the Hills Of Homicide (Ss) (1987)

by L'amour, Louis

  Yet even as consciousness faded, I heard a tearing of cloth and the sound of a police siren, far away.

  When next I became aware of anything, I was lying on a damp, hard floor in absolute darkness. Fear washed over me in a cold wave. With a lunge, I came to a sitting position. My head swam with pain at the sudden movement, and I put both hands to it, finding a laceration across my scalp from one of the blows. My hair was matted with blood. Struggling to my knees, I was still shaky, and my thoughts refused to become coherent.

  The events of the night were a jumble, the hot, close air of the kitchen, the hallway, the dead man, the weird old woman, my call to the police, and the blows on the head. Somehow I had stumbled into something uglier than expected. A man had been murdered. Perhaps Bradley, too, was dead.

  Feeling for my shoulder holster, I discovered my gun was missing. That was to be expected. The floor on which I knelt was concrete, and there was no light. The room had a dank, musty smell, and I believed for a moment I must be in the basement of the murder house. Then I placed another smell, one that I knew well. It was the smell of the sea. So I had been taken from the house and dumped here? Why? Had they believed me dead? Or had they lacked time to kill me?

  Getting up, I waited an instant, then took four careful steps before encountering a wall. Feeling along the wall, I found three stone steps and at the top a door. My hands quested for the knob or latch. There was none. Not even a hinge or a finger hold anywhere. The door was fitted with admirable precision.

  Working cautiously, for I knew not what lay ahead, I worked my way around the room, keeping my hands on the wall. The room was about ten feet wide by twenty feet long and appeared to be empty, although I had not been down the center of it. At the far end, there was an opening in the wall not much above floor level. It was perhaps three feet wide and covered with a grating of iron bars. They were not thick bars, but definitely beyond the power of my unaided muscles.

  Dropping to my knees, I peered out and could make out a faint line of grayness some distance away and below the level of the floor. My fingers found damp sand around the grate.

  Fumbling in my pockets for a match, I found everything gone from my pockets. Feeling for my inside coat pocket, I found it torn. The labels had been torn from my clothes! That could mean but one thing. I was marked for murder.

  The pieces began to fall into place, and as each one fit, I felt a mounting horror. The grate near the floor, the smell of the sea, that damp sand inside the window, the faint line of gray! At high tide, this place was under water!

  Rushing across the room, I hurled myself at the door, grasping and tearing at the edges, but nowhere could I get a handhold. The door was of heavy plank, a door built to stay where it was placed. In all probability, a watertight door.

  I shouted and pounded, but there was no sound. Pausing, gasping for breath, sweat trickling down my face and body, I listened. All was a vast and empty silence. No movement, no sound of traffic. I was alone, then. Alone in a deserted place with no chance of outside help. Then, very slightly at first, I heard a sound. It was a faint rustling, ever so soft, ever so distant. It was the sea. The tide was coming in.

  They had known I was alive. They had left me to be drowned by the inflowing water, probably believing I would still be unconscious. Once drowned, they would simply drop my body in the sea, and as it would have all the signs of drowning, my death would be passed off as a suicide or an accident.

  How many times, I wondered, had this place already been used for just that purpose? How many had died there, with no chance to escape?

  The killers had evidently returned to Earl Ramsey's house and found me there, and when I inadvertently walked into their hands, they simply slugged me and dumped me there. That car parked outside in the dark must have been the car they came in and in which I had been carried away. Yet I had called Mooney, and Mooney would know something had gone wrong when I was not present, as I had promised I would be.

  For the first time in my life, I found myself in a spot that seemed to offer no solution. I had no idea how high the tide would rise in that room. Nor did I know how high were the tides along this coast. It had been years since I looked at a tide table. There had been, however, a number of items about higher tides and waves due to a Pacific storm. As I had no beach property, such news was usually skimmed and left for others more concerned. That the tide would be high enough to drown me, they had no doubts.

