Pale Shadow

by Robert Skinner

***

  “What are you doing in here, Grossmann?” Compasso asked as he stood in the door to the study. He was in his shirtsleeves and his hair was in disarray. Grossmann fancied he could see flecks of red on the rolled sleeves of his shirt and on the pale skin of his arms.

  “Looking for another book. A rather poor selection here, if I may say so.” He pulled a mildewed volume of some forgotten Southern poet from a shelf and blew dust from the top edge.

  “We won’t be here much longer, so don’t get too engrossed in it.” Compasso walked past him to the table and sat down.

  “Oh? Leaving soon, are we?”

  “In about another hour I’ll phone Farrell and Martinez. We’ll arrange a meet to get the plates, and then it’ll be over. We can leave and reach the Texas border before tomorrow morning.”

  “I really wish you’d reconsider forcing me to accompany you. I’ll be no use to you at all. And driving south through Mexico this time of the year is singularly unappealing.”

  Compasso looked up at him. “If you prefer, I can leave you here. Rojo will see to your comfort with great pleasure.”

  Grossmann’s face was impassive but he quailed inwardly. As frightened as he was of Compasso, he was that much more afraid of Rojo. Without bothering to reply, he took the book of poetry back into the living room. He consulted his watch. It was nearly twenty minutes past six.

  He was feeling hungry, having been deprived of his dinner, so he walked to the kitchen. On the table he found the remains of a roasted chicken. It had been pretty well picked over, but there was a leg, a wing, and part of the left breast still on the bones. He sat down, wrenched the leg from the carcass, and bit a hunk out of it. It was wonderfully flavorful and juicy. He wondered as he chewed it if his proximity to violent death had anything to do with the heightened sense of taste he was experiencing. After a moment, he gave in to his senses and let his brain lie fallow. There was nothing he could do but wait, so he made himself as comfortable as he could. He still had his pistol, and help was coming. He would survive. He was convinced of it.

  ***

  It was nearly dark by the time they had the gargantuan Huey P. Long Bridge in sight. It soared into the sky at a greater height than the tallest steamship mast, and boasted lanes for automobile traffic as well as railroad tracks. Farrell never went over it without experiencing an attack of vertigo.

  They had driven through the semi-rural environs of Jefferson Parish without impediment. Marcel looked at his cousin, examining his face in an effort to know what went on in his mind at such times. He had seen Farrell in many moods, but whenever a fight loomed, some kind of inexplicable calm always took Farrell over. It was as though he had no fear of his own death, or perhaps he simply couldn’t imagine it. With his vivid imagination, Marcel could imagine it all too easily. Only once had he been in the kind of fight they were approaching. All he could remember of it was the explosion of violence at the beginning and the eerie calm at the end.

  As they passed the entrance ramp to the bridge, Farrell spoke in a low voice. “It won’t be far past here. It’s mostly trees and undeveloped land between here and Harahan. You got a gun, kid?”

  “Yeah,” Marcel replied. He could think of nothing else to say.

  “Yours is still in the trunk, Louie, but I don’t think Daggett would like me giving it to you. Maybe you’d better hang back on the outside. You’re still pretty weak.”

  “I can still kick your ass, chivato. Margaret is in this mess because of me. You think I’m just gonna take a seat at ringside?”

  Farrell laughed softly. “It’s your funeral—viejo.”

  They drove a short distance before Farrell picked up the beginning of the marl road in his headlights. He slowed to a stop and cut his lights. Off to the west, he could see a glow of lights. “That has to be the farm Grossmann was talking about. There’s nothing else out here to make that much light.” He got out of the car and motioned for the men in Daggett’s car to come up.

  The lights to the police car shut down along with the engine. Daggett’s party got out of the car. Daggett and Fred approached Farrell’s party while Andrews went to the trunk of the Dodge. He brought out a shotgun and two heavy flashlights. He handed one each to Fred and Marcel.

  At Farrell’s word, they started down the marl road until they came to the edge of the clearing. Lights were on in most of the downstairs windows. In the open door of the barn, they could plainly see the grillwork of a Lincoln limousine.

