by A. A. Glynn
Joanne didn’t see it, she was en route to the kitchen to continue helping out with lunch. Jack didn’t see it, either, he was snorting over the opinions of some sportswriter in the paper he was reading.
I felt myself blush to the roots of my hair, just the same.
Carrying a gun in the home of a friend!
I sat down and tried to cover my discomfort by reading the comic section.
A car snorted to a halt out on the street, close to the house.
Two seconds passed.
The doorbell sounded.
“I’ll get it,” said Jack.
He went through to the hallway. I heard him open the door, heard him give an odd gasp. Then there was a confused scuffle of brief duration, somebody said something dirty, and Jack was backing into the lounge.
Forcing him back were three men. Three men in black coats and soft fedoras, with that certain sameness about them.
Their guns were all alike, too.
Ike Tescachelli was to the fore, jabbing the mouth of his heater into Jack’s midriff.
A gasp sounded from the door which gave on to the kitchen.
Beth and Joanne were standing there, wide-eyed and faces drained of colour.
I moved for the Browning under my jacket, but it was a vain hope and I knew it.
“Uh-uh,” said Tescachelli of the clipped moustache, waving his automatic as though cautioning a child.
He was right, of course, so I uh-uhed and left my Browning in its cosy bed.
In back of my skull, what brains I have were ticking over like O’Toole’s heart the day somebody kidded him the Irish Republic was going dry.
How in all the shades of hell had these bums tracked us down to Jack’s house? It must have been the car, my car standing outside that railroad depot. Shelmerdine must have put all his bulldogs out, and this bunch must have been prowling around South Bend. They’d remembered the car, and the bullet scars on it would clinch it. They must have followed me and I never knew it. No more vacations in Florida for me. The sun slowed me up so I didn’t even notice when I was being tailed.
Mr. Ike Tescachelli chose to drop a few verbal pearls.
“Stand still, all of you,” he growled in a voice that sounded like somebody marching over a couple of thousand eggs in GI boots. “Stand still and nobody gets hurt. We want the papers that were taken from Mr. Shelmerdine’s safe—and we want you, Miss Jones.” His verbal pearls were dropped in the direction of Joanne, standing in a frozen attitude next to Beth, in the portal of the kitchen.
Jack was standing closer to the hoods than I was, obviously itching to take a few swings at them, but using his common sense in the face of the plethora of heaters.
What riled me was the way this had suddenly happened in the Kay’s house. Like I had dragged a lump of my crummy, edge-of-the-underworld life under their decent roof.
“Where,” asked Tescachelli, “are those papers, Miss Jones?”
Joanne stood stock still, white-faced, but keeping her mouth closed.
I took a step forward, moving closer to the Shelmerdine hoods.
“Look,” I said, “you can’t walk into a person’s house with—”
“Shaddap,” said Tescachelli.
“—guns drawn, threatening people this way. It’s an offence.” I was playing the hick again.
“Shaddap,” said Tescachelli again. “I don’t know who you are, Mac, but I don’t like you.” He turned towards Joanne. “Now where are those papers?”
No reply. One of the hoods, taller than the others and with a lean and hungry look that would have made J. Caesar flip his wig, licked his lips.
“Maybe she’s got ’em on her, Ike. Should I frisk her?”
“Shaddap. Shaddap,” rasped Tescachelli twice more. It sounded like somebody ripping sailcloth. He made a move towards Joanne, then stopped short when he spotted her grip standing where she had placed it on the floor. He gave Joanne a sharp glance with those fine, dark Italian eyes. He said: “So, you won’t talk, huh!” which reminded me of a 1930 gangster movie all over again. Tescachelli nodded to lean and hungry Cassius. “That’s her grip, Slats, take a look in it. If we don’t get those papers quick, we get rough.”
Cassius took a couple of steps towards the grip and bent over it.
“It’s locked,” he reported.
Tescachelli was watching him; the third mug, a small, pockmarked man, was watching Jack Kay, but half his interest was with Cassius, fiddling with the grip.
