Black-Eyed Stranger (3 page)

“You mean, of course, the ransom money,” Sam said, looking as dreamy as he could manage. “As a matter of fact, I think that was easy.”

“Have them throw it off a train,” said Baby. “I still think—”

“Been done before,” Sam interrupted. “Too old-fashioned, Baby. Naw, I had a way. Seems to me I had them send the banker's wife a long complicated rigamarole to follow. You know. She was to go to a place and find a note that told her to go to another place, and so on. Well, so they let her get started. Then, they just simply held her up, early in the trip.” His palms turned up. “Took it away from her.”

Ambielli made a murmuring sound. “Yeah,” said Baby, “but …”

“You don't like it?”

“Wasn't she followed?” Ambielli looked skeptical.

“No, because in my story they didn't dare.”

“That's plausible.”

“What if she was? Anyway?”

“Surprise?” said Ambielli.

“Sure.” Sam flicked a finger at the waiter's watching face. He'd had enough of this. He needed a break in the flow of talk. He felt confused and guilty, like a hunter who had shot over the limit without meaning to do so.

“It's not bad,” said Ambielli.

“Yeah,” said Baby Hohenbaum, “but a stick-up, that's a crime. You could—” His head turned. Crouching, he rose. His big paw closed over the waiter's arm. “You? You want something?”

“Never mind, Baby. Let him go, Baby.” Ambielli's voice was thin and disgusted.

“I want coffee,” Sam said.

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

“Listen, he came pussying up—”

“Let him go.”

The waiter went like a mouse to his hole. Baby leaned on a big hand. “But what if he heard something?” he whispered conspiratorily.

Black eyes met the red-brown eyes. Both pair were sorry. Sam twisted his mouth and shook his head.

Ambielli said wearily, “Sit down. Sit down.”

“Bad case of nerves.” Sam kept shaking his head. “Little dangerous?”

“Stupidity is always dangerous.” Lids were white in the tan face. Baby Hohenbaum sat without breath. He was scared. “Nearly as dangerous as being too smart,” said Ambielli.

“There's middle ground,” said Sam, pleasantly. He was scared, too.

He was glad when Nick, himself, appeared with the coffee. After greetings, after Ambielli had said, “I want a word, Nick, a little later.” After Nick had said, “Sure. Sure, boss,” and withdrawn, Sam Lynch, who had squirmed silently during all this, pulled his hand up from the seat of the booth slowly, and looked at what was in it.

His eyes remained, as they had been, half closed against the smoke of his cigarette. His hand remained steady for he knew how to ride a shock. He didn't often show surprise. He turned the piece of rotogravure, letting it drop off his fingers. “Anybody drop this?” he asked, keeping it light, keeping it easy.

Chapter 3

HE didn't need to see Baby's hand jump and then retreat. He didn't need to hear Ambielli say, “What is that, Sam?” with such lazy indifference.

How could he prove it? He could never prove it but he knew.

He put the piece of paper on the table, removing his hand, because he knew he could keep shock in the brain only so many seconds before the reaction ran down the nerves to the wrists, to the fingertips. “Picture,” he mumbled. “Cut out of the paper. Dulain. Oh, that Alan Dulain.”

There was a way to let the shock run through the body and out of him and he had found it. He let himself get angry. “That Dulain,” he repeated, angrily.

“You know him, Sam?”

“If you mean is he a friend of mine,” Sam snapped, “no. But I met him. I talked to him for an hour once. I cannot look at that face without wanting to—”

“What did he do to you?” Ambielli was amused and curious.

“Not a thing. Not a thing. That's the funny part of it. You ever take a dislike to anybody at first sight?” Sam ran his fingers through his hair. “I just cannot stomach the guy.”

“Why not, Sam?”

“You know who he is?” Ambielli did not react at all to the question. “He's a wealthy son …” Of what was in Sam's furious voice. “He's blue-blooded, second generation millionaire. Blood blues easy if there's money enough. He's got religion or the current equivalent. He's studying to be a do-gooder, and I hate his insides.”

Ambielli was laughing without making much noise.

“Yeah, it's ridiculous,” admitted Sam, able to grin. “At my age, to get steamed up about nothing. He's nothing. A kid. But I don't know. He's got himself attached to Miller and Milford.”

“Lawyers?”

