I looked around, at Dr. Dwight, at the jar, then blindly at Shana. There were too many points at which this scavenger ring could attack, and without risk. They could strike anywhere, at any time, by any means. And they could go to any lengths. They already had.
There was a lot of money in it, for them. They would be quite safe, with the professionals to guide the naturals, in going the very limit.
It was too much. If I were in this alone, I might take it. But I was not.
“I know what it’s about,” I said. “And you’re right, it is serious. Somebody wants me to sign a contract. All right, it’ll be taken care of. I’ll sign.”
I heard the faint, quick intake of Shana’s breath, and then no other sound. Her intent eyes watched me from shadowy depths, probing, testing, irresolute, not able to read some unfamiliar thing. Dr. Dwight, not understanding any of it, merely waited for me to go on and explain.
Then Shana issued a small, casual judgment.
“No. I think I see this, Jay. Don’t sign. You are not going to sign. You aren’t. You won’t.”
Chapter XI
Jay Ravoc
I was not quite sane when I parked the car around the corner from the Generous Heart address, and walked in the soft, clear light from the street lamps and shop windows of early evening, among a few other passers-by, toward the entrance of the building. The place was a big one, a towering bulk among other bulks in the Grand Central area, a massive checkerboard of dark-and-bright rectangles rising into an unseen sky.
Shana had told me the details of her interview with Belle Griscom. The name was too familiar. And the woman’s shocked alarm at being shown the sulphate preparation, her instant flight, pointed starkly to her knowledge of it. Somehow, she and her husband’s timing had gone wrong. But she had grasped its meaning at once.
The heavy silver jar was in my pocket now, the second of the two in the set, and it had the weight of molten lead.
To kill whoever originated that attack on Shana, this thought had become a raging hunger. And I knew that some day I would fulfill it. With one half of me, I knew it, and in moments that came in blinding streaks, like bunched lightning, that part of me had control over all the rest. But then there was another half that stayed Icy and methodical, never totally stunned or blinded, and in the longer moments when this personality prevailed, incessantly balancing one risk against another, weighing issues and people, I knew that a personal killing was a luxury I could not afford, a spree I would not, as a healthy person, be able to survive.
I had no assurance that Griscom, alone, had called the signals for this play. Without him, Shana might still be hit with anything, at any moment, at any place, and the next time perhaps fatally. I already knew Charles Talcott and Griscom’s wife were also promoting this. And there could be others. I had to give Vincent a long thought and a very big question mark. And Haley Robbins. And even Stanley, however nebulous.
I had to think of them all, and realize that any wrong move would blow the works, myself first, and then Shana in the repercussions certain to follow. And that meant seeing a man about a contract between Generous Heart and Campaign Consultants. Signing it, in fact, regardless of Shana’s romantic illusions that I was a hero, and could buck this racket singlehanded.
They had me cold. And isolated. From the city police, since there was a framed hit-run homicide ready and waiting to be hung around my neck, with even Shana blocked against bringing a charge, boxed in by her own wild statements about the source of that corrosive. From my partners, not knowing which of them to trust. From my professional colleagues, who, unless their own firms had already been similarly squeezed for a pay-off, would hardly believe in the violence of the raid, and if they did believe, would certainly hesitate before risking the same.
Tonight, whatever happened, I had to keep myself in hand. Just talk to Griscom, look him over, if possible feel out the size and probable course of the operation. Sound him out about the actual work of Generous Heart and discuss the terms, the goal of a drive he had in mind. Then put the last signature on a contract for Campaign Consultants to handle it. And after that, wait. And hope.
I had phoned that afternoon, not giving my name, to ask about office hours, and a possible appointment with Mr. Griscom. Whoever answered, a woman, gave the mechanical information that the agency was open on a twenty-four-hour basis, and that Mr. Griscom could be seen without an appointment at any time, often returning after supper, sometimes staying until midnight.
He had urged me to look him up when I returned to the city, and it was now plain I had no other choice. Why not, but do it by surprise?
