by Dell Shannon
"I knowed it was from you, sir, I hope you don't mind, but I sort of felt like I ought to thank you— Frank thought you was a swell boss, he— "
At the time Mr. Skyros had been angry and alarmed; he was always so careful to keep his name and face right out of any provable contact, and here was someone entirely outside the business, someone with no interest in preserving secrecy— only because he had happened to be Frank's brother. Well, one could not prevent people from having relatives, of course. But this lout, Frank's brother, what line was he in? Mr. Skyros had heard, but could not recall now. But Denny sounded humble and anxious, and automatically Mr. Skyros had been paternally friendly, with an eye to winning his loyalty. And inevitably had said, "If there's ever any way I can help you, my friend— "
And had it not paid off! Not two months later, Denny coming to him with this— money for nothing, you could say. And agreeing to the price at once, so astonished that they might get such a price for it; and to the cut, fifty-fifty. It was, of course, a reasonable price— and a reasonable cut. After all, it was a rather delicate matter to handle, it required just the right touch, and Mr. Skyros was the man to handle it. He had, of course, no intentions of revealing himself as in touch with the original thief— he did not then know Lexourion's daughter; she might be an honest woman who would immediately go to the police at the mere suggestion.
He was quite pleased with the artistic little idea of the advertisement in the paper ostensibly to get in touch with the thieves. It had convinced her that he was only the helpful friend of her late father's, as he had represented himself; and of course it had been easy to persuade her to let him make the contact in that way— a lady could not be allowed to have such dealings with a criminal, when there was a gentleman willing to substitute. It had delayed matters, inevitably, there had to be plausible time allowed, to give it the appearance of— of verisimilitude. But all so very easy and smooth. And then this one, this Jackie, must show up, just a little smarter— smart enough to see that Mr. Skyros had tied himself into it and must get his cut, but greedy for a higher price in consequence.
The County Museum, my God . . .And this crazy woman, bent on defrauding the insurance company. Madness. Nothing out of Mr. Skyros' pocket, but could she not see that in a matter of this kind one must give a little in order to gain? True, two hundred thousand dollars was a respectable sum of money: Mr. Skyros could appreciate the temptation, to get it back twice. But it was not such a thing as cash, or nice bearer bonds, or a handful of diamonds— anonymous, unidentifiable. Wherever this thing showed up, it would be known; and it could not be sold piecemeal, its actual intrinsic value was as a whole: split it up, and it was worth nowhere near that amount. If she wanted anything out of it, the pedigree, so to speak, had to be clear. Men to buy in secret, she said: nonsense: anyone who laid out that kind of money wanted to boast of it.
So, this nice plausible little story for the police and the insurance men, one easy to believe, for they too would know it was nothing a thief could sell to a fence. Perhaps to make them think— it was an idea— that the thief had aimed for her all along, to hold it at ransom, as it were. A nice story about this telephone call, this meeting with a disguised fellow— no, not to be identified, so little she'd seen of him— the exchange of cash for the collection. And there she was with it in her legal possession, able to sell it openly.
Everybody made a profit that way. My God, she had no guarantee the old man would have left her anything at all: had he lived longer, the thing would have been sold, and heaven above knew she had plenty of money already; he might very well have left everything to some society or college, who knew? The ten thousand profit to Mr. Skyros (though she need not know he had a piece of it, of course) and the Donovans was the little price she paid for clear title to it, for being able to realize something from its sale.
He had thought anyone would see that, even a scatter— headed female. A thing like this, my God, the insurance people would be like starving tigers on a manhunt if they suspected— and of course they would suspect, not being fools. But she did not see, she was determined to keep that money: Mr. Skyros, sitting at his desk that Friday afternoon worrying, mopped his brow agitatedly. Bring them all down on her like— like the Assyrians in that poem, she would, and eventually on Mr. Skyros too. Because she would naturally not hesitate, come to the point, to name him, believing he was an innocent upright businessman with all his ways open to inspection.
