Carla's Revenge

by Sydney J. Bounds

  The Waldemar twins marched Carla along the balcony and through heavy black curtain. Beyond swinging glass doors was a fabulous room—and Sylvester Shapirro.

  * * * * * * *

  Eddie Gifford hasn’t been wasting time. He interviewed shopkeepers in the Bowery, hunting for a clue to the killer of William Franks. But the people who paid protection money were wary about talking to strangers. Their eves shifted uneasily; their hands betrayed their nervousness. They didn’t want to take a beating the way Toni had; or have their shop blown up with a grenade; or have their faces slashed with razors. They didn’t talk.

  So Eddie haunted the bars where small-time crooks hung out. A few high denomination dollar bills changed hands and he began to get the story. How King Logan had been boss on the East Side till Shapirro’s mob moved in; how Logan’s gang had been shot up in a gunfight; and how Logan had disappeared, leaving Shapirro in control of the rackets.

  The more Eddie learnt, the less he liked it. He was up against big stuff and he doubted his ability to handle it alone. He couldn’t get a lead on King Logan—maybe the gangster had left New York for a safer place. That would have been wise but, somehow, Eddie doubted it. From what he heard about Logan, King wasn’t a quitter.

  Shapirro was even harder to locate. Eddie picked up tales of the twin blond killers and their hatchet men, but he never got a direct lead on Shapirro. Only rumours. And the rumours weren’t pleasant.

  He deducted that it was Shapirro’s mob who had killed Martha’s husband from the fact that William Franks had been paying Logan; King would, therefore, have no cause to beat him up. But getting evidence against Shapirro was going to be tough.

  He talked it over with a lieutenant of police.

  “Shapirro?” The lieutenant shrugged. “We know he’s behind the worst rackets in the city. Dope, women, killings—nothing’s too bad for Shapirro. But we can’t get anything on him. He has a ritzy joint up at Montauk Point and never leaves it—all the dirty work is done by hirelings. And there are plenty of guys down at City Hall ready to cover for him—Shapirro has money. And money talks!”

  So Eddie called on the G-men.

  “Sure,” they said, “we know about Shapirro. One day he’ll make a slip—then we’ll pounce. But we can’t move against him till we get proof—he’s too powerful. Bring us the evidence and we’ll grab him fast!”

  Eddie went back to the drab room where Martha eked out her existence and reported. She listened to him in silence.

  “Shapirro!” She rolled the word round her tongue and spat it out. “That’s the one I want—the others aren’t important. You’ll get Shapirro for me, Eddie?”

  Eddie Gifford frowned.

  “That won’t be easy,” he said.

  Martha watched his face as he brooded over the problem. “You’ve got a plan,” she said softly. “I can tell by your face.”

  Eddie nodded.

  “The way I see it is to force Shapirro out into the open. Make him declare his hand. And the man to do that is—King Logan. I want to play one against the other. Maybe I’ll get something the G-men can use—it’s worth trying anyway.”

  “You said Logan had disappeared,” Martha objected.

  “I figure he’s hiding out someplace, waiting for the chance to strike back. I’ve got to find him—give him a little help to get at Shapirro.”

  Eddie thought for a while, then said: “Logan was living with a dame called Carla. He’ll want to contact her if she’s not with him. I guess she’ll be the one to lead me to him.”

  “Carla?”

  “Yeah,” Eddie said. “I’ve been checking up on her. Her full name’s Carla Bowman—she’s a society dame gone wild. Her old man has a house at Mount Vernon—I think I’ll pay him a visit to see if he knows where his daughter is.”

  Martha said: “I don’t care how you do it—but get Shapirro for me!”

  Eddie nodded silently. He left the apartment and went down to the street. He got in his car and drove north to Mount Vernon and Matthew Bowman,

  CHAPTER SIX

  The glass doors swung silently shut behind Clara. The room was large with a high ceiling and, once more, the black-and-white motif dominated. She stood still, forgetting the Waldemar twins at her side, studying the room and its occupant.

