A Century of Noir

by Max Allan Collins

  After a few seconds I looked out again, meaning to follow Gottschalk, but he was nowhere in sight. A faint shaft of light fell through the door from which he had emerged and rippled over the cobblestone floor. I went that way, through the door and along a narrow corridor to where an archway was illuminated. Then, realizing the archway led to the unrestored cell of the jail I’d seen earlier, I paused. Surely Vanessa wasn’t hiding in there. . . .

  I crept forward and looked through the arch. The light came from a heavy-duty flashlight that sat on the floor. It threw macabre shadows on the water-stained walls, showing their streaked paint and graffiti. My gaze followed its beams upward and then down, to where the grating of the cistern lay out of place on the floor beside the hole. Then I moved over to the railing, leaned across it, and trained the flashlight down into the well.

  I saw, with a rush of shock and horror, the dark hair and once-handsome features of Vanessa DiCesare.

  She had been hacked to death. Stabbed and slashed, as if in a frenzy. Her clothing was ripped; there were gashes on her face and hands; she was covered with dark smears of blood. Her eyes were open, staring with that horrible flatness of death.

  I came back on my heels, clutching the railing for support. A wave of dizziness swept over me, followed by an icy coldness. I thought: He killed her. And then I pictured Gottschalk in his Union Army uniform, the saber hanging from his belt, and I knew what the weapon had been.

  “God!” I said aloud.

  Why had he murdered her? I had no way of knowing yet. But the answer to why he’d thrown her into the cistern, instead of just putting her into the bay, was clear: She was supposed to have committed suicide; and while bodies that fall from the Golden Gate Bridge sustain a great many injuries, slash and stab wounds aren’t among them. Gottschalk could not count on the body being swept out to sea on the current; if she washed up somewhere along the coast, it would be obvious she had been murdered—and eventually an investigation might have led back to him. To him and his soldier’s saber.

  It also seemed clear that he’d come to the fort tonight to move the body. But why not last night, why leave her in the cistern all day? Probably he’d needed to plan, to secure keys to the gate and fort, to check the schedule of the night patrols for the best time to remove her. Whatever his reason, I realized now that I’d walked into a very dangerous situation. Walked right in without bringing my gun. I turned quickly to get out of there. . . .

  And came face-to-face with Lee Gottschalk.

  His eyes were wide, his mouth drawn back in a snarl of surprise. In one hand he held a bundle of heavy canvas. “You!” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I jerked back from him, bumped into the railing, and dropped the flashlight. It clattered on the floor and began rolling toward the mouth of the cistern. Gottschalk lunged toward me, and as I dodged, the light fell into the hole and the cell went dark. I managed to push past him and ran down the hallway to the courtyard.

  Stumbling on the cobblestones, I ran blindly for the sally port. Its doors were shut now—he’d probably taken that precaution when he’d returned from getting the tarp to wrap her body in. I grabbed the iron hasp and tugged, but couldn’t get it open. Gottschalk’s footsteps were coming through the courtyard after me now. I let go of the hasp and ran again.

  When I came to the enclosed staircase at the other end of the court, I started up. The steps were wide at the outside wall, narrow at the inside. My toes banged into the risers of the steps; a couple of times I teetered and almost fell backwards. At the first tier I paused, then kept going. Gottschalk had said something about unrestored rooms on the second tier; they’d be a better place to hide than in the museum.

  Down below I could hear him climbing after me. The sound of his feet—clattering and stumbling—echoed in the close space. I could hear him grunt and mumble: low, ugly sounds that I knew were curses.

  I had absolutely no doubt that if he caught me, he would kill me. Maybe do to me what he had done to Vanessa. . . .

  I rounded the spiral once again and came out on the top floor gallery, my heart beating wildly, my breath coming in pants. To my left were archways, black outlines filled with dark-gray sky. To my right was blackness. I went that way, hands out, feeling my way.

