I'll Get You For This (15 page)

  Tim nudged him. "Shut up," he said.

  "That's all right," I said, but I knew my face had gone white. "I'm not kidding myself what those heels have done to her. Well, they'll pay for it." I lit a cigarette while the other two exchanged glances. "Any ideas how we can get her out?" I asked suddenly, looking at Davis.

  He gaped at me. "Get her out?" he repeated. "It can't be done. There just isn't any way of getting her out. That jail's like a fort, and Flaggerty has about twenty guards around the outside. I went down there with Coppinger and they wouldn't let me in. They're reckoning you'll try to get her out. They've got a couple of searchlights rigged on the roof, and every guard has a Thompson. They've even got dogs patrolling. Not a chance."

  I suddenly felt better. I grinned at him.

  "I'm getting her out of that jail," I said.

  "I'd like to know how you're going to do it," Davis said, his eyes opening.

  "Is this place on the main road?" He nodded. "It stands back a quarter of a mile from State Highway Four. You can see it from the road as you leave town."

  "I'll go out and look it over," I said. "When do you reckon Coppinger will be along?"

  "About an hour," Davis said. "I'll drive you over to the jail and pick up Coppinger on his way out. You can travel the way you travelled last night."

  "Okay," I said, and took out Bat's .38 Police Special. It was a good gun, but I wished I had my Luger. I checked it over, then shoved it down the waist-band of my trousers.

  Still want to be mixed up in this?" I asked Davis.

He looked surprised. "Why, sure," he said.

"I'm asking you because from now on there'll be no backing out. It'll be a fight to the finish."

He scratched his head, then shrugged. "I'll stick."

I looked across at Tim.

"And you?"

He nodded.

"That's fine," I said, and meant it.

I went to the door. Davis followed me.

  Coppinger was a little guy, about forty years old, with a leathery face and a black moustache. His eyes were blue, sharp and cold. He looked sleepy, but there was something about him that told me he knew more than most guys awake.

  "She's in a spot," he said, when he finally got seated. I don't know what they've done to her, but they've done plenty." He shook his head, and took out a bag of Bull Durham smoking tobacco and a packet of brown papers. He rolled himself a cigarette. "She acts like she's already dead."

  The hair on the back of my neck bristled. "What did she say?"

  He lit the limp cigarette, let it dangle out of the side of his mouth.

  "She said she killed Herrick," he told me in a flat voice. "That's all she did say. Although I was alone with her, although I kept telling her I was working for you, she just wouldn't bite. 'I killed him,' she kept saying. 'Leave me alone. I killed him and there's nothing you can do about it.' " He shook his head again. "She's a goner, Cain. There's nothing I can do for her. We can plead not guilty, but we can't make a fight of it."

  "Okay," I said, "stick around. See her as much as you can, and keep working on her. I wanted to be sure we couldn't beat the rap. Now, I know what to do."

He looked at me thoughtfully.

  "I've heard about you," he said. "You've got a reputation. It won't get that girl anywhere if you try violence. They're going to bring her to trial. If she looks like sliding through their fingers, she'll meet with an accident. I know Killeano and Flaggerty. Those boys won't stop at anything, and I mean anything. The election's too close. They've got to clean up Herrick's murder before then. So be careful how you step."

  I nodded. "I'll be careful."

  "Thinking of getting her out?" he asked, after a pause.

  I looked at Jed Davis, who was sitting across the room.

  He nodded.

  "That's the idea," I said. "I went out there this afternoon and had a look. It'll be tough."

  "You won't get her out alive," Coppinger said, "if you get her out at all."

  "But that s our only chance."

  "I know." He stroked his nose, stared down at his feet. "Even if you got inside help, it'd be impossible."

  I eyed him. "What inside help?"

  He lifted his narrow shoulders. "There's a guard I know …" he began, then shrugged. "What's the good? It couldn't be done."

  I slammed my fist on the table. "It's got to be done!" I exploded. "What about the guard?"

