"And Freddy?" I asked softly.
"Dead," she said simply, without flinching. "I used a chair on him. Broke his skull. He—didn't expect me to do it with only one hand—"
"Come on," I shushed her, taking her hand. "Save the details for later. Right now, you're the U.S. Cavalry and the Marines and a homer in the ninth all rolled into one. Godlove brought that guy here to take the ball apart to find his film. Okay. Let's go down and see what we can do about that—"
The corridor behind the attic door was no less musty and ancient. A rickety stairway, closed off by a wooden wall, led to the downstairs level. We couldn't have too much time. Godlove was sure to wonder about Freddy sooner or later. But maybe in his haste to find out about the ball, he'd figure Freddy was still having fun and leave him alone. I was surprised he hadn't gone in to check as soon as he left me. He had said he was going to; what had happened to make him change his mind? I didn't know that either. There were lots of things I didn't know.
I eased down the stairs, Felicia behind me, hanging onto my coattails to keep from stumbling. It was a very narrow staircase. Faintly, I could make out more voices talking. They sounded like a mumbling murmur coming from another part of the house. I had undone my trouser belt, carrying it coiled in my hand like a whip. It was the only weapon we had until I could find something heavier and more potent.
Like a kitchen meat cleaver or a heavy club. Or a real gun. Or knife. Christian Godlove had made it very clear he had no intention of allowing me and Felicia Carr to live long enough to collect our Old Age Pension and Social Security. It just wouldn't be his bag.
Off the stairway, the ground floor was a maze of wooden rafters, walls with dismal papering and old-fashioned furnishings like faded carpets, easy chairs and Dickensian-like antimacassars, crockery and paintings left over from the Gibson Girl era. Another short hall and I could hear the voices fine now, coming from beyond an arched entranceway with beaded tassles dangling for decorative purposes. Godlove was talking, and his crisp voice was alive with expectancy. You could hear it behind every carefully enunciated syllable. I would have been expecting him to be wearing a gauleiter's SS uniform with a vocal quality like he had.
"—soon can it be done, Fromm?"
"No more than fifteen minutes. You have coffee here? I would like a cup." The newcomer's voice was gravelly and rumbling.
"Very well. I would have Freddy make it, but I have given him a fraulein for pleasure. If you finish in good time, we will go see for amusement? Like the old times in Danzig, eh?"
The man, Fromm, chuckled gutturally.
"Same old Godlove. Why don't you make love yourself instead of leaving it to other men?"
There was a pause that must have been deadly for the man called Fromm. I could visualize Godlove with that unholy face, ghastly and ghoulish, freezing him with a cruel stare. An executioner's look.
"Do your job, Fromm. I am paying you well. Coffee, you said. Get on with it—" There was a finger-snapping noise, muffled by gloves. Suede-skin gloves.
Fromm sounded nervous as he laughed his compliance with the order.
"Ja, Godlove. At once!"
Felicia Carr leaned against me, her mouth close to my ear. I hung onto the leather strap, trying to think of something logical to do. There was nothing I could do until I got a peek at the physical layout of the next room and where everybody was located. Taking two men on at once is never any snap, even with the shock advantage of surprise and unexpectedness in your favor. I eased forward, just barely managing to hold my breath, and craned my head out from the edge of the entranceway wall. I moved out from the wall slowly, meaning to expose as little of myself as possible. No more than an inch of my eye.
It was then that Christian Godlove dropped the other shoe.
The shoe that changed the complexion of everything.
"Yes, do your job, Fromm. I shall go see about Freddy. He has had more than enough time to have sated himself with the lady—"
His warning footsteps walked toward us, straight for the entranceway, where we crouched like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn eavesdropping on their own funeral services.
Felicia Carr's frightened breath fanned over the nape of my neck. I felt her shudder.
I didn't feel so hot myself.
Christian Godlove's shoes thumped rapidly along the floor, sounding like the Last Mile along Death Row.
It was exactly at that moment, with his footsteps coming closer, with Fromm making small bursting noises as he took tools out of his equipment bag, that I drew back, looping the strap in my hands like a garrote, with Felicia withdrawing further behind me, that the bottom dropped out of everything. That the fickle people we call Lady Luck, God, and Hunchy took over the entire program and had a ball unto themselves.
