by P. N. Elrod
Bobbi and I were going to the movies, we’d still be able to catch the second feature.
The cops showed up in due time. At the last second, Escott cut away her gag, tossed it to me, and I slipped into the back. I waited long enough to hear the opening questions, then went out the window the same way I entered. My car and I were long gone by the time they were ready to take Selma away.
Bobbi had wanted to see Last of the Mohicans because she liked Randolph Scott, but Escott’s accent had given me a taste for Shakespeare, and I talked her into going to Romeo and Juliet instead. Much to her own surprise, she enjoyed it.
“You can understand what they’re saying in this one,” she commented during intermission. We’d arrived late and missed the newsreel and cartoon, but were in no particular hurry to leave. I bought her an extra soda and popcorn while we waited for the next cycle of features to start.
“Why not? The sound’s good.”
“Well, I saw this once as a stage play and it was awful. The actors were bellowing to reach the back row and talked so fast you couldn’t understand a thing. This kind of stuff you gotta talk clearly so you know what’s going on. I like it as a movie better than on the stage.”
“I should get you and Charles together to discuss it.”
“Oh, yeah, but he’s a good egg, he’d let me win just to be polite.”
“Don’t be too sure, he’s got some pretty firm ideas about the stage and Shakespeare in particular.”
“Staging I don’t know, but I could give him a tough time about Shakespeare.”
“How do you mean?”
“Like this show, it was good, but the girl was a nitwit for not running away from home to start with. That’s what I would have done. She was wearing enough jewels to live off of for years.”
“It wouldn’t have been a great tragedy, then.”
“Romeo could have swiped her money, left her stranded—anything could have happened.”
“That’s kind of a negative view.”
“It’s more believable than gulping down drugs to fake your own death. I think it stinks that Shakespeare didn’t let them get together in the end like they wanted, after all the trouble they went through. What made you want to see this instead of Randolph Scott?”
“He makes me jealous.”
“No, really.”
“They had the biggest ad in the paper and this is a fancier theater. I wanted to impress you.”
She glanced at our opulent surroundings. “It worked. They could show a blank screen and people would still pay admission to sit here.”
“They do.”
“What?” She was half-wary for a joke.
“No kiddin’, I knew this usher who swore to me that the ticket is for the chair you sit in, the movie itself is free.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Nah, that’s just the way it works out. This usher also told me that theaters make most of their money off popcorn sales.”
“It must take a hell of a lot of five-cent bags to pay the rent on this joint.”
“Eat up, then, I’ll get you another. I like this place.”
Another evening ended very pleasantly and as ever I was reluctant to leave. When I dragged my feet back to my hotel room in the small hours, though, I found Escott waiting for me. He was drowsing in my one chair, his feet propped up on the trunk.
I shook his shoulder. “Anything wrong?”
He blinked fully awake and alert. “I think not. Did you enjoy your movie?”
“How’d you know I went to a movie?”
He indicated the paper I’d left on the bed, opened to the entertainments section. “Or perhaps you went to a nightclub, but I recall hearing Miss Smythe state she was fed up with them for the time being.”
“She is, but how’d—”
“Her rose scent is quite distinctive, and traces of it linger on your clothes. What film did you see?”
“Romeo and Juliet. It was pretty good.”
“Yes, the principals were decent enough, if a little old for their parts, but the fellow playing Tybalt seemed to know what he was doing.”
I had no illusions that he’d been waiting all night to deliver a review. “Charles . . .”
He straightened, putting his feet on the floor and fixing me in one spot with a look. “I came by to have you satisfy my curiosity.”
“About what?” I tried to sound casual, but it wasn’t working. He was far too sharp for me to lie to him, but I wasn’t going to make it easy.
“About Selma Jenks . . . It was very odd, but when they began questioning her, she made a complete confession.”
“She did?”
“In fact, she confessed to every robbery and extortion she and her partner committed since they teamed up. She then told the police where he could be found. They lost no time bringing him in, though he was not nearly so cooperative as Selma.”
“Sounds like a good thing, though.”
“Yes, an excellent bit of luck. But now I’m curious as to what you said to her after you got me out of the room.”
“I want you to know that that was a legitimate request.”
“I don’t doubt it, but it was convenient for you. Did you hypnotize her?”
My tie suddenly felt too tight. I tore it loose and tossed it on the bed. He waited patiently, knowing there were some things about my nature I was reluctant to discuss.
“It seemed like the easiest thing to do. I didn’t want her talking about me or giving you more trouble than you needed. I just calmed her down and gave her a few suggestions.”
He was amused. I’d expected reproach. “Suggestions? Good Lord, you should be in the district attorney’s office with that talent. You’d never lose a case. I doubt if a priest could have gotten so thorough a confession.”
I shrugged. “But it showed. You knew.”
“Only because I got so well acquainted with her that afternoon. Her behavior at the station was normal enough, but such a flood of information was hardly in keeping with her personality.”
“You said she was a loony,” I pointed out.
