The Gutter and the Grave (14 page)

“So?” I said.

“Let’s play Pick-The-Client.”

“Go on. Pick him.”

Her finger came down onto the page, landing smack in the middle of Dom Archese’s forehead.

“Him,” she said.

“This is the man who hired Dennis Knowles?”

“In person.”

“
Not
Johnny Bridges?”

“Ah, but yes. He said he was Johnny Bridges. It
threw me when I saw the picture. After I read the story, I knew it was Dom Archese. Why do you suppose he gave Dennis the phony name?”

“That’s not unusual,” I said. “Lots of guys are ashamed to bring their dirty laundry to a private eye. If a man’s wife is playing around, it’s a reflection on the man—or so he thinks. So he’ll go to an agency and say he’s John Doe. In this case, Archese probably figured he’d kill two birds with one stone. Use a name that wasn’t his—Johnny Bridges—and then pretend he wanted Dom Archese watched. The picture he gave Dennis was a picture of Johnny, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Sure. And he said it was Archese, right?”

“Yes.”

“So he simply swapped identities. Which means he suspected Christine and Johnny of keeping house. That explains why he lost interest when you reported that the suspect was seeing a girl named Laraine Marsh. This told Archese that Johnny wasn’t after his wife at all. He was probably ready to drop your services when he got killed.”

“But who killed him?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “If Johnny and Christine weren’t…”

The telephone rang. “Excuse me,” Fran said, and she went to answer it. “Hello? Oh, hello, Dennis.” She paused. “Yes, I saw it earlier this morning. I was just talking to Cordell about it. He’s here, yes. Well, he just stopped by for a chat, is there any law against that? Oh,
Dennis, don’t be a goddam fool.” She paused again, listening. Then, very coldly, she said, “You’re disgusting, Dennis. Goodbye,” and she slammed down the receiver.

“Trouble?”

“Oh, he’s a poop,” she said.

“What’s the matter?”

“He doesn’t like the idea of my being up here alone with you. He thinks he’s my father or something. He didn’t seem to mind it so damn much when I was hopping into bed with strangers and getting my picture taken.” She made a disgusted face and said, “I guess he just doesn’t like you, Cordell. He put the cops onto you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I’d watch him if I were you. Dennis has a long memory, and his nose hurts everytime it rains.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said.

“Seriously. He’s a pretty vicious guy, and he loves you like arsenic.”

“Okay, okay.”

“So? Figure out who’s doing the shooting yet?”

“No. Not Johnny because he was in jail when Christine got it. Not Laraine, because she was working. Not me, that’s for sure. You don’t think Dennis is involved in this thing, do you?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Or this kid Ryan.”

“Who’s he?”

“Works for the tailor shop…or did until the time of the murders, anyway. He’s really a musician, plays
trumpet with a local…” I stopped, thinking. “Maybe I’d better look him up again.”

“Have another cup of coffee first.”

She poured the coffee, and since she was standing so close to me anyway, she kissed me.

“Nice?” she said.

“Very.”

“More?”

“Not now.”

“When?”

I shrugged.

“Okay, drink your coffee.”

I drank my coffee and we chatted. Every now and then, Fran kissed me. It was pleasant. I didn’t leave the apartment until about a half-hour later. I was thinking of the warm coffee and the pleasant kisses. I reached the second floor landing, and somebody hit me.

I’ve been hit before, and perhaps I’ve been hit harder, but in that instant this seemed to me like the hardest blow I’d ever received in my entire thirty-three years. I didn’t need an anatomy chart to know that whatever hit me wasn’t a part of the human body. Whatever hit me was hard and unyielding and was either metal or wood.

It hit me on the side of the head, catching my jawbone just below the right ear. I swung back from the blow, feeling hot pain spread into the entire right side of my face.

Staggering, I collided with the bannister, and then I
got hit again from the other side.

This was no fist, either. I saw what this was, and it was a blackjack, and it slammed down on my left shoulder, and then the fellow on my right swung his little surprise package again, but this time I stuck up my hand which turned out to be a mistake because the thing he was swinging was a lead pipe and it caught my forefinger and middle finger and I yelled but once in pain and then swung to the left where the blackjack was descending again.

