Pale Shadow
Page 25
Marcel saw him, saw the way he held his body and the way he looked up at the sky. He was almost reluctant to bother him. When he thought he had waited long enough, he joined his cousin, and stood looking up at the stars with him.
“You all right, Marcel?”
“A little shaky, but all right. What’s gonna happen now?”
“The cops will clean up the bodies and take the rest to jail. I’m gonna take Luis and Margaret back with me in a few minutes. They need each other now, and he’s already agreed to turn state’s evidence. Maybe I can get him bail later on.”
“Mind if I go back with you? I’ve got some things I need to tell you.”
Something in his voice made Farrell look at him with a curious expression. “If you want.”
Epilogue
Early the next afternoon, Luis Martinez drove a borrowed car to St. Swithan’s Mission on Joliet Street. He was bathed and shaved and wore new clothes over the bandages. His left arm was still in a sling, but he managed the car without difficulty. He parked, then walked into the old church and saw the two pretty young girls manning the desk.
“I’m here to see Father James Maldonar. My name is Luis Martinez.”
“The Reverend Father’s in the sanctuary, Mr. Martinez. I’ll go and announce you,” the taller of the young women said. She ducked under the makeshift counter and led him to the back of the church. She knocked on the door and at the sound of a voice she opened it.
“A Mr. Martinez to see you, Father.”
“Yes, Rosary. Send him in, please,” the priest replied. He turned off the sun lamp he’d been sitting under, and with some difficulty got to his feet with one of the crutches. He hobbled painfully to the center of the room as Martinez entered the sanctuary.
“Wesley Farrell said you wanted to talk to me, Father, so here I am. Something about my mother?”
“Yes, my son. Please sit. I’ve been hoping against hope that you’d be found at last, and here you are. I wish I had good news about your mother. She is not well.”
Martinez looked stricken. He put his head in his hand. “Aiee. I haven’t talked to mamacita in such a long time. Tell me what is wrong.”
Maldonar leaned on his crutch and dragged his lame leg to Martinez, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Prepare yourself, my son. The news is hard. She has cancer of the lung, and is not long for this world. Even now, it may be too late, but one never knows. She wanted very much to see you before—before the end came.”
Martinez shuddered, and a wail escaped his mouth. “Dios— Mama, you are being made to pay for my sins.”
“Come, come. God doesn’t work that way, my son.”
Martinez choked, shaking his head. “No, I’ve done bad things. Terrible things. This is how I’m being paid for it.” He felt the priest’s comforting hand leave his shoulder, as though he was being repelled by Martinez’s confession. “Tell me more, my son. I can grant you absolution.”
“I’m a thief. I’ve killed some men. I helped a counterfeiter spread phony money into banks.”
“Then you must know where the plates are, right?” The priest’s words were punctuated by the sharp metallic sound of a hammer rolling back on a gun.
Martinez looked up slowly, found himself at eye level with the bore of a .45 automatic. “I didn’t know you could get absolution from a gun. Who are you really, Padre?”
“I’m the one who’s hunted you from Hell to breakfast, Luis. Now you tell me where the plates are, and maybe I won’t shoot you in the guts and leave you to die.” Dixie Ray Chavez’s dark face split into a pearly grin, his eyes hot and mad looking. A peculiar giggle came from between his clenched teeth.
Martinez’s face hardened as he looked from the dark bore of the Colt up into the killer’s eyes. “So it’s true. You’re the one who tortured Linda and Wisteria. You killed them.”
Chavez giggled again. “You shoulda heard that first woman. The whole time I was killin’ her, she was beggin’ me to stop, tellin’ me stuff I didn’t even want to know just to let her go. She offered to lay down for me, and don’t think I wasn’t tempted, lookin’ down on that fine, hard body of hers. Uhmm—uhmmmm. But I was hired to get the plates, so I kept burnin’ her with that hot iron. Y’know, it’s funny the way human meat smells like chicken when you’re cookin’ it.”
Martinez slowly stood up, clenching and unclenching the fist on his good arm. A vein stood out in his forehead and pulsed like something alive under his skin. “You think I’ll give you the plates?” He stood up straight, shifting his feet, watching the muzzle of the gun ape his movements, not caring at all whether he lived or died in that moment.
