In a vague kind of way, I thought it would be nice if I could fasten King’s frame round his own neck and pin Judith’s murder good and tight on him. The more I thought about it, the more possible it seemed. Or it would seem to the Homicide Bureau.
Judith was his popsy-wopsy . . . Judith liked a different guy once in a while . . . one night she invites a gink called Glenn Bowman to be the different guy . . . having smelled two rats, King hides himself in the bathroom and bops Mister Bowman . . . then he gives popsy-wopsy the pay-off. . . .
Which would’ve made me several kinds of liar but no kind of killer. And Lieutenant Cooke wouldn’t want my scalp when he could have Gilmore’s. Although scalp wasn’t the end the law would go to work on when they stuck Gilmore in the hot squat. Furthermore, he deserved to burn for what either he or his hired shiv merchant had done to Cartwright.
Taken all round, I fancied that as the solution to my difficulties. The only problem was to get Gilmore’s co-operation; he wouldn’t fancy it. Big-time racketeers don’t pay five grand for the pleasure of being rail-roaded to the death-house for a killing they haven’t done.
With that thought in mind, I put on my coat and switched off the light and opened the door.
And the big guy who was standing outside in the hallway stepped in close and prodded me with something wrapped in a handkerchief. It felt like a gun. When I saw who was carrying it, I guessed it was a gun. I said, “How’s the arm, Tad?”
He grinned like an ape and his little simian eyes almost disappeared under his brows. They were thick, black bushy brows and they met in a fuzz on the bridge of his spatulate nose. If you could call it a bridge . . . or a nose.
With his breath hot on my face, he said, “I still got it in plaster and most of the time I keep it in a sling but I can use it now.” The gun was nearly boring a hole in me. “Handy thing to wear these slings. You can carry around all sorts of gimmicks without making your pockets bulge.”
I said, “So I see. But a knife doesn’t make a bulge or a noise. Why didn’t King send your pal who operated on that poor guy in Washington?”
“Because this is just an invitation—unless you act awkward.”
“What kind of invitation?”
“To pay a little visit.” The grin on Tad’s lumpy face became more animal than ever. “King wants to meet the character who can play the corpse in Washington and the stool-pigeon in New York.”
“Supposing I refuse to go?”
“Then you’ll play a new part. You’ll be the corpse that died. And one thing you can be sure of, brother——” he rammed the muzzle hard into me “—this time you’ll stay dead . . . which way d’you want it?”
“You’ve talked me into it,” I said. “Let’s go see Mister Richard Gilmore.”
He told me to shut the apartment door and lock it. Then he said, “Go on down the stairs. I’ll be right behind you. And I’ve got the gun inside my sling so I can get it out again fast enough to drill one helluva big hole through the back of your head. As you can bet your bottom dollar I will if you try to start something. Now make with the feet.”
We went along the hallway and down one flight of stairs. As we reached the first floor, the door of the Schwartzes apartment opened and Mendel came out. It was my chance to take a chance but I skipped it. You don’t take chances with another guy’s life when he’s got a wife and six kids.
Mendel gaped at me so wide his top set dropped and he had to make gagging noises until he pushed them up again. Then he wiped his hand across his mouth and came under the light in the ceiling to see me better. He said, “Oi, vey! What heart’s clappinish I got. The police were here and they told us you’d been killed in Washington . . . you were dead . . . with my own ears I heard them say they’d put you in the morgue so someone . . .”
“They had to let me go,” I said. “They couldn’t prove it.”
In a rumbling voice, Tad said, “Maybe soon they’ll have better luck . . . let’s go.”
Mendel was still yammering incoherently as we went down to the lobby and out into the street. The car that looked like a Brown and White was waiting at the kerb. I never saw the driver’s face. Tad and I got in.
Chapter XXII
Into the Pit
Whatever kind of life Richard Gilmore lived, it didn’t show on him. He had a fresh complexion and clear eyes and no signs of debauchery or an uneasy conscience. Sometimes I think bastards like Gilmore are born without a conscience.
