Carla's Revenge

by Sydney J. Bounds

  Carla began to struggle as he rolled up her sleeve. She bit his hand. Jordan swore and hit her brutally.

  “You little bitch! Keep still or I’ll really hurt you!”

  He kneeled across her, pinning her with his weight, twisting her arms so that every movement she made was agonizing torture. Carla moaned with pain. She saw Dr. Arnaud coming towards her, hypodermic in band, smiling. She began to scream.

  Jordan stuffed a handful of blanket into her month, choking her. She lay there, quivering with fear, tears streaming down her cheeks while Jordan held her down. She felt the coldness of antiseptic on her arm—the faint prick of the needle as Dr. Arnaud searched for the vein. Then the dope was going into her—pumping into her, making her crazy with terror. Her arm throbbed cruelly as the liquid surged in.…

  Carla’s head felt as if it were bursting. She was one pounding dynamo, throbbing violently. Her heart thumped louder—louder. She didn’t feel the needle come out.

  She was falling through space. Spiralling down into a lightless void. A black suffocating sludge swamped her consciousness, sucking her into oblivion—blotting out the agony, the fear, everything. She drifted into sleep.…

  * * * * * * *

  The light hurt her eyes again. Her arm was stiff. The metal band hurt her ankle as she moved her leg. Memory returned as she heard the blonde talking to herself—

  “I must do as my lord commands.…” Over and over.

  Carla struggled up in bed and snarled at the blonde:

  “Stop it! For God’s sake—stop it!”

  Jordan looked in through the grille in the steel door. He grinned at her.

  “Don’t let it get you down, baby—you’ll be like that one day!”

  He came in, a few minutes later, with a tray of food.

  “Eat up, baby—chicken, eggs, salad, milk. We look after our patients here. Shapirro doesn’t like his lovelies to pine away.”

  Carla wanted to hurl the tray at him, but the food tempted her. Saliva formed in her mouth. She felt as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks. And, if she were to escape, she had to keep up her strength. She ate ravenously.

  She tried to blot out the incessant muttering of the blonde in the next bed. Tried not to think of the dope already in her body—at least it hadn’t affected her mind yet. She could still think clearly, still remember Sylvester Shapirro, still hate! Hate boiled up inside her like a living thing. She wanted to get Shapirro in a corner and kill him, slowly, painfully.

  Jordan took away the empty tray and left her alone with the blonde. Carla tried to talk to her; to make her stop muttering, but it was no use. The blonde was too far gone.

  Carla wondered how long it would be before the blonde was taken away to the house with the black-and-white motif, to become a plaything of an old man with white hair and pink eyes.

  She tried to think how she could escape. She had to get the chain off her ankle, get the door unlocked. Then there were the steel doors at the end of the corridor. And after that? Her hopes began to sink…if only King would come. But he didn’t know where to find her. Nobody knew where to look for her.

  Jordan took her for a bath. She looked at the nurse thoughtfully. Maybe.…

  She swayed towards him, inviting him with her eyes. Her arms went out—

  “I can be very nice to a man,” she said softly. “You’d like me, wouldn’t you?”

  She leaned forward, watching the way he looked at her licking his lips.

  “If you got me out of here,” she whispered, “we could go away together—just you and me.…”

  Jordan pushed her off. He laughed harshly.

  “Forget it, baby. Shapirro would carve me into little pieces if I even kissed you—you haven’t a hope of getting out of this joint. Not a hope!”

  Carla gave up. She took her bath and went back to the tiny cell where the blonde talked all the time in a dull monotone. Jordan chained her to the bed again. Then Dr. Arnaud came with his hypodermic to shoot more dope into her—and Carla blacked out for the third time.

  She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious; no idea of time at all. Days might have passed since she entered the sanatorium. Or weeks. Or only hours. She had no way of telling.

  Always, there was Jordan to bathe her, to feed her, to chain her again. And the blonde muttering in the other bed. And Dr. Arnaud with his hypodermic. There was a cycle to her existence, a cycle of sleeping and waking while they waited for the dope to break down her resistance. But Carla clung on with hate in her heart. Hope had gone—there was only hate now.

