by Philip Race
Gina rose swiftly, gripped the lapels of my coat. "Listen, Berlin. Whatever you might think of me, you can't believe I'd shield my husband's murderer."
I pulled away, walked to the door. Gilbertson got up from the desk, joined me there.
"I've got to go," I said. My chest burned.
"I'll walk with you," Gilbertson announced.
"Johnny," Gina said. "I want to talk with you. Can't you be a little late tonight?"
"I'm going to be a little late. There's a little gathering I have to stop in on." I got the door open, stepped out into the hall. Gina's face appeared in the opening after Gilbertson had followed me out.
"What are you talking about?"
I lifted her chin, looked down into the dark eyes. "About a little house in Wood Town with a wreath on the door."
Gina's face drained. She jerked away from my hand, slammed the door. The sound echoed in the long corridor.
"Mr. Berlin," Gilbertson said, as we walked. "The thing I want you to remember is that I'm quite serious about hiring you. If you change your mind, let me know."
"No chance," I said, adding, "Gilbertson, you could do worse than this Messner. He's a good dealer."
"I know. But I distrust the man. I distrust any man that lives off a woman."
"You know about that, huh?"
"Very little around I don't know about, Berlin. And I'll know more. But Messner is not my man. We'll bring in someone, like we did Donetti. I might tell you that Gina thinks as you do. She's been trying all day to get me to hire Messner. Would you say that was odd?"
It didn't shake me nearly as bad as good old Horace thought it would. I'd been expecting it, as a matter of fact.
"I'd say it was Gina coppering her bets. As usual."
Gilbertson nodded, stepped outside into the Oregon night as I held the heavy glass door.
"Probably," he said. "Remember this. Seventy-five thousand is not all the money in the world. But it hasn't been found."
"It's enough," I said.
"Enough?"
We stopped on the immaculate steps, watched the drifting tendrils of red-bathed mist.
"Yeah. Enough motive for murder. It looks to me like Donetti tied up with a local boy to ramrod this scheme. Then he requested operating capital. When it arrived, the partner decided a bird in hand was worth a hell of a lot more than a hustler's promise. So he got a gun, went rooty-toot in the bushes and was home free."
"That sounds workable," Gilbertson admitted. "Plus the timing. You met Donetti as he was meeting our messenger with the money. Someone saw you together. The natural assumption would be that you were our man, sent to protect our investment." He grinned wryly in the artificial light. "Which wouldn't have been a bad idea, it now appears."
A lot of things got clearer then. The meeting on the foggy road, Donetti's proddy actions with me. His subsequent phone call to the Club Carroll which I hadn't answered.
I sucked a lungful of the cooling air.
"I'm hungry. I'll see you around. Tell Gina for me that she can quit trying. I'm not going to take the job."
Gilbertson brushed a finger over his mustache. His lemon-drop eyes glowed.
"I shall tell her," he said. "And I'll tell you something since you seem bent on messing in this thing. Find the girl Sheila. Talk with her. Perhaps she will tell you what we couldn't get out of her."
"Sheila?" I said, surprised. "What's she got to do with it?"
"Only this. Kilgallen works here, you know. He likes the girl. Well enough, in fact, to give her an alibi for the time of Carla's death." He clipped a cigar quickly, rolled it between pale lips. "Earlier today he confided in me. He was not, in fact, with the girl during the crucial time."
"Well, Sheila's here, isn't she? She works here."
"She left today. With her clothes."
"Did she see Messner when he was here?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know that Messner was here. Except that Gina says he was. At the moment I have no reason to doubt her. But to get back to the flaming Sheila. She is, I believe, deeply in the middle of this thing. I admit that I do not know how."
"I'll find out," I said. I walked down the steps to the graveled walk. "When I do, I'll let you know. Maybe."
"Berlin." I stopped, turned back. Gilbertson's compact figure was a dark blob against the lobby lights. "No maybe. Please believe this, I want to know."
"Okay," I said. "You'll know. But don't push on me, Gilbertson. Let me blunder in my own way."
I got the motor started, backed the Ford out into the driveway. Gilbertson waved from the porch, beckoned. I threw the heap in reverse, backed to the steps. "What is it?"
