Black-Eyed Stranger (14 page)

Salisbury could not focus. “You had the impression that he was large,” nagged Alan. Now he could see the pouting mouth, the red hurt baby face. He shook his head. “How about his voice?”

“It was falsetto,” Salisbury said.

“Say something falsetto.”

Baby Hohenbaum growled, “Huh?”

Ambielli began to shake with silent laughter.

“Like this.” Alan squeaked.

Baby stared. “You go to hell,” he said sullenly.

Ambielli wiped an eye with a finger. “Excuse me,” he said, almost strangled by mirth.

Charles Salisbury turned his head. “You can sit in my house and laugh?” he said lightly.

“Excuse me.” Ambielli repeated the words, but what he threw at Salisbury was not remorse and not apology. There was a thin edge on the words, a dangerous anger, like the cutting edge on a piece of steel, like a knife. And it cut. Salisbury suddenly saw the screaming core of this little man. The thing inside that cried, I do what I want. I laugh if I please. I … I … I … He thought, the man's a threat walking. He's like a bomb.
This is the man.

“You haven't answered, sir. This is a large man,” Alan fussed. “Even if you can't identify, could it have been Hohenbaum who robbed you?”

“I don't know,” Salisbury said quietly, in quite a different voice, “whether it was. Yes, it could have been.”

“Robbed you?” murmured Ambielli. “Interesting. Rather a clever method, eh?” He cocked his head. “Wasn't that in a book, Baby?”

“What book?” said Alan in flat surprise. Alan was lost.

“Yeah,” said Baby. “I think it was, boss.” The big shoulders were beginning to heave. But the finger quieted him.

“Why do you think she isn't here, since I paid?” Salisbury was able to speak quietly. His despair was quieter than his hope had been. (If it was this man, explosive, a thin shell of soft words around that brutal “I,” then he had no hope.)

“I really couldn't say,” Ambielli was pleasant. And aloof. “I know nothing about your daughter, Mr. Salisbury.”

“We don't know nothing about it,” chimed Baby Hohenbaum almost indignantly.

Warner came back from the phone. “Somebody will check. Office says Reilly is on his way up here.” There was more he could say. His eyes rolled with secrets. Alan's eyes left his face uncertainly.

“Have you taken this to the police?” It was Ambielli, purring.

“No.”

Ambielli's finger was up. “The money was, of course, marked?” Salisbury heard himself groan. Ambielli said, “Or recorded by number at least?” Nobody answered him. Ambielli clicked his tongue. “You should go to the police, you know.” He sounded almost reproachful. But it was mockery.

Alan said, “We know.”

“Then I shall expect them,” Ambielli sighed. “All this will have to be repeated. All this nonsense …” the words began to bite suddenly, “about a grudge.”

“I think you may expect the police,” said Alan.

“To inquire? About a grudge?”

“To inquire. Whether you have Katherine Salisbury.”

Ambielli smiled. “You ask me questions. But you pay no attention to the answers, Mr. Dulain.”

“You haven't told me where you were last night.”

Ambielli shrugged. “I was at home. Baby was with me.” The growl began to come out of the big man. But Ambielli rose. “So you thought I might have had a grudge?” he said thoughtfully. “So you inquire. You must be desperate.” The mahogany-colored eyes rested on Salisbury curiously. “She hasn't perhaps eloped? I see you don't think so.” He kept a faint frown.

The phone rang.

It was for Alan, and he went to answer. Salisbury let his breath go. How long would he gasp and feel his heart stop at a bell? How long before the heart would agree with the brain that she'd never call?

Ambielli was standing, looking, listening. Hunting?

Alan put the phone down and Warner, who had been beside him, faded out of the foyer, somehow. He was, and then with no fuss he suddenly was not there. Alan came back into the long room and said briskly, “I think that is all, for now, Ambielli.” He sounded like a man who had another appointment.

Hohenbaum was ready to be insulted at this dismissal, but Ambielli only smiled. “Any time. Anything I can do, any time, gentlemen.” He seemed agreeable but in no hurry. “If you will only approach me directly. And perhaps, next time, at my office. I, by the way, am buying the property I so luckily and with so many witnesses went to see on Wednesday.”

