Corpses in the Cellar (8 page)

She thrust her pelvis high, high, as he removed her skirt, and her underpants, her womanhood straining out for him, and then
shuddering and collapsing as his lips brushed against it, and then rising up for more.

She wasn’t ready yet. He turned her over and began to massage her, to kiss her, to run his hands up and down every part of
her, making all of it his. She began to shake, uncontrollably, and once more begged him to enter her, voice at once sensual
and pleading.

He kissed her feet, the soles, the toes, and then turned her again, and ran his lips up along her legs, over the thighs, and
then between them.

He felt her go limp, and he knew now she was ready, that now, for these few moments at least, she had totally surrendered
herself to him. His hand went inside her, and he felt her wet warmth, every part of her sex coated with fluid, the vagina,
the lips, the clitoris, all awash in liquid heat.

He stripped off his clothes and closed over her, pushing up inside her, fulfilling her as she cried out in ecstasy.

Even then, he took his time, moving in and out, slowly, slowly, as she unconsciously responded in kind, all of her being now
purely physical, as she pushed against him, then pulled away, then pushed again. Incredibly, her fluids were increasing, spilling
out of her, and still they kept at it, the tempo slowly rising, her mouth fiercely against his, teeth biting into his lips,
hands tearing at him, then all of her going still, all but her pelvis, which suddenly began moving urgently, fiercely, straining,
pushing, sucking, disgorging, and then, pushing, pushing, pushing… and then collapsing, falling away, all of her falling back
as if fluttering to earth.

Her eyes came open. “Now my turn,” he told her smiling, and re-entered her. She received him gratefully, caressing him as
again he moved into her and then almost out of her, again, and again, until the pounding pulse inside him rose and rose until
there was no way back—spilling, spilling, until he was emptied out, and then convulsing, once, twice, before falling to her
side.

It was dark when he left, and he held her for a moment, kissing her. “I told you I don’t expect you to come back to my world.
For just this one time, I’ll always be grateful,” she told him. “But there is another possibility—someday,” and she smiled
uncertainly, bravely, “someday I may come to
your
world.”

He looked at her, at the strong chin, the determined mouth, the fierce eyes. “I’m sure you will,” he told her, meaning it.
“I have no doubt of that.”

Outside it was cool and pleasant, the night air rushing at him as he opened the heavy front door. And then something else
rushed at him, once, then twice.

He was already on the ground, .38 in hand, before the second bullet screamed past him, as he strained to see into the black.
“Throw down your gun,” he yelled from the cover of a hedge, but there was no answer.

He waited, gun at the ready, one moment, then two, and finally edged out toward the sidewalk, then straightened up, as his
eyes, now used to it, searched the black. No one was there.

Jimbo Brannigan sighed and tilted his chair against the wall as the report went into his hands. “Thanks, Phil,” he said, and
then studied the sheet of paper.

After a moment, he looked up at Lockwood. “Where did you say you found those slugs?” he asked.

“I already told you, Jimbo,” Lockwood said. “Picked them out of the wall of an apartment house in Brooklyn, Martense Street,
between Nostrand and Rogers.”

“Mmm,” Brannigan sighed. “Brooklyn.”

“Come on, Jimbo, what gives?”

The big detective sighed again. “Peculiar caliber, that’s for sure.”

“Like what?”

“Like eight.”

“Eight caliber?” Lockwood asked, astonished.

“So they tell me,” Brannigan murmured, not too happily.

“There’s only one pistol that fires that kind of bullet.”

“They tell me that, too.”

“A Baby Nambu.”

“That’s the ticket.”

“Christ. A Japanese job. Yellow peril time, maybe?”

“Could be. Any orientals involved at The Palms?”

Lockwood stared at Brannigan. “No. Not that I know of. But what makes you think whoever was firing at me was connected with
The Palms?”

Brannigan produced the two slugs Lockwood had brought him. Then he held out another.

Lockwood looked at Brannigan, then at the misshapen pieces of metal. “I don’t get it. Where’d you find that one?”

Brannigan’s eyes went opaque, professional. “Eddie Black. The patrolman who discovered the fire at The Palms.”

“Black? Black’s the one with the Baby Nambu? Or—?”

