The Green Eagle Score p-10

by Richard Stark

  Devers was pale. “Christ on a crutch. How do I get out of it? I just keep saying no. What can they do? I keep saying no, it’s a coincidence, what can they do about it?”

  Webb, his mouth full of pound cake, said, “They’ll lean on you, buddy. They’ll lean hard.”

  “I can hold out.”

  Parker said, “Can Ellen? They’ll lean on her, too.”

  “I’d say kill her,” Webb said thoughtfully, “but then they’d lean on you harder. And then if they get you they’ve got you on murder one.”

  Devers was looking from one to the other. “What do I do?”

  “You take your forty thousand,” Parker said, “and you go away.”

  “But I’ve got to finish out my enlistment!”

  Parker shook his head. “Not now. Between the woman and him upstairs, they’ve screwed you.”

  “Only if they get Fusco’s body,” Devers said.

  Webb said, “Forget it. You’re pretty safe to drive around in town, but you go out on the road now they’ll be all over you. You can’t even get to the lodge without going by the base.”

  “So they stop me. I’m clean.”

  “Finance office clerk. Driving around four o’clock in the morning. No destination.”

  Parker added, “If they pick you up on the way back, you won’t be clean. Not with Fusco in the car.”

  Devers was getting frantic. “God damn it, there’s got to be some way! What the hell am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to find the registration to Godden’s car,” Parker told him. “In case you get stopped. Then you’re going to take his car and go over to the house and get Ellen and the kid. If she doesn’t want to come with you, you’ll kill her.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Then call us and tell us you can’t and give us a shot at making a run for it.”

  Devers looked from Parker to Webb to Parker. “All right,” he said. “I get her. Then what?”

  “You bring her here. If the law finds her, she’ll tell them about Godden, and we need Godden clean so we can hole up here. So she has to come here, too.”

  “How long do we hole up here?”

  “Two or three days. Till the first heat lets up.”

  Devers made an angry bitter gesture. “Then what do I do?”

  “Pick a new name for yourself, buddy,” Webb told him. “And keep your head down. And hope for the best.”

  “You mean be on the run the rest of my life.”

  Webb grinned, “Like in the movies? Sleeping in hay-lofts, riding in freight cars, that what you mean?” He shook his head. “I been wanted under my own name for fifteen years. Parker here, he’s wanted under more names than he can remember. We both been on the run, we’re always on the run. It’s a nice easy run if you know how to take it.”

  “You were in Puerto Rico,” he said.

  Webb spread his hands. “There, you see? On the run, at the Hilton hotel.”

  7

  When the two plainclothesmen left, Parker came out of the kitchen and made a show of putting his revolver away. “That was nice,” he said.

  Godden was sweating, the adhesive bandage on his forehead making a dull tan patch against the gleaming pale skin. “I wouldn’t want to go through that twice,” he said. “Not for a million dollars.”

  Webb and Devers came in from the other side. “You did it for a hundred G,” Webb said, “and you don’t even get that.”

  Devers didn’t say anything. He was resigned now to the impossibility of his going back, but he hated Godden for having caused it. He stood there and glared at Godden, his fists clenched at his sides.

  Godden nervously touched his bandage. Do you think they believed me about this?”

  “They believed everything,” Parker told him. “You did good.”

  The story Parker had given him to tell tied together neatly enough, being grounded sufficiently in truth. When the phone had rung at ten minutes to seven this morning it was Parker who’d answered it, saying he was Godden. It was a reporter on the line, representing one of the wire services and phoning from Syracuse. Parker, being Godden, told him the news about the Roger St Cloud affair was a complete surprise to him, and of course he wouldn’t be able to make a statement until he’d talked to the police.

  Then Parker had roused Godden and had him phone the police and say he’d just been called by a reporter saying Roger St Cloud had run amok. When the man at the other end substantiated the story, Godden volunteered to tell what he could about St Cloud’s motives and state of mind, explaining he’d prefer the police to come to him because he’d fallen in getting out of bed to answer the reporter’s call, he’d cut his head, and he didn’t yet know how serious it was. Also, this news about a patient of his had shaken him badly.

  The cop was sympathetic, and said a couple of men would be around sometime in the morning. They’d arrived at ten-fifteen, two plainclothesmen who already knew about the head injury, who were polite and deferential, and who obviously didn’t suspect Dr Fred Godden of anything. But why should they?

  Now it was quarter to eleven, and in the half-hour they’d been here the two cops had shown nothing but interest in Godden’s monologue on Roger St Cloud. Godden had been nervous at first, but the police would have other explanations for that, and when he’d warmed into his description of Roger the nervousness vanished. He was, after all, engaging in shoptalk.

  The plainclothesmen hadn’t said anything about Roger being involved in last night’s robbery at the air base, but the two events had been linked in the radio news since the nine o’clock broadcast. Nor had the radio said anything about the bodies up at the lodge yet, but the nine-thirty news had reported the finding of the bus. “Some of the bandits may have crossed the border into Canada under cover of darkness.”