He leaned down, peered in the open window. "What is that girl's address, Berlin? The one that got killed."
I looked at him. His pink features were difficult to read, but I thought I knew what he was feeling now. Crook or no crook. He spun the cigar in his lips absently, waited for my answer.
"Thirty-eight Belden Circle," I said. "They're burying her tomorrow."
"Good," he said. "If you need help, Berlin, call me here."
"I will."
A lush figure materialized behind the banker. Gina, still wearing that jersey dress that would have been against the law in Paris.
"Johnny," she said, "I told you I wanted to talk to you."
I leaned out the window, looked up at her. "I got things to do, kid. See you around."
She came down the steps, brushing past Gilbertson. Her perfume swept into the car, mixed with the rush of warming air from the rattling heater.
"Johnny, you don't understand." Her fingers gripped my arm. Her head came down level with mine. "I want you to come to the bungalow. I've missed you, darling. I want to see you. Badly."
I couldn't see her eyes, but by now I didn't have to; I knew what they would be saying. I put the car in gear, touched my toe to the
accelerator.
"Take a cold swim," I said, and roared out of there.
Chapter 14
It was seven-twenty. I'd already made a flying visit to the Cherbourg. Now I drove the rented car along the beach road toward the Kilgore Hills. This was a suburban development, if McKaneville could be said to boast such, south and coastward of the town. Dan had told me Sheila had a small house there. On Crescenta Drive.
I found Crescenta Drive, all right. Kilgore was the main drag, running all the way from downtown, up the mountain and circling the development. Crescenta branched off this one, twisting oddly. The house wasn't hard to find, even in the fog.
It was a box affair, with canned lawn and do-it-yourself shrubbery, set back twenty feet from the street. There was no sidewalk. I got out, walked all around the joint. Nobody home. A window opened into what appeared to be a living room. I pulled it wider, peeked in. No sound. It was really empty. I noticed a film of dust on all the wooden surfaces. Sheila hadn't been home lately. The lawn was two inches too long. A collection of newspapers littered the porch. I tried the door, not knowing what else to do. It was locked.
Then I made the pilgrimage. And if you think it was easy, you're out of your skull. Wood Town—small houses and working people. I found the place.
I met a dewy sister, eyes still swimming with the dark syrup of grief; an older brother, balding and bewildered by the sudden loss; a mother and father, dry-eyed and stunned. It was a small house and my coming caused a ripple. The casket was closed. It was to stay that way. Mrs. Teacher met me at the door. Her eyes were dull and lifeless.
The people all looked at me. I stuck out in this joint and I should have been very uncomfortable, smarting with the knowledge that this was a part of existence I'd never known. But it didn't bother me at all. Not at all. I looked at the ugly box, the pitiful stacks of flowers; smelled the sickening, belly-gripping scent of funeral wreaths mixed with burning wax. Two enormous candles flanked the fancy box. It had brass findings. The furniture had been removed; folding chairs spaced about held the mourners. The candles were the only light.
"Did yo
u know my—" the voice broke, went on. "Carla?"
He was a small man. Normally the cheeks would have been rosy, pushed out and full of color. Now they were sallow, pointing up thinning, graying, once-yellow hair.
"You're Mr. Teacher," I said. "Yes, sir. I knew her. Not for long and not very well. But I knew her."
Nobody said anything for a while. I could hear the chirping of a nightbird from outside; the faraway whine of a saw at the rough mill. I stood and closed my eyes and tried to remember the eager young face. I could not.
That night at the club. I'd put her in the cab. I could have brought her here, to her home. Where loved ones and the deep buried respectability of the neighborhood would have protected her. Instead…
I turned sharply from the closed casket, walked to the outer door. My throat was tight and the candlesmoke was irritating my eyes.
"You're leaving, Mr... uh..."
"Berlin," I supplied, stopping at the door. Mr. Teacher and his wife followed. Their son and the remaining daughter crowded the parlor door. I could see curiosity pushing aside some of the grief and despair. "I work at the Club Cherbourg. I met Carla there briefly. She was a very nice girl."
The woman scrubbed her face against the man's chest and sobbed.