“Or
. You’re right about the
‘or’,”
Brannigan grunted.

“Someone plugged Eddie?”

“Yep.” Brannigan began searching through his rumpled clothes for a pack of cigarettes.

“Dead?”

“Right between the eyes.”

“Jesus. Smoke burns?”

Brannigan stopped searching. “Got a butt?” he asked.

Lockwood handed over the Camels, and Brannigan jammed one into his mouth, then half-apologetically took a few more, dropping
them into the misshapen pocket inside the breast of his jacket. “Been a rough day,” he said. “Don’t know when I’ll get out.”

“Take the pack, Jimbo,” Lockwood said. “But was Eddie shot up close?”

“That’s what the coroner says. Enough smoke on him, you’d think he was gettin’ himself made up for a minstrel show.”

“When? Where?”

“About three
A.M.
Eleventh Avenue and thirty-seventh.”

“They tried to kill me and then they killed him.”

“Seems like it.”

“And with him—there’s a good chance he knew whoever it was, to let them get that close.”

“That’s a fairly reasonable conclusion,” Brannigan offered, “But as you know, not necessarily so.” He leaned over his desk.
“What’s happening with your investigation, Billy-boy? Anything new turn up?”

“Not much,” Lockwood admitted. “I’ve already filled you in on most of it.”

“Not Mary Clarke—the dame you were visiting yesterday. How does she tie in?”

“Just the girl friend of the bartender. The one who died.”

“No motives?”

Lockwood thought a moment. “Maybe. The bartender was her boyfriend. He was playing around.”

“She got mad and burned him up?”

“Possible, but not likely.”

“So where are you now, Bill? This case is starting to annoy me. I’m beginning to think I can use all the help I can get. Even—”
he said, winking, “yours.”

Lockwood laughed ruefully. “You must be desperate. Wish I could help.”

“Any new leads?”

“Yes. One. A call girl named Melody O’Houlihan. I’m going to pay her a visit now.” He rose. “Any idea of why Eddie was shot?”

“Only one.”

“Yes?”

“Someone didn’t like him. Like they don’t like you.”

He had to slip a twenty and a ten under Melody O’Houlihan’s door before she’d allow him in. She was in the Belden Hotel on
the West Side, and suspicious as hell of cops. It was Brannigan’s precinct, and he ran a tight ship.

“I still don’t trust you,” she told him as he entered.

“Then why’d you let me in?”

“I trust the Treasury Department,” she said, flatly, dropping the bills into a cast iron safe with a slot in the top.

“That’s the biggest damn piggybank I’ve ever seen,” Lockwood offered.

“Only the best. Everything in this apartment”—she leered at him, while chewing gum—“is only the best.”

“I understand that’s what Mack Grand thinks.”

“Mack,” she laughed. “How the hell would
he
know?”

“You’re telling me that nothing goes on between the two of you?”

“I’m telling you that he’s purely an amateur, that’s what I’m telling you.”

“I don’t imagine his wife thinks so.”

The prostitute stared at him blankly.

“After all, she married him. He must have something.”

The laugh was harsh. “Right. Money. That’s what he has.”

“Not
everyone
hops into bed for money.”

“That kind does.”

“Tell me about her.”

O’Houlihan shrugged. She was dressed in a green silk wrapper that fell open from time to time, revealing a black French brassiere,
low-cut black panties, and a black garter belt. “All I know is what I hear from Mack.”

“And that’s—?”

“He can’t stand her.”

“
He
says?”

“
He
says! Says she’s a pushy broad who wants to be a goddamn star. She keeps nagging him to make her one.”

“Broadway?”

“Fuck Broadway. Nothing but Hollywood for her.”

“What else does he say about her?”

“Says he’s had it with her.”

“Wants a divorce?”

“Something like that. He’s never really been too exact about it.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. He wants me.”

“You? As his next wife?”

She stared at him without rancor. “Don’t kid yourself, flatfoot. Lots of men have asked me to marry them. You’d be surprised
how many sickies are in this world.”

“Mack Grand’s a sickie?”

“When it comes to sex, one of the sickest.”

“And you help him out.”

She shrugged. “It’s a living.”

“What about the fire? Was he with you that night?”

She thought for a moment. “No,” she decided. “I remember reading the papers the next day, and wondering why the hell
he
wasn’t in it. The creep should have been.”