The big main-floor lobby was quiet, but not deserted. The listing on the building directory showed only, “Generous Heart—416.” Green lights showed on the floor-marks of two out of eight elevator shafts, a third car down and waiting.
I took it to the fourth floor, where I found myself alone in the long tiled corridor. At one end of it, the frosted glass of the agency glowed with the lighted office, a single pane outlining only the number and the name. I turned the knob, and walked in.
The waiting room was small, holding only one person, a man behind a switchboard and a desk. Three other doors in the suite were closed, their frosted panes all dark. No Griscom. I looked again at the receptionist, heavy set, around forty, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, a rumpled necktie loosened about an open collar, tangles of curly black hair sprouting everywhere except from his face, which would always need another shave, and his head,, a permanent clearing in the wilderness. A half-eaten sandwich rested in paper wrappings at one side of the desk. He gave me a blank but guarded examination, then a high, woodwind voice made an effort to repeat a memorized question.
“Who are you looking for you wanted to see somebody about?”
“Griscom,” I said.
“Not here. He’s out on a serious case. Was there a message you’d leave with me that I could take?”
“When will he be back?”
He thought this over for a while, and in the silence I heard something stir behind the desk. I looked down. Beside the chair, and thrust from behind a corner of the desk, were the head and foreshoulders of a small dog. Smooth-haired, terrier, one big velvety patch of black over the left side of the head, the right side of the head white, with black polka dots. I snapped my fingers at him, and he set up a friendly commotion that included a bark. At the sound, the man behind the desk reached down and without looking at the dog found a silky ear, absently stroked it.
I knew this combination. The dog, the gesture, the man. It was something I had seen before, forcibly recalled to me only recently. He was an eyewitness to the accident in the park. I would not have identified the dog without the man and his automatic caress, nor recognized the man without the dog.
“Mr. Griscom won’t be back tonight,” he said. “Not for another hour, maybe later.”
I looked up, only then trusting myself to return my attention to the man. Michael Anders, And the dog’s name? He had one, something wild, by the incongruity of it. Battler? Slugger? No. KO. But I knew, as I studied the owner, that he did not have the slightest recognition of me, any more than I had at first felt for him.
I had been dealt something good, not a strong hand, but at least one high card. How should I play it? He had been bribed, and then to keep him in line, he had been hired.
Safe, foresighted, and economical. But Anders was plainly slow in the head, I knew his story, he did not know mine, this one-way information gave me an edge. And he was alone. Being alone, he could not take a fast, forcing showdown. He might break. There was plenty of time to get an affidavit that would tear the hit-run frame wide open. Good, though it might be messy for everyone, including myself. And it would hardly be decisive. Just possibly there was some better way to use this thing. Or was there? The opening I had was small, and time was short.
“I’ll wait,” I told Anders, but then I stood there, steadily regarding him, not moving toward the room’s single
lounge for callers. He didn’t like this, and started to say something, then uneasily subsided. I lit a cigarette, and he shifted uncomfortably in the swivel chair. Idly, I asked, “How’s KO?”
He was pleased, but startled. The high, thin, naive voice queried:
“You know KO’s name?” Then, when I gave no reply, he tried again, with his own slow, unsettling afterthought. “How’d you know KO’s name?”
I stared, faintly smiling, piling more silence on his awakening uneasiness. My advantage was now something that had weight. I could feel it, pressing against him, flowing in rivulets over the soft crust of his life, searching everywhere for the dangerous points even he only half remembered, and therefore doubly realized were the least protected. Then I shifted the direction of the pressure, very slightly, and increased it.
“Where’s Fenner gone, Anders?”
“It’s an important case, he didn’t mention who. Not exactly. Say, are you a friend of his?” Then a delayed fuse touched off something else. “Say, how do you know who I am? I don’t know you. Have we met somewhere before?”
He did not match the description of the delivery-man who had brought the package to the salon that morning, a morning that at this moment, up here in this peaceful anteroom, already seemed part of a vanished age. But he could have been used in some other step of the operation. Somebody had first selected the set of empty silver jars. And for that, Anders would not have enough judgment. But then the loaded thing had been returned to the shop for gift wrapping and delivery. It was not clear whether this had been done by the same or a different man. The use of a second person would mask the continuity of the whole performance. For such an errand, Anders seemed about right. It would not hurt to sound him.
