Murderers' Row (5 page)

He flushed, drew himself up, and turned stiffly to Crowell. “I'm afraid I can't help you, officer. As I told you before, I never got a good look at him. I don't think Billy did, either. He was still in the pool, showing off the stroke that brought victory to dear old Whatsis only a few years back.”

“Billy?” Crowell consulted a notebook. “That would be Mr. William Orcutt, the other lady's escort?”

“Yes, I told you. He's a local boy—the Annapolis Orcutts, you know. As a matter of fact, he's my wife's nephew. We drafted him to entertain our little visitor for the evening. We had dinner at home, and then some vigorous person suggested a swim—”

“You did, Louis,” Mrs. Rosten said.

“I did not, my dear. I thought it was a ridiculous idea, considering the weather, but I was out-voted—Anyway, Sergeant, our pool has been drained, so we came to the motel, changed in Teddy's room, and exposed ourselves to the elements briefly. Then the kids jumped into their clothes and went on to some fascinating place Billy knew about—unfortunately, I've forgotten the name. We dressed more slowly and called home for a car, but if it ever arrived, it got lost in the confusion. Maybe you know something about it?”

“I'll check. Don't worry about it, sir. We'll see that you get home all right.”

Mrs. Rosten said, “I suppose you'll want a statement or something. I'll be glad to sign it; but would you mind terribly if we got started on it?”

“Right away, ma'am. I—” He stopped, as the young policeman who'd brought in the Rostens came back into the office. “What is it, Egan?”

Egan stepped up and whispered something in Crowell's ear. Crowell nodded.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” he said to Mrs. Rosten, and he turned to me. “This way—”

I trotted out my Petroni act. He paid no attention to it, but marched me back down a hall to a smaller room that looked like a waiting room with wooden chairs set along the walls. The room was empty, which surprised me. I'd expected another confrontation. Crowell gestured towards a chair and we sat down facing a door that had opaque glass in the upper half. At least it was opaque from our side. This made more sense.

I said, “Who the hell do you think you're fooling, Crowell? One-way glass, yet? Wait till my lawyer gets up in court and tells how you cops tried to railroad me!”

“Policemen,” he said.

“What?”

“We don't like that other word,” he said. “We prefer to be called policemen, particularly by goons like you, Petroni.”

I'd been Mr. Peters up to now. I said sullenly, “So you've got word from Chi. So what?”

“You're Jimmy Petroni, known as Jimmy the Lash. You're pretty small time, but you sometimes run errands for the big boys.”

“Who's small time?” I asked angrily. “Let me tell you—”

“Later,” he said. “Later, you're going to tell me lots of things, Petroni. Right now you're going to shut up. When I tell you, you're going to get up and walk around. All right. Up. Walk.”

I rose sullenly. There was a sound in the hall outside, the rapping sound of high heels. A man's voice spoke out there.

“Don't be afraid, miss. He can't see you.”

“Who's afraid?” It was the voice of the girl who'd asked me for a match; it seemed like a long time ago. I drew a long breath. It had been too much to hope that they'd get drunk and hit a culvert at ninety miles an hour before the police could find them and bring them here. Anyway, one dead woman was enough for one night. The clear, high voice spoke again. “Well, he does look sort of familiar, but I can't really see—”

The doorknob rattled. The man's voice said quickly, “No, miss, you're not supposed to go in!”

Then she was in. She looked just as small as I remembered her, in a light, summery, full-skirted dress, predominantly blue, and tiny, white, high-heeled shoes. Her short, blonde hair, dry now, was a silvery cap on her small head. She looked child-sized in front of the big policeman who followed her in—without looking the least bit like a child, if you know what I mean.

She came forward. The policeman reached for her clumsily, but Crowell waved him back. The little girl looked up at me. Her eyes were as blue as Jean's had been, I noticed. It didn't seem like a happy omen. She stared at me for quite a long time. I didn't know why she bothered to go through the motions. There was no doubt in my mind that she'd recognized me as easily as I'd recognized her.