“You don’t like him much.”

“Why should I?”

“You, um, spend a lot of time with him.”

She barked out a laugh. “Yeah. That’s why I don’t like him. I spend a
lot
of time with him, whenever I see him. I could cool off a statue in half the time.”

“He’s got problems, has he?”

“Name one he doesn’t have. Christ, the things I have to do to get his wiener just halfway stirring…”

He eyed the welt on her waist. “He hits, too?”

She plunked herself down in a chair facing him, the gown open, legs spread. “Mister, you think of any bit of weirdness the
human mind can come up with, and Grand wants it. Needs it, in fact.” She realized the way she was sitting, and drew the wrapper
around her. “The slimy creep,” she shuddered.

“He’s a rich creep,” Lockwood suggested. “Maybe rich enough to convince you to marry him.”

She snorted derisively. “There ain’t that much gold in Fort Knox, mister!”

“I’m thinking maybe he offered to divorce Debbie and marry you, and then went back on his word, so you got angry with him
and burned down his club.”

Anger flared in her eyes, and then suddenly she sank back into her chair and guffawed. “Mister, I like your style!” she told
him. “No crappola from you—you got something to say, you just spit it out. Yeah, I like your style, all right.” She rose.
“Wanna drink?”

“If you’re having something.”

“Damn right I am.” She moved over to a cabinet and drew out a bottle. “You look like a rye man.”

He smiled and nodded, and watched as she filled two tumblers full of the whiskey, not bothering with ice cubes or soda.

“You don’t fool around,” he said, as she handed him the glass.

“I figure, if you’re gonna drink whiskey, drink whiskey,” she rasped.

He took a sip, while she knocked down a third of the tumbler. “Yeah,” she said, “I spend a lot of time with Mack. But I do
it because he pays me, and pays me good.” She took another swallow, nearly draining the glass. “But you”—she grinned at The
Hook—“you I’d give it to for free.”

“Thanks, Melody,” he told her. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She eyed him strangely. “I’m not kidding. You want it, you got it.”

He considered her. The gown was open again, her breasts almost spilling out of the brassiere, the rest of her body firm. She
obviously took care of herself. But—who knew what diseases were hidden inside that fine-looking frame? “Thanks, Melody,” he
said, “but I’ve got to be moving on.”

Her face froze, and her voice went nasty. “I’m telling you, I want to give it to you free!”

He wondered how she looked at Grand, what she thought about him. Killing would come easily to her, he realized, as he studied
the intensity of her glare. He rose. “Sorry, Melody. I appreciate the offer. It’s a sensational one, but not this time.” He
turned, and opened the door, wasting no time on last-minute civilities. A moment later he was glad he’d done so, as a heavy
object smashed against the door he’d just closed behind him.

Mack Grand looked even more old and tired than he had during their first meeting. “What can I do for you?” he asked, after
handing Lockwood a Canadian and soda.

“I’ve been to see Melody O’Houlihan,” Lockwood told him, eyes riveted on his man.

Grand seemed to turn a little grayer, but otherwise gave no sign of disturbance. “Oh?” he said, after a moment. “Who’s she?”

“Please don’t try to stall me, Mr. Grand,” Lockwood said, pulling out a fresh pack of Camels and opening them.

Grand looked at him, and sighed. “Melody,” he said simply. “So what’d she say?”

“She skipped all the details, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the detective said. “Besides, that’s not what I was there
for.”

Grand reached into a humidor and found himself a cigar. It was a good one, obviously, and he bit off the end with relish,
twirling it among his fingers for a few moments before lighting it, sucking in and blowing out the smoke, one, two, three
times, before he was satisfied it was lit. “All right, Mr. Lockwood,” he said, finally, “what was it you were there for?”

“She said there’s bad blood between you and your wife.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Mr. Grand,” Lockwood said, his voice cold, “I don’t have time to waste. Sooner or later I’m going to get at the truth, anyway.
It would save us both a lot of trouble if you gave it to me now.”

Grand’s eyes froze for a moment, and then thawed almost as quickly. “Mr. Lockwood,” he said, “you have a certain impudent
charm. It must get you into almost as much trouble as it provides you with success.”