Corpses in the Cellar (9 page)

Lockwood shrugged. “I’ve got a job to do, Mr. Grand.”

“Call me Mack,” the clubowner insisted. He took another puff on his cigar, sipped his drink, and said, “All right. What exactly
is it you want to know?”

“You and Mrs. Grand—was Melody giving it to me straight?”

Grand looked down at his cigar, inspecting it, turning it over in his fingers. “My wife and I have had our problems, yes,”
he began, his voice a monotone.

“Serious?”

“I don’t see what difference it makes to you—” he raised his hand as Lockwood started to speak, “But I’ve nothing to conceal,
so I’ll tell you. Talking about things can sometimes help.” He closed his eyes for a moment, his hand held lightly over them,
as if exhausted, and when they opened, they seemed wearier than before.

“Yes. My wife and I have had problems. Serious ones. She’s a young girl. I’m an old man. She is driving, thrusting into the
future. I’m trying to hang on as best I can.” He smiled, wryly. “It’s what happens, you know, when you marry a woman decades
younger than yourself. A price has to be paid. But in my case, I’m willing to pay it.”

“I understand not so willingly. I’m told you want to rid yourself of Debbie.”

“Rid my—” Mack said, eyebrows lifting. “How inelegant a way to put it, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Call me Bill.”

“All right, Bill. You could have said
divorce
, or even
separate
. Why
rid?”

“Miss O’Houlihan told me you’d never specified what course you wanted to pursue.”

“Ah. I see. So you assume, since I was not exactly explicit, that it was because I was interested in taking an avenue that
was less than—shall we say—less than legal?”

“It seemed a possibility.”

“Bill, let me tell you something. I love Debbie. Whatever problems we have, I still love her. I have no intention of
getting rid
of her. But if I did—I’m saying
if
I did, I would simply divorce her. I’ve done it three times before, you know.”

“I know,” Lockwood answered. “But I also know you could afford it the first three times.”

The cigar stopped halfway to Grand’s mouth. “What does that mean, Bill?”

“I’ve checked your books, Mack. I know the precise thickness of the ice you were skating on.”

“I see. And you think I burned down my club to finance a divorce?”

“It’s possible. Or burned it down in order to pay some of the insurance money to someone to have Debbie—eliminated.”

Grand looked at him. “Mr. Lockwood,” he said. “I’m an old man. I should be kicking you out of here at this point. But I’ve
been around a long time, and I know enough of the human animal to be sickened by him, to know he’s capable of anything, and
not only capable, but that usually, if there’s time and opportunity enough for it, he gets around to it, no matter what it
is.” His cigar had gone out, and he relit it, carefully. Finally, satisfied, he resumed, “And in your line of business, I’m
sure that’s something it takes far fewer years to learn. So though your words are harsh, I understand them. You trust no one—and
often with good cause.”

“Well?” Lockwood asked, as the old man’s mouth drooped, and he went quiet. Looking at him, he wondered how many years he had
left. Or even days.

Grand sighed, and seemed to shake and collect himself. “You don’t understand something about me, even with all your experience.
You don’t understand that that night club was my life. I’ve had it under one name or another for twenty-five years. Through
all those years it’s sustained me, nourished me, given me a haven when everything else around me was going wrong. I couldn’t
burn it down. Don’t you see what I look like? Do you see what just a few days of being without my club has done to me? Why
would I burn it down? How
could
I burn it down?”

Lockwood nodded. “All right. I’d also like to speak to Mrs. Grand. Is she here?”

Grand smiled wearily. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Could be. But I’d like to find that out for myself. Is she?”

“No, no,” Grand seemed exhausted now, his gaze almost vacant. “She’s taking a dance lesson.”

“Do you know where?”

“Ellis. A studio at Two-Twenty West Forty-Second.”

Grand followed him to the door. There was something strange in the sound of the old man’s footsteps on the uncarpeted entrance
floor, and Lockwood turned around, and saw he was limping.

“I hadn’t noticed that before,” he said, indicating Grand’s legs.

“Oh, that. A leftover from childhood. What do they call it these days? Infantile paralysis? What our President had. I contracted
a mild case. It only affects me when I’m tired.”

Lockwood looked at the old man, trying to read him. Finally, getting nowhere, he turned on his heel and left.

