Pale Shadow

by Robert Skinner

  He dropped to one knee and crept to the opening. He darted his head around for a quick look, and was rewarded with another explosion. The bullet took a chunk out of the doorframe, scattering splinters everywhere. Farrell shook his head, shoved his .38 around the frame and fired blindly, twice. The gunman returned fire twice more, each time chewing up a piece of the doorframe. This is getting me nowhere, he thought impatiently.

  He cast a quick glance around the room, and saw a door in the wall behind him. He grabbed his hat and put it on, then gripped the knob of the door. He tried it, and it opened soundlessly into the next room. Farrell crept across the room where another door awaited him in the opposite wall. He opened that one. It was one more empty room with another door opposite. Each time he crossed a room, his risk increased. The gunman had to be in the next room or in the hall waiting for Farrell to show his head.

  “Come on out, Martinez,” a voice said. “I’m tired of huntin’ all over creation for you, boy. Reckon you’re gettin’ tired, too, particularly if that useless fuckin’ cop put a slug in you the other night. Gimme the plates and you can go on your way.”

  Farrell understood now. For some reason, Oswald had set Martinez up to be killed. He must be planning to make some deal with the plates, himself. He felt his skin grow hot as anger quickened his blood and caution dropped away from him like an unneeded garment. He crossed the room in a single bound and kicked the connecting door open. As it slammed back against the wall, he stepped through, saw a half-concealed figure just outside the room. He fired three shots from the hip as fast as he could squeeze the trigger.

  The man was not only good but lucky, too. Even as the sound of the shots thundered against the walls and ceiling, the man was moving backward through the blizzard of wood splinters and burst plaster. He fired at Farrell as he ran, each shot missing by no more than a hair’s breadth.

  Farrell moved through the noise and destruction like a hot wind, his rage and blood lust blotting out all but the faceless shadow that retreated down toward the opposite end of the building. His gun jumped in his hand until the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Farrell ejected the spent magazine on the run, slamming the fresh one in with the heel of his left hand. A door slammed ahead, and as he grew near, chunks of wood exploded outward as the other man fired through the door to slow Farrell up.

  He flattened against the wall beside the door, grabbed the handle and twisted it. It was locked. Sparks jumped from his pale eyes as he pointed his gun at the knob and fired twice. As the hardware flew from the wood, he kicked the door open and went in behind it. It took a moment for him to realize the room was empty. He crossed it, saw an adjoining room and passed into it.

  A breeze fluttered a rotting curtain over an open window. A fire escape lay beyond, and below he saw an empty back lot that opened onto a neighborhood of shotgun cottages. Nothing moved on the quiet street but a pair of mongrel dogs scrounging through an overturned garbage pail.

  He lowered the hammer on his gun and retraced his steps back into the hall. He saw spent cartridge cases and he stooped to retrieve one. It was a Western brand .45 auto. He felt a nerve pulse in his jaw as he remembered how close those shots had come. Farrell dropped the cartridge case into his jacket pocket and left the building. His next stop would be the pawnshop, and he grinned savagely as he anticipated the look on Theron Oswald’s face when he walked through that door.

  Chapter 14

  It was early afternoon when Frank Casey and Treasury Agent Paul Ewell were ushered into the office of A. J. McCandless. The hard-faced old man sat behind his desk, his cigarette holder jutting up from his mouth like a naval gun. He greeted the two lawmen with a grunt and a nod.

  “Thanks for seeing us, Mr. McCandless,” Casey said. “We realize you’ve got a lot on your mind just now.”

  “We’re terribly sorry about the death of Mr. Leake,” Ewell added. “That must’ve been quite a blow.”

  “What do you know about it so far?” McCandless asked, ignoring their sympathy.

  “Well,” Casey began. “There are things we know for a fact, and then there are the things we surmise.”

  “Don’t talk to me in riddles, Captain. I’m not in the humor for it. Marston Leake worked with me for twenty-five years, and he helped make this bank what it is today. I want his murderer on the gallows, and sooner, not later.”