  The walls were panelled with black glass, giving an effect of distance, as if the room receded into a fantasy world of its own. The floor was tiled in black and white; the ceiling was an oppressive blackness. Concealed lighting sprawled sombre shadows over the transparent plastic furniture, and a heavy scent of burning incense pervaded the air.

  Behind a fantastic desk of clear plastic sat Sylvester Shapirro. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and black bow tie. His face was chalk-white and the lighting, flattering as it was, could neither conceal the lines of dissipation about his mouth nor the pouches under his eyes. Queer eyes, small and pink. His hair was a mass of snowy white growth that made his head appear unnaturally large for his body.

  One of the twins said: “This is Carla—Logan’s dame.”

  Shapirro looked at Carla with his small pink eyes and made her feel uncomfortable. He didn’t look at her the way other men did. He didn’t rise or say anything. Only his hands moved.

  On the desk before him lay a thin leather whip and Shapirro’s fingers played with the lash. There was something terrifying in the way he stroked the lash, looking at Carla with his pink eyes. Carla began to feel scared.

  She fought to control herself, made her hips sway voluptuously as she moved nearer. A faint smile played across Shapirro’s lips. His face cracked into a thousand tiny lines.

  “You are very young, Carla,” Shapirro said. His voice was an eerie whisper that seemed to go all round the room and come echoing back from the black glass walls.

  Carla realized, with a shock, that he was very old. That was something she hadn’t expected. Why, he must be over seventy!

  Shapirro licked his cracked lips.

  His whispering revolted her. The way his pink eyes lingered on her figure was somehow obscene. “I collect beautiful young girls, Carla.… I shall be pleased to add you to my collection!”

  His eyes moved steadily over her, admiring the contrast of her raven-black hair and dark skin against the white dress. He didn’t hurry with his inspection, took his time over her smooth oval face and wide jet-black eyes, her bright crimson lips. He liked the way the filmy material clung to her waist and hips, accentuating the beauty of her curves; he saw the outline of her legs, long and slender and full of youth.

  Sylvester Shapirro sighed gently.

  “So much beauty—and so fragile!”

  Carla shrank back from his gaze. His pink eyes seemed to undress her. She began to wish she were back with King. She flung an appealing glance at Glenn; the blond man with different coloured eyes desired her. That was something Carla could understand—not this frightening way Shapirro had of staring at her.

  Shapirro caught Glenn Waldemar’s look.

  “You will not look at Carla in that manner, Glenn,” he whispered. “She is mine—all mine. Be careful, Glenn—you know what will happen if you disobey me.”

  Glenn’s face went sullen and he looked away. He didn’t say anything, but his cane swished the air viciously.

  “I came of my own free will,” Carla said, summoning her courage. She felt she had to stand up to Shapirro now if she were to save herself. “I thought you might be able to fit me into your organization. I can be of use to you—I know where King is hiding out. You want to know that, don’t you?”

  Shapirro chuckled softly.

  “So, you can see the writing on the wall, Carla. You can see that Logan is finished—and want to change sides. You’re a smart girl!”

  Carla went closer, smiling provocatively. She swayed her body the way she used to do to control King.

  “I like excitement. I like danger, and adventure. I got all that with King—maybe I can get more with the man smart enough to put him out of busine
ss.”

  “Tell me,” whispered Shapirro, “where can I find King?”

  Carla didn’t hesitate. She had to win Shapirro’s confidence. She said:

  “You’ll find him in one of the cellars under the Water Rat, down in the Battery. He’s only got Jerry with him. If you like, I’ll guide your men there.”

  Sylvester Shapirro smiled coldly.

  “That won’t be necessary. Rufus and Glenn will go. They are quite capable of finding their way—and I want you here. You interest me, Carla—and this might be a trap set by Logan. If so, you’ll regret your part in it. Logan had better be there or—”

  “He’s there,” Carla said quickly.

  Her heart sank. She didn’t want to remain alone with Shapirro. She didn’t feel safe with him. She wanted to get out of the room with the black-and-white motif, away from this old man who collected young girls. And she had to stay.…

  Rufus and Glenn Waldemar went out through the swinging glass doors and disappeared behind the black drape.

