Strange Embrace (7 page)

“You’re wonderful,” he said. He squashed the cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table, then rolled over on his side and took her in his arms. His hands stroked her forehead, her cheek, the back of her neck.

“Wonderful,” he repeated.

“Sure. Wonderful Jan. A fine specimen of the female sex carried to its logical conclusion. A gal who reacts to any kind of tension by leching for the first man she sets her eyes on. A girl who thinks with another part of her anatomy instead of her brain.”

“I like that part of your anatomy.”

She didn’t laugh. “I’m a tramp, Johnny. Period. I’m a good actress and a good lay and that’s all I’m good for.” She sighed, then moved away from him. “You’d better get going, Johnny. You have to call that policeman. Craig?”

“Haig.”

“Go home, then. Call him and tell him all about it. Get the police working on it so that they can catch the murderer and we can all relax a little.”

He sat up on the edge of the bed and fumbled around for his clothing. “I’ll tell Haig to take his time,” he told her. “I’m in no hurry to catch the killer.”

“What?”

“Let him roam around for a few days,” he went on. “You see, you’re a lot of fun when you’re frightened. One perfect hell of a lot of fun.”

Her voice was soft. “I don’t have to be frightened to want you, Johnny Lane.”

“No?”

“No.” A soft chuckle. “You can drop around any time you want. You’re nice to have around, Johnny Lane.”

When he was dressed she wrapped herself in a bathrobe and walked to the door with him. “I want to be able to lock this after you,” she said. “I’m still a little nervous, I guess. At a time like this I’m glad I don’t live on the ground floor. And that there’s no fire escape handy. I used to worry about what would happen if there were a fire. Now I have other things to worry about, don’t I?”

He told her to keep the door locked and not to let anybody in. “Even if you know them,” he said.

“At this hour?” She pouted. “I wouldn’t let anybody into my apartment at night, Johnny. It’s after ten o’clock. What kind of a girl do you think I am, anyway?”

“A nice one,” he told her. He kissed her and she clung to him for a moment, then let him go. He opened the door and closed it after him, waiting in the hallway until he heard the click of the bolt sliding into place. Then he walked buoyantly to the stairs and down to the first floor.

The night had a cold edge on it. He stood in the doorway and buttoned his coat to the neck. He took out his pack of cigarettes, shook a cigarette loose. He scratched a match and lit it, then stepped out of the doorway.

“Lane—”

He turned at the voice. He had just enough time to see a broad, dull forehead and a pair of piggish little eyes. Then a hand the size of a leg of lamb slammed into his chest. He went down.

Johnny came up fast and hard. There were two of them, one bigger than the other. They wore rough working clothes and heavy boots. The bigger of the two was the one who had hit Johnny, and that was the one he went for. He brought up an uppercut from the floor and threw it at the guy’s jaw.

It didn’t seem to have any effect. And then Johnny caught another punch over the heart and went down like a sack of oats. The one who had hit him slung him up over his shoulder and carried him to the air shaft at the side of the building. He tried to yell and nothing came out. He couldn’t breathe.

The small one—if you could call him small—began to talk.

“Be smart, Lane,” he said. “We got a job to do. We got to work you over. You can have it easy or you can have it hard. You take your choice.”

Johnny struggled. But it was not easy to put up much of a fight when you were slung over somebody’s shoulder. He wished the son of a bitch would put him down. And then, damn it, the son of a bitch did put him down. Not gently. And Johnny hit the hard pavement like—you guessed it—a sack of oats.

This time Johnny got up more slowly. “All right,” he managed to say. “What’s the pitch?”

“No pitch. You got a show that ain’t supposed to open. We was hired to tell you.”

“So you told me.”

“But we gotta convince you, see?”

“How?”

The big one hit him again. This time in the stomach. Johnny folded up like an accordion and fell forward just in time to catch a punch in the face. It put him back against a brick wall and he decided to stay there.

A cold, professional beating—that was all. No emotion, no feeling. Just services rendered in return for a fee paid. That was it. And he knew the smart thing to do. You didn’t fight back. You stood there and took it and waited for it to end. Then you found a doctor and got him to put you back together. You didn’t try to fight your way out of it because these boys were pros and you were strictly an amateur.

