Small grinned warmly and leaned forward to pat the driver on the arm. “Don’t concern yourself, Charles. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Your worries are very gratifying, but altogether unnecesary.”
Charlie returned his grin. “Sure, Mr. Small. I don’t know what the hell’s got into me. I guess Staten Island gives me the creeps.”
Small laughed. “Well, I’m off, Charles. I’ll let you know how things turn out.” He opened the door of the car and heaved himself to his feet on the broken pavement.
“Mr. Small?” Charlie called after him. “You want me to wait here for you? How’re you gonna get back to the city afterwards?”
“I’ll find some way,” he replied. “Besides—I rather doubt I’ll be ready to return to Manhattan before sometime tomorrow. Late tomorrow.” He flapped a hand at the driver and walked toward the corner.
Charlie sat behind the wheel until Small had turned out of sight. Then he started the car, and drove up to the intersection.
The street down which Small had gone was empty. There was no sign of him anywhere; in fact, there wasn’t a single trace of human life to be seen, except for the cold glow of the street lights.
Not a single trace of life, thought Charlie. He hunched his shoulders. That was a figure of speech he didn’t care for at all.
He turned into the cross-street, then backed out again until he was facing the direction in which he’d come. He drove to Hylan Boulevard, made a left, and began the long trip back to the city.
He imagined he would feel better as soon as he got back to the lights and bustle of New York. No question about it—-Staten Island was simply too dead for comfort. In silence and emptiness like that, there was too much room to think.
He hoped his return to Manhattan would help him shake the crazy premonition that he would never see Burton Small again.
* * *
Small turned the corner and looked around quickly for a place to hide.
Charlie was in a poor mood tonight. If Small knew his man, and he did, the driver would be rounding the corner any moment now, looking after his safety. Small liked Charlie quite a bit, and he was warmed by the idea that the cabbie actually worried over him. But he didn’t want to be observed, even by a friend. Until he knew just what sort of operation Madam Fury ran, it wouldn’t be wise to advertise its location.
There was an alley to his left running between two ramshackle store-fronts, and he stepped into it, hiding himself in a pool of inky shadow. A moment later, true to his expectations, he heard the limousine come to the corner and stop. He smiled to himself, and waited.
Small felt a stab of annoyance when the limousine turned the corner. If Charles actually came down the street looking for him, Small was determined to give the fellow a piece of his mind. After all, it was none of Charles’ business.
The headlights of the car swept across the buildings opposite, stopped, then flashed partway into the mouth of the alley. Small’s annoyance evaporated. Charles had merely been turning the car around.
The sound of the departing auto dwindled off down Eugene Street, but Small was no longer paying attention. The sweep of the headlights had lit the buildings across the street quite brilliantly for a moment, and Small had spotted something fascinating.
He stepped out of the alley and stood at the curb, squinting into the darkness across the way. Against the starry patterns of the sky, he could just make out the hulking silhouette of a building—an old private home from the looks of it, with three stories, a long porch, and several ornate gables.
The architectural details didn’t interest Small. In the brief flash of the cab’s headlights, he had seen into the shadow under the porch of that house, and had caught a glimpse of the front door. There was something on that door. He wasn’t quite sure what, and he knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he had investigated it.
He stepped off the curb and crossed the street slowly, looking around for some sign of activity. There was nothing. He reached the opposite pavement, stumbled slightly over an uneven section, then found the path leading up to the house. There were old trees on either side of the place, which put the front steps and the porch in deep shadow. He scuffed his feet
along the path until the toe of one shoe struck the board of the first step. Balancing his bulk carefully, he mounted to the porch.
He picked a book of matches from his pocket and struck a light. The flame flared brightly for a moment, then died in the chill evening breeze. The darkness closed in again.
But Burton Small had seen what he wanted to see—the same thing Charlie's headlights had picked out from across the street.
On the front door of the house was hung a sign.
On that sign were two large black initials: M. F.
Small grinned. Very good, he thought. Two innocent letters—they wouldn’t mean a thing to anyone passing by. But to someone in the know, they could only stand for Madam Fury.
He reached out, found the knob in the darkness, and turned it The door was open. It swung in all by itself. Beyond it was more of the same blackness.
Small moved forward cautiously, his hands held out in front of him, until he felt the glass pane of an inner door. That made sense, he thought. Sort of a light-lock to prevent the illumination from spilling into the street and attracting attention.
He closed the outer door behind him, then groped for the knob of the inner one. It opened at a touch.
And beyond it was still more darkness.
Small was perplexed. What on earth was going on here? Could there be yet another door ahead, or did Madam Fury simply conduct her business in the dark? Neither explanation satisfied him.
He began walking forward again, his fingers outstretched, moving slowly lest he run into something. His hands met only open air.
He came a dozen feet or so from the inner door before giving up. He took out the book of matches again and struck one. The flame burned a little better sheltered from the wind, but its light was still too dim to reveal very much.