Dixie Ray Chavez licked his lips hungrily. “Oh, you’ll talk, Luis. See, I ain’t gonna do nothin’ to you here. We goin’ out that back door yonder to a place I got. That’s where I’ll go to work on you. The hot iron don’t work so well, but I bet a carvin’ knife’ll work. I’ll just take li’l slices out of your arms and legs. After while, the pain’ll be so bad you’ll sing your lungs out. You’ll beg to die.”
“No,” Martinez said slowly. “I’ll make you kill me here.”
Chavez giggled again as he raised the .45. “I ain’t got to kill you. A slug in the arm’ll do it, then you’ll behave. I’ll lay this gun across your head, then I’ll just tell the young gals out front that I dropped somethin’. Once I get this Goddamned brace off’n my leg, I’ll carry you out.” His arm was stretched at full length, his finger heavy on the trigger as Martinez walked toward him.
Harsh light brightened the room starkly as the back door to the office swung open. Chavez jerked around, his turn hindered by the brace. He desperately threw the muzzle of his gun at the silhouette of a man standing there, struggling to squeeze the trigger as the man’s gun spurted yellow flame at him. Chavez screamed as Farrell’s first two shots took him high in the chest and spun him around. He was falling when a third shot struck him in the middle of the back. He hit the floor hard, his body strangely numb to the impact. His fingers scrabbled clumsily over the floor toward the fallen gun. Just as he touched it, a foot trod viciously on his hand. A shoe stabbed into his ribs and turned him over on his back. His nerve endings felt dipped in acid, and a high-pitched feminine scream escaped his mouth. Each breath was like a hot iron stabbing into him, and it took a while for the red and yellow lights to stop flashing in front of his eyes. When he could see clearly, he found Wesley Farrell staring down at him with hot red eyes, his lips drawn back from his teeth in an animal snarl.
“You sonofabitch. How—?”
“You were good with that brace and crutches, Dixie Ray,” Farrell said. “I bought that hook, line, and sinker. That kid who shook hands with you yesterday, he doped it out. He saw the skin on your wrists. He had seen the medicine on Theron Oswald’s counter when he went in there. When it wasn’t there after you killed Oswald, we figured out that nobody but Dixie Ray Chavez could have taken it. It took a call to a pharmacist to help him remember that trioxalen is the most effective cure for vitiligo, and Father Maldonar was the only person in the picture who had vitiligo.”
Martinez listened as he stooped and picked up the .45 from the floor. He straightened up, holding the heavy automatic down beside his leg, his finger just touching the trigger. “This is Dixie Ray Chavez? It can’t be, Wes. Chavez is a white man. I saw him once in El Paso.” He shook his head, his eyes staring confusedly at his friend.
“That’s the cute part,” Farrell replied. “Marcel’s scientist said it was possible for a white man to turn himself dark with heavy doses of trioxalen and a sunlamp.” He pointed at the light still burning in the corner. “We found out from Wilbur Payne, who was Chavez’s buddy in Huntsville Prison, that even with Payne’s sources of supply they’d had trouble getting enough of the drug to keep Chavez’s skin pigment colored all over. That’s why he’s got the white patches on his wrists and neck. It was wearing off even with the help of the sunlamp.”
Martinez shook his head. “How long has t
his been goin’ on?”
“People in the neighborhood told Daggett’s men that Chavez turned up here just about the time you went on the lam with the plates—five weeks. He set up the mission and used it as a base to look for you. When he couldn’t flush you by himself, he began looking for your friends.”
Martinez’s face flattened as he looked down at the killer’s twisted dark face. “And you found them. The helpless ones.” His voice was soft, almost awed.
“The neighbors also told Daggett that he’s had trouble with his skin pigment all through that time,” Farrell continued. “They thought he was a saint who was sorely tried by God. That the patches were like stigmata.”
“A counterfeit negrito. That is the cutest trick of all.” Martinez sounded amused, but his eyes were flat, his fingers white around the butt of the .45.
Dixie Ray Chavez stared up at Farrell, grinning to cover the pain. “Y-you’re good, boy. B’lieve you done broke my back. I—I can’t move.”