  Casey had suffered the bluster of rich men more than once in his career. He had learned to ignore it. “Let’s take what we know for starts. Two men leave here in the late afternoon yesterday to go to dinner. A Negro gunman jumps out, threatens them, and according to the only witness, shoots Leake. He then turns and shoots the second victim before he runs off.”

  McCandless made a dismissive gesture. “What of it? The fellow was either frightened or under the influence of some narcotic. His erratic behavior certainly suggests it.”

  “Or maybe we’re meant to think that,” Ewell said.

  “What the devil do you mean by that?”

  “We’ve got evidence that the gunman lay in wait in that alley. That’s not the work of a drug addict, Mr. McCandless. That’s the work of a seasoned hunter, calmly waiting for his prey to walk past his stand. You’re enough of a hunter to know that.” Ewell gestured toward a wall decorated with antlers and trophy heads.

  McCandless ignored the observation. “What should he have done, struck a pose against the side of a building and then pulled his gun? Of course he lay in wait.”

  “Mr. McCandless, you’re a banker, and we wouldn’t dream of trying to tell you the complexities of banking,” Casey replied. “What we understand is criminal behavior, so let us tell you what we know from experience.

  “For a Negro gunman to have been in that part of the city,” Casey continued, “in broad daylight, under the influence of drugs or stone cold sober, is not only completely out of our experience, but it’s pretty unbelievable. To make it even more unlikely, the gunman executes one man, then only manages to wound the other before fleeing the scene.”

  “So what are you saying? That the Negro meant to kill Marston Leake? That it wasn’t an armed robbery?” McCandless pounded his desk, his face red with fury.

  Casey almost smiled at the fit of temper. “Mr. McCandless, if I were you, I’d calm down. We’re investigating a murder, and we’ll ask any question we think pertinent, and advance any theory we think plausible. Right now, I’m inclined to see this as murder, and not a robbery.”

  “And if I can put in the U. S. Government’s two cents,” Ewell added, “I think Casey’s right. We’re in the middle of a counterfeit currency investigation, a case that’s covering a six-state region so far. And in the middle of it, an important banking executive suddenly gets killed. My boss would have my head examined if I didn’t look into that.”

  “Which leaves us with two possible theories,” Casey interjected. “One, either Leake was involved with the counterfeit ring and suddenly became a liability—”

  “I’ve never heard such rot,” McCandless exclaimed.

  “—or he knew or found out something that made him dangerous to the operation.” Casey leaned forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on McCandless’s. “Did you know that Leake had been carrying a pistol?”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. When he was shot, he was reaching for a pistol he’d bought a couple of weeks before. If he’d been faster on the draw, he might still be here. Why should a bank executive start going around armed unless he had become unsure of his world?”

  Before McCandless could reply, Ewell broke in. “It struck me the other day that Leake was considerably more concerned about this counterfeit situation than the rest of you. Had he said anything to you that was out of the ordinary?”

  McCandless, still scowling, eased back in his chair, his eyes shifting nervously between the two policemen. “Leake was a worrier. It made him a valuable man because he left no T uncrossed, no I undotted. On the other hand, he was given to fits of worry, even flights of fancy at time
s.”

  Ewell reached into his inside pocket and removed a letter. “I’ve got something here that Mr. Leake must’ve written just before he was gunned down. It’s on First National stationery and it’s dated yesterday afternoon. It was delivered to my office in the morning mail.”

  McCandless lurched in his chair, and his eyes got suddenly large. “What this?”

  Ewell removed the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. “It’s not a long letter, but in it, Leake offers a theory as to how the counterfeit money has been released into the currency stream, and suggests why we haven’t found any of it in local banks.”

  “I’ve probably heard it before,” McCandless said. “He was bothering me with it a couple of days ago. I thought it was ridiculous.”

  “Well,” Ewell said, tapping the letter with a finger, “Mr. Leake isn’t such a neurotic knucklehead as you might think. For example, he suggests a reason why none of the counterfeit money has been found locally—that the counterfeiters are using New Orleans as a base. We found evidence out near the airport yesterday that bears that contention out. We’ve even got a lead on who some of the gang members are.”

  McCandless bit down hard on his cigarette holder and puffed smoke from it. “Incredible,” he muttered.

