No Pockets in a Shroud Page 8

  “Do you want it right here?” Danny asked.

  I started the car. I have driven cars with both a clutch and brake pedal and this was a snap, but I made it look difficult. I sat side-saddle with my left foot where my right should have been, and my right over in Danny’s territory. At every stop sign I tried killing the engine, but with that blamed hydromatic clutch the car practically drove itself, and I finally gave up and just drove.

  When we reached the highway I asked: “This Wade’s idea, or your own?”

  “My own,” Danny said. “Nobody pushes me around and lives to brag about it. Not even the tough Mister Moon.”

  About a mile short of North Shore Club Danny ordered me to turn off on a dirt road. The road ended suddenly at the river bank. On the principle that when you’re in a spot any added confusion is a help, I pretended difficulty with the controls and kept on going for the bank. Danny spoiled my fun by cutting the ignition, and we stopped six feet short of the water.

  “Get out,” he said.

  I got out and stood waiting. Danny centered his little .22 between my eyes.

  “Don’t feel put out,” he said. “You’re getting it from the best there is.”

  “The best at what?”

  “With one of these.” He moved the slim barrel of his gun slightly. “There isn’t anybody faster. Nobody at all. And I can light a match head at twenty yards.”

  I said: “Remember how Houdini died? A kid hit him in the stomach when he wasn’t expecting it.”

  In the moonlight his eyes were puzzled. “So what?”

  “Any amateur can get the jump if the other guy has no warning. A ten-year-old kid could outdraw you if he just walked up and drew when you weren’t expecting it.”

  His face turned coldly superior. “I beat you twice, didn’t I? Say your prayers, Mister Moon.”

  “Gonna go back and tell the boys you beat me on the draw?” I asked.

  “I did beat you on the draw.”

  I made my voice contemptuous. “You just surprised me. Go ahead and get it over with, Billy-the-Kid Junior.”

  His features pinched in sudden rage. “Why you second-rate amateur! I could give you a two-minute start and nail you before you started to move.” With his left hand he pulled my P-.38 from under his belt and tossed it beyond me. “Turn around and pick it up.”

  I turned slowly, picked up the gun and stood waiting with my back to him.

  “Put it away. Then keep your arms at your sides and turn back around.”

  I did as he ordered. Backing two paces, he slowly seated his Woodsman under his arm, then deliberately thrust both hands in his coat pockets.

  “You start,” he said.

  Our eyes locked, and the certainty in his sent a tingle along my spine. All at once I knew we were going to repeat the same old routine, and I’d be touching my gun butt when his muzzle began to point at me. Only this time the tiny barrel would erupt death. Something of my knowledge must have appeared in my eyes, for his crinkled in cruel amusement.

  “You start,” he repeated.

  I thought, What the hell. Long as I’m going down, I might as well make it look good, and slowly raised my hands to my coat pockets. I thrust them deep inside.

  “You start,” I suggested. “You’re going to need more time.”

  His face stiffened and his eyes registered the faintest touch of uncertainty. Figuring this was the farthest he’d ever be off guard, I started my draw.

  The next part of a second went by in slow motion. My hand left its pocket the barest instant before his, and reached the gun butt the barest instant after his. As our guns came out, his the narrowest part of a micro-second before mine, his face began to dissolve in panic. And as my muzzle centered on his heart, his spat flame and a small wind whispered past my ear. Then mine was spitting flame too.

  “You’d have made it,” I said softly, “if you hadn’t hurried your shot.”

  But he wasn’t listening.

  BY THE time I explained things to Homicide and got a begrudging release from the desk man, it was nearly 6:00 A.M. I fell into bed and lay there without stirring a hair until the apartment doorbell buzzed me awake at noon. It continued to buzz at intervals during the next five minutes, while I strapped on my leg and got a robe over my pajamas. I also took time to don slippers and eliminate my right foot’s aluminum clang. By then my caller leaned steadily on the push button.

