Читать книгу Hot Bullets for Love - Gentry Nyland - Страница 4

THE BAROMETER DROPPED. For the first time in years the hurricane warning was to be seen atop the Whitehall Building. A fifty-mile gale, blown in from the Southeast, swept the chilling rain across Manhattan.

Joe South, seated by the window, stared at the opposite office building as the howling wind threatened to crash the rattling casement and shatter the quiet interior of the too-dignified office. He scowled and decided that all lawyers were either crooks or fools, and he knew from past experience that the man across the desk from him was not a fool.

Joe had been feeling good when he arrived at the lawyer’s office an hour ago. He was wearing his dark blue suit with a white shirt and black tie. He thought he looked neat and respectable and had expected to merit some recognition of this virtuous conduct from Van Pelt. But no. He had had to kick his heels in the reception room twenty minutes while some female client poured her troubles into the lawyer’s too-willing ear.

From the musical overtones of the finishing-school voice Joe didn’t blame the lawyer, but the enforced wait hadn’t improved his own temper. She must be one of Van Pelt’s “specials” to rate the private entrance.

He scowled at the water slapping against the window panes. Even now, after forty minutes closeted with one of the largest corporation lawyers in Manhattan, he knew very little more about the job he had been hired for than when he came in. Apparently all it amounted to was to bodyguard some rich brat to the tune of three hundred and fifty dollars a month. He, Joe Smith, the best private detective in New York, had come to this. Oh, well, he had to eat, and since his license had been suspended as a result of his activities in the Martin kidnaping case he couldn’t be choosy.

Van Pelt’s voice broke into his brooding.

“And remember this, Joe,” the crisp words were impatient. “This is a respectable firm and I hope you will try to conduct yourself accordingly.”

Stuyvesant Van Pelt’s person was like his name. He was a tall thin, ascetic man in his early fifties. His cold blue eyes were remote and steely, and he wore a small, waxed military mustache over slightly full lips which might have suggested a weakness for the fleshpots.

Seated now behind a massive desk, he looked and acted like the headmaster of an exclusive boys’ school. The wide expanse of polished glass in front of him was free of all standard office equipment Instead there was a fifth bottle of Scotch, a syphon of seltzer and two glasses arranged neatly on a silver tray.

Joe frowned and removed his chubby leg from the arm of the chair. He reached for the bottle, and ignoring the seltzer, poured three ounces of Scotch and swallowed it neat. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke ceilingward as he relaxed in his former position.

The lawyer shifted his position and coughed.

“I must remind you also, Joe, that this job, if you take it, will not call for your usual amount of drinking.”

Joe’s expression of bored indifference didn’t change.

“It’s the rain,” he mourned. “I’m just like a woman. Every time I hear water running I hafta drink.” He looked at the lawyer through sleepy lids and added softly, “How much?”

“My client,” Van Pelt told him, “has provided a substantial retainer. I might add, unusually substantial, considering the nature of the case. The sum mentioned in the letter I sent you was seven hundred dollars, and the job should be satisfactorily completed within two months. I think that is unusually substantial, and, of course, if Mr. Raleigh should want you for longer you will be proportionately imbursed.”

Joe said, “It’s substantial,” and extended a chubby hand. The lawyer started to take it, then realizing the absurdity of the gesture his hand went to his pocket instead. From there he took a manila envelope and placed it in Joe’s outstretched palm. The detective slit it quickly and took out seven hundred-dollar bills. He counted them carefully and slipped them into his own pocket.

“I assume then,” Van Pelt said, “that you will begin work tonight. I have told Mr. Raleigh you would see him at three-thirty this afternoon at Hillman Hospital.”

Joe said, “Yeah,” and heaved himself to his feet. He threw his raincoat over his arm and started for the door. Halfway there Van Pelt’s voice stopped him.

“Just one thing more,” he was saying, “it’s my opinion that this assignment could be better handled without the assistance of . . . er . . . ah . . . shall I say, your confederates?”

“Okay,” Joe said over his shoulder. “It don’t look like I’ll need ’em anyway. S’long.”

In the outer office he stopped before the girl at the typewriter. The name plate on her desk said she was Miss Lane.

“Hello, Beacon Hill,” Joe greeted her and stopped beside the desk.

“Oh, hello, Joe. Gosh, you scared me.” She took off her glasses and looked him up and down. “Do you know, Joey, you’re getting to be more like Jack Oakie every time I see you?”

“That’s not original, baby, and don’t think you’re flattering me. How’s tricks with Van Pelt?”

The elevator opened directly into the reception room and he pressed the down button. The girl at the desk looked at him suspiciously.

“You’ve just been in there. You should know.”

Joe leered. “I don’t but I can guess.”

The red line of her lips parted to reveal small, even teeth. “That alleged mind of yours needs a trip to the laundry, Joe South,” she hissed.