  My hands touched the rough wood of a door. I pushed, and it opened. As I passed through it, my shoulder bag caught on something; I yanked it loose and kept going. Beyond the door I heard Gottschalk curse loudly, the sound filled with surprise and pain; he must have fallen on the stairway. And that gave me a little more time.

  The tug at my shoulder bag had reminded me of the small flashlight I keep there. Flattening myself against the wall next to the door, I rummaged through the bag and brought out the flash. Its beam showed high walls and arching ceilings, plaster and lath pulled away to expose dark brick. I saw cubicles and cubbyholes opening into dead ends, but to my right was an arch. I made a small involuntary sound of relief, then thought Quiet! Gottschalk’s footsteps started up the stairway again as I moved through the archway.

  The crumbling plaster walls beyond the archway were set at odd angles—an interlocking funhouse maze connected by small doors. I slipped through one and found an irregularly shaped room heaped with debris. There didn’t seem to be an exit, so I ducked back into the first room and moved toward the outside wall, where gray outlines indicated small high-placed windows. I couldn’t hear Gottschalk any more—couldn’t hear anything but the roar and clank from the bridge directly overhead.

  The front wall was brick and stone, and the windows had wide waist-high sills. I leaned across one, looked through the salt-caked glass, and saw the open sea. I was at the front of the fort, the part that faced beyond the Golden Gate; to my immediate right would be the unrestored portion. If I could slip over into that area, I might be able to hide until the other rangers came to work in the morning.

  But Gottschalk could be anywhere. I couldn’t hear his footsteps above the infernal noise from the bridge. He could be right here in the room with me, pinpointing me by the beam of my flashlight. . . .

  Fighting down panic, I switched the light off and continued along the wall, my hands recoiling from its clammy stone surface. It was icy cold in the vast, echoing space, but my own flesh felt colder still. The air had a salt tang, underlaid by odors of rot and mildew. For a couple of minutes the darkness was unalleviated, but then I saw a lighter rectangular shape ahead of me.

  When I reached it I found it was some sort of embrasure, about four feet tall, but only a little over a foot wide. Beyond it I could see the edge of the gallery where it curved and stopped at the chain link fence that barred entrance to the other side of the fort. The fence wasn’t very high—only five feet or so. If I could get through this narrow opening, I could climb it and find refuge . . .

  The sudden noise behind me was like a firecracker popping. I whirled, and saw a tall figure silhouetted against one of the seaward windows. He lurched forward, tripping over whatever he’d stepped on. Forcing back a cry, I hoisted myself up and began squeezing through the embrasure.

  Its sides were rough brick. They scraped my flesh clear through my clothing. Behind me I heard the slap of Gottschalk’s shoes on the wooden floor.

  My hips wouldn’t fit through the opening. I gasped, grunted, pulling with my arms on the outside wall. Then I turned on my side, sucking in my stomach. My bag caught again, and I let go of the wall long enough to rip its strap off my elbow. As my hips squeezed through the embrasure, I felt Gottschalk grab at my feet. I kicked out frantically, breaking his hold, and fell off the sill to the floor of the gallery.

  Fighting for breath, I pushed off the floor, threw myself at the fence, and began climbing. The metal bit into my fingers, rattled and clashed with my weight. At the top, the leg of my jeans got hung up on the spiky wires. I tore it loose and jumped down the other side.

  The door to the gallery burst open and Gottschalk came through it. I got up from a crouch and ran into the darkness
ahead of me. The fence began to rattle as he started up it. I raced, half-stumbling, along the gallery, the open archways to my right. To my left was probably a warren of rooms similar to those on the east side. I could lose him in there. . . .

  Only I couldn’t. The door I tried was locked. I ran to the next one and hurled my body against its wooden panels. It didn’t give. I heard myself sob in fear and frustration.

  Gottschalk was over the fence now, coming toward me, limping. His breath came in erratic gasps, loud enough to hear over the noise from the bridge. I twisted around, looking for shelter, and saw a pile of lumber lying across one of the open archways.