  They should be safe now, at least for a while. Godden had already called those of his patients he was to have seen that day and the next, telling them that under the circumstances naturally he wouldn’t be in the office till next week. After a few more reporters had called—the criminal’s analyst having replaced the criminal’s clergyman as a source of sidelight stories—there was nothing unusual in Godden leaving his phone off the hook.

  The last item was Godden’s wife. Parker said, “Call your wife now. She’ll want to come back here, but tell her no. Tell her you’ll be coming along Friday as planned, unless the police want to talk to you again, and if they do you’ll be there Saturday. Tell her not to try calling you back because reporters have been bothering you and you aren’t answering the phone.”

  “All right,” Godden said. He made the call, did more listening than talking, and finally got across all of the message that Parker wanted. When he hung up he looked uncertainly at Parker and said, “There’s another call I should make.”

  “Who?”

  “There’s a young lady. I would have seen her tonight.”

  “Here?”

  “No, her place.”

  “Call her. Devers, get on the kitchen extension. If the woman doesn’t sound right, let me know.”

  “Right.” Devers went out to the kitchen on the double, and it was clear he hoped Godden was trying something cute.

  But Godden wasn’t. He called his young lady, explained that the Roger St Cloud business had loused everything up, and promised to see her next week, Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest.

  When he was done with that call, and Devers had come back into the living-room to give a disgusted shake of the head, Parker said, “All right. Back to your room.”

  Godden got to his feet, trying a smile. “You don’t have to tie me up again, you know,” he said. “You can trust me. I want to get clear of this mess just as much as you do.”

  “You bastard,” Devers said.

  Godden turned to him, spreading his hands. “I’m sorry for what’s happened to you, believe me I am. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want anybody dead, anybody ruined. The worst I wanted was to take your money away.”

&nb
sp; “You rotten bastard,” Devers said.

  Parker said, “That’s all. Godden, go upstairs. Webb, take him. Devers, take a look at your woman.”

  Devers grimaced. “My woman,” he said in disgust, and turned away, and walked out of the room.

  Ellen and her baby were being kept in the room once occupied by Godden’s children. According to Devers, she hadn’t wanted to come with him at first when he’d gone for her last night, she’d been sure she could bluff it out with the police. But when he’d assured her it was all up for them all that being the ex-wife of one of the heistmen and at the same time shacked up with a finance office clerk from the air base left her in no position to try a bluff with the law, and that her choice was between coming with him or being silenced for ever as dangerous to the ones who were left, she’d reluctantly seen the light. Then she’d wanted to do a lot of packing, but Devers had cut that short, and she’d arrived with her daughter and one hastily stuffed overnight case.

  When Devers had brought her in she was being so erratic, fluctuating so badly among panic and guilt and despair and indignation, that Parker decided she was untrustworthy, and she’d been kept under lock and key ever since. Parker had guaranteed her silence during the plainclothesmen’s visit just now by letting her know her daughter would pay as much as she would for any trouble she caused. Any more trouble.

  Now Parker went out to the kitchen and turned on the radio to hear the eleven o’clock news. They had a breathing spell now, shaky and complicated but with a chance of working out. Ralph Hochberg’s body was with the two money cases under a tarp in the basement. The money was still in the suitcase over by the refrigerator. Godden was a prisoner in one room, Ellen and her kid were prisoners in another, and no one else was left for the law to talk to and learn anything troublesome. They were covered against visitors and callers on the telephone. With luck, they’d be able to stay here another two days, until Saturday. With luck, another two days was all they’d need.

  When Webb and Devers came into the kitchen, both to say their charges were under control, Parker said, “Let’s have that suitcase. Time to see how much we’ve got left.”

  They sat around the kitchen table with the suitcase open in front of them and started counting. When they were done it came to a total of one hundred twenty-six thousand, five hundred eighty-three dollars. Parker did some figuring with pencil and paper and said, “That’s forty-two thousand, one hundred ninety-four for each of us, with a dollar left over.”

  Webb rooted through the pile of money on the table found a single, crumpled it and threw it on the floor. “Now it’s even,” he said.

  Devers began to laugh. When it seemed as though the laughter was getting hysterical Parker said, “Stop it.” Devers stopped, looked at Parker, and got up from the table and went into the living-room.

  Webb said, “What about him?”

  “We’ll wait and see.”

  They kept the radio on. The one o’clock news led off with the discovery of the bodies at the lodge, though with no identification of any of them, and followed with an authorities-are-looking-for on Devers and Ellen Fusco. No accusations, no statement that either of them was believed to be part of the mob. Just that they were being sought for questioning. The descriptions the newscaster gave fit Devers and Ellen, but they also fit a million or so other people in the world.

  Webb said, “They must of found the lodge this morning. They were keeping it quiet until they were sure Devers wasn’t coming home.”

  After a while Devers came in from the living-room. He’d found Godden’s liquor cabinet, and had a glass of warm Scotch in his hand. “You ought to come in and watch television,” he said. “They got my picture on television.”

  Webb looked up at him. “Is that right? You’re a celebrity.”

  “I’m a celebrity.” Devers was a little drunk already, just enough to dull all his responses.