Crowell spoke. “Well, Miss Michaelis? Is this the man who lit your cigarette at the swimming pool?”

She gave me a final look and turned away. “Oh, no,” she said. “No, I've never seen this man before in my life.”

That was far from being the end of it, of course. They had Mrs. Rosten in and she said yes. The little girl said no. Mr. Rosten said maybe, maybe not. A plump collegiate type with a crew cut was dragged in and addressed variously as Billy and Mr. Orcutt, depending upon who was speaking. He was no help. He hadn't seen anything but water, he said—damn cold, green, chlorinated water.

I didn't get to listen to all of this at close range. They moved me into another room so they could discuss me more freely, but I guess the forces of law and order were shaken by the unexpected turn of events. A door got left open, and I heard most of it, and filed it for reference. It was too early to try to figure out why a perfectly strange young lady—with a very interesting last name—should get up and lie for me, plausibly and stubbornly. At the moment, I was more interested in learning whether or not her efforts in my behalf would be successful. They were.

When I came outside at last, having been told, that I could leave but that I'd better keep myself available, there was a cold wind blowing from the direction of the Bay. At least it seemed cold to me, after the time I'd spent in Cuba. My car was parked in front of the building, along with an empty police car and a white Thunderbird convertible with the top up. There were people in the Thunderbird. The engine was turning over quietly.

Under other circumstances, seeing a car waiting like that, ready to go, I might have looked for a murderous blast from an automatic weapon and a tire-ripping getaway, but this seemed hardly the time and place for such goings-on. Anyway, the only man with a current reason to wish me dead, as far as I was aware, was waiting in Washington to cut me into small, squirming strips with his tongue. Mac doesn't like having his operations fouled up and his people killed.

I got the keys out of the Falcon's ignition and opened the trunk and threw my suitcase in. Coming back around the car, I almost stepped on the little blonde, who'd come over from the Thunderbird.

“So your name is Petroni,” she said, looking up at me. “Jim Petroni.”

“There's no law against it,” I said.

She laughed softly. “Those policemen certainly wished there was, didn't they?” She continued to speak in the same light tone of voice. “Teddy Michaelis,” she said. “The Tidewater Motel. Room seventeen. You know where it is.”

“I know the motel,” I said. “I can find the room.”

“Don't be long,” she said.

The college type behind the wheel tapped the horn impatiently. She stared at me for a moment longer, as if fixing my face in her memory to brighten the long, dark, lonely winter nights to come. At least that was the most flattering explanation of her scrutiny; I don't claim it was the right one. Then she ran lightly to the convertible and slid across the seat, reaching back to slam the big door shut. The window was down. I heard her voice clearly.

“Sorry to keep you all waiting; I wanted to be absolutely sure. But you're wrong, Mrs. Rosten; he isn't the one, I'd swear it. And I saw him lots closer than you did.”

I heard Mrs. Rosten say from the rear seat, “I still think—”

That was no surprise. She'd keep right on thinking it, too. But her word didn't carry the weight of that of the girl who'd actually spoken to the murderer, which was just as well for me.

I watched them drive away. Then I got into the Falcon and drove in the other direction. It would have been poor technique to appear to be following; and I needed some information and advice before I accepted the little lady's invitation, anyway. Things were looking up. At least I had something with which to draw Mac's attention from my many and serious shortcomings.

It took me a while to get my bearings on the country roads on which I found myself, and a little longer to decide I was being followed. I didn't think it was the police. They'd have managed it less obviously. This was a one-man tailing job, and the guy was damn well not going to lose me whether I spotted him or not.

I sighed, and led him out on a sandy back road, and stopped to see if he wanted to talk. He didn't want to talk. He drove past without slacking speed, as if I was nothing to him but an obstruction by the roadside. I got out and opened up the hood of the Ford. The compact six-cylinder engine looked as if it would have been easy to fix, had there been anything wrong with it. I went back to the trunk and opened that, and fussed around in there for a while. I might have been looking for tools. The guy out in the dark could make up his own story.