I moved for my gun again.
But I underestimated Ike Tescachelli. I was near enough to him for him to swipe out at me with the flat of his automatic.
Which he did.
He caught my movement with the corner of his eye and hit me a hell of a crack across the mouth, so hard that I crumpled and hit the deck. I lay there, seeing stars, like an injured comic-strip character. I could feel the impression of the gun around my teeth and my mouth seemed to be full of brine.
“Take that heater off him, Slats,” said Tescachelli’s voice from beyond the galaxy of stars.
Hands began to fumble around with me and there was a hoarse yip of surprise.
“Hey, Ike, there’s a package here, in his inside pocket,” said the voice of the lean hungry one. There was a movement around the region of my inner coat pocket. That Cassius was dumb as a stuffed owl. He took the package, but forgot about my Browning. I could feel the weight of it, resting comfortably against the upper part of my ribs.
The fourth of July firework display cleared and I opened my eyes, raising my head a little. There was a drooling wetness creeping from the corner of my mouth.
Tescachelli was opening the package. Slats was standing close to him, looking like an overgrown puppy expecting sugar for bringing back the stick his master had thrown. Pockmarks was watching Jack with his gun levelled and Jack was watching Pockmarks with his fists bundled up. Beth and Joanne were still two pallid waxworks in the kitchen doorway.
“It’s them,” Tescachelli said as he examined the papers. “Grab the girl and let’s go.”
“What about him?” asked Slats, nodding towards me.
“The hell with him,” growled Tescachelli. “Mr. Shelmerdine said he wanted the papers and the girl, and that’s what we’re bringing him.”
Tescachelli grabbed hold of Joanne and hoisted her towards the door giving on to the hall, Slats and Pockmarks followed him as he hauled her out. The little guy with the pockmarks was the last one through the door—almost.
I guess Jack Kay couldn’t contain himself any longer, he grabbed the little hood by the shoulder with one hand, hauled him around and planted his other fist into Pockmarks’ mouth with a satisfying meaty sound.
Pockmarks staggered back and hit the door jamb. He still had his heater in his hand. Behind him, in the hall, the sound of his buddies opening the street door echoed.
He was half-slumped against the door jamb. The automatic came up like lightning. I saw Jack, only a matter of a yard or so away from the Shelmerdine mobster, pitch himself quickly to one side just as the gun bellowed. Jack went scooting backwards, holding his left arm and coming to rest against the further wall.
I heard Beth scream, another world away.
Pockmarks was bringing his gun up towards Jack again. This time, it was for the kill.
I didn’t think anybody, let alone a half-dazed somebody like I was right then, could roll over from his back to his belly, pull a gun from his shoulder-holster, and fire as fast as I did.
What’s more, I hit Pockmarks twice and he never got around to pulling the trigger on Jack.
He stood on buckled knees, leaning against the door jamb, looking at me with wide-eyed wonderment as the gun fell from his grasp.
Jack was panting against the wall, clutching his injured arm.
Beth was hiding her face against the jamb of the kitchen door. There was no sound from the remaining two Shelmerdine men and Joanne. I guessed they were clear of the house by now, and the sound of the shooting w
as not enticing them back.
Pockmarks decided to take leave of us.
He swivelled about and made for the door on wobbly legs. He was still wearing that expression of wonderment, reminiscent of that you find on the faces of little kids on Christmas morning.
I watched him go as I picked myself up. I didn’t give him long odds on getting far. He staggered out into the hall. I went after him at a short distance, holding the Browning. I wasn’t notably steady on my own legs.
The street door was open and Pockmarks was making for it. I could see a big Cadillac down at the kerb, just beginning to creep away. Dimly, I saw Slats in the back of the car, with his hand over Joanne’s mouth. Tescachelli was driving. The shooting must have panicked him and he wasn’t waiting for the wounded man.
Pockmarks made the porch, he began waving a feeble hand at the departing Cadillac, mouthing something. Maybe he was telling his pals good-bye. He made the first couple of steps. Then the next two.
