by Unknown
“Kleinschmidt ought to be along shortly,” Canavan said. “He’ll probably bring a platoon with him.”
“I see.” Kolinski did not seem worried. The big red-leather swivel chair creaked under his weight. “You must have fixed up a pretty good story, cop.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Canavan said. He watched Maury from the corner of his eye.
Kolinski sucked at his fat lips. “We feel pretty bad about Luis Renaldo, Canavan. Matter of fact, Maury is Renaldo’s cousin. You think we ought to do something about it, Maury?”
Maury said: “It’s a thought.” The hand in the pocket of the Chesterfield began to shake.
Canavan said: “Here’s another thought, Maury. Maybe it was Big George who killed Renaldo.”
Maury was poised on the balls of his feet. “Don’t be silly, copper. Renaldo worked for Big George. Kolinski owns nine-tenths of the Cathedral.”
Canavan nodded as though he had half expected this. “In that case neither of you would be interested in what’s in Ed Stengel’s safety deposit box.” He took out the key and tossed it on the desk. “Or would you?”
The hall door opened and Terence O’Day stood there. He had a gun in each fist and he breathed as though he had been running.
“I’ll take that, pal. Don’t anybody move,” he said.
Canavan shot from his jacket pocket, twice.
It was probably only accident he got O’Day in the legs. The tall thin man went down, arms flailing, both guns making a hell of a racket, and then Maury, risking half a dozen slugs, went over and kicked him in the chin. Lieutenant Kleinschmidt barged in on the crest of the ear-splitting silence which followed. “Hell’s fire, Bill, I didn’t know things would move so fast!”
Canavan looked slightly sick at his stomach. “No,” he said. “No, you wouldn’t.” He bent and picked up Terence O’Day and carried him over to the divan. The columnist’s eyes fluttered open. His horse face was not waggish anymore, only very tired and disillusioned. His hat had fallen off and the lock of untidy sandy hair straggled down over his forehead.
“Sorry, Bill.”
Canavan felt like hell. “I’m sorry too, Terry. It’s just one of those things, I guess.” His mouth drooped. “You couldn’t have done anything with the key anyway. Not even the department could have. It’ll take a long search, and court orders and a lot of red tape to find that box and get it open. And—”
Big George Kolinski bellowed, “Shut that damned door!” and came out of his chair like a lumbering elephant. “You, Canavan, what’s this all about?”
Canavan shrugged tiredly. “By me, George. We’ll have to wait till we find the box—unless Terry wants to talk.” He looked down at O’Day’s legs. “Maybe you’d better, keed.”
O’Day was game. He asked for a cigarette and, getting it, propped himself on an elbow.
“First, tell me how you knew, Bill. You must have known. You were expecting me.”
“Sort of,” Canavan admitted. “I wasn’t sure. Nobody could have been sure without knowing what you or somebody else was after. Matter of fact, I’d built up a pretty good circumstantial case against Kolinski. That’s why I held the party here. I had to get his reactions first.”
olinski grunted. Canavan looked at him. “All right, you were in Night Court. Also, you were at the Weems Mortuary, and you are in a position to tap the police department for information, and hire any number of hoods. Also, with a finger in every pie you were the most likely guy to be in contact with a man like Ed Stengel. It didn’t occur to me till later that a lot of these counts against you could likewise apply to Terry O’Day.
“He too was in Night Court. He too knew plenty of hoods and had an in with the cops. As a newsman he could have known even before you that Stengel, or Ed Carroll, had died in the hospital.” Canavan took a breath. “But hell, I had no more reason to suspect him than you. Obviously Stengel had something of value, or inimical to the best interests of someone else. Because the girl had been in contact with him, and I with her, it was logical to cop us both off. Luis Renaldo just happened to be a chiseler who smelled something and started investigating on his own hook. He ran into a knife.
“Well, it was thinking back to this spot that finally brought Terence O’Day into it. He arrived at Stengel’s place just a couple of minutes ahead of the cops. At the time, it looked as though he had helped me to escape. But later on it began to appear that he might have done this, knowing I would run smack into the arms of his two hoods.”