It's a fact that none of us, neither genius nor moron nor merely average human being, has any control whatsoever over the manner in which Fate dishes out the cards. We play the game, all right, but the Big Dealer is still the one to have the last say. It's no Dealer's Choice.
In that preciously scant tick-tock of forces about to meet, from somewhere outside the Rahway hideaway, a bull-horn bellowed with a sudden, eruptive, almost frightening blast of noise.
"ATTENTION!" the voice bellowed. "THE HOUSE IS SURROUNDED! THIS IS THE LAW! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!—"
12
He Died on Third
I recognized the voice booming from the bull horn. It was the unmistakable heavy roar of Captain Michael Monks of the New York Homicide Bureau. What he was doing in Rahway, way out of bounds, I couldn't even stop to guess about. More important, even as the echoes of his shouted command hardly settled over the house, Christian Godlove reversed direction. I could hear his feet stopping, clattering backward, and rattling something quickly to Fromm in a sharp staccato. The clack of his heels and the rapped-out orders were simultaneous. I heard Fromm cry out in fear. I forgot about Felicia, ignored my pitiful weapon of coiled belt, and bounded out from the hallway, through the entranceway. I was just in time not to be in time for anything.
It was a low-ceilinged living room, as behind the times as the rest of the house, and Godlove and his unseen subordinate were just vanishing through a narrow doorway leading down to a cellar or basement of some kind. I never did see Fromm, but Godlove heard me coming, whirled before he ducked down the staircase, and the long-barreled Luger in his gloved hand was almost as ugly as his twisted face. His mismatched eyes registered surprise but his reflexes were just fine. The Luger hopped in his hand, jumping against his wrist, and only my quick fall to the floor saved me. The slug whined overhead, smacking plaster and cheap-quality cement from the wall behind me, showering the room with flying fragments. Godlove didn't bother with a second shot. He whirled on through the door like a revolving top, and the thing slammed shut behind him. I heard a bolt shoot home in a groove. By the time I hit the door with my shoulder, the concerted sounds of the running feet of two men had long since gone.
Felicia came running into the room, hair flying, eyes wide, looking more raped than ever. I hustled her back through the living room, forgetting about the cellar door or secret passage or whatever the hell it was. Monks was on the bullhorn again, and the standard procedure when cops don't get an answer is for them to open up with everything they brought with them. My reasons for hurrying were twice as urgent. Suddenly, the low, powerful hum of the limousine, nestling somewhere outside among the concealing trees and foliage behind the farmhouse, filled the brief silence with a full-throated purr of extraordinarily concentrated horsepower.
"Let's go, Mets," I urged Felicia. "Cover yourself as best you can. Monks is out there. I don't know what the hell he's doing here but we need him. Come on—walk out with your hands up to show them we're not armed. Until they recognize us. Move!"
I hurried her out through the hallway up to the front door and swung it open. Sunlight streamed in through the high, narrow side windows framing the door.
The sound of the high-powered limousine opening
up, zooming out from its hiding place, was now a full-throttle roar. There was no time to lose. Godlove and Fromm were hitting the road. Baseball and all.
"—ALL RIGHT—" Monks' boom was less frenzied now. "THAT'S IT. COME FORWARD NOW. JUST LIKE THAT. KEEP YOUR HANDS UP—JEEZIS, ED!"
I walked quickly out into the sunlight. As I expected, the farm had been in a small clearing, practically walled in by high trees and bushes. I saw a New Jersey State patrol car parked to the left beyond the perimeter of clearing. Off to the right was the civilian-make car that Monks used. Riot guns and pistols glinted in the sunlight. I ran forward, hollering about the escaping car, waving my arms, pointing toward the fading roar of it. Felicia stumbled along behind me, her arms criss-crossed over her bared breasts. The cast was now dirty and blood-stained. Her clothes had been so badly torn she had been unable to salvage a single piece of garment for modesty's sake. Added to the confusion and amazement of the moment was the sight of Melissa Mercer hiding behind Mike Monks' formidable shoulders. Our eyes met, and she turned away, almost embarrassedly. But there was also no time for explanations.