“Now, now, shug, you walked smack into that one,” Joe countered as the elevator door opened. “Remember? Suspicion is my business.” The pen she had picked up cracked against the outside of the cage. Some of the ink splashed the detective’s shirt. It was red. He was chuckling as the elevator door closed behind him.

As he swung through the door into the street a blast of wind swept off his hat and kicked it several blocks down Broadway. He didn’t bother to chase it. Rain drenched him as he ran for the only cab parked on the street. Joe climbed in.

“Take me to the hotel,” he ordered.

Traffic up Broadway was almost at a standstill. Progress was a fitful series of gears grinding and brakes screeching. The cab swung left at Times Square and stopped in front of the Brant Hotel. Joe slammed the door and started across the street. The driver honked his horn and yelled.

“Hey, Joey. Not so fast. You owe me fifteen dollars and eighty cents.”

Joe came back. Without a word he took out the envelope Van Pelt had given him and solemnly handed one of the hundred-dollar bills to the driver. The boy blinked and swore.

“Holy eats, Joey! Who d’ya think I’m drivin’ for? Brink’s Express!”

“All right now, dope,” Joe grinned. “Keep your shirt on. I’ll have your change later.”

He replaced the envelope and hurried into the lobby. The clerk at the desk handed him three bills and a telephone message. The message was from May. Joe hummed to himself as he read it in the elevator. It said:

Goggles happier and fatter and much better company. We both hope you keep away for a while.

He scowled and stuffed the note in his pocket. Goggles. That smut-smeared Siamese.

As he opened the door to his room, one of the two men who had been lounging on the bed got up. He was a good-looking red-headed boy except for a nose that looked like something the Germans did to Poland. Contact with leather had also failed to improve his left ear. He had freckled, healthy skin and his blue eyes were clear and guileless. The grin he gave Joe as he entered revealed large glistening teeth. He was naked except for a pair of athletic trunks. His name was James Michael Kierney. Joe liked him.

The other man was different. He didn’t rise, but one side of his mouth lifted in a brief grin as he said, “Cheer-o.” If James Michael Kierney looked like a well-thumped punching bag David Kitchener Carton was the life-size dream picture of every blonde, brunette and red-head from Passamaquoddy to San Francisco Bay. Six feet two, with dark hair graying at the temples, “Kitch” Carton was the composite of Anthony Eden and Ronald Colman in a rôle designed for Lawrence of Arabia. His accent was clipped close to ground that had never seen Harvard Yard. His age might have been anything from thirty-five to forty-five.

Kierney spied the red spots on Joe’s shirt.

“So you been catchin’ ’em on the Old shnozola, huh? Who hung that one on you, Joey? Did that high-class mouthpiece get tough?”

Joe looked patronizing.

“My boy, you’ve left so many of your fine, virile corpuscles in the rings of second-rate prelims you haven’t enough blood left to recognize it when you see it. This isn’t blood, slap-happy. This is ink. Red ink. Van Pelt only makes passes at people with skirts on.”

Carton grinned.

“So we’re still in the red? Inconsiderate of you to go about displaying our financial status on your shirt front.”

Joe shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Listen, boys,” he pleaded. “How many times do I have to tell you there’s a swell strike over in Jersey praying for guys like you. Eight bucks a day for walking scabs through picket lines. The only place those dumb strikers ever think of heaving a brick is at your heads. It’ll be a push-over for you.”

Kierney removed the cap from the rye and held it under the detective’s nose. “See this, Joey? When you’re ready to talk you get a swig of it. How’s about it?”

Joe said, “All right. Gimme it.” He took a long drink, winced and leaned back against the foot of the bed. He hesitated, scowled at each of them and began, “It’s like this . . .”

“It is like hell,” Kierney snapped. “We want the straight dope, Joey.”

“I’m giving it to you, but for cripe’s sake stop calling me Joey. It’s just a simple job of playing bodyguard to a Little Lord Fauntleroy who’s been matching pennies with the gang from the wrong side of the tracks.”

Carton said, “Guarding him from what?”

“Everything and anything. The kid’s a fugitive from the Blue Book and the family’s trying to hook him back on the leash. You can’t blame the kid for that, but he’s doing it the wrong way. This guy apparently sets up all the pins in the Social Register, then steps back and bowls them over. According to Van Pelt he’s been seen around in the hot spots with a couple of hoods for the past year. That’s a part of my job. To keep him away from them—or see that he keeps ticking while he’s with them.”

“And the other part?”

“What do you think? A dame, of course. There aren’t enough front-row sable-and-station-wagon gals to go around, so this guy plucks one out of the front-row-center—chorus—I mean. She’s probably a looker, but even the best of them can’t trot their oomph around in the horse-show set and come up with the blue ribbons.”

