Killer Take All

by Philip Race

  "I went by the house on the way up to see you just now," he said. "Sheila's place, in the Hills. Just before I got there a car pulled out of the drive, speeded away without lights. I stopped and looked in the front window."

  He turned, eyes shadowed in the yellow dashlight.

  "She's dead, Johnny."

  Chapter 18

  I didn't hurt any more. The Buick howled up Kilgore to the Hills, circled around the top to Crescenta. Nobody spoke. There was nothing to say. My cast lay in my lap, bumping as we rode; the aches in my bruised body had retreated behind the undefined burn that was building in me, bubbling and hardening my face, pouring energy back into drained tissue.

  We pulled into the weed-grown drive and I got out alone.

  "Stay here."

  "Johnny, you better—"

  "Stay here until I get in, anyway."

  The porch had been cleared of its clutter. The front door, squares of thick glass in wood frames, was closed and locked. I tried to peer through, could see nothing. I touched the small window next to the knob with my good hand, drew back the cast and slammed it through the glass.

  Not very neat, but I was in. Glass crunched under my feet. The entrance hall was dark. I felt for light switches, found none and kept going. The living room opened off to the left. I stopped just outside the door, listened intently. Nothing. Nothing but the ordinary night sounds; wind softly working on the wires outside, the faint mutter of the Buick's engine.

  She was there. On the floor next to the spindle-legged writing desk. Her long legs were folded and wrapped with what looked like wire. Her arms had been crossed tight over her breasts and bound that way. Her face was turned away.

  I took a deep breath, was glad when it hurt inside. Then I walked forward, trying to look everywhere. A faint light from the high moon shone in the side window; a slant of it struck Sheila's face. Her lips were drawn back, an expression of horror stretching the sulky beauty of her features. There was a large bruise on one eye; a cut, dried and at least a day old, on her upper lip. The eyes were wide open.

  I was tight. Wound like a dollar watch. My right hand fumbled, found a large standard lamp. I squeezed it. After a moment I was all right. My belly cooled, seemed to grow tight.

  "The dirty bastards!"

  I kept saying it. It was silly, but I couldn't stop. The wall switch was handy; I flipped it. Soft lights sprang from all sides.

  The room hadn't been mussed. No struggle. Sheila's body lay on its side and I still didn't know why she'd died. I moved to it, rolled it on its back. I saw the weights. Sash weights, new and ugly, attached to the ropes that bound the girl.

  Steps on the porch. Mickey came in and it wasn't so bad any more.

  "Jesus Christ!" Mickey said. His cherub's face was old in the artificial light, lined and sick. He moved to the body, knelt.

  "What killed her?" It was my voice, but it had an echo-chamber effect in my head.

  He looked up. "Knife," he said. "Through the left breast. Real thin one. She bled, but her arms cover it."

  "She might have bled, but she didn't do it here."

  Mickey stood quickly, lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. He puffed out smoke. "How do you know?"

  I pointed to the corpse's feet. The shoes were black suede, thin soles with high, spiked heels.

  "Wet. Look at her feet. And the curve of the instep is clotted with mud. Take a look at it."

  He did.

  Mickey said, "Not loam, like the woods. It's red clay, Johnny."

  It all began dropping into place in my mind. I knew the whole bit. Well, almost all. It had to be Ford Messner. He was Donetti's double-crossing partner.

  "Any ground like that around Bowldersville?" I asked.

  Mickey straightened, brushed off his hands. "No, but there is around Coley's Club. The parking lot, anyway. Messner, huh?"

  "Messner," I said. "How'd you know?"

  He shrugged. "Doesn't take a detective. Weights tied on her. Messner's old lady and she was anxious to tell somebody something. Somebody other than Messner. So he pushes her. He has a boat."

  "Why would they bring her here from the club? Why not right onto the boat?"

  "Well," said Mickey. "Ford's boat is a twenty-four footer. Cabin cruiser called the Blue Chip. He can bring it down the channel right past the bottom of this hill. Maybe they changed their minds about sinking Sheila, in spite of the iron tied on her. What good does it do? When they ran, they're cooked. And it looks like they're running."

  "Where's Bowldersville?"