“This kid's no lawyer. He's getting a degree or something. He's supposed to be getting experience. Or something. I don't know what he does up there. Runs errands. He gets around. Takes himself big. Big. Crime, he's interested in. The criminal type. Crime in society. Ugh, he's so damn silly.”

Ambielli laughed louder.

“Had me up in his office once,” Sam said. “Wanted to pump a little information out of me. Or so I guess. Honest to Hannah, I'm telling you, we were speaking English, both of us, but …” He shook his head.

“You give him any information, Sam?” Ambielli said, lightly, easily.

“If I'd wanted to bare my soul to that Dulain,” said Sam earnestly, “if I'd wanted to tell him all I know from A to Z, I couldn't do it. I couldn't communicate with him. It's like we don't live in the same world.” Sam held his head. “Listen, don't let me bore you with my troubles.” Now, he let his eye fall on the clipping. “So Dulain is going to get married,” he sneered. “Well, God pity the girl is all I can say. Where did this come from?”

“Do you know the girl, too, Sam?”

“Hm? No, I don't know her. Salisbury.”

It was an error to say the name. Knowledge jumped, in his head, and he was afraid it could be seen through the bone of his skull. It was in a word and the word followed the name. Inevitably. It danced there in his head. He tried to cut it out of his attention, but it stuck with thudding finality, the knowledge he had. How Charles Salisbury, who was wealthy, had made his money.

Salisbury's Biscuits.

For a minute, he was afraid he had said it. He looked across the table.

The little man, who looked like ashes but who burned within, was sitting quietly enough, and there was nothing to be read on his face at all.

Baby said, “Say, Sam, what's this mulberry? A kind of color?”

“A kind of red,” Sam said. He leaned back. He began blindly. “You know, boss, I make a living writing up odds and ends.” His eyes were out of focus.

“Odds and ends, Sam?” Softly.

“Got to keep my sources. You should realize.” Ambielli sat listening, listening for a great deal more than words. Sam could tell. “People do different things in this world,” Sam said. “Some are like me. Like to know. Like to watch. Like to understand. But they are lookers-on, members of the audience, not in the show. You know?”

Ambielli kept listening. He didn't say whether he knew. “And it's quite a show,” Sam grinned. “Or so I find it. I sure enjoy it.”

Then, Ambielli smiled. “You called me a disciplinarian, Sam. Shall I tell you the secret of discipline?”

Sam didn't answer.

“As I've found it?”

Sam didn't answer.

“The secret is this.
Before,
I never worry. But
after,
my punishment never fails.”

Sam didn't speak.

“Understand my system, Sam?” the voice pressed softly. “I take care of things
when
they happen.”

“Or
if,
” said Sam.

“If and when,” said Ambielli. The words were knives. The little man began to inch along his seat. “Now, I want to see Nick, so I'll say good-by. Nice to see you, Sam.”

“So long, Mr. Ambielli,” Sam's voice was careful. Every note and tone was careful. “Good luck with the roadhouse,” he said, most carefully.

The little man's hand on the big man's shoulder suggested that he wait. Then Ambielli walked away.

Sam thought a dog would have smelled the fear on both of them who remained in the booth. The power that little man generated in the dark of his spirit and sent out, tangible as heat, but cold as a knife, drew fear to the pores. Beads of sweat wreathed Baby's face, and he twitched. But he looked sideways with a certain pride, as if to say, “That's my boss.”

“Quite a little man,” Sam said gustily.

“He's murder. Murder.” Baby rubbed his palms on his coat.

And I, Sam thought bitterly, mockingly, know too much. But there wasn't time to sort it out and arrange it, now. Or check the pattern of his coming to know. He must ride the conclusion. He sent antennae to examine this lump beside him. How stupid was Baby Hohenbaum?

He leaned back and made himself limp as if with relief. “Quite a little man,” he murmured. “Yeah. You know anything about writing, Baby?”

“Who? Me?”

“It's a bug,” Sam said. “Like a germ, see? Bites you. Eats you.”

“Yeah?”

“Now I've thought of it, I got to get my mystery story out of the trunk again.”

“Yeah?” said Baby. He couldn't have been less fascinated.

“It's easy to work out the first part, you know. The way they picked up this banker. He had habits.” Sam drew triangles with a spoon handle.

“What banker?”

“Never mind,” Sam said. He spun the spoon. “I'm thinking about my work, Baby. My story.”

