Little Miss Murder

by Michael Avallone

  "Down to the smudges on it."

  "Wonder what happened?"

  "Your guess would be better than mine. That nice little old super-spy Briton is a real puzzle to me."

  Felicia bit down on her luscious lower lip and said no more. She began to scan the tables and the upper levels of the Plaza in earnest. Stone walks and benches, tree-lined and shrub-filled, bordered the sunken restaurant on three sides. Passersby—men, women, children, and an occasional obvious delivery-boy type—paused along the walks to look down at the diners. It was a very warm, very peaceful scene. No one would think of even what had happened to the UN building on a morning like this. Sabotage and people-out-to-destroy-the-world seemed as farfetched as the Mets' pennant chances had been way back in April on Opening Day.

  More minutes ticked by. And still no Godlove.

  No anybody.

  I looked at the tip of my nearly smoked-out Camel.

  Felicia sighed.

  "Dead end, maybe?"

  "Maybe. But something might have gone wrong. Even for Mr. Godlove. If he tried to find a cab to get here, that could have held him up. This town is still a nightmare for getting around in a hurry."

  "I'm hungry," she said suddenly.

  "Buy you lunch as soon as possible."

  One of her million-dollar smiles lit up her face at that, and just as I was about to kiss the tip of her nose, Mr. Christian Godlove arrived. Which is putting it poorly. He didn't arrive, he showed up, in glorious Technicolor, Cinemascope, and stereophonic sound, to quote Cole Porter. I nearly jumped about a foot.

  On the short block just in back of us, an enormous, all-chrome and black-paint limousine had cruised softly to a halt. The motor was purring like the most powerful cat in the world. Embassy flags fluttered from pylons on the front bumpers of the block-long vehicle. Behind the wheel, a Negro driver sat, in uniform and bill cap, staring straight ahead, white-gloved hands resting on the wheel. In the rear of the machine, plexiglass windows that you knew had to be bulletproof closed off a sumptuous tonneau whose zebra-striped upholstery seemed to glow in the daylight. The door on our side of the street swung open, and a man, leaning forward, beckoned to us. Before I could check the flags or the occupant, Felicia Carr gasped. A gasp she might have made if someone had suddenly stuck a thin skewer into her lovely stomach. I caught her arm as she started forward involuntarily. In the next few quick seconds, the man, exposing only part of his body as he continued to beckon us forward, called out in an imperious voice: "This way please! Come!"

  Felicia seemed to have lost the power of speech. Gripping her elbow, I led her toward the door hanging open. I saw striped trousers, spats, so help me, the tip of a highly polished cane, and suede-gloved hands before I saw Christian Godlove's face. Before I could make a comment, Felicia had come back to life. But she was still moving like a robot.

  "You——" she murmured, almost dazed.

  "Get in, please," the same crisp authoritative Nazi-type voice cracked. Like a whip. "You wish to draw a crowd? Nothing will happen. We must talk."

  There was no weapon visible in the man's hands. Only the cane. I handed Felicia into the interior. She went willingly, though still in a daze. She slumped down on the immense back seat of the car. There was enough room for five people sitting abreast. Her host, whom she obviously did know, moved to one side of the machine, smoothly impeccable and unhurried despite his asking for speed. I took the jump seat in front of both of them. Felicia looked stunned, shaking her head at me. I looked at Christian Godlove, who had hardly favored me with a fleeting glance. He deftly picked up a tube-microphone at his left side, spoke into it, and replaced it with a flourish. "Central Park. You will drive around until I tell you otherwise—" Then he settled back, hands poised on the head of the black cane, and the limousine launched itself down the block without so much as a mechanical squeak or grind of equipment. A plate-glass window separated us from the uniformed Negro. He might have been a dummy in a shop window along Fifth Avenue.

  Rockefeller Plaza vanished as the limousine swung out and glided powerfully toward Central Park South. Christian Godlove now smiled at me and said nothing, giving me all the time in the world to give him the once-over. Felicia was huddling in her corner of the car, like a child afraid of the dark. Her usual tawniness and litheness was uncharacteristically slumped. Her ivory-white face was two shades paler. I kept that in mind as I studied Christian Godlove.

