I turned to Canelli. “You go find Zeda. When you’ve got him, call in Vasconcelles and Greer. I’ll wait for you here.”
“Right.” Canelli strode to the hallway door, opened it cautiously, and disappeared. The girl made as if to rise. I lifted a hand, shaking my head. Petulantly, she sank back, gnawing at her colorless lips. I moved along the foyer’s wall until I could see the girl, the velvet-draped archway and the two hallway doors, one leading beneath the stairs, one leading to the back of the house. Now the foyer was brightly lit; the candles had been extinguished. I eyed the archway, debating whether to take Leonard immediately. Finally I decided to wait for reinforcements. During the revel, I’d fixed the ground-floor layout in my mind. I knew that Leonard only had two ways out of the front room: the velvet-draped archway or the bay windows. If he chose the windows, the back-up units would pick him up. Every house in the block was attached. He’d be trapped in the street, with nowhere to go.
As I stood in the silent hallway, with my concealed hand resting on my revolver, I thought of Ann, alone in the car. I should have told her to drive on—go home. I’d made a mistake. I’d involved a civilian beyond the point of absolute necessity. I’d often disciplined subordinates for less. Had I been unconsciously trying to impress her? Had I …
The velvet drapes were stirring. They parted a single, surreptitious inch, then slowly, furtively closed. I’d been discovered. I considered a moment, then stepped forward. We’d lost the advantage of surprise. There was no point in waiting.
I moved to the left side of the archway, then suddenly grasped the drapes, jerking them open. As I did, I drew my revolver.
Momentarily, I could see nothing but twin circles of orange flame at either end of the catafalque. The braziers were still burning. As I stepped slowly through the archway, allowing the curtains to swing together behind me, I saw the white chiffon figure of the girl, disembodied in the darkness. She was pressed against the far wall, behind the catafalque. Her body was rigid, fear-frozen. But it wasn’t my presence that frightened her. The front of her dress was ripped down to the waist, hanging in shreds.
I stood for a moment trying unsuccessfully to discover the hiding headsman. Then, clearing my throat, I said, “All right, Leonard. Step forward, slow and easy. This is a gun, and I—”
A dark figure leaped suddenly onto the low stage. At the same instant, I saw the polished curve of the scimitar, lying on the catafalque. As Leonard’s leather-gauntleted arm swept toward the scimitar, I crouched, raising my gun.
“Hold it right there, Leonard. Hold it.”
But he was in line with the girl now. I couldn’t shoot. With the scimitar in his hand, he faced me, at bay. The light from one of the braziers caught his eyes, wild behind the headsman’s mask. His lips were drawn back, teeth clenched.
“Drop it. I’ll shoot.”
Momentarily, all movement stopped. Except for the rasp of Leonard’s breathing and the guttering of the braziers, all sound ceased. Then, muttering incoherently, he whirled toward the girl, swinging the sword high overhead. I raised my gun, aiming at his back. But I couldn’t risk a shot. The girl screamed. It was an exhausted, whimpering sound, too soft to bring help.
Should I shoot at the ceiling, to sound the alarm?
No. A shot could bring the sword slashing down. I watched Leonard’s hand grip the girl’s long blond hair, saw him sling her slack body away from the wall. Now my only target was a masked face over the girl’s bare shoulder. The scimitar glittered against the white gown. The girl was moaning. Her eyes were rolling up. Her body was going limp.
I spoke softly. “Drop the sword, Leonard. I’ve got eight officers here. There’s no way out.”
“There’s a way out—right past you. I’m going out—out past you.” His voice was a high, aggrieved falsetto.
“You can’t, Leonard. You’re trapped. Throw it down. Make it easy on yourself.” I was still standing just inside the archway’s velvet curtains. I braced my feet wide apart, setting myself behind my gun.
Yet I knew I couldn’t fire. And I knew that I would retreat before the sword.
With his fist knotted in the girl’s hair, he jerked at her savagely, dragging her toward the catafalque. She was only half conscious; her legs wouldn’t support her. If she fainted—went completely limp—he couldn’t hold her. Then I could risk a shot. The range was about twenty feet. I’d be shooting at a shadow. But if she fell to the floor, I’d try it.