Canavan stared down at O’Day.
“It was really the car that did it. When I got outside there were only three at the curb—yours, mine, and the cops’. The hoods used mine. Why? Because they had to leave yours and couldn’t start the prowl car. But the point I got to thinking about was how did the hoods get there in the first place? Certainly not in my car, or with the cops, and probably not in a taxi, because they were expecting trouble. That left only your car, and that meant that you knew them.”
O’Day exhaled a great cloud of smoke. “What happened to the hoods, Bill?”
Canavan almost told him. Then he decided that this was one more point he could use to sew up the case. “I got one of them cold. They’re sweating Reefer now, and he’s sore at you because I told him this was a million-dollar snatch and he was getting paid in pennies.”
O’Day closed his eyes and a spasm of pain twisted his mouth. “That was smart, Bill. I always said you were smart, remember?” He wiped the back of a hand across his lips. “So you called Kleinschmidt and had him drop a hint to me that you might be at Kolinski’s. He was to follow me if I fell for it.”
Canavan shrugged irritably. “It was a show-down. My only hope was to—” He broke off, coloring. “I mean, aside from cracking Reefer—”
O’Day grinned. “So you killed them both! In other words, your only hope was to trap me into some kind of admission.”
“I’ve still got the key,” Canavan said.
“But you might not have had,” O’Day said. “I figured I’d beat the cops here and clean up.” He looked at a hand reddened with blood from his legs. “Well, nuts to it. I may as well give you the works. Stengel and I did a job together when we were just kids.” His eyes crinkled in remembrance. “He was a smart guy too, Bill. He made me sign a joint confession. Oddly enough we became friends after that, but there was always that thing between us. After a while I decided to go straight. Ed kept on hitting the high spots.” He smiled tiredly. “Funny, after all the chances he took that he should just die—of stomach ulcers.” He looked faintly embarrassed as Hope uttered a little cry. “Sorry, sister.”
Kleinschmidt snorted. “Sorry! What about Luis Renaldo? You sorry about him too?”
O’Day looked him straight in the eye. “Not a damned bit, copper. The guy caught me prowling Stengel’s place and tried a squeeze play. He got what all chiselers ought to get.”
There was a lot of noise out in the hall now. Apparently Kleinschmidt’s platoon had really arrived. Maury and Big George Kolinski were in a close-mouthed huddle. Kolinski evidently trying to dissuade Maury from committing a neat job of murder.
Kleinschmidt glared at Canavan. “I’m not through with you, Bill. You knocked me cold in front of strangers.”
“And I’m not through with Kolinski!” Canavan yelled. “I’m seeing what makes the Morticians’ Protective Association tick. But for tonight—”
Miss Hope Carewe touched his arm. “Yes, Bill? For tonight—what?”
He put a big hand under her chin. “For tonight, hon, or at least for the rest of it, I’m going to try forgetting that your old man has got seventeen million dollars.”
Miss Carewe said she would like to forget it too.
The Bloody Bokhara
William Campbell Gault
WILLIAM CAMPBELL GAULT (1910–1995) was born in Madison, Wisconsin, and attended the University of Wisconsin. He was the manager and part owner of a Milwaukee hotel before serving in the army for three years during World War
II, after which he moved to Southern California to become a full-time writer.
Although one of the most highly regarded writers in the mystery genre, he was even more revered as the author of scores of sports books, many for children. His earliest stories sold to sports pulps, where he was highly successful before his first sale to a mystery pulp, Clues; “Marksman” appeared in the September 1940 issue. He wrote several hundred additional mystery stories before his first novel, Don’t Cry for Me (1951), which won the Edgar Allan Poe Award. His most famous character is Brock “the Rock” Callahan, a former football player, who made his debut in Ring Around Rosa (1955); he also appears in Day of the Ram (1956), about the murder of a football player, and ten other novels. Gault used sports as a background for many of his stories and novels, including The Canvas Coffin (1953), about the boxing world. He also wrote novels under the pseudonyms Will Duke, Dial Forest, and Roney Scott.
