by Joe Barry
“That’s right. Now here is a hundred bucks. It’s to buy information and nothing else.”
Merwin blushed a guilty pink. “Why Rush, you know when I’m on business—”
“Yes, I know. But this is important, and I want to be sure. Now get on with it. You should be able to cover a lot of territory this afternoon. They won’t be busy. The minute you get anything, call in to the office and run me down. I want to know anything you can find out. You might start at Markio’s. I know the girl’s been there. Tell them I sent you and see if they can give you a lead.”
“Okay, Rush. I’ll do this one right. I won’t blow this one.”
“That’s good, Merwin. I’ll be seeing you.” Merwin left then, humming off-key to himself. Rush remembered his apartment, then. There was a very slight chance that Hope had left a note, that she might even still be there. He picked up his empty fishbowl and carried it to the bar.
“Here you are, Barney, I’ll be back later.”
“Okay, Rush. What do I say if somebody calls?”
“Tell them that I’ve gone home for a few minutes and that I’ll be in my office this afternoon.”
“Right.”
A cab deposited Rush at his apartment house fifteen minutes later. He walked in through the dim lobby. He paused at the desk for a moment and asked a question of the slick-haired clerk.
“Any phone calls in or out, Clarence?”
“Just one, Mr. Henry. An incoming call. A girl answered it.” Clarence smirked slightly.
“Oh, that must be my daughter,” Rush said.
“Your daughter, Mr. Henry? I didn’t know you were married.”
“I’m not,” Rush said shortly and went to the elevator leaving a baffled Clarence staring after him.
The elevator deposited him on his floor and he walked to his door. Taking his key from his pocket he reached for the door knob. Then he returned the key to his pocket. The door was slightly ajar.
Quietly he stepped inside, his back to the wall at the hinge side of the door. Reaching out with his right hand he gave the door a light shove with the tips of his fingers and waited. Nothing happened. Easing forward on the balls of his feet he edged toward the door jamb and peeked around the corner into his living room. The utter confusion that greeted his startled eyes made him throw caution to the winds. He stormed into the apartment fighting mad. There was no one in sight to be mad at. Slowly he regained his even keel and surveyed the damage.
Someone had done a thorough if messy job of searching the apartment. Pictures were torn from the walls, the upholstery of every chair was ripped to shreds, the rugs were tom from the floor and piled in one corner. In the kitchen the top was off the stove, the drawers were on the floor, and every bit of china from the cupboards was piled helter-skelter on the drainboard. He stuck his head into the bedroom. It was worse there. The bed was a mass of feathers and stuffing from the mattress. His clothes were piled in the center of the room and the drawers from the dresser were upside down on the floor. A more complete job of destruction could not be imagined. He went back into the living room and sat down on a plain wooden chair, the only usable piece of furniture in the room.
He picked up a picture and looked at it moodily. It offered a clue, a negative one, but a clue. Whoever had wrecked his rooms had not been searching for the thousand dollar bill, else|they would have knocked the frame from the picture and looked behind the picture itself. The object of the search had been something bulkier than a thousand-dollar bill. And, he added, bulkier than the plans for an air rifle.
His reverie was interrupted by the beginnings of a groan from the bedroom. He was on his feet in an instant and in the bedroom. His eyes could find no sign of life. Then the groan came again. His ears traced it to the far side of the room beyond the bed.
He dived around the bed and found a mound of covers draped over a prostrate figure. Quickly he drew back the tangled sheets to uncover the body lying there. He was not too surprised to find that it was Hope. He stood for a moment looking at her and saw that his estimate of her figure had been if anything an understatement. Then he reached down and put his arms under her shoulders and lifted her onto the bed. From the bathroom he brought a damp cloth and leaned over to press it to her forehead.
Then black night descended in a shower of stars and Rush went definitely to sleep suffering from a blow at the base of the skull.
7
The little man with the pointed ears lay down the mallet with which he had been pounding the back of Rush’s head and picked up a long, thin knife and began stabbing it through the top of Rush’s skull. Rush was surprised at how easily it went through the bone. Then the pain became too great to wonder about anything, and the little man dissolved into a sheet of red flame behind Rush’s eyes. He groaned and fought back the nausea that swept over him. He retched deep in his throat and with a great effort lifted his hand from the floor to his face, wiping it down over his eyes and nose as though removing a film of moisture. Vaguely conscious thought began to come to him. With the functioning of his mental processes he put himself through a familiar routine,
“My name is Rush Henry,” he told himself. He tried to say it aloud, but the words wouldn’t come. “I’m, I’m—where the hell am I?” He tried opening an eye. It was a mistake. The light touched off another explosion in the back of his head. He lay quietly for a long while, not thinking, then he tried again. This time it wasn’t so bad. He could see a patch of bare ceiling and a corner made by the intersection of two walls. It didn’t look familiar. With a great exercise of will power he slowly, carefully, moved his head to one side. A blank wall. He rested again, then made further effort. His head rolled to face the other way —another wall. Wait—a different kind of wall, a wall with color and texture. The pattern of color looked familiar. He fixed it in his mind and relaxed, closing his eyes. Where had he seen that particular combination of colors? Why was it familiar?
