Suddenly I was thinking about sex, and I shouldn’t have been. I was thinking about her deep, beautiful eyes, her long black hair, and all the things a guy might think about at a time like that.
I should have been thinking about Von Arnheim and his strange connection with Marcus Manton. Or Bud Tremont and his angry walkout with Lisa de Milo. Maybe I should have been thinking about Roses in the Rain. I sure as hell shouldn’t have been thinking about the birds and the bees.
Because no sooner had Fran Tulip inserted a key in the white door and winked invitingly at me over her shoulder, no sooner had the gloomy interior of her ground-floor apartment reached out for us, there was a rush of feet and bodies from behind. I heard the unmistakable voice of Tip, the juvenile delinquent, growl with high glee, “Give it to the bastard, Artie!” I shoved Fran headlong into the darkened room and twisted crazily in the doorway, trying to get my head out of the way. I didn’t make it. I was hours too late.
Artie gave it to me. I don’t know what it was, but it damn near caved my head in. I took the floor hard, jingle bells and noisemakers going off inside my skull for a real early Merry Christmas.
Neither a lecturer nor a lover be. Especially on murder cases.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I woke up in a car. A fast-moving car. That was a switch. Usually when they crown you they leave you where you fall. Or you wake up tied hand and foot in a damp cellar someplace. Sometimes you wake up in a hospital groaning the time-honored “What happened?” with variations of “Who hit me?” and “How did I get here?” But this was different.
I had the rear of the car all to myself. As I came to my senses with that slow development of the pictures that flashes through your head at a time like this, I had plenty of stretching room. Nobody was sticking a gun in my ribs. But something hard and metallic was biting into my wrists, which were conveniently placed behind my back. They felt like handcuffs. Policeman’s handcuffs. I unfogged a lot quicker.
The car was making good time through the bright jungle along Fifth Avenue. Then my eyes focused on the front seat and saw three people. Everything started to add up, coming back into normal perspective.
Tip’s shaggy head was behind the wheel. His broad shoulders were unmistakable. So was the beautifully long-haired head beside him that was a good two inches higher than his. Fran Tulip was jammed unceremoniously between Tip and Artie. I didn’t have to recognize Artie. He was twisted toward me in the front seat, pointing a switch-blade knife in my direction. At intervals, the blade reflected flashing sunlight. It still looked longer than my right arm. Artie grinned wolfishly as I came to altogether.
“Good morning, bright boy. Don’t try anything or I’ll stick this needle into your girl’s throat.”
I nodded. “I won’t try anything, but this routine went out with Dillinger.”
Tip chortled something and Fran said, “Oh, Ed” in a shocked I-don’t-understand-all-this voice. I stood where I was. I wasn’t going to try a damn thing because I couldn’t even blow my nose without help.
The car plunged off Fifth at Thirty-fourth, headed toward the river, made a few more left turns. Tip was a good driver. Fourteenth Street fell behind like last year’s dress designs.
“You didn’t take my advice, Artie,” I said. “But no more lectures. Where are you taking us?”
Tip answered with relish. “You’ll see, wise guy. Boy, will you see.”
Artie smacked his lips. “We’re getting two hundred bucks to take you visiting. Guy wants to see you. Guy wants to settle some unfinished business with you.”
Tip was still chortling. “And this I wanna see. You’re gonna get yours good, loud mouth.”
I wasn’t brought up in a tough neighborhood for my health. I recognized the sound in Tip’s voice. He was smelling my blood already. Only something pretty nasty could make the likes of Tip sound off with so much enthusiasm.
“This guy have a cauliflower ear, Artie? Like the guy who gave you a hundred to pretty up Marcus Manton last night in my office?”
Artie wagged his good-looking head. “You got it, Noon. Scared?” His keen eyes studied me, looking for the fear he so badly wanted to see. I must admit I didn’t feel exactly ferocious.
“I don’t know what’s on the menu, Artie,” I said, trading looks with him, “but Bud Tremont is a rough customer. A very rough customer. And a bully. The worst kind. Even hits women. I don’t like the idea of meeting him with my hands tied behind me.”
Tip flung a glance at Artie, a snarl twisting his profile.
“I told you, Artie. He’s a big mouth with no guts, your pal here. You’ll see.” He gave some of his contempt to Fran. “You, too, sister.”
