The By-Pass Control (4 page)

“I see.”

“Do you?”

Delaney stared at me hard, his forefinger tapping the edge of the table silently. “You can give us the benefit of your thought, Mr. Mann.”

“No. You’ll get the benefit of what I find out, but I’m keeping the edge. I want the heat off our group and the advantage of being able to draw from your man power and resources if necessary.”

“Where does that leave us?” Delaney asked softly.

“Stranded,” I said, “unless you do it my way.”

Hal Randolph had that florid look back again, the strain of what he was thinking making the muscles in his neck bulge. I was pushing them all the way and not leaving them open for a lot of empty discussion.

It was Charlie Corbinet who quieted the hum down when he said, “I would like to make a suggestion.”

Heads swiveled toward him and waited. Unlike most of them, Charlie was more than a desk supervisor. He worked in the field when he had to and had never lost his touch. He had been on the big hot ones with the best of them and was rarely outguessed.

Randolph said, “Well?”

“This won’t be the first... or last... time strange bed partners have come together. My association with Mr. Mann is nothing new to anybody present and the results have justified the arrangement. Whether we like it or not, we’ll have to go along with him or go without his services. If his capabilities are lost to us through lack of cooperation on our part it will be to our disadvantage.”

“If I get knocked off,” I interrupted.

“Exactly,” he replied. “I realize that if we do agree to a union with the Martin Grady forces certain political powers will lose their ability to censure or eliminate the Grady machine in the face of public opinion... if this ever reaches that stage. In effect, it’s a stalemate. I suggest we go along with Tiger here, on the agreement that no word of this merger leaks out. It won’t hurt to save face if we have to.”

Hal Randolph snorted at that, but lost the silent vote. It was over as quickly as it started. I had made my point the hard way. I stood up, wincing a little. “One more thing,” I told them. “I’d like two signed copies of this informal agreement. One to be delivered to Martin Grady himself. I’ll keep the other copy.”

Delaney smiled a little, his eyes sparkling. “Yes, I imagine you would. And we would like some protection too.”

“Name it.”

“On a previous occasion you operated in a reserve officer capacity for a short time. I suggest we renew that arrangement for a specified period in the event we want to pull the stops out on you. It might keep you on your toes to realize that a court-martial can always hang over your head if you get too far out of line.”

I put my hat on and shoved the chair back. “No trouble, gentlemen,” I said. “I was just going to make the same suggestion myself.”

 

I met Charlie Corbinet in the Blue Ribbon Restaurant on Forty-fourth just off Seventh Avenue at five in the afternoon. The afteroffice crowd had just started to filter in, but I had a corner table in the bar by myself and a cold beer to keep me company while I waited.

He slid in, ordered the same and said, “You’re a cagey bastard, Tiger.”

“Yeah, I know. How’d it come out?”

“All your way. I’m appointed the official baby sitter and you’re to report through me.” He gave me a dubious grin and added, “You’re getting closer all the time. You’re practically an agency man.”

“Screw that stuff.”

“Well, you’re in the Army now. They’ve expedited your papers. You’d better behave. Delaney wasn’t kidding about a court-martial. Don’t slip up.”

“I haven’t in twenty years.”

“You almost did a few months ago.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Let’s say you were lucky.”

“That’s why I’m still alive.”

Charlie nodded and took a sip of his beer. “What’s your first step?”

“Trying to get your department to give me all the details on Louis Agrounsky.”

“You’ll get that tomorrow. That wasn’t what I meant.”

“How long can I have before you file a report on my activities?”

“At your discretion. I know you can play the game. Maybe the others don’t but we’re the same breed, or have you forgotten?”

I laughed and finished my beer. The waiter asked if I wanted another but I waved him off. I said, “I haven’t forgotten anything.”

“Then?”

“There’s a funny little guy who doesn’t belong in the picture, yet he’s there.”

Charlie saw the point immediately. “Doug Hamilton?”

