Deadly Weapon

by Wade Miller

  She narrowed her eyes at him. Idly, he picked up the silver box and counted out the cigarettes on the cushion between them. When he reached eighteen, he stopped. The box was empty.

  “And yours is nineteen and mine is twenty,” he enlightened her. “A fresh pack. Probably doesn’t mean a thing.”

  He produced a white envelope from his coat pocket. In the bottom of the cigarette box were a few grains of tobacco. He tapped the box empty into the envelope, sealed it and replaced it in his pocket.

  “I’m not from the police, Shasta. I don’t want to discuss you with them. Please don’t force me.”

  “I told the police everything I have to say.”

  Walter James stood up and lightly ground his fist against his palm. “Why didn’t you tell them about Gilbert?” he said suddenly.

  She was on her feet like a serpent striking. Her tongue was between her teeth.

  “Then again — why should you? Why shouldn’t Mr. Gilbert stay in business and provide that extra income? This is a hell of a fine house, Shasta, and we both know it. We both know what you and the Filipino shared.”

  Her hands were pressed against her thighs again. “Tell me, Shasta, was there much between you and Ferdy?”

  “Don’t you dare say that! Don’t you dare think of it!” she burst at him. Walter James began to get the picture. He stepped toward her and stood close.

  “Shasta, you need a new contact. I can furnish a new contact. And we could be very good friends.” He ran his palm the length of her bare arm. Eyes blazing, she pushed away and rubbed the flesh he had touched.

  “Don’t touch me! You can’t touch me and that crummy Gilbert can’t touch me!”

  He heard a latch rasp behind him and he whirled. His fingers flicked the reassuring gun butt, then he dropped his hand. Madeline Harms stood in the doorway, the door swinging open behind her. Her mouse-colored hair hung down her back and she wore a blue silk kimono gathered loosely about her. She was barefoot.

  “Is he hurting you, Shasta darling? I won’t let him hurt you,” the girl’s slack mouth said. Her eyes were dilated and mostly white. In her hand she held a carving knife, pointing outward from her stomach.

  “Madeline — go back! I can take care of this bastard!” It was a screaming command.

  Madeline shook her head loosely and stubbornly, trying to keep her match-head pupils fixed on the slender man. “Shasta needs my help. Darling always needs me.”

  Walter James glanced into the room from which the girl had appeared. Through the doorway he could see no furniture. A soft red carpet covered the floor to the walls. There was an ash tray on the carpet.

  “Darling Shasta needs Mr. Gilbert, too,” he said slowly and carefully to the girl. He noticed a smear of white powder on the front of the kimono. “That is why darling Shasta has Mr. Gilbert come to her.” He watched the blonde out of the corner of one eye.

  Madeline bit the flesh of her hand between her thumb and first finger. Her eyes widened still farther and shifted erratically to the other woman.

  “Tell him that’s not true, darling. Mr. Gilbert came to you just once, didn’t he? But little Ferdy knew too much about him. So we got lots of money. We got a beautiful house to live in.” She focused her gaping eyes on Walter James again. “Darling doesn’t love anybody. Darling only loves me!”

  Her voice rose to a skittering scream. She thrust the gleaming blade out and started toward the detective. Her steps were too long and unsure. Walter James brought the edge of his hand down swiftly across her wrist. The knife clattered to the floor, and he hit her openhanded on the side of the head. Madeline fell and rolled loosely across the wine-colored floor.

  Shasta sobbed and knelt by the crumple of bare flesh and blue silk. “Madeline,” she murmured, stroking the mouse-colored hair. “Honey, did he hurt you? Tell me he didn’t hurt you!”

  Madeline sighed and coiled her arms contentedly around the other woman’s ankles.

  Walter James picked up his hat and unfastened the door chain. “Thanks for the day, girls,” he said and went out into the sunlight.

  11. Monday, September 25, 1:15 P.M.

  THE WALL DIRECTORY of the Moulton Building showed BONIFACE, EVERETT, M.D., 413. Walter James studied the name for a moment before he entered the elevator.