She had spunk. “Don’t talk to me. I think you’re both a couple of awful brats—”
“Shut up,” Artie snapped. “We won’t talk about us, will we? Just remember, I’ve got the knife.” For emphasis, he placed the tip of the blade against Fran’s throat, pricked and pulled away. She let out a low scream, but she did shut up. Tip roared his approval, his powerful body rocking behind the wheel.
The car had slowed considerably because Tip was now looking for his destination. I looked, too. We were running easily along Avenue B. I spotted a sign. Sixth Street. Now Fifth. Tip pulled over to the curb near Fourth, placing himself just the legal distance from a johnny pump, a big Ford giving him barely enough margin. Artie gave the street the sort of once-over that marks a guy who jumps every time he sees a cop. Anger curled in my stomach.
“All clear, Tip,” Artie whispered. “Let’s go. Don’t try nothing, Noon, or I’ll slice the doll right in front of you.”
“I knew you would, Artie. Relax, Fran, and do like the man says.”
They got out of the car in order. Tip, then Fran, then Artie. Artie came around to the sidewalk side and opened my door. He didn’t bother to uncuff me because nobody was going to see anything. It was that kind of a neighborhood. Dark, poorly illuminated, not good for an evening’s stroll.
Sunlight seemed to stay away from Avenue B. It was too dirty, too closely packed with cheap tenements and stores. You could make a running broad jump to the opposite sidewalk. You could also get out of a car and disappear into a building before a drunk could stagger one more step. On one block along Avenue B you could see a Chinese, a Negro, a Hindu and a Catholic priest without thinking it worthy of comment. It was that kind of a neighborhood, too.
Fran was frightened by it all, her eyes appealing to me silently for help and encouragement. I could only wink at her and make a kissing motion with my lips. There wasn’t time for anything else. Artie and Tip hustled us down a short flight of stone steps to a darkened store front below street level. Artie put a key in the door, fumbling. I saw a glass window, dim outlines of merchandise of some kind in the gloom of the interior. Block letters on the glass read “Bartolomeo’s Bike Shop.” And “All Models Day And Night.”
Artie got the front door open and Tip nudged me in ahead of him. “Walk,” he rumbled. I walked into the gloom straight ahead. Fran’s high heels clicked behind me on the wooden floor. My eyes pulled the gloom apart. The dim outlines of merchandise became so many bike racks filled with two-wheelers. Overhead, a long runner of hanging tires looking like doughnuts for the giant that Jack killed—hung in time and space, echoing some of the delights of childhood. The smell of the store was close, musty and nostalgic. I couldn’t answer for Artie and Tip, but I had spent half my childhood on a bike.
A flashlight’s beam stabbed from behind me. It picked out an alcove well back in the rear of the store. “That way,” Artie said. “Go first and behave yourself.” I went first and I behaved myself, conscious all the time of how frightened Fran was. I was going to be sensible until I got her out of the way.
The door opened on another staircase into a brilliantly lighted storeroom or cellar. We stumbled down a wooden flight of steps. I had to bend my head to keep from getting gray at an early age. I was leading the way for the three that came behind me.
> The smell down here was nostalgic, too, but not as nice. Damp, sweaty and filled with coal dust. A basement as big as St. Nicholas Arena but not nearly as entertaining. In addition to the white-limed walls and massive furnace and rusty tools hanging every which way from rotting wooden pegboards it also held an arena of some kind, a regulation-size boxing ring set off by itself in one deep half of the basement. A punching bag hung easily from the stone ceiling.
“Go give him a call, Tip,” Artie said suddenly. “You two stand over by the furnace where I can keep an eye on you.” Tip went deeper into the basement to another door and clambered through noisily. I shook my head. The front of Bartolomeo’s Bike Shop certainly didn’t suggest this kind of a basement.
We didn’t wait more than a minute. Before I could really study the setup or catch Fran’s eye, Tip came jogging back.
With Bud Tremont and Lisa de Milo. But I only had eyes for Tremont, like the song says. The basement was St. Nicholas Arena, all right.
You would have thought it was the night of the championship bout. Tremont’s dressing robe, flung about his Texas shoulders, hardly concealed his hairy, muscled chest, his green trunks and rippling brown legs. He was dancing on his feet, his narrow eyes gleaming with anticipation. He was almost sniffing me, even from a distance of ten yards.