To compensate for the lack of one, he had a ritzy joint up in the clouds—carpets, furnishings, and bric-à-brac regardless. After what I’d been warned in my youth about the wages of sin, King seemed to be doing all right.
He was in the middle of dinner when Tad and I walked in on him. A waiter with stooped shoulders and a pointed head was serving the entrée. Gilmore didn’t even look up.
I stood watching him and telling myself that Nature now and then works an unfunny joke on the innocents of this world. King had none of the marks of the devil on him. He looked ten years younger than the age they’d quoted in the. newspaper clippings Gerry Tate had loaned me. He had no trace of grey in his sleek hair, his face was unlined, and he wore a tuxedo with the kind of air that ought to go with good breeding. You’d hardly have known he’d started out as a louse and worked his way down.
Until the waiter left the room, he ignored me. Then he said, “Sit down, Bowman. Spent my five grand yet?”
“The guy you knifed in the Winchester Hotel got a twenty per cent cut,” I said.
“You weren’t very generous . . . were you?” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and sucked his lips while his eyes took me apart. “Teach him not to trust strangers in future, won’t it? A knife in the back for him and a pretty doll for you isn’t my idea of a fair split, either.”
“Let’s skip the idle chatter,” I said. “What do you want?”
“A little return for my investment. So far, I’ve had nothing for my five thousand dollars.”
“You’ve had my life—by proxy. That’s worth five G’s.”
Tad said, “Right now, that ain’t worth five cents—unless you learn to talk small.”
Gilmore smiled at me with his mouth and nodded reflectively. “He could be right you know. After all, you double-crossed me . . . didn’t you?”
“There’s a dead guy in Washington who’d vote that the funniest remark of the year,” I said.
“Y-e-e-s . . . maybe you got something there. Only thing is——” he took a fine gold cigarette case from his pocket and opened it and put a cigarette very fastidiously between his lips “—I’ve got the edge on you.” As he flicked a lighter that matched the cigarette case, he added, “What’ve you got?”
I could hear Tad close behind my chair. It didn’t make me feel so good.
Someone tapped at the door and the waiter came in again. When he was half-way to the table with his wagon, Gilmore said, “I don’t want any dessert. And you can clear away the dishes later.”
“Very good, sir. Will you be taking coffee?”
“I’ll ring when I want it. Otherwise, I’m not to be disturbed.”
The waiter repeated, “Very good, sir,” like he was expressing a favourable opinion. His remote eyes drifted over me with no more interest in them than if I’d been the pattern on the chair. Then he pushed his wagon out of the room with his back stooped like a solicitous nursemaid.
When the door clicked discreetly shut, Gilmore said, “They call me King, and I’ve heard people say the King can do no wrong. But that doesn’t go for a dime-store shamus. You took five grand for a service you didn’t render. What’re you going to do about it?”
“If I offered to refund your money,” I said, “that’d merely give you a great big laugh.”
“Sure. I don’t want my money back. But there’s another way you can even the score. Like to hear what it is?”
“Don’t be so damn polite. You don’t ask a guy what he likes when you have him brought in at the point of a gun.”
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“No, that’s true enough.” Gilmore pushed his chair back and got up and stuck his hands in his pants’ pockets. With the cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, he came round the end of the table and strolled towards me. The diamond studs in his shirt front flashed rainbow fire in the light. He looked nearly as prosperous as the dames in Europe imagine every G.I. is when he’s at home.
Beyond the heavy drapes drawn across the window, a sudden burst of rain slashed against the glass and the drapes stirred momentarily. Far down below the midget traffic made midget noises. It was cold and wet down there. Up where we were it was warm and brightly lit and comfortable. The things money can buy don’t ask you how you made the money.
Gilmore said, “I got a proposition. If you bring it off, we’re all square. You’ll have earned your dough and there’ll be no hard feelings on either side. How’s it sound?”
“This is going to be good,” I said. “What’s the proposition?”