Joe left his chair and posed with arms outstretched like a traffic cop. “So here I am. St. Joseph South, protector against fortune hunters with one hand; gangsters with the other. At a price, of course.”

Carton said lazily, “As we say in America, that’s screwy.” He gave Joe a thoughtful look. “I’m not questioning your version, Joey. I’m merely wondering about the job itself. I can’t understand why a law firm—one as respectable as Van Pelt’s, that is—should want to risk its reputation by hiring a detective with a suspended license to act as a bodyguard to one of its clients. I am assuming, of course, that your friend Van Pelt does have a reputation to risk.”

Joe moved to the telephone. “You seem to forget that all three of us have worked for Van Pelt before. And when it comes to reputation he has more waxed up in his little mustache than the Bank of England, Why the suspicion?”

Carton shrugged. “Doing behind-the-scenes research for corporations and playing bodyguard in the open are hardly the same things. My suspicion is based solely on the opinion that Mr. Van Pelt seems scarcely the type who’d hire anyone to take care of a playboy client. The point being that every counselor with a license to practice prays nightly for a wealthy client endowed with the extraordinary faculty of getting into trouble. Deliberately taking steps to keep one out seems like lighting five-cent cigars with fifty-pound notes. In short, it’s not like Van Pelt.”

Joe picked up the telephone. “Sound logic, Kitch,” he agreed. “Damned sound. But you’re overlooking several important facts. First, Van Pelt isn’t just the kid’s lawyer. He’s one of the two trustees of the estate. Guarding the lad isn’t his idea. That little inspiration comes from Parker Raleigh. Get that! Mr. Parker Raleigh, the guy’s uncle!”

Carton whistled softly. The mention of Parker Raleigh to anyone who doesn’t skip the financial pages was tantamount to quoting the cost of a naval program—or at least a couple of destroyers.

“Then that makes you the kid’s new scoutmaster?”

“The same. Which brings me to point number two. He isn’t a playboy in the usual sense. He’s not exactly a playboy, and he’s not wealthy. Not yet, he isn’t. That’s coming—the money, I mean—in a couple of months. If he marries he gets it right off. And that’s what’s got the relatives frothing at the mouth. They don’t want their family crest kicked around by a dame who’s not top drawer. Personally, I think it’s because they’re not enthusiastic about having a little oomph-and-hips gal becoming Mrs. Richard Raleigh and worming her heart into the family strong-box.”

“Did Van Pelt tell you that?”

“Unh-unh! That’s my idea. Van Pelt wasn’t doing much telling. He’s mainly worried about the Raleigh kid running around with thugs. He’s afraid that one of these days he’ll come floating down East River with baling wire where his tie ought to be.”

“And what’s he up to—running about with police characters?”

“Because of the terms of a will. Apparently his old man knew what he’d be like. Under the trust fund he gets just about enough to squeak along on until he’s twenty-six. That’s still a couple of months off. In the meantime he’s been spending a lot more money than the trust allows—a hell of a lot more. So he gets involved in a racket that pays. That’s what Van Pelt thinks anyway.”

Joe gave the operator May’s number. The voice that picked up the receiver sang, “Go-ud after-no-un. Gloucester-r-r Tow-e-r-r.”

Joe mimicked the sing song greeting. “Apart-o-ment four—o-ny-un,” and waited. There was no response. Then the operator said, “Miss Sands does not answer. Shall I leave a message?”

“Sure, sugar. Just tell her Mr. West called.”

He hung up. His wrist said three-fifteen. He went to the closet and brought out a gray tweed reversible topcoat.

“I have an appointment with Parker Raleigh in fifteen minutes at Hillman Hospital. Wonder what the old buzzard’s like.’’ He examined the coat. The tweed side appeared cleaner and he slipped an arm into one of the sleeves. Kierney, who had been watching the weather from the bed, suddenly came to life.

“Hey, what you think you’re doin’? That’s my coat.”

He reached for the coat, but Carton stopped him.

“Let him have it, James Michael, my boy,” he advised. “You won’t need it tonight. We’re Mr. South’s guests here until he decides to share the guineas. How about it, Joey?”

Joe’s bark was several notes higher than normal.

“Goshdarnit, stop calling me Joey!” he shouted.

At the door he realized he was hatless and returned to the closet for a faded Homburg. Plastic features modeled into a mask of melancholy, he handed one of the hundred-dollar bills to the Englishman. Carton held the bill with the tips of his fingers as though it were a dead rat. Then, with a resigned gesture, he shrugged, folded it twice, and put it in his pocket. He said, “ ‘The jingle of the guinea helps the hurt that honour feels.’ No sense thanking you for this, Joey. We’ll both sweat a lot of blood working it out.”

Joe slammed the door without replying.