Corpses in the Cellar (11 page)

“Look out! He’s got a gun!” Itchy Laplattanier shrieked, going for his own, panicked. The .38 cracked, and Laplattanier went
down, folding up in the middle from the impact of the bullet. Two mugs were running down the stairs, guns in hand, as the
guy behind the door struggled for his pistol, trying to wrench it free from the holster under his arm.

Lockwood kicked out at the struggling mobster, his foot cracking against the beefy man’s jaw, while in the same motion he
fired up at the two gunmen. One of them pitched forward as a slug caught him in the shin, grabbing frantically at the banister.
His pal wheeled and ran up the stairs, escaping as Lockwood realized he could get off only one more shot before he had to
reload. The wounded mug raised his pistol, and Lockwood squeezed off the final bullet, aiming for the chest.

It went a little high, tearing into the gangster’s throat, blood spurting out as the jugular gave way, the dead man’s foot
catching in the handrail, stopping him halfway down the stairs.

Lockwood spun toward the man at his feet, breaking open his pistol as he did, digging for a half dozen more bullets, and then
dropping everything as the beef trust came to and exploded up at him, grabbing at his waist and lifting him high into the
air, then throwing him back against a wall.

The detective hit hard, hearing the plaster crack behind him. His adversary was going for his gun again, fighting to get it
out of the holster. A foot away was Laplattanier’s automatic, and Lockwood went for it.

They both fired at the same moment, the sounds ear-splitting in the confines of the marble-floored hallway. Lockwood felt
something jolt him, not really sure where the impact was, too intent on getting off a second shot, finishing the job his first
bullet had begun. His opponent, already on one knee, sprawled out helplessly on the floor after the second splattered against
his breastbone.

The house was silent except for Lockwood’s breathing as he backed against a wall, waiting. Then slowly, cautiously, he moved
toward the center of the hall, where his pistol lay, bent down and picked it up, then gathered the bullets that had fallen
a few feet away. Still watching the stairway and the door at the end of the hall, he swiftly and surely reloaded, then, the
.38 in one hand, Laplattanier’s automatic in the other, straightened up, his back against the front door. He remembered feeling
something hit him, and began to check himself out. Partway down, he came to it; blood oozing out of his trouser leg, from
the upper thigh. He felt at it, then pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, and tied it around the wound. That would
have to do for now. For the time being, there were more important things to take care of.

He edged down the hallway, ready for them to come at him from either direction—ground floor or stairs. The door at the end
of the hall was shut, and slowly, cautiously, he pushed it open. No one there. He moved forward carefully, quietly, and as
he passed into the kitchen, the hands came at him.

Suckered! The son-of-a-bitch had been waiting for him, behind the door! He felt the arm around his throat, pressing, pressing…

He had to make himself do it, had to make himself drop the guns, had to get rid of that false protection so he could defend
himself. One of them went off as it hit the floor, even as his arms were reaching behind him, going for his adversary’s head,
securing it, then pulling, pulling.

The quarters were close, and the mug only half flipped over his shoulder, the two of them tumbling to the floor, arms and
legs a tangle.

For the first time Lockwood saw his foe. It was Sally Griese, Vinnie’s hunchback half-brother. Most hunchbacks were frail
and spindly, but Sally was a bull, his deformity only making him more dangerous, hatred for his condition acting as a spur
to his already ox-like strength. Sally had his arms around Lockwood, squeezing, squeezing… The detective could feel the breath
being forced out of him, slowly, inch by inch, and he brought his arm up against Griese’s neck, pushing back, hard, harder…

Finally, Griese gave, and the two of them pushed away, two feet of space between them as they eyed each other. “Give it up,
Sally,” Lockwood panted. “All I want is your brother.”

“An’ all I want, gumshoe, is you!” Griese snarled, and came at him once again.

This time Lockwood was ready, bringing up a short right that caught Griese on the chin, jolting him back. Lockwood sprang
after him, but Griese’s arms went up in defense, and two punches in a row ricocheted harmlessly off them.

He went for the gut this time, and caught Griese just right, shoving his fist up into the cavity under his ribs. The hunchback’s
eyes rolled back in his head, but the hate held him in there, and he clutched at Lockwood, trying to buy time.