I didn’t know who was hitting me as yet. It didn’t seem very important. My assailants were two sons-of-bitches whose only names were Blackjack and Leadpipe. I didn’t need formal introductions to the people swinging the weapons. I threw a left jab into the face behind the blackjack, and then the pipe hit me in the ribs, and I went down onto the floor clutching for the bannister. I caught the wood and the blackjack came down on my fingers hard. I opened my hand, releasing the wood, dropping to my knees, knowing I couldn’t allow myself to fall because the instant I was down they would pound out my brains with the pipe and the leather-covered six inches of destruction.

I tried to get up.

The pipe came down. I saw it coming from a mile away, and I tried to duck it, but I was kicked in the thigh at the same instant from the opposite side, and the pipe glanced off my shoulder bone leaving an angry throbbing dull pain and then the blackjack
caught me across the bridge of my nose, and I went all the way down to the floor.

“Now give it to the bastard,” a voice said, and I instinctively covered the back of my head with my hands, and the pipe crashed down against my wrists, and then the blackjack, and then the pipe, and then I heard a familiar voice shouting, “What’s going on up there?” and I guess I should thank Detective 3rd/grade Arthur de Ponce for the fact that I’m still alive today.

They started down the stairwell. I caught a glimpse of them as they went past, both six-footers. The glimpse would be enough to last a lifetime. If there’s one adage I believe in, it’s the one about every dog having his day. Both these dogs weren’t thinking of me at the moment. They were concentrating on De Ponce who was barreling up the steps with his service revolver clutched in his fist. Blackjack and Leadpipe went down the steps like a Panzer division. Leadpipe ducked his shoulder a little and sent it slamming into De Ponce’s chest, knocking him against the wall, the arm with the revolver coming up over his head as Blackjack rushed past and clattered down the steps out of sight. Then De Ponce’s revolver came down butt first onto Leadpipe’s head, and he shoved him aside and away from him, ran to the first floor landing and yelled, “Halt!” at the same moment he fired down the stairwell. He fired again, and then a third time, and then wheeled as Leadpipe staggered to his feet.

The .38 came around level with Leadpipe’s gut.

“Go ahead,” De Ponce said, “make a break.”

Leadpipe wasn’t making any breaks. Leadpipe was
studying the .38 and working out fractions on the speed of a traveling bullet as compared to the speed of a hired mauler. Science won out. Reluctantly, Leadpipe raised his hands.

De Ponce walked over to him leisurely. He looked at him calmly for a few seconds, and then his left hand lashed out suddenly, catching Leadpipe on the face in an open-handed slap.

“You dirty son-of-a-bitch,” De Ponce muttered, and then he viciously clamped one half of a pair of handcuffs onto Leadpipe’s right hand, dragged him to the radiator on the landing, and fastened the other cuff to the metal pipe. Then he came over to me, kneeling.

“You okay, Cordell?”

I grunted.

De Ponce rolled me over gently, looked at my face, and winced. “Oh, Jesus,” he said.

I nodded bleakly.

“I’d better get an ambulance.”

I nodded again.

“Any idea who these bums are?”

“No. I…I think my right hand is broken.”

“The other one got away,” De Ponce said, almost to himself.

“I got a good look at him.”

“So did I.” He looked at my face again, unable to keep the pained expression out of his eyes. “I’ll make my calls,” he said. “Don’t move, Cordell, huh?”

I didn’t move. It was easy. I simply passed out.

* * *

There was a doctor with strong hands. The hands searched out every cut and bruise, cleaning, wiping, swabbing, patching.

There was a nurse with soft hands. The hands closed on mine gently when I screamed with pain.

There was the sting of alcohol, and the tight smell of bandages, the jab of a needle into my arm, and then the steady rolling waves of darkness, the pain ebbing, and then silence again, blackness.

It was dark in the room when I came around. An air-conditioner hummed at the window. There were clean sheets under me and on top of me. I blinked at the ceiling.

“Well,” the soft voice said.

I turned my head on the pillow and sudden pain reminded me of what had happened. She sat by the bed in a crisply starched uniform. I knew that when she walked she rustled. She had bright red hair, the kind of hair you only find on an Irish girl. Her nose was dotted with freckles. She had blue eyes, and she probably burned a lobster red if she sat in the sun too long. A little white hat with a black stripe on it sat atop the close-cropped hair.