To his left was a yawning arch, apparently leading to one of the main downstairs rooms. Beyond it was absolute darkness. To his right was a smaller arch, but the light of his match couldn’t penetrate far enough through the gloom to reveal what was in there.
Directly ahead of him was a staircase. It went straight up the lefthand wall, vanishing in the shadows above. Small thought he could see the railings of the second floor landing up there, but he wasn’t sure.
The match burned down, and he blew it out. He stood for a few seconds, trying to orient himself in the darkness, then turned and walked in the direction of the arch to his left. If he could find the arch, he could find the walls on either side of it And if he could find the walls, he should be able to locate the switch that turned on the lights in this bloody place.
He swung his hands around until he connected with a section of wall. He struck another match. The walls were covered with elaborately flowered wallpaper, and he really had to squint closely before he was certain there were no light switches hidden in the pattern.
He shook out the match, lit another, and stepped through the arch. There was nothing on the right wall, but to the left he spotted the welcome shape of a switch plate. He flipped the switch.
Nothing happened.
“Damnation,” he said aloud. “Will someone kindly turn on file lights in this establishment?”
His voice echoed off into silence. No one answered. The lights did not come on.
He flipped the switch up and down several times rapidly, then turned away in disgust. When he struck a fresh match, he saw an ornate sideboard standing against the wall a few feet away. On top of it was a four-armed candelabrum. He sighed with relief. Light at last—this darkness was getting on his nerves.
He nursed his match until he had lighted all four candles. They were brand-new, and it took several seconds before they started to burn bright enough to do any good. And when they had, they still didn’t do any good.
T
he room was well-furnished, in an over-done old-fashioned style. The furniture was elaborate and heavy. Thick drapes curtained the windows, and Small imagined that even with all the lights blazing—presuming there were any lights to blaze—nothing of it would be visible from the street.
The room fitted in more or less with what he had expected. It looked like the waiting parlor of a very old and fancy sporting-house.
The illusion was spoiled only by the fact that it was empty.
“Ahem,” he said. “Madam Fury? Are you there, Madam?”
Silence.
He circled the room once, feeling rather foolish. When he completed the tour, he stepped through the arch into the hallway, and crossed to the room opposite. It turned out to be a smaller version of the other room—some sort of parlor or study, he supposed. It, too, was quite empty.
Holding the candelabrum high overhead, he walked past the stairs to the rear of the house. He found a pantry and a large kitchen, both empty. He returned to the base of the stairs, and climbed laboriously to the second floor. There was a bathroom up there, unoccupied, and three bedrooms, completely furnished and also unoccupied. The same sort of drapes he’d seen downstairs were hung in the windows of these rooms, effectively preventing any light from showing outside.
A thoughtful touch—quite sensible for a whore-house. As yet, however, he had seen no sign that the place was anything but an empty house.
At the end of the hall was a flight of stairs leading to the third floor. Small stood at the base of them and stared upward, but all was darkness above. He decided not to bother examining the third floor. His legs were sore from the climbing he had done already, and he could feel his heart thumping against his ribs in an unfamiliar rhythm. It wouldn’t do at all to exert himself before the evening’s festivities got under way. He determined to save his energies for the pleasures to come.
If there were any.
He walked back to the landing, carrying his candelabrum carefully, and feeling like a detective in a Nineteen-Thirties’ suspense movie. His shadow fled menacingly before him, and shapes moved in doorways, conjured up by the flickering of the candles.
The scene was so melodramatically threatening that he started to chuckle to himself. Perhaps this dark and empty house was Madam Fury’s idea of a joke. Perhaps he was supposed to wander around, bumping into things, until the Madam had her laugh at his expense. She wasn’t charging anything, after all—this might just be her personal way of exacting payment.
Or maybe the whole thing was a joke. The thought made Small pause, and his smile faded into a frown. Could this whole business—the card, the voice on the telephone, the dark house—be somebody’s idea of a prank? It sounded too elaborate to be a practical joke, but anything was possible.
If it were nothing more than a prank, Small had to admit he had been taken in by it entirely. The thought did nothing to improve the growing sourness of his mood. If there were no Madam Fury, then The Climax didn’t exist, either.
And, thought Small bleakly, if The Climax was imaginary, then his career was over, just as he had feared.
He reached the head of the stairs, and began descending them tortuously. Halfway down, he stopped cold, every muscle m his body frozen, his heart vaulting into his throat.
There were two people at the base of the stairs, looking up at him.
* * *
At eight minutes before midnight, the red convertible made the turn off Hylan Boulevard and started up Eugene Street Bill Henry looked the neighborhood over skeptically, while Lil sat silent in the seat next to him.
“Are you sure this is where you wanted to go?” he asked. "This whole section looks abandoned.”
“I was told the corner of Eugene Street and Bliss Place. It has to be up here somewhere.” Lil watched the street signs intently as they passed by.
“Which street is the place on? Eugene or Bliss? For that matter, what’s the house number?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t? Then how in hell do you expect to find it?”