This was no occasion for obeying the rules set down by the Marquis of Queensbury, Lockwood decided, hammering in one kidney
punch, then two, and still the misshapen figure clung to him, breath now coming in less labored gasps. Griese’s knee came
up toward his groin, but Lockwood was ready for him, pushing off sideways, the hunchback falling to the floor, and then coming
up again instantly, this time with a shining blade in his hand.

“Gonna cut you up, Lockwood,” Griese cackled. “Gonna cut you up and feed you to the dogs.”

The detective was near the kitchen table, and instantaneously his hand gripped one of the chairs and lifted it, holding it
between him and Sally Griese. His opponent grinned and made a pass with the knife, Lockwood blocking it with the chair.

“I’ll get you,” Griese said. “You can’t keep me off forever. I’ll get you!”

He slashed at him again, and as Lockwood shielded himself, Griese’s other hand grabbed at the chair in a lightning motion,
catching the detective offguard, twisting it and wrenching it out of his grasp.

“Got you now, baby,” the hunchback croaked, his eyes two slits of evil.

Lockwood looked desperately around him. Nothing else to fight Griese off with. Except…

His hand darted up to the carving knife that was held in the massive wooden frame on the wall. The handle was heavy, the blade
wide and razor-sharp, twice as long as Griese’s. “I’ve already got the reach on you, Griese,” he told his opponent. “This
knife makes it even longer. Give it up.”

The glow of molten rage in Griese’s eyes never faded. There was nothing but pure hate and venom in him as he snarled his defiance.

He lashed out with his knife, and Lockwood parried. He lashed out again, and again Lockwood’s blade met his.

The hunchback was by the stove, and now he flicked a dial, flame shooting up immediately from the gas burner. “Fire and steel,”
he cackled, “I’m gonna get you with both.” His free hand shot forward, and wrapped itself around a rolled-up newspaper, then
thrust it into the flame. An instant later, Griese was at him again, knife in one hand, flaming torch in the other. “Gonna
burn out your eyes,” he screamed.

He flung the torch at The Hook, who ducked, and came in up at Griese, shoving the blade-filled hand to the side, bringing
a knee up into his adversary’s belly, hoping to end it without having to resort to the carving knife.

But Griese wouldn’t have it that way. He was up as soon as he hit, and this time he charged in at Lockwood, caution thrown
to the winds.

“Aaargh!” he cried, coming in, knife poised, then shooting forward like a TNT-powered rocket, unstoppable. The Hook ducked,
the knife slamming into the wall above his shoulder as Griese followed, the momentum carrying him forward, forward to the
tip of the carving knife, and then up it, an inch, two inches, three… and then stopping, the forward motion spent.

“I warned you, Sally,” The Hook said, stomach turning at the sight.

His opponent said nothing, sinking to the floor, and then, as The Hook hovered over him solicitously, Griese summoned up his
last bit of remaining strength, and spit.

Once again the house was still. Lockwood waited a moment, getting his breath back, trying to recover his strength. He saw
the bandage around his leg had come off, and this time grabbed for a dish towel, sliced it in three strips, made a compress
out of one, and tied the other two together, and then around his thigh. He felt slightly sick, and hoped he hadn’t lost too
much blood. There was still at least one of them left upstairs, and Griese had to be there, too. No time to become ill.

He searched the rest of the downstairs quickly, taking chances, not knowing how much longer he could hold up. No one showed.

He came up from the basement, and still there was no one on the ground floor, save for the four bodies lying in puddles of
red. Slowly he moved toward the stairs, .38 stretched before him. He was at his most vulnerable now. If they were waiting
up there for him, at the head of the stairs, with a shotgun…

He edged his way up, slowly, slowly, back against the wall. He reached the stairs where the dead mobster lay, the treads thick
with blood. And just then he felt a movement, felt it even before he saw it, and his pistol cracked, one, two, three times,
and the man above him went down, hitting hard, weapon smashing against the floor.

Lockwood paused, listening, but once more there was no sound, and once more he had to move forward, knowing that at any moment
it could happen again, and this time he might not be as lucky.