There was mockery in it, somehow. “If you …”

Salisbury choked on the threat. What could he threaten? They had learned nothing, for sure. There was no proof.

“Yes, Mr. Salisbury?” The threat reversed. The little man stood with his head turned over his shoulder.

“If you are behind …”

“Behind whom?” The vowel in the pronoun vibrated and sang.

Salisbury shook his head helplessly.

Alan licked his Up and said, “Just a minute …”

“Yes?”

“Let him go,” croaked Salisbury. “Let him leave here.” He thought in a moment he would attack that insolence bodily.

Alan said, “We'll go to the police, you know.” He sounded feeble. “You don't mind?” It wasn't even a threat. It was nothing at all. Unless it was delay.

But Ambielli did not delay. He began to walk toward the foyer, not looking back, and Baby followed. Phinney was ready to let him out the door. Alan licked his Up again. “Wait!”

And Ambielli flashed around to face him and said, sharply and shockingly, “Do you know Sam Lynch?”

But the shock came a little late. There was only the shortest interval for him to examine the flavor of their surprise. On top of his words, from the inside door to the foyer, Sam Lynch walked in.

He stopped in his tracks. “Well,” he said, “Boss? Fancy meeting you here?”

Ambielli's head was lowered and his eyes, directed upward, were turned high in their sockets. His hand moved freezing the big animal beside him who had begun to swell. Ambielli drawled, “Fancy?”

The cold went down Sam's spine. His head swiveled as Ambielli walked by. Baby walked by. They went out the door. Reilly, who had come in the back way behind Sam, said, astonished, “Hey, was that
Ambielli?
Up
here?
What for?”

“To ask,” muttered Sam.

“To answer,” Alan snapped.

“Bet my life,” Sam said.

Chapter 14

SAM sat down.

He had the impression that Alan Dulain was barking at him, and then barking at this man Reilly, and at somebody else who was there. There was a general sense of barking and confusion, but all he could think about was the fact that he was marked to die.

He thought, it couldn't have worked out more disastrously if it had been planned this way. He thought, this Warner who had let them in the kitchen should have mentioned who was there. Probably it was planned this way.

As he had said to the girl, “Ambielli's got principles. They are a little off, slightly out of whack, you know. But he's got them. He'd kill me just for telling. There's a kind of cockeyed point of honor mixed up in that. For this, for you and me out here, he'd kill me. And no question. But not until he is sure. It's a little cockeyed, but he's got his reputation. He'll take care to discipline the proper party. It's beneath his dignity to make a mistake, and a man like Ambielli has got his dignity. A little out of whack, maybe, but it counts. It operates.”

He said to himself, “That's torn it.” Ambielli would be sure, after this.

When he had wakened, around midnight, Friday, he had felt like blushing for the stuff he'd let fall out of his mouth. Talked like a drunk, he'd thought. The girl had fallen asleep, a warm little heap on the other bunk. He'd felt meltingly tender toward her and that was embarrassing. He'd blown the lamp out.

All was so still. He'd done a reckless thing, to go to sleep. But no one had come. She was safe. He'd drowsed in the dark, smiling over her safety, which was his secret. He'd slept again.

Not until the light of Saturday were they awake at the same time. When she told him what she'd been thinking Sam listened. He narrowed his eyes and hardened his face, because she was so pinkly and warmly rumpled with steeping and he got the melting feeling again.

He'd agreed. Sure. It woas reasonable. More or less disguised as she was, she did have a better chance of getting home without Sam. “That's if you believe there's a big bad wolf. I've got a feeling you do, now.”

She said, “Unless I believe it, I can't understand you.”

“Can you understand me?” he'd teased. She nodded, and he'd felt his heart curl. “That's more than
I
can say.” He'd grinned at her. “I guess you're right, sister. I'm poison to you.”

Of all things, she'd said, “I'm sorry.”

He went out and put the coffee on. He shaved. They ate.

After a while, she'd said, “When may I go, Sam? Now?”

So he told her. She was right, all right. But he said, “Don't you see I feel like I'm deaf and blind? A man like me, locked up out here, Thursday, Friday, and no news. It's driving me crazy. I didn't dare leave you. Now, though, if Ambielli knew about this place, he'd have been here by now. Or so I judge. I'll have to go by myself, first.”