“This,” I said as evenly as I could, “is nuts. What are you dressed up for?” Lisa looked helplessly beautiful at his left, a red evening dress setting off her lovely eyes. Fran started to giggle nervously until a glare from Tremont silenced her. Believe it or not, Tip was carrying a towel and sponge and water bucket, just like the second he was going to be.
“Noon,” Bud Tremont growled, “I’m going to beat your brains out in a fair fight. Then you’re going to sign a confession that Lisa’s written out for you. This routine with your cop friends has gone far enough.”
I tried to smile. “What am I confessing to, as long as we’re playing games?”
Tremont’s thin lips split to show me his teeth.
“The murder of Darlene Donegan, you smart bastard.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was screwy. All of it was. There was Bud Tremont ready to fight me fair and square in a homemade ring, with seconds and everything. He probably even had a bell rigged to time the rounds. I supposed Lisa de Milo would fill the role of timekeeper. The only thing missing was a referee.
But all of its being so screwy didn’t make it go away. I stared at Bud Tremont as if he weren’t a lunatic with a crazy sense of justice.
“Why would I kill Darlene Donegan? Tell me, Tremont. I’d honestly like to know.”
He leered at me, dropped his dressing gown over a nearby chair and climbed over the rope of the makeshift ring.
“Who knows?” he grunted. “All I know is you’re not tying that can to our tails. Me and Lisa got enough trouble as it is.” He wasn’t really interested in talking because he was already dancing around on his toes, feinting and jabbing at an opponent who wasn’t there. It didn’t make me feel good. Green trunks and all, he was a superbly built fighting machine.
I shook my head. Tip was motioning me into the ring and Lisa was wringing her hands helplessly. Her eyes apologized for Bud to me, but there was also a “He’s just my Bud, what can I do?” look about her whole person. Fran was staring in awe at the whole business.
“In you come, Noon,” Bud Tremont snarled. “This won’t take long, believe me.”
I put a foot over the rope and paused.
“I suppose Artie is my second. He’s standing in my corner, I see. But how about my clothes? Don’t I get gloves and trunks, too? I’d like nice pink tights for this carnival.” I smiled at Artie, who was already handing me a pair of regulation boxing mitts. Meantime, I wasn’t blind to the fact that Artie still had a switch blade knife, and way over in Tremont’s corner I could see that Tip had found a .45 someplace. Namely my .45. He had the ring covered and was pretty sure I wouldn’t do anything because of Fran Tulip.
Fran had the wrong idea.
“Go ahead, Eddie, knock his silly head off. You ought to be able to handle him.”
“Just the gloves, Noon,” Tremont growled. “Clothes don’t matter. Shut up, sister. Let your hero do his stuff.”
I took the gloves from Artie, whose bold eyes still held some respect for me. I put the right one on and tucked the left one under my arm. Artie took my hat and coat and threw them off in one corner. Tip snickered, enjoying himself tremendously.
“I’m rooting for you, Ed.” Fran was still trying to make with the cheery chatter. But I didn’t stand a chance and Tremont knew it. He was a trained boxer, and even if I had a fair punch, he could kill me with what he knew.
But I’m a detective to the bitter, vocal end. I kept on hammering at Tremont even as I laced my right-hand boxing glove.
“If you two didn’t kill her, then why all the rigmarole in Lisa’s apartment? What’s your connection with Marcus and his play? What are you all looking so nervous about? Marcus knows you two are playing footsie, sure, so it can’t be just that. Come on—give! Maybe I can help you.”
“Shut up and fight.” Tremont threw his gloves up to a ready position, a deadly gleam of excitement in his eyes. Lisa de Milo’s composure broke suddenly, and she ran in Tremont’s direction, her whole body agitated in the red dress.
“Bud, you must stop this.” Never did her bad English sound sweeter. “Mr. Noon is clever. He can help us. Talk. Do not fight him. When he learns of your investment—and that other thing—” Her appeal stopped dead on its nouns as Bud Tremont glared down at her. A cold, stony, deadly glare.
“I want you to shut up, Lisa. It don’t matter any more. I’m going to beat this wise alec till he spills about the Donegan murder. Then we turn him over to the cops and some of our troubles are finished. I don’t give a damn about darling Marcus. So shut up about the investment.” He whirled on me again. “Come on. Stop stalling.”