I dashed for Monks' car, jumped in next to the startled driver, and shouted instructions to him. Monks gawked, spread his hands in bewilderment, nodded to the driver that it was okay to listen to me and climbed into the rear seat too. Melissa Mercer, neatly outfitted in a white trench-coat that accented her cocoa beauty, got in next to Monks in the back seat. Felicia joined them and in a matter of quick, efficient seconds that needed no introductions or explanations, Mel was making like Florence Nightingale, and Felicia let her, gratefully. Monks stifled an oath, grabbed my shoulder in his big hand and bellowed in my ear. He didn't look very happy.
"What the hell is this all about—"
"Later, Michael. C.G. is getting away, and I don't mean Cary Grant. There they go! The clever bastards—"
No further talk was necessary. Not even for the New Jersey State Patrol car swinging in behind us. About fifty yards off the roadway that led into the farm, the big, handsome powerful limousine suddenly shot into view, nosing out from the underbrush with a thunderous roar. A cloud of dust climbed skyward. Monks cursed and settled back in his seat. He was holding a big service revolver and his face was a mask of mingled fury and expectation. I didn't stop to ask him why he had come. Up ahead, Godlove's limousine, with all that hidden horsepower going for it, had practically vanished down the country road, frightening every rabbit, toad, and squirrel for miles around. Monks' man was a good driver. The civilian police car sprang forward in pursuit in a jouncing, jarring, headlong pursuit. I heard Felicia murmur in pain. She sounded beat.
"Any guns in this heap?" I asked, opening the glove compartment. Monks grunted, handing me a riot gun from the back of the car. I took it, checked it, flicked off the safety and leaned it along the front window. I heard Monks mumble instructions to Melissa and Felicia to keep low, stay low, and let the men handle everything. He sounded paternal and big-bearish doing it, but his heart and head were in the right place. I didn't hear what Felicia and Melissa replied. Knowing Monks, he was probably deliberately keeping his face dead ahead so he wouldn't be accused of admiring Felicia's seminudity. But there wasn't any point in dwelling on that either. Godlove and Fromm and the damn ball were getting away. The ball that had caused all the trouble. It didn't matter about Freddy back at the farmhouse. Felicia had probably cashed in his rapist chips for all time anyway.
The country road was narrow and winding, one curving turn after another. Monks' driver was working the wheel like a maniac. Overhanging trees and tall bunkers of foliage slapped at the car as it went by. We didn't spot the big limousine until we broke from the grass and tree country into a stretch of open, rolling lowlands that showed the Turnpike and its flow of steady traffic in the distance. Between it and us were about a thousand yards of road. Along the ribbon of brownish, sandy earth was the limousine. Racing powerfully, making the distance between us greater than ever. Godlove's machine was thrusting like a racing car into the space, hurtling toward the sunlight washing the highway. It looked like we'd never get close enough for a shot. I could hear Monks now, barking curt orders into a hand-mike because the car was equipped with two-way radios. But I couldn't see even a road block stopping the armored tank that Godlove used to get around in. There was no telling what other armament his machine held. The vital equipment and secrets he had talked about. It was a safe bet that he was probably doing the driving with Fromm in the back seat playing lookout with a weapon. Or perhaps disassembling the ball. Godlove had struck me as a cat who didn't waste time. He probably wanted to unload Fromm as soon as possible so he could go into his hole or get out of the country altogether now that it was Mission Accomplished. He'd gotten what he had come to America for, hadn't he? According to him, he had.
"We're going to lose him," I said, seeing the limousine get smaller, watching the mighty complex of towers, gas tanks, and oil-refinery rigs poking from the horizon to the North, where Elizabeth lay. "He's got too many horses under that hood, dammit."
"We'll block him," Monks rumbled. "Car or no car. And when we do I want your solemn promise you'll tell me who he is, who this nice half-naked lady is, and just exactly what it was that makes a smart cop like me leave his desk, call out the Rahway Police Department, and go slumming in Jersey just because your secretary happens to be somebody I admire and respect."
"Scout's honor," I promised, keeping my eyes on the fast-receding tail of Godlove's car. It was doing a hundred at least, leaving the sand behind, and now reaching the improved roadway that careened toward the next exit on the Turnpike. The limousine might have had wings.
"Hell with that," Monks snarled. "I want your word."
