Love and Bullets: A Sam Smith Mystery (The Sam Smith Mystery Series Book 2)

by Hannah Howe

  “Where is George?” he asked.

  “He’s a bit tied up at the moment.”

  The ghost of a smile played around Rudy’s lips. Then, after a thoughtful pause, he caressed his chin and added, “Maybe we could cut a deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “Let me talk to Vincent Vanzetti, direct. You hold the letter. We’ll arrange a meeting. If I don’t show, you deliver the letter.”

  I narrowed my eyes, viewing him with suspicion. “How do I know that I can trust you?”

  “I’m a gentleman.” He bowed in courteous fashion. “I give you my word.”

  “You’re a crook,” I said bluntly, “you’re no gentleman.”

  He shrugged, his placid features hiding any suggestion of hurt. “You have the letter,” he pointed out. “You hold all the aces.”

  I thought about the letter. I thought about the gun in my hand. I thought about George and considered that he must be free by now, and possibly on his way to warn his boss. I thought about my fatigue and the tense ache in my muscles. I thought about passing out. I nodded. “You’ve got a deal. I’ll arrange the meeting. I’ll contact you tomorrow. Then I’m out of the picture. After the meeting, this is between you and Vincent Vanzetti. Understand?”

  Rudy Valentine flashed me a sugarcane smile. He nodded. “I understand.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I arrived home in a state of physical exhaustion, yet with my mind hyperactive – not a good combination. I thought about coffee, but reasoned that even one cup would make me feel jittery, so settled instead for a glass of white wine. The wine was Alan’s influence. Before I met him, I would unwind with a glass of whisky. For the life of me, I can’t think why because I’m not over fond of its taste. As I sipped my wine, I thought about Alan and wondered if he was thinking about me. If he was, then I bet his thoughts were dark, and justifiably so.

  I longed for my bed, but I would sleep tomorrow. Tonight I had things to do and the first of them was to phone Mickey Anthony.

  “Mickey?”

  “Who’s that?” His voice was thick with sleep and I could sense his confusion. I glanced at my wristwatch – it was 3.12 a.m.

  “Sam,” I replied.

  “Sam?” I could picture him drawing a hand across his face as he tried to clear his head. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Three thirteen in the a.m. I need Vincent Vanzetti’s address.”

  “His address? What the...wait a minute.” Mickey disappeared while I gazed out of my living room window at a cat as it tried to make sense of a hedgehog. Don’t do it, Puss. Ouch! Too late, but another valuable lesson learned. “Vanzetti lives down St Donats way.” Mickey gave me the address. Then, with a familiar leer creeping into his voice, he added, “You’re running up quite an account, you know that. I’ll be looking for a payment, soon.”

  “Think of it as a donation to charity.”

  “Why don’t you come over now,” Mickey suggested, “make a down payment.”

  “I’m an iceberg, remember. I’ll give you hyperthermia.”

  “When your ice melts, I bet you’re something.”

  I glared into the phone and prepared to break the connection. “Leave it there, Mickey; amazing to relate, but you don’t do anything for me.”

  After the phone call with Mickey, I changed into a pair of jeans and a hooded top, then I drove west, out of the city, to St Donats.

  I passed Nash Point, a dramatic promontory jutting out into the Bristol Channel, with its strangely layered cliffs, which resemble giant steps rising out of the sea. The twin lighthouses at Nash Point are a testament to the treacherous nature of the coastline, a coastline once infamous for its shipwrecks and smugglers.

  Treacherous, yet golden, this stretch of coastline has attracted all sorts over the years, including the American newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst. Hearst made a home at St Donats Castle and entertained the beautiful people of Hollywood in the decades between the two world wars.

  Around 4 a.m., I arrived at a palatial house on the fringe of St Donats. In keeping with his social status and line of work, Vincent Vanzetti’s house was well protected with security cameras. I eyed the security cameras from a vantage point atop a high stone wall, a wall that served as Vanzetti’s boundary marker.

  Maybe he had piranhas in his swimming pool, and sharks, highly trained and ready to pounce on anyone who should stray on to his property, but I couldn’t see or hear any dogs. And, while it was difficult to be certain, I think I spied a blind spot in his security system, an unprotected area at the side of the house.