  “How do you want to work this?” Daggett asked.

  “Grossmann said Margaret’s being held in an upstairs room,” Farrell said. “I’m going to find a way to get up there so I can set her free.”

  Daggett grunted. “They’ll fight if we give ’em much of a chance. There’s too many of them to simply lie down. I’ll give you ten minutes to get up there, then I’ll have Fred and Andrews cover the back. Marcel can enter from the left side. I’ll take the front and try to surprise them.”

  “What about me?” Martinez asked.

  “Martinez, you’re under arrest. It’s only because of Mr. Farrell that you’re in this at all. Stick with me and watch my back. By the time cars get here from Jefferson Parish, you’ll already be in my custody. That’s all that’ll keep them from arresting you, understand?”

  “I understand.”

  Daggett drew his .38-44 Smith & Wesson from under his arm as he looked at Farrell. “It’s your party. Go blow out the candles.”

  Farrell touched two fingers to the brim of his hat and disappeared into the trees. His disappearance was so sudden and complete that it took some of them by surprise.

  As Farrell went deeper into the woods, he heard the unaccustomed sounds of insects, the slither of reptiles as he made his way past them. It was different from the cool, dark alleys of the city where the night creatures all moved on two legs. As he reached the northwest end of the house, he paused to study the structure. There were no lights on at that end, but there was a drainpipe to climb. He went to it, his footfalls silent on the dry grass and pine needles.

  When he reached the drainpipe, he listened intently. The muffled sound of music from a radio was the only human noise he heard. He grasped the pipe and tested it gingerly—it was loose, but it was the only avenue available. He planted a foot on the lowest bracket, gripped the galvanized metal, and began his ascent.

  It shook and groaned as he made his way up, each sound grating on his ears like fingernails on a chalkboard. He couldn’t imagine the inhabitants not hearing the sounds. He made the roof and knelt on it, listening again. His luck was holding so far. He cast a look at the clearing surrounding the house, but could see no one in the yard or anywhere near the outbuildings.

  The roof was nearly flat here, providing him easy access to the upstairs windows. He crept to the first one, found it open, and peered inside. Nothing. The next nearest window was a dormer projecting from an attic room. He climbed to it slowly, his leather soles threatening to slide from under him at each step. He hooked his fingers into the windowsill and pulled himself to the open window.

  Margaret slumped in a wooden chair, bound and gagged. In the moonlight he could see her clothes were in rags. He climbed over the sill and crept into the room. As a board creaked beneath his feet, she made a noise of alarm in her throat.

  “Quiet, Margaret. I’ve come to get you out.”

  She whimpered, and as he drew near her, he saw the bruises and welts on her skin. He pulled the gag gently from her mouth and she gasped with relief. “Get me out of here before he comes back. He’s been—”

  At that moment there was a terrific crash of broken glass downstairs, followed by two gunshots and a scream. Farrell pulled his razor from his coat and began to slice through the ropes binding the woman to the chair. She was nearly free when a shrill scream erupted from her. The door to the hall slammed open and a rectangle of pale light fell across them.

  In a single fluid motion, Farrell dropped the razor and drew. He fired twice at the silhouet
te in the doorway, saw it fall toward him. Before he could recover, another man launched himself across the room, knocking Farrell to the floor.

  The man’s weight and sheer physical power bore Farrell down and all but overwhelmed him. He lost the gun as he grappled with the man. He saw light glint from a long dagger in the man’s fist, saw the dagger fall toward him like a blade of lightning. Somehow he got an arm free, checking the fall as he grabbed the man’s wrist. It bought him a moment, but no more. His other hand was trapped between his body and that of his assailant. As the blade began another slow, inexorable descent, he fought his trapped hand lower, found the man’s testicles, and squeezed them as hard as he could.

  A bellow of pain erupted from the man as his body bucked in shock. Farrell used that moment of weakness to heave the man’s bulk from him. He rolled to the side, bounced to his feet like a cat as the other man struggled to his knees. Farrell kicked him in the face, felt things break under his toe. The man shuddered with the impact, dropped the knife. Farrell stepped in, grabbed him by the hair and hit him on the hinge of his jaw. He hit him again, and a third time. Light from the hall showed Rojo’s eyes were glazed, unseeing. He fell forward on his ruined face and didn’t move.