  Seated on the steps, I tried to puzzle a way out, searching for some means to get the door open or to get past that grate. Yet even as I sat, the room seemed to grow lighter, but for several minutes, the reason did not occur to me. Then I realized the tide was rising and the added light was reflected from the water.

  It was only a faint, gray light, but on my knees by the grate I could peer out. The opening was under a wharf or dock, and beyond a short stretch of sandy beach was the lapping water of the incoming tide.

  Crossing the room through the middle, I glimpsed something I had not seen before. Putting up a tentative hand, I discovered it was a chain dangling from a beam overhead. It was a double chain. Pulling on it, I heard it rattle in a block above me.

  A chain hoist?

  No doubt the room had once been used for overhauling boat engines or something of the kind. Running my hand down the chain, I found it ended in a hook. Suddenly there was hope. The chance was a wild one, an absurd one, really. Yet a chance was a chance.

  Hauling the chain over to the grate, I hooked in the crossbars and hauled the chain tight. The chance of pulling that grate loose was pitifully small, but I was in no position to pass up any chance at all. My weight was a muscular two hundred pounds, and I gave it all I had. The grate held. Again and again, I tried, hoping the action of the sea water might have weakened the grate or the concrete in which it was set.

  No luck. Panting, my shirt soaked with perspiration, I stopped and mopped my face. The water was almost to the edge of the window. It meant little that the water might not rise high enough to drown me. If they returned and found me, I would be killed in any event. I tried again, then gave up the attempt as useless.

  Kneeling, I studied the concrete in which the grate was set. There seemed little enough to hold it in place, but it was too much for my strength. With a sledge hammer now But I had no sledge hammer or anything like it. Moreover, as the grate was set closer to the inside edge, the power must be applied from outside to be most effective. It was useless to consider it.

  Or was it? Suddenly, I saw something long and black moving upon the water outside the window. It was some distance away, but each movement of the sea brought it closer. At first, I thought it a man's body. Then I recognized it as timber, much the size of a railroad tie, all of six-feet long and perhaps six by six.

  The water lapped at the sill below the grate, then retreated. Each time the ripples curled in, the timber came closer.

  In an instant, I was on my feet, and recovering the chain from its block, I carried it back to the opening and thrust it through the bars. I made a loop of it; then I waited.

  The beam came closer. I tried to snag it with the loop but failed. Again and again, I tried. Sweat poured down my face and body. I wiped it from my brow with the back of my hand. I tried to grasp the timber with my hands by reaching through the crossbars, but failed. Then it actually bumped against the sill, and I grabbed it with both hands. That time, when the water retreated, I held the timber. After a few minutes of struggle, I managed to get a half hitch around the timber. If this did not work, I'd be finished.

  Roughly estimating the time, I guessed I might have as much as thirty minutes, perhaps less.

  If by that time I had not been successful, the water would have risen so high the timber would be above the opening, and I would be knee-deep in water with my last chance gone.

  The waves returned, and that time water spilled over to the floor. Grasping the chain in my hands, I waited for the next wave. When it came, with the beam floating on it, I heaved with
all my strength, and the butt of the timber crashed against the iron bars. Relaxing when the wave rolled in next, I gave a second heave. The waves retreated less, and I got in three smashing blows with my crude battering ram before the water rolled back. By now, there was always some water trickling over the sill, and my feet were covered with it.

  Water was coming in, and the timber was floating. Again and again, I smashed it against the bars. My muscles ached, and my breath came in gasps. Once, something seemed to give, but there was too little light to see. Feeling with my fingers, my pulse gave a leap. One of the bars had broken free!

  Letting go of the chain but anchoring it with a foot, I seized the bars in my hands and gave a tremendous heave. Nothing happened. A second heave and a second bar broke through the crumbling concrete. Now I could bend the bars upward, and using the timber again, I worked on the remaining two bars. When they were bent inward, I grasped them with my hands and pulled them higher. Water was pouring through, but there was room enough for my body. Grasping the sill, I pulled myself through the hole, then lifted my hands to the opening's top and got my feet out. Then I stood up, waist-deep in the dark water. Some distance off was the dim outline of a ladder. I splashed toward it and crawled up to the surface of the dock. Then I sprawled out, exhausted.