  Once more unto the breach, dear Samantha, once more...

  I waited for the security cameras to scan and move apart, then I dropped on to the soft grass and ran across Vincent Vanzetti’s lawn. My breath hung in the cold night air as I pressed myself up against the wall. No lights, no dogs, no ninja sharks. I allowed myself a sigh of relief while I mopped my brow. Then I walked up to Vanzetti’s front door and leaned on his doorbell.

  Two minutes later, I sensed that someone was watching me through the spy hole in the door frame, then the man himself opened the door. He was dressed in a thick woollen dressing gown with interlocking Vs monogrammed over his left breast. Each strand of his thinning hair held its own opinion, pointing in myriad directions, betraying the fact that I’d roused him from a deep sleep. He blinked, adjusted the tie on his dressing gown, then asked, “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”

  “I know who murdered Peter. Can I come in?”

  Vanzetti paused. He thought for a moment, drawing his thumb and forefinger over the edges of his moustache. Eventually, he nodded and invited me into his house.

  We wandered into his playroom, a room equipped with a snooker table, a dartboard and a jukebox. Three darts had been thrown into the dartboard, hitting number sixteen, number one and treble eighteen.

  “You want a drink?” Vanzetti asked. He paused beside a tall drinks cabinet then helped himself to a whisky with a dash of soda.

  “No, thanks.”

  “My wife’s in bed.” He raised his glass towards the Artexed ceiling. “I want to join her. Make this brief.”

  I nodded, then explained, “Rudy Valentine, via his hit man, Gorgeous George, murdered your brother, Peter Vanzetti.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a year ago Peter murdered Celeste Croft, Rudy’s granddaughter, in a racial attack.”

  Vanzetti gulped a finger of whisky. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, then shook his head. “My family are immigrants, going back many generations; we’re the ones who receive the racial attacks. The Vanzetti’s are not racists.”

  I accepted his point, but continued, “It seems that Peter was seduced by Dr Ruth Carey and by her eugenics ideas.”

  Vincent Vanzetti stared into his glass. He gulped another finger of whisky, then asked, “You have proof that Valentine ordered the hit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then Valentine’s dead.”

  “If you kill him then someone in his firm will kill you and so on and so on, ad nauseam. You must end the cycle of violence. Two people have been murdered; surely even you can see that that’s enough.”

  Vincent Vanzetti replenished his whisky glass. He walked over to the snooker table and rolled a yellow ball over the green baize. The yellow ball cannoned into a blue ball, which disappeared into a pocket, though Vanzetti was oblivious, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. “I can’t allow Valentine to get away with this,” he stated, his eyes set, his jawline firm.

  “Valentine wants to meet you, neutral territory, to discuss the murders. I’ll make the arrangements. The alternative is for you, me and Valentine to take a bullet.” From somewhere, I managed to dredge up a smile. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m too young and pretty to die yet.”

  Vanzetti swirled his whisky and soda around in its glass. He stared at the amber liquid for some time. He raised the glass to his lips, then discarded it. While lea
ning against the snooker table, he turned, glanced at me and sighed. Then he nodded and said, “Arrange the meeting.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I drove home and fell into bed. I slept for four hours, then made contact with Rudy Valentine and Vincent Vanzetti. After some haggling, we agreed to meet near a wood to the north of the city. We arranged the meeting for 7 p.m. that evening, which allowed me another six hours of much needed sleep.

  At 6.45 p.m., my Mini chugged its way along a track lined with conifers. I parked my car then walked through a carpet of moss and fern, arriving at a natural amphitheatre. It was dark and pouring with rain so I sensed rather than saw the Bronze Age burial mounds, the Iron Age hill fort and the abandoned row of coalminers’ cottages.

  From the centre of the amphitheatre, I turned and viewed a clump of hemlock fir trees. Then a blaze of car headlights illuminated the stage. The lights radiated from cars arranged in a semicircle around the amphitheatre. At first, these lights blinded me and I placed a hand to my forehead, to shield my eyes. Then Vincent Vanzetti and Rudy Valentine walked forward, away from their minders. I noticed that George was present, along with the Man Mountain and Weedy. I also spied a dozen men, all new to me.