  “The fact that he was so completely correct about the location of the gang makes me take the rest of his theory seriously,” Ewell went on. “It may be too much to believe that employees of the Federal Reserve are directly implicated in funneling the phony money into the currency stream, but I can think of a few scenarios in which other people with temporary access to the money could, for example, switch genuine currency with fake while the money is in transit from the Federal Reserve to member banks.”

  Casey tugged thoughtfully at his earlobe and smiled at McCandless. “Mr. McCandless, Mr. Leake also said in his letter that you had taken to going to Atlanta by private plane several times a month on private business. That’s interesting in light of these revelations.”

  “How many people do you think Leake may have spoken to about his theory?” Ewell asked.

  McCandless was stiff and pale, his fingers tapping restlessly on the desk. “I—I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

  Casey leaned back comfortably in his chair and crossed his legs as he held McCandless’s eyes. “Because those people are all prime suspects in Mr. Leake’s murder. We’ll need to investigate everyone here with whom he had regular contact. Beginning with you, sir. Now, would you care to begin by explaining those trips to Atlanta?”

  ***

  Theron Oswald felt that with each passing moment he was aging several years. He had done business with a couple hundred criminals in his day, but none of them frightened him as completely as Dixie Ray Chavez. Oswald could still taste the oily hardness of that .45 in his mouth. He remembered how he had sucked on it, praying it wouldn’t go off, hoping he wouldn’t vomit on Chavez’s shoes. He’d soiled himself like a child, and the memory sickened him.

  He’d had to betray a friend to keep on living. The recognition of that was like a lump of lead in the pit of his stomach. He knew in his heart that Luis was no match for Dixie Ray Chavez, and that he had gone to his grave defiant. His hatred for Compasso was such that he’d never have given Chavez the satisfaction of giving him the plates.

  Now Luis was dead, and Oswald was the only person who even knew where the plates were. He refused to look at the desk, but they called to him, like the heart of a dead man buried beneath the floor. He wanted them out of his store, out of his life, but where would he find the courage to bring them into the light, even to dispose of them?

  Oswald felt an overwhelming urge to pray to God, to ask for His mercy, but he had forgotten how long ago. Somehow, he doubted it would do any good. He had heard that Catholics could confess their sins to a priest and receive absolution. He wondered if it was possible for a man raised Southern Baptist to work himself a deal like that.

  He sat behind the display case, waiting. He almost welcomed the customers who came in to pawn or redeem some item. He served them in an impersonal, unemotional way, glad for the distraction, fearing the moment when Chavez would return. Whether he had the plates or not, what use would Chavez have for him now?

  It was edging toward the middle of the afternoon when he heard the bell over the door sound. He turned and watched Chavez lock the door and pull down the shades. Oswald’s mouth and throat were like the tail end of a dust storm. He couldn’t even work up enough spit to speak.

  The killer turned, his eyes gleaming in the shadows of the shop. “You’re real cute, Oz. I figured you for just another two-bit sticky-fingered fence, but you got some balls, even some brains.”

  “M-man, I don’t know what you talkin’ about.”

  Chavez’s mouth opened and that peculiar giggle escaped. “There you was, settin’ up your buddy, and there I was, thinkin’ it was gonna be like shootin’ fish in a barrel.”

  “You d-done killed Luis, I guess.”

  “You guess? You guess?” Chavez laughed like a hyena. “You li’l beauty you. You set me up. You waited until I was gone and then you sicced Farrell on me.”

  Oswald was shaking his head dumbly. “Naw. Naw, man, I never—Why would I do that? You think I’d double-cross you? Naw, man. I ain’t crazy. Only somebody wantin’ to commit suicide would do that.” Somehow he modulated his voice so that it didn’t tremble with the overwhelming fear assailing him. Chavez had taken out his gun now, and was shaking it the way a teacher shakes a finger at the class cut-up.

  “Naw, Ozzy. You act scared and you act dumb, but you ain’t. You sent Farrell, and the sonofabitch nearly got me. He’s good. He’s every bit as good as they say he is. I am one lucky bastard today.” He reached down with his left hand and jacked a cartridge into the breech of his .45. The metallic clash was like the crack of doom in the dim room.