Farrell stared pitilessly at him. “I guess I need a bigger gun. I was doing my best to kill you.”
Chavez tried to grin, but his eyes had a desperate gleam. “Man, I—I’m h-hurtin’ real b-bad. Help—me—please.”
Martinez stepped back, raising the pistol muzzle until it centered on Chavez’s inert body. “I’ll help you, hombre. I’ll sell you a ticket on the night train to hell.”
Farrell saw the sudden move and countered it. “Louie—put the gun down. It’s over now.” He saw the look in Martinez’s eyes, and felt suddenly afraid.
“Wes, don’t get in my way. I’ve gone along with this fandango as far as I can. I kill him and the debt’s paid. I walk out the door and disappear. Forever.”
“I gave my word, Luis. I said I’d bring you in.”
Martinez shot a tired look at his friend. “I can’t take ten years in prison. Not for you. Not for nobody.” He half-turned to face Farrell, his gun at waist level, but not pointing it at Farrell yet. It would take only a snap of the wrist to bring the heavy automatic to bear.
“Don’t be a fool. You think the cops can’t find you? Where the hell do you think you could go?”
Martinez shrugged. “Mexico, maybe. I get deep enough into the country, and nobody can find me. I can find myself a village and just become another old peon. I’m sorry, Wes. I don’t want to cause you any grief, but you see how it is. I won’t just turn myself in and give up. I never said I would. I was just goin’ along until I could even the score for Linda and the others.”
Farrell felt sick in his stomach. He felt his hand grow sweaty around the butt of his gun, tried to find the strength to turn it on his friend. “Use your head. I’ll do everything I can to help you. Walk out of here, and nobody can help you ever again.”
Martinez nodded miserably. “Yeah.” The automatic in his hand snapped up and the roar of a shot filled the small room. Martinez stared at Farrell, then down at the gun still cocked in his hand. It was only then that Farrell noticed the red stain spreading across his old friend’s shirtfront. He caught Martinez as he sagged and gently lowered him to the floor. Martinez grinned up at him, the old cocky grin from the days when he and Farrell had made their own rules and owned the dark streets of the City that Care Forgot. “Chivato,” he said in a whisper.
Farrell lost track of time as he stared into Martinez’s glassy eyes. He eased the dead man to the floor and stood up. Marcel stood beside him with an expression on his face Farrell had never seen there before. The boy looked sick and old. The .38 Detective Special hung limply in his grasp, the hand trembling.
Farrell put an arm around his cousin’s shoulder and hugged him, trying not let out the scream of rage and grief stuck in his throat. It seemed an eternity passed before he could trust himself to speak. “Let’s go home, kid.” He pulled Marcel to the door leading into the church and they walked out into the afternoon sunshine.
***
September 14, 1940
FINNS PRESSED BACK, ASK WORLD AID;
CALL BATTLE WORSE THAN WORLD WAR.
SENATE VOTES BILL FOR HELSINKI AID
RECORD NAVY BILL
CUT BY $111,699,699.
PUT UP TO HOUSE
NAZIS USE RED CRY IN PLEA TO LABOR
PRESIDENT DECIDES ON VACATION AT SEA
IN AIR OF MYSTERY
Frank Casey paused at the newsstand inside the Louisville and Nashville Railroad Station to scan the headlines as he and Treasury Agent Paul Ewell waited for the arrival of FBI agents who were flying in from Washington, D. C. Surrounded by plainclothesmen, Max Grossmann sat in a wheelchair off to the side.
“Any word on how the investigation in Atlanta is going?” Casey asked.
Ewell shook his head, his expression sour. “I’m not sure we’ll ever know the whole truth. They’ve rung the curtain down on this like it was a bad play. People I know there have told me confidentially that there have been a couple of low-level arrests. A mid-level Federal Reserve employee committed suicide at his desk last week. He was found to be a member in good standing of the German-American Bund, although he’d kept that a secret from his bosses. Two other employees have simply disappeared. They’ve got a dragnet out for them.”
“Sounds like the Reserve’s Board of Governors is making an effort to keep this quiet. I can’t say I blame them. It’s a pretty embarrassing mess.”
