Читать книгу Murder on the Rocks - Talmage Powell - Страница 6

ARTIE SAID, “My God, a stiff! You didn’t tell me I was heading for anything like this.”

“Think I was keeping it a big quiet secret just for private shudders?”

“Well, no. So what happens now?”

“It was a fast trip around the track, Artie,” I said, and fished my money clip from my pocket. I pulled out five tens and handed them to him. “The race is over. Go buy yourself some hay.”

“Half of that’s okay.”

“Never argue with a man in a generous mood. Anyhow, the other twenty-five’s for walking out of here and forgetting you ever came.”

His eyes stared at the dead body of Silvio Contreras. Wetting his lips, he said, “If the cops found out it’d be my license. Not to mention the bond. That desk clerk could have made me on the way up.”

“He stank like a wine cask, Artie. When we leave we’ll go down together. If he says anything, the guest was asleep. Or passed out.”

Artie’s fingers scratched the side of his chin. “Okay, if you say so. What’s here for you?”

“Nothing, probably.” I looked around the littered room. Silvio hadn’t torn it apart, someone else had. Bending over the body, I pulled it over on one side looking for a bullet hole or a knife gash, but there was nothing. I let the body roll back. It settled like a sack of wet sand.

Artie said, “Maybe he died in his sleep, a heart attack. It happens all the time.”

“Not to guys his age.” I moved away from the bed, stepped over the tan leather suitcase that Silvio Contreras had carried for the last time, and walked to the wash basin. It had a single water faucet and a small eroded bar of soap, now dry. On the shelf below the cracked mirror lay a safety razor and a blue leatherette box with rounded corners. Beside it stood a small bottle with an etched glass top. The colorless liquid smelled like grain alcohol. I replaced the stopper and opened the leatherette case. Inside, on the black velvet, lay a hypodermic syringe. The plunger was at the bottom of the barrel and the syringe was empty. I lowered the top, went back to the bed, and bent over the face of Silvio Contreras. The pupils of his eyes were needle holes. One of the alkaloid drugs: morphine, heroin, or cocaine. M and H were used in an alcohol solution. One of them had killed him.

His shirt cuffs were unbuttoned. Pulling up his left sleeve, I saw small scars dotting his arm from his wrist to his shoulder. I pulled down the sleeve and Artie said, “A hophead, huh? One of the bang boys.”

“And a big bang kicked him off. All the way to the moon.”

“He did it himself?”

“I couldn’t even guess.”

“Then let’s get going.”

“Two minutes.”

Working fast, I gave the room another going-over: mattress, pillows, chairstuffing, drawers, even the shoulder padding in Silvio’s coat. Mopping my face, I looked around the room for one last time. If the emerald had been there, it was gone by now. I wasn’t even slightly curious over where it might be. The question was one for the police.

Switching off the light, I left the room behind Artie, closed the door, and polished the doorknob with my handkerchief. I also polished the desk clerk’s master key and carried it down the steps between my knuckles. Artie went out of the front door and I flipped the key onto the clerk’s ledger. Without looking up, he wheezed at me. The wine fumes were thicker than an Italian wedding.

Artie walked beside me to the end of the block and said, “You’re walking out of it? Just like that?”

“Any better ideas?”

“From a pay phone I could tip the precinct.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I was involved in finding him because finding him was supposed to be done quietly, without publicity. And there’s also an angle you’re better off not knowing about—connected with the client’s reasons.”

“If you say so.”

A cab had spotted us. It veered toward the curb and slowed. I said, “If you’re worried about his family, Artie, his prints are on file and by tomorrow afternoon he’ll probably be identified. Then the story will be out. All I’m asking for is time enough to warn my client so that he can make other plans.”

Artie said, “Don’t worry about me.”

The cab door opened and I got inside. “University Club,” I said.

At the Club I got out, walked down to the Statler, and took a cruising cab in case I had been tailed by anyone, which seemed all too probable. I gave the driver the address of Iris Sewall on Philips Place.

As I climbed the brick steps my watch read a quarter to nine. It had been a long hard day and now it was quitting time. Tracy Farnham’s apartment was dark but its mate was lighted and the curtains were open. Standing in front of the door I could see into the living room. Music drifted faintly through the glass panes. It was providing a sweet, romantic setting for the pair on the couch. Iris was stretched out on the sofa, a drink in her hand. Beside her, on the edge of the sofa, sprawled a man in a sport shirt. He was leaning over her, bracing himself with one hand. As I watched, he leaned a little farther and kissed her. Her free hand reached up and rumpled his hair. The man smiled and kissed her again. I knew what Paul Sewall looked like, and this was not her husband.

