Carla looked at the man who had come into the room. He held a smoking Luger in his hand. He had curly brown hair and brown eyes, and there was something about him that made Carla feel better. He was a decent sort of a guy.
He looked as if he’d taken a beating, his face was bruised and bandaged, and he walked stiffly, limping a little. He pulled her to her feet and said:
“Seems it was lucky for you I dropped in when I did. I suppose you’re Carla Bowman—who was the boyfriend?”
His mouth had a quirk to it that might have been humorous once; now it was a grim line.
“King,” Carla said, staring at the corpse. “King Logan.”
She wasn’t seeing things clearly. The dope was still working inside her—and she hadn’t yet got used to the idea that King was dead. Really dead. It was like living in a nightmare.
“So that was Logan,” said the man with the Luger. “Well, it’s no great loss to society. Maybe you found that out? Now tell me about Shapirro—I want to know everything about that guy.”
“Shapirro!” Carla’s dark eyes blazed as she spat out the name. She seemed to come alive all at once. Her hands clenched in tight fists. “I’m gonna get Shapirro—I’m gonna—”
He held her back.
“Take it easy, sister, take it easy. I’m the guy who’s gonna take care of Sylvester Shapirro. He’s my job!”
Carla looked at the man who had saved her life, She said:
“Who are you? How did you get here?”
Eddie Gifford told her. He told her about Martha Franks, about the Waldemar twins, the redhead who’d been kidnapped at the Paradise Club. About Gringold and the beating up he’d taken, about following her from Phoenix Springs.
Carla clenched her hands. Her face was a taut mask.
“Leave Shapirro to me, Eddie,” she said softly. “I’m gonna take that swine apart!”
She started talking, fast. Telling him about Shapirro’s harem; how she’d been taken to Dr. Arnaud’s sanatorium and doped. Eddie wore a sympathetic expression by the time she’d finished.
“I guess you’ve had a tough time, baby. But that’s over, now. You stay here and I’ll get a doc to take a look at you. Meanwhile, I’ll run out to the sanatorium and get the redhead; then I’ll get the G-men and raid Shapirro’s place.”
Eddie went out in a hurry. He had things to do.
* * * * * * *
Dr. Arnaud came into the room with the black glass walls. His face was white. Sylvester Shapirro pushed Phyllis away from him.
“I’ll see you again later,” he whispered.
The girl curtsied and left him. Arnaud blurted out:
“The game’s up. Carla killed Glenn and Jordan, and got away. She’s probably with the police now!”
Shapirro toyed with his whip. He scowled.
“What happened at the sanatorium?” he asked.
Dr. Arnaud had lost a lot of his briskness. He was nervous under Shapirro’s pink eyes.
“I had to kill the redhead,” he said. “I couldn’t leave her alive. I destroyed all the papers—there’s nothing to link us with the place. Unless Carla talks!”
“Yes,” Shapirro whispered. “Carla!” He brooded silently for a time. “Will she be able to talk? How far was she under the drug?”
Arnaud shrugged helplessly.
“She was pretty far gone—but her resistance wasn’t completely broken. She’s out for revenge!”
“She must be killed—at once. Where’s Rufus?”
Arnaud shuddered.
“He’s gone stark mad. When he saw his brother’s dead body, he went out—alone. He’s gone after Carla. He’ll never stop till he finds her…there was something between the twins. Like half of Rufus had been killed and the other half had to get the killer. He’s crazy—berserk.…”
Shapirro smiled.
“Let us hope,” he whispered, “that Rufus finds her before she can open her mouth!”
He looked at the doctor and pressed a button on his desk.
“You’ve let me down, Arnaud,” he murmured. “That’s bad—you know what to expect.”
Dr. Arnaud took a step backwards.
“No—no!” he pleaded. “It wasn’t my fault—it was that fool, Jordan.”
The glass doors swung open and two hatchet men entered.
Shapirro said: “I’ve finished with the doctor. Take him away!”
Arnaud whimpered.