  “Take a look behind the curtain,” Shapirro whispered, pointing to an alcove in one of the black glass walls.

  Carla crossed the room and drew back the curtain. Her breath hissed in sudden intake as she stared at an empty black coffin with silver handles. There was a silver nameplate with a name engraved and filled-in with black. The name was:

  KING LOGAN

  Carla let the curtain fall back. She turned to look into small pink eyes.

  “Logan,” came Shapirro’s eerie whisper, “was in my way. I smashed his gang because I wanted control of the East Side. You see, Carla, I want to operate on East Side the way I do on West Side. I want to control all the rackets in New York. Manhattan, Long Island, New Jersey—they’ll all fall to me in time.”

  His pale hands played with the whip on his desk as he spoke.

  “Taking over the Bowery is only one step in expanding my empire. Logan had to be removed. Now, he must be killed, because a cornered rat is dangerous. Rufus and Glenn will take care of that.”

  He stopped talking and just looked at her. Carla wanted to run, but she knew there was no sense in that. The house was too well guarded, the wall too high. And there were the dogs. She had to stay and bluff it out—but once she got away, she’d take good care she never got in Sylvester Shapirro’s hands again.

  The white-haired man spoke again.

  “I’ve found out quite a lot about you, Carla. Your father, for instance, suffers with a heart disorder—and you take good care he doesn’t learn of your somewhat unconventional way of life. Perhaps the shock would be too much for him?”

  He lifted the whip and flicked it gently. The lash curved through the air and touched Carla’s cheek.

  “So,” he said softly, “you will do whatever I ask—or your father will get a shock that may prove fatal.”

  “The last man to threaten me in that way,” Carla snapped, “is dead!”

  Shapirro chuckled.

  “But here,” he whispered, “I give the orders. You will not be able to kill me so easily.”

  Carla’s eyes blazed. If Glenn Waldemar hadn’t taken her revolver, she’d have shot Shapirro dead and taken her chances on getting away. But she was unarmed, a prisoner in this fantastic house.

  “If you tell my father anything about me,” she said coldly, “not all your gunmen will be able to save you. I’ll tear you to pieces!”

  Shapirro’s hand crawled across the desktop and he pressed a button. Somewhere, chimes tinkled melodiously.

  “You’ve got spirit,” he chuckled. “I want you to see what happens to girls with spirit.”

  Carla found herself holding her breath. A door opened and a girl came in. She was tall and blonde, about twenty-two, a good-looking girl with a well-developed figure.

  “This is Phyllis,” Shapirro murmured, “one of the many lovely girls I keep for my delight. Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Carla had difficulty in holding her tongue. She wanted to tell Shapirro what she thought of old men who kept girls like this. The blonde was dressed in a black gym tunic that would have fitted a schoolgirl. Her full figure thrust out over the top of the briefs. Her legs were bare and she perched ridiculously on shoes with six-inch heels. She had a black bow in her hair.

  Phyllis curtsied to Shapirro.

  “You wanted to see me, my lord?” she asked.

  Her voice was flat, toneless. Her face lacked all expression. Her eyes were without the vital spark that marks a human being from an animal. Something had happened to her to break her spirit. Carla turned away, revolted.

  “Come here, Phyllis,” Sylvester Shapirro said softly.

  The blonde went over to him, stood motionless. Shapirro’s hand stroked her smooth skin. Phyllis began to quiver, and fear showed in her eyes, but she didn’t move away. She stood there and let the old man with white hair stroke her.

  Shapirro said: “That’s all, my dear. You can go back to the others now.”

  The blonde curtsied again and moved away. Shapirro lifted his whip and flicked it. The lash curved through the air and caressed the blonde’s legs, leaving a faint red mark. She took no notice, went out through the door.

  Carla’s face was white. She felt something choking her. She was disgusted—and afraid—of Sylvester Shapirro and his unnatural desires. She wished she’d stayed with King. At least, he wanted her the way a man should want a woman.…

  “She’s doped,” Shapirro said. “Full of the stuff. It breaks their spirit, makes them more amenable to my little fads.”

