Knock Knock Whos There

by James Hadley Chase

  there.”

  Massino thought for a moment.

  “A dog to its vomit. He could be heading back South.”

  “Yeah. Do you want me to alert the Florida police . . . can do.”

  Massino hesitated, then said, “No. I can handle this, but keep

  hunting for him in town.” A pause, then Massino said, “The next time

  you’re passing look in and see Andy. He’ll have something for you.”

  As Mulligan began mumbling thanks, Massino hung up.

  At 19.00, Massino was still at his desk. Spread out before him

  were the various items that Mulligan had sent him and that Toni and

  Ernie had found in Johnny’s apartment.

  Andy hovered behind him, chain smoking, but quiet. He could

  feel the intensity of Massino’s vicious fury that was only just under

  control.

  “So what have we got?” Massino demanded suddenly.

  “He’s our man,” Andy said. “No question about it now and he’s

  skipped town.”

  “Who the hell would have thought Johnny would have done this

  to me?” Massino asked, pushing back his chair. “The sonofabitch!

  Well, okay, I’ll turn the organization after him. It may take time, but

  they’ll find him and then he’ll wish he’d never been born!”

  Andy came to the desk.

  “This interests me, Mr. Joe,” he said and picked up a much

  thumbed copy of Yachts & Motorboats, a technical magazine for

  boat builders that Toni had found in Johnny’s apartment. “Why

  should Johnny have this?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Massino snarled. “It means

  nothing!”

  Andy was flicking through the pages, then he paused at an advert

  of a thirty-foot cabin cruiser that had been ringed by a pencil.

  “Look at this.”

  Massino glared at him.

  “So what?”

  “Do you think Johnny is interested in boats? Do you think his

  plan was to skip in a boat?”

  Massino became attentive.

  “Yeah . . . another pointer to the South.”

  “And this.” Andy picked up a gaudy Christmas card that Toni had

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  also found. Written in a spidery handwriting was the legend:

  Seeyousometime.

  GiovanniFuseli.

  Jackson.

  “Where the hell is Jackson and what’s so important about this

  goddamn thing?”

  “Jackson is around thirty miles from Jacksonville, Florida.”

  Then the telephone bell rang. Ernie was on the line.

  “Got something, boss,” he said, his voice excited. “Just been

  talking to a young punk who says he gave a ride to a guy who

  matches up with Bianda’s description. He dropped him off at Reddy’s

  cafe.”

  “Get him over here. I’ll show him Bianda’s photo.” Massino hung

  up, then looked at Andy. “Looks like Johnny got a ride out of town to

  Reddy’s cafe: that’s where the truckers stop before driving South,

  isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “South!” Massino said. “It all points south, doesn’t it? That’s

  where the bastard’s gone!”

  Fifteen minutes later, Ernie, accompanied by Joey, looking

  uneasy, came into the office.

  Massino pushed the photo across the desk.

  “That him?”

  Joey peered at the photo, then nodded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay.” Massino took out his wallet, found a five dollar bill and

  tossed it at Joey. “Get his name and address,” he said to Ernie, “and

  get him out of here.”

  “Wait.” Andy came forward as Joey started for the door. “This

  guy you gave a ride to was carrying two heavy bags . . . right?”

  Joey shook his head.

  “He wasn’t carrying a thing.”

  “He didn’t have even one bag?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Goddamn it!” Massino snarled. “He must have been carrying

  two bags!”

  Joey paled, but shook his head.

  “Honest, sir, he wasn’t carrying a thing!”

  “Okay,” Andy said quietly, “take him away.”

  As the office door shut, Massino glared at Andy. “You reckon the

  money’s still in town?”

  “No. Let’s look at this, Mr. Joe. Don’t let’s rush it.”

  Andy began to pace up and down and because Massino knew

  this little man was no fool, he restrained his impatience while he

  waited. Andy paused. “Bianda is a loner. He has no friends we’ve

  been able to dig up, yet he gets this Christmas card so he does have

  someone. He takes off, but he hasn’t the money with him and he

  must know he could never dare show his snout again in this town if

  he stashed it so it looks to me that he wasn’t working alone. Call this

  a hunch, Mr. Joe,” Andy paused, then went on, “Suppose this other

  guy Bianda was working with rushed the money out of town while

  Bianda was looking for his medal? Are you getting my thinking, Mr.

  Joe? Bianda and this other guy do the job. This other guy takes the

  money. Bianda goes back to his whore. The idea is none of us would

  suspect him of the steal. Then he finds the medal gone. He knows

  he’s cooked if the medal is found in my office. He has to be sure, but

  Benno has the cops here so Bianda panics, gets a ride out of town

  and beads south to join this other guy.” Andy leaned forward and

  tapped the Christmas card. “Fuselli. It’s my guess he’s this other

  guy.”

  Massino glowered at him.

  “You’re nuts! This Fuselli . . . how do you know because he sent a

  Christmas card that he is working with Bianda?”

  “I don’t know, but Bianda is a loner and here is someone who

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  kept in touch with him . . . someone living south.”

  Massino hesitated.