“Don’t kill me…don’t—”
The two lean-faced killers grabbed his arms and hauled him towards the door. Shapirro sat at his transparent plastic desk, smiling, and listening to Arnaud’s screams. The screams grew fainter as he was dragged down the staircase. He heard the muffled sound of a shot and the screams stopped. Dr. Arnaud had paid for his carelessness.
Sylvester Shapirro pressed another button on his desk.
“Come to your lord, Iris,” he whispered. “He wants to nurse his baby.…”
* * * * * * *
The chief of the local G-men was impressed by the way Eddie spoke. He listened carefully, refraining from interrupting.
“When I got to the sanatorium,” Eddie said, “the redhead was dead. Her throat cut, very professionally—I guess Dr. Arnaud used a scalpel on her. The private office was empty and there was a heap of ashes in the grate. Arnaud burnt all his papers before leaving…but that needn’t stop you acting. Carla will confirm everything I told you.”
The G-man nodded.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment. Shapirro’s been too clever for us to move before—but now, we’ll take him!”
He snapped a switch and gave orders into a mike.
“Break out the arsenal. I want twenty men with tommy-guns in a hurry. Get the cars ready—we’re raiding Shapirro’s place at Montauk Point!”
Eddie smiled with satisfaction. Martha Franks was going to get her revenge after all.
The cars went out to Mount Vernon first. The chief of the G-men wanted to see Carla. Eddie took him inside, where a puzzled doctor waited for them.
“I thought there was supposed to be a patient here,” the doc said. “All I’ve found are two corpses. Old Bowman’s, and a tall guy with a finger missing.”
“King Logan,” Eddie explained to the G-men. “The girl, Carla? She was doped up to the eyebrows.”
The doctor shook his head.
“There’s no girl here,” he said briefly.
Eddie cursed.
“We’d better hurry if we’re gonna save Shapirro for the hot-seat. I guess Carla’s gone gunning for him—and that dame means business!”
The G-men went back to their cars and set off for Montauk Point.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Where would she go? Where? Where!
The question drummed inside Rufus Waldemar’s brain as he drove furiously towards New York. His grey suit was immaculate, his blond hair unruffled. Only his blue eyes registered the blazing fury of emotions inside him. They glinted like the sun on ice chips.
He’d lost his debonair manner now. His face was grim.
Carla—I’m coming for you, Carla! The thought drummed through his brain, obsessing him. He was going to kill her.
But she wasn’t going to die quickly, easily. He was going to play with her first, make her scream, make her pray for death to come…then, slowly, painfully…he’d kill her as she’d killed his brother. He stroked his swordstick, smiling cruelly.
He remembered she’d lived with her father at Mount Vernon. And she was doped, incapable of going far. She might go to her father’s house…she probably would.
Rufus Waldemar drove on for Mount Vernon, his handsome face a mask of insane desire, the desire to kill.
He reached Mount Vernon and swung his car into the drive. He saw a black Rolls parked outside the house.
Glenn’s car! So she was here—his lips curled.
He braked his car and got out. He twisted the handle of his gold-tipped cane, admiring the cold steel blade that shot out. He went into the hou
se.
Carla was coming down the stairs, dressed in the skirt and sweater she’d grabbed at the sanatorium. Her feet were still bare. They saw each other at the same time and Carla stopped dead in her tracks.
Rufus was glad she was beautiful. When he’d finished with her, no man would look at her face or figure without shuddering. He was going to carve her lovely body.
He went up the stairs towards her, reaching out with the steel blade.
“You shouldn’t have done it, Carla,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t have killed Glenn. Now I’ve got to kill you!”
Carla waited on the stairs. She didn’t try to run. She might have been riveted to the spot with fear. She hadn’t thought about Rufus, about the effect Glenn’s death would have on him. She had only wanted to get at Sylvester Shapirro.
After Eddie had left, she’d thought about Shapirro, decided she was going after him herself. She didn’t want anyone else to kill him—not after what he’d done to her. She wanted to kill him herself. So she’d picked up King’s automatic and started down the stairs.
That’s when she’d seen Rufus…and she still had the .45 in her hand. Rufus hadn’t seen that. She waited for him to come closer…closer.
