by P. N. Elrod
“Derner, maybe. Strome, too.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “Think Derner would knock Gordy off to work for Bristow?”
“Dunno. Maybe.”
“What about Derner knocking Gordy off to take over for himself?”
“Strome thinks he would.” Lowrey shrugged. “Maybe. Ask him.”
I planned to and got his address from Lowrey, writing it on the scrap of phone book cover. “Okay, you did fine. Now forget I was ever here and catch up on your sleep.” I shut off the light on the way out.
Mrs. Lowrey seemed more awake and showing worry. “Anything wrong?”
“No, ma’am. All finished. Your man can take some time off.”
“Husband,” she corrected archly. Apparently she worked hard for that gold band on her ring finger. It and she deserved acknowledgment and respect from lowlife mugs like me.
“Yes, ma’am. Husband. Sorry to barge in.” I got out fast.
Strome was next. I found the right residence hotel, the right number, and slipped under his door like an unwelcome bill.
He lived in an unprepossessing flat, just three rooms. Gordy’s people were well-paid; Strome could afford better. He either spent the bulk of his time in other surroundings or the bulk of his money in the Nightcrawler’s casino. I didn’t see him as the type to send money home to his dear old ma.
In the combination living and bedroom, the Murphy bed had been pulled down from the wall. The sheets and blankets were messed around but unoccupied. No overcoat lying around. He was out, and I’d specifically told him to go home and sleep to keep him out of trouble.
Someone must have woken him up. Bristow perhaps. Or Derner. And Strome knew exactly where to find Gordy. Either of them could get the information out of him, willingly or not.
There was a phone in the small kitchen. I used it to call Clarson’s again. Bobbi answered again.
“Everything quiet?” I asked.
“Why? What do you know that I should?”
“My old maid stuff might have something to it. I want you should get out of there.”
“Jack . . .”
I knew she wouldn’t leave. “All right, there’s a chance that Bristow might come by.”
“Oh, damn. You better talk to Isham, then.”
“And you have to get yourself and Adelle out of there.”
“She won’t go any more than I will.”
“Persuade her, doll.”
“We can’t leave Gordy—”
“Listen to me a minute. You think Gordy would want either of you in the way if something happens?”
“But—”
“Isham and Shoe can look after him better if you two are gone. You know that.”
She knew but didn’t like it. “How serious is this?”
“I don’t know. I’m playing the better-safe-than-sorry song. You and Adelle go back to Crymsyn or take Adelle to your place, I don’t care, but you get clear. It’s tough, but he’d want both of you safe.”
“And then what?”
“And then nothing happens, if we’re lucky, and you can come back. You promise you’ll leave?”
Not happily, but she promised. I asked her to put Isham on. Apparently he was hovering close, for he took the phone right away.
“Yeah, what’s going on?” he wanted to know.
I explained a few things in broad terms. “Is Shoe there?”
“He can be.”
“Let him know what I said. Beef up the guards outside. If you see Strome coming back with friends, you may have to nail them. Keep your eyes peeled for a blue car with a missing driver’s door.”
“Huh?”
“Just what I said. Any chance of moving Gordy out of there?”
“You’d have to ask Clarson.”
“Ask him for me. I’ll call back in half an hour. If anything happens before then, you can reach Escott here.” I gave him the Gladwell number. “Make sure Bobbi and Adelle get a ride to wherever they want.”
He said he would and hung up.
I called Derner, knowing full well he might be working with Bristow. Or for himself.
“What’d Kroun have to say?” I asked.
Derner sounded unhappy. “Not a lot. I told ’em Gordy didn’t make it and that Bristow should be told. I don’t know that Kroun bought it.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“He didn’t say. I think he’ll talk to Bristow, though.”
I wanted to be there in person to get the truth out of him. It’d be worth a headache to make sure of Derner’s loyalty. “You heard from Strome?”
“No. Why?”
“I got an errand for him, too. If he phones or comes back, get him and keep him there. I’ll be in later tonight.”
“When?”
“Later. Is the hunt called off yet?”
“Mostly. Some of the guys know, others don’t. Word’s getting around.” If he’d passed it on. “Keep it moving. I’ll call again shortly, and I want good news about Bristow.”
I slipped back under Strome’s door, heading out. The street seemed empty, but I took a moment longer than usual to check all the stray shadows before pulling into the thin traffic. I shifted gears, both in my head and with the car, and headed toward the Gladwell estate.
Until now, up to and including getting shot at, everything had been a relative cinch. Now I had to deal with Dugan. I liked mob guys better. They had rules and ethics I could at least comprehend. You knew where you stood with them and how to handle them. Dugan was the kind of mess you just wanted to scrape off your shoe and walk away.
No walking from this one, though.
14
I stopped at the Dugan house on my way over, still checking for tails and cutting unnecessary but reassuring extra turns before getting there.
The neglected pile looked forlorn, like an old lady left behind by careless grandchildren. I wondered if Dugan had some kind of sentimental attachment to the place or if it was pride that made him stick it out here. Of course, he might have had nowhere else to go, hanging on until his kidnapping gamble paid off or the bank foreclosed. I couldn’t feel sorry for him, though. He was able-bodied and sharp-minded. Instead of taking a cream-puff job in the family firm, he chose to kidnap and terrorize a harmless girl and her mother for two long weeks, apparently enjoying himself the whole time.
