Noir(ish) (9781101610053) (10 page)

Yeah, I had a clear conscience, too—most of the time, anyway. Whatever that might be worth come Judgment Day.

“I'm not happy, about doing those things, Mr. Grahame,” Lizabeth said. She sounded like the hurt little girl she'd looked like through the window. I wanted to put my arm around her,
and
I wanted to walk away from the whole thing.

“No.” I stirred my coffee. “I'm sure you're not.” I started to take a sip. Then I thought better of it. “So that's where Siegel comes in.”

“Yes.” She looked toward Ed and called “Coul' I have more of this?” and pointed to her cup.

“Really? Sure thing!” Ed said, and grabbed the metal pot beneath the spigot of the tall aluminum urn.

I smiled. Ed was probably as surprised as I was. I wondered when was the last time that had happened. “Tell me something,” I said, and waited while Ed refilled her cup; I put my hand over the top of mine. “You really had ten thousand dollars in your bag last night? And a gun?”

“The money,” she acknowledged. “The gun was empty. I look' for bullets for it, but . . .” She shrugged. “He . . . he woul' not let me have one that really shoots. I even trie' to buy a different one, at a”—she searched—“prawn shop, but I, really, I—don't know how to use one. He fears I might . . . See?” From her bag she withdrew the same weapon I'd glimpsed the night before and handed it to me. It was heavy, the short barrel rainbowed a couple of degrees. It looked like the one Scott had pulled at The Pickup, only Lizabeth's was smaller and a lot less ornate. I figured it took something other than a standard slug, and you'd
really
have to know how to aim that baby before you fired it. It looked like it loaded from behind the trigger guard and had about ten chambers. They were all empty. “It scares people, he says, if you just show it to them. ‘You don't nee' bullets.'”

“Hm. Kind of an unusual weapon.” I handed it back.

“Oh,” she said, and put it away.

“Why didn't you just take the money and go somewhere?”

She shook her head urgently. “You don't know. Dan is a powerful man. He has many powerful—allies. There are miles a—” She stopped herself, like it was a forbidden word, looked around quickly, and went on. “He, he woul' . . . locate me and hurt me again. Like . . .”

She looked at me, again afraid of something. I couldn't tell what. Then she slowly peeled the glove down her left arm and completely off. Beneath it, her hand and wrist were blackened, burn-scarred and ridged with keloids, like she'd grabbed a falling star and held on.

I looked at it and tried not to look away. “I see,” I said, and looked instead at her face while she carefully slipped her fingers into the glove's, then eased the black satin all the way up her arm again.

“I hope' not to show you this. It is very ugly. It makes me very ugly.”

“It's just a hand.” I had an urge; I followed it and laid my hand on hers. She didn't flinch or pull it away. I didn't know whether I was glad or not. “The rest of you is . . .”

“Thank you,” she said, and laid her other hand on top of mine. “Now do you believe me?”

I sighed. “I'm not sure. But . . . I'm sorry, Miss Duryea.”

“Please, call me Lizabeth.”

“Lizabeth.” Her eyes
were
oh-so-blue. And gold.

She lifted a glove to my cheek. “What happen' to your face?”

“Oh, a little souvenir from a couple of Dan's friends. Nothing to worry about.”

“But I do worry, Mr. Grahame. May I call you Robert?” I nodded. She was only a client. She wasn't my secretary. “You are very . . .” She leaned forward and stroked the dark stubble around the bandaged wound. When she did that, it stopped hurting.

“Yeah. You too.” Even with the glove, her hand felt cool. Surprisingly. She looked into my eyes; I continued to look back. We sat that way, silent, not quite staring but not quite just looking, either. “But why me?” I asked finally. “Why give
me
whatever was in the package?”

“I don't know, Mr.— Robert. You must believe me. It's what he tol' me to do. Will you help me? Please.”

I nodded and let her hand go. She sat up and drank her coffee. All of it, in one gulp.

“First, let's get you someplace safe. Come on.” I started to get up, then stopped. “One more thing: You're just a kid.
Were
you really married?”

“I've—no.” Her eyes filled. “I've never been
anyone's
wife, Robert. I think I seem . . . more ol', but I'm only twenty. And now, now . . . who woul'—ever—have me?”

I hate it when women cry. I'm useless, and I know it. Unless it's because they're scared of going to jail. I've run into a couple of those; they thought their tears would make me soft: I've got a yolk, too, but all a little salt water does is cook it.

“Hey, hey, take it easy. You're still young. There's a lot of guys out there.”

“Are there?” She sniffled.

“Sure there are.”

She looked up at me. I've seen deer in my headlights that had wider eyes, but not by much. I wanted to wipe away the tears. I didn't. “Nice guys?” she said. “Like you?”