  Webb said, “A celebrity oughta have ice. Lemme bring you in some ice.”

  Devers stood in the middle of the kitchen floor while Webb found an ice bucket and emptied two trays of cubes into it. Devers had the frown of the morose drunk on his face, the look of a man who suspects someone is pulling a huge complicated unfathomable practical joke on him.

  Webb grabbed up the ice bucket and said, “Come on, Stan, I’ll drink you under the table.” He led Devers back to the living-room.

  Later on Parker let Ellen out to make dinner. She too was dulled in her reactions now, docile but sullen. Pam, her little girl, knowing something was wrong, stuck close to her mother’s knee all the time, looking round-eyed out at the world.

  They all had dinner together, with the exception of Godden, who afterwards got a tray in his room. Parker felt there were too many people at the table who hated Godden, there was no point looking for trouble.

  Devers wasn’t sobered much by dinner. Afterwards, while Ellen went back to her room and Parker went into the living-room to watch television, Devers and Webb took over the kitchen. Devers told sex stories, Webb told crime stories. They both laughed a lot. Parker stayed sober, watched television, watched on the eleven o’clock news films of the lodge and of the ambulance bringing the bodies down the dirt road. Ellen Fusco’s mother appeared on the screen, asking her daughter to come back, to at least let Pamela come to live with her grandma. There were photos of Devers and Ellen.

  Devers passed out around two in the morning, and Webb went to Parker, weaving a little, and said, “He’ll be all right. He’ll be okay, Parker. He’s just got to get used to it.”

  “I thought he’d work out,” Parker said.

  Friday was slow and dull. People came to the door a few times, but always gave up after a while. Devers had a hangover and spent most of the day in the kitchen trying different cures. Webb found a deck of cards and played game after game of solitaire. Ellen was calmer now, and more sensible, and realized she had no place else to go, so she and her daughter had the run of the house. Godden was still being tied up and kept in his room. Parker prowled around watching and waiting.

  Friday night, Devers and Webb got drunk again, played gin rummy, told the same stories they’d told the night before. Ellen put her daughter to bed and came to Parker and said, “Stan isn’t going to want me to go with him now. I don’t blame him. But I don’t have any money, any place to go.”

  Parker looked at her. “What do you want?”

  “A little money. Not a lot.”

  “Maybe Devers will give you a piece of his cut. Ask him.”

  “I don’t have any place to go,” she said, and panic began to play again behind her eyes.

  Parker didn’t want her going back to being frantic and erratic. To keep her calm, he said, “I’ll talk it over with Webb. We’ll work something out for you by tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” she said tonelessly, and walked away.

  Devers passed out about one o’clock that night, and Webb came into the living-room to finish his drinking with Parker. “Great kid,” he said. “He’ll stay in this line, won’t he?”

  “Probably,” Parker said.

  Webb finished his drink, put the glass on the floor beside his chair. “When do you figure we can get out of here?”

  “Maybe tomorrow night. They’re not really looking around here any more.”

  “They figure we’re in Alaska by now.”

  Parker didn’t say anything, and when he looked over toward Webb a minute later he was asleep.

  The only light in the house now came from the television set. Parker sat in front of it, looking at it, not really paying attention to it, and when the sermon ended and the national anthem ended and the screen went to snow he didn’t bother turning it off. A while later, still facing the empty screen he went to sleep.

  8

  Parker woke up when Webb touched his arm. Cartoons were jumping on the television screen. Gray light touched the drapes covering the picture window. Parker looked at his watch and the time was seven-forty.

  Webb looked serious.
Keeping his voice low, he said, “Better come take a look.”

  Parker went with him, up to Godden’s room. Godden, his arms and legs still tied, was lying on his side on the bed, his throat cut. The sheet was soaked with his blood.

  Parker said, “The woman.”

  “Gone. Left this.”

  The note was scrawled hastily with pencil on brown wrapping-paper, the letters large and ragged. It said:

  I won’t say where you are. I have to bring Pam to my mother. I’m sorry.

  Webb said, “What now?”

  Parker shook his head. “I wish I knew when she left.”

  “I heard the door close, that’s what woke me. Less than five minutes.”

  “Then we get out of here,” Parker said.

  They went down to the kitchen and woke Devers and showed him the note and told him about Godden. Parker said, “Be sober, boy. We’ve got to get out of here now.”

  “Why? You think she’ll talk?”

  “She won’t have to talk. A crazy woman staggering around a little town like this, seven-thirty in the morning, how far do you think she’ll get? Six blocks? Ten blocks? Then they pick her up, they say maybe the others are in the same neighborhood. Somebody says, that head doctor’s in that neighborhood. Somebody says, take a look over there, Joe.”

  Devers was sober. He said, “How much time have we got?”

  “Until they get organized. Until somebody notices it’s Godden’s neighborhood. Maybe an hour, maybe less.”

  “Christ.” Devers went over to the kitchen sink, ran cold water, splashed it on his face, dried with a dish towel. “Where do we go?” he said.

  “You ride with me for a while,” Parker told him.