Pale Shadow

by Robert Skinner

  “Where’s Luis?”

  Oswald shook his head wearily. “I keep tellin’ you, I don’t know. I talked to him las’ night—told him about Linda. He was close to crackin’ up. Said he was gonna lay up somewhere. I been waitin’ to hear from him again, but he ain’t called.”

  Farrell felt no sympathy for Oswald. He was no better than an insect that left a trail of slime behind him. But he was terrified about something, something more than the things Farrell had said to him. Farrell decided to give him some slack. “All right. But if you hear from him, tell him to call me. Better yet, you call, and tell me where he is, understand? If you don’t, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

  “Y-yeah, man. Yeah.” Oswald hung his head wearily. He remained in that hangdog posture until he heard Farrell leave the shop.

  When the door closed, Oswald bounded into action like a track star at the starting gun. He dragged the package from under the counter and hurriedly sealed the box with masking tape. Next, he pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk and shoved the package to the back of the opening. It was a hiding place Oswald had fashioned himself, shortening a drawer to leave a useful space behind. He quickly replaced the drawer, locked the desk, then wiped his sweating face on his sleeve.

  He composed his features as the tinkle of the bell heralded the arrival of a customer. However, he turned to see a man locking the door to the shop, pulling down the shades over the glass door and the main window. When the man turned toward Oswald, the shop floor was in shadow. The man stood there, his features hidden in the gloom, but the distinctive shape of an automatic was visible in his gloved fist.

  “What did Farrell want?” the apparition demanded.

  “Huh?” Oswald said stupidly.

  “Don’t make me ask you again, fuckhead.”

  The pawnbroker was too scared to do anything but tell the truth. “He’s lookin’ for Martinez. He thought I might know where he is.”

  “Do you?”

  “Naw, man. I talked to ’im las’ night, but he wouldn’t tell me where he was or where he was goin’. I tried to get him to give Mr. Compasso back his stuff, but he wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it.” Oswald’s voice and composure cracked at once, and he broke into an anguished sob.

  The man raised his gun and cocked the hammer. Oswald had never heard anything quite so loud. “Don’t lie to me, boy. I get real steamed when people start lyin’ to me. What did Farrell say to you? All of it, you Goddamned son of a whore.” The man’s teeth were bared and they gleamed like the fangs of a predatory beast in the dim light.

  The pawnbroker began to tremble and he felt his legs about to collapse under him. “He—he knows about the counterfeit ring. He knows Compasso is the boss.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothin’, man. He don’t know about the plates Louie stole. He don’t know why you’s tryin’ to kill Louie, or why you done kilt those two women. He reckons you gonna work on Louie’s friends ’til one of ’em gives Louie up.”

  The man with the gun nodded, his expression almost amiable. He walked toward Oswald with the gun leveled at his breast. Oswald fell to his knees, his hands clasped in front him like a religious supplicant. His mouth was contorted in a soundless scream and tears ran down his face.

  The gunman’s teeth shone brightly in the dim room as he slowly, lovingly, turned the barrel of his gun and eased it into Oswald’s gaping mouth. “That’s right, boy. Stay down there and suck on this for a minute, and listen to me.” He nodded as the pawnbroker closed his lips around the barrel of the gun, whimpering. “That’s good. See, I could work on you like I done the women. But you done give me an idea. See, way I got it figured, Martinez’s gonna need a friend real soon. Since you the only one he’s contacted, I think that’s gonna be you. Yeah, and when he does that, you gonna set up a meet. You and him. ’Cept it’s gonna be me who meets him, you understand? I’m gonna get the plates and take care of him at the same time.”

  Oswald’s bladder and bowels had broken loose and he was choking on the gun barrel, near to vomiting. He nodded his head frantically, hoping the gunman would recognize his agreement. Finally, the gun barrel was slowly withdrawn, and Oswald felt a soft hand stroke his cheek.

