Roy laughed, tried to unlock the door, then stopped laughing and threw his weight against it. It didn’t budge.
I was in the kitchen before he hit it a second time.
I rammed the back door with my shoulder, on the dead run. It jarred my teeth, snapped my head back, but the door barely rattled. I tried again. I might as well have hit Mount Rushmore.
I ran back through the sitting room and snatched my gun from under the sofa pillow. I could hear Roy going through closets downstairs; I charged upstairs. I flipped through every wardrobe with my gun muzzle, poked under every bed, even looked in the shower stall and the clothes hamper. Amy and Paul, watching from the living room, must have loved it.
I met Roy back in the sitting room, at the foot of the stairs. I called out before I came down—when I saw his eyes I was glad I had. He was staring every which way and pacing. His gun shivered in his fist like a live mouse.
I said in my calmest deadpan, “Nobody home, Roy. You should make your visitors sign a guestbook. You get such a lot of them.”
He relaxed. “Yeah,” he said and coughed. “I’m beginning to think I should sublet this place.”
“I—” I stopped as Howie came out of the kitchen and lounged against the doorway.
“Nice try, Nathan,” he said, looking sideways at Amy and Paul. He was pale. “Pretty good crime, huh? Lock us in, then finish us off.” He didn’t look like he enjoyed playing anymore. “I wouldn’t even have guessed, if I hadn’t poked around the basement.”
“Jesus!” I was closest. I ran to the kitchen and fumbled frantically with the basement doorknob. Roy was right behind me before I got it open.
It was in the corner near the hot-water heater. Not too surprising, since it was right in front of Roy’s fuel-oil tank. It was small, shapeless and attached to a clock. Anybody over three who watched television could see it was a bomb.
It didn’t look powerful. It didn’t have to be, so long as it set off the fuel-oil tank. I picked up a broom and was shoving the bomb along the floor gingerly, away from the tank, as Paul and Amy slipped past Roy and danced around me, chanting, “We caught Nathan!”
Howie looked relieved. I suppose I looked pretty silly, doubled over and poking delicately from a broom’s length away at a wad of clay, a battery and an alarm clock whose hands were nearly touching.
“Go back upstairs,” I said. Softly. Roy said it louder. They giggled and shook their heads. We couldn’t drag them all out. We might not have time, and if they kicked too hard—
I tossed the broom to Roy, saying, “Shove the bomb in the corner,” in a conspiratorial tone. Then I snatched up Amy and continued, “While I kidnap the girl. Ya ha ha.”
I tucked her under my arm and dashed up the stairs, with Amy laughing and struggling and Paul and Howie in hot pursuit. As I left I called out, “And set it off with your bowling ball!” I hoped he understood.
I only glanced at the front window. I’d never get the kids out in time if the boys caught up with me and tried to “arrest” me before I could break it open. I ran upstairs, to the kids’ bedroom in back; I locked the door for a second while I threw open the window and climbed onto the roof, still carrying Amy. The boys burst in and followed, right on out the window.
We were right over the pile of snow at the end of the driveway. Far below me, through the window, I could hear the muffled grind of a bowling ball rolling slowly across the basement floor; the sound was nearly covered by the hasty slap of flat feet on the basement stairs.
I snarled, “You’ll never take us alive,” wrapped Amy in my arms and rolled off the roof to land on my back in the snow nine feet below.
The wind was knocked out of me, and I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my right side. Above me, the boys were hesitating at the roof’s edge.
As Amy yelled, “Jump! It’s easy,” there was a loud boom from the basement, and the chime of broken glass on the other side of the house as Roy leaped through the front window. The boys jumped and sank in the snow almost to their waists.
I rolled Amy off me as Roy came running up, still in his bathrobe, bleeding from a small cut on his right hand. He felt my side where I was clutching it, said matter-of-factly, “Yep,” and slipped his bathrobe off to put under me.
Then he stood there in his pajamas, looking foolish and cold. “I’ll get you to a doctor. Thanks, Nate.” He shuffled, and looked at the kids, dazed. Amy was still unruffled, but her eyes were shining. Howie and Paul were jumping up and down with excitement.
He looked back at me. “Do you feel all excited too, Nate?”
Talking hurt. It felt that I should slip the words out edgeways. “Gee, Uncle Roy, can we do that again?”
He chuckled, but his jaw jumped as he looked at the back door. I rolled my head cautiously and looked myself. There was a two-by-four across it. Screwed into the doorframe at either end; a U-bolt went around the door knob. If that bomb had ignited the fuel oil, we’d never have gotten out in time.
Suddenly Roy was as cool as I’ve ever seen him. I said, “Roy”—quietly—but he didn’t hear me.
He added, even more quietly, “If it turns out that guy knew the kids were here, I’ll make sure he doesn’t see the inside of a courtroom myself.”