The Cadillac shot away from the kerb as though panicked out of its creeping by the staggering, mouthing man trying to reach it. Pockmarks kept on wobbling along the path, lost his way and went teetering across the lawn like a skid row rummy who had just killed a bottle.
He stiffened, gurgled, and fell face first into the centre of the lawn. My only regret was that he hadn’t made it to the gutter to die—preferably a gutter a long way from the Kay home.
I didn’t even want to go and examine the corpse. I felt cheap and dirty right through. With my stupidity in coming here with the girl, I had brought this unsavoury incident to the home of two fine people.
Now, there was the stiff of a grubby little crook out on their front lawn. And the Shelmerdine crowd had both the girl and the papers.
I needed someone to give me a swift kick in the rear.
Back in the house, Beth was attending to Jack’s arm. The slug had passed right through the fleshy part of the upper arm.
“I’m sorry,” I began, speaking with difficulty because of the swipe across the mouth Tescachelli had handed me with his gun. “I’m sorry I had to bring this under your roof. I’ve been a fool. Those crumbs must have been prowling around town when I was down at the depot. They must have seen my car and followed me.…”
“Don’t apologise,” said Jack. “I’ll get me a gun and go after those bums with you!”
“No,” I said. “These aren’t the old days, Jack. We aren’t a couple of kids carrying rifles after Patton any more. You have Beth now and that arm needs a doctor’s attention. Besides, the cops will be along here any minute. That shooting brought one or two of your neighbours out on to the street. Act dumb, Jack, tell them I turned up with a girl named Joanne. Tell them you don’t know her other name and don’t mention Shelmerdine’s name or those papers. Those hoods burst in here, snatched the girl, shot at you when you offered resistance, and I shot that character out on the lawn. Neither you nor Beth know what it’s all about.”
“Okay,” Jack agreed reluctantly.
I fumbled in my pocket, found a scrap of paper, and wrote the telephone number of the Chicago branch of World Wide Investigations on it, and then Walt Toland’s home number.
“If you don’t hear from me in about six hours, ring either one of these numbers and ask for Walt Toland. Tell Walt I’ve gone out to the Shelmerdine mansion near Rollinsville, and it looks like I’m in trouble. Tell him the deal I spoke to him about this morning has blown sky-high and he’d better come running with some of his boys.”
“Check,” grunted Jack, “but I still think I should come with you.”
“No soap,” I said. “I’ll hate myself for the rest of my days for what’s happened here today.”
I made for the hallway. I still felt like the lowest form of life on earth, and my injured mouth felt about four times too big.
“Good luck,” said Jack to my back.
“Good luck,” echoed Beth, “and get that kid away from them, Mike.”
I went down all the porch steps at one hop.
Pockmarks was still sprawling on the lawn and quite a little crowd of people was standing on the sidewalk. I ignored them all, thinking only of Joanne in the hands of the Shelmerdine organisation. I got the coupe out of the garage in nothing flat, and was nosing it off the drive on to the street when a cop appeared. He was only a kid and a good physical example of South Bend’s beat-pounders. I bet it was the first time he ever had a stiff on his beat.
He stepped up to the car, looking unsure of what he should do.
I fished in my pocket and flashed my badge before he could speak.
“Investigator. World Wide. I’m Lantry, the head of the outfit, and I shot that guy because he shot a pal of mine,” I told him.
He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, like a codfish trying to pluck up courage to propose to a lady codfish. He got it out at last: “I’ll have to ask you to stay. This is very irregular. Homicide will want—”
“I’ll talk to Homicide when I have the time,” I told him, “right now, I’m in the biggest hurry I was ever in.”
I warmed up the coupe and took off under his nose.
I guess he played the codfish some more, because I proceeded to break the speed limit, also under his nose.
CHAPTER FOUR
I kept on breaking the speed limit for quite a distance, until I was over the bridge and heading for the centre of the city. As I kept going south through the Sunday-tranquil city, I expected to hear the wail of a police siren behind me at any minute.