  I had to admit he wasn't pretty, if that would account for Felicia's withdrawal. In point of cold fact, he had to be one of the walking horrors of the twentieth century. Looking at him was no picnic.

  Even sitting down, I could tell he was of no more than medium height with a body of wedge-like shoulders and almost grotesquely thin legs. The effect was kind of like an enormous top. But not even that would have mattered. It was his face that took the whole cake and left you with no fondness for eating. Felicia had probably lost her appetite already.

  Christian Godlove's face had been in several bad accidents, one at least, and it was overtly apparent that plastic surgery had been tried and had failed miserably. There are faces and bone structure and skin patterns which absolutely resist all forms of cosmetology. Christian Godlove was ugly. Horrifically so. You were reminded of some of the gruesome makeup of the Karloff movies. But lacking in Godlove's face was the somehow stylized and haunting quality of the movie magic, which had transformed grand old Boris into a picturesque ghoul.

  Godlove wore a hat, a red velour Barrymorish fedora, and there was no telling what the condition of his skull was. But the face below the flipped brim was incredible. It belonged in a Dali daub of surrealism.

  One of his eyes was a glass one, and the jagged architecture of his brows was a zig-zag of lumpy gristle and bone under which his one good eye stared out owlishly. His nose had disappeared sometime long ago, so that only two pitted nostrils stood out like eyelets in his face. His mouth was permanently twisted down to one side—the left side, so that the clipped Teutonic voice constantly came forth in short, staccato phrasing. But the tone was remarkably crisp and smooth in spite of that. Lastly, and far from leastly, the texture of his skin was like redone papyrus, folded and netted with thousands of tiny wrinkles. Crow's feet by the millions. For extras, a long scar glowed like a strip of greasy onion down the right side of his face, running from his ear to his jaw. He was classically ugly, and the mere fact that he wore no mask, had never attempted a moustache or a beard to conceal his horror, said something for his contempt and hatred for the rest of his fellow humans. He had to be divinely haughty not to care.

  I was staring at him, and he knew it. A mocking smile curved his twisted mouth degrees higher. His hands tightened on the head of the cane.

  "An interesting face, Mr. Noon?"

  "Not exactly nondescript," I admitted. "But your name isn't Godlove. At least, she doesn't think it is. What did it used to be?"

  Christian Godlove threw back his head and laughed. Silently. More scar tissue and damage showed on his neck. Felicia Carr shuddered, not looking at him or at me but straight ahead. Her lips parted slowly, and the information came out dully. In a dead voice. One that lost all the hope and enthusiasm I knew so well.

  "His name is Strang," Felicia said. "Marcus Strang. He has worked for every foreign power in the world as an assassin for hire. He began in Hitler's Germany, crossed over to Russia after the war, lost himself in all the other Iron Curtain countries. We thought he was dead. In a nuclear-test operation in 'sixty-six. There's lots more—but let this serve as your introduction. At last count, he was credited with something like one hundred and thirty-five murders, according to our file on him. I met him only once. At Casablanca in 'sixty-five, when he planted nitroglycerin in my handbag. I was down there to see about a potential——" She broke off, then bit her lip again. That time she looked at me. Her eyes pleaded with me to be careful. She acted like we were sitting with the Devil in person.

  Christian Godlove had kept his eyes on me all through the reci
tal. When Felicia stopped talking, he wagged his head approvingly.

  "Good. Good. You have saved me much, Miss Carr. I shall not have to persuade Mr. Noon how dangerous I am. Now, you will listen to me. Both of you. We shall ride around in this automobile until we conclude our transaction. I beg of you both. Do not look for things in your handbags or pockets to try and overpower me. You would be stepping from a frying pan into a fire. A very great fire." He tapped the floor with his cane, his one good eye shining unnaturally. "The car is armor-plated, bulletproof, as you may have deduced. What you cannot know is that the doors are now locked, so that only my driver can let us out. Which he will only do at my command. Observe the plate glass that divides the car. He is sealed where he is, as we are. You could not affect his decision in any way whatsoever. Also—and you will understand the necessity—since this car contains so many of my vital tools and equipment and secrets, I could demolish this vehicle in an instant if I had to. Understood? I am like a kamikaze pilot, you see. Without my freedom, there is nothing for me but death. I would welcome it, thanks to nature's curse upon me. So do understand my—ah—mystique. I am an ugly man. I find pleasure in doing ugly things. For now I am Christian Godlove. Marcus Strang is no more. I buried him in Spain in 'sixty-six when the nuclear test was my one professional failure. But no more of that. To the business at hand." The zebra-striped upholstery glowed.

