Читать книгу Assignment New York - E. C. Tubb - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

From where I sat at the desk, I could see the black marks of my name lettered on the frosted glass panel of the door. They were peeling flaked, but even in reverse I could figure out what they said and what the smaller lettering beneath them was supposed to say. Private Investigator. Me. An agency of one man in a crummy office, ready and willing to take care of all the troubles of the world.

Sight of the lettering reminded me of the rent I hadn’t paid and the money I hoped to earn that night.

Midnight, the Colonel had said. Midnight to discuss a matter of the utmost privacy and desperate urgency. I discounted them both; trouble, no matter of what kind, is always desperate and urgent to the one who has it.

I rose and looked out of the window. Through the dirt I could see the rain and through the rain the lights looked fuzzy, as if they had lost their form and shape. A gust of wind pressed against the dirty panes, cold wind, bitter, heavy, with a hint of the coming snow.

It was a night to be indoors.

I thought so, and the sight of a few late pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalk, their collars turned high against the rain and hats low against the wind, made me certain of it. I stood staring at the snaggle-toothed skyline of New York, and the too-bright neon of Broadway shone from the low clouds as if half the city was burning.

An illuminated clock on a warehouse had both hands together as it pointed upwards in mechanical prayer.

Midnight.

The Colonel was late.

I sighed and lit a cigarette, sucking the smoke deep into my lungs and letting it plume against the glass of the window in swirling clouds of blue and grey. The smoke clouded the pane and I rubbed it, wiping a patch clear, then paused to stare at my reflection.

A face, two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth, a chin. Just a face topped with thick, slightly curly black hair. A face that had looked at the world with grey eyes for thirty years now, not a handsome one, not an ugly one, just a face, a mask for what went on within my skull. A thin scar puckered the cheek on the left side. One ear had a slight notch, a relic of my early days when the bullets fired had been with Government licence, and my lips seemed to have thinned a little and tended towards a downward curve.

I wondered if my mother would still have known me had she been alive.

I knew my father wouldn’t have.

I shrugged and dragged at the cigarette, trying to find in the smoke some anodyne for the pressure I could feel building up inside of me. I had been idle too long and, unless I got a case soon, I’d join the ranks of those who accepted discipline for a steady wage.

So I stood and smoked and thought, and the flashing lights of the city painted the wet streets with changing tides of red and orange, green and amber, while the dim shapes beneath me hurried through the bitter wind.

I was still standing there when the limousine drew to a halt at the kerb below.

It was a long, smoothly-finished job, glittering with chromium and polish, looking like some huge, hard-shelled beetle as it rested on the street ten storeys below. A man slipped from the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him as, head down, he ran towards the building. Almost at once the harsh sound of the buzzer echoed around my ears.

I pressed the button releasing the night lock on the street door and, sitting down at my desk, waited for whoever it was to enter the office.

He was young, neatly dressed in chauffeur’s black, his peaked cap throwing his eyes in shadow, and the close-fitting uniform didn’t hurt his chest and shoulders one little bit.

‘Mr. Lantry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr. Mike Lantry?’ His voice was smooth and even, the schooled tones of a servant, a professional man, or a confidence trickster making his play. I nodded impatiently.

‘That’s right. What do you want?’

‘Will you come with me, please.’

I didn’t move. I stared at him, the cigarette between my fingers sending up a thin coil of smoke. After a time he realised that I was waiting for him to speak.

‘My employer, the Colonel, is waiting in the car,’ he said irritably. ‘He wants to see you.’

‘So what?’

‘So you’d better do as he wants.’ The mask had slipped a little, the voice lost some of its careful schooling and, in the shadow of the visored cap, his eyes glinted with a mingling of rage and contempt. I shrugged.

‘He’s going to be awfully disappointed. Go back and tell him that, if he wants to see me, he knows where to find me.’

‘You refuse to come?’

‘I refuse to obey the orders of any dressed-up lackey,’ I said evenly, and something within me smiled at the expression on his face. ‘Go back to your boss and tell him that.’

‘You know who he is?’ He couldn’t seem to understand why I wasn’t fawning at his heels. ‘Colonel Geeson is a very rich man. Now, will you come?’

‘No.’ Deliberately I dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath my heel. ‘I’m different from you, buster. I haven’t sold myself to ten million dollars, and I don’t have to jump when he gives the orders.’

‘Why, you stinking shamus!’ The mask had slipped all the way now and naked rage glared at me from the shadow of the visor. ‘If he wanted to he could buy a dozen just like you from any store. Who the hell do you think you are?’