Sieving in, I looked around, found it mostly unchanged from my last invasion. The cops or his attorney had come by, for the note Escott and I had propped on the phone was gone. No way to tell who’d gotten it, though.
I picked up a few things, shifting others over with a gloved hand to close the gaps so they wouldn’t be missed. Twice I heard creakings and froze, listening. After some repetitions, I decided they were branches scraping against the wooden flanks of the house, a creepy sound when you’re alone.
And damn, this place was cold. Even for me.
I got out quick, sought the familiar confines of my car, and didn’t stop until reaching the Gladwells’ back gate. Escott had left it open. Apparently the flood of reporters had eased since Dugan’s disappearance. At this late hour—it was getting on to midnight—no one was likely to come knocking unless they had business, like yours truly. I drove through and parked next to Escott’s Nash.
The lights were on in the back of the house, and Escott answered the door to my knock. He and Vivian were having coffee in the kitchen. I’d egg him about domestication later, when we’d all be in a mood for it. I took off my hat to Vivian, asked how she was, got a polite reply and a question of what I was planning to do. She didn’t look worried, which I took as a good sign. Removing my overcoat—careful to conceal the bullet holes in the back—I explained a couple things, and she agreed and went off in search of help.
“What’s up?” I asked Escott. “Servants’ night off?”
“Most of them are asleep. Is that a problem?”
“Not for me. I was just by Dugan’s place, and the emptiness gave me the heebies. A brass band and Bil
ly Sunday revival meeting wouldn’t cheer that dump up.”
“You don’t care much for darkness and silence, do you?”
“Who does?”
“Good point, it just seems an oddity, given your condition.”
“Damn few nice things ever happen to people—supernatural or otherwise—who wander around by themselves in dark buildings.”
“Even better point. Any sign of Bristow and his friends?”
“Not that I saw, and thanks for reminding me . . .” I went to the kitchen phone and called Clarson’s office. This time Shoe Coldfield answered.
“You sure put the corncob up Isham’s ass,” he said irritably. “What’s going on?”
I told him, with more detail, what he should know and my worries about Strome not being home. Escott listened in, nodding approval. “It’s a long shot,” I said to them both. “Maybe one of his cronies turned up and they went out for a drink, but I don’t want to take chances that Bristow got to him.”
“That’s two of us,” said Coldfield.
“Are Bobbi and Adelle out of there?”
“Yeah. They didn’t like it, but they’re gone.”
That was a big relief. “Where?”
“I sent ’em off to a hotel. Couple of the guys who work there also work for me. They can keep an eye open.”
“Shoe, I owe you.”
“You just get the next singer I date a spot in your club for a week, and we’ll call it even.”
“Deal. Consider that a handshake. How’s Gordy?”
“The same. Doc Clarson brought in a nurse to look after him, what with the other ladies gone.”
“Can he be moved?”
“Not unless you want him dead, but I just figured a way around that.”
“Oh, yeah?”
He told me what he had in mind.
Grinning, I said, “For that I’ll have spots open for the next dozen singers you date.”
“I’ll hold you to it, kid. What are you going to do about Bristow?”
“I got some stuff set up, hope it’ll get settled tonight, tomorrow night for sure. I’ll let you know if it works.”
“You let me know if it doesn’t. Until then you and Charles keep your heads down. I don’t want to scrape either of you off any sidewalks.”
“No arguments from us on that.”
“On what?” Escott asked when I hung up.
“Shoe hates a mess, so we can’t let Bristow kill us.”
“Or anyone else, one would hope. What news of Gordy?”
“He’s the same. Safe so far, but Shoe came up with something genius.”
“Indeed?”
“One of his car repair shops has an ambulance in. It’s supposed to go back to work tomorrow, but they’re gonna put some extra miles on it tonight.”
“I thought Gordy couldn’t be moved.”
“Not him. They’re gonna bundle a bunch of laundry together under a blanket, strap it to a stretcher with weights, and take it downstairs to that ambulance. It’s going to arrive, siren going, lights flashing, bigger than Broadway. They’ll get the stretcher into it, then drive off the same way. Everyone on the street will see. Clarson will put some of Shoe’s men into white hospital coats to make it look good, and all the while Gordy’s still safe upstairs in bed.”
“Heavens, that is brilliant. But what if Bristow isn’t there to notice?”
“Won’t matter, word will get around. My guess is Strome or Derner have already got people on the watch—from a respectful distance. They won’t miss that. The ambulance proceeds to shake any tails and take itself far, far away. Shoe’s people will seem to withdraw, and they’ll douse the lights at Clarson’s place.”
“I wish I could be there to see, but it’s probably best to let things run their course.”
Vivian returned, carrying a squarish box with a suitcase handle and metal latches. “Will this do, Mr. Fleming?”
Escott hurried over and took it off her hands, putting it on the broad kitchen table and opening it up.
I checked. “It’s perfect. Let’s get started.”