  Once, she tried to escape. She was returning from the bathroom, Jordan behind her, when the far door of the corridor opened. Dr. Arnaud came in, carrying his case.

  Carla went crazy. She sprinted down the passage, screaming with the full power of her lungs. She had to get through that door before the doctor locked it. Jordan ran after her, swearing violently. She reached the door and clawed at the doctor with her nails, leaving red weals on his face. He staggered back—and Carla darted for the door.

  She had a glimpse of a long hall leading onto a green lawn. She saw the blue sky outside—freedom! Then Dr. Arnaud stuck out his foot, tripping her. Before she could recover, Jordan leapt on her, beating her to the ground with his fists.

  The male nurse dragged her along the passage by her hair, kicking her. He threw her on the bed, chained her ankle.

  “You’d better punish her, Jordan,” said the doctor. “She must be taught the futility of attempting to escape.”

  Jordan growled and went out of the cell. Dr. Arnaud wiped his bleeding face and glared at Carla. She tried to wriggle away, frightened, but the chain held her prisoner.

  Jordan came back with a straightjacket. He grabbed hold of Carla and forced her arms into the straightjacket, wrapping it round her. He knelt on top of her, squeezing the air out of her lungs, tightening the cord laces brutally. When he’d finished, Carla was in excruciating agony. Her arms were lashed behind her, stretched almost to breaking point; the jacket was so tight she could hardly breathe. It was an effort, a slow, painful effort to even half-fill her lungs with air.

  “A couple of hours in that will cool you off,” Jordan growled. “You won’t try to get away again!”

  They left her like that. Carla moaned for a while; she soon stopped moaning because it hurt so much—it took up more air than she could get into her lungs. She concentrated on breathing—she had to concentrate, it was that difficult.

  She lay there in racking pain, her brain going slowly numb, her body losing its power. And all the while, she had to listen to the blonde repeating her grim text:

  “I must do as my lord commands.… I must do as my lord commands.”

  When Dr. Arnaud and Jordan came back, Carla was nearly unconscious. The nurse took off the straight jacket and wiped her arm with antiseptic. She hadn’t the power to raise her arm or utter a cry of protest. The doctor jabbed in the needle and Carla passed out.

  Jordan laughed as he looked down at her. He said:

  “She won’t last much longer—she’s ready to crack!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dawn was a redness in the morning air when King Logan reached Mount Vernon. He turned into the drive leading up to the home of Matthew Bowman. His legs ached; his feet were blistered. He was a hunted man, desperate, looking for cover. He wanted time to think, to rest, to form a new gang—then he was going after Shapirro.

  King went in by a side window. There seemed to be no one about as he padded cautiously along the ground floor passages. He took out his gun and caressed it lovingly. His stubbled face cracked in a grim smile—if anyone offered trouble, that would be just too bad for them.

  He found the larder and ate some bread and cheese. There was a crate of beer and he drank a couple of bottles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt better, and set off on a tour of inspection. In the servants’ quarters, he found the butler still in bed.

  He went through the house, room by room. There were no
other servants. Matthew Bowman’s wants were few and the butler attended to them. Carla wasn’t at home—he found her bedroom and looked in eagerly. He was disappointed.

  He heard Old Matthew’s snores and woke him.

  “Where’s Carla?” King demanded, prodding the old man with his gun.

  Matthew Bowman tried to sit up. King hit him, bringing on a severe heart attack. He lay back, gasping for air, holding his chest. King laughed, and hit him again.

  “You ain’t got the stamina your daughter has!” he jeered.

  Bowman’s attack subsided. He glared at King.

  “Who are you?” he snapped. “And what do you know about Carla?”

  “Carla!” King chuckled. “What don’t I know! I’m King Logan—I don’t suppose she told you about me—you might call me her husband, though we’ve never been legally married—if you get my meaning!”

  Old Matthew’s face went red. He spluttered with rage.

  “You cheap hoodlum! Get out of my house—I’ll call the police—I’ll—”

  King slapped him across the face with the flat of his gun.