And, oh, God, this Domokous business . . . He had thought the police were quite satisfied about Domokous, but were they? Were they still investigating? God only knew. Mr. Skyros had just returned from the funeral, where he had received another little shock— Domokous had been engaged, the girl was there. The girl— a sullen— looking young woman— now what might she want, asking if she could come to see him tomorrow afternoon? He would tell her, he decided, that Domokous' salary had been due, and he felt she should have it in lieu of any family. Yes. The picture of the kind, friendly employer he had presented at the funeral. Maybe she only wanted to ask him for a job or
something.
Domokous . . . Really a chapter of accidents, that had not been necessary at all. These violent people— no finesse, no understanding! Domokous had known nothing; Mr. Skyros had seen at once that he was only too anxious to believe it a misunderstanding, and any halfway plausible little story would have sent him away satisfied. But not after he'd been knocked unconscious from behind. Or even before that, after the little argument with Donovan there—
Suddenly Mr. Skyros sat bolt upright in his chair and called upon God. He had remembered something. He saw Domokous with that list in his hand, picked up from the desk, and Donovan swearing, reaching for it— he heard the little snap of tearing paper. Part of it had torn away— had it? If so, what had become of it? Did it include anything which might be dangerous?
He must ask Donovan about it.
These terrible violent men. Killing, that was dangerous: a prudent man found other means, did not get into situations which might lead to such actions. But circumstances, as the saying went, alter cases. There Domokous was, knowing that something wrong was going on, and what to do with him? He was not the type to be bought off, that Mr. Skyros knew: a most tiresomely honest young man.
Two birds with one stone. Involve Bratti. One could hope, at least. But Mr. Skyros had not at all liked anything about that business; he had had as little to do with it as possible...
He had been worried then, sitting there in his office thinking about it; but three minutes later his worries increased. The phone rang and he took it up to hear the voice of one Eugene Castro, whom he had once known well.
"Listen," said Castro, "the boss don't like fancy tricks played on him .... You know what I mean. Big joke, hah, telling your Frog lady-friend about how Bratti's a real old-fashioned gangster, hot cannon man at his elbow night 'n' day-hah?— so she tries to hire him to take off a guy she don't like. That's a dilly of a joke, Skyros— real belly laugh!"
"What? My friend, I don't know what you're talking about— "
"Skip the friend. It kind of annoyed the boss, an' I wouldn't say but what it's maybe give him ideas. You can still buy it, you know just where to go an' who to see, contact a dropper for rent. You pull another one like that, an' the boss just might go lookin', Skyros." The receiver thudded in his ear.
Mr. Skyros clutched his temples. Heaven above knew he was not sorry that Bratti was annoyed, but— ! "Your Frog lady-friend"— what had this crazy woman been up to now?
And then the phone rang again, and it was Angelo, with the news that Prettyman and three of his boys were in jail, and the Elite raided and the entire month's supply confiscated.
* * *
Jackie Donovan was worried as hell, and the worst of it was, it wasn't the kind of worry he could share aloud with anybody. Not even Denny. God, Denny least of all— Denny always looking up to him as the boss, Jackie the one knew all the answers, called all the shots. Always had been. So,
sure, it was just this first little while, kind of getting back on his feet after that long a stretch— but he didn't like this funny feeling, not being sure.
Doing things a ten— year-old kid— Like a nervous kid on his first job.
That sap. Dropping it like that. And of course he'd had gloves on, but he'd handled it before without, and he didn't know whether the holding it with the gloves after would have maybe wiped out all the prints.
He sat in the park thinking about it, worrying about it, but worrying a lot harder about something else. About a feeling he'd been having since he remembered about the sap, a feeling he hadn't even dared admit to himself until just now.
That sap, maybe with a print. So they'd know. And they'd put him back inside.
And he didn't care— he wanted to be back inside.
No! Acourse that was a crazy damn-fool thing, just part of being first out after so long. He'd be feeling his old self, thinking like his old self, pretty soon now, and looking back to all this and laughing. Private-like, to himself.