  "I'm for that," I said, watching him closely. He was the sort of maniac who has nothing but power and ingenuity and expertise on his side. The limousine had nosed onto Central Park South, found the Fifty-ninth Street entrance, and cruised on through. Walls of green trees and the immensity of the measured lawns surrounded by towering hotel and apartment buildings loomed in the windows. The Negro was a fine driver. His head hadn't moved at all. I turned back to face Godlove.

  "The ball, Mr. Noon. You have it?"

  "I do."

  "Good. Then you will deal with me?"

  "Depends."

  "On what may I ask? Contingencies, already?"

  I managed a grin in spite of having to stare into his ghoulish face. Which wasn't easy.

  "Who wants the ball?"

  "I do. Isn't that enough for you?"

  "Depends. Dmitri and Aloyesha indicated to me that there might be more to the ball than anything I've heard so far. You see my position? I don't know tournaments from games."

  I saw a frown on his face, as hard as it was to tell. Felicia was still huddled in her corner, saying nothing, somehow trying to make herself smaller. The little girl that lurks in all big girls had been brought back to life by the horrible vision calling himself Godlove this year. I could hardly blame her.

  "Really, Mr. Noon. Perhaps you are new at these things. It is a market for your wares—that's all you need to know. True, it is a seller's market, which does give you certain advantages, but come—the mere fact that you have come to meet me and bring the ball indicates more of an interest in financial gain than politics. So—I am prepared to buy, without offering you violence. What could be fairer than that?"

  "You offered violence yesterday. Or were Dmitri and Aloyesha just trying to hold my hand until you arrived?"

  He made a grunting sound, and the pitted nostrils seemed to dilate.

  "The brothers were perhaps a little too headlong. They were always too impulsive. Rash and young. You would never believe, would you, that they were devout churchgoers? But—I questioned my own judgment in bringing them to America with me. Still—I should think I am the offended party here, since the old fox-woman seems to have executed them both very handily."

  "Speaking of Lady Louise," I said, easily recalling the signs of religion looped around the dead, brotherly throats. "Where might she be?"

  He thumped his cane on the floor of the car.

  "In the infernal regions, I hope. The woman's an eternal nuisance. But let's dispense with these digressions, please. If you give me the ball, I'm fully prepared to pay you one hundred thousand dollars. In cash. Believe me, if my confederates, the brothers, were alive, I would have to offer you less."

  "One hundred, thou? That's a real comedown from the millions you mentioned on the phone."

  His amazing face regarded me almost pathetically.

  "Yes, I could offer you a million. In writing, with a later delivery date of the cash. But you seem a man more impressed with the tangibles. The cash is in my pocket this moment. You would be paid in a second. Without having to wait for further developments or troubles. The ball is what you might term a hot potato. Take the money, now, my friend. Make do with what is possible. In that way, you will have nothing to fear of in the future."

  "I see." I was trying to. "Who killed Blassingame?"

  His crooked eyebrows rose, and he was all set to snort impatiently, but he chuckled instead. A light, rippling laugh that managed to sound completely mirthless.

  "I said something funny, Godlove?"

  "I am afraid you did, Mr. Noon."

  "Then clue me. I like a joke as well as the next man."

  Christian Godlove stopped chuckling. The crisp voice snapped.