He got up, stretching his muscles with small, subtle movements. “Why were you so reluctant to tell me about this?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to tip her off to any funny business, I didn’t want an audience, stuff like that. What I did, it’s not something . . . well, it’s . . .” I broke off with a tired and inadequate gesture for my feelings.
“Nothing you need be ashamed of,” he quietly concluded. He let that sink in for a thick moment, then picked up his hat. “Well, this has been a long day—and night.”
I grabbed at the change of subject. “You wait long?”
“No more than an hour.”
“You could have called me at Bobbi’s.”
“It was hardly a pressing issue, I’d no wish to disturb you. Phone calls at late hours are bad for the heart.”
“Thanks.” I meant it for more than just his consideration.
He echoed my reply from earlier. “Anytime.”
3
IT was one in the morning and the same pair of headlights had been bumping around in my rearview mirror for most of the night. I noticed them first when I left Chicago, assumed they belonged to a fellow traveler on the same route, and forgot about them.
I stopped briefly at an all-night service station in Indianapolis, stretched my legs, and bought some gas. Owing to a wrong turn and getting lost in some downtown streets for a while, I didn’t get back on the main road immediately. There wasn’t much traffic at that hour, but my eyes were occupied with things in front of me, so the car hanging fifty yards off my rear bumper went unnoticed. Finally on the right road again and mentally congratulating myself for getting unlost, I settled in for the last part of my drive, starting with a routine check in the mirror.
Until the night I woke up dead, I’d never been very paranoid, no more than anyone else, so the familiar look of the car took awhile to penetrate my unsuspec
ting skull. It wasn’t a conscious thought process; more like a gradual dawning. When the realization finally came it left me wondering how I could have been so slow.
My night vision allowed me to see past the glare of the headlights to the occupants of the car. There was little detail at this distance, I could only make out their figures: the slightly hunched posture of the driver, and next to him, a shorter man in a hat. They were in a black car, fairly new. I thought it was a Lincoln, but couldn’t be sure from the foreshortened image in the mirror.
Not quite ready to believe that they might be following me, I decided a little testing might break up the monotony of the trip. Easing slowly off the gas, I dropped my speed to ten miles below the limit. Most drivers will keep coming right up your tail until they get impatient enough to pass. But this guy was on the ball and his speed dropped as well. When I came to a hill and crested, I hit the gas and let the momentum bring me up to the limit and over. I gained half a mile on him while he was on the other side, but when his turn came he easily caught up. There was a lot of power under his hood.
It could have been coincidence, but I was disturbed. If they really were following me, I wanted to know why.
About twenty minutes later I signaled a right turn and leisurely pulled off the road onto the shoulder. The black car—it was a new Lincoln—went past without the men inside turning to look. I saw only a dark, blurred profile that could have been anyone. They continued on until a long, wide curve took them from sight.
Just in case they’d stopped and were watching from a distance, I got out, stretched, and walked into some sparse trees that sheltered the side of the road. As I walked, I made fiddling movements with my belt and fly. I didn’t have to go, but could pretend, and stood with my ears wide open. My hearing was extremely sensitive now, but the wind was blowing in the wrong direction for me to pick up any motor noises ahead. For the sake of my nerves, I dawdled another five minutes, leaning against the car and superficially puffing a cigarette for something to do.
Once back on the road, I eased up to speed with my eyes peeled, but there was no sign of them. I was still edgy. It had only been a couple of fast weeks since my life had been completely disrupted by some of the more violent members of Chicago’s gangland. The thought that some grudge-bearing survivors of that fracas might be after me was not a comfortable one. They’d killed me once already, once was more than enough.
Briefly, I thought about turning back, then vetoed the thought. More than half the journey was behind me, and if it came to it, I could handle two jokers playing road games. I had an errand in my hometown that I wanted to get done. If I ran into a little trouble along the way, I could always rag Escott about it later. The trip was originally his idea.
The second night after our match with Selma Jenks, I woke up and again found him sitting in my old chair. I never minded his drop-in visits because he always had a good reason behind them.
“Good evening,” he said. “At least I hope you will find it so. Things have cooled off a bit.”
Fairly indifferent to temperature changes, I couldn’t really tell, and found it hard to gauge the weather from the way he dressed. It was the middle of September, and though his suit was lightweight, every button on his vest was secure in its buttonhole. His neck was encased in a heavily starched detachable collar, which gave him a stiff and formal posture. He looked like a banker or a teacher of the old-fashioned sort. The intent was to boost the confidence of his clients.
“How’s tricks with you?” I greeted in return, getting out of my trunk.
“I have no complaints, though I’ve been busy.”
“New customers?”
“Old business. Since the influx of Mr. Swafford’s cash is legally declarable, I’ve been able to afford a few modest home improvements and to clear some other details up.”
“What details?”
“Your own case, for one. I’ve been tracking down the names on the infamous list you acquired—”
“I thought you were going to destroy it.”