  “You’re a good li’l boy, Ozzy,” the gunman said amiably. “Do like you’re told, and you might just live through this. Now go clean yourself up. Jesus Christ, that ain’t no way for a man to be.”

  ***

  Frank Casey was rubbing his eyes after finishing with the day’s incident reports, wondering if he was going to have to get some glasses when the intercom buzzed. His secretary, Officer Alan White, told him Nick Delgado was there with a report from the Mullins murder.

  The door opened and a short, stocky man entered the office. Casey saw a look in his eyes that presaged some kind of development.

  “Sit down, Nick. What have you got for me?”

  Delgado’s eyes gleamed behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. “A mystery, Captain. When the Jeff Parish lab men completed the identification of all the latent prints found at the Mullins homicide, they sent everything over here to compare with our files. I found something there that’ll interest you, and the Treasury people, too.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Most of the prints found belonged to the Mullins woman, or her man Terry Buford. There were a few belonging to janitorial workers and a couple of other employees, but there was one that shouldn’t have been there.”

  Casey felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Tell me.”

  “There was one print from a right-handed thumb on Wisteria Mullins’ desk that matched no one else. I think the killer used gloves throughout the torture, but at some point he took his right glove off. Maybe he was looking for something and needed a hand free. The furniture polish on the desk held it bright and bold.”

  “Okay, that sounds positive to me. But I know that look, Nick. What’s the punchline?”

  Nick raised his left eyebrow quizzically. “When I couldn’t find a match in our files, I wired the print to a man at the FBI labs in Washington who owes me, and told him it was a rush. He did a more extensive search and discovered the print belongs to a dead man.”

  “Dead? How could that be?”

  “I don’t know, but the print belongs to a contract killer named Dixie Ray Chavez. He’s operated mostly in Arkansas, Oklahoma, Louisiana and Texas. I checked up on him, then wired the State Police in Baton Rouge, and the Department of Public Safety in Texas. They sent back quite a bit about him.” Delgado passed over a manila folder with a mug shot paper clipped to the front. It was of a round-faced white man with a sneer on his face. Casey opened the file and began to read.

  “Dixie Ray Chavez. Born Plano, Texas, 1910. Height, five feet, eight inches, weight, one-forty. Hair brown, eyes brown, complexion sallow, no scars or marks. Three arrests for murder. No convictions due to lack of evidence or uncooperative witnesses. Five arrests for attempted murder, sixteen arrests for assault and battery. One conviction back in 1930 that got him a two-spot in Huntsville. Brief association with the Parker-Barrow gang, a rumor of association with the Dillinger gang.” Casey read on in silence for a moment. “Here’s the report of his death—supposedly killed in an explosion during a Treasury raid on an illegal distillery in southern Oklahoma in April of ’34 but his file left open when no body found.” He found a brief typed message from the commander of Company B of the Texas Rangers in Dallas that he read aloud.

  “‘I have spent years tracking the movements of Dixie Ray Chavez, and am not surprised to hear he’s still alive. He’s not just a clever killer, he’s a vicious predator with the instincts of a coyote. He has the ability to blend in wherever he goes, and often has his prey in sight for some time before he finally moves in for the kill. He’s been diagnosed as a psychopathic personality, and kills without compunction. If you get him in your sights, my advice would be to shoot him. If you give him half a chance, he’ll sure shoot you.’ Signed M. T. Gonzaulles, C
aptain, Company B.”

  Casey closed the file and put it back on the desk. “I guess we can safely assume he wasn’t killed in that explosion, after all.”

  “No, sir,” Delgado replied. “That print was as fresh as a daisy. Chavez is alive and well, and still killing people. The tortures are his trademark. According to his file, he likes hurting people.”

  “Just what we needed.” Casey picked up his telephone and asked for Records and Identification.

  “R and I, Sergeant Mulwray speaking.”

  “Mulwray, this is Casey. Nick Delgado has just discovered the identity of the killer in the Blanc and Mullins cases as Dixie Ray Chavez.”

  “Yes, sir, he shared that information with me. I’ve got a full description ready to call down to dispatch.”