Directly behind the catafalque now, he quickly crouched down behind his victim, giving up his grip on her hair, as he circled her waist with his left arm. The girl sagged forward. Placing the sword on the catafalque, he used his right hand to cuff her cruelly in the face—once, twice.
“Stand up.” His voice was low, furious. “If you don’t stand up, I’ll kill you. I swear to Christ, I’ll kill you.”
“You’ve already killed two men, Leonard,” I said. “That’s enough.”
The headsman’s hood revealed only his nose and mouth. I saw his lips writhing like wounded snakes.
“I didn’t even know their names. But you’ll kill me for it. Only Zeda knew. But you’ll kill me.” The last word, both a shriek and a whisper, reverberated in the darkness like the distant cry of a wounded animal.
“Zeda’s being arrested right now,” I said quietly. “And the woman, too. We’ll arrest her. They did it for money, Leonard. King’s money. They just used you. They’re to blame, more than you. But this makes it worse, what you’re doing.”
“It can’t get any worse. But it does get worse. It always gets worse. It never changes. Never.” His voice dropped to a low, querulous note. He was talking to himself now, muttering. I saw the girl stir. In the faint light of the braziers, her half-open eyes stared at me dully.
“Put the sword down, Leonard. I promise you, we’ll take care of Zeda. We’ll—”
“I’m going. I”—he choked on a sudden sob—“I’m going. Get back.” His puny muscles strained. Suddenly he screamed, “Goddamn you, get back!” He snatched up the sword. He was half carrying his victim toward the far end of the catafalque. With her feet dragging, ankles limp, the girl was dead weight. But then, as they rounded the catafalque, she suddenly stiffened. Leonard lurched, thrown off balance by the girl’s shifting weight. Instantly, the brazier toppled; fire spilled in a flaming yellow pool. Flame found the gauzy white dress. The girl screamed. The flame leaped to her waist, touched the long blond hair. She was falling to the floor, engulfed in flame. The figure of the headsman leaped across the flame-pool. He was charging me—a demon, straight out of hell. The sword caught the leaping light of the fire. I threw myself to my left, firing as I fell. The sword sliced the air above my head. I fired again. The velvet curtain ripped apart; the headsman-shape was momentarily silhouetted in the hallway light. Screams filled the room. I was on my feet, dodging around the blazing catafalque. I threw myself on the heavy window drapes, dragging them down. The girl’s dress was charred black; the odor of burning hair and flesh mingled with the acrid smell of the smoke. She was on her knees, arms braced wide, struggling. She wasn’t screaming now; she could only gurgle, deep in her throat. As I reached the girl, her scorched body suddenly fell heavily to the floor. Her feet touched the flaming pool of oil. I threw the drapes over her, rolled her free of the flames, beating at the smoldering drapes with my hands. Then I lifted her in my arms and carried her into the hallway. At that instant, the front door flew open. A uniformed man stumbled into the foyer, off balance. He carried a shotgun, momentarily aimed at me. His partner was close behind, with a revolver. I recognized the men who’d parked across from my car.
Involuntarily, I raised the girl in my arms, to shield my chest from a shotgun blast.
“Hold it,” I was shouting. “I’m Hastings, for Christ’s sake.” As recognition flashed in their eyes, I lowered the girl to the floor. From behind me came the sound of a door opening. I whirled, drawing my gun. Canelli stood in the doorway, gripping his own revolver, trained on m
e. I turned back to the uniformed men. As I did, I realized that the ghoul-eyed girl had gone.
“Call the fire department. Then take her to Park Emergency—fast.” I gestured to the bundle at my feet. The drapes had fallen away from a single foot. The black-charred flesh was split red across the instep, revealing the white bone. Stooping, I flicked the drapery away from her face. Some of the blond hair still clung to her blackened skull. The odor was sickening. The patrolman with the revolver reluctantly holstered the gun and reached down for the girl. His partner was already out the door, heading for his car’s radio.
“Jesus, Lieutenant. You hurt?” It was Canelli’s voice.
“No. Where’s Zeda?”