It never came.
Thanks to that freak storm, Codfish the Cop must have had trouble in getting into telephonic communication with the station-house. There was no sense in kidding myself. Every cop in South Bend would be on the look out for me pretty damn quick once the events at the Kay house set the flatfoot machine ticking over.
So, I kept on going south. Somewhere on that highway was the big Cadillac with Tescachelli, Cassius, and, most important of all on the passenger list, Joanne Kilvert. They would head for Shelmerdine’s country place, for sure, and I had only a vague idea that it was somewhere near Rollinsville, and that Rollinsville was somewhere beyond Peru. But I’d find it.
Out beyond the city limits I went, hitting a smart lick, despite the clutter of Sunday drivers here and there.
My mouth still hurt where it had made the acquaintance of Ike Tescachelli’s gun. I began to wonder why I hadn’t taken up some other way of earning a living, like selling insurance or painting fences.
Well clear of the city, I still saw nothing of the Cadillac. The five-day-a-week insurance salesmen and fence-painters, taking their wives and kids out for a Sunday ride, flashed past me on the left-hand lane of the highway, streaked before me and in my own lane. I was one of a line of drivers, only they were looking for a summer afternoon’s relaxation while I was looking for two hoods and a girl.
I began to curse Sunday drivers.
For no real reason, I hit the switch of the car radio. Some female crooner who I wouldn’t have paid in chewing-gum wrappers wailed out of the radio grille dismally. The background band wasn’t too good, either. It sounded like it was trying beat the wailing woman to the final full stop on the music copy, and it was winning by a couple of heads.
The band and the woman never finished out the race. They faded out as though someone had decided to put them, and the radio audience, out of their misery. A crisp voice said:
“Station WSBT, South Bend, Indiana. Attention. South Bend police are searching for Mike Lantry, of New York, in connection with a shooting in the city at midday today. Lantry is believed to be driving a red and cream 1956 drophead coupe and was last seen heading south in the direction of the centre. He is aged about thirty, wearing a lightweight sharkskin suit of grey, is hatless, has slightly curly dark hair, and a scar on the left cheek. If sighted, please notify Police Department, South Bend, or nearest city or state police officer.”
I began to swear like a marine sergeant, while the wailing woman and the ba
nd returned. Anyone who had bets placed on the previous race would be pretty sore, they had finished it while the announcer was saying his piece and were now getting into a new number. It seemed to me the woman stood a good chance of winning this one, but I wasn’t greatly interested.
That description of me was a good one. It came from Codfish the Cop, without a doubt. He was the last one to get a real good look at me and he’d seen me heading south for the city centre.
He hadn’t taken my registration number, though, so they wouldn’t make him a sergeant yet awhile. That description had me worried. I wondered how many of the Sunday drivers around me had picked it up. Then, there were the highway patrol cops to worry about.
The woman on the radio began to wail “Nobody Knows de Trouble I Seen,” which was just about the last straw, so I killed the singer and the band with a flick of the switch.
I kept on going, keeping my head slightly down over the wheel.
Somebody, or something, must have been on my side. I didn’t see anything of the Cadillac, but none of the other drivers showed any signs of interest in me or my car. There were a lot of cars like mine around, which was something to be grateful for.
The luck deserted me a little way before I reached Plymouth.
I ran out of gas. Just like that.
Fuming, I pulled into the side of the highway, remembering that the last time I fuelled up was on the drive up from the south, long before I picked up Joanne Kilvert.
The insurance salesmen and the fence-painters continued to flash by, but a big long-distance truck came snorting up with a blue plume of exhaust spouting from the pipe above the cab. It shuddered to a stop and the trucker came down out of the cab, a big fellow in oily jeans and a sweaty T-shirt, open to show the world that he had somehow appropriated half the Brazilian jungle and was successfully growing it on his chest.
I thought maybe he’d heard that broadcast and spotted my car, but he gave me an affable grin.
“Out of gas, Mac?” he asked.
“Yes,” I told him.