I leaned on the buzzer and waited. No footsteps, no response. I pushed it again and this time I heard a man walking toward the door. He stopped just on the other side and called, “Who’s there?”

“Delivery boy.”

A pause. “We aren’t expecting anything. Who the hell are you?”

“Not much of anybody, really, but you might open the door. Or failing that, tell Iris her hired hand’s come back. With news.”

The footsteps went away. I peeked through the window and saw him talking to Iris. Suddenly she sat up, brushed back her hair, and began arranging her skirt. He walked back to the door, the snub chain rattled, and the door swung inward.

“Come in,” he said grudgingly. “I didn’t know Iris was expecting anyone. She didn’t tell me.”

“Does she usually?”

As I walked past him his face was ugly. I heard the door close. Turning to the windows, I pulled the drape cord and the curtains glided across the front windows. To Iris I said, “That isn’t really for me, honey, you understand.”

“How careless of me,” she said. “I won’t make that mistake again, but ordinarily the neighborhood’s free of Peeping Toms.”

“Perfectly understandable. You and the night and the music, and what’s a body to do?” I felt a little giddy. The wine fumes from the Hotel Flora, perhaps.

I turned and looked at her guest. He was stockily built, handsome in a weak sort of way, and his eyes were smoldering. Dark eyes and not quite enough chin. His ears stood out from the side of his head like the boy in the saloon picture captioned Me Worry? Not really as bad but I could see it was a standing problem.

I said, “Somehow, during the course of our afternoon chat, I got the impression that our business was on the confidential side. If my impression was wrong he’s welcome to listen. Otherwise, shall we hold it to a twosome?”

She looked up languidly. “Tracy,” she said, “would you mind leaving us for a little while?”

He grunted and began walking toward the front door.

“Have a jar of Yogurt and a few pushups,” I called. “It’ll take about that long.”

“You go to hell,” he snarled, then the door closed.

I turned back to Iris. She leaned forward, butted her cigarette, and lighted a fresh one. “Now would you mind terribly just saying what you have to say? Unless you just make a specialty of inconvenient entrances.”

I went over to the wall and rapped on it. “Thick,” I said. “Solid. But I’ll speak softly in case Peter Rabbit’s listening.”

“Do that,” she said, and began to laugh. It made her face even more fetching. When the laughter ended she said, “You might as well sit down. I have the feeling this may take a little time.”

“Very little.”

“You don’t seem to get along with Tracy.”

“I’m just not the neighborly sort. I wouldn’t lend him a jigger of Cointreau if his prize soufflé depended on it.”

“There’s that side of him, yes,” she said, “but any number of women know the other—to their cost.”

I let that one drift while I took her money out of my pocket. “The ride’s over,” I said. “You’d better get yourself the law.” I let the money fall on the chow table.

Her face went white. “What’s happened?”

“He’s dead. Deader than Jeff Davis. On his bed in a Chinatown flop. The Hotel Flora.”

“How? When did it happen?”

“Last night. Today. Who the hell knows? Morph poisoning. Or heroin. An overdose, Iris. And it takes a big jolt of hop to kick a junkie all the way. You forgot to tell me Silvio used the needle.”

Her voice was dull. “I didn’t know.” She stared down at the money. “So you’re all through? You’re walking out?”

I sat down on the sofa. Someone’s highball was on the chow table. I picked it up and drained it. “Death changes everything, Iris. So far as the chase went I was with you all the way. If Silvio took the emerald, he’s dead. He can’t give it back and no one can make him talk. Not even the U. S. Marines.”

She raised her face and stared at me. “You didn’t find the emerald?”

Glancing down at the two five-hundred-dollar bills, I flicked one with my index finger. “The search had already been made. The room looked like a henhouse after a long night with the foxes. If the emerald was ever there, it’s gone now.”

“Someone took it from him.”

“You’re jumping at conclusions. Someone ripped the room apart looking for it. The emerald or something else. Maybe Silvio’s private cache of happy dust. To a junkie a find like that would be a pearl beyond price.”

Her left thumb was tapping against the edge of the cushion jerkily. She became aware of it and glanced down but the thumb kept on tapping. “The police—do they know?”