"You got it." I raised the riot gun higher, hoping for a shot.
"Come on, Wilson," Monks roared. "Can't you get more speed out of this flivver?" The driver jumped at the anger in his voice.
Wilson nodded, but it was a reaction to command not reality. The police car, a Ford, was already pushed to its limit. He would never catch Godlove. Not today or ever. My fingers itched for the trigger of the riot gun. We weren't even close enough for a shot. Behind us, the Rahway cops following us in their own car, had set their siren to going, and the shrill, whining noise didn't help at all. I flashed a quick look in the rear-view mirror. Felicia's drained ashen face was pillowed on Melissa Mercer's shoulder. Mel was staring emptily into space. Felicia had her eyes closed. My two girls. My women. Pictures no artist could ever paint—
"What the—look!" Monks' foghorn voice bellowed out an oath. He doesn't like to curse, but even he can't help himself sometimes. We all looked. We had to. There was no immediate explanation for what had happened up ahead. It was like Moses parting the Red Sea in Bibleland.
Godlove's limousine, black and impressive in the sunlight, had suddenly lifted up like a giant toy, lurched to one side, and then come slamming back down on the road. We could see the doors fly open violently. And long before we could reach the scene, eating up the five-hundred-yard distance the limousine had maintained almost since we had left the farmhouse, the rest of the terrible stunt was played out. It was like a movie seen through a view-finder, with the entire Jersey landscape for a screen. With inglorious Technicolor added. And flaming Death.
The big, proud limousine, with flags still fluttering from chrome pylons, doors still hanging open, left the roadway. It went off on a dizzy tangent, zipped forward like a rolling juggernaut, ploughed down a sloping embankment, and rammed head-on into the gnarled, enormous bole of one of the numberless cypress trees filling that section of the roadway. The shrieking siren behind us was lost in the thunderous blast that followed. An explosion like a miniature atomic bomb.
A bright orange gush of flame geysered skyward, and then in rapid sequence, coiling black waves of smoke and fire mushroomed upward. The entire vehicle was engulfed in billowing, ugly clouds of destruction. Whatever Christian Godlove's armored limousine had contained now added its massive two cents to the
holocaust. More explosions ripped the air, bombarding the quiet Jersey afternoon, shooting fiery debris and burning bits of metal, zebra-striped upholstery, and God-knew-what-else all over the countryside. By the time Monks' car had slithered to a quick stop on the roadway and we all clambered out for a look, the chase was really over. Even the New Jersey patrol car shut down its sirens, and the uniformed coppers who hopped out still had their guns in their holsters. Small wonder. Christian Godlove and the unseen, mysterious expert, Fromm, were no longer a factor on this earth. They had been blown to smithereens.
It wasn't a pretty sight.
What was left of the wreckage was a charred, still-burning fusion of metal and rubber and cloth and flesh. You could have crammed the flaming residue into the trunk compartment of any other automobile.
I stared down at the horror of it and tried to think.
Monks, at my elbow, grunted wearily. His face was suddenly older.
"What the hell was in that car?" he demanded peevishly. "I've never seen a wreck like that before." The Rahway cops and his driver were too dumbfounded to comment Felicia had remained in the car with Melissa. There was the awful stench of chemicals, gasoline, cordite, and nitrate in the air. I shook my head. Godlove's finish was baffling.
"I'm not sure, but I could make an educated guess."
"Do tell?" Monks eyed me sourly. "Remember your promise. You tell all. Right? I came a long way out of my jurisdiction on my own, asked a perfect bunch of strangers to cooperate with me, and they did. I can't just say thanks to them and scram. I have to satisfy them, too. What do I tell them, dear boy? That car looked like it was flying Russian flags."
I nodded. "I'll tell you all I can in New York. Meanwhile, to keep them happy, you tell them they have just helped put the whammy on a man called Christian Godlove, a notorious hired assassin who worked for the foreign powers on anything they wanted him to. Godlove and a man called Fromm were in that car. Back at the farmhouse is a confederate of Godlove's. A Negro chauffeur named Freddy, who used to be a Black Panther. Miss Carr had to kill him because he—well, never mind. He's part of Godlove's club. The flags don't mean anything. Just a cover, probably."
Little Miss Murder Page 13