“I will, but not until I’ve provided a little peace of mind for some of my fellow pilgrims.”
“Oh, yeah?” My tone asked him to enlarge on the subject while I brushed and gargled. My exclusive diet of whole blood sometimes made me subject to a slight breath problem. Thanks to modern hygienic products, I could still be socially acceptable, but had to be regular in habits.
The list had cost several lives, including my own. My breathing life and all the potentials that went with it were forever gone and I never wanted to see those scraps of disaster again. I should have been purposely disinterested in it, but a couple of weeks can be a long time. As Bobbi had observed, it was funny how you could get used to things.
Escott had long since broken the code it was typed in, revealing over two hundred names with skeletons in the closet. A smart blackmailer could make a fortune or wield considerable power, for without exception the names were those of important politicians, judges, lawyers, and cops, with a few big businessmen thrown in for good measure. Along with the names, the list provided the locations of the blackmail items, either incriminating documents or embarrassing pictures. Most of the stuff was stashed in a scattering of bus and train depot lockers throughout the area. He’d been collecting some of it today, and his briefcase bulged with enough scandals to keep the tabloids busy with hot headlines for months.
“I’m only halfway through it all; the hand delivery is what takes so long,” he said. “It is sometimes very difficult to set up an appointment with these fellows.”
“You’ve been giving it all back personally?”
“It’s no great hardship. Posting it would be easier, but allows the chance that a letter or parcel might be innocently opened by a third party. The victim’s life is either ruined by exposure, or they are still stuck with a blackmailing problem, but from a different quarter. It is not for me to judge the follies of my fellows, so I simply return the item, suggest they destroy it, and advise them to be more cautious in the future.”
“But they might think you’re the blackmailer, or in league with him if you run around doing that.”
His eyes crinkled and he shook his head. “Hardly, because I don’t look a bit like myself when I return the things.”
“What do you look like?”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t say, I might wish to try it on you sometime.”
“Oh, thanks. What kind of stuff did you pick up today?”
“The usual run of evidence of extramarital affairs, illegal business dealings, and tax frauds . . . Nothing really outstanding, though the names involved are surprisingly interesting.”
“Come on and drop one, I’m not a reporter anymore.”
“Well, I could mention the name of Hoover, but I shan’t tell which one or the nature of the blackmail article.”
He looked smug and left me guessing which Hoover: Herbert, J. Edgar, or the vacuum cleaner. I finished dressing and someone knocked on the door. It was the bellhop with my regular pile of papers. I tipped him and shut the door.
“Good heavens, you read all of those?”
“I’m addicted, but trying to taper off.” I opened the top paper to the personals page and checked the column of fine print. My notice was missing, but I was still hoping for a reply. I went through the rest of the stack in short order and dropped them to one side.
“What were you looking for?”
In answer, I fished an old paper from the trash, opened it to the right page, and pointed.
“ ‘Dearest Maureen, are you safe yet? Jack,’ ” he read. “I’d wondered if these were yours. This was the lady you knew in New York?”
I nodded. “That’s from the other day. I’ve had the ad canceled.”
He didn’t ask why, not aloud anyway, but looked curious.
“If she were alive . . . she would have . . .” I wanted to pace, but the room was too small. Instead I took the paper from him and shoved it back in the trash. As an afterthought I threw the res
t of them on top with it. “I looked for her. I’m no amateur, I know how to look for people, but this was like she dropped off the face of the earth.”
“You still have doubts,” he said kindly.
“I shouldn’t after all this time. I’ve got Bobbi to think of now, I’ve got a different life ahead of me.”
“And an unresolved question in your past. I would like to help, if you’ll allow me.”
“The trail’s five years cold. I couldn’t ask you to do it.”
“I’m volunteering. I’m planning to go to New York, anyway. If nothing turns up you’re no worse off than before, and if I do find anything, pleasant or not, it’s better than not knowing at all.”
“You know what it’s like, don’t you?”
His eyes flickered and settled. “I have an imagination.” Whatever it was, he didn’t want to talk about it, and changed the subject. “How is Miss Smythe doing these days?”
“Better since she quit the club. They put Gordy in charge of it.”
“How fortunate for him.”
“Anyway, she’s been busy doing some local broadcast shows and stuff. Next week she’s going to be on her first national broadcast. I’m going to drive her down to the studio.”
“How delightful. I’m truly happy for her. She appears to have fully recovered from her . . . uh . . . adventure.”
“I guess, she doesn’t talk much about that night, and I don’t bring it up if I can help it.”
“For all concerned, it’s probably for the best. Well, I did come by to ask a favor of you.”
“What?”
“I shall be out of town for a few days next week—my business in New York, you know—and was wondering if you would mind staying over at my house while I’m gone. I’m expecting a shipment from overseas and would be glad to have someone there to receive it.”
“They deliver after dark?”
“I could arrange that, yes.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Thank you, I appreciate this. I’ll have a duplicate key made up for you.”
“Were you serious about looking for Maureen?”