  “Four, please,” he told the operator. He followed the arrow down the corridor. The floor seemed to be almost exclusively medical. Dr. Fierro, Dr. Dempsey, Dr. Carlyle, Dr. Boniface…. The automatic door closer made a soft hiss as he entered. The room was only a cubbyhole.

  The receptionist was scanning an appointment book. She was a heavy-set blonde with a protruding lower lip. She gave him a professional smile that didn’t extend to her pale blue eyes. “Yes?”

  “Walter James,” he murmured.

  “Do you have an appointment?” She turned the pages of the book, looking down.

  “No — but tell Dr. Boniface that it’s important.”

  The girl looked doubtful. “I’ll tell him, Mr. James.” She went into the next room in a rustle of starched whites. Walter James lit a cigarette and stared at his manicured nails. The receptionist reappeared.

  “Will you have a seat in the waiting room, Mr. James? Dr. Boniface will see you in a moment.”

  “Thank you,” said Walter James. The girl closed the door in back of him. He looked around the deserted waiting room. Its hush was that of a church. He looked for an ash tray and couldn’t find one. The light on the low center table caught his eye.

  “That’s a hell of a light to read by,” he said aloud. It bored into his head. The combination of mirrors that made up the lamp’s framework condensed rather than diffused the light, intensifying the beam. No matter how he turned his head the light seemed to be pointing at his eyes.

  Walter James was still staring at the light when a soft voice said in back of him, “Good afternoon, Mr. James.”

  “Dr. Boniface?” He felt relaxed, drowsy. It was an effort to think.

  “I understand you have something important to see me about.”

  “Yes.” What was it now. His mind refused to concentrate.

  “Come into my office, won’t you?”

  Walter James followed a broad, blue-suited back into a dim office. Thick velveteen drapes masked the windows. An electric fan made a soft monotonous whir in a far corner. He looked at Boniface, noticed the heavy, muscular frame now going to fat, the fleshy white face. Boniface’s hands on the desk blotter were in contrast to his body, slender and tapering with well-kept nails. A heavy ring with a black stone flashed malignantly.

  “Now just lean back and relax,” the soft voice said, soothingly. Walter James felt himself sinking deeper into the soft chair. He felt like sleeping. His eyes, drawn uncontrollably to Boniface’s slender hands, caught sight of a rectangle of white tucked in a corner of the desk blotter.

  Walter James shook his head. A business card! His mind began to claw its way back onto the light.

  “Just relax,” the doctor was saying, his tones even and smooth. “You’ll feel better if you’ll just relax — ”

  Say something, Walter James’s mind told him. Say something — anything — so that you’ll hear your own voice again. He opened his mouth with a physical effort that made his ears ring.

  “You ought to be on the stage,” Walter James said hoarsely. “I haven’t seen anything like you since Thurston.” The sound of his voice broke the spell. He could look away from the hands and the black ring. He could look at the fleshy white face again.

  Boniface didn’t smile. “Is that the important something you had in mind, Mr. James?” His voice was as smooth as ever but Walter James could sense the irritation behind it. His mind began to pick up speed.

  “You have to begin somewhere.” He could feel perspiration cold on the back of his neck.

  “Suppose you try the beginning.”

  “I came to you because Dr. Boone recommended you,” said Walter James. He looked at Boniface squarely. The big man’s face did
n’t alter.

  “Indeed?” he said: “What is the nature of your problem, Mr. James?”

  Walter James felt calm and cool again. The trembling in his legs had stopped. “I have dreams,” he told the doctor.

  “Yes?”

  “I keep dreaming of dead Filipinos, ones with knives in them.”

  Boniface turned slowly in his swivel chair, but kept his eyes on Walter James’s face. His hands were out of sight in his lap.

  “That’s an unusual fixation. However, possibly we can trace it to its source. Have you any explanation to offer?”

  “For the dream — or for the dead Filipino?”

  “I’m interested in anything you want to tell me.”

  Walter James smiled, showing only the tips of his teeth. “Now isn’t that peculiar, Doctor? I was just going to say the same thing to you.”