  Vincent Vanzetti paused in the centre of the amphitheatre. He was dressed in a long leather coat and, somewhat incongruously, in a flat leather hat. In contrast, Rudy Valentine was bareheaded. The rain bounced off his polished dome and ran over his fawn raincoat. Both men appeared oblivious of the elements; they only had eyes for each other.

  “Vincent.” Rudy Valentine bowed slowly, stretching Vanzetti’s name over two syllables.

  “Rudy.” Vanzetti bowed in turn.

  “Your brother, Peter, killed my granddaughter, Celeste.”

  “And your hit man, George, killed my Peter. I can’t allow that, Rudy,” Vincent Vanzetti said solemnly. “Someone has to feel the big chill.”

  “I know that,” Rudy replied reasonably. He shrugged his broad shoulders then offered up his sugarcane smile. “But if you top me, George will top you. Impasse.”

  “Give me George,” Vanzetti suggested while poking his chin in the general direction of the hit man, “and we’ll call it quits.”

  “I can’t do that, man; it would be bad for staff morale.” Valentine smiled again. “Impasse.”

  Vanzetti removed his right hand from his coat pocket. He stroked his chin, his eyes wandering from Valentine to George to me. After a further thoughtful pause, he suggested, “Maybe we could nominate our champions. They step forward and we abide by the outcome.”

  Valentine arched an eyebrow, indicating that he was sympathetic to the idea.

  “Who do you nominate?” Vanzetti asked.

  “George. And you, my friend?”

  “The skirt.” Vanzetti glared at me. He smiled, wolfishly. “From what I hear, she’s more than capable; she can get the better of George.”

  “Wait a minute.” For the first time, I made my presence felt at the meeting. “This is between you two; I’m not getting into this.”

  “You’re already into this, up to your pretty neck,” Vanzetti stated. “We abide by the outcome,” he added while staring at Valentine. “Our champions fight for us. Honour is satisfied.”

  The two men stepped forward. They shook hands.

  “Fox and hounds,” Valentine suggested. “Into the woods. Whoever emerges alive is the winner.” He glanced at me and smirked. “She’s a foxy looking chick, loaded with assets. She can be the fox. She can go first.”

  I glared at Vanzetti and Valentine, making no attempt to hide my indignation. “I’m not doing your dirty work.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” Vanzetti growled and I felt half-a-dozen minders move in on me.

  “You’re looking in the wrong direction,” I insisted. “This chain of violence started because Ruth Carey poisoned Peter’s vulnerable mind. She planted the seed that led Peter to murder Celeste. If anyone should be held to account it’s Ruth Carey and her poisonous ideas.”

  Vanzetti, Valentine and their minders all turned and stared at me. They looked on, nonplussed, as though unable to understand my argument, their faces suggesting that I was talking Russian, or Bulgarian or Japanese.

  “Boys games!” I yelled, unable to put up with their behaviour or their perverted notion of honour any longer. “Bloody men!” I threw my arms up in the air and walked away from the amphitheatre.

  “Wait!” Vanzetti roared after I had taken three steps. “Come back here. You are dishonouring my family. Come back here, this instant! Come back here, or I’ll put a bullet in your head!”

  I tensed, my back to Vanzetti. With the rain streaming down my face and matting my hair, I decided to walk on.

  “Your boyfriend has got a beautiful daughter,” Vanzetti said, his words dripping with menace. “It would be a shame if anything should happen to her.”

  I stopped abruptly and turned, the heel of my trainers digging into the soft turf. “If you harm a single hair on Alis’ head, you are dead.”

  The gods were on my side because I walked to my car without any further incident. It was up to Rudy Valentine and Vincent Vanzetti to resolve their macho view of honour. The whole business sickened me and I wanted nothing more to do with them.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The following day I was sitting in my office staring at my computer. Windows was ‘not responding’ so it boiled down to a battle of wills as the computer stared back. I had an appointment with Professor Henry Chancellor at noon, to discuss my report. That left me with an hour to kill. Then the idea filtered into my head...kill the computer, kill the computer...I ask you, who’s the boss, woman or machine?