“They won’t be able to pull this trick again,” Ewell said. “After Grossmann spent a few days in the Jefferson Parish lockup, he was willing to cooperate. We also picked up a master engraver named Michael Hardesty and Abe Appleyard, a top-notch chemist, and they sang like sparrows. Between the three of them, we figured out that they sent disguised boxes of phony money by Railway Express to a non-existent business set up by the Federal Reserve employee in Atlanta. He bribed some drivers and guards with the armored car firm that transferred money from Atlanta to the banks in other states, and they made the switch with the phony money before they left the Atlanta city limits. They got a nice payoff, while it lasted.”
“Pretty slick work,” Casey said. “As well organized as anything I’ve seen in thirty years.”
“And how,” Ewell agreed. “It’s taught me a lesson, though. We think we’re immune to all that’s going on over in Europe and Asia, but we’re sitting ducks for anybody who wants to come here and throw a monkey wrench into our gear box. We’ve been given orders from upstairs to open files on certain people and to step up surveillance activities. They won’t admit it, but they’re scared.”
Casey nodded. “I don’t blame them. I’m getting so I can’t stand to read the newspaper or listen to the war news on the radio. There’s trouble coming, Paul. We’re big, but we’re gonna get hurt.”
Ewell nodded. “I’ve got a son in college. I hate to think of him going to war.” He paused until the silence between them became too heavy. “You figured out all the connections in this mess?”
“After they operated on Chavez, he admitted that Grossmann had hired him to come to town and track down Luis Martinez. He used a drug to disguise himself as a Negro and trussed himself up in a brace to pretend he was a cripple. He said it all made him invisible. If he hadn’t had so many bases to cover, things might’ve worked out better for Grossmann.”
“What do you mean?”
“Chavez was trying to keep an eye on both Farrell and Oswald, and he was managing it pretty well. But when Marston Leake virtually figured out the counterfeiting conspiracy in front of Grossmann, Grossmann panicked and pulled Chavez in long enough to kill Leake. He didn’t know Leake had already sent that letter to you just before his death. Once we spilled the beans to McCandless and ordered the interrogation of senior bank officals, Grossmann decided to cut his losses and make a run for it. If Compasso hadn’t grabbed him, they all might’ve gotten away, and Chavez might actually have been able to recover the plates.” He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I thought McCandless was in it up to his neck until he admitted his trips to Atlanta were to sp
end time with a mistress.” He laughed. “I’d love to hear what his wife had to say when that all came out.”
“And now everybody else is dead or in jail—except Chavez and Grossmann,” Ewell said sourly. “Grossmann we can’t touch, and Chavez is paralyzed from the chest down so he’ll escape the death penalty. Hell of a note.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a carload of FBI agents, crisply dressed young men with dark suits and serious expressions. Their leader took out his shield and identification card and held it so Casey and Ewell could see it.
“Special Agent Mark Deane. Are you Captain Casey and Special Agent Ewell?”
Casey and Ewell took out their own identification and held them for Deane. “That’s us. We’ve got your man over there.” Casey jerked a thumb at the fat man and his three plainclothes baby sitters. “Do you know what they’re going to do with him when you get him to Washington?”
Deane shook his head. “Hush-hush. I could tell you if I knew, but I don’t. Since he’s got diplomatic credentials, they have to turn him over to his ambassador—according to the law. After all, we’re supposed to be on good terms with the Germans.” Deane almost smiled.
“That’s what I figured. Pardon me if I don’t give three cheers. Let’s get this over with.” He turned and led Ewell and the FBI agent to the wounded German. Grossmann looked up, mildly curious.
“Is it time for us to go, gentlemen?”
“If it were up to me, you’d be taking a much shorter trip, Mr. Grossmann, if that’s your real name. When the doctor examined you prior to surgery, he discovered you weren’t Jewish. This is FBI Agent Deane. You’re his problem as of now.”
“Well, I’m ready to go. I’m rather homesick, if you must know the truth.”
Deane handed Casey some documents, which Casey signed with Deane’s fountain pen. When it was over, Casey nodded to his plainclothes contingent and they withdrew so the FBI agents could take Grossmann in charge. As they got ready to leave for the special private car on the outgoing eastbound train, Casey asked Deane for a moment to speak to Grossmann.