They let him into the dancing studio, let him walk right in to where everyone was rehearsing, although the girls were in various
stages of undress. They were a good-looking lot, young, lithe, freshened by the exercise they were flush in the middle of.
It took him a while to locate Debbie, but he didn’t mind at all, searching from one girl to the next. Someone could make a
bundle, selling this form of entertainment, he decided. The hell with the sets and the costumes. The basic stuff was already
there.

Finally, he found her, and they made eye contact. She gave a motion to the teacher, and then came over to him, walking straight
and proud, strutting her stuff like an all-American majorette leading an all-American band. If all the girls next door looked
like her, this country’s population would double from census to census, Lockwood decided. Top grade.

“Mr. Lockwood, right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“How come you’re here? Hey, nothing’s wrong, is it?” she asked, concern in her eyes. He found himself wondering if it were
feigned.

“Not really,” he informed her. “I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. Is there someplace where—?”

“Sure!” She nodded, pertly. “There’s a small room out near the hall. Come on.”

She led the way, her shorts tight around her buttocks, hips giving it just enough swing to be enticing, but not enough to
make it seem coarse.

As he’d expected, she held the door open for him, then followed him in. It was a small room, in need of a fresh coat of paint,
just a couple of wooden chairs and a beat-up couch. She sat on one of the chairs, almost primly, spine straight, not leaning
back against the rungs. He sank down into the couch and fished for a cigarette. She shook her head no when he offered it to
her, and waited impatiently while he lit it.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

He began to wonder himself. He wanted to find out if she knew Grand was cheating on her, yet if she didn’t know, he’d be damned
if he’d break the news to her. He shrugged. “I thought you were a housewife. How come you’re here?”

She stared at him without much friendliness. “My husband’s in trouble, Mr. Lockwood. I’m going to get a job.”

“Here?”

She sniffed. “I haven’t danced since I got married. See, I need to get in shape first before I can start auditioning.”

He looked at her. Even with her breasts covered she was a pleasure to take in. He found himself mentally removing her blouse.
Nothing like nostalgia, he decided. “I’d heard you were looking for a career. For yourself.”

She stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m telling you I’m not buying your story, not just yet. I don’t think you’re doing this for Mack. You’re doing it for yourself.”

Her eyes went moist, but she held it in check. A lot of willpower in this one, he saw.

“Mr. Lockwood,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “My husband’s not a young man. This fire’s been hard on him.
It’s affected him more than I would have thought possible. Much more. I don’t know, even when we get the insurance money”—her
eyes flashed, “and I assume we soon
will
be getting the insurance money—that he’ll have the will to start all over again. And if he can’t, then I plan to do for him
what he’s done so well for me—support him.”

Yes, she had the stuff all right. “You sound as if you love your husband,” he said, deliberately keeping any conviction out
of his voice.

She glared at him. “Yes. Whatever
you
may think, Mr. Lockwood, I love him. He’s everything in the world to me, and I intend to do whatever I can to keep him healthy
and whole. And mine.”

He looked at her. There was nothing more he could say. Damn. He was almost tempted to tell her about Melody O’Houlihan, if
only to let her know what her man really was; the kind of slime she was actually married to. But he couldn’t do it, and found
himself wondering if he wanted to tell her to protect her, or to carve out an opening for himself. Irresistible would be a
pretty good description for her. Good looks, and spirit, too. A hell of a package for your money. For Grand’s money. He sighed,
and rose to his feet. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you,” he told her. “I’ll go now.”

He watched her walk back into the studio, admiring those sturdy calves, solid muscle under those lean, curving lines. Cape
Cod or no, she was straight out of middle America; straight out of the heartland. A girl like that could make you feel patriotic
as hell.

He’d been thinking so hard about her, he was halfway down the elevator before he realized where he’d seen the man who brushed
by him as he left the studio. Len Claypool, the waiter. What the hell had he been doing, going in there?

An hour later, as he was parking his black and silver Cord in the underground garage at Radio City, a bullet whistled by him,
and then another.

The big overhead fan was on at Tierney’s, churning up the hot, humid air, and then blowing it all back down, intermittent
sodden gusts punching at him unpleasantly. Maybe it was just his mood, Lockwood mused, as the man opposite him raised an empty
glass.