  Farrell felt himself trembling all over but refused give in to it. He grabbed the dagger from the floor and used it to slice through the rest of Margaret’s bonds. He retrieved his gun and jerked the wounded woman to her feet, pulling her toward the dimly lit hall.

  Below him, guns continued to explode. Daggett had caught two men by surprise when he destroyed the parlor window, and his first two shots had taken Tink in the chest. At the rear, Andrews’ shotgun made bloody smears of another man who ran out the kitchen door in an attempt to escape.

  Marcel entered through an open window at the opposite side of the house. As the gunfire began, a man went past, the back of his head exposed to a smashing blow with the flashlight.

  Daggett entered the house through the door with Martinez behind him. At some point in the battle, they became separated, but Daggett had no time to think of that. It was only when he saw Farrell appear on the stairs with Margaret Wilde in tow that he realized the fight was over. He began calling out to the other men, counting them off as they replied to his hail. “Martinez? Martinez? Anybody seen Martinez?”

  “I saw him run back out the front door,” Marcel said, pointing. “He picked up that man’s gun from the floor.”

  Farrell and Daggett looked at each other, then simultaneously broke for the door.

  ***

  “Let me go,” Grossmann cried. “Can’t you see it’s finished? Let me go before the police kill both of us.”

  “You will die, of that you can be certain,” Compasso hissed. “I don’t know how you did it, but I know you did this thing to me.” He jerked the fat man’s arm sharply up between his shoulder blades as he pushed him through the woods.

  Grossmann whimpered with pain as he slipped and stumbled through the underbrush. He still had his gun, but Compasso had him by the right arm and he couldn’t reach it. All my planning, all my study and it has to end like this. His thoughts were almost of a wondering kind. It was far too late to be frightened.

  They were nearing the highway when a man stepped from behind a tree. “Hola, amigo. Were you planning to go without saying hasta luego?”

  Compasso stopped short, bracing himself against the bulk of the fat man in front of him. He laughed as he recognized Luis Martinez. “Put down your gun, Luis. You can’t get a bullet through this bucket of lard.” He laughed again, aiming his Astra automatic past Grossmann’s meaty shoulder.

  “What you can’t go through, you must go around,” Martinez said philosophically. He fired twice at their legs. The first shot hit Grossmann in the left thigh, and he collapsed, screaming. Compasso fell with him, tangled in the fat man’s flailing limbs.

  Martinez walked slowly toward them as Compasso fought to free himself from his prisoner. Martinez laughed now, as though he were watching something comical on a movie screen. “Hey, Santiago, I got your plates. Want them back?” The gun in his hand bucked and roared four times, the muzzle flashes illuminating the violent spasms of Compasso’s death throes. Martinez continued to fire until the hammer on his revolver snapped dryly on an empty chamber. He was still snapping the empty gun when Farrell and Daggett arrived.

  Farrell went to him and gently plucked the gun from his unresisting fingers. “It’s all over, Louie. You can’t make him any deader.”

  On the ground, Grossmann groaned as he moved his heavy body away from Compasso’s. “Help me, for God’s sake. I’m grievously wounded. That lunatic shot me. Help, before I bleed to death.”

  Daggett bent over him and ripped open his trouser leg with a pocketknife. Blood welled in a hole, but it was clear the bullet had only drilled through the fat of his thigh. “You’ll live, Mr. Grossmann. Which reminds me, you’re under arrest for suspicion of murder.”

  “You—you can’t do that.”

  Daggett got out his cuffs and snapped them on one of Grossmann’s wrists. “No? I just did it.”

  “I claim diplomatic immunity. I demand to be taken to the German Consulate in New Orleans immediately. I am a German national traveling under a diplomatic passport.” He pulled it from his pocket and waved it at Daggett.

  Daggett looked at Farrell. “What the hell is he talkin’ about?”

  Farrell shoved his automatic back into his waistband and looked down on the fat man. “I’m not sure, but I think he’s telling you he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Maybe we ought to shoot him right here and now, because I think he’s responsible for this whole damned mess.”

