No Pockets in a Shroud

by Richard Deming

  “I’ve come for my report,” she announced, arranging herself in the center of my living room sofa. “Isn’t that how it’s done? I mean, aren’t I supposed to come after a progress report periodically? I never hired a detective before.” A mocking light twinkled deep in her eyes as she shrugged out of her fur jacket.

  “What’s on your mind?” I asked. I began to mix two drinks.

  Her brows raised. “I told you. A progress report.”

  I handed her one of the glasses and leaned back next to her with my own. I didn’t say anything.

  “I mean it,” she insisted. “I want a progress report.”

  “Get your gun back from Inspector Day?” I asked.

  “Of course. Before I came here yesterday.”

  “Got it with you?”

  Her forehead puckered and her tone doubted the necessity of my question. “I only carry it when I play. Why?”

  “Just wondered. Who’s Margaret O’Conner?”

  Setting her drink on the end table, she turned sidewise to face me. “I’m angry about that. Why did you tell the inspector I was married before?”

  “Is it a secret?”

  The question made her pause. “No … But I’m your client and if you hadn’t told him about Arthur, I wouldn’t have had to visit that cold morgue to look at bodies. Aren’t you supposed to protect clients from things like that?”

  I grinned at her. “Who’s Margaret O’Conner?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw her except at the morgue.” She shivered in recollection. “What has she to do with Louis’ death, anyway?”

  “Nothing, probably, except in a negative sense. If she’s related to your ex-husband, it might tend to eliminate your present spouse as a suspect in the Bagnell case.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “It reasons like this,” I explained. “Only two things point to your husband as engineering Bagnell’s death: the general belief that they were gunning for each other and the fact that Byron obviously built himself an alibi for that night. The jealousy motive isn’t very strong, because there’s nothing to show he knew Bagnell was one of your interesting friends, and even if he did, you say he isn’t jealous.

  “On the other hand, one thing definitely points away from your husband planning the killing. He knew you always played at El Patio on Monday and Wednesday. You say he still loves you and with five other nights to pick, he’d certainly not choose a night when you were there.”

  She frowned, started to comment and changed her mind. I went on with my line of reasoning.

  “So when it develops that a gal wearing the same name as your first husband fell in the river at almost the same time Bagnell got shot, there’s a strong possibility that Byron’s prepared alibi was to cover himself for her death, and Bagnell’s simultaneous assassination was coincidence.”

  “But why would Byron have her killed?”

  “You suspect he killed your first husband. Ever hear of blackmail?”

  Her face lighted in comprehension. “But that would mean Byron had nothing to do with Louis.”

  “I’ve been saying that for five minutes.”

  She began to chew her lower lip and frown again, almost in disappointment.

  “You don’t have to be mad,” I said. “I can’t help it that your husband doesn’t commit the crimes you’d like him, to.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said quickly, then added: “I still want my progress report.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  Her lips thrust forward in a pout. “I want to see if you’re working and earning all that money I gave you.”

  I gave her a quick look, but she seemed serious. Her eyes were wide and determined and she leaned forward as though preparing to hang on my every word. I shrugged, set down my drink and recited rapidly:

  “El Patio is built so the logical way for the murderer to get on the grounds was from the highway through a grove of trees. If he came any other way, he was nuts, because he’d have to climb a ten foot fence. There are fresh tire marks where a car parked half off the highway next to the grove of trees.

  “Bagnell was playing with a blonde every Tuesday and Thursday.” I paused to give her a malicious grin, but her expression remained only interested. “The blonde’s husband found it out. He admits he was mad at both Bagnell and his wife and that he drove past El Patio about the time Bagnell was killed. But he says he didn’t stop and his tire treads don’t match the marks I found. Temporarily I’ve ruled him out as the killer. That’s as far as I got before I grew sleepy. Now what’s the real reason you’re here?”

  She yawned and arched her body against the sofa back, causing the cloth to tauten across her overdeveloped bust. “I got lonesome.”