  I dashed toward it and slipped behind, wedged between it and the pillar of the arch. The courtyard lay two dizzying stories below me. I grasped the end of the top two-by-four. It moved easily, as if on a fulcrum.

  Gottschalk had seen me. He came on steadily, his right leg dragging behind him. When he reached the pile of lumber and started over it toward me, I yanked on the two-by-four. The other end moved and struck him on the knee.

  He screamed and stumbled back. Then he came forward again, hands outstretched toward me. I pulled back further against the pillar. His clutching hands missed me, and when they did he lost his balance and toppled onto the pile of lumber. And then the boards began to slide toward the open archway.

  He grabbed at the boards, yelling and flailing his arms. I tried to reach for him, but the lumber was moving like an avalanche now, pitching over the side and crashing down into the courtyard two stories below. It carried Gottschalk’s thrashing body with it, and his screams echoed in its wake. For an awful few seconds the boards continued to crash down on him, and then everything was terribly still. Even the thrumming of the bridge traffic seemed muted.

  I straightened slowly and looked down into the courtyard. Gottschalk lay unmoving among the scattered pieces of lumber. For a moment I breathed deeply to control my vertigo; then I ran back to the chain link fence, climbed it, and rushed down the spiral staircase to the courtyard.

  When I got to the ranger’s body, I could hear him moaning. I said, “Lie still. I’ll call an ambulance.”

  He moaned louder as I ran across the courtyard and found a phone in the gift shop, but by the time I returned, he was silent. His breathing was so shallow that I thought he’d passed out, but then I heard mumbled words coming from his lips. I bent closer to listen.

  “Vanessa,” he said. “Wouldn’t take me with her. . . .”

  I said, “Take you where?”

  “Going away together. Left my car . . . over there so she could drive across the bridge. But when she . . . brought it here she said she was going alone. . . .”

  So you argued, I thought. And you lost your head and slashed her to death.

  “Vanessa,” he said again. “Never planned to take me. . . tricked me. . . .”

  I started to put a hand on his arm, but found I couldn’t touch him. “Don’t talk any more. The ambulance’ll be here soon.”

  “Vanessa,” he said. “Oh God, what did you do to me?”

  I looked up at the bridge, rust red through the darkness and the mist. In the distance, I could hear the wail of a siren.

  Deceptions, I thought.

  Deceptions. . . .

  ROBERT J. RANDISI

  Robert J. Randisi (1951– ) cofounded Mystery Scene magazine, single-handedly created The Private Eye Writers of America, and has edited a number of cutting-edge anthologies showcasing contemporary hard-boiled fiction at its best.

  And somehow, despite all these time-consuming accomplishments, he’s managed to grow into a major writer in the field he so clearly loves.

  While Randisi’s early crime novels were swift, sure, singular looks at working-class Brooklyn (two of which were deservedly nominated for Shamus awards), his more recent books demonstrate the true depth of his skills, in particular his novels about detective Joe Keough. The Keough books work both as excellent thrillers and serious novels.

  Randisi is also an excellent Western writer, with a number of novels to his credit in that genre, most notably perhaps The Ham Reporter, about Bat Masterton’s days in New York City as a sports reporter.

  The Nickel Derby

  (Henry Po)

  Kentucky Derby time is a special time of year for anyone involved in thoroughbred horse racing. The air crackles with excitement and tension as the big day approaches. My involvement with the Derby is usually as a non-betting spectator, but this year it had suddenly become a more substantial part of my life.

  My boss, J. Howard Biel, president of the New York State Racing Club, had phoned me at home that morning, something which has customarily come to mean bad—or “serious”—news.