The sword almost touched her before she raised her hand. Rufus saw the automatic gleam in the light. He lunged forward, knowing he had to get her now. He was a fraction of a second too late. Carla aimed at his chest and jerked the trigger.
The gun jumped in her hand. A .45 slug crashed into Rufus Waldemar’s heart and he spun backwards, losing his foothold. He screamed as he fell, bumping on each step, all the way to the bottom. He lay in a heap, his limbs contorted, still. He was very dead.
Carla went down the stairs, gun in hand. She prodded the corpse with her bare foot, rolled it over. A red stain seeped through Waldemar’s grey suit and his face had gone white. She passed him by, went out to the Rolls.
Shapirro! She was going after the old man with white hair, she was going to get him. She sat at the wheel of the car, thinking. There were certain practical considerations, such as: how was she going to get at him?
There was a high wall round the house at Montauk Point; a steel door, guarded by armed men; fierce dogs patrolled the grounds. She had Waldemar’s car. Would that be allowed through the gate without question? Not with her at the wheel. But with Rufus Waldemar.…
She went back to the house and dragged the corpse out to the car. She propped it on the seat next to the wheel, fixing it so it wouldn’t roll sideways. She got in and drove off. The guards weren’t to look closely at Rufus Waldemar—they weren’t going to know he was dead at all. They were going to let him in through the gates…and that was all she wanted.
The dope had made her a little crazy. No one but a crazy woman would have driven out to Montauk Point with a corpse and a .45 to beard Shapirro in his den. But Carla was past worrying about the odds against her. She knew she wasn’t going to recover from the treatment she’d had; knew the dope had a hold on her for all time. All she thought about now was revenge.
Then she saw the vast, rambling house on the cliff edge, heard the Atlantic rollers pound on the rocks. Carla drove right up to the gate. She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping King’s automatic. She was ready to stop any argument with flying lead.
The steel gate opened. A guard glanced at the car. He saw Waldemar and a dame, nothing unusual in that. He waved them in.
She got out of the car and went into the house, gun in hand. She passed through the deserted hallway with its black and white tiles to the staircase that spiraled upwards to Shapirro’s room. She padded softly along the balcony with its black jade and silver statuettes, drew back the dark drapes and pushed open the glass doors.
Carla stepped into the fantastic room with the black glass walls, her automatic ready to blast Shapirro at his desk. But the room was empty.
Concealed lighting illumed the jet-black ceiling, the tiled floor. She saw the whip lying on the transparent plastic desk, smelt the heavy aroma of burning incense. Carla swore. She had fully expected Shapirro to be there…now she would have to wait for him to return. He couldn’t be far—he never left the house.
And when he did come back, he might have his hatchet men with him. Carla wanted him alone. She looked round for a hiding place. The glass walls were bare; the furniture clear plastic. There was nowhere she could hide—unless.…
She saw the black coffin with its silver nameplate: KING LOGAN. Carla smiled. King wasn’t going to need that just yet. She threw back the lid and stared into the dark interior. It was just the place to hide; Shapirro wasn’t going to look for anyone in a coffin. She climbed inside and lowered the lid. Shapirro was due for a shock when he returned. She laughed softly as she lay flat, thinking…a coffin for Carla!
* * * * * * *
Darkness was creeping across Long Island as the cars carrying the G-men rushed northwards to Montauk Point. The rising moon cast a pale light over the countryside, turning the broad concrete strip into a silver lane between ghostly trees.
Eddie sat next to the chief of the G-men in the leading car. He felt the bulge of the Luger in his pocket and knew he would use it before the night was over. He was tensed up, ready for action and sudden death. This was the showdown.
As the car swooped on, Eddie thought back over the trail of violence that had caught him up in its hideous mesh.… King Logan and his gang carrying on a protection racket in the Bowery; Carla, the society girl who wanted thrills—she’d got them all right. More than she bargained for.
Shapirro cutting in on Logan; his twin killers, the Waldemars. Old Matthew Bowman, whose heart couldn’t take the truth about his daughter. Piggot, the detective whose body had been fished out of the Hudson.