“Yeah, nice guys like me.”
Twenty
. She could be my daughter. I took hold of her arm and lifted her out of the booth as carefully as I could. “Come on. Let's get you in a taxi.” She started to protest. “It's only a ten-minute ride. I'll tell him to kill the air-conditioning. You won't freeze.”

I dropped a half-dollar on the table and led her out.

* * *

The night air had grown even thicker while we'd been inside; it was as sultry as she was. I figured rain could hit any minute. The guy in the brown hat was sitting in a doorway just down the block. I hailed a taxi. Brown Hat stood up. Lizabeth got in. I opened the window and closed the door. Brown Hat sat down again.

I wrote down my private home number and told her to call me from the room, and to keep calling until she got me. Then I leaned in, handed the driver a fin, and told him “the Hotel Niagara—and leave the windows up and the A/C off on the way.” Fritz Lorre, the Niagara's night manager, was an ex-client—I'd helped him beat a frame when I was just starting out—and Lorre still felt like he owed me favors. Now and then I'd put in a collection notice. This was one of those times.

The driver looked at me like I was crazy, but he pocketed the five and nodded. I watched him shut down the air conditioner, roll down his window, turn on the meter, and shift the car into gear. I waved the cab away and shook my head. I had too many doubts to have done that, but I couldn't help it. I liked Lizabeth Duryea. And I felt sorry for her. Even if I didn't trust her.

I watched the taxi drive off and dropped a nickel in the phone that was in the booth outside the Criss Cross. I called Fritz Lorre to let him know she was on the way and tell him to take
good
care of her. Fritz said he “vas heppy to do so” in the heavy German accent that had endured his thirty years in America. Then I hailed another cab. Brown Hat jumped up. I yelled “I'm going to my office” loud enough for him to hear. I was too tired and too impatient to wait around for a streetcar. I'd stop by the office, put Dan Scott's money away, and head home. If I was lucky, I'd be in bed before one.

I jumped in the Yellow that pulled up and gave the hack the address and closed the door. I watched Brown Hat wave frantically. He was still waving when my driver stepped on the gas pedal.

I looked at my watch. It was getting close to midnight: Greenstreet had been home alone all day, and he'd be plenty hungry. And sore. I wasn't looking forward much to his greeting.

Chapter 7

Wednesday, June 25th, 1947, 11:45 p.m.

I didn't see Brown Hat anywhere when I climbed out of the cab, which was just fine. I had other things on my mind, and I figured he'd be there when I left. Actually, I figured he'd be there all night: I planned on going down the fire escape steps in the back of the building.

I heard my phone ringing as I reached the eighth-floor landing—Mike Figlia had left at eleven as usual, so I'd climbed the stairs all the way up. Whoever it was, I wasn't going to hurry: I was in pretty good shape, but I'd had a hard day and I was out of breath. This hour of the night it could only be bad news, anyway. Or a wrong number. Bad news could wait till morning.

The office was dark except for the faint spill from the lone forty-watt bulb in the hall—building management spared no expense when it came to tenants seeing their way after hours—and the neon sign flashing somewhere outside my window. Someday I intended to poke my head out there and see what it said. But not tonight. Tonight, all I planned on doing was tucking the money safely away, giving the place the once-over, going home, feeding Greenstreet
his
dinner, and having one more drink to relieve my stone-cold-sober state while I waited for Lizabeth Duryea's call. And then going to sleep.

It was a good plan. Just one thing got in the way.

I unlocked the door and flicked on the light and, without paying much attention, reached my hat toward the coat tree beside the door. It wasn't there. I looked around. Chaos reigned. Things were strewn everywhere, closets and desk and file drawers opened and their contents scattered. And on the floor in front of Gloria's desk, there was a body. Gloria's body.

I called her name. She stirred. I took the half dozen steps and knelt beside her.

Her eyes were closed. She was barely breathing. “Mr. Grah— . . .” she said weakly. “I, I was trying to . . .”

“Just lie here. Don't talk. I'll call an ambulance.” I grabbed the phone on her desk and dialed.

“Okeydokey,” Gloria struggled to say.

I gave the emergency operator the address. He said, “Fifteen minutes,” and I hung up. I knelt beside her again and lifted her head. “They're on the way. Hang on, kid. Just keep breathin'.”

“I . . . was trying to, to . . .”

She was fading. I had to keep her awake. “What? To
what
, Gloria?”

“Miss . . . Miss . . .” She opened her eyes; they were blank. She wheezed once, twice. “Miss . . .” she whispered. Her voice trailed off. Her eyes closed.

I felt for her pulse. She didn't have one.