He took the cigarette from his mouth and blew ash from the end of it without removing his eyes from mine. In a distant voice, he said, “When the police came and talked to me about one or two things only you should’ve known, I began to think somebody had made a mistake at the Winchester . . . so I had a couple of boys keep tabs on your apartment and your office in case you showed up after a while.” He swallowed a deep drag and funnelled smoke over his shirt-front and made big eyes at me. “Like you did this afternoon,” he said.
I said, “I didn’t need a crystal ball to know how Tad came to be parked outside my door. What’re you leading up to?”
“Just this.” His voice changed and there was nothing but naked cruelty in his face. “You paid a call on Lloyd Warner; you spent quite some time with him. When you left his office building, you were met by Warner’s daughter. She drove you to your apartment and she didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. . . .”
“So?”
“Well, it looks to me like you must be on pretty good terms with the Warners . . . especially Miss Deborah Warner. Tad called me to say you were both so quiet he thought you must’ve gone to bed. He made me rather curious. If it’s true——” Gilmore worked a scrap of tobacco to the tip of his tongue and spat it out “—compared with her sister she must be a pushover . . . it cost me a fortune and a lot of high-pressure salesmanship before I managed——”
“Put the lid back on the sewer,’ I said. “What’s the proposition?”
Something that could’ve been a roll of linoleum caught me one helluva crack just below the crown of the head. Next thing I knew, I was digging my face in the carpet at Gilmore’s feet. Out of a star-spangled haze, I dimly heard Tad say, “I’ve been wondering when I’d find a use for this plaster-cast . . . next time you pull any fresh cracks, I’ll beat your head in. Get up!”
I couldn’t. I tried but the farthest I got was to a hands-and-knees position. At that, Gilmore’s two legs became three and the floor sloped so I had to hold on or I’d have slid between his feet. Some day I’ll find out how to take it like they do in the movies.
Then I stopped hearing noises that weren’t there and the floor went level again. Very carefully, I got up. I said, “Next time, it won’t be your arm: it’ll be your neck.”
Gilmore said, “Keep your hands to yourself, Tad. I don’t mind what cracks he makes. If he pulls off the job I have for him, he can call me anything he pleases.”
“And if I don’t?” I said.
Gilmore looked at me and shook his head slowly from side to side. “Something tells me you will.”
“Meaning I’ve no choice?”
He shrugged. “Sure you’ve a choice. Either you do the job or I’ll have you sewn up in hessian and taken for a swim. It’s up to you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Tell me more about the job.”
“Nothing to it. Before I was interrupted, I suggested you were kinda friendly with the Warners. And that’s how you can repay me for the five grand: by acting as the key to his door.”
“Who walks through the door when I’ve opened it?”
“You should worry. From then on you’re in the clear. The rest is all according to how reasonable Mister Warner wants to be. He’s got something that’s mine.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as a guy with a loose lip,” Gilmore said harshly. “A guy who’s ready to spill his guts to the Grand Jury. I wouldn’t like him to do that . . . I intend to see he doesn’t. And you’re going to help me—or else.”
Tad was on one side of me and Gilmore on the other. Even if Tad hadn’t been wearing both my gun and his, there were still two of them. And two into one won’t go—except in Hollywood. Being kicked to death isn’t my favourite way of dying.
I said, “Say that again . . . and slower this time.”
“All you do is take one of my boys with you when you call on Warner. You tell your friend he’d better come up with the address where his witness is salted away. If he plays ball—O.K. If not——” Gilmore made a long face “—you get the picture, don’t you?”
Only a damn’ fool wouldn’t have got the picture. Either way, I was due for a bullet in the back. I could take Lloyd Warner with me or I could make the long trip alone. Soon’s my gunman escort had phoned the address to his boss, he’d let both Warner and me have it at the end of a little ride into the country . . . Warner with my Smith & Wesson and me with a gun that would have his fingerprints on it . . . no loose ends . . . if the police didn’t believe it had happened the way it looked, they’d never trace a hired rod from out of town.