Oh, she'd wept and she'd howled. He'd said, “No. I've got to look around. I can't send you by yourself when I'm deaf and I'm blind. And I don't know what's happening or what you're walking into. Now quit that. I can't do it. Listen, I stuck my neck out so Ambielli wouldn't get you. That much I'm not going to undo. I should die for nothing?”

“Oh, Sam.”

“All right. You're right. The way it is, either one of us is safer alone.” Then, he'd said all that about Ambielli's principles.

But she'd wept and she'd howled. Finally, he'd put her aside and got out the door and locked it against her. And listened to her howl.

He was sorry. But it was the only thing he could do. She couldn't get out, he knew. So, in case he never got back to let her out, he'd put the second key to the door and a note saying what it was down in the coffee can. Where she'd get to it in time. Down under the coffee. It was the best he could do. He was no man of action, no hero. He was a man, though, who had to know. Couldn't stand this blind stuff any longer.

Couldn't send her walking out into Ambielli's arms. Come back with the cops if he had to, he thought. But maybe he wouldn't have to. It was an awful slippery world. All kinds of things kept happening. And he'd had no news. Ambielli could be lying in the morgue, for all he knew. Sooner or later, Ambielli was going to go to work on disciplining Emanuel, and one of them would end up in the morgue. Who could tell? Who could tell, from here? He had to know.

So, he took his car out of the shelter, a roof with legs was all it was and took the run up the rutted place dug in the slope. It was a leafy green morning with spots like golden dollars dancing on the ground.

No one would hear her howling. It was April. The lake cabins were empty. The weather was chancy. It was a gamble. He was trying to get away from doom. Any gamble was a good gamble. Any gamble at all. He jumped into the soup and he was a fallen fly in the soup but he was bound to struggle.

Sitting in Salisbury's chair, Sam thought, now, it had not been very heroic. Heroes didn't act like flies. Were supposed to walk up to doom and look it in the eye. He thought, well, I got a good view, now.

He'd made it to his place, all right, all the way down through the city that was so beautiful in the morning. His rooms were flat and stale and strange. He didn't know why he'd come there. But he went to the trouble of borrowing a gun from a friend of his on the top floor. George didn't know, yet, he'd loaned it. The gun was in Sam's pocket. Much good it would be. Sam was no marksman.

Then he'd mooched around. Listening. This Reilly approached him in Nick's. What a waste of histrionics, all that scene. Sam playing so innocent, playing so baffled. Why should he talk to Alan Dulain? Why should he go to this uptown place? Then, Sam playing his curiosity was getting the better of him. That was in character. Such a good touch. Sam had been pretty proud of his act. And he wanted to see Dulain, at the Salisburys', where he'd be at the heart of it, and deaf and blind no longer. So, he played letting curiosity get the better of him. He figured it was a gamble. Nick might not tell. Any gamble was a good one.

Flies in the soup probably kid themselves they'll make it.

He'd thought, better to be dragged there than be seen going under his own steam. He'd thought to judge on the spot whether he'd have to tell them where she was.

Well, now he knew. He'd have to tell. So much was settled. And he was going to die. Oh, they'd fetch her home, all right, and that part was a relief.

But Sam didn't want to die. He wanted to stick around. He didn't want to leave the show. It was so damned marvelous, he didn't want to be deaf and blind and know no news forever. He sat in the chair, looking at the floor. Even the threads in the carpet were marvelous, marvelous.

But he knew he'd have to tell where she was and they'd go fuming out there, making noises, and
she'd
be okay. But Sam would die. They couldn't get Ambielli for anything. Ambielli hadn't done anything. How could they?

Maybe Sam Lynch would walk in terror a little while. That would be all. Ambielli had his reputation and he was raw and touchy and Ambielli wouldn't skip it or laugh it off. He couldn't. Sam couldn't expect it.

If these people would keep Sam Lynch covered but they wouldn't. Couldn't. He didn't expect that of Alan Dulain. Or of that poor father. He knew
they
weren't going to figure him for any hero. No, he couldn't expect it. For a minute, he thought, wait. They
could
lock him up. And they'd probably be glad to. Put Sam Lynch in a nice safe cell. They'd be justified. They'd have a right.