  “Well . . . could be. I’ll call Carlo. He’ll turn the Florida mob onto

  Fuselli.”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Joe,” Andy said. “There’s no rush to call in

  Tanza. We could handle this ourselves. Have you thought how much

  the Big Man will take if they go after Bianda? They would take half:

  $93,000! They could even take more. We know the way the Big Man

  operates. If he puts a finger on a man, sooner or later, that man’s

  dead. It might take a couple of years, but once the sign is on, that

  man’s dead. Suppose we send Toni and Ernie down to Jackson and

  check this Fuselli out first? If he’s our man, we save ourselves

  $93,000. If he’s in the clear and Bianda isn’t there, then we turn it

  over to Tanza. We lose a few days, but we can afford to do that.

  What do you think?”

  Massino considered this, then nodded.

  “Now you’re using your head, Andy,” he said. “Okay, get those

  two off by the first plane. Let’s take a look at Fuselli.”

  Ernie and Toni arrived at Jacksonville airport some minutes after

  11:00. They went immediately to Hertz Rent-a-car bureau and hired

  a Chevvy. While waiting for the car, Ernie asked the girl the best way

  to Jackson.

  “Follow the freeway to your right,” he was told. “No problem:

  Jackson is sign-posted: around thirty miles from here.”

  Ernie got in the passenger’s seat. Wh
en he could avoid any form

  of work, he did so. After all, Toni was five years his junior, was his

  reasoning, so why the hell shouldn’t he do the driving?

  On the freeway, he said, “Let’s get this organized, Toni. If we run

  into Johnny, you take care of him and Ill take care of Fuselli . . .

  right?”

  Toni stiffened.

  “Where do you get this I take care of Johnny crap?” Ernie hid a

  sly grin.

  “That’s what you want, isn’t it? You’ve always said you could

  beat Johnny to a draw. Looks to me, we’re heading for a show down.

  This is your chance to prove you’re better and faster with a gun than

  he is.”

  Toni shifted uneasily. Johnny’s past reputation had always hung

  over him like a dark cloud and was still hanging over him.

  “Maybe both of us had better take care of him,” he said. “That

  punk can shoot.”

  “So can you.” Ernie relaxed. “Didn’t you tell me only last week

  that Johnny was old and washed up? You take care of him. This

  Fuselli might be as fast as Johnny.”

  Toni felt sweat beads suddenly on his forehead.

  “So that’s fixed, huh?” Ernie said, enjoying himself. “We shoot

  first and talk after, huh?”

  Toni didn’t say anything. He was aware of a tight ball of fear in

  his guts. He drove in silence for ten miles, then aware that Ernie was

  dozing off, he said. “Do you think Johnny really took all that bread?”

  “Why not?” Ernie shook himself awake and lit a cigarette. “Boy!

  Could I use money like that! You know something, Toni? Johnny has

  more guts than you or me.”

  “Maybe, but he can’t get away with it. If we don’t find him, the

  Big Man will. The bastard’s stupid.”

  “Maybe, but he’s tried and that’s more than you and me would

  have done. There’s always a chance he just might get away with it.”

  Toni glanced at his fat companion.

  “You’re nuts! No one has ever beaten the organization and no

  one ever will. If it takes years, they’ll find him, if we don’t.”

  “But think of what he could do with all that bread even if he

  lasted only two years.”

  “To hell with the money! I’d rather stay alive!”

  “There’s the sign post,” Ernie said. “Jackson five miles.”

  “I can read,” Toni said and the knot of fear in his guts tightened.

  Jackson turned out to be a tiny fruit-growing town with a Main

  street, a number of fruit-canning factories and out-lying farms.

  69

  Toni drove down the Main street, passing a small, clean-looking

  hotel, the Post Office, a general store, a movie house and a cafe.

  “What a goddamn hole,” he said as he pulled up outside the

  cafe. “Let’s have a beer. Maybe we can get a lead on Fuselli.”

  They were aware that the people on the street, mostly old

  women and older men were staring curiously at them. They went

  into the cafe, crossed to the bar and hoisted themselves up on

  stools.

  There were a few old men sitting at tables, nursing glasses of

  beer, who gaped at them as if they were something out of a zoo.

  The barman, fat, balding, with a friendly red face, came to them.

  “Mornin’ gents. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Beers,” Ernie said.

  “Nice to see strangers in our town,” the barman went on as he

  drew beers, “Harry Dukes is the name. Welcome, gents.”

  In spite of his friendliness, Ernie could see Dukes was looking at

  them curiously as if trying to decide who and what they were. Toni’s

  black-and-pink-flowered kipper tie seemed to be bothering him.

  They drank, then Ernie said, “Nice little town you have here.”

  He always did the talking while Toni watched, listened and kept

  his mouth shut.

  “Not so bad, and thank you. A bit quiet, but it could be worse.

  Lots of old people here, but in the evenings it livens up when the

  boys and girls come in from picking.”

  “Yeah.” Ernie took out his wallet with a flourish and extracted a

  card he always carried around with him. The times this card had got

  him out of trouble and got him information were without number.