  “You won’t do nothin’, old man,” be jeered. “Your butler’s asleep—and we’re alone in the house. Just the two of us! Now, where’s Carla?”

  “I don’t know—and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you!”

  Matthew Bowman glared at King. It couldn’t be true, not Carla and this—this brute! He refused to believe it. He stared at King Logan’s six feet of muscle, his dark, close-cropped hair and beady eyes. The missing finger on his right hand gave him a sinister air; his brutal manner and the gun he carried told Bowman all he wanted to know about King. Carla couldn’t have been such a fool.…

  King guessed his thoughts and laughed.

  “Yeah, she’s mine all right.” He licked his lips. “Carla’s sure a swell baby!”

  Matthew Bowman’s parchment face wrinkled with disgust. His faded eyes sparked with fury. He shook a gnarled hand at King.

  “Don’t dare speak of my daughter like that!” he rasped, his voice quavering.

  He slumped back, gasping, clutching his heart again.

  “I guess you ain’t long for this world,” King said coldly. “I guess—”

  He broke off as a telephone bell shrilled through the room. They both looked at the phone. Bowman tried to reach it, but King pushed him back suspiciously.

  “I don’t think we’ll answer that,” he grunted. “Let it ring.”

  The phone shrilled out, again and again. Matthew Bowman wanted to answer it. He said:

  “Carla! It must be Carla. I want to talk to her. I must see her again, before—” He slumped back, gasping with pain. “Before—it’s too late,” he finished.

  “Yeah,” said King thoughtfully, “it might be Carla.”

  He picked up the receiver and answered it, carefully disguising his voice:

  “Mr. Bowman’s home. The butler speaking.”

  A faint whisper came back, sending a shiver of fear through King’s spine.

  “This is Sylvester Shapirro. I want to speak to Matthew Bowman in person. Tell him I have news of his daughter.”

  King’s face went hard. Maybe Jerry had been right—maybe Carla was double-crossing him. If she were.…

  He pushed the phone into Old Matthew’s gnarled hand, and hissed:

  “Answer it. One word out of turn and I’ll put a slug between your eyes!”

  He jammed the muzzle of his .45 against Bowman’s high forehead and bent to overhear the conversation. He had to know what Shapirro wanted, to know if Carla had double-crossed him.

  The whispered voice that came back froze the blood in his veins. Shapirro said:

  “I think you ought to know the truth about your daughter. She’s a nymphomaniac—a killer. She was going about with a gang-leader called King Logan. She murdered the detective, Piggot, you sent after her. And now she has been committed to a sanatorium for the insane.…”

  The phone dropped from Old Matthew’s shaking band. Carla! His heart thumped madly; his frail body shook. He doubled up in swift recurring convulsions. The shock had been too much for Matthew Bowman. In fifteen seconds, he lay stretched out in death. Never again would he worry over his erring daughter.

  Slowly, King Logan replaced the receiver on its hook. He didn’t look at the contorted face of Matthew Bowman. He was thinking about Sylvester Shapirro—how did he know where Carla was? Carla wasn’t insane—King knew that. Why had Shapirro lied about her? Unless.…

  If Carla had double-crossed him and gone to Shapirro, then he would want to cover up for her. Jerry had been right, after all—she had ratted on him. King swore horribly and his hand tightened about the butt of his automatic.

  He’d get Shapirro and Carla…he’d get her like he’d said he would!

  * * * * * * *

  Eddie Gifford sat in Martha Franks’ downtown Manhattan apartment facing her. The woman’s pale face was deeply lined and her hands shook: the black dress made her appear a grim and forbidding figure despite her slightness. Her faded eyes were bleak, hiding the emptiness she felt deep down inside.

  “So you can’t get anything on William’s murderer,” she said bitterly.

  Eddie shrugged.

  “Not so far. Shapirro’s clever—all the dirty work is done by others—he makes sure nothing can lead back to him. As for Logan, he’s still hiding out somewhere. And I can’t find Carla to get a lead on him. Old Bowman doesn’t know where she is.” He paused.