“Vito Salvi killed him along with the other two. His abduction was deliberate and that torture murder had a purpose. I want to know why.”

“You could have asked Salvi,” Charlie said quietly.

“Not when I was shot to hell and bleeding all over the floor. I wasn’t taking any chances on Salvi getting me after I dropped in a faint, old friend. I wasn’t thinking fast at that point or I might have sweated it out a little, but what’s done is done.”

“Sure,” Charlie nodded. “Incidentally, you’re off the hook on that one. They dreamed up a cutie to cover those kills.”

“I’ll read about it in the papers.”

“All part of the terms of the agreement you made.”

“Great.” My voice sounded sour. I wasn’t very happy about the bed I had made or the others who were going to sleep in it with me. I laid a couple of bucks on the table and got up. “I’ll call you, Charlie,” I said.

“I’ll be waiting.”

 

I had scheduled Don Lavois to meet me at Ernie Bentley’s lab at nine with the information I requested. I got there a little early and caught Ernie with a fresh pot of coffee and let him pour me one in a beaker. It was black and thick, almost a distant cousin of some of the explosives he was expert at concocting.

He handed me a bag of doughnuts and perched on the edge of a work table. “Hear you have a big priority job going.”

“Grady set any limitations on you?”

“None. Fullest cooperation. I passed on the authorization to London and Paris and they’re set to roll if they have to. Martin sent a draft through to the bank to cover any emergency.” He took half a doughnut, dunked it and stuffed it in his mouth. “What’s the procedure?”

“Right now, I haven’t any. When Don gets in I’ll probably know the direction it’ll take.” I checked my watch, found it almost nine when the buzzer flashed from downstairs and Ernie touched the unlock button beside his desk.

Don Lavois was a big guy, wide in the shoulders with one of those pleasant faces that had seen a lot of action. There was a slight twist to his nose and a little scar tissue gave a lift to one eyebrow. A fine white line, nearly unnoticeable, traced a curve down his cheek where he had taken a razor slash when we were on the same job below the border. He was a good guy to have around... one of the original bunch of whom so few were left any more.

He grinned and stuck out his hand. “Hi, buddy,” he said. “Nice to be back.”

I wrapped my hand around his and squeezed hard, my mouth splitting in a smile. “Let’s hope you think so when you hear the poop.”

Don’s shrug was a masterpiece of understatement. “After that last bash anything will come easy. How many we have going on this one?”

“We’ll do the initial fieldwork,” I told him. “Sit down while I fill you in. Want some coffee?”

“Sure.”

While he sipped the scalding brew, I gave him the situation to date, watching his face for any reaction. He was as good as ever, never changing expression, simply absorbing the details without question until I had finished, then giving a slight nod of understanding. But behind his eyes was that touch of ice that meant he recognized the greater implications and the possibilities that would result if we missed the target.

He put down the graduated jar he had been drinking out of and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. “A rough one, Tiger.”

“Damn rough.”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Backtrack Vito Salvi. He would have done all the groundwork on Louis Agrounsky and if he had any leads, we’ll need them.”

Don looked up from the match he had cupped in his hand. “If he had to chop up Doug Hamilton and those other two then he didn’t have much, did he?”

“Maybe he was just insuring his information. Salvi was an old pro, buddy. I can’t see him giving me the entire story no matter how far the chips were down. He still would have held something back. He knew I was in the same league so he gave me more than he would have tossed to anybody else, but he was still on the other side and there are a few rules you’ll stick to no matter what.”

“Okay, Tiger, so I’ll run it out. Then what?”

“Play it by ear. I’m going after Hamilton. He’s the sour note in the concert. If you cross swords with I.A.T.S. or the locals, get right to me. We’ll get cooperation from the police and the Washington agencies up to a point, but don’t push the issue if you don’t have to.”

Don grinned at me again. “Do I get to meet any beautiful blondes?”

“Knock it off.”

“I was just thinking about Panama.”

“So I was lucky.”

“Brother!” he said with a short laugh.