“Gloria?
Gloria!
” She exhaled a small cough and did not breathe again.

I lowered her head gently.
Sweet, silly little Gloria
. I didn't even know her next of kin.

I took a long, slow breath, then looked closely at her body. There were three holes in her charcoal-gray blouse. Bullet holes, made recently enough that red still leaked from them. Carefully—I didn't want to make the cops' job any tougher by messing up evidence—I lifted her just enough to reach under the body. There were three holes in her back, too. That meant a powerful gun fired at close range. She'd been standing near the shooter when the bullets hit; they'd passed all the way through her.

I laid her back down, wiped the blood off my hands with a dishrag, and checked the area around her desk, the floor, the walls. There were three deep indentations in the wall right behind the desk. They were empty. So was the floor beneath them—except for the chips of paint and plaster the bullets had scattered—and everywhere else a bullet might have lodged or fallen. I muttered, “Where's the . . . ?” and thought a moment. Then I sat at Gloria's desk, picked up the phone, and dialed.

The phone on the other end rang once, twice, and someone picked up. “Lieutenant Stanwyck, please,” I said. “Yeah, I'll wait.”

I yawned. Somewhere a church clock chimed. Midnight. I yawned again. So much for being in bed by one. It would be another two or three hours before I got there. If then. I wondered how long Stanwyck had been on the job. The woman seemed not to need sleep. Or much of anything else, at least not when she had work to keep her occupied. In my experience, that was all the time.

I stretched. That made me realize my right foot was sore. I took off the shoe, put it on the desk, and took out the small, carefully wrapped package I'd put under my arch before I left for The Pickup. It looked identical to the one I'd given Scott. I held it up and stared at it. Plain brown paper, plain brown tape. It didn't seem big enough for anyone to kill anyone else to get it, but a lot of people had been killed over things even smaller. Everybody was so worried about this, it behooved me to find out just what it was.

I took a pair of shears from the desk drawer and, carefully, cut the wrapping, then unrolled the paper.

Inside was another package: small, with aluminum foil around its contents. It had been carefully smoothed over the small, loose bumps inside. Whatever they were, there were a lot of them. I set the package on the desk, unpeeled the foil, and whistled. “Well,” I murmured. “Whattaya know.”

“This is Stanwyck,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. I sat up.

“Stanwyck, it's me. I'm reporting a murder.”

“Hold on,” Stanwyck said. “Bacall!” she yelled. “Pick up the extension and take down every word Grahame says.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I heard Bacall say, and then a
click
. “I'm here, ma'am.”

“Hey, Lauren, you ever let
him
go home? He's a growing boy, probably needs his sleep.”

“Just tell me what you gotta tell me so we can all go home. Eventually. Who's the victim and who killed him?”

“Okay.” I nodded. “Except it's a ‘her.' My secretary. Gloria Mitchum.” Stanwyck whistled. “Yeah. I don't know who killed her, but they did it at my office. That's where I am now.”

“Don't touch
any
thing, Grahame.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Can you tell how they did it?”

“Uh-huh. She was shot. Three times. And there are three big bullet holes.” I took a deep breath.

“You got that Bacall? Three times?”

“Yes, ma'am!” I could feel Bacall saluting as he wrote.

I let out the breath. “There's just one thing, Lauren: There aren't any bullets.”

“What?”

“They're gone.” I looked at the crinkled foil. “But I do have some others. And there are nine of them.”

“Nine.”

“Yeah. All spent, all small, all a little peculiar looking, and probably all from the same gun.”

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Bacall, get a car.”

“Yes, ma'am!” The extension clicked.

“
Don't touch anything.
I mean it, Robert.”

“I know. I'll be waiting.”

I hung up without waiting for a reply and recounted the bullets on the desk. There were still nine. I wanted a cigarette. I wanted a drink. I wanted a bed. I did not want to be sitting in my office at five minutes past midnight with my dead secretary's body lying there in the middle of everything she'd so carefully put away earlier that afternoon.

I picked up the pillow I'd given her. It was sitting there on her desk, curiously pristine. Well, Greenstreet would be the beneficiary after all. I wondered whether Gloria had liked cats. Probably. She seemed to like everyone and everything. Poor, sweet, silly Gloria. That made two dead bodies in this case: hers and Bugsy Siegel. And the night was still young. I was beginning to feel like Marlowe.

I put the money in my desk, locked it, and sat there. I realized I was still wearing my hat. I dropped it on the desk, reached into a drawer, and found the pack of Bicycles. In the distance an ambulance siren whined. One by one, I tossed the cards into my hat. The siren's whine grew closer. I'd made thirty-one in a row by the time it got there.