Pale Shadow

by Robert Skinner

  “I hope it isn’t, but I’m going on that assumption. You man your phone. Tell your men to call in every hour with a report on where they’ve been, and what they picked up. I’ll call you for a report at a quarter past.”

  “What if we find her?”

  “Bring her to Soraparu Street and watch over her until I show up. Fred and I are gonna go out and look, too.”

  “You’re the boss, boss.” Mickey hung up.

  Marcel put his receiver back on the hook and turned to see Fred slipping his arms through the straps of his shoulder harness. He drew his worn old .38 Colt, checked the loads and holstered it. He got his coat from the tree and looked at Marcel with a curious smile.

  “If we goin’ to a party, boss, we want to be in our party clothes, don’t we?”

  Marcel hated guns. They reminded him of a time when he’d been a criminal, and of people he’d shot at with every intention of killing. He was proud of carrying himself in such a way that he didn’t need a gun. But this was different, and he knew it. He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a small mahogany case. When he lifted the lid, a nickel-plated .38 Colt Detective Special with ivory grips gleamed in a bed of green felt. It was a gift from Farrell. He took it from the case, loaded it, and slipped it into his coat pocket along with a small leather pouch containing six extra cartridges.

  He stood up and got his hat. “I’m ready now.”

  It took them about twenty minutes to reach the Metro, and another ten for Marcel to interrogate a pair of waitresses he knew. From them he was able to glean that Marta had left the hotel dining room about ten minutes past nine that morning. One had seen her under the awning, staring across the street at the pawnshop, but hadn’t seen her go in. Marcel thanked them and met Fred in the lobby.

  “I talked to the shoeshine men and some bellhops, but none of them seen anything,” Fred reported.

  Marcel scratched his neck and stared across the street at the pawnshop. “Couple of gals in the dining room said they saw Marta staring across the street at the pawnshop.”

  “They see her go in?”

  “No,” Marcel replied, “but that doesn’t mean she didn’t. Marta’s a smart girl. If she was looking over there, she must’ve seen something. Let’s take a stroll.”

  The two young men left the hotel and crossed the street to the pawnshop. Marcel didn’t know the pawnbroker, but thanks to underworld gossip, he knew that Theron Oswald was a fence. He spoke a few words to Fred and was acknowledged by a nod as they entered the shop.

  At the tinkling of the bell, Oswald looked up from a ledger he was writing in. It was plain from his glance that he didn’t know them. “Help you gents?”

  Fred grinned broadly. “Hey, man. I’m lookin’ to go huntin’ this fall and I wondered if you had any shotguns.”

  “Got a few,” Oswald replied. “Got a real nice Remington pump, got a couple L. C. Smith double barrels, and I think I got a Savage.”

  “Sounds like good stuff all around,” Fred said. “Lemme see the Remington, okay?”

  “Sure.” Oswald cast a look at Marcel. “I’ll be with you in a minute, mister.”

  “No hurry,” Marcel said. “I’m just lookin’ around.”

  Oswald went to a rack at the far end of the shop where he hauled out a ring of keys, and began going through them for the one that would open the rack padlock.

  As Oswald’s attention was focused on the rack, Marcel’s eyes made a quick circuit of the room, looking for what, he didn’t know. It seemed a perfectly ordinary pawnshop with the requisite glass cases of old watches, diamond rings, pistols, and other paraphernalia that people hock for eating money. He was about convinced there was nothing there when he spotted a small white paper sack on the edge of the counter where Oswald’s ledger lay. It reminded Marcel of the kinds of paper sacks pharmacies use to bag customer purchases. He slid toward it, listening to Oswald mutter as his ring of keys slipped from his fingers to the floor.

  With the sound of the keys jangling in the background, Marcel spread the sack open and looked inside. There was a bottle of pills with the name of the drug typed on a label bearing the name and address of a doctor. Marcel made a mental note of each before gently pinching the bag closed and moving soundlessly to a case full of ladies’ watches.

  “This here Remington pump is like brand new,” Oswald told Fred. “It sells for $42.95 in the Sears Roebuck catalog, but I’m lettin’ it go for $33.75. Here, see how it feels.” He handed the shotgun across to Fred, who threw it to his shoulder and worked the slide.