  I pulled open the door and said: “O.K. I can hear you.”

  Eleanor Wade said: “It’s about time. Were you shooing that blonde out the back?”

  “A redhead,” I answered grumpily.

  She let her coat slide from her shoulders into a chair and raised her face to be kissed. I gave her a courtesy peck without taking my hands from robe pockets. She frowned disgustedly.

  “And I called you virile!”

  I said: “The redhead wore me out. I’ve got shaving to do. Make yourself useful while you wait. Coffee’s on top of the icebox.”

  She examined me critically, her head on one side. “You don’t look too terrible for just getting up,” she decided. “That is,” she explained carefully, “you don’t look more terrible than usual, considering what a good start you have on looking terrible, even before you get tip.”

  This being too complicated to follow before coffee, I went into the bathroom without answering. She trailed behind me and stood in the door while I studied my darkened cheeks in the mirror.

  “You’re an old bear when you get up, though. I’m not sure I’ll like living with you.”

  I picked up my shaving brush. “The coffee’s on the icebox.”

  She stuck out her tongue, swished her back at me and went out to the kitchen. Momentarily I concentrated on her remark about living with me, wondered whether she meant legally or in sin. But it’s hard to concentrate before breakfast. A nicked ear wrenched my thoughts back to shaving.

  Eleanor knew how to make coffee. By the second cup I began to be nice to her.

  “So you’ve decided to live with me?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You moving in now, or just here after another report?”

  “Neither. I just wanted to see you.”

  When we finished our coffee, Eleanor washed the pot and cups and I wiped. Afterward we repaired to the living room and I mixed dessert in a couple of tall glasses.

  “Feeling virile yet?” Eleanor asked.

  The question was not banter, like the sequence about living together. It was definite invitation. I felt vague annoyance, probably a hangover from some prudish ancestor. And then I felt annoyed at my annoyance, if you understand what I mean. I certainly was not shocked, and I didn’t understand my irritation. Suddenly I remembered Fausta’s, “Me you never invite to your fiat,” and my amused reaction to it. Eleanor’s invitation was no more definite, but its spirit seemed different, more casual—almost routine—as though she had used exactly the same words in exactly the same tone before.

  I said, “I’ll tell you when,” and drained my glass in one drink.

  She took a cigarette from her case and had me light it for her. Leaning back, she blew smoke at me and studied my face through the haze.

  “What’s the matter, Manny? I say something wrong?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You looked gruff.” She watched my face a moment more, then said: “I will have a report, after all.”

  I noted her glass was untouched, and mixed another drink for myself. I tasted it before speaking.

  “It’s more or less solved,” I said.

  Her glass, halfway to her lips, stopped in mid-air. “Yes?”

  “Yeah.”

  She waited, the glass remaining suspended.

  “It isn’t your husband,” I said.

  “No?”

  “It’s a guy named Amos Horne. I told you about him before. The blonde’s husband. The Tuesday and Thursday blonde.”

  The glass continued its interrupted trip and half the contents disappeared.


  I said: “Remember I told you the tire tracks didn’t match his tread? He’s switched tires.”

  “Do the police have him?”

  “Yeah,”

  She lit another cigarette from tie butt of the first. “Then I owe you five hundred dollars.”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. Wait till it’s on ice.”

  “I thought you said it was solved.”

  “I said more or less. The evidence is all circumstantial and he hadn’t confessed, last I heard.”

  For a minute she smoked in silence. “What do you think?”

  “Me? I think he did it, probably. But I’ve been wrong before. The evidence isn’t phony, because I gathered it myself. But I still think your husband was building an alibi the other night, and this solution leases him out. He’s clear on the O’Conner girl, too.”

  “I know. I read about her in the paper.”

  “Horne’s probably the murderer, but I’m not quite satisfied. It’s not a hunch, just a feeling I might go wrong. Hold your check until the cops break him down.”