He was out there, all right. He wasn't just interested in learning where I was going. He'd parked up ahead and circled back on foot, stalking me. I took a chance on a gun and let him come in. He made the last ten yards in a rush. I pressed the button of the instrument with which I had provided myself, ducked as I turned, and put out my arm.

It worked very nicely. He ran right onto the long, thin blade of the switch-blade knife, held low. The club he was swinging passed over my head. I pulled out the knife and stepped back and clear of the car, ready to thrust again. A blade hasn't got the shocking power of a bullet. I might still have a fight on my hands.

I needn't have worried. He was through for the night. He dropped the club and put both hands to his stomach and looked down fearfully, as if expecting a horrible display of gushing blood and torn entrails. There was, of course, nothing of the sort. I'd done a clean, tidy job. After making sure of this, he looked up reproachfully. The light from the sky caught his face. I'd never met him before, although we'd come close earlier in the evening; but I'd seen his picture and read his official description in Washington. It just wasn't my night for being right. On top of my other goofs, I'd miscalculated badly when I figured there was only one man around who'd like me to drop dead because of the way I'd loused up the night's work. I'd forgotten Alan, our tender-hearted, lovesick young man in Maryland.

He was a good-looking kid, if you like them with dark, wavy hair and soulful expressions. Well, agents are needed in all shapes and sizes, and I suppose Mac had use for a pretty boy when he took this one on.

I got a gun off him: the standard little sawed-off, aluminum-framed, five-shot Smith and Wesson .38 that's issued to us whenever the job doesn't require anything esoteric in the way of firearms. You can get the equivalent Colt if you insist. It shoots six times but is a little harder to hide, being that much thicker. The general feeling is, if you can't do it with five shots, you probably can't do it at all.

Then I picked up the club he'd tried to use on me. It was a kindo stick, a kind of overgrown policeman's billy, with a leather wrist loop, only you don't use it around the wrist. You just loop it over your thumb a certain way, easy to release, so that the man who grabs the stick hasn't got you, too. Of course, taking a stick away from a good Japanese-trained kindo man doesn't come under the heading of healthful exercise. The karate and judo experts, who'll cheerfully go up against a knife, will back off from a thirty-inch stick in the hands of a man who knows how to use it.

I tossed it into the car. It was kind of pitiful, actually. They come out of training having learned a few miraculous chops with the edge of the hand, a few blows with a magic stick, and they think they're invulnerable and invincible.

I said, “Very poor technique, Alan. You sounded like a bull elk coming through the brush, and your attack was lousy. Why didn't you use the gun?”

He didn't answer. He just stood there holding his stomach with both hands, staring at me sullenly.

I asked, “How were you planning to explain all the weapons to the cops?”

He licked his lips. “I have a license for the gun. I was supposed to have brought it along to protect Jean—she was going under the name of Ellington, Mrs. Laura Ellington. She was supposed to have been threatened by somebody, somebody in her past. She wouldn't tell me the details; she pleaded with me not to ask questions, just help her hide out in a safe place until—” He shrugged imperceptibly. “That was the cover story I was supposed to give out after I discovered that she'd been—attacked.”

“But you didn't give out?”

He spoke dully. “When I came in, she was dead. I—I guess I lost my head. There were some people from one of the units who'd seen you leave. I told them to call the police. I started after you. When I caught up with you, you'd already been arrested by the state troopers. I just— followed, hoping for a chance—” He stopped.

“Sure,” I said. “Well, get in the car.”

He was still holding himself. He didn't want to move. He was afraid he'd fall apart if he moved. I shrugged, closed the trunk and the hood, got in and started the motor.

“Make up your mind,” I said. “Stay here if you like. I'm leaving now.”

He came around the car, walking very gingerly. I opened the door for him. He eased himself to the seat. I didn't really like reaching across him to close the door—he could have been shamming—but he didn't take advantage of the opening. I started the car.

“Where—” He licked his lips and started over. “Where are you taking me?”

“To the nearest phone. For advice and assistance. Watch the roads so you can tell them how to pick up your car.” I glanced at him. “It might help if you told me precisely what's bugging you, to use the vernacular.”