  “Bang,” Fred said as he depressed the trigger. “What you think about this, man? Could we blast some duck dinners outa the sky with this iron?”

  Marcel was thinking about the drug in the bag. It was called trioxalen, and for some reason, he remembered reading about that drug somewhere. “What? I was day-dreaming.”

  “The gun, man. I was askin’ if you thought it’d be good for huntin’ some ducks. Duck season starts in just a coupla months. We could bag some for Thanksgivin’ dinner.”

  “You’re the outdoorsman, Freddie. If you think it will, give the man some money.”

  Fred practiced throwing the gun to his shoulder a few times, making shooting noises with his mouth while Marcel drifted closer to the man.

  “Say, mister. My girlfriend said she might come in here to look at a diamond ring—which she hopes I’ll buy for her.” He leered good-naturedly at Oswald. “She didn’t happen to come in this morning, did she? Tall, good-lookin’ girl with dark honey-gold skin and long light-brown hair?”

  Oswald grinned. “Reckon not, friend. If she had, I’d probably remember a gal like that. Sure it was this shop?”

  Marcel shrugged. “I thought so, but you know how women can be with their directions. Could well’ve been someplace else. You got some nice stuff here, though. Might be I’ll bring her in here to take a look. Man wants to buy the right ring when he buys one, you know?”

  Oswald nodded seriously. “No lie, man. You got to keep a gal happy to make her stay around.”

  “You ready, Fred?” Marcel asked.

  Fred looked at the shotgun longingly. “Dunno, man. This is one fine piece of iron.” He shot a look at Oswald. “How’s about I give you ten bucks to hold it until tomorrow? That be all right?”

  Oswald showed all of his teeth in a big grin. “Sure. Lemme write you out a receipt, brutha.” He got out a pad of printed receipt blanks and quickly wrote some information on it. “What name?”

  “Fred Gonzalvo. Here’s your ten bucks, man.”

  Oswald took the money and handed Fred the receipt. “See you tomorrow, my friend.”

  “Right.” Fred flashed a grin before following Marcel out of the store. He didn’t speak again until they’d walked a half block up Rampart. “Well? I seen you pokin’ around in there. You find somethin’?”

  Marcel frowned. “Something, but I don’t know what. He had a prescription lying on the counter and it had the name of a doctor I didn’t recognize on it.”

  “You told me that Payne could be posin’ as a doctor,” Fred replied.

  “Yeah. If Marta saw Payne go in that shop, that may be why she was staring at it. He might’ve dropped off the prescription to Oswald and left, with her following.”

  Fred scratched the back of his neck. “That’s a hell of a lot of supposin’, li’l brutha.”

  Marcel cast a glance back at the store. “Yeah, don’t remind me. I’m grasping at straws, Goddamn it. I should’ve moved her someplace where I could keep a better eye on her.”

  Fred listened silently. He knew from experience that no one was harder on Marcel than Marcel, himself. He dropped a comforting hand on his partner’s shoulder and squeezed it lightly.

  Marcel looked up at the larger man and grinned. “What the hell are you gonna do with that shotgun? You’ve never been hunting in your life.”

  Fred shrugged elaborately. “Maybe I wanta give it a try. I might be good at it. What we gonna do now?”
>
  “I’m going to call Mickey to see if any of his boys have called in with news, then I’m going to call a cop who was looking something up for me.”

  “Let’s hit the Oleander Café. I can eat somethin’ while you’re doin’ your callin’.”

  “You and that stomach. Let’s go.”

  It took them five minutes to reach the café. Fred took a seat at the counter and engaged the brownskin waitress in conversation while Marcel went to the phone booth. He quickly had Mickey Rawls on the line.

  “Most of the boys done called in awready, boss, but so far nothin’ doin’. You know we lookin’ for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Yeah,” Marcel said. “I know. Keep trying and I’ll be back with you later.” He hung up, dropped in another nickel, and asked the operator for Police Headquarters. When the desk sergeant answered, he asked to speak to Officer Eddie Park in the Negro Squad.

  “Negro Squad, Officer Park speaking.”

  “This is Marcel Aristide. Have you had any luck with that favor I asked you about yesterday, Eddie?”