Some guys did get that way. So they felt— lost— outside. Inside, you knew about everything. Just what was going to happen, when. You didn't have to think, and plan, and worry. Some guys got so they didn't like it outside; it was easier in.
Jackie Donovan, my God, wasn't one of those! Fifteen years or fifteen hundred, he'd never be one of those!
Better think about that little thing. How the hell to get it back. Not in the car, that he was sure of, and so he'd figured she'd must have found it. He'd been surprised it turned out to be a dame, the name such a funny one; but all the easier, in a way— he'd had plenty of time, go through the apartment careful, and he'd swear it wasn't there. So then he'd figured she had it on her— and that had gone all wrong . . .Everything, God, going wrong. He thought vaguely maybe he oughtn't ever to've let Denny and Frank get to where they just waited for him to give the orders: if they'd had to think out things for themselves, maybe they wouldn't have got into such messes when he got sent across, wasn't there no more. Well, so O.K., they'd made out all right, in a sort of way, but just no sense about looking ahead. Getting tied up to pushers . . . That Angelo. Well, all right, Angie'd been a good guy once, lot of fun sometimes, a nice little guy, and dependable too: jobs he'd done with them, Angie'd maybe pulled them out of a spot, couple of times— good driver, then, he'd been. You could figure it was old times had held Denny to Angie, and that was fine, ordinarily: nobody liked a guy ran out on l1is pals. But the minute Angie had got onto that lay, and started taking sleighrides himself, Denny ought to've dropped him but quick. Instead, he let Angie take Frank into it, and— Water under the bridge. You had to think about here and now. Damn fool Denny bunking down with Angie— just have somebody to talk to, after Frank was gone! Jackie hadn't got the straight of this business yesterday, if somebody had talked or the cops had just found out something on their own, and he didn't much care. It'd given him the excuse to pull Denny out, anyways. To say, maybe if somebody'd talked, the cops knew about all of them, about Angie too, and better they split up. Angie'd seen the sense in that. Didn't matter where Angie'd gone; let him go his own way from now on, forget him. Angie said, now this other guy was inside, and marked, probably he'd get his job— specially as he knew the middleman Skyros. Well, knew who he was. That kind, like Skyros, was usually leery of getting known much, but Angie happened to know him, account of Frank— way Denny'd got in with him too, on this other deal.
And what a deal. Of all the crazy things: Jackie'd got to feeling a little like how Denny did, better get shut of it any old way.
When you came down to it, anything they got off it was profit, like Denny said. Ten thousand for that. But it really griped him that Skyros had to get a fifty percent cut— sure, so he'd set it up with the dame, but what was there to that? My God, if he'd got out sooner himself, before Denny made the deal, he could have set it up with her just as good, and the ten thousand between him and Denny. Skyros, this chiseler . . .
So what about that little thing he'd lost? He was wondering now if maybe that other dame had ever had it at all. He'd thought of the car, first place, because things did slip out of your pockets sometimes, sitting down; but it could have happened other ways. When he came back to the Caddy, that day, he'd been feeling kind of mean— way that guy in there had looked down his nose at him— and you didn't notice things much, feeling like that. Maybe when he reached to get the keys, it had dropped out. Could be. Dropped onto the grass in the parking there, or in the gutter. Could've been laying there ever since— unless they cleaned up, a gardener with a rake or something— but a little thing like that . . . If it was in the gutter, other shorts'd gone over it, it might be covered up with leaves and muck— Not awful likely anybody would have found it.
But, God, how could he go and look? He thought he could remember just about where, but in a place like that, everybody noticing . . . He could say he'd dropped his keys or something— yes, and ten to one a gardener, or some kids, wanting to help look. Oh, the hell with it— if he did find it, no need let anybody see, stick it in his pocket and pretend to keep on looking for what he'd said he'd lost. Nobody would notice. If he didn't get it back, that would be noticed all right.
