clear and visibility was perfect. I gazed across the clearing like a military commander planning a campaign. As far as I could see right now, the field was deserted. It stretched out before us from the treeline just as I remembered, traversed a few hundred yards away by the rugged dirt road from which Jinx Moran had helped launch the glider the afternoon before, and beyond that, nothing, until the rise of a few knolls and more trees to the south.

  A light breeze made the darkness crisp against our skin.

  Helen touched my arm. "Rock, what's going on?"

  "Shhh. This way."

  There was a boulder a few feet away, still in among the trees, that looked as relatively comfortable a station of operations as any. I took hold of her hand again and led her down the incline, and that's when the first thing went wrong.

  Just as we approached the rock the toe of her shoe must have caught on something, because she tripped—and yanked me down with her. I felt like the star of one of those old silent slapstick films for a few seconds there. We skidded down the last three feet or so of the incline on our fannies and ended up behind the boulder I'd been heading for, only a little worse for the wear. Our breathing came louder than I would have liked.

  "What are we doing here?'' she asked.

  It was a whisper, and not unfriendly, but there was a tone of irritability, of nagginess, that I hadn't witnessed before.

  "Keep it down, hotshot," I cautioned. "You know where we are, don't you?"

  She nodded, gazing around the rock, squinting in the moonlight. "We're in Mr. Court's field. But why?"

  "Susan Court saw me today. She said that last night, after everyone had left, she thought she saw some men down here with a spotlight, looking for something. Well, I'm hoping they come back."

  "And if they do?"

  I leaned back against the rock, brought out the .44, and clicked off the safety.

  "Then we'll be ready for them."

  "Oh, my God—"

  "Helen, you can still leave if you want to."

  "No, I can't. I don't want to." She moved a little closer. "Rock, I'm sorry I snapped at you."

  "That's all right, kid. I'm a little tense myself."

  "I know that you...think Mr. Court was murdered. Do you think that the person who did it is the one who's coming here tonight?"

  I looked at my wristwatch. It was eleven-thirty. I was getting itchy. Waiting is one aspect of detective work I've never gotten used to.

  "I hope so," I said. "And don't worry about the gun. I'm hoping to get the drop on these guys when they show up, and—"

  There was a soft click behind us, from a few feet in among the trees, and we were suddenly spotlighted in a circle of blazing glare that seemed ten times brighter than it probably was.

  A voice behind the flashlight said, "You don't worry about the gun either, Dugan. I've got one of my own, and I can see what I'm shooting at. Drop it."

  It was that simple, goddammit.

  That easy.

  I'd been so damned busy rattling my mouth off, expecting my man to come roaring onto the field with a blaze of trumpets to let me know he was there, that I'd forgotten all about watching the way we'd come—and listening for footsteps.

  I wondered if I'd ever get a chance to kick myself.

  I said, ''Don't try to be a cowboy, Tommy. I'm dropping it," and I let the gun fall to the ground.

  Tommy Court stepped forward and even though I couldn't see his sneer, I knew it was there.

  "All right, on your feet. Both of you."

  For an instant Helen was too confused to even realize the danger she was in. "T-Tommy....Tommy killed his own father?"

  "I said get up!"

  I stiffened. The crazy fires that I'd seen yesterday when we first tangled on the Court patio were now searing his words; he was at the brink, and this time he had a gun to back it up.

  "We'd better get up, Helen," I said, and helped her to her feet. "No, Tommy didn't kill his father. He's up to his ears in a few other homicides, but he's just an accessory after the fact on that one."

  "Shut up, you bastard," Tommy snarled, and as he said it he did an interesting thing. He lifted the flashlight slightly out to one side, still keeping us in its glare, and moved it back and forth. When he did that, I could see that he did have a gun. It looked like a .38.

  Moments after he'd completed the signal, there was the roar of a jeep engine coming to life from the area of trees in the direction of the house, about a half mile away, and the sound grew louder as the jeep approached, bumping and thumping over the rough terrain.

  "There...were other murders?" Helen asked.