  Park’s voice dropped an octave, but his tone was friendly. “How ya doin’, Marcel? Yeah, I got something for you, but I don’t know what good it is.”

  “Were there many new office listings for doctors in the past two months?”

  “Well, hardly any. Three. And two of ’em are obviously white doctors, ’cause they’re Uptown exchanges.”

  Marcel felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. “And the other one—is his name Abraham T. Rodrigue?”

  There was a silence at the other end of the line, then, in an awed voice, Park said, “Man, have you taken up mind reading or what? That is the name, but how’d you know?”

  “Call it a lucky guess.”

  “Well, his office is located at 7923 North Villere. Phone number there is Claiborne 3375. I checked to see if there was a home number, but no soap. What’s the story on this guy, Marcel? He owe you a gambling debt or somethin’?”

  “Eddie, if he turns out to be the guy I think he is, I’m gonna call you up and give you a chance to be a hero. I’ll be talking to you, hear?”

  “Okay, brutha. Play it close to your vest. One day you’ll want to play with my catnip mouse.”

  Marcel laughed and hung up the telephone. On an impulse, he dropped in another nickel and asked the operator for Claiborne 3375. It buzzed three times before a woman picked up.

  “Dr. Abraham Rodrigue’s office. How may I help you?”

  “Say, miss,” Marcel said in a cracked old-timer’s voice. “I got me a turrible pain in my sacroiliac. Could Dr. Rodrigue see me this aft’noon?” He coughed wetly for effect.

  “Well, I don’t think so today, sir. Dr. Rodrigue’s out on a housecall just now, and I don’t know when to expect him. I could give you an appointment first thing tomorrow morning. Would that do?”

  “Don’t think so, missy. I’m in turrible pain. Reckon I better try somewheres else. Thankee now, hear?” Marcel hung up the telephone before the young woman could reply. He left the booth with a thoughtful expression on his face and joined Fred at the counter. His friend was chewing an enormous bite out of a hamburger.

  Fred cast a glance at his friend as he climbed up on the adjoining stool. “What’s the verdict, li’l brutha?”

  “Something’s goin’ on, Fred. But what, I don’t know.”

  Fred bit into the hamburger again. “What now?”

  “I want you to watch the pawnshop. Use the hotel lobby, because I want you to call into Mickey every hour at a quarter past. There’s a booth in the lobby where you can still see the pawnshop.”

  “Okay. What’re you gonna do?”

  “Talk to a couple of people, then go see a doctor.”

  Fred frowned as he chewed. “You feelin’ okay?”

  “I’ll let you know after I’ve seen the doctor.”

  ***

  It was nearly 11:30 AM when Farrell eased his convertible to a stop behind the Café Tristesse. Martinez had again fallen asleep in spite of his worry. Farrell had to shake him gently by the shoulder to arouse him.

  “C’mon, pardner. I’ve got a nice soft bed you can snooze on after you make that telephone call.”

  Martinez grunted, and allowed Farrell to help him out of the car and up to the apartment. Inside, they went to Farrell’s office, where Martinez sat down at the desk.

  “You could’ve told me where they were and we’d have them by now,” Farrell said.

  “It’s not that simple,” Martinez said. “I left them with a guy, and he’s got to hear from me. The way things are, I couldn’t go there in broad daylight, either. It could be bad for him, bad for me, too.”

  Farrell took off his hat and hung it on the tree beside the office door. “So where are they?”

  “Ozzy’s got ’em. I sent them to him by Railway Express messenger day before yesterday.”

  Farrell’s jaw tightened. “You picked a nice guy to play footsies with.”

  “He’s all right. We been friends for years,” Martinez replied. “At the time, he was the only person I knew I could trust.”

  Farrell bit back the words that rose in his throat. “Call him. Let’s get them before any more time goes by.”

  Martinez picked up the receiver and gave the operator the number for the pawnshop. After a brief wait, Martinez was speaking.

  “Oz? Can you talk? It’s Louie.” There was a pause as Martinez listened, then he said, “Look, I need to get my hands on the plates. Yeah, it’s important. I need them this afternoon. What? What do you mean they ain’t there? Where did you put ’em? For the love of Christ, Ozzy. When can you meet me there?” Martinez paused to look at his wristwatch. “Okay, okay. Yeah. I’ll be there.” Martinez put the receiver back into the cradle.