  “I feel sorry for Bowman. He’s worried stiff about his daughter and, in his condition, he’s likely to kick the bucket anytime he really learns what she’s been up to. Carla’s wild, all right—wild as an untamed tiger. I suppose she’s with Logan, wherever he is.”

  Martha said: “I want you to get to Shapirro—somehow.”

  Eddie nodded.

  “I’ve been thinking about it. I guess I’ll have to try another line. The Bowery’s quiet these days—the shopkeepers pay up and don’t make any trouble; Shapirro gets it all his own way without Logan to give him competition. And the Waldemar twins, Shapirro’s kingpins, aren’t around East Side much. They leave it all to their hatchet men. But—”

  Eddie reflected, before continuing:

  “But there’s another angle. Shapirro, so the rumour goes, has a fancy for young girls. From time to time, a beautiful young girl simply disappears from New York. Usually, nothing is done about it because the girl has no parents or friends to take action. Shapirro picks them carefully, but he picks them. And eventually they must end up at Montauk Point.”

  Martha frowned, and said:

  “Maybe that’s where Carla is?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Eddie admitted. He brooded over the point. “I don’t see that it helps us much anyway—though I might mention it to Matthew Bowman. He might stir the cops into activity if I can sell him that idea. In any case, the girls usually disappear from the ritzy nightclubs on West Side. Glamour girls with a swell figure and no one to worry about them—if anyone does notice they’re not around anymore, it’s assumed they’ve found themselves a sugar-daddy. And Shapirro’s name isn’t mentioned.”

  Eddie got to his feet.

  “There’s the Paradise Club on Riverside Drive—that’s where the Waldemar twins operate from. I’m going there to keep an eye on things and, if I can get proof that the twins kidnap girls for Shapirro, I may be able to get the G-men interested. And once I can get them investigating, maybe we can pin murder on the man who killed your husband.”

  Martha’s eyes lit up. She clenched her fragile hands.

  “That’s right! That’s what I want—make Shapirro pay with his own life. You get him for me, Eddie!”

  Eddie said: “I’ll get him!”

  He went down the three flights of wooden stairs and out into the dingy street. It was still light, too early for visiting the night clubs on West Side. He drove to a bar off Broadway and ate a couple of ham sandwiches in between ryes. The more he thought about his
coming trip to the Paradise Club, the more certain he felt that he’d get a lead there—a lead that would give him something definite on Sylvester Shapirro.

  * * * * * * *

  The black glass walls of the room seemed to recede to infinity. Concealed tubes threw a soft light over the old man seated behind the transparent plastic desk. The mop of snow-white hair was sharply etched against the black drape behind Sylvester Shapirro; the tiny pink eyes were bright in his wrinkled face.

  Shapirro replaced the telephone and smiled at the Waldemar twins. His voice was an eerie whisper that echoed from the walls.

  “I don’t think we shall be bothered by Matthew Bowman. Not now.” He chuckled softly. “His heart wasn’t strong enough to stand the shock of learning the truth about his daughter—and now no one will be interested in finding out exactly where she is.”

  Rufus Waldemar swished his cane. His handsome face impassive, his twin blue eyes cold as he replied:

  “Except King Logan.”

  Shapirro frowned. He picked up the whip on his desk and played with the lash.

  “Logan must be found,” he said. “He must be exterminated.”

  Glenn Waldemar moved uneasily. His oddly colourcd eyes shifted to the ebony coffin in the alcove. He said:

  “But where is he? You can’t kill a man you can’t find.”

  “We’ll find him,” Shapirro whispered. “He can’t remain under cover indefinitely. I’ve men all over New York watching for him—as soon as he reveals himself, he’ll be picked up. Then you can take care of him—permanently!”

  He, too, looked towards the empty coffin. He sighed.

  “Joe Mazzini took such trouble with his coffin, too. It would be a pity to waste Joe’s talent—Logan must die. We’ll give him a wonderful burial, with no expense spared. It’ll be a lesson for any other budding gang-leaders not to encroach on my territory. And now, let us forget Logan. There are more pressing considerations.”

  The Waldemar twins waited. Shapirro flicked the long lash with his hand, cracking it in the air.