  He pushed the card across the counter.

  “This for me?” Dukes asked startled.

  “Just take a gander, friend.”

  Dukes went to the back of his bar and found a pair of spectacles.

  He put them on while Toni hissed softly under his breath; Ernie

  nudged him and Toni subsided.

  Dukes read:

  THE ALERT DETECTIVE AGENCY

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Presented by: Detective 1st Grade Jack Loosey

  He looked up, removed his spectacles and gaped. “This you?” he

  asked, tapping the card.

  “Yeah, and this is my assistant: Detective Morgan,” Ernie said.

  Dukes whistled softly. He was obviously impressed.

  “You know something? I had an idea there was something special

  about you two gents,” he said. “Detectives, huh?”

  “Private,” Ernie said gravely. “Maybe you can help us.”

  Dukes took a step back. He began to look worried.

  “Nothing in this little town for you, gents. I assure you.”

  “Have a drink and give us another beer.”

  Dukes hesitated, then drew three beers and stood, waiting.

  “We get all kinds of jobs,” Ernie said. “You’ve no idea. Does the

  name Giovanni Fuselli mean anything to you?”

  “Sure does.” Then Dukes stiffened and his eyes turned hostile.

  “What’s he to you?”

  Ernie grinned slyly.

  “Nothing to me, Mr. Dukes, but plenty to him. Does he live

  here?”

  Dukes had now turned very hostile.

  “If you want to know anything about Mr. Fuselli you go to the

  cops,” he said. “Mr. Fuselli is a fine gentleman. You go to the cops:

  don’t come here asking me questions.”

  Ernie sipped his beer and then laughed.

  “You’ve got me all wrong, Mr. Dukes. Our job is to find Mr.

  Fuselli. We’ve been told what a fine man he is. We’re trying to help

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  him. Between you and me, a relative of his has left him some money:

  his aunt died last year and we’re trying to clear up her estate.”

  Dukes hostility went away like a fist opening into a hand.

  “Is that right? Mr. Fuselli has come into money?”

  “He sure has. It’s not my business to tell you how much,” Ernie

  winked confidently, “but it’s a nice slice . . . We’ve been told he lives

  around here, but we haven’t his address. Like I said: we get all kinds

  of jobs. This is one of the nice ones.”

  Listening, Toni marvelled at Ernie’s glib talk and envied him. He

  knew he could never talk as convincingly as this.

  “Well, I’m glad. Mr. FuseIli is a good friend of mine,” Dukes said.

  “Right now, he’s away. What a shame! Left last week for a trip up

  north.”

  Ernie slopped some of his beer.

  “Is that right? Do you know how long he’ll be away?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Fuselli goes north from time to time. Sometimes he

  comes back in a week . . . sometimes in a month, but he always

  come
s back.” Dukes grinned. “Just shuts up his little house and takes

  off.”

  “North? Where?”

  Dukes shook his head.

  “Mr. Fuselli never says. He’ll come in here, have a beer, then he

  says to me, ‘Well, Harry, I guess I’ll go north for a while. See you

  when I get back.’ Mr. Fuselli never talks about himself and I don’t ask

  questions.”

  Ernie lit a cigarette while he thought.

  “Doesn’t someone look after his place while he’s away?”

  Dukes laughed.

  “Not much of a place to look after. No, I guess no one goes near

  it. It’s in a pretty lonely spot.”

  “Just where is it?”

  “Out on Hampton’s hill. You being a stranger here wouldn’t know

  Hampton’s hill, would you?”

  Containing his impatience with an effort, Ernie agreed.

  “Well, you go down Main street, take the dirt road to your left,

  drive up the hill for a couple of miles and pass Noddy Jenkin’s farm.

  Then you go on for another mile and you’ll see Mr. Fuselli’s place on

  your right: a little clapboard house, but he keeps it nice.”

  “We’d better write to him,” Ernie said and finished his beer. “The

  address is Hampton hill, Jackson?”

  “Yeah. This is good news about him inheriting money. An aunt?

  Jesus! She must have been old. Mr. Fuselli is pushing seventy.”

  Ernie gaped at him.

  “Seventy?”

  “That’s right. He had his seventy-second birthday last month, but

  he’s tough. Make no mistake about that . . . spry as a man half his

  age.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll be getting along. Nice meeting you, Mr.

  Dukes.”

  After shaking hands, Ernie followed Toni out into the sunshine.

  “Canned stuff and bread and a bottle of Scotch.”

  “What the hell for?” Toni demanded.

  “Go get enough food to last us a couple of days,” Ernie said.

  “Can’t you see all these old creeps are watching us?”

  Toni went down the street to the general store while Ernie got

  into the passenger’s seat of the car. He pushed his hat over his eyes

  and rested.

  After a while Toni came back with a big bag of groceries and a

  bottle of Scotch. He put the bag on the back seat, then got under the

  driving wheel.

  “So now what?”

  “We go to Hampton hill or whatever the hell it’s called,” Ernie

  said.

  “Is that such a hot idea?”

  “Use your nut. We flew down here. Johnny and Fuselli are driving