“Not through me,” I told her. “We’re holding out on them—me and the PI who found Silvio for me. Silvio’s prints are on file—from visa applications at the Department. His body will be found, probably by tomorrow. By evening he’ll be identified.” I got up from the sofa, slowly and a little unsteadily. “That’s how much time your father has to make other plans regarding the emerald. At that, it may be an overestimate.”

“He’ll be ruined,” she said.

“He’s a diplomat,” I said. “Your father didn’t get to be an ambassador without knowing how to handle himself. There may be some tense days ahead but I wouldn’t get all distraught over what’s likely to happen to him.” I took a deep breath to steady myself. “That’s my last piece of advice, Iris, and it costs nothing. Oh, yes, there were some minor expenses. Fifty dollars to the PI for finding Silvio and then keeping his mouth shut. Mail me a check sometime. The taxi fares and the buck to the desk clerk I’ll charge off to business expenses next April.”

She looked up at me, making an effort to gather herself together. After a while she said, “There’s nothing that could persuade you to keep searching for the emerald?”

“Look,” I said earnestly, “I’m not a detective, a strong-arm boy, or even a cop. I’m just a reasonably competent counselor on Federal tax problems. If you have any next spring I’ll be glad to have your business. As for the emerald, I never heard of it. If a man’s lying dead in a doghouse in Chinatown, nobody’s told me and I don’t want to be told. Monday morning when i read about it in the papers it’ll come as a complete surprise. So in answer to, your question, the reply is nothing. Nothing at all.”

She uncoiled from the sofa and her arms reached across my shoulders. One hand bent my head forward to meet her lips and we kissed. Her lips were full and warm, tense and yet supple.

Finally she moved her head to one side and said quietly, “Nothing could persuade you? Not even this?”

I took her arms from my shoulders. “It seems a little too easy to come by. But perhaps I’m wrong.”

“You son of a—”

I shrugged. “Even if I were interested I’d want something resembling an exclusive arrangement, only your promises wouldn’t be binding. Not so long as Paul Sewall has any claim on you.”

“He hasn’t,” she said. “He has no claim at all.”

“You’ve been too long at the Fair, Iris. Get back to earth. If Rabbit Ears next door wants to play with fate, that’s his problem. I’m not planning to make it mine. For all I know, the guy who killed Silvio knows my name, or saw me, or one of his buddies did. He might take it badly that I blundered into the thing at all.”

Turning, I began to walk toward the door. The carpet nap seemed thicker than ever. I could hardly drag my shoes through it. It clung like quicksand.

Behind me she asked, “Where are you going?”

I turned, surprised, and looked back at her. “Home,” I said. “With a pint of bonded and a nembutal I ought to be able to forget all about Silvio by morning.”

One finger touched the corner of her mouth. Slowly she said, “What about me?”

“That could be a little harder.”

I turned the knob and walked down the path. At the bottom of the brick steps I turned and looked back. There was a light showing through Tracy Farnham’s Venetian blinds. I thought about knocking on his door and telling him everything was all right now and he could get back to work on the beige sofa, but the steps looked too steep and I was awfully tired.

From there I wandered over to Wisconsin, feeling the moist warm air wrap itself around my face like a steam towel, hearing the monotonous throb of air-conditioners from the houses along the street. Against the lighter sky the maple trees looked like hangman’s oaks, torpid with summer heat. Nothing was moving.

On Wisconsin I turned down toward the river past restaurants, silver shops, antique stores, and groceries that charge a fee just for looking around. As I walked I could smell money in the air and I was sorry that so little of it was mine.

At Martin’s I stopped and got into a taxi. Then I went home and got into bed. Before I fell asleep the phone began to ring but I put a pillow over it and turned out the light. If Iris Sewall wanted Tracy Farnham removed from her premises she could call the Seventh Precinct. Rugged boys and only two blocks away.

At three-fifteen the door buzzer dragged me out of bed and I staggered through the living room to a table lamp and turned it on. Then I opened the door. A man rode me back into the room, a big man in an ice cream suit, a blue polka-dot tie, and a thirty-dollar Panama hat. Stepping back, he closed the door. He had thick black eyebrows and a sullen olive skin. He came toward me with rigid, strangled steps that suggested a vise around his hips. No vise, though, just the memory of a bullet-smashed hip socket. Tip Cadena, one of Vance Bodine’s pressure boys.

In a mild voice Cadena said, “Try answering your phone, friend. It could pay off in friendship.”