“Don’t you remember this morning, Anders? The package you brought to the jewelry store?”
He relaxed a little. But he was puzzled.
“No. What about it? When I’m on nights, I sleep until noon. Yesterday afternoon I had a package to pick up some place and deliver there. But I didn’t see you, either place. Why? Say, what did you say the name you’re supposed to give me was?” Now, his resistance began to form a protective crust over his live suspicion and fears. “Say, who are you? What business is it of yours, anyway, you wanted to see Mr. Griscom about?”
He hadn’t revealed much, but that little had given me still more room in which to work. Hiring Anders was anything but the safety measure these technicians had intended it to be. I wouldn’t, personally, send this idiot’s apprentice to the store for a package of cigarettes. But maybe the Generous Heart grab was clicking so smoothly and strongly it was really safe, nothing could seriously threaten the hijackers now, and they knew it.
But it was clear that Anders had, in fact, been used to return the charged cream to the jeweler’s for final delivery.
“Maybe I didn’t come up here just to see Griscom. Maybe I wanted to see you.”
“What?”
“Maybe I wanted to check on the new investigator. See how you were making out.”
“What?”
“What did you do, Anders, before it was decided the best way to take care of you was right here?”
“What?”
“What did you do before they explained what you really saw that night in Central Park? Before you had to be told it was the car with the people who stopped that really killed the guy, not the gray car that got away, there wasn’t any gray car? How did you make a living before that night you saw an accident in the park, and then you went to work here? And don’t say what. All I want to hear is the kind of work you usually do.”
He had darting, hazel eyes that always came back to mine, but no matter where he looked, they saw nothing that helped.
“I used to collect for some bankers,” he said. That would be loan-sharking, and probably the peak of his career, though it couldn’t have lasted. “How did you know about that night I happened to be up on the East Drive? That’s where I always walk KO. How did you know about me and KO? You working for Mr. Griscom, too?” There was a note of hope, in this fog of wariness gathering about him. “He didn’t tell me.”
I debated this for a long, careful pause.
“No.”
Anders sensed that the answer must be bad news, but he tried again to evade, or at least postpone it.
“Just a friend?”
I nearly laughed. But I didn’t. Somebody’s life was at stake in this contest. Not all of us could survive it. Anders would be double-crossed and take a fall, but only as a minor casualty in a preliminary event. After that, there must be a decision between the principals. In that one, prison, bankruptcy, professional destruction, wrecked relationships, insanity, or even death awaited the losers. That could be Shana. Myself. I said:
“No.”
“You from that fellow in the D.A.‘s office?”
The question held a faint suggestion of relief. I killed it.
“No.”
He seemed to tense himself against a much less pleasant possibility before he asked, hesitantly, and in a muted voice:
“Not from Mr. Talcott?”
It was tempting to borrow this connection. It seemed strange that he should be afraid of Talcott. But he was probably Griscom’s man, first, trained against too close contact with anyone else.
“No. Use your head, Anders. Who would know about the felony rap they pushed you into better than the man who saw them doing it?”
His eyes dilated, and his breath stopped. It had not occurred to him that cutting one harmless corner might call for shaving off another one so soon, this time with himself caught in the middle. Still, he knew his own people. The moment he saw it could be, he felt it must be, and had in fact already been done. But he could not think his way beyond the only job he knew about. His voice went high and challenging:
“What felony, Mister? Not me. I saw what I saw.”
“Fin not talking about the park. The package.” It felt curious, tightening my hold on the exposed center of his fears, deliberately twisting at the nerves, feeling the fright surge into panic. It was so easy. And the process already seemed so familiar. Almost normal “I’m talking about the stuff you delivered to the jewelry store. Now do you know who I am?”