  "Straight down the other side of the Hills, here. About five miles over a secondary road. A bad road."

  "That means we got no time."

  I found the phone, picked it up. French wasn't at the station. I told the man on duty about the body, spelled out the location for him and instructed him to call George French. He told me to stay where I was which I had no intention of doing at all.

  Mickey prowled in the room behind me. I got the Devil's Play Spot, found out real quick that Mrs. Donetti had left with all her belongings.

  Then I had it. Every little bit. I asked to talk with Jack Kilgallen and while the connection was being made, Mickey dropped the last piece of the puzzle in place for me.

  "Hey, Johnny," he said. "I found a suitcase in the kitchen. Full of clothes."

  I turned. "That's it. That's what I've been trying to remember. Sheila had a suitcase when she left Marti Thayer's. It was there all the time."

  Mickey came into the hall. "What are you talking about?"

  "Nothing," I said. Then to the phone, "Hello, Kilgallen? Berlin. Yeah, never mind the salty dialogue. I need help."

  His voice crackled the receiver. "The help you get from me, Berlin, will turn up your toes."

  "So you don't like me. But you do like Sheila."

  The line buzzed emptily. I thought he'd hung up till I heard the shallow breathing.

  He said, "Okay, what's that supposed to mean?"

  "She's dead," I said, figuring to get him over it in a hurry. I needed him. "Now you know what she was scared of."

  The young voice was ragged. "The dirty rotten ..."

  "Easy, kid. I know how you feel. But you can do something about it if you want to."

  He sucked a breath that rattled the diaphragm. "What? Just let me know, that's all. Poor kid. All she wanted—"

  "All right, all right. We got no time for that. Tell me one thing. You gave Sheila an alibi for the murder of the Teacher girl. I want to know why. And I'm sure she told you."

  "She did," he said. "She'd been with Ford. All night. He had another story so she asked me to say I was with her. And I would have been, if she'd let me."

  "Thanks, Jack," I said softly. "Thanks a lot."

  "Anything I can—"

  "Yes. You can get to Bowldersville as fast as you can. I won't guarantee anything except you'll see the end of it. One way or another."

  "I'll be there," he said, and his tone was crisp again.

  "With a cannon."

  I hung up, spun to Mickey. "Let's go."

  "Where are we going?"

  "To the boat. We can't wait for George or they'll be out into the ocean. Maybe they'll get caught, but that's not good enough. I want it to be now and I want it to be me."

  We got into the Buick; its motor was still running.

  "How we gonna stop 'em?"

  I shook my head. How the hell did I know? I only knew I would—somehow.

  We went like a bomb, but I didn't worry about the flashing road, the heaving curves. I was tasting the salt-slap of eating my own ego and I didn't like it at all. Gina. All the time.

  She hadn't given Messner an alibi. He'd given her one.

  "Johnny..."

  "Yeah, what is it?"

  "What was the thing with the suitcase?"

  "Sheila had one. When she left Marti Thayer's. I should have seen the connection. It would have made everything clear right away."

  "I'm dumb," the hustler said, slitted eyes
on the rushing highway. "What's it mean?"

  I signed. "It means they knew I was coming. She had time to pack a bag, or someone packed it for her. The only way they could have known was if you told them, or if they got a call from the only other person who knew I was on my way to Welles."

  He glanced at me. "The Donetti broad?"

  "The Donetti broad. Get some speed out of this thing."

  It was only about nine o'clock, but already Bowldersville was rolled up and tucked in. Mickey briefed me on the place. There was no law, no sheriff's sub-station and, very probably, no telephone. But that didn't make any difference. We slowed through the one-street town, turned off to the fishing-dock area.

  It was quiet as a tomb; only the crash of surf and the whining cry of gulls disturbing the dark serenity.

  We left the Buick when we ran out of road, walked along the sea wall.

  "You know where we're going?"

  Mickey shrugged. "I know where Ford keeps his boat. That's what you want, ain't it?"

  "That's what I want."

  We walked a short fifty yards to where the sea wall split, allowing egress to a long dock, wide, of heavy wood. A shack stood by the near end, a light glowing feebly through a single window. Beyond the shack the pier stretched straight out into the bay, both sides studded with boats of all descriptions in berthing position.