‘A man,’ I said grimly. I got up from the desk and stepped towards him. ‘Now get out of here and tell your personal god that I’m waiting to see him as arranged.’ I stared at him. ‘Better hurry, sonny: your nice, clean boots might get all dirty.’

He swung at me then, a wild, rage-dictated blow at my face, and I felt the wind of its passing as I swayed back. I didn’t mind the blow, I’d asked for it; what I didn’t like was the way his boot swept up towards my groin.

That made me annoyed.

I twisted, letting the heavy boot injure air as it slipped up the side of my thigh, then grabbed it as it reached the top of its swing. I twisted, swivelling the toecap around the heel, and he yelled as he threw himself in the direction of the rotation. He was smart, at that; if he hadn’t, I’d have dislocated his hip. I smiled as his face smacked against the floor.

I would have let him alone then, let him limp back downstairs with a sore ankle and a sore nose, but he made the mistake of going for a gun.

I caught the glitter of it as it swung towards me, and I kicked at it. It fell from his hand, skittering towards a corner, and he threw himself after it. I trod on his hand just as he reached the butt.

‘Cut it out,’ I snapped. ‘You’re getting your uniform all dirty.’

He swore and clawed at me with his free hand. I stepped back and, as he tried to grab the gun, I swung my foot against the joint of his jaw. He sighed, his head jerking back, then sagged as he collapsed on the floor.

I picked up the gun, a .38 automatic, and poised it in my hand. It was a cheap, nickel-plated job, nothing special and probably as erratic as hell, but at close quarters it could kill a man just as surely as the most expensive hand-weapon ever made. I slipped out the magazine, thumbed the cartridges onto the desk, then jerked the slide to expel the one in the chamber. Releasing the slide, I threw the empty weapon down beside the sleeping man. Lighting a cigarette, I swept the cartridges into a drawer, then sat down on the edge of the desk, frowning at the unconscious figure on the floor.

I was still staring when the door opened and a man walked into the office.

He was an old man, tired, his face bearing the stamp of a lifetime of years. He stood, wheezing a little, leaning heavily on a snake-wood cane. His clothes were good, his soft hat probably cost more than I owed; his shoes were the kind which had their own last. Gold gleamed from his wrist, his cuffs, his fingers, and his teeth. He looked at me, then at the sleeping beauty, then at me again.

‘Yours?’ I blew smoke towards the chauffeur, and raised my eyebrows. He nodded.

‘What happened?’ His voice was a dry whisper, sounding like the rustle of dead leaves as they rubbed together when driven by the wind.

‘He and I had a difference of opinion,’ I said casually. ‘I won.’

‘Get him out of here, Mr. Lantry.’

‘You know me?’ I nodded. ‘And you must be Colonel Geeson.’

He nodded and slumped into the customer’s chair. I went across to the water cooler and filled a paper cup. I threw water and cup into the chauffeur’s face. It didn’t seem to do any good, so I picked up his feet and dragged him out of the office and into the corridor outside. It was cold out there, and dark, a good place to sleep. I picked up the empty gun and threw it beside him, then returned to my desk.

The old man stared at me, watching with his cold, snake-like eyes, and I sighed as I sat down and lit a cigarette.

‘Why didn’t you come when I sent for you?’ he demanded.

‘You,’ I reminded him, ‘stated that you would be coming to see me on private and urgent business. It’s that difficult, the privacy I mean, with a chauffeur present?’

‘The driving compartment is sealed,’ he said absently. ‘Was that your only reason?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Or was it to impress me with your independence?’ He stared at me with his glittering eyes. ‘Arrogance isn’t independence, Mr. Lantry.’

‘A man values what he wants,’ I said. ‘If he values it enough, he will go and get it. Also,’ I dragged at the cigarette, ‘if you’d have wanted to meet me in your car you could have said so.’

‘Caution.’ He nodded. ‘I was told that you were a cautious man.’

‘By whom?’

‘By the man who recommended that I should see you.’ He obviously wasn’t going to give me the name and I was tired of playing games. I got down to business.

‘Well, what can I do for you?’

‘You can help me,’ he whispered, and something seemed to relax deep inside of him. I’d seen it before, that relaxation. It’s always nice to know that you’ve got someone to do your worrying for you, especially when you’ve got the money to pay for it. ‘You see, Lantry, it’s my wife. She—’

‘Hold it.’ I pulled a scratch-pad towards me and made some pothooks. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. You’re Colonel Geeson, you have a big house on Lower Manhattan, and a permanent penthouse off Fifth Avenue. You also own ten million dollars.’

‘That is correct.’ He didn’t show his surprise at my knowing his business. Almost everybody would know that.

‘Good. Now who is the boy-scout?’

‘My chauffeur? Marvin. Peter Marvin, a nice boy, Harvard, I think.’ He frowned as if that were of no importance.