“Let me worry about that,” said Lil. “Just keep going until we get to Bliss Place.”
Something’s wrong with this girl, Bill thought. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was a definite strangeness in the way she was acting, the tone of her voice, the set of her head—everything. She was agitated over something, and maybe even a little frightened.
What could it be?
Lil was a trim little gal, no question about it. He’d had a taste of her charms that afternoon, and it had tasted like more. He knew he’d be a fool to pass up an opportunity to have all of her, even if that opportunity had to be arranged on her terms.
And yet, looking up the length of the darkened street and sensing the total absence of life around him, Bill was beginning to wonder just how much a chance at this girl was worth.
“Bliss Place,” she said suddenly.
“What?” He surfaced out of his thoughts and glanced ahead.
“The next street. That’s the spot.”
He scowled. “That’s what spot? There isn’t anything up there but the same as right here—abandoned buildings and broken sidewalks. Lil, are you completely sure you got the instructions straight?”
“Stop at the corner,” she said. She acted as if she hadn’t heard him.
He shook his head, and obediently braked the car to a halt at the intersection. He watched as she grabbed the top edge of the windshield and lifted herself into a position where she could scan in a complete circle around her.
“See anything interesting?” he asked sourly.
“Not yet,” she replied.
“Would you mind telling me what we’re looking for? I could look too, you know.”
She dropped back into her seat. “Turn the corner,” she said. “Slowly.”
“Your wish is my command,” he said. He eased the car out into the deserted intersection and turned slowly.
“Stop,” Lil cried.
He hit the brake quickly, and the convertible bounced on its shocks. “What the hell now?”
“I saw it,” she said. “M. F.” The initials were on the door.
“Oh, really? That’s great. What initials? What door?”
“Park the car,” she said.
“Oh, check—oh, right away, ma’am.” He yanked the car into gear and lurched over to the curb. “Is this all right, ma’am? Will there be anything else, ma’am?”
She turned and looked at him with a very peculiar expression on her face. “You don’t have to work that hard to convince me you’re a bastard,” she said.
Before he could think of a reply, she was out of the car and walking up a path into the dark shadow of a house. “Hey? Is this the place you were looking for?”
Her voice came back from the darkness. “Yes, I think so. Do you have a flashlight?”
He snapped open the glove compartment and took out his flash. The batteries were over a year old, but the thing worked -anyway, to his surprise. “Hang on—I’ll be right with you.” He set the brake, then slid across the seat and got out on the curb side.
She was on the porch when he came up the steps. He flashed the light in her face, then at the door of the house.
“M. F.” He scowled at the sign. “What does that mean?
“Let’s go inside,” she said.
“Shouldn’t we knock first? Or ring a bell?”
“I don’t know. Try the door. If it’s open, I guess we can go right in.”
The knob turned easily, and the door swung in. Bill’s flashlight made a reflection on the glass panel of the inner door, “Are you sure anybody lives here?” he asked.
“No. I’m not sure of that at all.” She stepped past him and pushed through the glass door. “Come on—I need you. There’s no light in here.”
Bill followed her into the darkened hallway, neatly closing the doors behind him. He swung his light around until he found a wall switch. He was about to flip it when he heard Lil say, “Don’t.�
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“Don’t? You mean, don’t turn on the lights?”
“She might not want you to.”
“Who’s she?”
“Never mind. Just do what I tell you.”
“Oh, the hell with that.” Bill was beginning to get very angry. “I’ll do what I damn well please.” He flipped the switch. Nothing happened.
“No power,” he said disgustedly.
“Bring the light over this way,” Lil said. Her voice was distant, and when the flashlight beam found her she was standing in front of an arched doorway. He came up beside her and aimed the light into the room.
“Looks like a living room,” he said.
“Or a parlor.”
“Lil—are you sure you have the right house? Are you sure you’re supposed to be in this place at all?”
“Stop asking so many questions. Come on—I want to take a look upstairs.”
Bill accompanied her as far as the base of the steps, then stopped. “Uh-uh,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m not going anywhere until you explain what the hell this is all about. I mean it.”
Lil’s face went momentarily very ugly. “You really are a bastard, aren’t you?”
“Now just a minute . . .”
The ugly look vanished from Lil’s features as quickly as it had come, and was replaced by an expression of fear. “Quiet,” she said.
“What?”
“Something . . She turned her head quickly and looked Up the stairs. Bill’s eyes glanced in the same direction.
An enormous fat man was coming slowly down the steps with a four-pronged candelabrum in his fist
Now, though Bill, I’ve seen everything.
“Hello,” said Lil tentatively.
“Good evening,” said the fat man.
“Are you—will you take us to Madam Fury now?”
The fat man stopped within a few steps of the bottom. A look of flabby disappointment crossed his features. “Young lady, I was about to ask you the same question.”
Bill glanced from one to the other. “Madam Fury? What are you two talking about? Who the hell is Madam Fury?”
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