“Hey, Louie! Two more!” Brannigan roared, the cords standing out on his sweaty bull neck, collar open, tie loosened, his rumpled
jacket half-hung over the chair he was hulking on. “Christ, what a night,” he moaned, wiping his brow.

“It’s not the heat, it’s the Mack Grand case,” Lockwood offered, looking at the bit of lead he was bouncing around in his
palm.

“You can say that again,” Brannigan murmured. “Don’t think I’m not taking a lot of crap on this one.”

“You? I thought they only gave you flak on the stuff that directly affected the public. Mad dog killer, mass poisoner, that
sort of thing.”

“Ah, you know those bastards. It’s a hot summer and nothin’s going on, so they’ve got to find some way of makin’ life miserable
for me. And would you quit jiggling whatever you got in your hand? You’re making me nervous.”

“I thought you’d want to see it.”

Brannigan grinned appreciatively as the waiter turned up with two fresh schooners, their sides beaded with moisture, the heads
spilling half over the top. “Let me get a swig of this first.”

He took a mighty swallow, grunted with satisfaction, wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand, then held his palm out.
Lockwood dropped the lead onto it.

The light wasn’t good, and Brannigan finally held it up a few inches away from his eyes. “I swear to God I’m gettin’ old,
Billie. A few years ago, I could’ve seen this here if I was standin’ on the top of the Empire State Building.” He scrutinized
it carefully, then handed it back, his expression alert, hopeful. “Your guess the same as mine?”

“Baby Nambu.”

“Right. Goddamn, I’m sure you’re right. Where’d you pick
this
one up?”

“In my parking garage.”

“Radio City?”

“Yes.”

“Christ, they’re letting anyone in there nowadays, aren’t they?” Brannigan stuck his big hand down into a bowl of pretzels,
and stuffed his mouth with them. “Did you see who it was?”

“Not a clue.”

“Not a clue. Hot damn, Billie,” Brannigan growled, washing down the pretzels with a whopping amount of beer. “That’s what
our business is all about. Clues. And we’re coming up short, aren’t we?”

“I was hoping your boys might have found something.”

“Yeah, my boys have found something, all right. The clap, that’s what they’ve found. I’ve got a half dozen men on the case,
and all they’ve come up with is a half dozen paychecks—in their names.” He finished up his beer, and waved his hand again.
“You’re kind of slow tonight, aren’t you, Hookie me lad?” he asked, indicating Lock-wood’s glass, which was still almost full.

“I figure when someone’s taking potshots at you, it’s healthier to stay as sober as you can.”

“You’re talkin’ to an Irishman,” Brannigan told him. “Don’t ever say ‘sober’ and ‘healthy’ in the same breath.”

“Okay, Jimbo.” Lockwood smiled. “Have your men had any luck in tracking down the gun?”

“The Baby Nambu? Naw. We can’t even find a goddamn shop that admits to selling ’em. Who the hell would want ’em? Anything
that’s made in Japan is a real joke, everybody knows that.”

Lockwood nodded. “It’s certainly not a synonym for quality.”

“You said Griese was hot for your tail. But Christ, Lockwood, any pro gunnie’s not gonna go after you with a gat that’s got
the range of a rubberband pistol.”

“Right.” Lockwood sipped at the beer. It was already warm. “And why the hell was Eddie Black killed? Was it because of the
fire? Did he maybe see something?”

“Could be,” Brannigan agreed. “And, I hate to say it, because Eddie was one of my own—maybe he saw something and tried to
make some money off of seeing it.”

“A possibility,” Lockwood admitted. “The other possibility is that he was directly involved in the fire.”

“I’ve been tryin’ not to think of that,” Brannigan said, miserably. His whole life revolved around his precinct. He had two
families; his own and the men he worked with. The likelihood was that the men meant more to him.

“Or could be he was onto something—wanted to crack the case himself,” Lockwood suggested, and was rewarded with a lifting
of his old friend’s spirits.

“Damn! I should’ve thought of that myself. That could be, Billy, that could really be! Waiter!” Brannigan yelled. “More beer!
A thought like that calls for a celebration,” he explained to his companion, an enormous grin spreading over his broad Irish
face.