  There was a moment of silence. Boniface frowned. “Perhaps I’m a trifle confused, Mr. James. I understood that you had some important reason for seeing me.”

  “I did. But where you jumped the tracks was thinking it was important to me. It’s not. It’s important to you.”

  The big man’s fleshy face split into a half smile. “Of course, Mr. James. Won’t you tell me all about it?”

  “I don’t have to tell you about it. You know all about it. Fernando Solez was killed last night.”

  Boniface’s poker face was perfect. “Yes?”

  “The police will eventually get to you. They’re slower than I am as a rule. Talk now and to me and I’ll guarantee you’ll have less trouble in the long run.”

  “What interest could the police possibly take in me, Mr. James?” Boniface asked him blandly.

  The slender detective pulled the torn business card from his pocket and slid it across the polished desk. Boniface studied it politely, then handed it back to Walter James. “It’s apparently half of one of my business cards.”

  “The other half was found in Fernando Solez’ coat pocket.” Boniface ran his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully. “I found this half wedged in the seat where he was killed.”

  Boniface said, “Mr. James, any professional man’s cards circulate to some extent. I have no idea how this — ah, Fernando Solez obtained my card.”

  Walter James turned the card over. “And I’ll bet you never saw the writing on the back, either.” Boniface inclined his head gravely. “It says, when you put the halves together: I need another ounce immediately regular place. Another ounce of what, Doctor?”

  Boniface smiled at him. “You present an interesting case, Mr. James. I wish I could do something for you.” He rose.

  “Hard to get, huh?” Walter James said.

  “I’m afraid that there is nothing I can do to help you. The delusion that you’re suffering under is rather uncommon and beyond my efforts to alleviate.”

  Walter James got to his feet slowly. He brushed a piece of lint from the right knee of his trousers. “I’ll bet you tell that to all your patients, Doctor.”

  “However,” Boniface continued smoothly, “in case your dreams persist, I would suggest a good sleeping powder. Perhaps I might arrange a prescription for you.” He held the door open.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want you to do that, Doctor,” said Walter James and he smiled. “I like that dream. I’d miss it. But I’m thinking about running a double feature tonight. One about a phony psychiatrist. Do you think you’d be interested in that dream?”

  “Not in the least, Mr. James. Good day.”

  “See you in jail, Doctor,” Walter James said. “And, by the way, you really should get some magazines for that waiting room of yours. The Lienster machine looks kinda lonesome.”

  The receptionist was just replacing the telephone into its cradle when Walter James stopped in front of her desk.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Doctor Boniface wants you to run next door to Doctor Carlyle’s office and borrow his book on erotic psychophenomena by Blake.”

  The girl looked puzzled. “I shouldn’t leave the office,” she said. Walter James shrugged and looked disinterested. “What was that book?”

  “‘Erotic Psychophenomena’ by Blake.”

  “That’s a new one on me.”

  The door had scarcely closed behind her white-stockinged legs before Walter James was behind the desk. He lifted the phone and pushed one of the buttons on the base experimentally. The third attempt rewarded him.

  Boniface’s voice said, “ — like it. How did he know so much?”

  Another crisper voice snapped at him. “Well, why call me? What am I supposed to do about it?”

  “I wanted to warn you.”

  “I’ve told you before not to call me here.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to sit tight and do nothing. You’re getting excited and that’s just what this Walter James wants you to do. Nobody has any proof and they won’t get it unless you get rattled.”

  “You’re right, Major,” Boniface said heavily. “You’re right.”

  “I’ll see you at the regular time. Good-by.”

  “Good-by.”

  Walter James was staring at the Renoir print on the wall when the receptionist came back. She said indignantly, “Doctor Carlyle didn’t have the book — he’d never even heard of it.”

  “Doctor Boniface was afraid it was out of print,” Walter James said glibly. “Never mind. It was for me. I’ll look in the bookstores.” He started out the door. “Oh, by the way, there was a phone call for the doctor, but I didn’t know how to swtich it over to him.”

  The girl acquired a worried frown. “Did it sound important?”

  “I don’t know. It was a Major Somebody — ah — I can’t quite remember the name.”