But his luck held, and in another moment he had reached the top of the stairs. He saw the gunman was the one he’d seen on
the stairs when he’d first come into the house. He hadn’t had a shotgun. A half-second’s hesitation and Lockwood would have
been sprayed with bullets from a tommy gun. A sigh of relief escaped the detective, in spite of himself.

There were several doors along the hallway, and Lockwood moved down it cautiously. Griese had to be behind one of them. The
first was closed, and Lockwood stood in front of it, kicked at the door handle, and then threw himself in, .38 at the ready.
The room was empty.

He came back out into the hallway, and edged down to the next room, where the door stood open. This time he leapt beyond the
door, looking into the room as he went by, and this time he saw someone, saw a figure. It wasn’t Vinnie Griese.

In the split second before he entered the room, he found himself praying. Praying that it wasn’t her.

But it was. She was spread-eagled, naked, her hands and legs outstretched, tied to the wall. The body was bruised and bloodied.
It was Tawny Tourette.

She moaned when he touched her, and then opened her eyes.

“Oh Christ,” she said. “It’s you.”

“Tawny. What in God’s—”

“Hey, my boyfriend’s a jealous guy, Lockwood, did you know that? Myself, I just found it out,” she grinned weakly, as he took
her battered face in his hands.

“I’ll have you down in a minute,” he told her, pulling out his jackknife, working on the bonds.

“A fat lotta good that’ll do me,” the dancer moaned. “I think it’s too late for all that.”

He worked at the ropes savagely, and in another moment, she was in his arms, and he carried her to a nearby couch. “Why, Tawny?
Why?” he asked.

“Because of you, sugar,” she said, her voice a whisper. “But I tell ya—I think it was worth it.”

He could see she was dying. He didn’t want to bother her, didn’t want to disturb her last moments, but he was a professional.
He had a job to do. “Tawny,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“The Palms fire. Who did it?”

Her eyelids fluttered weakly. “I don’t know.”

“You didn’t do it?”

“Me? No.”

“Griese?”

“I don’t know. Listen, give me a cigarette, would you?”

He pulled out the pack, and had to dig for one that hadn’t been crushed or shredded in the struggle he’d had with the humpback.
Finally, he found a cigarette that might make it. “Sorry,” he said, as he slipped the limp white cylinder into her mouth.

She smiled weakly as he applied the black and silver Dunhill to the tip of the cigarette. “Class. I always said you had class.”

“Tawny, I hate to bother you with this, but I’ve got to know. Where’s Vinnie Griese?”

“I dunno,” her eyes were beginning to glaze. “Maybe—under—under the sidewalk.”

“The sidewalk?” He wondered if she was already drifting away.

“Down in the cellar—looks like a wall, pull it away, he can hide there, if the wrong people show up.”

“Thanks, Tawny,” he said. “I’ll call an ambulance. We’ll get you fixed up.”

“Fat chance,” she said. “Hey.”

“Yes?”

“One last kiss, huh?”

He bent over her. “One kiss, but it won’t be the last.” She shrugged, and he put his mouth to hers, gently. Her lips responded,
pushing up at his, and then a moment later, fell away. In a moment, he placed his head on her chest. No need to call the ambulance.

He was careful, going through the house. Even if Griese had squirreled himself away when he arrived, he might have come out
of hiding by now. He made no sound as he went from room to room, second floor, then main. No one.

He was in the basement now, .38 out, the safety off, every fiber of him alert, prepared for anything, as his eyes searched
the front wall of the cellar, looking for something, anything, that would give away Griese’s place of concealment. He moved
cautiously, aware that at any moment Griese might find him first.

Finally, he found what he was looking for, standing out on the white painted wall. In one corner there they were, faint smudges
of fingerprints where there was no logical reason for them. Edging closer, he could see the fine line that divided this section
from the rest of the cement block wall. He stood to one side, listening, finger on the trigger. There seemed to be a faint,
stirring sound.

“Come on out, Griese,” he shouted. “I know you’re in there!”

There was no response, just dead sound hanging heavily in the brightly lit space.

“One last chance, Vinnie,” he called again, after a minute had gone by, and once more his cry went unanswered.

He looked around, and in one corner he saw a sledgehammer. He backed toward it, pistol trained on the hiding place, grabbed
it, and returned to the wall.