A far distant bell began to ring insistently. It, too, had a familiar ring. It continued to sound. Then the combination, familiar color and familiar ring, made a pattern in his mind and he knew where he was. This was his own room and that was his telephone ringing. He reached his hand up to the top of the colored wall which was also the side of his bed with a coverlet hanging over and pulled himself to a sitting position. It was a major victory. It also helped to clear his head, for after the first blinding burst of pain he was able to open both eyes and look about him. The sight of the ravaged room brought it all back to him. But something was missing. He thought slowly for a minute and remembered Hope. She must be gone, or else he was lying on her. He put down a tentative hand and felt the floor. The phone shrilled again and he made the supreme effort. He stood up and steadied himself for a long minute against the wall. Then he placed one foot before the other and let his weight fall forward. Surprisingly he could walk. He continued the process, one foot before the other until he got to the phone. He lifted the receiver gingerly to his ear.
“Hello,” he said.
No answer. He essayed another hello, but it was cut in the middle by a click and Clarence’s voice greeted him from the house switchboard.
“Are you there, Mr. Henry?”
“Yes,” Rush said, although he wasn’t too sure.
“Your party has hung up. They called twice and I thought you were there but I rang and rang and nobody answered so they hung up.”
“I was asleep,” Rush said, grinning a very sour grin.
“Maybe they’ll call ‘again.”
“Maybe,” Rush said, and hung up.
Rush looked around the living room and cursed silently under his breath. Then the walls began to sway and he was suddenly and violently sick. He made it to the bath with a second to spare. Much later, weaker but steadier as to mind and body, he disrobed and climbed under the shower. He let the boiling hot water stream down over his aching shoulders and lean body. Except for his eyes Rush might have been a well set up college athlete. His eyes were different. They were
a lot older than his thirty-two years.
He let the hot water pound at the base of his skull which was now throbbing gently. Then suddenly he reversed the handle of the water regulator and icy cold water broke cascading over his shoulders. He let it run a full sixty seconds, then turned it off and stepped from the tub. He felt a lot better and was just beginning to be mad. He also wondered about Hope and what had become of her. He was sure that she had been merely unconscious. He wondered then if she had left under her own power or had been helped.
The elevator took him to the ground floor of the apartment building and he walked over to the desk.
“Clarence,” he called.
That worthy looked up from his crossword puzzle. “Yes, Mr. Henry?”
“Have there been any strangers coming downstairs in the last hour?”
Clarence dredged his memory. It was obviously an effort.
“Yes, I believe there were, Mr. Henry.”
“Well,” Rush snapped.
“Well what, Mr. Henry?”
Rush swore. “What did they look like? Describe them.”
“Oh. Well, now let’s see. One of them was a young lady. She was a killer.” Clarence described Hope’s curves with his hands.
“Was she alone?”
“Oh yes. She just went out about a quarter of an hour ago.”
“Was there anyone else?”
“There was the old guy.”
“What old guy?”
“The old guy in the black suit. He looked kind of seedy. You know. Shaggy hair, black clothes, and a black string tie. I didn’t see what he was—”
“Okay, Clarence. You don’t have to see. How long ago did he leave?”
“About an hour ago. He came downstairs just a little while after you went up.”
Rush had all he needed. He knew who had slugged him. All he didn’t know was why. That was enough. He ignored the curious light in Clarence’s eyes tokening a desire to ask a few questions himself.
“My apartment has been messed up a little, Clarence. Send the superintendent up to look it over and fix it up.”
He walked out into the noon sun and was surprised that despite its brilliance the day was not stiflingly hot. The sun felt good on the back of his bare head; he hadn’t been able to wear a hat. He hailed a cab and gave the address of his office building. It wasn’t a long drive and he wasted the time leaning back, relaxed, making his mind a blank. Soon he was going to have to sit back and add things up. He had to find a thread in all the facts he knew that led all the way through. But not now. He couldn’t concentrate this morning.
The cab deposited him at the curb before the office building and he paid the driver. A glance up and down the street brought the mouth of the alley into his range of vision and he was suddenly surprised to remember that it was less than twenty-four hours since Paul Germaine had walked into that alley, never to walk out again. He wondered how much of what he knew he could tell the elder Germaine. That involved concentration too, so he gave it up and went into the foyer, stopping at the cigar counter for cigarettes. Martha was on the elevator.
“Still in those hot uniforms, eh? I’ll think of a way to get you out of them yet.”
“Why, Mr. Henry,” Martha said with a grin.
Rush had the grace to blush, or almost.
“It isn’t so bad today, Mr. Henry. It seems to be cooler than it has been.”
“That’s right,” Rush said as they reached his floor.
He went down the hall to his door and went in. Gertrude looked up from the paper-backed book she was reading.
“I’m sorry, Rush. I didn’t know,” she said.
“That’s okay, Gert. They caught you cold. I ducked it all right.”
“I could tell Carnahan had a lug on you from the look he gave me after I identified the stiff. How’d you fix it?”
“I fed him a line. Any calls?”
“Germaine’s been trying to get you. What’s the deal there, anyway? He called you in before the murder, didn’t he?”