“I couldn’t find him.” He glanced up at the broad entryway stairway, partitioned across the first landing. “There’s some back stairs that go up to the second floor. And there’s even an attic, I think. I was just going up when I heard your shot.” He was looking at me fretfully, frowning and shaking his head. “Are you sure you’re all right, Lieutenant? I mean, you look like you—”
“Where’s Vasconcelles and Greer?”
“I yelled for them to come in.”
“All right—” I pointed to the small door leading below stairs. It was the same door in which Zeda had materialized earlier in the day, dressed in his white toga. The door was ajar.
“Leonard’s our boy,” I said. “And he must’ve gone down there. Be careful—he’s got a goddamn sword.” As I said it, I glanced back over my shoulder at the black-curtained archway. Smoke was eddying beneath the velvet. I could hear the sound of flames. Canelli and I were alone in the foyer. The two uniformed men had left the front door open; I felt a draught of cold night air, sucked past me by the fire. As I closed the front door, I heard footsteps overhead. I threw my head upward, shouting at the ceiling: “Vasconcelles! Greer! Can you hear me?”
Had it been their footsteps I’d heard—or someone else’s?
A voice, muffled, acknowledged.
“Get out of the house!” I yelled. “The place is on fire. Go out the back, and stay there. Keep the back covered.”
The same muffled voice answered. Immediately, I turned toward the below-stairs door, drawing my revolver.
“All right, Canelli. Let’s go. But remember that sword. In close quarters, it’s better than a goddamn gun. So watch yourself. I’ll go first. You come next. And close the door behind you, because of the fire. Clear?”
“Yessir.”
I opened the narrow door, and saw a small landing and a narrow flight of basement stairs leading down to the ground-floor garage. The staircase was dark. I cautiously descended the first three stairs, then held up, waiting for Canelli to close the door behind us. As the door closed, my throat suddenly went dry. Crowded together on a narrow, pitch-black staircase, clutching our small pistols, we were perfect targets for a sword-wielding maniac, charging up the stairs.
I moved my hand to the light switch.
“Here goes the lights.”
Close behind me, Canelli breathed an acknowledgment. I could feel him gathering himself. Raising my revolver, I flicked the switch.
Nothing.
“Have you got a flashlight?” I asked.
“No, sir. I left it in the car.”
I hesitated. Should we go back up the stairs, get outside? Should we wait for the fire to flush him out?
No.
He could attack the firemen, entering the building to fight the fire. Overhead, I heard the sound of soft, furtive footsteps. Was it Zeda?
I moved my mouth close to Canelli’s ear. “You cover our rear. If that door opens behind us, it’s up to you. I can’t shoot past you.”
I heard him swallow. “Yessir.”
“Are you ready?”
“Yessir.”
“All right. At the bottom of the stairs, I’ll move to the right. You move to the left.” I pointed to the pale shape of a service door’s single glass panel, the basement’s only source of light. The door led out to the front sidewalk. The basement was a long way down. “If we can’t find him,” I whispered, “or if it looks too sticky, we’ll leave by that door.”
“Yessir.”
Step by step, revolver raised, I began descending the stairs. For the first time I became conscious of the smell of scorched cloth—and flesh.
Had I been burned? Or had the stench of the girl’s burned flesh clung to me?
I was close to the floor now. I stopped on the last step, holding my breath, listening.
Nothing stirred.
From outside came the distant wail of a fire siren. Our time was running out.
In the dim light from the service door, I made out the shape of a large car. The rest of the space in the two-tandem garage was a ghostly jumble of cartons and packing cases. The suspect could be hiding anywhere. At close quarters, in the darkness, he could decapitate one of us before the other could get off a shot.
Or he could have already escaped. He could have slipped through the service door, eluding the single team of backup men remaining in the street outside. He could have gone out the back while Vasconcelles and Greer were inside the house.
I took the last step. With my feet on the level cement of the garage floor, I began moving slowly to my right, bending double as I passed beneath the pale oblong glass of the service door. Behind me, I heard Canelli’s feet shuffling softly to his left, following orders. I was passing between the car and the garage door. Reaching the car’s far side, I saw that on my side of the garage the wall was clear, with a three-foot aisle between the wall and the car—an old Buick. On my side, there was no place to hide.
But the opposite wall was piled high with cartons and cases, some of them wardrobe-size. Canelli had drawn the dangerous duty. I saw the shadow-shape of his thickset figure, crouching low, steadily advancing. Canelli could be a bumbler. But he wasn’t afraid.