"Look," I said brusquely. "I didn't have time to get a wreath. I meant to. Please take this—" I got a bill from my wallet. "Do what you like with it."
"A hundred dollars?" Teacher looked up at me. "I can't take this, sir. Thank you just the same."
"You take it," I said. It was increasingly hard to talk. I wanted to get out of there. "Take it. And later someone will come with some more. A short man in a big car. You take that, too. You take it, hear?"
The door opened under my hand and I stepped onto the small porch. They crowded the doorway.
For the first time in my life I ran out of words. Clear out. My throat moved, but nothing happened. I bobbed my head at them, then stumbled off the porch and ran for the Ford.
* * *
The Cherbourg was loaded to the eaves. Twisting, sweating, laughing it up, a multitude of people with nothing better to do than manufacture their own Mardi Gras. Dan was doing fine. At this rate he and Bev would have that cruise, or whatever it was they wanted, pretty quick.
"Hi," a voice said.
I turned. It was Mickey System. His tie was again boisterous. His eyes were bright, the skin around them drawn tight. He wasn't grinning. Not a bit.
"Mickey. What's with it?"
Bad about the kid, huh?"
"Yes. That's the way it always is. Somebody who hasn't got a thing to do with it gets hurt."
Mickey looked around, gripped my sleeve. "Look, Johnny. I know you won't believe this, but I gotta tell you. I'm with you. You're trying to find out who pushed her. I'll help. Any way I can. I mean that."
I looked at him. His face was hard and the glaze had left the bulging eyes.
"How'd you know?" I asked. "About me looking for the killer?"
"It's around. You're looking for Sheila. You talked to that syndicate guy everyone's wondering about. Nobody else has, including the heat."
"You seen French?"
"I heard. He's in Roseburg. Checking out the car that killed the girl. Coley shut his joint down. Messner's out of work."
"Shut it down? Why?"
Mickey shrugged. "Who knows? Sheila, I guess. You know about that?"
"O'Rourke and Sheila? And her being Messner's old lady? Yeah. I know. Where is Messner?"
"I dunno." He moved close, murmured in low tones. "But I know you're messing in the thing."
"You know a lot for a guy who don't know nothing. Get away from me, hustler. When I want your help I'll let you know."
His eyes closed a little. Then he sighed. "Okay," he said. "I guess I got that coming. The offer still goes."
He spun and vanished into the crowd.
Condi nodded from behind the plank, beckoning with his chin. His double-black mustache wasn't twitching tonight. Everyone felt the loss of the girl, I guess. Whether they'd known her or not. You don't have to own the property to recognize waste when a house burns down.
"What, Condi?"
"Call for you. Several, Johnny. Some broad."
A tremor ran through my legs. "Who was it?"
"Nobody I recognized. Didn't leave a number. Where'll you be if she calls again?"
"Game room," I said. "Send me a double Scotch and water in a tall glass."
He nodded and I went into the back.
Players were three-deep behind the crap spread and the twenty-one snap was loaded. Guilt tugged at me. Dan Gurion, face flaming under his tan, worked the payout with Bev while Fran ran the game. The kid at the blackjack table was sweating and his eyes were strained. They'd all been working without letup.
I waved at Dan, motioned to the dealer to take a break and went behind the half-circle of baize and chrome.
The action was stiff and I hadn't dealt the card game in quite a while. One thing about twenty-one, it keeps a dealer awake. I flipped the plastic cards, rattled the chips and silver and thought about Sheila. What could the redhead know that everyone was looking for her? And who was the local man, the inside connection, who had worked with Donetti and then very probably killed him? O'Rourke? A possibility. But the skinny guy just didn't seem bad enough to me. I guess maybe a trained cop would say that didn't make any difference. Maybe so. Then there was my personal choice, Ford Messner. Something about that guy... Except Gina gave him a perfect alibi for the time of Carla Teacher's death. Which, according to French, eliminated him from Donetti's shove, too.