  "How far out is it?"

  "Not far."

  Our footsteps sounded hollowly on the wood; the slap of water against pilings, against boat sides, drowned the wind noise. The night was dark. There were no lights on the pier.

  "Watch out for tackle," Mickey said.

  I followed his short figure, noticing as we went that some of the boats were not fishing types. There were canvas-shrouded speedboats; gently dipping cruisers, brightly painted and gleaming with chrome. I was glad fog hadn't come up. We'd never have made it the length of the pier.

  Mickey stopped. He threw up his arm, ran forward a few paces. He turned, his face a pale blob in the dark.

  "It's gone!" he cried. "The Blue Chip's gone!"

  I caught his arm. "It can't be. Look close. You sure this is his berth?"

  "Here. Right by that big, gray one." He found an upright stanchion, scraped at it. "Look here. See what it says?"

  It said, Ford Messner. And I knew I'd lost. The man responsible for the whole stinking mess was safely out to sea. With seventy-five thousand dollars to comfort him if he got moody; and Gina Donetti to warm him if he got cold.

  "There's a chance, Johnny. Not much, but a chance anyway."

  "What is it? Whatever it is, we'll take it."

  "Maybe they moved her in closer. They could anchor in the channel just off the beach at Coley's Club or downhill from the house. For a little while. They couldn't stay there long. But maybe they don't know they have to hurry. Why should they know the body's been found?"

  "It's worth a try. Let's go. Run for the car."

  Mickey grabbed my arm. "Wait. Here's a boat we can take. Belongs to a friend of mine."

  I looked at the open-cockpit speedboat he indicated. It bumped the weathered side of a high-bowed fishing trawler, nets hung on bunting folds over the rail.

  "Let's go," I said, jumping for the swaying boat.

  The wind had risen. Before long it would be blowing pretty hard. I prayed it would blow up a real storm and keep Ford Messner from chugging out to sea, free of the boil of corruption he'd fostered.

  Mickey got the engine started, cursing and pulling at things. Car headlights swirled at the village and a figure came out of the gloom, pounded along the sea wall, down the dock. More headlights stopped behind the first car.

  Mickey cast off the lines, threw the boat into reverse and we backed slowly out into the seaway.

  "Who is that?"

  I pulled the spotlight around, focused it on the pier and hit the switch. Jack Kilgallen ran through the beam, shouting and waving his hands. By now we were ten yards out and in open water.

  "Jack!" I shouted. The kid stopped on the pier, waved at us. "No. We got to go! Drive to Coley's Club. Coley's Club! Got that?"

  He nodded, started off. Mickey spun the boat out of the seaway, roared around the adjoining pier and into the channel.

  "We should have picked him up," he said, shouting over the motor's growl.

  "Why?"

  "He had a gun. I saw it in his hand."

  Mickey hit the throttle. The boat squatted like a happy puppy and surged through the dark water down the spotlight's white path.

  We found the Blue Chip. If they'd left anybody on it, we'd have been dead. Mickey roared up full throttle, then slacked off, threw the thing in reverse and raced the engine. We stopped like we had brakes, right alongside the cruiser.

  Nobody. And nothing. Lights glowed on the thing. But that figured. It was anchored right in the channel, its broad beam blocking all but the smallest craft. I went through the boat, came up empty. Absolutely empty.

  Not even a gun.

  I hopped back into the speedboat. "Nothing," I told Mickey. "Beach it. We'll hit the club."

  The shore was rocky mud flats and sparse bush growth. It sloped gently upward toward the road. We plowed the boat into mud, stuck and waded ashore. We hit the road twenty yards from Coley's Club.

  "Lights," Mickey said as we came up to the darker shadow that was the building. "Where?"

  "Other side. I see the glow."

  We got around the parking lot, saw a shaft of yellow stabbing from the office window. I slid along the rough side of the building. The cast on my arm hit a drainpipe: We froze. For a moment there was no sound, not even breathing. The voices from inside stopped. Mickey crouched low.

  A door opened and Ford Messner's voice came to us, drifting thinly in the dark. "What is it, Mops?"