  “Sure,” I said. “And you can’t resist me.”

  “I don’t try. You resist me.”

  She inclined her head slightly and dark hair rippled against my shoulder. When I looked down, her eyes were mocking.

  “You’re the ugliest man I ever kissed,” she said.

  I couldn’t see that this required any comment.

  “But you’ve got a nice body,” she continued. “And something even more important. Something women notice.”

  “Yeah?” I was conscious that my conversation definitely lacked drawing room brilliance.

  “You have a virile look.”

  I considered this, not exactly liking it, and gave her a puzzled frown. She laughed, and twisting toward me, placed a palm on either side of my face. Her lips came up, enveloped mine and suddenly turned greedy. She lifted her body toward me, clamped her arms around my neck and hung on as though she were drowning. I cooperated in the kiss, more out of curiosity than desire.

  Eventually she drew back her head and looked up into my face. Her pupils had grown large and dark, her face wore a strained expression and smeared lipstick, mixed with perspiration, covered her upper lip. Almost inaudibly she asked: “What are you thinking?”

  I said: “I’m thinking that I have a date in thirty minutes.”

  Instantly she straightened away from me, her eyes suddenly furious.

  “You dead lump!”

  Rising, she flounced out of the room and I heard the bathroom door slam. I shrugged, went over to the mirror above my mantle, and used a handkerchief to remove lipstick from my face. In less than two minutes she was back with her makeup again in order.

  Smiling as though nothing had happened, she said: “I’ll drop you off at your date.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  In the Line of Fire

  ELEANOR’S CAR—SHE WAS “Eleanor” instead of “Mrs. Wade” since our momentary love scene—was a Zephyr convertible. She drove as though she were part of the car, and kept her eyes on the road.

  As we turned on to the main highway she said: “I’m a fool. Why should I drive you to a date with another woman?”

  “Why not?”

  She frowned without moving her eyes from the concrete strip. “Do you think I throw myself in the arms of every man I meet?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly.

  Her face flushed and her eyes angrily flicked sidewise, then returned to the road. “I happen to be slightly in love with you, you ugly ox!” Her chin set and she pressed down on the gas pedal. Neither of us spoke again until the car had swept up the broad drive of El Patio and come to a smooth stop below the bronze doors.

  Then she said: “Old ladies, children and dogs. How does this blonde Italian qualify? As a child or a dog?”

  “Don’t nag,” I said.

  “Are you in love with her?”

  “I’ve known her for years.”

  “I didn’t ask that!”

  I examined her set face curiously. “I’m not in love with her.”

  Immediately she smiled. “I’m not jealous really. But I do like you. I have since the minute you walked in Louis’ office. We’d make a good team.”

  “You’re on a team already.”

  “Byron? I’ll leave h
im tomorrow, if you want.”

  She looked “up at me seriously and I doled her out a wary grin.

  I said, “I’ll think it over,” stepped out of the car and let the door swing shut. “Thanks for the ride.”

  A small crease appeared in her forehead and her lower lip thrust out. “You’re laughing at me again. I really mean it.”

  “I really mean I’ll think it over.”

  She made a face, shoved the car in reverse and backed down the drive toward the highway at forty miles an hour.

  It was eight minutes to nine when Greene let me through the great double doors.

  “Fausta ain’t down yet,” he said.

  “Then I’ll look around Louie’s office again while I’m waiting,” I told him.

  Wandering around the office, I noticed that whoever had cleaned up the mess Bagnell’s blood made had done a thorough job. No trace remained, not even a discolored spot on the carpet. I moved on into the bathroom and pulled the light chain. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular; I was just looking. Getting down on my knees, I lit a match and peered under the tub. Nothing was there except a little lint. I glanced into the tub, into the commode and then into the washbowl. The oil beads I had” previously noticed still ringed the drain. I touched the brass strainer ring and it moved slightly, for it was the type that lifts out for cleaning.