“The Bloody Bokhara” is one of the few Gault books not set in California, using the antique rug business in Milwaukee as background; it was published in the November 1948 issue. Gault later expanded the plot and milieu into a novel, The Bloody Bokhara (1952).
The Bloody Bokhara
William Campbell Gault
Cut-rate carpets were Kaprelian’s business, but when an Oriental prayer-rug turned up with a corpse wrapped in it, that was more than he’d bargained for.
IT HAD BEEN A slow winter. Cleaning and repairing had kept us going, but there isn’t the money in cleaning that there used to be. Not if you’ve got any respect for rugs and if you clean them the real Armenian way.
It was spring and the door to the store was open. The shop was bright with color. In the window we had an eighteen-foot Sarouk, a lovely piece with a sheen like silk—a floral design on a deep rose background. Usually, when Papa is unhappy he can get a lift out of just admiring a rug like that. But not today.
“Why,” he said, “did I ever get into this business?”
Ever since I’d known him, Papa had asked himself that question. Even when business was good, he asked it. He didn’t expect an answer.
I said: “The only thing wrong with this business is the people who are in it. It’s your competitors who give you your gray hair, Papa.”
“Competitors?” he said scornfully. “Competitors—huh! I’ve got no competitors. Contemptoraries, I got.”
“It’s contemporaries,” I corrected him.
He shook his head. “For them, I have nothing but contempt. They are my contemptoraries.”
I started to laugh, and then an elderly couple walked into the store.
The frown on Papa’s face was replaced by a smile as he rose and came forward to greet them.
“Good morning,” Papa said. “A beautiful morning, Mr. Egan.”
Years ago, the Egans had been good customers. Then they’d had their entire house carpeted wall to wall, in the fashion of the time.
Mr. Egan said: “Good morning, Mr. Kaprelian. I’m surprised that you remember me.”
Papa’s smile was beatific. “I never forget a friend,” he said earnestly. To Papa, friend was synonymous with customer.
Mr. Egan looked faintly uncomfortable. “Our carpeting,” he said, “is pretty badly worn, Mr. Kaprelian. We’re thinking of having the house done over. Frankly, it’s a choice between recarpeting and orientals. I wondered how prices were on orientals these days.”
I knew Papa was wincing inside. But his face gave no indication of it. “Prices,” he said, “have never been more favorable, Mr. Egan. Values have never been better.” He called to me: “Levon, you will help me, please?”
To everybody I know, I’m Lee. To Papa, I’m still Levon. I went over to help him take down and spread some rugs.
I knew the pile he’d go to. Egan was shopping. Egan was buying on price and price alone. We had some very loosely woven Lilihans Papa had picked up as trade-ins. They’d been used less than a year: they were new, you might say.
Name alone means only the locality, you understand. There are good, bad and indifferent weavers in all localities. These Lilihans were not of the best, but they were good serviceable rugs.
The trouble is, they looked pretty bad against that Sarouk in the window. The memory of that was still in the Egans’ mind, I could tell.
The price Papa quoted them made me wince. He wanted this sale. He wanted the Egans back.
Mr. Egan’s eyebrows went up. He was interested. But Mrs. Egan was frowning. I thought of saying something to her, but I never interfere when Papa’s selling.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Papa asked.
Mr. Egan nodded. Mrs. Egan continued to frown. “I was wondering about the colors,” she said doubtfully. “Our decorator tells me it’s so hard to work a motif around an oriental rug.”
Interior decorators … From the painter, the paper-hanger, the furniture and drapery dealer they get a cut. But not from the oriental dealers. No rake-off, no recommendation from them.
“These colors are not bold,” Papa said. “They will blend with anything.”
“Perhaps.” She didn’t look like she believed it. “The decorator also says we should not spend all our money on the floor.”
All their money would buy three medium-sized banks. But maybe being careful like that is why they had it.
Papa looked grave. “Let me suggest something, Mrs. Egan. Let me bring some rugs up to your house, some rugs I will personally choose. Leave them there for a week or two. Then you can make your decision.”
“That seems fair enough,” Mr. Egan said.