He was shaking, and he wasn’t cold, and even in his pajamas he didn’t look silly at all.
The hospital bed had the usual sheets—snow-white, rigid with starch and smelling like the underside of a band-aid. There was a single Christmas-tree ornament hanging on the bedside lamp, and a cardboard Santa lay on the night stand looking round and two-dimensional. Cut-out letters on the mirror read, Merry Christmas.
Roy looked at his reflection, rubbing his chin—he hadn’t shaved—and said, “You’re supposed to take it easy, and this is the easiest I can get for you.”
I scratched and winced; I could feel the pain all along my side. “My timing’s rotten. Sorry, Roy. You won’t even have the bandage on long. You cracked a rib, not broke it.”
“If you’re not gonna be cheerful, I’m not gonna talk.” I leaned back and sulked while he left, whistling.
I settled back into the pillow, wishing I felt like taking it easy. There was a murderer loose who wanted to kill Cartley, one who wasn’t losing any sleep over killing a few kids in the process. I was in the hospital for twenty-four hours and restricted for much longer. And my partner and best friend was thinking seriously about murder. I tried to take it easy, feeling cold-blooded.
Painful as it was, I shifted restlessly and tried to think. The bombing had been disturbingly amateurish. The bomb itself had been inefficient and the house-barricade childish. Even the first murder smacked of cheap detective shows. Only the break-in showed any professionalism; the first break-in had all the class of Gillis’s and Petlovich’s best effort.
Irrelevantly, I wondered what Gam and Mary did with those nights out on the town. It couldn’t have been anything much; apparently Mary had enjoyed herself, or else wasn’t talking. I pictured a tired thug and a bored woman, eating something Cordon bleu and taking turns reading each other their rights.
I was dozing when the phone rang. I could have ignored it, since Marlowe wasn’t on duty, but I remembered where I was and what was going on before it stopped ringing.
“Yeah?”
“Boy!” It was Howie. “You sure took a long time to get to the phone.”
“Don’t whine. It’s a big room. I was clear across it, dusting the grand piano. What’s up, Howie?”
“Just wanted to tell you I figured out what you’re doing, and why.” He sounded half lighthearted, half scared—strained. I was reminded of Cartley’s call the other morning.
I said, “What?” then had a thought. “No, I take it back. Howie, Amy and Paul aren’t on the extension, are they?”
“No.”
“But they’re in the room behind you.”
“Yes.” On cue I heard them talking in the background, a long way from the phone.
“Howie,” I said cautiously, “you’re pretty sur
e that bomb this morning wasn’t anything your uncle and I did, aren’t you?”
He let out a quick sigh, then said, “Sure.”
“Do the others know?”
“No way.” He was very firm, almost military.
“Right. Well, we’re not playing, and you know it, so what did you call about?”
He tried to sound. “I’ll bet anything Uncle Roy has gone to see some woman that helps you.”
“Why?”
“’Cause he said he had to see a girl about a restaurant, just after he got a phone call. I thought you’d know about it,” he added in real surprise. “I figured it was your girl helping you.”
I was irritated. “Doesn’t he know any other girls?”
Howie said self-righteously, “He’s married. And if you’ve got more than one girl, I bet you’re in trouble.”
“Not if the first one never finds out—oh, wait. Of course. Sure.” Funny how things fall together when you’re not looking for them. “Howie, thanks for calling. What you just told me was important. But why did you call me? What made it important to you?”
His whisper was moist and breathy; he must have had the mouthpiece right against his lips. “’Cause when Uncle Roy left he took two guns and all kinds of bullets, and I’ve never seen him do that before.”
The sheets weren’t just snowy—suddenly they felt like ice. I said, “I’ll do something about it right now. Howie, nobody ever said you weren’t on the ball, and nobody’s ever going to.”
“Thanks, Nathan,” he said seriously, then hung up.
Right after the click I called Pederson. I was lucky enough to find him in.
“What do you want?” he groused. “Phillips, I thought if you took a rest, I’d have one.
“Fat chance. Are you doing anything?”
“Plenty.”
“Drop it and pick me up at the hospital. Roy needs someone from Homicide.”
“There are other cops besides me, you know.” I could hear the whuff as he lit up one of his cigars and pulled at it. “Some of them are even Homicide.”
“He needs a friend—two of them. He’s in trouble, and some rookie with a gun won’t get him out of it.”
“Why not?”
“Because his own gun’s getting him into it right now.”
That was as close as I could come without committing myself.
It worked. There was a moment’s silence, then Pederson said roughly, “I don’t understand, and I’ll be right over. Be downstairs and ready in ten minutes, even if it hurts.”