Outside, another fire siren joined the first. Our time was almost gone. We couldn’t hold back the firemen.
I’d advanced to the car’s right front fender, making certain that Leonard wasn’t crouched behind the Buick’s grill. Now I drew back against the wall. I slowly straightened from my crouch, raising my revolver. From that angle, I could cover Canelli. We could …
An alien shadow shifted; a growl grated low in a savage throat. Suddenly a towering pile of stacked cartons flew apart like a stack of building blocks kicked by an angry child. As I sprang forward, the topmost cases came toppling toward me. Canelli’s .357 Magnum roared—once, twice. Both muzzle flashes revealed an instant’s glimpse of bare flesh and black leather. The sword was flashing up, down. The boxes were tumbling around me in nightmare slow motion. Canelli screamed, firing once more. I was wildly clawing at a carton, straining, pulling it away. Canelli was down, jammed against the car. The figure of the headsman was momentarily silhouetted against the access door. I snapped two quick shots as the door flew open, splintered by one crashing slash of the sword. I caught a glimpse of a fire engine pulling to a stop.
I knelt over Canelli, panting. “Are you all right?”
For a moment, he could only nod, mutely opening and closing his mouth. “I think so,” he finally gasped. “I—I think the bastard hit my gun with th—that goddamn sword. Jesus.” Now he began to shake his head, staring down at the floor, eyes blank. “Jesus, where’s my goddamn gun, anyhow?” In partial shock, he began to paw futilely at the floor.
“Stay put for a minute or two,” I ordered. “Find the gun, but stay put. I’m going after him.” I quickly rose, making for the door. I was outside. As I stood momentarily motionless, scanning the sidewalk up and down the block, I heard Ann shouting: “He’s here—here!”
The huge shape of a fire engine blocked out my car. Firemen were swinging to the ground, trailing their bat-black raincoats. As I dodged around the still-moving fire engine, I heard Ann screaming. Two steps, and I was in the clear. I saw the sword flash up over my car, then crash down. Once. Twice. The driver’s window was crystallized
. Ann screamed again. Another sword-blow split the window, top to bottom. A leather gauntlet reached through the window halves, groping for the door handle. He wanted my car—and Ann. The car was more than a hundred feet away. It was an impossible shot with my short-barreled revolver. I was in the middle of the street, running hard. I couldn’t …
From behind me, a shot cracked out. Leonard jerked upward, arms and legs flung wide. He was falling backward from the car. As I covered the last few yards, he hit the pavement, spread-eagled. He gasped and gurgled as blood streamed from his mouth, choking him, pooling on the pavement beside his head. His limbs jerked. His torso arched upward, straining in death’s final spasm. His eyes were bulging, his neck was grotesquely corded.
Then, sighing softly, he fell back, dead. I jerked open the car door. Eyes wide, Ann simply stared, wordless. She was unhurt. I heard myself mumbling inarticulately, telling her again to stay in the car—keep quiet. Then I turned away, advancing on the towering old Victorian house. Flames were bright in the bay window now. A pair of firemen gripped a limp hose, waiting for water. Two more firemen clutched axes, straining forward. But a familiar figure stood before them, arms spread, holding them back. Friedman had left his bridge game.
“The shot came from the house, Frank.” In the white glare of a searchlight, Friedman quickly looked me up and down. “Christ, are you all right?”
“Yes.” I was pacing slowly toward the far curb, making for the house. As I passed Friedman, I said, “Canelli’s in the garage. He may be in shock. Send in a stretcher for him.”
Suddenly the street was crowded with police cars and hurrying policemen. As I advanced on the house, a dozen officers fell in on either side of me, weapons drawn. I looked first at the service door. Still swinging, the splintered door hung in an empty doorway. The shot hadn’t been Canelli’s.
As I raised my eyes to scan the upstairs windows, seeking the gunman, I saw the blood-red front door opening. Wearing his black robe with its iridescent red Satan’s head, Zeda materialized. In his right hand he clutched a large-caliber sporting rifle, pointed down toward the ground. Instantly, a searchlight picked him up. Again, Zeda was on stage.
Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 17