  Invariably, every year there is a “Big Horse” from the east coast, and a “Big Horse” from the west coast. The Kentucky Derby is usually the first meeting between these two special thoroughbreds. This year, the west coast horse was a big, strapping colt named Dreamland, and the east coast entry was a sleek, rather smallish bundle of energy called Runamuck. So imposing were the credentials of these two horses that, to date, only five other horses had been named to run against them in the Derby. Of those, however, one had been felled by injury and another by illness, cutting the total field to five. This had caused this year’s Run For The Roses to be dubbed by the media as “The Nickel Derby.”

  Arriving at Howard’s office after his phone summons and accepting his offer of some of that mud he calls coffee, I took a seat while he started to tell me about it.

  “I’ve had a meeting with officials from both California and Kentucky.”

  “About what?”

  “There have been some threats against Dreamland and his camp.”

  “What sort of threats?”

  “They’ve ranged from kidnapping to actually killing the horse.”

  “And the people on his camp?”

  “They’ve been threatened with bodily harm, but no death threats as of yet.”

  “Well, that’s all a real shame, Howard. But why would that cause you to have a meeting with the racing officials of two other states and then call me?”

  He hesitated a moment, then said, “Because they don’t have a team of special investigators, and I do.”

  He did have a team of investigators, for which he had fought long and hard with the Board of Directors of the NYSRC. They had finally agreed to give him a grant to hire not the twenty people he’d requested, but four. Take it or leave it, they told him, and he had taken it.

  He took it and promptly contacted me because I had done some work for him before. I accepted the job, and helped find the other three people.

  “Such as we are,” I replied now.

  “A poor lot, but mine own,” he said, spreading his hands.

  “So they want to borrow a man, is that it?”

  “That’s about the size of it. You’d be in charge of security for the animal while he’s in California as well as when he’s taken to Kentucky.” He leaned forward and added, “Henry, if this horse were stolen or harmed, it would be a serious blow to all of thoroughbred racing. That’s why I’ve decided it’s important for us to work with these people.”

  “You mean you’ve decided that I should work with them.”

  He smiled grimly and said, “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  “What about Runamuck?”

  “No threats, no calls. Thank God.”

  “All right, Howard.” I stood up. “I’ll get going.”

  “I appreciate this, Henry,” he said, opening his top drawer. He withdrew a brown envelope and held it out. “Here’s your ticket, and some expense money.”

  “Think you know me pretty well, huh?” I asked, taking the envelope. “I’ll need some background info on the people I’ll be dealing with.”

  He reached down and brought an attache case out from behind his desk. “It’s been prepared.”

  “Boy,” I said, taking that, too, “I really like being unpredictable.”

>   “Good luck, Henry.”

  “I’ll keep in touch.”

  On the plane, I went through the material in the attache case. It told me a little about the people in the Dreamland camp: Donald McCoy, his rider, who had ridden him in all of his previous races; his owner, Mrs. Emily Nixon, who had taken the stable over from her father when he died ten years ago and had not had a Derby winner since; and his trainer, Lew Hale, who had been hired by Mrs. Nixon at the time she took over the stable.

  It sounded like there could be some pressure on Hale to come through with a Derby winner, so I decided he’d be a good place to start.

  When I landed at LAX, I took a cab to a hotel, changed into some California duds, and then took another cab to the racetrack, where I sought and found Lew Hale.

  It was early, and workouts were just concluding. I approached Hale as he was looking over a two-year-old filly that was being galloped around the track, and introduced myself.

  “Oh, you’re the investigator from New York,” he said, holding out his hand. “Glad to have you aboard, Mr. Po.”

  Deeply lined, be it from constant exposure to the weather, or otherwise, his face had character. His eyes were grey and his nose prominent. His mouth was what made him look ugly, though. His lips were heavy, and twisted, so that he always looked as if he had just sucked a lemon. He was taller than me by some four inches, which put him at least at six-two. He was in good shape for a man in his late fifties—hell, he was in good shape for a man my own age.

  “I don’t mind telling you, I’ve been plenty worried since those threats started.”

  “How long has that been?”

  He thought a moment, then said, “A couple of weeks, I guess. First there was a note saying that Dreamland would never make it to the Derby.”