  It was there she found me.

  How long I had been lying there, I do not know, but probably not more than a few minutes. The sound of a car's motor snapped me to awareness. A car meant trouble. Then heels were clicking on the dock, and I came to my feet, staggering. Drunk with fatigue, I stood swaying, ready for battle.

  It was the girl, the girl I had met at Sam's. When she saw me, she stopped running. "Oh, you're free! You're safe!"

  "You bet I'm free, but it isn't your fault or that of your friends."

  "They are not my friends! It wasn't until a few minutes ago somebody made a comment that let me know where you were. I knew they had left you somewhere, but I had no idea where."

  "What about Bradley? And his wife?"

  "We haven't found them. Nobody seems to know where they are."

  "I'll bet your friend Merrano knows!"

  She was puzzled. "He might," she admitted. "He acts funny about her. He's looking for Sam, I know."

  I had no reason to trust her and did not; however, she did have a car, and I needed transportation. "Let's get back to town. I've got to get some clothes."

  She handed me a gun. "It's yours. I stole it back from them. That didn't make sense, not any way I could look at it. One minute she was with them, sticking me up at gunpoint, and the next she was giving me a gun. I checked the clip. It was loaded, all right.

  "How did I rate this trip of yours?" I asked. "Did you come to see if I was drowned?"

  "Oh, be still! We're on the same side!" She glanced at me as we got into the car. "My name is Pat Mulrennan." "That's just ducky," I said. "Now that we're properly introduced we might even start holding hands. No thanks, honey. I'm not turning my back on you. She sounded honest, and she might be, but nothing about the setup looked good to me except her. She looked as if she were shaped to keep me awake nights, but I couldn't forget how chummy she had been with Pete Merrano and Harry, to say nothing of that big-time torpedo, George Homan.

  "To be honest, I was not sure you were there, but from a comment, I thought you might be, and I know that Pete has been using that place for something. How I could get you free, I had no idea, but I came, anyway. Then I saw something or somebody lying on the dock."

  There was nothing I could think of to say, so I just sat still and listened. "You were closer to being killed than you know," she added. "The police had a running gun battle with the car you were in, and it was badly shot up. They switched you to another car."

  At my apartment, I tried to call Sam, never taking my eyes off Pat. I'll say this for her. I did not trust her, but she was easy to watch. In fact, I was beginning'to enjoy it "If you're so friendly, why not tell me where Sam is?"

  "I don't know." She sounded sincere. "Please! Forget about yesterday morning! I had no idea you were a friend of Sam's. For all I knew, you were somebody trying to cut in on Pete's deal."

  "And you were acting for Peter "No, I was with him, but I had a job of my own to do. Pete means nothing to me."

  She finished saying it as Pete appeared in the door of my bedroom. He had his gun in his hand, and this time, mine was still in its holster. Where he came from, I couldn't guess, unless from the fire escape outside my window. A moment before, I had been in there picking up a clean shirt and had not seen him.

  "Is that so?" Pete was watching me but talking to her. "So I mean nothing to you? All right, chick, have it your way. You mean nothing to me, then. When this lad goes out, you go with him."

  Not for a second did his eyes leave mine, and believe me, I was doing some fast thinking. "This is no place for a bump-off, Pete." I spoke casually. "There's too many people around. You'd have them all over the place before the sound of the shot died out."

  "What if I use a shiv? What if I borrow a note from Harry?" he said, chuckling. "They might even think Harry did it. I hear they're fingering him for the Ramsey killing." "So that's it? You let your boys take the rap for your killings?"

  "Why not? Why have killers unless they are some use to me? I do my own killing, but everybody knows what George Homan and Harry are like. Naturally, they take the rap. "You're probably right,"I agreed, "and I must say you've played it the smart way except for one thing. How did Sam get away with the money?"

  That was a guess, simply a guess, but it figured to be something like that.