  "A fellow named Tom Mitchell. Flaggerty's fooling around with his wife. Mitchell knows, but he can't do anything. He'd like to get even if he could. You might talk to him."

  "I have to be careful whom I talk to," I said.

  Coppinger nodded. "Mitchell's safe. He's aching to put one over Flaggerty. But I don't think he could be much use except to give you the lay-out of the jail. I wouldn't let him know too much."

I turned to Davis.

"See this guy, and bring him down to the wharf when it's dark. I'll talk to him."

Davis nodded, got up and went out.

  I slid two hundred bills over to Coppinger. "There's more to come," I said. "Keep with that kid."

  He pushed them back. "I'm doing this for fun," he said. "I've been hoping someone smart and tough enough would blow into town and crack Killeano. I'm not taking payment for having a front row seat. Something tells me you'll crack him."

  "I think I will," I said, and shook hands.

  After he had gone, I sat down and stared out of the window and watched the Conch fishermen preparing their boats for the night's fishing. I thought about Miss Wonderly, and the more I nought about her, the worse I felt. I remembered the way she looked sitting on the raft at Dayden Beach. I remembered the way she looked lying in the sand when I was grilling the spareribs. It seemed a long time ago. Then I remembered Bat's moronic face and Killeano saying, "Do you think you could handle her?" And Bat saying, "I guess I could sort of try." I felt bad, all right.

  The next three hours dragged away, and by the time it was dark I was lower than a snake's belly.

  Tim looked in about eight o'clock, gave me an evening paper. The Herrick killing was smeared over the front page. There was a picture of Miss Wonderly. She looked cute. They called her the Blonde Killer.

  They had the confession in full, and I read it. It was cock-eyed enough to sound true. Miss Wonderly said she and I had returned to Palm Beach Hotel, and had had a lot of drinks. I was sore because Herrick wanted me to leave town. I said I'd show him he couldn't talk that way to me, and Miss Wonderly admitted she goaded me to call him, thinking I was bluffing. I called Herrick and asked him over. He came. I was drunk by then. We were supposed to have quarrelled and Herrick got angry. We fought, and Miss Wonderly hit Herrick on the head with my gun. Herrick fell down and bust his head open on the fire curb. We passed out, and woke the next morning to find Herrick dead.

  That was the story, and it was signed. The signature was shaky and indistinct. I felt like hell looking at it.

  Tim came back after a while to say Davis was waiting for me at the end of the wharf. He had Mitchell with him.

  I went down.

  It was dark, and the stars reflected on the still water of the harbour. There was no one around. At the end of the wharf I found Davis with a big, beefy man who had copper written all over him.

  "This is Mitchell," Davis said.

  I stepped up to the man, peered at him. I couldn't see much of him in the dim light, but he didn't look as if he would give me any trouble. He peered right back at me.

  I didn't beat about the bush. "I'm Cain," I said. "How do you like that?"

  He gulped, looked at Davis, then back at me.

  "How am I supposed to like it?" he asked, in a thick voice.

  "You love it," I said.

  He raised his hands shoulder high. "Okay," he said.

  "Relax," I told him. "You don't have to be scared of me. But if you start something, you won't have time to be scared. Get it?"

  He said he understood. I could see he was looking reproachfully at Davis.

  "You don't have to feel sore," Davis said irritably. "We're going to do you a bit of good."

  "How'd you like to get even with Flaggerty and pick up five Cs as well?" I asked.

  Mitchell peered at me. "Doing what?" he asked, interest in his voice.

  "Answering a few questions."

  "Sure would."

"Where do you live?"

He told me.

I looked at Davis. "Is it far?"

"About five minutes."

"We'll go there, and mind, Mitchell, don't start anything funny."

"I won't."

  We piled into Davis's car, drove over to Mitchell's place. He took us into the front room. It was plainly but comfortably furnished.

  "You alone?" I asked.

  "Yeah," he said, flinching.

  "You mean your wife's giving Flaggerty a work out?" I said.

  He clenched his fists; his face went yellow.