  “Great. Go ahead and put it on the wire. Be sure to urge caution when attempting to apprehend.”

  “Can do, Chief.” Mulwray hung up. Casey turned back to Delgado.

  “Okay, Nick. Good work.”

  “It was luck, and we’ll need more to find him.”

  Casey smiled as he tapped his fingers on the desk. “He just made a mistake. He may be about to make another one.”

  ***

  After Marcel took Marta back to her hotel, he had an inspiration. Remembering Wilbur Lee Payne had passed himself off as a pharmacist in Texas, Marcel decided to see if he was doing the same in New Orleans.

  He left Downtown on Tulane Avenue, turning south on Jefferson Davis Parkway. Crossing the New Orleans Navigation Canal, he turned into the neighborhood on the other side and drove down Dixon Street until he reached the campus of Xavier University, a Negro college that was operated by the Catholic Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament. It was also the home of the only Negro school of pharmacy in the South. He turned south at Pine Street and parked near the corner of Palmetto.

  It took him about five minutes to find the offices of the pharmacy school on the third floor of the west wing of the main building. A pebbled glass door with the legend “Dr. Malcolm Samson” proved to be his destination. He knocked lightly, opening the door as he heard a voice beckon him inside.

  At a desk beside a window sat a distinguished looking gray-haired Negro of about fifty dressed in a white lab coat. He looked up from the new issue of The American Journal of Dermatology and smiled. “Marcel Aristide? Come on in, boy. Have you finally decided to enroll in my program?”

  Marcel grinned as he took off his hat. “No, sir, but I do have a pharmacy question, if you’ve got the time.”

  “Pharmacy is my business. I was just reading about promising new therapies for skin diseases. But you probably didn’t come for a lecture. Sit down and take a load off. Could you use some coffee?”

  “No thanks.” Marcel caught a glimpse of some gruesome medical photos as he placed his hat on a corner of Samson’s desk. He had met Malcolm Samson at the Fairgrounds Racetrack a year or so before, and had given him some horse racing tips that paid off for the scientist. Ever since, Samson had been trying to get Marcel to enroll at the university.

  “Well, a pharmacy question, you said?”

  “Yeah. I’m looking for a pharmacist from Brownsville Texas who is supposed to have come up here a few weeks ago.”

  Samson raised an eyebrow. “Supposed to have? Sounds like there might be a story in that.”

  “There might be. I was wondering if there was a way to find out if he was working here in the city. I’m helping a friend who’s trying to reach him.”

  Samson fingered his chin. “What’s his name?”

  “Albert Chenier—at least that’s the name he was using in Brownsville.”

  Samson leaned back in his chair and stared at Marcel. “You think that may not be his right name? Or do you think he’s using an alias here?”

  “Could be either one. I discovered from a friend of mine that ten years ago he was calling himself Wilbur Lee Payne, or perhaps used the name Keys.”

  “This man sounds like a criminal of some kind.”

  Marcel grinned. “Sounds that way to me, too. Can you help me at all?”

  “Marcel, when this is settled, are you going to tell me the rest of the story attached to these questions?”

  “Sure.”

  Samson consulted a desk directory, then picked up the telephone receiver and asked the operator for a number. Seconds later, he was speaking into the mouthpiece.

  “This is Dr. Samson at Xavier University. I was wondering if you’d received any applications in the recent past for a state permit from a pharmacist by the name of Albert Chenier? No, eh? How about Wilbur Lee Payne? Nothing there either. How about a gentleman named Keys?” He looked at Marcel and shook his head.

  “Ask if they’ve had any applications from pharmacists licensed in Texas,” Marcel suggested in a low voice.

  Samson relayed that to the person at the other end of the line, then picked up a pencil and wrote down two names. “Do you happen to know which pharmacies these men are working in? Yes, yes, thank you.” He wrote some more information down on the pad, then thanked the other person and hung up.