Ten minutes later he was there. I was ready, and God, did it hurt! I gave him the address, and he drove faster than I’d have dared through downtown, even with a siren. We skidded onto Lake Street, wove through traffic till we shot under 35W, then screeched into a right turn we almost skidded out of. I filled him in the whole time, not stopping when I grabbed the dash for support.
He interrupted twice. “How do you know all this?”
“The restaurant bills. The man who kept a woman in that slum didn’t show her three good nights on the town.”
He grunted, and we went on. A little later he said, “You know, Phillips, I wish you could have done without me. My badge is sticky; it doesn’t pull off just because a friend’s involved.”
How do you answer that? “I know. I’m hoping we’ll get there before anything too bad happens.” He sped up then. I hadn’t thought it possible.
We pulled in across the street from the building. Roy’s car was nowhere in sight, but maybe he’d stowed it. Pederson headed for the front door, but I pulled at his arm and pointed. We ran to the fire escape and started climbing.
We hung back from the window at first. It was three inches open; we couldn’t hear anything in the apartment. Finally, we looked in. Roy wasn’t there. The only person there was Mary Jordan, a .44 held against her right leg, sitting in a chair and staring at the door.
All three of us tensed; we heard, dimly, footsteps in the hall. I had my gun out again. This time it might do me some good. The woman locked her fingers on her gun and raised it. I steadied my .38 on my left arm. This had to be perfect.
Pederson clamped onto my wrist. I pointed with the gun barrel towards the door, and he understood. He nodded, raised his gun and aimed faster than I could when I was already set, then fired. My own shot was barely behind his.
The shots were a foot apart, three inches from the top of the door. Mine was too far to the side; Pederson’s must have gone right over Roy’s head, if Roy was in front of the door. He was—we heard him drop to the floor; a second later Mary’s gun jumped in her hand, nearly knocking her chair over backwards. The bullet went through the center of the door.
Then we dropped below the sill while she turned, spitting fury, and fired four shots out the window at us. One bullet hit the window frame; it ripped the board loose and powdered an already crumbling brick. Then the door burst open and the spitting sound got louder.
Pederson shoved up the broken window and vaulted over the sill, a virile fifty-odd. I hobbled after him, a doddering old gent of thirty-one. Cartley had her around the waist with one arm and had pinned her arms to her body with the other.
He had lifted her off the floor, turning his hip between her legs to spread them and keep her from kicking backwards. Pederson reached for the handcuffs. I reached for a chair, and sat in it, emptying her handbag on the table.
Inside were matchbooks, still unused, from all the restaurants Gillis had written checks to, plus a receipt—dated two days back—from the store where he had done his previous buying. I looked up.
“Playing detective, Mary? Did you find out who she was?”
She clammed up, then. Pederson looked at her with interest. “Aren’t you even waiting to shut up till I read your rights? You are an amateur.” That stung, but she stayed quiet.
Roy was looking back and forth. He tossed his gun on the table and said, looking tired, “All right, what is it I don’t know?”
I gestured at Mary. “Only what she finally knew. I’m not the only one with an invisible lady friend.”
“Lady friend?” Pederson stared at me. “You? You never even shave—” He shut his mouth as Roy began chuckling.
“I’ve had a busy day—I put off shaving.” I turned to Mary. “One thing I can’t put off, Mary—what’s the name of the girl that aced you out?” I wanted her to make a scene and keep Pederson occupied.
“If I’d ’a known,” Mary said, “the cops’d know by now.”
Roy looked back at me helplessly, then suddenly understood. “The bills?”
I nodded. “If you hadn’t been so worried, you’d have seen it, too. Gam must have been a real bastard, borrowing from Mary to take out some other woman. Mary found out, convinced him to break into your house—probably by saying you had evidence against him—” I glanced at her, but she wasn’t reacting, so I went on— “and stabbed him after backing him up to the fireplace with her gun.
“He did the breaking in. That’s why that was professional, but everything else—the bomb, the bolted doors, the red herring to Petlovich—was amateur. Deadly amateur, but amateur.” Still no reaction—Pederson was looking at me strangely.
I tried my last shot. “He really wiped the floor with her before she got him, though. What a rotten, low-life—”
She tried to swing at me, ignoring Pederson, Roy and her own cuffed wrists. “You wouldn’t dare talk that way if he was here!” she snapped.
Pederson grabbed her. I sidled over quietly, picked Roy’s gun off the table and said politely to him, “Roy, I’d like to shake your hand. We made it.”
Roy still had one hand in his coat. He looked at me narrowly, then grinned and stuck out his empty hand. His pocket hung limp. “Thanks for trying, Nate, but the other gun’s in the glove compartment. I cooled down on the way over here. One of the kids tipped you off?”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling silly. “That Howie is growing up fast; he and Amy make a hell of a team. She’s sharper th
an he is, but he’s trying to turn pro.”
The Twelve Crimes of Christmas Page 22