‘Been with you long?’

‘Three years.’ He shifted as though he found the chair hard, which he probably did. ‘Is all this important?’

‘I’m always interested in the hired help.’ I could have added that I was interested in finding out why Marvin had wanted to kill me, but I didn’t say so. ‘Now, you mentioned your wife. What about her?’

‘She has disappeared. She left home two days ago, hasn’t been seen or heard from since. I’m worried, Lantry.’

‘A natural emotion. Have you been to the police?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? They are the most suitable and obvious people to find her. They can check the hospitals, the morgue, the—’

‘I have already done that,’ he interrupted impatiently. ‘I am not wholly a fool, Lantry. When Norma, my wife, didn’t return home, I had my lawyers check every possible place she might be.’ He looked baffled. ‘They couldn’t find her.’

‘And you think I could?’

‘Yes. I think that if any man could find her, you are that man.’

‘Thank you.’ It was a compliment and it was sincere. I poised my pencil. ‘I take it that your wife is an elderly woman?’

‘No.’ He licked his thin lips with a nervous gesture, a quick, darting movement of his tongue. ‘This is my second marriage,’ he explained. ‘My first wife died a short while ago and I married again.’

‘I see. Children?’

‘Two. My son, Stephan, is twenty-five. My daughter, Susan, is a year younger. There are no children of my second marriage.’ He didn’t say that there wouldn’t be, but it was as plain as the nose on his face.

‘They live with you?’

‘Yes. They live with Norma and I. We have a few servants and do little entertaining.’ He coughed and took a square of linen from his pocket. ‘Is all this essential, Lantry?’

‘It could be.’ I waited until he had finished dabbing at his lips. ‘About your second wife, Colonel?’

‘I married her about six months ago. She was, is, a sweet child, rather headstrong, but that is to be expected.’ He didn’t seem to have noticed his slip. ‘Our relationship was more that of father and daughter than husband and wife.’

I nodded, not believing him, but I wasn’t paid to give opinions. ‘History?’

‘What?’ He blinked. ‘Is that necessary?’

‘You want me to find her, don’t you?’ I leaned back in my chair. ‘What am I supposed to do, go round asking every woman I meet whether or not she is your missing wife?’ I shrugged. ‘At thirty dollars a day plus expenses, I’d be willing to spend the rest of my life on the job. Can you afford to wait that long?’

‘I have a photograph here.’ He slipped an oblong of pasteboard from an inner pocket. ‘You will find all relevant details on the back.’

‘Good.’ I didn’t touch the photograph. ‘Now, who saw her last? Who spoke to her last? Where did she say she was going? Has she any friends? Did she take her car? Clothes? Money?’ I shrugged at his expression. ‘I’m sorry, Colonel, but I’m not a miracle worker. I’ll find your wife, but I must have something to work on.’

‘She has a car, but didn’t take it with her. As for clothes?’ He made a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t know about that. She has a lot of clothes and, frankly, I wouldn’t know if she took any or not.’

‘She has a maid?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Good.’ I made more pothooks. ‘I’ll call and see her tomorrow. Which address? Town or Lower Manhattan?’

‘Manhattan. 518 Osbourne Heights, but is it necessary for you to visit my house?’

‘It would be simpler.’ I jotted down the address and picked up the photograph. Despite myself it was hard to keep a blank expression. Something of what I felt must have showed in my face.

‘I am an old man,’ the Colonel said quietly. ‘I married first rather late in life and am forty years older than my children.’ He looked at me. ‘I am a rich man also, and a rich man can sometimes indulge his whims. I wanted a young wife and, perhaps not surprisingly, my wealth outweighed her desire for a younger man.’

‘I see.’ I laid the photograph face down on the desk. ‘You are a cynic, Colonel.’

‘Not a cynic,’ he corrected. ‘An intelligent man.’ He reached into an inside pocket and produced a wallet. From it he counted out five nice, crisp, one-hundred-dollar bills. He laid them on the desk. ‘I do not wish to haggle,’ he said, and I felt an instinctive warmth towards him. ‘You mentioned thirty dollars a day plus expenses, expenses which, I imagine, would be somewhat high.’

‘Gas, drinks, bullets, and bribes,’ I said quickly. He didn’t seem to have heard me.

‘I will make my own offer. Here is five hundred dollars. Take it, and the day you find my wife I will give you ten thousand more.’ He pushed the bills towards me, their newness making little crackling noises. ‘You accept?’

‘I accept.’ I reached into the drawer, the one I keep my bottle and spare gun in, and took out a pad of receipts. I filled in the top form, signed it, and handed it over. Geeson took it, examined it, then tucked it into his wallet.