“Or a sore ear.”

From his pocket he took a short nail file and began to push back the thumb cuticle. Without looking up, he said, “That was Paul Sewall calling a while back. Want to hear what he had to say?”

“Not particularly.”

“He says to lay off, friend. Off the wife.”

“He’s way off the track, friend,” I said.

“He don’t think so.”

“That worries me a lot. Any minute I’ll start shaking all over.”

“Easy, friend. I got no argument with you. Not yet. For now I’m just passing the word.” He looked up and spread his hands.

“What’s behind it?” I asked. “Or don’t you know?”

He rolled back on his heels, balancing himself. His knees gave a little and his weight went onto the balls of his feet. Kidding around like a boxer in his corner, but poised and ready. He looked strong enough to break my back with his thumbs.

His head slanted to one side. “You want to know? Well, there’s you driving her car home from the waterfront where you keep your boat, and leaving her place an hour later. Then you had to go back again tonight. So it ain’t all just rumor, friend. It ain’t no whispering campaign some old-maid neighbor dreamed up. It’s all facts.”

“The boy next door doesn’t worry him?”

“Farnham? Not lately. It’s guys like you that make him really grind his teeth: not too ugly, educated, and no question what side of the bed to sleep on.”

“The lady plays too many games for me. Tell him that.”

One arm stretched out and dropped the hand on my left shoulder. It was a big hand. The fingers began to play with the muscles of my shoulder. The pain was dull. Low pitch for now, but he could build it until I was screaming for mercy. When Cadena was a tank sergeant on Luzon he had pulled the head off a dead Jap to win a ten-cent bet.

I thought about driving my knee into his belly but he was fast and too hard. I would probably just break my kneecap.

The pain was crawling up the side of my neck, probing into my spine. I gritted my teeth and ducked out from under. He just stood there looking at me, a slow smile on his lips.

“Hurts, huh?” he said.

“It hurts and it makes me mad. Don’t underrate me, Cadena. I’m not one of the hophead spooks you slap around for laughs.”

His eyes studied me, deciding if I was bluffing. Finally he shrugged and said, “No, you ain’t like one of them. The way it comes to me you’re supposed to be smart. I told you to lay off the girl. So let’s see how smart you are.”

He dropped the nail file in his pocket, turned and walked toward the door, moving with those odd, anky-losed steps. Opening the door, he went into the hall. The door closed.

I went over to the liquor cabinet and put a fifth to my lips. Cold out of the bottle the liquor tasted like steel. I shivered. I wasn’t planning a big drunk. Just enough alcohol to get the blood moving again, however slowly. Putting away the bottle, I thought about latching the snub chain in case Cadena had any afterthoughts. Only it seemed kind of useless. If he wanted in, he could poke his hand through the panel as if it were wet cardboard. Tough. But Vance Bodine’s lieutenants had to be tough. If you gambled with Bodine and lost the bet, you paid and no argument. Nobody welshed and lived. And so Vance Bodine lived like a baron on a white-fenced estate in Fairfax County’s lush bluegrass, gave bigger parties than a movie magnate, and collected tribute from his fiefs.

I thought of Tip Cadena and shivered again. He must have been tailing Iris today, watching the Georgetown duplex. Tip or one of his monkeys. Or maybe Iris was only part of the reason for this little call. Maybe Vance Bodine had assigned his boys to my tail at the Hotel Flora. After all, Bodine supplied people like Silvio with their kicks. Maybe Silvio was doing a job in repayment and here I was messing into a theft and a murder. Or I could be just dreaming up a lot of nightmares for myself. I sure as hell hoped that was all they were.

Turning off the light, 1 went back to the bedroom and sat down on the bed. Hogan’s, I thought bitterly. Why the hell did I have to stop there for lunch when the icebox held plenty of coldcuts? Why, after all these years, did Jean Ross remember me as a fellow both reliable and discreet, and feel obliged to impart my name to Iris Calvo Sewall?

Keep out of the public places, I told myself. The office and the ketch, they’re for you. Exclusively.

Lying back, I touched my numb shoulder. Gently. It would be a week before his prints wore off.

Finally the liquor began to work and I fell asleep.

Sometime during the night a big Siamese cat clawed its way onto the bed. Its eyes were milky sapphires and its fur was brushed silk. It curled up on my face. I tried to push it off but I was too weak, and so it lay there, smothering me until dawn.