  “Oh,” she said and the frown vanished. “That was Major Rockwell. He and the doctor play golf together. He’ll call again.”

  “Yes,” said Walter James, “he probably will.” He opened the door. “And thanks for everything.”

  12. Monday, September 25, 2:45 P.M.

  WALTER JAMES pushed through the heavy doors of the Brass Rail at Sixth and B Streets. Clapp’s back was the biggest one at the bar. The slender man strolled over to him, punched a finger into the blue gabardine over Clapp’s kidney. Clapp shoved around on the stool.

  “What’s wrong with the foot of Market?” asked Walter James. “Law enforcement get dull?”

  “Oh, hello, James. No, got kind of rushed this morning and couldn’t whip out to lunch till now. Jesus, you ought to know better than to poke a man there after three beers.”

  “Anything new? Hear from the East?”

  “Give them time, James. The longer I wait, the more I’ll learn. Try one of these dark beers. Good.”

  “Typical cop attitude,” Walter James commented. “Drag that beer over in the corner and let’s talk.”

  They reached the corner booth at the same time as the white-haired waiter. “Double vodka, water. Sandwich — rare beef. Want anything, Clapp?”

  “Another dark beer.”

  The waiter hurried off. They sank into the stained oak booth.

  Clapp said, “We’ve pulled in every small time weed seller in town that we knew about. It was all two or three reefer stuff. We didn’t get a line on any big dealing or anything going out of town.”

  “Naturally. What we’re looking for isn’t peddled around here — I don’t think.”

  “The Filipino had it,” Clapp pointed out. He drained the glass and wiped off his mouth. “We did a little good, though. Found a couple of parlors we didn’t know about and closed them in a big quiet hurry. One of them was too close to the high school for comfort. I hope the City Council doesn’t hear about that!”

  “Hoover High?” asked Walter James.

  “No. Downtown. San Diego High.”

  “Oh.” The waiter brought the sandwich, the beer and two glasses of clear liquid on a tray. Walter James tossed down half the vodka and took a gulp of water. “Had a bad morning. I’ve been out
doing your dirty work for you.” He began mouthing the sandwich.

  “I’ve seen cows hurt worse than that and live,” said the big man, eyeing the beef. “What particular kind of hell have you been raising?”

  “I talked to Shasta Lynn.”

  “Did she talk back?”

  “Enough.”

  “Did you catch her at the burlesque house?”

  “This is the Grand’s day off. I went out to La Mesa. I learned a lot. Why she doesn’t pal around with the other girls in the show. Why Greissinger never saw her with any men friends.”

  “Okay, son — why?” The foam had died down. Clapp sipped in some of the beer.

  Walter James laid down the sandwich. “She’s got a little love nest all her own out in La Mesa.”

  “Love nest?”

  “Shasta and her friend Madeline. They’re dikes. Dikey as all hell.”

  Clapp grunted in amazement. “That’s a new one on me — a dike strip teaser!” He shook his big head.

  “Maybe it whets her appetite. I don’t know. A girl has to make a living.”

  “Where does the dope angle tie in?”

  Walter James gave a one syllable laugh. “If you could have seen that hopped-up Madeline charge me with a butcher knife, you’d have seen the tie-in.”

  “You have had a busy day. I suppose Madeline’s full of bullet holes right now.”

  “That’s a nice vindictive point of view. Will it raise me in your opinion any to know I only slapped her down?”

  “Not a hell of a lot,” said Clapp.

  “Here’s the way I spell it. Ferdy was a very little man in the setup. Some big man delivered the stuff to him. The Grand Theater was the pickup point. Ferdy passed on the stuff to another big man there. The two big men never had to come face to face or involve each other. Maybe they didn’t even know each other.”

  “So the Filipino was a go-between. Then how — ”

  “But Ferdy wasn’t a good little go-between. He was hot for Shasta Lynn. Maybe he knew her propensities — maybe he didn’t. That part you buried with him. But the Filipino was holding out part of the delivery which he presented to Shasta Lynn — hoping that was the key to her affections.”