Through the half-open door he heard Bunty say in a dramatic whisper, “But he’s awful! You can’t go with him, Frankie! You simply can’t!”
He waited, his heart pounding, blood beating against his temples. Then the door opened, and she came out on to the sunlit landing.
She might have stepped out of her photograph, except she was smaller than he had imagined. She had a beautiful little figure that not even the severe pale blue linen dress could conceal. Her dark silky hair rested on her shoulders. Her smile was bright and sincere, and there was that look in her eyes that had had such an effect on him when he had seen her picture for the first time.
Her fresh young beauty paralyzed him, and he waited for her smile to fade and for disgust to come into her eyes, and his fingers tightened on the icepick.
But the smile didn’t fade; pleasure lit up her face as if she were really happy to see him. He stood there, staring at her, waiting for the change, and not believing it wouldn’t come.
“You must be Burt,” she said, coming to him and holding out her hand. “Terry said you were going to take his place. It’s sweet of you to have come at the last moment. I should have been sunk if you hadn’t come. I’ve been looking forward to this for days.”
His hand came out from inside his coat, leaving the icepick in its sheath. He felt her cool fingers slide into his hand and he looked down at her, watching her, waiting for the change, and then suddenly realizing with a sense of shock that it wasn’t coming.
II
The girl, Bunty, came out on to the landing, followed immediately by a tall, powerfully built young fellow with a crew haircut and a wide India-rubber grin. He was wearing a red-patterned shirt worn outside a pair of fawn slacks, and in his hand he carried a gay red-and-white striped holdall.
Still holding Pete’s hand, Frances turned and smiled at Bunty.
“Are you ready, then, at last?” she asked.
“Buster says if we don’t hurry we’ll miss the tide.”
“Burt, this is Buster Walker,” Frances said, turning to look at Pete. “You’ve already met Bunty, haven’t you?”
Pete’s eyes moved over the big fellow who pushed out his hand, grinning. There was no disgust, no surprise in the big fellow’s eyes, just a desire to be friendly.
“Glad to know you,” Buster said. “Sorry we couldn’t give you longer notice. I don’t know what I should have done if I had to have these two on my hands without support. It’s as much as I can do to manage Bunty.”
Pete muttered something as he shook hands.
“Would you like to leave those magazines and pick them up when we get back?” Frances asked, and held out her hand for them.
Pete let her take them. He watched her return to the apartment, lay them on the hall table, then shut the front door on the catch lock.
“Now, let’s go,” she said, and took his arm.
He allowed her to lead him down the stairs. He didn’t know what to do. His mind was confused. He knew he couldn’t turn on her now, not in cold blood, not a girl who hadn’t flinched away from him and who was actually holding his arm. If only it had been the other girl, the job would have been over by now.
As they walked down the stairs into the hall, Buster said, “I suppose Terry did tell you where we were going, Burt?”
Pete looked back over his shoulder.
“No . . . he didn’t say . . .”
“Isn’t that like Terry!” Buster exclaimed. The nut! Well, we’re going to spend the day on the beach, and take in the amusement park.”
“Buster imagines he’s going to take me on the Big Wheel,” Bunty said, “but he’s quite, quite mistaken. I wouldn’t go on that thing for Gregory Peck, let alone Buster Walker!”
Buster laughed.
“You’ll come on with me if I have to carry you.” He opened the front door and stood aside to let the girls pass. “I have a car at the corner,” he went on, falling into step with Pete. “I got a flat and I left it at the garage to be fixed.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw the curtain move again in the ground floor window, and again caught sight of a shadowy outline of a man, drawing back quickly.
“Old nosy-parker’s snooping again,” Bunty said scornfully. “That’s all he does, peep through the curtains.”
“Perhaps he’s lonely,” Frances said. “He never seems to go out, does he?”
“Oh, you’re hopeless, Frankie,” Bunty said impatiently. “You always find some excuse for lame dogs. The fact is he’s a nasty old drunk who spends all his time spying on people, and that’s all there is to it.”