Then Carla had gone to Shapirro, ratted on King. She’d realized her mistake too late. After she’d seen him, seen for herself how he treated his girls. Doped them, used them as playthings for his unnatural desires. Too late, she’d tried to back out. Shapirro had doped her, sent her to Dr. Arnaud’s sanatorium at Phoenix Springs for treatment. She’d had a rough time all right.
Eddie’s face tightened into grim lines. Martha’s death had affected him more than any of the others. Shapirro was going to pay for that—Eddie would see to it, personally.
Carla had escaped, killed Glenn and the male nurse. He shuddered as he imagined the scene; Carla making love to Glenn, leading him on to his death. King Logan was dead, too. Eddie had shot him at Mount Vernon, saving Carla’s life. He couldn’t think why he’d bothered…she wasn’t worth saving. A gang-leader’s moll who didn’t stop at murder herself.
Eddie had been too late arriving at the sanatorium—the birds had flown. But this time, they wouldn’t be too late. No one was going to escape from the house at Montauk Point. No one.
He wondered if Carla had got into the house. She was after Shapirro and, doped as she was, she wasn’t going to be stopped easily. She wanted her revenge—but the house was guarded by armed thugs. Carla might well be dead at that moment. But if she wasn’t…despite himself, Eddie felt pity for Shapirro. He wasn’t going to die pleasantly if Carla got her hands on him.
The cars tore on into the night. The G-man said:
“Ten minutes now—then we’ll see some action!”
“I keep thinking of those crooked cops at Phoenix Springs,” Eddie said. “Gringold and Louis and Buck. I’d like to meet up with them again, after this show is over.”
The G-man smiled mirthlessly.
“Don’t worry about them. Gringold won’t be a chief of police after I make my report to Washington. A lot of Shapirro’s yes-men down at the City Hall are going to wish they hadn’t covered up for him too.”
The cars were out in the open, following the road that wound across sandy dunes. The sea wasn’t far away: Eddie could hear the Atlantic breakers in the distance. Then he saw the house on the rise.
“That’s it,” the G-man said. “Montauk Point—Shapirro’s fortress!”
He signalled, and the cars stopped a little way from the house. Twenty determined and well-trained men lined up to take their orders. Twenty men armed with tommy-guns, ready to fight for the right of ordinary people to live in peace.
“We’re going straight in,” said the chief of the G-men. “We want Shapirro, the kingpin of the outfit. His mobsters will try to stop you. Remember, this isn’t a picnic—shoot to kill! That’s all.”
They moved in on the house. Four rope ladders, with steel hooks, were slung over the high wall. The G-men swarmed up, and over. Eddie dropped to the ground on the inside and looked around him.
There was a sudden cry. The guards had seen them!
Instantly, shots rang out. Crimson flame stabbed the darkness. A hail of lead slugs poured through the trees. A G-man fell to the ground, riddled with bullets.
Eddie dived for cover, cursing. This meant that Shapirro would be warned—almost certainly, he would have a line of retreat prepared. He started running forward, dodging from tree to tree, firing all the time.
The guards had moved back from the steel gates, machine-guns chattering viciously. The air was acrid with cordite fumes, bright with the stabbing flames of gunfire. Deep-throated dogs bayed and plunged through the trees.
Eddie tripped on a trailing rambler and fell headlong. A dog pounced on him. A large fierce animal, with bloodshot eyes and savage teeth. It lashed him with sharp claws, ripping his clothes. Eddie rolled over, keeping his arm over his face. The dog was a killer, trained to take life. To rip out a victim’s eyes, gouge his throat.
Eddie gasped for breath and tried to get his Luger under the animal’s body. Its breath was hot on his face; its claws left bleeding weals on his flesh. It tried to sink its teeth into his throat. Eddie pushed the barrel of his Luger into its great body and fired. The dog rolled off him, twitched convulsively, and lay still.
Another brute sprang at him. Eddie jerked the trigger, placing a slug between its red eyes. It died in mid-air, crashed at his feet. Eddie, panting, wiped blood from his face, and lurched behind a tree as a hail of machine-gun fire blasted in his direction.
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