HURLEY Gilbert Dugan sat up straight on his cot as though this was a fancy parlor, not a dank and chill underground cell. I’d just unlocked the heavy door and stood on the threshold, peering inside. He looked tired and disheveled, his shirt buttons undone and a growth of beard shadowing up his face and jaws, but his dignity—or sense of superiority—was intact. Not a bad front to keep up with no shoes and those manacles clanking on his wrists.
“I expected you to keep me waiting much longer than this,” he said.
“Unlike you, I have places to be and things to do. I had a minute, thought I’d get some small-fry errands out of the way.”
He smiled indulgently, the way you do with self-important kids. “And what is going on in the wide world? They’re not telling me anything.”
His caretakers weren’t talking to him except to give orders like “Take your food,” and “Push that onto the shovel.” I heard the rule of silence was practiced on Alcatraz to good effect. “It’s spinning on as usual. Without any help from you.”
“What time is it? Someone took my watch.”
“It’s after sunset.” I thought he might like to confirm what day it was, but he didn’t ask. Not that I’d have answered.
“I want my watch back.”
“You don’t need it.”
“I won’t turn it into a weapon or a lockpick, if that’s what worries you.”
“It wasn’t, but I’m happy to hear it.”
“That watch is a family heirloom. Is it in a safe place?”
“Yeah.”
“You won’t tell me where? Is it supposed to add to my punishment? I’ve read that such tortures are inflicted on prisoners to destroy their minds and spirits.”
“If not knowing where your watch is makes for torture, wait awhile, you’ll learn better.”
“What are you doing there?”
“You’ll find out.”
I’d been uncoiling an electric extension cord; now I brought in the portable phonograph Vivian had brought to the kitchen, setting it just inside the room. Her own machine was part of a large radio model as big around as a refrigerator, not the sort of thing you could easily lug downstairs. This smaller one had been volunteered by her cook to the cause. I put the machine gently on the floor and hooked it up to the cord’s plug, then went out again, taking a flat box from Escott. It contained the two records we’d made, and he had carried it away from Crymsyn for safekeeping.
He stood just out of sight, but not earshot, of the cell, Vivian right next to him. We’d all agreed that Dugan might talk more freely to me without any additional audience.
“Are we to hear music?” He was successful at keeping his tone neutral, with neither hope or dread attached. He must have been curious as hell, though.
Except for such faint sounds of the household that might filter down to him through the many walls, the utter silence here must have been having its effect. I know I’d go nuts in my sanctuary if stuck there indefinitely. Even with good light, the freedom to move around within, a radio to play, and books to read, in the end it was still a tiny, confining vault.
“Yeah, you’re gonna hear some singing.”
“I suppose the only people looking for me are the police,” he ventured. “That’s why you put me here. So they would think I fled.”
“You’re real smart.”
“It won’t work. I’ll make sure it doesn’t work.”
“You think a lot of yourself.”
“No matter how long you keep me here, I’ll find a way to fight the repercussions.”
“By sending out more letters? Sure, go ahead. I talked with my friends. They said they could take a little heat for me.”
“That’s a lie.”
“You should know. Truth is, once I’m done, you won’t be able to get a priest in a confession box to listen to you with a straight face. Write all the letters you want to good old J. Edgar and
see what happens. You’ll have to write them from jail, though. That’s gonna have an effect on their credibility.”
“When my lawyer learns what you’ve done—”
“I’ll have a little talk with him pretty soon. If he’s still representing you. Lawyers like to get paid, and you’re short of funds now and getting shorter. Must have pissed him off in a big way turning up in court with you missing, and after all those stories in the papers about your innocence. The judge read him the riot act.”
Eyes narrow, Dugan listened, sucking in every word. He’d know at least one day had passed just from counting how many meals had been brought down and their type. I thought of asking the cook to switch them around, serve him eggs for supper and roast beef for breakfast. They could skip a meal or bring him several close together. Then he’d have only his beard growth to estimate the passage of time. That would confuse him eventually, but I didn’t want this going on any longer than necessary.
The last thing I brought in was some paper and a pen, putting those aside. They were his own, taken from his table-turned-desk when I slipped into his empty house. The fountain pen was loaded with his favorite green ink, the paper his stationery.
I also pulled out a few more paper animals and tossed them within reach of his chain tether. One of the boats lay on its side, a fragile shipwreck on the bare concrete.
“All right,” he said after staring at them. “You invaded my house, read my private thoughts, and within your limited standards judged them, judged me, and found me wanting. So?”
“I figured it shouldn’t be too hard to find a newspaper editor looking to improve his circulation. This stuff isn’t exactly a signed confession but would make for pretty interesting reading in light of the kidnapping. Since they’re in your handwriting, some of them with dates at the top . . .”
“Yes, I see what the threat is. Publish and be damned.”
“Sure about that?”
He tried throwing a withering look of contempt, but just as he was warming into it, I turned my back on him, crouching to fiddle with the phonograph.
I couldn’t tell how well Escott and Vivian could hear Dugan. I talked loud enough, but his voice might not carry well and was a little distorted because of echoes off the harsh walls.