Pete felt blood rise to his face. That was it, he thought. It’s pity. She’s one of those people who live by pity. That was why she hadn’t flinched when she had seen his face. She may have flinched inwardly, but rather than hurt his feelings, she had controlled her expression. Once again he felt the cold knot tighten inside him, and his hand went inside his coat and he touched the handle of the icepick.
The Packard was only twenty yards away. If he hit her now, he could reach the car before the other two could recover from the shock.
Again he knew he was deluding himself, for Frances and Bunty were now several yards ahead of him, and Buster was walking by his side.
He saw the Packard move forward and then stop, and he wondered what Moe was thinking. He felt a little chill run up his spine. Perhaps Moe would move into action. Suppose he shot her from the car? The moment the thought dropped into his mind, he quickened his step and closed the gap between himself and Frances, and walked just behind her, covering her back from Moe with his body.
Buster, determined to make conversation, began to talk about the prowess of the Brooklyn Dodgers, and kept up an enthusiastic harangue until they reached the garage where a small, battered sports car with two seats in front and a tiny bucket seat at the back stood waiting.
“There’s not much room,” Buster said, “but it goes all right. Bunty, you get in the back seat. Burt, you sit beside me and Frankie will sit on top of you. That okay?”
“Unless Burt thinks I’ll squash him,” Frances said, laughing.
Pete avoided her eyes.
“No, it’s all right,” he said, and climbed into the front seat.
Frances lowered herself on to his lap and put her arm round his shoulders. The feel of her soft young body and the smell of her faint perfume made his blood quicken. He sat motionless, his arm slackly round her, bemused. This was something that had never happened to him before; something that had happened only in his dreams.
Buster cranked the engine which started with a roar. Having made sure Bunty was settled in the back, he drove away from the garage and sent the car roaring towards the sea.
The noise of the engine prevented any conversation, and Pete was glad of the opportunity to savour this extraordinary experience of having a girl so close to him.
As the little car banged and bumped along at forty-five miles an hour, Frances had to cling to him and he to her to prevent her being thrown out. She was laughing, and once she screamed to Buster to drive more slowly, but he didn’t appear to hear her.
Pete suddenly realized that the odd feeling he was experiencing was the nearest to excited happiness he had ever known, and he found himself smiling at Frances as she clung to him, and he felt a tingle run up his spine as she laughed back at him.
The car’s off-wheel suddenly hit a pothole and jolted them violently together. Frances’s skirts shot up to show the tops of her stockings and the smooth white flesh of her thighs. Pete hurriedly pulled down her skirt to save her from untwining her arms from around his neck.
“Oh, thank you,” she gasped, her mouth close to his ear. This is really awful. We must stop him.”
But Buster had already slowed down and was grinning at Pete and winking.
“I knew that would happen sooner or later,” he bawled. It never fails to work. I always provide a free show for my male friends.”
“Buster! You behave yourself or we
’ll go home!” Bunty screamed at him.
Frances removed one arm from around Pete’s neck and anchored her skirts.
Long before they caught a glimpse of the sea, they heard the stupendous sound from the amusement park together with the shouting, screaming and laughing of the people like themselves who were stealing a day on the beach.
“I never know where all the people come from,” Frances cried above the noise of the car engine. “It doesn’t matter when you come here, it’s always crowded.”
Pete was about to say something when he happened to glance in the little circular mirror on the off-wing of the car. In its reflection he saw the battered outlines of the Packard and caught a glimpse of Moe’s sandy-coloured hair as he sat at the driving wheel.
Pete felt himself turn hot, then cold. He realized, with a feeling of bewilderment mixed with fear, that for the past ten minutes he had completely forgotten Moe and had forgotten the orders Seigel had given him.
Buster drove into a packed parking lot, edged in between two cars and cut the engine. Cars were arriving at the rate of ten a minute, and as the four walked from the car towards the beach, they were immediately hemmed in by the noisy, jostling, perspiring crowd.