  A thick figure rounded the corner, stared right at us, looked around. Then he turned back. The door slammed. The voices started up again.

  "Parisi," Mickey breathed. "Did he see us?"

  "No." I crawled toward the window. "Eyes weren't adjusted. Stay there. Be quiet."

  I looked inside. The first thing I saw was Gina. She wore a trenchcoat. The same one I'd first seen her in. She sat on the leather lounge, talking volubly to Messner. Coley O'Rourke was there. And he was a real surprise. He sat at his desk and his suit fit him as badly as ever. But now there were ropes running around his thin body, pinning it to the chair.

  Parisi, one arm in a red silk sling, worked clumsily setting a flock of suitcases by the door. Messner was busily transferring money from the desk top to a tan leather attache’ case. I listened closely.

  They were arguing. About leaving. Messner had the right idea. He knew Sheila would lead to him and no one else. Gina wanted to stick and fight it out. Then Ford said clearly, "Shut the hell up. You want to come, then come. Otherwise, get out of the way. We're leaving now."

  I backed out of there, met Mickey in the deep shadow. His eyes glowed.

  "What's up?"

  I gripped his arm. Tight. He tensed the muscle under my grip. "Hey, Johnny. Take it easy."

  "Mickey, listen. They're leaving. We'll have to stop them."

  The little crap shooter pulled on me, led me around to the front in the shadow of the rustic porch.

  "Listen, Johnny, you gotta unwind. You're like a gambler riding a streak. It's messing up your think-tank. We can't go against guns."

  His whispering voice carried sibilantly and my only thought was that they would leave or hear us. I knew enough about the country to know that if they got that cruiser outside the bay entrance, we'd never get them. Maybe somebody else would. But that wasn't good enough for me. Not now.

  "Mickey. Here's what we do. It's ten, twelve more minutes from that fishing village to here by the road than it is by boat. Right?"

  He nodded.

  "All right. Here's the bit. You take off up the road, toward Kilgore. Flag every car. With this joint closed there's no traffic on this road to speak of so the chances are pretty good t
hat the first car will be Jack Kilgallen. You turn him around. Get—"

  "Turn him around? You crazy? He's got a rod. At least well be able

  to—"

  "No dice. Listen to your Uncle Johnny. Hustle back to the Hills. To Sheila's. By now George French will be there."

  "Yeah, but these jerks are ready to leave now. Who's gonna hold Messner till the cops get here?"

  I took a breath, watched a flipping reel of my hard-won and stubbornly held values show fleetingly against the lowering night sky. The wind had risen pretty high. It howled. The slap of waves and the clean, sharp smell of the salt air made me aware of how alive I was.

  "Who's gonna hold 'em, Johnny? You?"

  I grinned in the darkness, tapped the little man with my cast.

  "Me," I said. "And my medical bludgeon. Now on your way."

  "No, Johnny. I won't let you do that. I'm not going."

  "Go on. I'll be all right. If you're back in fifteen minutes, I'll be here. And so will they."

  "How you gonna do it?"

  "Like Scheherazade. I'm going to walk in there and talk their ears off."

  Chapter 19

  One thing I forgot. Scheherazade was a woman.

  When I walked in that back door without pausing to knock, Gina screamed and Messner almost shot me before I could open my mouth.

  "Hold it!" I said. "For Christ's sake. It's me. Johnny Berlin."

  Messner straightened from a shooting crouch, a big .45 clutched in one, long-fingered hand. Gina sat bolt upright on the leather couch, one hand against her mouth. Parisi stood there with his jaw hanging, which was par for the course.

  "What do you gain by wasting me?" I asked, closing the door behind me. I lifted my arms slowly out from my sides, the ripped coat sleeve dangling from the arm with the cast on it. I smiled stiffly at Gina. "Wouldn't you think it was a waste, baby?"

  "What are you doing here?" Messner asked, lips thinned, white eyebrows high and tight in a bloodless forehead.

  I shrugged. "What's the difference? I'm here. Have the ape pat me, see that I'm light. Then I'll tell you a story. And you'll like it."

  "What makes you think so, wise guy? What the hell makes you think so?"