Warner had lived too long. Judith Walker should’ve been the plug to stop his mouth but the stunt had failed because she’d taken a shot of doctored rye . . . and she’d doctored it herself because she was jealous of Carole Van Buren . . . through a crazy mistake she’d drunk some of her own doped liquor . . . and the crazy mistake was going to cost Warner his life. . . . All at once, I stopped worrying about Lloyd Warner and began worrying about me.
Gilmore sucked at his cigarette and blew smoke down his nose and watched me think my way back to where I’d started. Then very gently, he asked, “Well?”
“Don’t rush me,” I said. “Supposing he does play ball, you still won’t be out of the woods. Homicide will go on getting in your hair until they put their hooks on the party who gave Judith Walker the works. Have you forgotten about that?”
His eyes became puzzled. He said, “I’ve never even thought about it. I didn’t kill her. I’d like to get close to the sonovabitch who did.”
“Maybe you are close,” I said.
He went very still. As if with an effort, he turned his head and stared at Tad with an empty face. Then he looked at me again. Through tight lips, he said, “Meaning what?”
“Not Tad,” I said. “Not necessarily Tad. But someone in your organisation knew the set-up on the night Judith framed Lloyd Warner. Someone waited until Warner took it on the lam and then eased into the apartment . . . what made you break your date? Weren’t you supposed to walk in and catch the chairman of the Citizens’ Committee with lipstick smeared all over his puss from the kisses of a pretty lady wearing nothing but a cute nightgown?”
In a restless voice, Gilmore said, “Tad was keeping watch from the other side of Gifford Street. . . he saw you arrive and go on up . . . then he was supposed to follow you after a couple of minutes so’s to give Judith time to start screaming her head off . . . he was to act the neighbour who heard the row and rushed in . . . between Tad and you I’d have had Warner sewn up nice and tight. . . .”
“But?”
“The stunt went sour . . . that’s all.” With an irritable gesture, Gilmore turned back to the table and stubbed out his cigarette. “Before Tad could make his move——” Gilmore seemed to be disentangling the words from conflicting thoughts “—Warner came out . . . Tad didn’t know what to do so he called me from a pay station. . . . I told him to stick around and do nothing until he saw what was coming off . . . then a prowl car rolled up.”
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“And yet you can’t see the answer,” I said. “It sticks out like a sore thumb. Do you think Judith’s killer picked on that particular night by accident? It must’ve been planned the take place some time around two in the morning . . . Tad would’ve seen who it was if he hadn’t gone to call you. How would the guy who strangled her know the date and the hour unless——”
Tad said, “Look at me that way just once more and I’ll beat your gawddamned face in.” He brought his hand out of the sling and showed me my .38. “This guy’s stalling,” he told Gilmore. “If the party who killed Judith knew so much, he’d have known Warner was going to be in the apartment and Bowman would be there, too. Picking that night was the dumbest thing he could’ve done. I’ve got ten bucks that say shamus here is playing for time. And he’ll go on doing it if you let him.”
Gilmore studied me with narrowed eyes while he jingled some keys in his pocket. Then he glanced at Tad and nodded in confirmation. “I’d say you were right on the ball,” he said. “And there’s one thing more you left out: if the guy who rubbed out Judith was close to me, he’d have learned that you’d be parked outside the apartment block.” His eyes were bleak when they returned to mine. “What’re you trying to do, Bowman?” he asked. “Make trouble?”
“My mistake,” I said. “I thought you’d be interested to know who put the bee on your girl-friend.”
“As you say——” under his good looks he was as much of an animal as Tad “—that was your mistake. Judith was just another dame. I can afford variety. My only interest right now is to get Lloyd Warner from under my feet. After that, things’ll get back to normal.”
“After that,” I said, “you’ll never know when the character who threw a couple of slugs at you is going to try again. And he can’t miss every time.”
“How do you know he’ll try again?”
“Because he told me he will,” I said.
The Long Night Page 18