  “Well, we’ve got two transfers—Louisiana and Texas have a reciprocal agreement that enables pharmacists from each state to travel to the other and receive certification to work within a couple of days. The names he had were Orville Goff from Seguin, Texas and Milton Jasper from Austin. They’re working at these addresses.” He tore off the slip of paper and handed it to Marcel.

  Marcel took it, glanced at it then slipped it into his coat pocket. “I remembered you saying that you worked with the Negro branch of state board of pharmacy. I figure these for long shots, but it’s ground I have to cover.”

  “All right,” Samson said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. “I answered your questions, so tell me what this is all about.”

  “Fair enough. A young woman came to town two days ago looking for a pharmacist named Albert Chenier, supposedly from New Orleans. He left Brownsville very suddenly without telling her goodbye, so she came looking for him. Last night I discovered the man is an ex-convict who went by the name of Wilbur Lee Payne.”

  “My God. An ex-convict posing as a reputable Negro pharmacist? That’s a kind of publicity we don’t need. What will you do if you find him?”

  “Depending on what I find, I’ll either hold him until his ex-girlfriend can give him a piece of her mind, or I’ll hand him over to the police. Whatever brought this man to New Orleans, it’s bound to be crooked.”

  Samson rubbed his forehead as he considered what the younger man had told him. “I’m not too experienced in this kind of conniving, but your story has my mind working.”

  “Go ahead, sir. I’m here to listen.”

  “Well, for one thing, I’m not sure that a man could get work in a big city pharmacy with fraudulent credentials. Even a small pharmacy would require a diploma from his school, a state certificate, and probably some references. A smaller town might not demand so much. Perhaps a letter of reference on some other pharmacy’s letterhead addressed ‘to whom it may concern.’ Also, a phony diploma might more easily get by a small-town druggist, too.”

  Marcel’s eyes narrowed and a smile grew on his lips. “Go on, sir.”

  “Well, it takes a considerable education to become a registered pharmacist. Much of what we study is identical to what is taught in a course of medical education.”

  Marcel folded his arms and cupped his chin in his left hand as he mulled this over. “One of the things I’ve been able to learn about this fellow is that he’s got a remarkable ability to learn things—a photographic memory is how somebody described it. He must’ve learned all this medical and pharmaceutical knowledge on his own.”

  “Well,” Samson continued, “this man might find it too risky to pose as another pharmacist here. He’d have too many hurdles to jump just to find work. Now I’m supposing the man you’re looking for is a con artist of some kind.”

  “On the nose.”

  “We
ll, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions but an unscrupulous Negro looking to make a profit as a phony professional man would know that our people have a special feeling of respect for one of their own who has risen above his origins. This is particularly true for teachers, lawyers—and doctors. It would actually be easier for such a man to pass himself off as a doctor than as a pharmacist.”

  Marcel raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Well, if he set himself up in private practice, he wouldn’t be answerable to anyone. He could hang out his shingle and gradually work his way into the community until he realized whatever goal he had. Plus, if he’s played at being a pharmacist, he would know how to get various kinds of drugs and stock his own dispensary. With his own supplies, he wouldn’t have to forge or fabricate prescription blanks that might be recognized as such.”

  “Wow,” Marcel said. “He could operate indefinitely.”

  Samson nodded. “A skillful and lucky man would find many doors opened to him, including those of liberal-minded whites.” Samson looked at Marcel appraisingly. “This thing you’re doing, it seems like something the law should be handling, and yet you’ve taken it upon yourself. It sounds as though it could be dangerous.”

  Marcel nodded soberly. “Sometimes life has risks, and I guess you can say I’m a gambler in all things.”

  Samson rubbed the side of his face. “I’m beginning to believe a career as a pharmacist or a teacher would be a bit too tame for you, Marcel. I didn’t realize until today that you’re somewhat unconventional. Will you tell me how this turns out? For you as well as for the young woman?”

  “If you’re sure you want to hear about it. Some laws might get broken before this is all over.”

  “That’ll make it a bit more interesting, won’t it?”