“Carnahan would like to know the answer to that one, too. But there’s really no connection. You read your book, Gertie, I’ll detect.”
“Okay, Philo. Merwin called in, too. He’s still on the job you gave him. What’s that?”
“Don’t ask so damn many questions, Gertie. You’ll get all the answers eventually.”
“Wanta talk to Germaine? I can call him. He said he’d be home all morning waiting for you to call.” Rush wrinkled his brow. He didn’t want to talk to Germaine yet. He had nothing to report. Almost nothing, anyway.
“Call him and tell him I called in. Say I’ll try and get out and see him this afternoon or evening. Tell him I’m making progress but it’ll take time. You can add that our Mr. Henry never fails. Maybe that’ll stop him from worrying.”
“Okay. You’re on the murder too, then?”
“Yes, Gert, that’s one question I can answer. I am on the murder.”
“Fine. That means good dough, and we can use it.”
“We certainly can, though I don’t see how you include yourself in this.”
“You know me, Rush. I’m strictly a company girl. What affects the firm affects me.”
“Nuts,” said Rush, and walked into his own office. He went behind his desk and sat in the chair. He leaned back and winced as the lump on his head met the back of the chair. He eased his head around to one side and shut his eyes. He tried to concentrate, to figure out the next move. He might bluff Jago into telling him more and again he might not. He didn’t think Jago would bluff very easily. Carnahan might turn up the dark man, Otho Brin. Was that really his name or another of Jago’s fictions? Hell, he was getting nowhere and it was making his head ache. He sat and didn’t think at all. Then the inter-office communicator buzzed into action. He leaned forward and threw a switch. •
“Yes?”
“A young lady to see you, Mr. Henry.”
“Did you get her name?”
There was a moment of silence. Then, “Germaine, Mr. Henry. Miss Leslie Germaine.”
Rush shut his eyes and forced himself to think. Here was one of his problems walking into his office. He couldn’t think what to do with her so he decided to let things shape themselves.
“Send her in,” said Rush gloomily.
Leslie came through the door of his office and stood blinking into the sunlight that streamed through the windows at Rush’s back. Rush nodded at a chair opposite his desk. Leslie took the chair, crossing her legs and thereby exposing a long expanse of very shapely legs for one so young. This was Rush’s first chance for a close inspection. He took it. The sun over his shoulder masked his eyes as they moved from head to toe. Innocently masked face, betrayed by the full, sensuous lips and the eyes, a fraction too close together. Straight shoulders sloping to breasts which pushed urgently against the white blouse. A narrow waist flaring to youthful hips. Then the legs again. Her brief skirt ended inches above her crossed knees and there was a hint of white flesh above the rolled hose.
“Won’t you pull down those shades? I can’t see you,” Leslie said.
Rush grinned and turned around to pull a cord. The shades came down and Leslie rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.
“That almost blinded me.” A thought occurred to her. “You fixed it that way on purpose. You want to be able to see people without their seeing you.”
That being the truth, Rush saw no reason to deny it.
“If you ever visit here at night you’ll notice that the lamp puts me in the shade and shines in your said, and lit himself a cigarette.
“Is that all?”
“That’s all, until later.”
“What happens then?”
“When the air gets to it, it hurts like hell.”
She digested that. Rush watched her tie it up in a little package and stow it away in her brain. He was trying to place her beside Paul Germaine as brother and sister, and was unprepared for her next question.
“Have you e
ver killed a man?”
“That will be enough of this, youngster. It’s my turn. I’ll ask questions now.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“With a gun. I just shot first.”
“Oh.” She seemed disappointed. “Didn’t it give you a thrill to know you had killed a man?”
“No. I just felt lucky that he hadn’t gotten me first. He was a rat and deserved killing. I should have gotten a medal. I got pushed around by the cops instead.” Her eyes lighted again. “Did they give you the third degree?”
“Something like that. It was a long time ago, and the cops didn’t know me very well then.”
“What was it like?” She was leaning forward now, her eyes on Rush.
“Like nothing it will ever do you any good to know. Why are you so interested?”
“I’m fascinated by abnormal psychology. Do you think policemen are all sadists?”
“No. They are just guys with a job to do and they do what they have to do to get the job done.”
She leaned back, disappointed.
“Now let’s get back to me asking questions,” Rush said. “Where did you meet Wilmer?”
“He came up to me in a night club and said he was a friend of Paul’s.”
“Did he ever ask you any questions?”
“Nothing important.”
“Let me decide on that. What did he ask you?”
“Oh, the usual things. Where we lived, where Paul had been lately, he said he hadn’t seen him for so long he figured that maybe he was ill. He asked me if Paul had been staying home much of the time.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I didn’t know. Paul and I have never—were never—very close. I didn’t pay much attention to what he did.”
“How did he happen to mention that Hope knew Paul?”
“I thought from the look she gave him that she knew him, so I asked him. He said he had seen her with Paul, and maybe Paul had mentioned that he knew him.”
“Nothing there,” thought Rush. Nothing that he wouldn’t have done if he’d been in Wilmer’s or Jago’s shoes. They obviously were fishing, too.