“The package? Why, what was in it?” I waited this one out. “Say, are you the boss arranging this drive we’re going to have? I didn’t see you. I just asked for Mr. Beechwood, and he gave me the package. I thought he must be the guy running things up there. Where do you fit into the big campaign they’re all talking about? You doing something special for Mr. Beechwood?”
Vincent. The lights seemed to dim, through my sick rage, and I shivered with a fever. Vincent. Chronically in debt. He had assured me Stanley was in the clear on the accident. But he had never doubted Stanley’s presence in the death car with Talcott. He had instantly seen and grasped the chance it gave him to reach Stanley first, and then with another twist to get at me. Vincent, the fool. What did he imagine guaranteed him in this jungle killing they were out to make? It was not in his character even to understand the studied technique behind the hunt, let alone direct it.
Except for our unbelievable, long-distance phone conversation this morning, it was away out of character. But this morning’s talk, that did fit with this. Perfectly.
I saw Anders, watching me, more dismayed than ever at something he read in my attitude.
“No. Mr. Beechwood is supposed to be working for me. But he made a mistake. If he’s actually the man you saw. Describe him.”
“Why, just an average, ordinary, tall, medium-sized fellow. He had a lot of wavy white hair. Why, what about that package? I didn’t know what was in it, he just asked if I was the fellow from Generous Heart, and handed it to me.”
Vincent. Of the three others in the firm, only Vincent. I recited some facts to Anders, in a brisk monotone.
“You delivered the package to Mr. Valiant, at the Artcraft Studio on Madison Avenue near Fifty-eighth Street. It contained a deadly poison. How does i
t feel, to be the fall guy in a murder?”
“You’re crazy.”
I felt again the deadly burden, inert but alive in the pocket of my coat. I looked at Anders, and then at KO, I noticed again the half-eaten sandwich lying in its paper on the desk.
“Think so? I’ll prove it to you.”
I took out the jar, extended it to him. He didn’t move to take it.
“What’s that? I never saw it before.”
“Read what’s on the bottom of it,” I told him, and then turned it over, myself, showing the engraved shop mark. “Read it. What does it say?”
In a wondering reflex, he complied:
“Artcraft Studio. What of it? That’s where I went, but I never saw that thing before. What is it?”
I opened the sandwich and picked up a scrap of what seemed to be roast beef, uncapped the loaded silver container, dipped and rolled the meat in it. Then I bent down and offered the morsel to the alert, half-timid, half-friendly dog.
“Watch what it does to KO,” I said. “Just a few seconds.”
Anders was heavy, but not awkward. In one smooth, motion he crashed his chair backwards, scooped the dog into his arms, stood behind the desk holding it, his face dazed, terrified, furious. It showed a film of sweat, and his thin voice choked in the labor of breathing.
“I’ll kill you. Take that away. I’ll kill you, Mister.”
I straightened. Carelessly, but pointedly, I tossed the tainted food on the floor, at his feet.
“You’re not going to do anything, Anders. Except start running. That’s all right with me. But figure it out for yourself. How far will you get?”
The rage died out of him, in slow seconds, but none of the dismay. That stayed, and grew, and held him there.
“I didn’t know what was in that,” he said. I looked at him, and waited. “I don’t know anything about what that package had in it was supposed to be.” I showed that I was patient, but not concerned with his story, either way. “I just picked it up and delivered it, like I was told, that’s all.” He began, stopped himself, then found the question he had to ask, and managed to get it off. “Has somebody, Jesus God, you said somebody got purposely lolled?” I said nothing, and here and there muscular patches of his solid frame began to quiver, then to shake. “Oh, God, you’re one of them, yourself. You run it. Something went wrong. What do you want with me, I didn’t even know was going on?” He hung in the silence, then a more violent shudder hit him and he swayed forward, the voice a faint rustle of air. “Wait, Mister. They tried for you, and you think I did it. You’re a patient wouldn’t go for a proposition. Maybe you got a high-class record, you got some ideas of your own, maybe, and they decided to give you a nervous breakdown? That was your own suicide, and you think I sent the poison? Jesus God, no, not me, I don’t even know about those things.”
The Generous Heart Page 16