  Grossmann’s round face paled. “You—you can’t do that. It’s contradictory to diplomatic agreement and a violation of international law.”

  Daggett grabbed Grossmann by the lapels and jerked him to his feet. He felt the hard weight in Grossmann’s jacket, reached in and found the Walther automatic. “Since when do diplomats carry guns? You’re comin’ with us, Mr. Grossmann. Passport or no passport, I’m gonna lock you up for carrying a concealed weapon. At least until I can find something better.”

  As Grossmann howled with pain, Daggett pushed him down the path leading back to the farmhouse.

  Farrell and Martinez fell into step behind Daggett and the protesting German. “Let’s go back to Margaret, Louie. She went through a lot to see you again. Daggett’ll let me drive the two of you back to town.”

  “What’ll they do with me, Wes?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll get you a good lawyer and we’ll see what can be done for you if you help the Feds. Frank Casey seems to think if you offer to turn state’s evidence with the U. S. Attorney that the local district attorney may waive prosecution on the other charges.”

  Martinez grinned sourly. “He ‘thinks’? Amigo, he’s shovin’ my head into the lion’s mouth.”

  “No, Louie. You did that a long time ago. You should have quit when you were ahead.”

  “Hey, compadre. You won’t give me a gun and a head start?” Martinez tried to inject humor into his voice, but it had a hollow, empty sound.

  “I wish I could, but those days are gone for me. They’re gone for you, too. You just didn’t see it.”

  Martinez was silent as they made their way back to the farmhouse. They found the place surrounded by Jefferson Parish sheriff’s cars and two from the New Orleans police. His father stood on the front porch talking to Lieutenant McGee, and Margaret Wilde sat on the steps with someone’s jacket over her shoulders. When she saw Farrell and Martinez approach, she got up and stumbled over to them. Farrell stepped away as she put her arms around Martinez’s neck. After a moment, he gently slipped an arm around her waist, and they walked slowly back to the house.

  Farrell got out his cigarette case and put one in his mouth. As he set fire to it, his father and McGee approached.

  “Farrell, is this your doin’?” the Jefferson Parish deputy demanded.

  “I told you I
’d bring Martinez in. This was what it took to make that happen. You ought to be happy, McGee.”

  “Happy, my ass. I—”

  “Before you get too wound up, let me fill you in on something. These guys were all guilty of Federal crimes. What’s more, that fat banker from the city claims he’s a German in the country on a diplomatic passport. He’s yelling for the German counsul.”

  Casey’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  “He’s mixed up with Compasso’s gang, and I’ve got a hunch that if you squeeze him hard enough, you’ll find out he’s the mystery man behind the counterfeiting racket and the one who wrote the contract on that dead banker Downtown. Daggett’s got cuffs on him, but he’s in your jurisdiction, McGee. Take him in and put him on bread and water until the New Orleans police can work the transfer. If he’s talking straight, it’s all you’ll get to do to him.”

  “He’s right,” Casey said. “Foreigners on diplomatic passports are immune from prosecution. Get him out of here, McGee. I’ll take my time getting back to you on his disposition.”

  McGee looked from Casey to Farrell, doubt written all over his face. “Casey, I’ll buy this on your say-so, but you—” He glared at Farrell. “If I find you in this parish two hours from now, I’m gonna arrest your miserable ass for withholding evidence, assault with a deadly weapon, and anything else I can think up.” He turned and walked away, his back and shoulders stiff.

  “You better go, son. I wish you’d done this a different way.”

  Farrell nodded. “Me, too. But I promised to turn Luis Martinez in and I’ve done it. He’s ready to spill his guts to the U. S. Attorney and he’ll take what the judge dishes out.”

  “You sound sorry.”

  “I don’t know what I feel.”

  Casey felt many things, but what he could say as a father, he couldn’t say as a police captain. “Go home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Is it all right if I take Luis and Margaret back to town in my car? I’ll bring them to you tomorrow.”

  “Fair enough.” Casey turned and walked back to the cluster of police cars, leaving Farrell standing alone.