Ernie Bentley gave us both a disgusted snort and shook his head. “You let Martin Grady hear that kind of talk and you’ll wind up behind a filing cabinet. For two guys with all the field experience you’ve had you still play kid games.”

Don glanced at him, smiling. “You know what they say about all work and no play, Ernie.”

“How many times has a woman ever shot you?” Ernie asked him.

“Once.”

“I heard different.”

“The other wasn’t in the line of duty.” Don grinned again. He nodded toward me and said, “Ask him the same question now.”

“Shut up,” I said. I looked at my watch. “Let’s get things rolling.”

 

Doug Hamilton had lived in Manhattan in a four-room apartment that was one of the newer eyesores in a rebuilt city. Five years ago the site had been a row of great restaurants frequented by those who had loved the city and made it a modern wonder of the world. Now it was an index system of people in a massive complex of commercialism whose character had gone from blood and flesh to concrete and steel.

The personnel folder Don had delivered to me on Hamilton listed his salary from Belt-Aire Electronics at two hundred dollars a week and estimated another one-fifty from other contracts he handled through his office. His agency was small but efficient and in business since the end of 1946. Recommendations had come from five other major companies who had used his service with satisfaction and all the checks Belt-Aire had put through gave him a clean bill.

The only thing wrong was that the cheapest one-and-a-half-room apartment in the building went for three-fifty a month and Doug Hamilton had one of the most expensive layouts in the place whose advertised rental was almost ten thousand dollars a year.

When the doorman called the superintendent into the lobby for me I got one knowing look and didn’t have to bother with explanations. He was old and wise and had seen too many people like me and judged accordingly, except that this time he mistook me for a cop. “Aren’t you people ever going to call it quits?”

“Shortly.”

“They’ve photographed the place, they’ve dusted it, I’ve talked to a couple dozen other cops and I can’t think of a thing to tell you I haven’t told them.” He waved his hand aimlessly toward the street outside.

“Well, you know how it is. Just a job,” I said.

He nodded, hunching his shoulders in a shrug. “Sure, but what’s to see? No other tenants on that floor yet. He paid rent in advance, never bothered anybody, no parties or stuff like that. I liked him.”

“Somebody didn’t.”

The super motioned with his head for the doorman to go back to his post, then said softly, “What’s it all about? All I get is that he died.”

“He was killed.”

“I figured that. He was a private dick too. I saw a lot of his outgoing mail with the agency name on the envelopes. What happened?”

“Nobody knows just yet. He got involved with something too big for him.”

“So what do I do with the apartment? He was paid up for a year, in cash yet.”

“Check with your lawyer. How about letting me see the place?”

He pointed to the elevator. “Be my guest. It’s still open. Top floor.”

“Thanks.”

The elevator opened into a small private lobby with the floor blanketed in a thick nylon pile rug, the walls boasting finely framed oils by some good but obscure artist. The door to the apartment swung open all the way and the smell of cigar smoke still hung in the air.

I walked in, stood in the doorway a moment and looked around. Nobody had bothered to shut the lights off. Doug Hamilton had rented the apartment unfurnished, but wasn’t responsible for selecting his accouterments. All the earmarks of a decorator were there—one who had unlimited funds to work with.

Somewhere along the way Hamilton had made it. Then he had to pay for it. The hard way.

I knew I wouldn’t find anything there. In a way I wasn’t looking for anything either. All I wanted was an insight into the man I had never seen until he was dead, strapped out on a torture table with the handiwork of an expert etched into his flesh.

For ten minutes I walked around the place, opening cabinets and drawers, seeing the accumulation of a person taking on a new life. He had had everything a man could ask for except living and even that wasn’t much. All the information Don Lavois had dug up showed Hamilton to have been a frugal liver and it still showed here. Two quarts of scotch, one opened, two suits, a half dozen shirts and shorts with socks to go with them, a few odds a d ends and that was all. It was as if he had just moved in, yet he had been there several months.