Lots of possibilities. God-damn pimp. Is that what the murdered man had said? Well, that opened a lot of doors. Condi Capucho, with the unlikely name and a passion for guns. Mickey System, a professional rube who'd steal the collection plate at a Sunday church service. Paul Carter, who maybe wasn't a pimp, strictly speaking. But he had the background for a push like this. Jack Kilgallen? No chance. The kid was too dumb and too salty. What I'd seen of Marino, he wouldn't have picked a no-talent like Kilgallen for a partner.
The kid came back. He had a tall drink in his hand which he handed me in exchange for his game.
Dan greeted me wearily. "Hi, Johnny. Boy, you should have been here tonight."
"I'm here now. Take a break."
The girls looked up, went back to work. Fran brushed the back of her hand over her eyes, droned the words of the game.
I ran Dan off, said to Bev, "Take a break. I'll take the payoff on both sides."
"You can't, Johnny," Fran said. "We're too busy."
I just looked at her. I had no words. The soft skin of her face glowed in the indirect lighting; there was no sign of a bruise or discoloration where I'd slapped her. But I could see one. And it stopped my tongue. I just shook my head, glad suddenly to be able to stand next to her, look at her, appreciate the cool womanliness.
Bev said, "Okay, boss," and squirmed out of the crush. Fran and I worked the layout and I had to call upon all of my experience, use all the tricks learned in twenty years of shuffling chips and watching dice, to keep up with the game.
I studied Fran. When she wasn't looking. When she reached out over the table to hook the dice, the firm, line of hip and thigh, breast and arm made the blood climb in my head.
"Comes go, Mr. Berlin," she said.
I flushed and moved chips around. She looked up, met my gaze levelly; her eyes were dark with liquid movement under the surface. The pale hair was flipped forward around clean features and the white collar of her dress kicked highlights up under the sweeping neck curve, firm underjaw.
"It's all right, Johnny," she said, so that only I could hear. "It's all right."
But it wasn't. And we both knew it.
We ran out of action at three-thirty. In atonement for having been late, I'd worked straight through. Fran had, too. She wouldn't quit and I realized it was something she had to do, so I didn't insist. She was dead tired when we quit.
The
big room was empty save for Dan and Condi when I carried the box out to make the count. The chairs and tables were scattered in a garish clutter; all lights had been turned off save the neon stripping behind the bar.
I was tired. Accumulation of wearies. I swung a leg over a stool, dumped the box on the hardwood.
The phone rang. It is very quiet in Edson at four in the morning. And doubly so in an empty night club. The clatter was enormous. I came awake first, reached over the bar, pulled the instrument to the wood.
"Cherbourg. Johnny Berlin."
"Johnny, listen," a woman's voice said. "I'm glad I finally got you. Johnny, I'm scared. They're crazy. It's out of hand and I'm afraid."
"Wait," I said. My hand gripped the phone so hard it hurt. "Sheila? Is that you?"
"Yes, yes! Listen. I had to sneak off..."
Her voice trailed off. I shouted into the phone.
"Sheila! Sheila, what's wrong?"
Her loud breathing came into my ear. Then she said, "I had to stop. Mops came by. You've got to get me out of here! You've—"
"Where are you? I'll be there as quick as possible."
"Oh, Johnny, hurry! I'll tell you—Don't!" There was a loud noise on the line, then a muffled scream. The phone buzzed emptily on the drum of my ear while I shouted like a crazy man into the mouthpiece at my end.
Then very softly the connection was broken.
I pressed down, still holding the phone to my ear. The operator came on and I asked for Police Headquarters.
"What is it, Johnny?" Dan asked. "Can I help?"
I waved him to silence, got French's home phone from the desk sergeant. Then I hung up, sat there for a minute thinking. Sheila was in danger. From whom, I didn't know. Unless that slip about Mops—obviously Mops Parisi, the ape I'd cut—meant anything. In which case it meant O'Rourke. Which meant the joint down the beach road.
"Dan, I gotta go."
Fran met me at the door.
"Johnny, where are you going?"
The girl stepped close to me, gripped the lapels of my coat. Her face was white in the near-gloom of the alcove.
"I've got something to do. Call this number till you get George French. Tell him I had Sheila on the phone. She was cut off. Chances are pretty good that she's being held somewhere against her will. He's got to start looking."