  “What’s the story?” Farrell asked.

  Martinez looked up at him, trying to keep the chagrin from his face. “I thought he was gonna stash them somewhere in the pawnshop, but he says he’s moved them.”

  “Where’s the hiding place?” Farrell was feeling his temper start to fray. Knowing that Oswald had lied to him made it that much harder to keep his anger under control.

  “He said for me to meet him in a commercial building off Tulane Avenue. It’s a place he owns and it hasn’t got any tenants in it now. Second floor.” Martinez gripped the arms of the chair and tried to stand, but his face went immediately pale and sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “You’re in no shape to go anywhere,” Farrell said. “I’ll have to go for you.”

  Martinez sagged in the chair. “He ain’t expecting you, Wes. He’ll get spooked.”

  Farrell bared his teeth. “Let him. I’m gonna have a word with that lying rat after I get the plates from him.”

  Martinez smiled, shook his head. “Chivato, the trouble with you is you got no sense of humor. Sure, Ozzy’s a rat and a coward, but at least he’s straight about it. How many honest, lying, yellow rats do you meet in this life?”

  Farrell was in a bad mood, but he couldn’t be mad at Martinez. They had been through too much together. “What time will he be at the meeting place?”

  “He said he’ll close the pawnshop at 12:00 noon and be there at 12:45. The building’s north of Tulane on Cortez. You can’t miss it. There’s nothing else in that block.”

  Farrell looked at his watch. He had better than a half-hour to get there and it wasn’t very far away. “You need anything? Food, drink, coffee?”

  “Nothin’, man. It’s good to just take it easy.”

  “Glad to see you, Louie. Why didn’t you come around when you’d hit town? It would’ve been like old times.”

  Martinez looked up at Farrell, who had eased a hip over the edge of the desk. “The truth is, you got too respectable. I figured you wouldn’t appreciate having a crook knocking on the door while you were doing all this honest toil. Maybe I was wrong about that.”

  Farrell nodded. “Dead wrong, you knucklehead.”

  The two men chatted amiab
ly for a while, exchanging stories and exaggerating them the way men will to evoke a laugh. Finally Farrell looked at his watch. “Time to go, Louie. I should be back soon.”

  “Think I’ll take you up on the offer of that bed, Wes. I ain’t slept much lately.”

  Farrell smiled. “Same here. Funny thing, isn’t it?”

  It took Farrell less than ten minutes to reach Tulane Avenue, and another three to arrive at South Cortez Street. He made the turn and found himself in a block with a few empty houses and a vacant commercial building that was in a state of disrepair. Some of the windows were boarded up and others had broken panes of glass. It had clearly not been occupied for some time.

  Farrell left the car and walked across the street to the building. Something about it bothered him, and without thinking he unbuttoned his jacket, letting his fingers brush the butt of his gun. The door was unlocked and slightly ajar. He stood looking at it for at least a minute before slowly mounting the stairs to the entry way and walking through the door.

  Inside the empty vestibule, he listened, straining for the slightest sound that might betray where Theron Oswald might be waiting. He didn’t like the quiet. If Oswald was expecting someone, why didn’t he make his presence known?

  Farrell found the stairs to the second floor and he mounted them slowly, keeping to the edge to minimize the number of creaks and groans the dried-out risers made. At the head of the stairs he was faced with a hall leading off to the left and right. Oswald had said nothing about that, nor in which direction he might be found. Farrell flipped a mental coin and went to the right. There were a series of doors on his left, and he paused at each one to push the door open. Each yawned into a dim, empty room.

  He had reached the last door on the hall when he heard a sound behind him, a scuff of leather on wood that was so faint that another man might not have heard it at all. He threw himself through the last door on his left, hearing the explosion of a heavy gun as he did so. He rolled on his shoulder into the room, losing his hat as he came upright. He flattened against the near wall, his Colt cocked in his right hand.

  He eased along the wall to the open door, forcing his quickened breathing back under control. His assailant was as quiet as cat. One harshly drawn breath could mask his slightest footfall. Farrell knew a good man when he met one, and this was one of the best.