  "I know you are a detective of sorts. Is this how you yield to your basic instincts? You wish to know all there is to know? Very well. I'll humor you. Briefly." He indicated Felicia Carr with a suede-covered forefinger, still holding his fancy black cane. "Her country—which I believe is your country also—and Lady Warrington's, secreted a roll of valuable microfilm in a baseball. My country—those I work for who want the ball—and the film—choose to use me to acquire it for them. Miss Carr's country has been out-foxed, shall we say, by Louise Warrington Paul, who now works for herself and also will sell to the highest bidder. Since you and Mrs. Paul were together yesterday, I assume you act as her intermediary. I have no quarrel with turncoats. I'm a man who admires money, too. I have always sold to the highest bidder. So—Blassingame was a stumbling block yesterday. One of the brothers eliminated him. Understood. We shall say no more. You give me the ball, I give you the money, we wish each other bon voyage. I'm sure you can convince Miss Carr to report a failure this time—she seems to be on your side in more ways than one—and all is concluded. Amicably, without further ado. Now, isn't that sensible?"

  "Sort of." The limousine was running smoothly around the curving lanes and ramps that thread through the park. We had almost reached the Seventy-second Street exit. A hansom carriage clip-clopped along, the horse tired, the driver disinterested in his mock stove-pipe hat and pretense of a happier, better era, while his tourist passengers pointed and gawked at New York's scenic grandeur. I looked at Felicia Carr. She was staring at me, her face almost expressionless. "All right. What do you say, Felicia?"

  "You do what you want to do, Ed," she said, stonily. "I'm all through thinking."

  "Good," I said, laughing. I smiled at Christian Godlove. "We're all agreed then. The ball for money. But just one thing more, Mr. Godlove?"

  He controlled his rising impatience.

  "Yes. What is it?"

  "What's on the film that makes it so valuable?"

  His face wrinkled up in many more lines, as if I had asked another distasteful question. But his tone was incredulous, too.

  "You really do not know?"

  "I asked you a question. Answer it."

  Christian Godlove smiled. If you could see a smile on the twisted, blasted face, the ruined nose and eyes. He clamped his gloved hands over the head of the cane and leaned toward me.

  "Garnu Sin is dead in Teheran. The United Nations building suffered a disturbance last night. Do you recall? That is what is on that microfilm. You must ignore whatever the brothers might have told you. My dupes. I will say no more. Now, the ball, please."

  "Money first," I stalled. "No tickee, no shirtee."

  All of what he had said had come too fast to digest All of what he might mean and say or do had left me with nothing to come up with. I knew I had to nail him, pin him down, and bring him in, and I also knew I couldn't do it if the car was anything like the
rolling tank and self-destructing secret weapon he said it was. But in the meantime, in-between time, there was nothing I could do but go along with the gag. What could he do in Central Park at almost eleven o'clock in broad daylight?

  He showed me, soon enough.

  One of his hands left the head of the cane, disappeared into the breast pocket of a dark-blue coat, emerged with a thick packet of fresh, green bills, neatly banded with a thick rubber band. He tossed them to me, his eyes never leaving my face. I didn't count the money. It lay on my lap, and it looked real pretty. Fresh and green and brand-new.

  "The ball," he said in his crisp, clear voice.

  I nodded, reached into my side pocket and produced it. Felicia Carr made a small murmur in her throat, and Christian Godlove took the ball from my hand. He revolved it in the fingers of his own left hand, studying it. I saw the good eye gleam with identification and confirmation of the product. He seemed satisfied with me at last

  It was then that his right hand, the one on the cane, lifted up suddenly, bringing the curved head with it, and he quickly shot me in the face with it before turning it on Felicia Carr with a speed that would have been a credit to any sleight-of-hand genius in the magician's world. I went for my .45, almost in sheer reflex, then I had to go for my eyes and throat. Felicia screamed once. A quick, short outcry. I fell from the jump seat, clawing at Christian Godlove's awful face. He looked like he was smiling again. I couldn't blame him, either. He must have known how fast his stuff worked, that I would never reach him in time. The head of the cane had filled my face with something cold, cloying, and fast-working. A gaseous, noxious, rapidly thickening cloud of something enveloped my head. The last view I had of Central Park through the windows was the hansom cab clip-clopping out of view and the golden tips of the overhead sun drenching the big trees.

  Then there was nothing else to see.

  Nothing at all.

  11

  Tinker to Evers to

  Last Chance