  She said musingly: “I hope you are wrong.” Her voice was soft and significant.

  I felt a slight chill. “You’ve hoped it was Byron all along, haven’t you?”

  She nodded, then quickly drained her glass.

  “That’s really why you hired me, isn’t it? You hoped I’d pin it on your husband.”

  She nodded again without hesitation.

  “Why so eager to get rid of him? Bagnell didn’t mean that much to you.”

  She pursed her lips and watched me thoughtfully a long time before speaking, as though solving a problem in her mind. “Are you fond of me?” she asked finally.

  “Sure,” I said, surprised.

  “Do you love me?”

  It was my turn to think. I shook my head. “Love is too big a word. I get scared.”

  She didn’t seem disappointed. “But you do like me?”

  “Sure.”

  “A lot?”

  “A lot,” I conceded. “What about it?”

  “I’m going to tell you why I really hired you.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Because the minute I saw you, I wanted to leave Byron and be with you. Before, I was content to stay married to him and go where I pleased, but you did something to me. I wanted to get rid of him altogether.”

  I felt vaguely embarrassed. “Why not poison him? It’s cheaper.”

  “I will,” she said flippantly, “if you want.” Her face smiled, but her eyes were serious.

  I rose and picked up her coat. “This is a silly conversation. Let’s go out and get some air.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dice-table Ghost

  THE DAY WAS BRISK, but a lazy sun was beginning to take the edge from the air. Eleanor drove desultorily, drifting down one street and up another in aimless fashion. Neither of us felt much like talking, particularly me, because I was fitting together some unpleasant ideas which were beginning to form in my mind. Superimposed on these ideas I unexpectedly got the impression that there was plan behind the seemingly purposeless driving. And as Eleanor’s aimless turnings brought us closer and closer to the highway leading past El Patio, I grew sure of it.

  Eventually a side street spewed us out on the main road. Eleanor turned in the direction away from town and increased the car’s speed.

  Although I knew, as we neared El Patio I asked: “Where we going!”

  El Patio’s stone pillared gates came in sight and Eleanor slowed the car. “Let’s stop for a drink.”

  “It’s closed.”

  “Your blonde friend will let us in.”

  I shrugged. “Suit yourself. But lots of places that are open serve drinks.”

  She swung the car between the stone gateposts and brought it to a stop next to the building’s front steps. We left it parked there instead of driving back to the lot.

  Vance Caramand let us in when I pounded on; the big bronze doors.

  “Fausta around?” I asked.

  “Shopping in town.” He closed the door behind us and walked off, leaving us to our own devices.

  Mouldy Greene and Romulus sat at a table near the bar playing gin rummy.

  I said: “How about a couple of drinks?”

  “Help yourself,” Mouldy said.

  Going behind the counter, I found a bottle of rye and plunked it in front of Eleanor.

  “There a tray back there?” she asked.

  I looked. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Put some glasses and things on it and we’ll take it back to Louis’ office.”

  The suggestion didn’t startle me. I almost expected it. I began to feel as though we were acting out a play that had been rehearsed, and were responding to each other’s cues, knowing in advance what was to happen next.

  I asked: “Why?”

  “We can talk privately there.”

  “With the ghost of your ex-lover looking on?”

  She pouted. “Don’t be common.”

  “O.K.,” I shrugged. “If the association doesn’t bother you, it won’t me.”

  I slapped the tray on the bar, set the rye, a jug of water, a siphon, two glasses, a spoon and an empty bowl on it. Emptying a shelf of ice cubes in the bowl, I picked up the complete equipment and followed Eleanor back to Bagnell’s office. I sat behind Bagnell’s desk and mixed two drinks while Eleanor perched on the desk edge and swung her feet.

  “Satisfy your morbid curiosity?” I asked.

  “The drink?”

  “The atmosphere.”