  I don’t know whether instinct, a shadow or a slight sound warned me, but suddenly I had the impulse to duck and I obeyed it. As I threw myself backward and down, sound bellowed in the small room and the mirror over the washstand shattered, showering me with pulverized glass. Acrid smoke misted the air as I crammed myself in a tight ball between the tub and the commode. The gun thrusting between the window bars went off again. The second slug whirred around inside the bathtub like a bee in a tin can, then plunked upward into the ceiling.

  With my left hand I edged the muzzle of my P-.38 over the tub’s rim and pumped three shots at the window. Before the concussions stopped echoing in the tiny room, I had dived at an angle through the door. I slid along the baseboard on my stomach, jerked my knees toward my chest until I got my feet solidly planted against the wail and jackknifed my body out of the line of fire. Before my assailant could move from the bath window around the corner and pump more shots through the office window, I was out into the hall.

  Mouldy Greene, an automatic in his hand, blundered into the hallway from the dining room and stopped dead when he saw me. Spinning him out of the way, I raced toward the front door. The chain lock binding together the two bronze doors delayed me, but I got it solved in fair time, took the steep entrance steps in four leaps and loped down the drive toward the highway.

  When both my legs were flesh, I was a fair runner, but aluminum had cut my speed. By the time I reached the stone pillars at the drive entrance, twin tail lights fifty yards away were beginning to move. And by the time I dropped to one knee and steadied my gun elbow on the other for an accurate tire shot, the car was seventy-five yards away. Maybe there are pistol shots who can hit a receding target at seventy-five yards in the dark, but I’m not one of them. I wasted two shots and quit.

  Fausta, Gloria Horne, Mouldy Greene and Romulus all stood in the wide open doorway when I returned. Mouldy still had his gun in his fist.

  “Stack it away,” I said. “The shooting’s over.”

  “What happen?” asked Fausta.

  “Someone shot at me from the same spot they shot Bagnell. I shot back and missed.”

  Gloria asked: “Was it Amos?”

  “I didn’t see him,” I snapped. Then I added: “Your husband didn’t kill Bagnell.”

  I moved in toward the bar and they all trooped after me. Going behind the counter, I poured myself a straight rye and pushed the bottle toward Fausta. I got glasses from the back bar, set them next to the bottle along with mixings and said: “Mix your own.”

  Fausta and Gloria ignored the bottle, but Greene poured himself a double shot.

  “You mean me too, mister?” asked Romulus.

  Mouldy said, “Why not?” and slid the bottle toward him.

  “Where’s Caramand?” I asked.

  Mouldy said: “Went to town.”

  Gloria said: “How do you know Amos is innocent?”

  “He just is,” I told Gloria. “It all evolves about some tire tracks and they let your husband out. You can go home. He says he won’t beat you much.”

  Gloria looked dumbly from me to Fausta and Fausta said: “If Manny say Amos not hurt you, then Amos not hurt you. You go home.”

  “I’m scared.”

  Being shot at put me in no mood to, argue with a female dunce, and I didn’t really care if she ever went home. I turned my attention to Fausta. She was immaculate in a dark green evening gown and ermine jacket.

  “We must be going somewhere expensive,” I said.

  “We go where you like.”

  “How about North Shore? Tonight’s the opening.”

  Fausta’s eyes narrowed. “That Byron Wade’s place. You desire go there for business!”

  “No,” I protested innocently. “I’d like to see the place.”

  Gloria said: “Are you sure Amos is all right?”

  I looked at her steadily. “Look. Your husband won’t hurt you. Go on home.”

  “I haven’t any way to get home.”

  “We’ll drop you off.”

  I picked up the bar phone and ordered a cab. While we waited, Gloria argued with her courage, alternately deciding to go with us and changing her mind. Being indifferent, I refused further advice and after an interval of waiting for the cab to arrive, she consulted the rye bottle. Apparently its persuasive powers were greater than mine, because when the taxi arrived she climbed in as though she had not a care in the world.