Lisa lowered her head quietly. “Bud, you know Mr. Noon did not murder Miss Donegan. Why do you do this thing?”
Artie and Tip were fidgeting impatiently, while Fran Tulip’s head was going back and forth like a ping-pong ball, trying to keep up with the game. Tip was still pointing the .45. But the time had come, like the walrus said. I wasn’t going to box a retired heavyweight champ younger than I am, for love or money. Not when the only weapon was boxing gloves.
I had the right one laced now. I reached for the left one under my arm, picking it up by the string. My arm came away from my shoulder fast, the glove flying out as if it were shot from a gun. But it was shot from the string, with me playing out the line. Bud Tremont wasn’t ready for a flying boxing glove without a hand in it.
Missing would have cost me plenty, but I didn’t miss. It was the Goliath bit all over again, even if the glove wasn’t a slingshot.
The thick, puffy weapon thudded into Bud Tremont’s unprepared face, hitting him squarely in the eye. Tip was directly behind him so I followed the flight of the glove, putting Tremont between me and Tip.
I was fast but not fast enough. The .45 in Tip’s hand exploded and Fran Tulip screamed in terror and pain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Things happened fast. The lid flew off the garbage can and came down with a helluva clatter.
Artie yelled, Bud Tremont pawed at his oncoming black eye and danced away in pain, Lisa de Milo shouted warningly and Tip went nuts with the .45. It boomed, banged and roared in his frightened fingers. There wasn’t a peep out of Fran Tulip and there was no time to look. I raced toward Bud Tremont, still putting him between me and Tip, reached him with one tremendous monkey leap. There was no time to waste, no breath to save.
I hooked a leg behind him and shoved. Shoved hard. He went down in a twisted scramble of rippling brown thighs. I kept on going until I had vaulted the rope of the homemade arena and come down right in front of Tip’s frightened face. He’d been firing indiscriminately, unable to control the bucking murder machine in his fin
gers. I closed my hand down over his upcoming gun barrel and thrust my one boxing-gloved hand full in his face. He plummeted backwards but I held on to the gun with my free left hand until he let go. He was bouncing off the wall when I whirled to see what Artie was up to. I was hardly a second too soon.
Artie was charging full tilt, switch-blade knife poised and aimed for my breadbasket. His eyes were wild and unreasoning, like his flying, curly black hair. I side-stepped and felt something tear, rip and punch through my arm, taking several yards of sleeve and skin with it. I winced, blood rushing out of my arm, and slammed the gun barrel spitefully across the back of his head as his onward rush hurled him past me. He let out a startled shriek and collapsed in a disorderly heap beside the fallen Tip. Two juvenile punks lined up for delivery to the nearest police station. And I’d thought Artie had better sense.
“Look out, Ed!” Fran Tulip’s cry intruded on my social conscience. I flung the .45 up and cocked it unthinkingly. Tremont halted in his lumbering lurch toward me, breathing heavily, glowering murder and sudden death out of his one good eye. Behind him, I could see Lisa burying her face in her hands and crying her eyes out. Then Fran swept into view, a long, red, ugly scratch of blood smearing her classic cheekbone. But she wasn’t scared any more.
“Sonofabitch,” Tremont cursed. “Always them goddamn tricks. Always dirty, never with your hands.” He spat on the stone floor beneath us. “Suppose that heater ain’t loaded, Noon? I counted six shots.” He started to resume his forward roll.
“Hold it, stupid.” I gritted the words out this time. “These hold seven. Either way I’ll beat your brains out. It wouldn’t have been a fair fight and you know it.” I looked at Fran. “You okay, beautiful?”
She came around Tremont and skipped over to my side, lining up with me and showing her contempt for him. She shook her long black hair.
“That first bullet made some stone fly. Piece sliced my face. Hope it doesn’t leave a scar.”
“Forget it. You’ll be okay. How about you, Lisa? Think you’re well enough to go find a phone?” Tremont frowned as Lisa stirred and walked stiffly toward the far wall. I could see he’d have liked to do something about taking the gun away from me, so I stepped back, widening the distance between us.
Meanwhile Back at the Morgue Page 11