  "How do you know he's got the money?" Merrano asked. His gaze was intent. "Maybe you know where the money is? Do you?"

  "Why should I be looking for him if I did? Anyway, if I did know, I'd keep it under my hat, the way things stand."

  "No?" My guess had been right. Somehow Sam had laid hands on the money and disappeared. Knowing Sam, I knew he was saving it for the vets. But it was no wonder Pete Merrano wanted him. "If I turn you and the babe loose, will you tell me where he is?"

  "Suppose you do? That isn't enough."

  "Suppose, then" he was watching me "I turn Ellen loose, too. I've been hanging onto her but haven't been able to let Bradley know I have her."

  Another point cleared up, but doubt seemed to come into his mind.

  "Enough talk," he said irritably. "How do I know you know anything? Turn around."

  I turned.

  It was still early, and in a matter of minutes, the milkman would he coming. "Look," I said, "Mooney is to meet me here in a few minutes. I just called him."

  Gambling that he had seen me on the phone, I was hoping the bluff might work. He could have seen me, and I knew from experience that somebody in the bedroom could not hear what was said unless the speaker purposely talked loud.

  "You wouldn't tell me if you knew he was coming," Pete said, but there was doubt in his tone.

  "Am I a damned fool? Do you think I want you guys swapping lead with me in the middle? You better take it on the lam while you can, but you turn Ellen loose and I'll see you get your money.

  "What's she to you?"

  My answer was quick and a lie. "She's my sister. Not that she's proud of it."

  That made sense."All right*, but get this. She's being watched by George Homan. He will kill her if he's approached. If the police find her, he'll kill her and skip. We've got a getaway all set. "What about your club?"

  He shrugged. "I still owe money on it, and there's fifteen to twenty thousand in that bag Sam's got."

  He was moving, toward my bedroom door, I believed. "All right, you get the dough and call me at home. I'll tell you where to bring it. You've got until noon. We stood facing the wall, and I counted a slow one hundred, then lowered my hands a little. Nothing happened, so I turned around. Pete was gone.

  Undoubtedly, he had been searching the apartment and retreated to the fire escape when he heard me at the door. A glance at my desk drawers and c
loset showed he had given the apartment a shaking down.

  Pete Merrano was worried. His plan for a big cleanup had gone sour when somehow Bradley had realized what was happening and had gotten away with the money. He had put the snatch on Ellen, which had done him no good at all, because he couldn't threaten Sam with her. Then I barged into the picture and messed everything up by nosing around in all the wrong places. Evidently, Ramsey had gotten cold feet, so they killed him when he wanted out. At least that was how I had it figured.

  The next question was what to do now? I'd made a promise I could not back up because I had no idea where Sam was, and I believed Pete was telling the truth when he said George was watching Ellen. That left the situation a nasty one, yet there was, I believe, a way.

  "Pat, I'm going to trust you. Get hold of Mooney and tell him what's happened. Tell him I am following my inclinations, and he will know what to do." Knowing Mooney, I could bet on that.

  "All right," she said reluctantly, "but be careful. Those boys aren't playing for fun."

  She was telling me?

  We parted, but when I glanced back she was watching me go. For a minute, I thought she looked worried, but that made no sense. My own car was still near Ramsey's, if it hadn't been towed away or stolen, so I hailed a cab. Pete Merrano had been doing all right for himself. He lived in a picturesque house overlooking Sunset Strip. Leaving the cab a few doors away, I walked up the hill. Skirting the house, I glimpsed a Filipino houseboy coming down the steps from the back door. Turning on the sprinkler to water the lawn, he went around the house. As soon as his back was turned, I went into the house.

  There was a pot of coffee on the range, so I took up a cup, filled it, and drank a couple of swallows, then started up the hall with the coffee in my left hand.

  Harry was snoring on a divan in the living room, and Pete was sprawled across the bed with only his shoes and tie off.

  The houseboy was working around the yard, so I cut a string from the venetian blinds and very cautiously slipped a loop over Harry's extended ankles. Drawing it as tight as I dared, I tied it.