  Halfway to town Gloria said: “Amos will be at work. Drop me at Eighth and Market.”

  When she got out in front of the green glass windows of the bingo hall, Gloria peered back in at us indecisively.

  “Want us to wait?” I asked.

  “No. I’ll be all right. Thanks.”

  She turned resolutely and we watched until the curtained door of the hall closed behind her.

  “North Shore Club,” I told the driver.

  AT North Shore Club we checked our coats in the lobby and moved over to the brocaded entrance to the casino. Here we were stopped. A lone man ahead of us raised his arms while my juvenile acquaintance, Danny, patted his chest and hips before letting him enter.

  I said: “Don’t bother. I’ve got one and I’m keeping it.”

  Danny’s yellow eyes narrowed, and I noticed the pupils were normal size. “I got orders to frisk everybody.”

  “I don’t take, orders. Tell Wade I want to see him.”

  He neither moved from his flat-footed position in the center of the doorway, nor bothered to say anything. I suppose he thought it was a stalemate.

  I said: “Let’s see if you can do it without coke,” put a palm under his chin and pushed.

  His arms flailed to regain balance, suddenly yielded to the laws of physics, and he sat solidly on the floor. Taking Fausta’s arm, I guided her around his recumbent body. Across the room Byron Wade stood near a poker table watching the play. As we angled back and forth through the crowd toward him, I kept shooting over-the-shoulder glances back at Danny. I saw him scramble to his feet and scurry after us.

  All three of us reached Wade simultaneously. Danny skidded to a stop between Wade and me, facing me with his back to Wade. His hands were thrust stiffly into his coat pockets and his face was green with rage.

  Over his shoulder I said: “Evening, Wade.”

  Byron Wade said sharply: “Danny!”

  Danny stepped back until he could see both of us, his hands still tautly in his pockets. “This guy’s got a gun,” he said.

  I acted as though Danny were invisible. “This is Byron Wade, Fausta.” Then to Wade: “Fausta Moreni.”

  “We met in the hall at El Patio,” said Wade
. He turned his head at Danny and made his eyes frost over. “Get back to the door.”

  Resentment and fury mixed in the expression Danny poured at me. He turned abruptly and marched back to his post.

  “Have a drink?” asked Wade.

  “Sure,” I accepted for both of us.

  He guided us to a sort of low balustrade ringing the room. The platform it edged was raised only about two feet from the main floor and the railing was punctured at intervals with gates you entered by climbing three low steps. Tables were arranged along the railing so that guests could drink and at the same time, from their slightly elevated position, obtain a good view of the gamers. We chose a table and a white-coated waiter took our order.

  Fausta looked out over the crowded game room and said: “You have very good crowd for opening night.”

  Wade’s piggy eyes swept the customers complacently. “Not bad. Of course it helps, having El Patio closed.”

  When our drinks arrived the waiter dangled the check uncertainly between his thumb and forefinger until Wade shook his head at him. He stuck it in his pocket and moved off.

  “I should make you buy the drinks,” Wade said, “after the way you threw me to Hannegan and Day.”

  I grinned at him. “Next time use a night club for your alibi. Know a corpse named Margaret O’Conner?”

  He merely looked blank.

  I said: “Never mind. Want your thousand dollars back?”

  He shook his head. “That was on the level. If you thought I was trying to buy an alibi, you’re way off base.”

  I handed him a cigar and bit off the end of another for myself. Wade fired a lighter and held the flame to my cigar first. We were being very polite to each other.

  When he had tobacco burning adequately, he asked: “This a business or a pleasure call?”

  “Some of both,” I admitted, and drew a smoldering look from Fausta.

  “It is for pleasure alone,” she said. She slitted brown eyes at me. “If you come for business, we leave now.”

  “Be nice,” I said. “This business will only take a minute.” I turned back to Wade. “I have a client who wants the Bagnell ease solved. Mind answering questions?”