  Carla said: “I’ll be more use to you the way I am.”

  Shapirro smiled.

  “Perhaps,” he whispered. “We must wait and see what the twins find at the Water Rat. Perhaps, if you spoke the truth about Logan’s hiding place, it won’t be necessary to treat you in that manner. Though you would be an asset to my collection.…”

  “King will be there, all right,” Carla said confidently.

  “Let us hope so,” Shapirro murmured. “I keep an establishment especially for breaking in girls—I doubt if you’d like it there. But that’s what will happen to you…if Logan isn’t dead when the twins report back!”

  His pink eye went to the clock on the wall.

  “They should be at the Water Rat by now,” he whispered. “Rufus will telephone in a little while.”

  Carla tried to forget she had told him where to find King. She tried to forget the way King had held her in his arms and thrilled her. He’d be dead soon—and it was she who would have killed him. She wanted to forget she had exchanged King for Sylvester Shapirro.…

  The old man with white hair and pink eyes went on looking at her, quietly enjoying her discomfort. He spoke again.

  “When I travelled in the East, many years ago now, I learnt of the custom of keeping a harem.” He chuckled. “It was always my ambition to maintain a selection of young girls—see.…”

  He pressed another button on his desk. Immediately, one of the black glass, walls changed, became transparent. Carla could see into the next room, a large, well-lit room where beautiful girls in scanty costumes reclined on cushions. They posed for Sylvester Shapirro the way they had been trained to do—and not one of them showed a trace of emotion in her face. They were all doped into submission.

  Carla felt her blood freeze. She wanted to get away—desperately, she wanted to leave this crazy house where an old man indulged his strange desires. She felt the walls closing in on her. She felt her legs weaken and her mind reel. She seemed to be floating down a spiral staircase.…

  The ringing of a telephone bell brought her back to reality. Shapirro lifted the receiver and acknowledged the call.

  “Rufus? Yes.… I see. Yes, you’d better come back—I’ve another job for you. Yes, at once!”

  Carla watched him lay down the telephone. His pink eyes fixed on her and his lips curved in a smile. A cold, cruel smile.

  He whispered: “Logan was not at the Water Rat!”

  Carla shrank back.


  “He must be! I tell you—”

  Shapirro rose from his seat. He pressed a button on the desk and chimes sounded again.

  “You tried to double-cross me, Carla. You know what to expect.”

  “No! King was there—I swear he was! Don’t make me like the others—oh, God!”

  Two men came silently through the door. Lean men with hatchet faces and cold eyes.

  “Hold her still,” Shapirro whispered.

  Carla tried to run, to get past them, through the door.

  They took her arms, gripped her tightly. She began to rave, hardly knowing what she was saying. She saw Shapirro coming towards her, his mop of snow-white hair bobbing gently, his pink eyes glittering.

  They held her down on the desk, twisting her arms till it was agony to move. One of the hatchet men hit her, knocking all the air out of her. Carla lay still, tears streaming down her face.

  She couldn’t move an inch. She watched Shapirro take a small case from a drawer in the plastic desk. He opened the case and brought out a hypodermic syringe and a phial of colourless liquid. He filled the syringe and looked along the needle, still smiling.

  “This won’t hurt you, Carla—just a prick of the needle and it’s all over.”

  She tried to struggle, but the two men held her rigid. She couldn’t get away. She began to scream. One of the hatchet men hit her in the mouth and her screaming changed to a choked sobbing. She watched Shapirro come closer. He dabbed an antiseptic on her arm; brought the needle nearer.

  She felt the prick as the needle plunged into her skin—saw the level of the liquid in the syringe go down as the dope was forced into her veins. Her head began to swim.

  A veil swept over her eyes. She saw Shapirro’s face looming over her—blurring—changing shape—the room receded, faded.…

  She was falling into a bottomless pit. Down a dark tunnel to a whirlpool at the bottom. The whirlpool sucked her under, stifling her, blocking out all light. She was in darkness—all consciousness gone.…

  CHAPTER SEVEN