Johnny knew all this.

But it was just too cold and mechanical and gutless for him. Being beaten up by hired machines was too humiliating. So when the next punch came, aimed for the stomach, Johnny slipped to one side and let the fist crash into the wall instead of into his guts. The big one let out a muffled roar and whirled to get him. The smaller one came on fast, going for him with a leather-covered sap. Johnny ducked the blow, spun the guy and left-hooked him in the face. He went to one knee. When Johnny kicked him in the chest he went down the rest of the way.

The big one had a good hand left, which was a shame. He threw it like a shot-putter and Johnny could not get out of the way in time. He hit the pavement with his back, then came up under the man and threw him with a judo toss he’d been practicing. There were advantages in having Ito around, Johnny thought hazily.

But now one of them was behind him and the other in front and there was no place to go. The smaller thug was getting to his feet and the bigger one was already up. Johnny went for the big one—he was blocking the way to the street.

But Johnny never reached him. Instead, Johnny got the sap across the back of his head and the lights went out. His last thought, before the oncoming blackness made thinking impossible, was that maybe he would get lucky and they would not be there when he woke up.

He didn’t get lucky.

He came to, a minute or two later, and they were still there. The smaller one talked again. Johnny had trouble hearing the words.

“You had to be cute, Lane. You could have had it soft and easy but you had to be a hard boy. Now we give more than our money’s worth. Now it’s gonna be a pleasure to work you over. Maybe we’ll do too good a job and kill you. Stranger things have happened.”

And then they went to work.

The big one held him while the other one hit him. Hit him in the chest and in the stomach. Periodically the character hit him in the face, too, purely for variety.

It stopped hurting after a while. It became a dull, gray, continuous suffering. At long last the man lowered his fists and hefted the sap.

Johnny could not have ducked the blow if he had wanted to. And by this time he didn’t want to anymore. Unconsciousness would be a blessing. His eyes tried to focus on the sap as it came down, ever so gently, against the side of his head just over his ear.

And then the electrician came through with a perfect blackout, and the stagehands supplied a swift curtain.

T
HE BED WAS COMFORTABLE.
Slowly, carefully, Johnny opened his eyes. It was something he didn’t want to do too quickly. You didn’t rush a thing like that. A man could get hurt, opening his eyes too quickly. He got them open at last, blinked, saw Lieutenant Sam Haig, and did the only thing possible under such conditions. He closed his eyes again.

“Wake up, Johnny.”

Sadly he opened his eyes again.

“Took you long enough,” Haig said. “You know what time it is? Two-thirty in the morning. Why is it I always see you at two-thirty in the morning?”

Johnny did not smile. “Cigarette,” he croaked.

Haig handed him a cigarette, lit it for him. Johnny’s arm hurt when he moved it. His shoulder ached. And his chest felt as though it were held together by adhesive tape. He touched the chest and found out that indeed it was held together by adhesive tape. How about that?

He smoked, ignoring the questions Haig was asking, and his mind began to find the old familiar channels again. He was in a hospital, wasting his time lying in a damn bed. A pair of hired heavies had put him there. And Haig wanted answers.

Hell, so did he, Johnny. “How did I get here?” he demanded suddenly.

“Quite dramatically,” Haig said. “You’ll be happy to know that. You came in an ambulance with the siren wide open. Must have hit eighty miles an hour on the way. They thought you might have been seriously injured. Silly of them. It would take more than a blackjack to dent that fat head of yours.”

“Who found me?”

“A beat cop. That doesn’t mean he has a beard and smokes tea. It means he walks around and kicks drunks out of the way. He went to kick you but he decided you weren’t drunk. He called in for help and they checked you into the hospital at a quarter to twelve. You’ll live, incidentally. No skull fracture, nothing too serious. A couple of ribs or something are sprung, so you’ll have to wear that tape around your handsome torso for a week or so. Who did it, Johnny?”

Lane sighed. “A couple of bozos hired for the job. A pair of heavies from Hell’s Kitchen earning spending money. Hell, I don’t know who they were.”

“You better give me the whole story, Johnny.”