  I nodded. "Yeah. A guy named Hochman yesterday morning, in Denver. A private detective. Tommy couldn't help but have known about that one. Hell, it was in his interest. And before that, a few weeks ago, a man named Paul Harmon, the husband of one of his girlfriends." I shifted my attention to the boy. "Zucco and his buddy Medwick did a real good job covering that one for you, didn't they, kid? Murray wasn't about to risk his fifteen grand over a crummy parking lot brawl."

  "You talk too much, Dugan."

  Helen said, "Then it was Murray Zucco—"

  I shook my head. "Wrong again, honey. Zucco covered for Tommy because he had a stake in him, and he might have considered hitting Mr. Court for the same reason. Except that someone else beat him to it.

  "There had to be another party involved, besides Murray and his bunch. I saw the Chief this morning and let him know I was planning to make waves, and as soon as I left he was on the phone to Zucco. I expected trouble then, but it came even sooner than I'd thought. Jinx Moran was waiting for me only seconds later in the parking lot, in my own car."

  "Jinx?"

  "Right. Obviously he didn't have time to get there on either Zucco's or the Chief's orders, so...he had to be there for someone else."

  The redhead just shook her head. "Then I don't understand...who did kill Mr. Court? And how?"

  Behind the flashlight, Tommy Court couldn't resist taking a hand in the game himself.

  "Yeah, smartass," he half-laughed. "And why couldn't old Jinx be the killer? He sure got out of town fast enough."

  Behind and slightly below us, the jeep came to a stop, and another light— the floodlight Susan had seen the night before from her father's study window—went on, dwarfing the glow from Tommy's own flash.

  Tommy clicked his instrument off, but he was still waiting for an answer and I didn't disappoint him.

  "Yeah," I said. "Jinx split fast. Which is why you got drafted to take his place. But he was no more the brains behind this thing than you are. When he had me today, he didn't act like a man who was scared of a murder rap. That came after he thought he'd killed me. But before that, he just acted like a guy doing someone else a favor, trying to hustle me out of town. And who, you may ask, was he doing the favor for?" I took a drawn out, suitably dramatic pause, and finished with, "Why, none other than the person he owed the favor to, of course."

  I turned to the figure climbing down from the jeep. "And that man was you, wasn't it, counselor? Jinx Moran's own half-brother. The man who
got him his job with Mr. Court in the first place!"

  With the spotlight centered on us, George Bishop moved to the periphery of its glow. He held a gun too, and it was aimed at us, but his attention was on Tommy.

  "Looks like you've got things pretty well under control," he said almost cheerfully.

  Tommy walked around us to join him at his side. He nodded. "Yeah, but this Dugan sonuvabitch sure can talk."

  Carlander Court's attorney looked back at us and his voice was as cold as the harsh light we stood in.

  "We'll fix that. It's real convenient of you to come down to this little, uh, lover's nest, with my wife, Dugan, I'm not sure how we'll fix it, but we'll fix it. Maybe Helen killed you...then shot herself. People will remember her throwing her tits in your face at that party yesterday, and it might make sense." He looked sideways. "What do you think, Tommy?"

  We never found out what Tommy thought, because that's when Helen came in again. If she'd been a little spaced out by the goings on already, this latest development really had her disoriented. She took a step forward, a look of total incomprehension etched across her face.

  "George—"

  "Shut up, you pig," he rasped, and his voice was anything but cold now. It burned with hatred. "Don't think you can give me one more order and not catch a fucking bullet in your gut! I've taken all I have to take, Helen. From you and from those mealy-mouthed kids of yours. I've got enough money now to take care of myself for the rest of my life. And it's going to be the life I want!"

  "And there's the motive," I said quietly, more or less to the redhead. "It's the only one that makes sense, and a quick audit of the books ought to prove it. George here has been skimming off the top of Mr. Court's fortune for God only knows how long, and things would've gone on smoothly right up until the old man died, right, George? That is, if things had stayed the way they were. Chances are Tommy would have never caught on. He's too busy with his hood friends and his women. But, even if he did, there were enough skeletons in his own closet to keep him from making too much of a fuss.