‘Is that all?’

‘Not quite.’ I stared down at the pothooks I’d made to refresh my memory. ‘I should like to interview your son and daughter. Would tomorrow be a convenient time? I could check with the maid at the same time.’

‘You forget yourself, Lantry,’ he said coldly. ‘You may interview the servants, yes. But my personal family must not be bothered by you. After all, even at best you are little more than a paid servant yourself.’

‘Is that what you think?’ I picked up the bills and knocked their edges flush on the scarred surface of the desk. ‘Here.’ I held them out to him. ‘Take them, return my receipt, and then get out of here.’

‘What!’ He was more than startled, he was shocked. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You’ve picked the wrong man,’ I said tightly. ‘If you want a yes-sirring lap-dog you won’t find him here. Good night, Colonel. Don’t trip over the body.’

He flushed, his wrinkled skin warming to the unusual flow of blood, and his hands, as he gripped his cane, showed tense the knuckles white with strain. I thought that he was going to hit me, and I didn’t care if he tried. He swallowed.

‘Could you recommend such a man?’

‘A dozen,’ I said cheerfully. ‘They will take your money and dance to your tune. They will wipe their feet and remember to say “sir,” and they’ll be very, very polite. But they won’t find your wife and, if they do find anything else, they’ll make you pay for it—but good.’

‘Blackmail?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘But you meant it.’

I shrugged and pointed to a certificate hanging on the wall. ‘You see that? It’s a licence, issued by the county authorities, and it says that I’m duly qualified to operate as a private detective. Those licences don’t grow on trees, Colonel, and you don’t get them by sending in box tops. Your money will buy you more than me just doing as I’m told, but you just don’t own enough to buy my soul.’

‘Arrogance,’ he whispered, and sat staring down at the floor. He must have been desperate, because he didn’t get up and walk out. Instead he looked at me. ‘What do you want?’

‘If I take the case, I’ll do what has to be done, but I’ll do it in my own way. I won’t interfere with you and I won’t make myself more of a nuisance than I can help, but I want access to your home, to your servants, and to your children.’ I picked up the money. ‘Is it a deal?’

‘On one condition.’ He hesitated and I knew what was coming. I tried to help him out.

‘I cannot condone law-breaking,’ I warned. ‘I can’t cover up murder or—’

‘Murder!’ He was startled this time, not shocked. Startled and a little scared. ‘Who said anything about murder?’

‘An example.’ I dismissed the notion with a wave of my hand. The movement made me remember the cigarette I was still holding, so I dropped it. ‘However, that doesn’t mean I act as a policeman, I won’t. I won’t pry and I won’t squeal. Does that answer you?’

‘Perhaps.’ He stared at me from hooded eyes. ‘If you find my wife. Lantry, I want you to let me know first. First, understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Agreed then.’ He nodded, a sharp inclination of his head, and rose to his feet. ‘Tomorrow, then?’

‘Tomorrow.’

I led the way out of the office.

The tough chauffeur had gone. Probably he was nursing his swollen jaw and injured pride downstairs by the car. His gun had gone too, and I hoped that he wouldn’t try to kill anyone with it before he bought more bullets. I signalled for the elevator and stood, trying not to shiver, as it groaned its slow way up from the basement. Geeson stared distastefully down the dark corridor, leaning heavily on his cane, and I felt sorry for him.

It must have been terrible for a man with all his money to have to come out on a cold, wet night. It must have been a shame for him to have hired a private eye to do what the police could have done for nothing. It must have been ever more terrible that a young and virile woman should have decided that money couldn’t compensate for old bones and thin blood.

The elevator groaned to a stop, and the old man who was spending the last few years of his life jerked open the doors. He scowled at me—I probably woke him up—then slammed the cage as the Colonel stepped inside.

I shrugged and stepped back into the office.

I had five hundred dollars for a case which, on the face of it, was no case, and the prospect of ten thousand more to come. I should have felt good. I should have felt wonderful, but I didn’t, and even when I took a drink the whisky burned my throat instead of warming my stomach.

I dropped the empty bottle and stepped across to the window. Outside it was still raining, the neon signs kept flashing and, far below, the black limousine still waited like a big black beetle against the kerb. A figure crossed to it, an old man leaning on a cane, and a second figure limped towards it and opened the rear door.

With a white plume trailing from the exhaust, the big car slid down the rain-swept street and I watched it go, half envious of its obvious comfort and class. A shadow moved in a doorway opposite, a dim, shapeless blob with a pale splotch for a face and two more for hands. It stared up at me before hunching itself along the street, head down against the rain.

I shivered.

It was a hell of a night.