He nodded and his head ached. “Yeah,” he said unhappily. “I guess I better.”

He gave it to Haig from the beginning and the big cop listened without changing expression. Johnny told about Jan’s first visit, about the threatening phone calls, about Carter Tracy’s phony alibi and earnest explanation. He explained about the meeting, then gave the details about the beating he had taken in the airshaft next to Jan’s apartment building. He left out one scene—the huddle in Jan’s cozy bedroom. That, he told himself, was none of Haig’s business.

And then he was through talking and Haig was looking at him out of sad eyes and shaking his big head.

“Something the matter?”

“I could never be an actor,” Haig said. “Or a producer. Not in a million years. I could never get into the swing of things. I wouldn’t fit.”

“So? You’re a cop. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s plenty. And you’re a producer, and a good one. And isn’t that enough for you, Johnny? Because you sure as hell won’t ever make much of a cop out of yourself.”

“I—”

Haig did not let him get started. “In the first place, you shoulda called me right off the bat. Soon as the Vernon babe told you about phone calls you shoulda called me.”

“I didn’t want to send you on a wild-goose chase.”

“Let me worry about the wild geese, Johnny. That’s just the first place. There’s other places. Look, some bright boy wants to close your show. You think it doesn’t make any sense. Everything makes sense. Say you’ve got a mob man who has something against somebody working for you, wants to see him out of a job. Say some heavy has bet big money the show won’t open, or doesn’t like one of your backers, or anything. You don’t have to know the reason, not yet. All you have to know is that somebody has it in for your show. Right?”

“That’s as far as I got with it. And—”

“Hang on,” Sam Haig said. “I got further than that already. This bastard, this heavy, starts using the telephone. He gives the two girls a hard time because he figures they’ll crack easier. He doesn’t hurt anybody, doesn’t push anybody around. He just makes a few phone calls.”

Johnny nodded.

“Next the young one, the James girl, gets killed. Not a case of a beating carried too far. Her throat gets cut open so far you can see her tonsils. And you think the caller did the cutting. That doesn’t make any sense, Johnny boy. You don’t follow up a vague threat with murder. They take your
Unione Siciliano
card away from you for something like that. So somebody else killed the girl. Somebody who didn’t know a thing about any phone calls.”

Light was beginning to dawn. Johnny’s mouth dropped open. He butted his cigarette and started to sit up.

“Relax,” Haig told him. “You beginning to get the message? Is it soaking in?”

“I think so.”

“Then tell me about it.”

“Somebody killed Elaine,” Johnny said. “Then our heavy friend heard about it. He decided to take the credit, figured his threats would be a little stronger with that behind him.”

Haig nodded. “And all without any killing on his part. He figures the murderer isn’t going to run around waving a flag. He can have the glory all to himself and put on plenty of pressure. It’s that simple.”

Johnny swallowed. Yes, simple. So simple he would never have thought of it. So simple that it had sailed right past him while his mind had been playing around with all the impossibly complex wrinkles.

He looked at Haig and tried not to resent the slight smile of superiority on the cop’s face. Hell, he thought, Haig had a perfect right to feel superior.

“So we’re looking for two people,” Haig said. “A caller and a killer. Cute, huh?”

“Sure.”

“I can’t help you with the caller, I’m afraid. That one’s going to be tough. But I shouldn’t have too much trouble telling you who the killer is.”

Johnny stared hard at him. “Give me that again.”

“The killer,” Haig said. “Hell, you ought to know the answer all by yourself. It’s your falling star, Johnny. The aging actor hot for young stuff. He already admitted he was there, then handed me a phony alibi, then told you he couldn’t find a real one. He went up there, killed her—”

“With a razor?”

“So he had a razor. Or the lab was wrong and it was some kind of knife. It doesn’t matter. He went up there, killed her, came out and got blind drunk. In the morning he woke up with us pounding on his door. He handed us the first alibi that came into his mind, then saw how far that was going to get him and tried a new one on you. He did it, Johnny. Carter Tracy. Your male lead killed your female lead and it’s going to knock hell out of your show.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Haig sighed. “Why—too simple?”

“It just doesn’t make sense.”