  She said: “I don’t see why you’re acting so silly about coming back here. Louis Bagnell was nothing to me.”

  “I’m not acting silly. I’m just trying to figure out why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you wanted to come here.”

  Setting down her drink, she looked down at me puzzledly from her elevated position. “I didn’t insist, you know. It was just a spur of the moment idea. If you don’t like it, we’ll leave.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  She frowned in annoyance. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “It wasn’t a spur of the moment idea. You meant to come here from the moment we left my place. Why?”

  “You’re being silly.” She took a long drink and left her nose up in the air after she lowered the glass.

  The desk telephone caught my eye and I lifted the receiver and dialed Homicide. Eleanor watched me from her eye corners, but she wasn’t giving me the satisfaction of indicating interest. I got Hannegan on the phone.

  “Moon,” I said. “How’s Horne doing?”

  “Just started to work on him,” Hannegan told me. “We closed shop, once he was safe in jail, and the inspector and I both slept till noon. The inspector’s talking to Horne now.”

  “Good. I’m at El Patio. Will you ring me back after Day goes over him?” I read him the number from the phone’s dial plate.

  “Sure,” said Hannegan.

  When I hung up the phone, Eleanor said: “Mix me another drink.”

  “I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

  “I’m not, except as a bartender.”

  I put together two more drinks and leaned back in the desk chair to enjoy mine. Just as I started to raise the glass, the office door crashed back against the wall and Fausta, her eyes sputtering like a shorted neon sign, stood in the doorway.

  “So?” she hissed.

  “So what?” Eleanor snapped right back at her.

  Fausta prowled dramatically into the room. “To my own house you bring him, you—you she wolf!” She stopped in front of Eleanor and bared her teeth.

  Eleanor said: “Get away from me, blondie, or I’ll bat your brains oat.”

  Easing out of my chair, I circled toward the door around the side of the desk opposite the two women.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll be at the bar. Let me know how things turn out.”

  Fausta spun on me. “You, Manny Moon! Why you bring
this woman here where I am?”

  “I’ll be at the bar.”

  “Wait, Manny.” All at once her voice was contrite. “I be good.”

  I paused in the doorway. “Yeah?” I said cautiously.

  “You think I act bad to make scene?”

  “Yes. Very bad.”

  “You desire I go leave you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Her expression turned forlorn. Slowly she moved to the door and stopped next to me. Turning her head over her shoulder, she looked sorrowfully at Eleanor. Then her face screwed up, her tongue shot out at Eleanor and at the same time she gouged a sharp heel into my one good shin.

  “Ow!” I yelled, but before I could grab her, she was flitting down the hall toward the dining room.

  LIMPING back into the room, I got my foot on a chair and began to rub my shin cautiously.

  “Little brat,” I growled.

  Eleanor came over and kissed me behind the ear. “Don’t mind, Manny. I’m all the woman you need.”

  Continuing on around me, she went toward the bathroom. I noted that the eternal oversized bag was clutched tightly beneath her arm. When I heard the bolt slide to, I quickly but softly moved to the bathroom door and pressed one ear against the panel. I heard her fumbling at the washbowl, and the clash of metal on porcelain. Then the phone rang. I cut it off in the middle of its second ring.

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “El Patio?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Manville Moon there?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Hannegan. We’ve been going over Horne and he admits everything you told us, but still won’t break on the actual killing. Insists he never got out of the car.”

  “I never said he did.”

  Hannegan was silent for a long time. “Jeepers creepers!” he said finally. “No wonder the old man hates you!”

  “How long was he parked?”

  “He says about an hour. Seven-thirty to eight-thirty.”

  I thought a moment. “That covers the time from before the murder until after the cops arrived. Did you ask him if anyone else entered the grounds while he was there?”

  “Yeah. He said no one could without his seeing it, and he didn’t see anyone.”

  I said: “I’ll phone you back in a few minutes,” and hung up just as Eleanor came from the bathroom.