  Ozzy sank to his knees, and without thinking his hands came together in that same prayerful attitude as before. He couldn’t pray to God, but praying to Dixie Ray Chavez was easy. “P-please, man. I—I swear, I didn’t sell you out. I don’t know why Farrell showed up. Maybe—maybe Luis was hurt. Maybe he couldn’t make the trip and sent Farrell. They’s friends from way back. Yeah, yeah. That’s it. That’s gotta be how it happened. I—I wouldn’t—man, please—listen, I’ll give you—”

  “Shut up, Ozzy.” Like a snake striking, the .45 leveled and a lance of fire leaped across the room. A slug struck Oswald in the middle of his chest and slammed him against the display case. He slid slowly down then keeled over on his right shoulder. His eyes were open, and they seemed to be staring at his bent knee.

  “Lyin’, shit-faced punk. You won’t sell nobody else out.” Chavez walked to the body and kicked it until it slid over on its side. He let down the hammer on his gun and slipped it into the holster under his arm. He half turned, then saw the white paper sack on the counter. He walked over, looked inside, then closed the bag and shoved it into his coat pocket. He passed between the display cases to the back of the shop, unlocked the alley entrance. He checked to make sure the alley was empty, then left the store.

  ***

  After leaving Fred at the Metro, Marcel called a Negro doctor named Livaudais and asked him if he knew anything about Dr. Abraham Rodrigue. He quickly learned that no one had ever heard of him. There was no record of his having contacted the state or local Negro medical associations, he was unknown at Flint-Goodrich Hospital, nor could Dr. Livaudais find such a doctor registered anywhere in the state of Louisiana.

  Marcel called Rodrigue’s office again, but the story was the same. He hadn’t returned and might not for the rest of the day.

  Having tried every line of inquiry he could think of, Marcel drove Downtown to check with Fred and try once more to talk to the pawnshop owner.

  A short time later he parked a half block down from the Metro and hiked toward the shop. He was surprised to see Farrell approach from the opposite direction. Even from a distance, Marcel saw the expres
sion on Farrell’s face that meant trouble. He hurried to meet him.

  “What brings you down this way?” Marcel asked.

  “I’m about to have a talk with a pawnbroker,” Farrell said. His face was dark with suffused blood, and his eyes glowed with malice.

  “Me, too. What’s your beef with him?”

  The question brought Farrell up short. “You’re talking about Theron Oswald?”

  “Yep. I’m looking for a missing girl. I think she’s in the hands of a con man posing as a doctor. I believe Oswald’s got a connection to this con artist.”

  Farrell almost smiled. “Ozzy’s a busy boy. He’s also holding some counterfeit plates that a murderer wants in exchange for another missing girl.”

  “Wes, I learned from you that there’s no such thing as a coincidence. There’s gotta be a connection here.”

  Before Farrell could answer, Fred stepped up behind them. “Afternoon, Mist’ Farrell. Marcel, I been watchin’, but nobody’s come or gone from that place in a while, and so far none of Mickey’s boys has found a damn thing.”

  Marcel glanced across the street. “It’s still closed.”

  “Ozzy lives upstairs, and there’s a service entrance in the alley,” Farrell said. “Let’s go calling.” He turned and walked to the end of the block with the other two men behind him. It took only a few minutes to reach the alley.

  Farrell paused and drew his gun. “It’s unlocked. Let’s go—but be careful. I’ve been shot at once today already.”

  Fred gave Marcel a wide-eyed glance, then jerked his Colt from under his arm and followed Farrell into the shop.

  The back of the shop was poorly lit, but they were able to pick their way past shelves of musical instruments and a myriad collection of items until they reached the front.

  “Well, now we know why the place is closed,” Farrell said. “The owner’s taken a permanent vacation.” He walked to Oswald’s body, knelt down and shoved his fingers against the carotid artery. “Dead, and not all that long ago. Shot once by some heavy artillery.” He sniffed the air. “You can still smell the cordite. We just missed him.”