  "Skip it," I said. "We know what's going on; so do you. The idea is to even things up, isn't it? Well, that's why I'm here."

  He turned away, brought out a bottle of Scotch. He set up three glasses. We all sat down round the table.

  Mitchell was about forty-five. His big, simple face was fleshy and carried a lot of freckles. He wasn't a bad-looking guy, but he had that look of gloom husbands get when their wives are twotiming.

  "What's your job in the jail?" I asked, as soon as we'd settled.

  "I look after floor D."

  "On what floor is Miss Wonderly?"

  He blinked, looked at Davis who didn't meet his eye, looked back at me.

"Didn't you say something about five Cs?" he asked cautiously.

  "I did," I said, and shot him a hundred. "That's to sweeten you. You'll get the rest when you've told me what I wart to know."

  He fingered the hundred, nodded.

  "She's on A floor."

  "Where's that?"

  "Top floor."

  "Get paper and pencil and show me the lay-out of the jail."

  He got paper and pencil and began to draw. We sat around drinking and smoking until he'd finished.

  "This is it," he said. "Here's where you go in. There're two sets of gates. Each has a different key and guard. You book your prisoner in here. Women are booked in on the left. You take your prisoner along—–"

  "Wait," I said. "I'm only interested in the women's side. Concentrate on the women."

  He nodded. "Okay," he said. "Well, the women go in through this door and are booked. They're taken along this passage—–"

  "What's that square there you've drawn?"

  "That's the guards' office. That next to it is the police surgeon's office. That's the mortuary behind it and the P.M. room. We keep them all together because Flaggerty likes to make the jail his headquarters."

  "Okay. Where's A floor?"

  "You reach it by this elevator. The women are not allowed] to use the stairs because the stairs give off to the other floors."

  "How many women prisoners have you got in there?"

"Four—no, three. One of 'em died this morning."

"Where's Miss Wonderly's cell?"

He showed me the cell on the map he'd drawn. I made him mark it with a cross.

"How many guards have you up there?"

"There are three women guards. One goes around the cells every hour."

"How about the men guards?"

  "They don't go to A floor, but they're around on the other floors every hour. Two to each floor."

  "How many in the building?"

  "Ten guards on duty, ten off. Since the girl came, Flaggerty has brought down another twenty from Station Headquarters to guard the outside of the jail. It has plenty of protection right now."

  I studied the map for several minutes, then sat back and stared at Mitchell.

  "If you wanted to get someone out of that jail," I said, "how would you set about it?"

  He shook his head. "I wouldn't," he said. "It ain't possible."

  I handed him the four Cs, and after he'd fingered them and put them away in his pocket, I took out a thousand-dollar bill.

  "Ever seen one of these?" I asked him.

  He gaped at it, his eyes round.

  "'I'd give this to the guy who could tell me how to get that girl out," I said.

  He hesitated, then shrugged. "I wish I could, but it just ain't possible." He edged his chair forward. "I'll tell you why. You've got to get in. That's the first step. They've got dogs, searchlights and guards. Maybe you've seen the place ? There aint a scrap of cover around the jail for five hundred yards . . . just sand. The searchlights light up the whole of the expanse of

sand, and there ain't a chance of you getting to the gate without being seen."

"Okay," I said. "Let's suppose we do get up to the gate. What next?"

"But you won't get to the gate," he said impatiently.

"Just suppose we do. Go on from there."

  He shrugged. "The guard at the gate checks your credentials. No one except the doctor or a police official is allowed near the place now they've got her. They know you're smart and they're taking no chances. Coppinger had a hell of a time getting in."

  "Well, okay. Let's imagine the doctor goes there. He gets in. Then what happens?"

  "The guard hands him over to another guard who unlocks the second door, and the doc is escorted to his office. He can't go anywhere else in the prison, unless someone's ill. When that dame died this morning, he was escorted to her cell by a guard and the Head Wardress."

  "I thought you said the male guards didn't go to the Women's quarters?" I said sharply.