  “You have two minutes,” I told the computer, and it glared back at me, as if to say ‘that’s at least another two minutes left to annoy you’.

  Have I backed up my important files? Yes. Do I have enough money saved to buy a new computer? Not really. Maybe I could buy one on HP. Problem solved.

  I walked over to my window and opened it wide. I glanced down to the yard below and made sure that no one was there. Then I picked up my computer and dropped it out of the window. I have to confess, this was not Samantha at her most sensible, but the act of liberation was oh so satisfying. Suffice to report, I was in a good mood when I drove to Cosmeston to meet Professor Chancellor.

  We were in Henry Chancellor’s study, the professor, Ruth, Boris and yours truly. Henry appeared calm as he sat in an armchair, Boris agitated as he paced the room, while Ruth was clearly still in a state of shock over recent events. The two men acknowledged my presence as I entered and sat opposite Professor Chancellor, but Ruth paid me no mind whatsoever.

  “First,” Professor Chancellor began, “I would like to thank Samantha for rescuing Ruth from that barbarian. Second, I would like to discuss Samantha’s report.” He glanced down to my report, his lively blue eyes peering over his half-moon spectacles. “It is clear from Samantha’s report that you, Ruth, and you, Boris, are engaged in an affair. I suspected as much for some time, but felt reluctant to act until presented with the facts. I have no wish to recall ancient and recent history, so we can take it as read that Boris is not Ruth’s first extra-marital assignation and that she’s had affairs with other men. When faced with such facts some men are apt to forgive and forget. However, I am cut from a different cloth and I can neither forgive nor forget. Therefore, I have instructed my solicitor to instigate divorce proceedings on the grounds of adultery. In the meantime, I would be grateful if you, Ruth, would pack your bags and leave this house.”

  Ruth turned her head slowly; she blinked and looked around, as though waking from a bad dream. “But,” she mumbled, “where will I live?”

  Henry Chancellor steepled his fingers together and placed them against his chin. He smiled beatifically, then eyed Ruth over the rims of his spectacles. “I am sure that Boris will be chivalrous enough to offer you accommodation in his spare room.”

  “What about the Foundation?” R
uth asked, colour touching her cheeks, tears brightening her eyes.

  “The Foundation has received its last penny from the Chancellor funds.”

  In a melodramatic gesture, Ruth fell on to her knees. She placed her head in the professor’s lap and sobbed, “Please, Henry, reconsider. I still love you.”

  “I thought you loved me?” Boris frowned, the puzzled look on his face displaying his confusion.

  “Please, Henry,” Ruth begged, “the Foundation does such good work. We must continue. We can’t stop now.”

  Henry Chancellor looked down at his wife with some distain. His features were too soft to invite a sneer; nevertheless, he made his revulsion clear by standing and walking across the room. When he paused, he stood with his back to Ruth. “I wash my hands of the Foundation. I am sure that Boris is more than capable of securing another sponsor.”

  With anger replacing her tears, Ruth Carey climbed to her feet and walked over to me. She snarled and the tight skin on her face reminded me of a particularly ugly doll I owned as a child. “This is all your fault,” she glowered.

  “No,” I replied calmly, “it’s your fault. Your ideas poisoned Peter’s mind. He killed Celeste because he was carrying out your thoughts to their zenith. To his vulnerable mind, there was no barrier between thought and deed. Why can’t you understand that people are people, we are all equal, there is no such thing as a superior strand to humankind. But there is a strand that seeks power and control over people and that strand has been responsible for the evils of mankind throughout history. Peter’s murder of Celeste is a microcosm of what we can expect if your ideas take hold.”

  “Henry...” Ruth Carey walked over to her husband, who was still standing with his back to us, staring at his large be-squiggled blackboard. “...are you just going to stand there and let this plebeian talk to us like that?”

  “I would argue with her and throw her out, except, I have come to realise that she speaks the truth.” Henry Chancellor turned on his heel. He raised his right arm and, although it quivered slightly, he pointed towards the door. “Get out of my house, Ruth, and take that scum Boris with you.”