Frances held on to Pete’s arm. He moved forward a step ahead of her, his shoulder turned slightly sideways to form a buffer against the swirling tide of people coming towards him. Buster led the way, cutting a path with his big shoulders for Bunty who walked immediately behind him, hanging on to his shirt tail.
They crawled past the low wooden buildings that housed fortune tellers, photographers with their comic animals and still more comic backgrounds, the freak shows and the hamburger stalls, being jostled, coming to a standstill, then moving on again.
From time to time Pete looked over his shoulder, but he couldn’t see any sign of Moe, and he hoped feverishly that they had lost him in this crowd.
Finally they reached the rails at the outer edge of the sea front. Not far away was the snake-like structure of a roller coaster whose cars roared and clattered up and down the steep inclines, carrying a screaming, shouting cargo of people, determined to enjoy themselves and determined to scream or shout louder than his or her neighbour.
Outlined against the sky was the colossal Giant Wheel that slowly revolved, carrying little cars slowly up into the heavens; cars that spun and swayed ominously on what appeared to be thread-like anchors.
The four of them faced the beach, looking along the three-mile strip of sand at the seething mass of humanity that lay on the sand, played ball, deck tennis, leapfrog or rushed madly into the oncoming breakers and filled the air with noise.
“Phew! Half the town seems to be here,” Buster said, surveying the scene with his wide, India-rubber grin. “Let’s get at it. We’ll have a swim first, then something to eat, then we’ll go to the amusement park. How about it?”
“Did you bring a swimsuit?” Frances asked, turning to Pete.
He shook his head.
“I’m afraid I don’t swim.”
He saw Bunty pull a little face and lift her shoulders in a why-on-earth-did-you-come-then? gesture, and he felt the blood rise to his face, and that angered him, for he knew when he flushed the naevus on his skin turned livid and made him look repulsive. He saw Bunty turn away so she need not look at him. But Frances was looking at him with no change of expression in her eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. We’ll sit on the beach and watch the others swim. I don’t feel like swimming myself.”
“No! Please; I want you to swim,” he said, trying to control his embarrassment.
“Burt will guard our clothes,” Buster said. “We shan’t be long. Come on, girls, let’s get to it.”
They began to make their way cautiously through the sprawling crowd, until they finally came upon a small clearing in the sand and hurriedly staked out their claim.
Buster was wearing a pair of swimming trunks under his clothes, and he was quickly stripped off. Pete eyed his muscles and his tanned body enviously.
Both the girls took off their shoes and stockings and slid out of their dresses. They both wore one-piece suits under their dresses, and Pete felt a little pang run through him when he looked at Frances. She had on an oyster-coloured swimsuit that moulded itself to her body. He thought she had the most beautiful figure he had ever seen.
As she adjusted her bathing cap, she went over to him.
“You’re sure you don’t mind being left? I’d just as soon stay.”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll wait for you.”
“Oh, come on, Frankie!” Bunty cried impatiently, and catching hold of Buster’s hand she ran with him down to the breakers and plunged in.
Frances smiled at Pete. It was unbelievable, he thought, a lump coming into his throat, that a girl as lovely as she was could look at him and smile at him like this: just as if he were an ordinary human being like Buster.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and went after the other two.
Pete sat with his fingers laced around his knees, his shoulders hunched, and watched her long, slim legs, her straight boyish back as she ran with that slightly awkward movement most young girls have when they run.
He watched her plunge into the water and swim with powerful strokes after the other two.
“Wad the hell are yuh playin’ at?” a voice snarled near him.
Pete stiffened and his heart skipped a beat. He looked quickly round.
Moe was sitting on his haunches, staring at Frances’s bobbing head as she swam farther out to sea. He looked an incongruous figure in his black suit, his handpainted tie and his pointed white shoes with black explosions, among the half-naked sunbathers sprawling around him.