That damned sap. If there was a print— Didn't want get Denny in trouble. Just as well Denny didn't know anything about it; he could say so, if—
Donovan got up and walked out of Pershing Square, down Sixth to Main, and down Carson to the cheap rooming house where they'd moved last night, him and Denny. There wasn't a garage; the Caddy P was sitting on the street. The Caddy Denny'd gone and got back for him. He got out his keys slowly, got in and started her. He felt a little bit easier with her now.
He drove out Exposition to the park and into the grounds, found a place to put the Caddy, and walked up to where he'd parked that day, near as he remembered. There were parked cars almost solid here, I damn it, couldn't go crawling under every one to see. But he did what looking he could, peering along the gutter between cars.
After awhile, just as he'd figured, a guy came along and stopped and asked what was wrong. "I dropped my keys somewheres," said Donovan, "somewheres right along here, I think it musta been— damn fool thing to do, but you know how these things happen."
"Oh," said the guy, "that so? Hope you find 'em, damn nuisance all right. You don't, you better go and ask at the Lost and Found desk in at the museum— maybe somebody's turned 'em in."
"Gee, yes, maybe so," agreed Donovan. The guy got into the car by the curb there and started the engine. Donovan realized maybe he'd been suspicious he was looking her over with an eye to hopping her. But it left a space free to look at .... He waited for the guy to jink her out into the street, and all of a sudden he noticed something and his heart dropped.
The car didn't have fender aprons, and as it pulled out he could see the treads of the back tires; and on the left one, there was an old bent metal slug of some kind half-buried in the rubber, sticking there .... This damn hundred-and-ten weather, the asphalt going all soft, your shoes'd stick to it sometimes, crossing the street— a little thing like that, sticky with asphalt, getting glued onto a tire easy, carried away God knew where. Or more likely, ground down into the asphalt when tires went over it.
For half a minute there he felt like he could cry, just sit down on the curb and bawl like a kid. He felt the sweat trickling down his back, in the merciless muggy heat; and he knew for sure that thing was gone for good, he'd never get it back. He thought of what trouble that would make.
He thought of Angie saying, anything to do with an ace of spades, bad luck. And maybe Angie was right.
And all of a sudden, again, he felt kind of homesick— for the place you didn't have to worry what was going to happen tomorrow . . .
* * *
Driscoll lay awake miserably on the hard cell cot and worried over his sins. What the hell Howard would say to this— wel1, all right, he knew what the hell Howard would say! And damn it, you could say all Howard's fault
in the first place— picking at him, criticizing— so he wanted, by God, to show Howard just how good he was— Damned cops. All bullies, taking any excuse to— And unless he was the hell of a lot luckier than he'd been lately, this would mean his job.
All right, so he'd just have to do what he could on it, now. Tell the damned cops what they wanted to know, all pals together, apologized all over the place for how he'd acted— personal troubles, he'd say, he knew he'd been drinking too much— lay it to that— give a guy a break, I didn't mean to— So they wouldn't go sending any official complaint to the company. Howard needn't ever hear a word about it, with any luck. O.K.
His head was aching and his stomach felt queasy; he groaned, trying to get into a comfortable position. Ease up on the drink, sure, after this. Better try. But God, he'd like one now, get him through, help him— He couldn't sleep, and it seemed morning would never come, so he could start to get this all straightened out— as straight as he could, anyway . . .
FIFTEEN
Lydia Bouvardier was feeling not so much worried as irritated. She was irritated at Mr. Skyros, at this Donovan, very much so at that insurance man, and at the situation in general. A good deal of her irritation was occasioned by the fact that nothing seemed to be as she had thought— as it should be.
She applied lipstick carefully and said, "Go, try to get this Skyros at the telephone again, Berthe .... More and more I have the feeling that he is not to be trusted! All these line excuses why he cannot put me in touch with this Irishman— no business for a lady, he says. And in any case he does not know where Donovan is. Which is absurd, of course he knows. If I could but again meet Donovan face to face, ah, I see he makes the bargain quickly!"