But Mrs. Egan shook her head. “I want to look at some carpeting, first, this morning. If I don’t find what I want, I’ll be in again.”
Papa started to say something, but Mr. Egan beat him to it. “Isn’t your cousin over on Broad Street selling carpeting in addition to orientals, Mr. Kaprelian?”
“I believe he is,” Papa said.
Sarkis had been selling domestic carpeting for seven years and Papa knew it well. Every Sunday, Papa and Sarkis ate chicken and pilaff together. Every Sunday, they played tavlu. The rest of the week they were busy cutting each other’s throats.
Mr. Egan smiled. “Well, we’ll be back. I’ll see that she comes back, Mr. Kaprelian.”
Papa smiled and nodded, his eyes sad.
He said nothing as I helped him pile the rugs back. For minutes after we’d finished, and he was back in his chair behind his desk, he said nothing.
Finally, he said: “Carpeting—” and shook his head.
“It covers the floor,” I said. “It serves the same purpose.”
He looked at me as though I’d uttered a sacrilege—which I had. “It covers the floor,” he repeated. “It serves the same purpose.”
I started to explain but he raised a hand. “We will pretend I am Rembrandt. We will pretend I have a fine, beautiful idea, and I get my brushes and my paint, and I work like a dog. I work weeks, maybe months—maybe longer, I don’t know. When I finish, I have this beautiful picture, this work of art. The dealer says it is the best I have ever done. He puts it up, so people can look, so somebody can buy. The customers come in and admire it. It would look beautiful, they know, on their wall. Am I right?”
“Sure,” I said, “but—”
He raised a hand to silence me. “No buts. It would be a credit to the wall. Now—do they say, ‘Well, I want to look at some wallpaper first. I’ll be back if I can’t get the right wallpaper?’ Don’t they both cover the wall?”
“Rembrandt is dead, Papa.” I said. “This is 1948.”
“Both of these things I know. Have you some more things to say I don’t know?”
“A Rembrandt is a work of art,” I said.
“Oh. In the window, a Sarouk, a fine Sarouk. Maybe twenty-seven thousand knots to the square foot. Each knot is tied by hand. The finest wool is used, vegetable dye is used, care and cunning is used. This is not a work of art?”
“In a way,” I admitted.
But Papa wasn’t
listening. He was rushing for the phone. “I forgot—” he said.
Now, he was calling Sarkis’ number. Now, he had him on the wire.
“Sarkis, you’re busy? No? Well, it’s like this. One of my very best, one of my most loyal customers was in, a Mr. Egan and his wife. Old oriental customers. But the wife has some idea she would like to try carpeting and they were going to Acme, you understand, to look at some. But I told them you had a finer selection, Sarkis. I told them you had more reasonable prices. Together, we could make a dollar or two on these customers of mine. Right, Sarkis?”
A silence while Sarkis answered.
Then: “Oh, you know they have carpeting now? You sold them the carpeting they have now? They are your customers, Sarkis? Listen, my cousin, when you are still living in a mud house in Sivas, I was selling rugs to Mr. Egan. Good-bye.” He hung up the phone angrily.
“Is that true what you told him, Papa?” I asked. “I thought you and Sarkis came to this country at the same time.”
“I have been here some time when Sarkis arrived. A considerable time, Levon.”
“How long?”
“Over a month.” He went over to get his hat. “I am going to lunch.” His face was stormy as he left.
I went into the back shop where Selak was washing rugs. Selak’s a big boy, over two hundred pounds, with warm brown eyes and a timid smile. Selak’s mind stopped growing when he was about nine, but he’s kind and gentle. It’s only his strength that scares you. He’d been with us for years.
“It’s time to eat, Selak,” I told him.
He nodded and smiled.
I wouldn’t have to tell him it was time to start again, after lunch. Selak’s old-fashioned; he likes to work.
I waited until he had unwrapped his lunch and started to eat before I went into the front shop again. That’s when I saw the vision.
I knew it was a vision because no girl could be that beautiful. No hair could be that golden, no eyes that blue. Nobody could wear simple green linen and still look like a queen. A slim, regal vision, standing right inside the doorway.