“The man came to the door,” Pete said, speaking rapidly and trying to keep his voice steady. “Then the two girls came out. They mistook me for someone else. I hadn’t a chance to get going, so I went with them, and I’m waiting now to get her alone.”
“That’s wad happens when yuh don’t case the joint,” Moe said, his small eyes bright with suspicion. “I told that bum Louis.” He looked at his wristwatch. “The cops will be at her place by now. Yuh got to hit her quick, Pete.”
“Amongst this lot?” Pete said sarcastically.
Moe turned his head and looked at the Big Wheel as it carried the little cars far into the sky.
“Get her on the Big Wheel,” he said. “Yuh can be nice an’ private in one of those cars. Hit her when yuh get to the top and shove her under the seat. They won’t spot her before yuh get away.”
Pete suddenly felt sick.
“Okay,” he said.
“Don’t slip up on this,” Moe said, his voice suddenly harsh. “Yuh don’t make more than one mistake in this outfit. She’s got to be hit. That’s orders, and if yuh can’t do it, I can.”
“I said okay,” Pete returned curtly.
“It’d better be okay.” Moe got to his feet. “I’ll be around, Pete. Yuh ain’t got much time; use it or I will.”
Pete looked back over his shoulder and watched the broad-shouldered, squat figure walk across the sand, picking his way over recumbent bodies, bypassing children building castles in the sand, stepping past fat matrons in one-piece swimsuits, and their fatter husbands, lolling in deck chairs.
Pete watched him until, melting into the crowded background, he lost sight of him. But he knew he wouldn’t be far away, and he would be watching every move from now on.
Pete sat in the hot sun, sweat on his face and fear clutching at his heart. He faced up to the fact at last that he wasn’t going to kill Frances. He realized he had made up his mind about that when he had first seen her. He knew Moe would have struck her down as she came out on to the landing, and would have got away. He could have done the same thing, but that friendly smiling look in her eyes had saved her. He had to face up to the fact now, and he knew what it would mean. He was deliberately throwing his own life away. No one in the organization ever disobeyed an order
and survived. Several of them had kicked against the organization’s discipline: three of them had actually got out of town before the organization had realized they had gone. One of them reached New York, another Miami, and the third one had got as far as Milan, Italy, before the long arm of the organization had struck.
But Pete wasn’t thinking of himself. This girl was too young, too lovely and too kind to the, he thought, digging his fingers into the sand as he tried to think how to save her. If he delayed much longer, Moe might strike himself. He had the nerve to walk up to Frances, stab her on this crowded beach and then shoot his way out. Moe might do it, unless he was satisfied he was going ahead with the job.
The only safe thing he could do was to warn Frances, and then tackle Moe himself. If he killed Moe, Frances would have an hour or so to get out of town and hide herself somewhere before the organization realized she had slipped through their fingers.
He would have to be very careful how he tackled Moe. Already Moe was suspicious. Moe was very fast with a gun: faster than he ever could hope to be. He would have to lull his suspicions somehow, and then go for him at the right moment.
But first he had to warn Frances, and before he could do that he had to get her away from the other two. If he told her when they were there, Buster would probably call a cop and stop him fixing Moe.
Everything depended on Moe’s death, Pete told himself. He looked towards the glittering sea. Frances’s blue bathing cap was bobbing towards him: she was coming in.
He took a grip on his fluttering nerves and waited for her.
III
The black-and-white checkered police car swung into Lennox Avenue, slowed to a crawl while Conrad leaned out of the window to catch a glimpse of the numbers of the houses.
“Across the road, about ten yards up,” he said to Bardin, who was driving.
Bardin pulled across the road and stopped the car outside the four-storey house. Both men got out of the car and stood for a moment surveying the house.
Conrad’s heart was beating unevenly. He was excited. When McCann had telephoned through to his office to tell him the girl, Frances Coleman, had been located at 35, Lennox Avenue, he could scarcely wait for Bardin to collect him in the police car.
1953 - This Way for a Shroud Page 9