“How long have I been out?” I said.

She looked at her watch. “It’s six o’clock. How do you feel?”

“Fine.” I lifted my right hand to wipe the dry taste from my mouth. The hand was in a cast. “Is it broken?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Badly?”

“Two fingers. They’ve been set. You’ll be all right.”

I nodded.

“Who beat you?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“A Detective Miskler was here earlier. He wanted to talk to you. Doctor said he couldn’t. He wanted to know when you’d be all right. He said he wants you to look at some mug shots.”

I nodded again. I was beginning to realize how much plaster and bandage was on my face. I was beginning to realize that my right hand was broken, and what have you got left when you take away a man’s right hand? You’ve got left. I was also beginning to feel a hundred little aches and bruises I had not felt before, all over my body.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Peggy.”

“It figures.”

“Why?”

“With that face, you’re sure as hell no Brunhilde.”

Peggy smiled. “I’ll tell the doctor you’re awake.”

“All right.”

She started for the door. “Don’t try to sit up yet. You went into shock and…” She shrugged. “Well, just don’t try to sit up. I’ll get the doctor.”

I didn’t try to sit up. I lay looking at the ceiling, remembering the faces of Leadpipe and Blackjack and wondering who had paid for the beating. I felt miserable.

The door opened. Peggy entered the room, and a thin guy with a narrow face came in behind her. He grinned.

“Welcome back,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He extended his hand. I wasn’t sure this was the doctor who’d treated me until I felt his grip. Strong and sure.

“How do you feel?”

“Weak.”

“You’re not the hero type, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not going to make a dash for your clothes and try to run out of here?”

“I hadn’t thought of it.”

“You’re probably anxious to catch up with whoever did this job on you.”

“I am.”

“Let it wait until morning, will you? Or perhaps tomorrow evening. You’ve suffered some serious injuries. We’d like to take some X-rays now that you’re with us again. There may be internal trouble.”

“That’s great,” I said.

“Your hand is broken, did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Simple fracture of the forefinger, compound fracture of the middle finger. It should heal if the bones set properly.”

“Let’s hope they do.”

“Yes. No hero stuff, Cordell?”

“Do you really expect me to make a reach for my pants?”

“The police tell me you sometimes act…let us say…impetuously.”

I tried a feeble smile. Every seam of my face hurt when I did.

“Where
are
my clothes, doctor?” I said.

He gestured with his head. “The closet there.”

I looked at the closed closet door. “I’d walk two feet and fall flat on my face,” I told him.

“Just so long as you realize it, Cordell. You may be more badly hurt than you think.” He smiled. “X-rays first thing in the morning.”

“Right,” I said.

“Are you hungry?”

“A little.” I paused. “
And
thirsty.”

“Miss Collins will get you some dinner. And a glass of milk.”

“Milk?” I said. I tried to raise my eyebrows, but even that hurt.

“Milk,” the doctor repeated. He went to the door and then out. Peggy Collins smiled. “I’ll get you some food,” she said, and she went out after the doctor.

I contemplated the ceiling for several moments. In truth, I had no burning desire to throw myself at Blackjack or Leadpipe. There wasn’t much I’d be able to do about the beating, not now anyway. I’ve never been notorious for a wicked left, and my right hand was in a cast. It seemed important to me, however, that someone had taken the trouble to get me
kicked around a little. That could indicate that I was getting warm. And the one thing that can cool off a beginning fire is lack of attention. You’ve got to feed it and fan it. The only thing I’d feed in the hospital was my fractured face. The only thing I’d fan was my feverish brow.

I got out of bed.

It wasn’t easy. The aches and bruises all got up that old team spirit and tried to knock me back to the mattress again. I refused to budge. I held to the metal bedstead for a couple of minutes, waiting for my legs to tell me they could make it alone, waiting for the sudden dizziness to leave me. After a while, I decided to try the long walk to the closet. I tried it and fell flat on my face.

I got up again.

I held to the wall.

I waited.

Then I tried it again. It was better this time. I swayed across the room and then fell against the closet door, but I didn’t drop to my knees. I waited another few minutes, gathering the strength to open the door and begin dressing. I wondered how long it would take Peggy Collins to dish up a hot supper. With milk.