“Stories,” said Baby Hohenbaum, looking as if he were about to spit.

“If I ever write a book about your boss, I'll put you in it.”

“Huh?”

“For relief,” Sam said.

“Listen, Sam,” Baby's brow furrowed. “You wrote this story about this snatch, didn't you?”

“Sure. Sure.”

“You're smart.”

“Sure.”

“What did you do with the … who was it, again, that got snatched in this story?”

“The banker.” Sam was patient.

“Yeah. Well. Did he stay alive?”

Sam's jaw cracked. His cheek trembled. “If I know what you mean,” he said slowly, “you mean, did they hide him out and figure to let him go home once they collected. Or not?”

“Yeah. Or not?” said Baby. “That's what I mean. Or not?”

Sam didn't answer. He devoted himself to breathing easily, to making that effort.

“The thing is,” Baby pouted, “what would be the use? Believe me, a lot of trouble would be saved, Sam. You wouldn't need to bother with …”

“Groceries.” Sam shifted in the seat, his eyes fixed on the sausage finger that was scratching the tablecloth with a dirty nail. “Lots of things. I get what you mean, Baby. I … kept him alive,” he said feebly.

“Why?”

“For the happy ending, naturally,” said Sam savagely.

“Oh, yeah. In the
story.
”

Sam watched the finger smudging ashes in a pattern. “Anyhow,” he said feebly, “it's smarter to keep him alive.”

“Why?” said Baby Hohenbaum.

Sam said angrily. “Okay, I told you I couldn't finish it!” He clenched his hand and relaxed it again. “There's nothing to worry about, providing you fix it so they got a safe place. Safe, quiet, you know the kind of place.”

Let Baby tell him the kind of place!

“But,” pouted Baby, “they got to cover their faces and all trouble like that, and what's the difference? They'd still get the money.”

Sam felt his heart beating. It was pounding, although slowly, slowly, the blood surged. He thought, I'd better get out, out of here. I can't sit here much longer. He said brittlely, “I gave it a lot of thought, Baby. Believe me. The most danger is the pickup. After dark is best.”

“Naw,” said Baby, full of scorn. “You're old-fashioned, Sam.”

“That so? Okay.
You
write the book.” He shrugged. He leaned on the wall.

Baby's fat lips pulled open to laugh. “Great ladder, you, Sam. Listen, you said it already. You're smart. Habits. People do the same thing, same time, like once a week. Like …”

Sam looked stupid.

“Like music lessons, say,” pressed Baby. “Like …”

“Like going to school?”

“I mean, after school.”

“Like playing poker,” Sam went on with smooth speed. “People play poker once a week.”

“Who?”

“My banker. He always—”

“Oh, sure.”

“Of course, you have a car.”

“Sure.”

“Nothing to it,” said Sam bitterly. “Nothing at all. But I don't know how to finish the damn story.” His ears pricked. “Hell, I'll never finish it.” He leaned chin on hands mournfully. “I'm only kidding myself. That's all it is. Most people do, Baby. You know?”

That soft voice said something, down the room, near the kitchen door.

“The boss don't kid,” Baby said, looking around rather uneasily. “Well, take it easy, Sam. Don't get discouraged.” He brayed.

Sam reaned against the back of the booth. He made himself lazy. “So long,” he drawled, lifting his hand halfway to a salute. “See you around sometime.”

“So long, Sam,” said Ambielli over his shoulder pleasantly. Baby fell in behind him.

Fred, the waiter, came to clear the table, looking ruffled and defensive. “I don't have to take that from anybody, Mr. Lynch,” he said righteously. “Not anybody.” He gave Sam the check.

Sam, who had been leaning on his hand, lifted his head. “Am I stuck for Ambielli's lunch?” He was ready to bray at that.

Fred leaned down. “They ate on the house. I can quit, you know. If Nick wants to play around, I can quit. It ain't Mr. Ambielli. He's always perfectly polite. Always was. The bigger the man, the better the manners. You've heard that saying.” He looked superior. “Too bad, when you think how Mr. Ambielli used to travel. All he's got left is that roughneck, that fat Hohenbaum. Mr. Ambielli used to be a very dangerous man, Mr. Lynch, but he always had manners. I'll say that. Looks terrible, don't he? Sick, I mean. Funny, to see him down …”