The Righteous Cut (13 page)

Gaudain gave him a wintery smile. “Superficially, yes. A private handwriting expert I later had inspect the evidence pronounced it a forgery, albeit a stellar job.”

“I see.”

“When they went to question Carson, he had fled. The subsequent search to find him proved unsuccessful.”

“You believe it's a frame-up, then.”

Gaudain smiled again. “Well, consider this. The man who reported seeing the car in St. Charles Parish subsequently landed a plum of a job with the State Insurance Commission, a den of thieves run by a cohort of Richards'. The informer who tipped the police was later given a job with the sheriff, as the sheriff's personal chauffeur.”

“This is beginning to stink.”

“Indeed. Then Whitman proceeded to take advantage of my ignorance, driving away every other buyer who might have had any interest in my uncle's business. I blame myself for that. I've always been rather lazy and knew nothing of what the business was worth. Oh, he offered me a tidy sum, no error, but it was only a fifth of what I could have gotten from the others.” He sighed. “I suppose my efforts to defeat Whitman are merely an outlet for my anger at myself.”

“So nobody knows where this Pete Carson is now.”

“Not precisely. It seems that a year or two later, a man was found cut in half on some railroad tracks in North Dakota. Body was terribly mauled and mutilated. But he had papers identifying him as Pete Carson.”

Farrell raised an eyebrow. “So much for that idea.”

“Perhaps. But you know, Mr. Farrell, I've never truly believed Pete Carson was dead. I made some inquiries about him. He was no fool. The police suspected him of any number of capital crimes, but they never found any evidence that would put him in jail. He was ruthless, intelligent, not at all someone who could be tripped up through any fault of his own. His luck was rather too bad to be credible.”

“Meaning what?”

“I sent a private investigator to look into Carson's supposed death. He reported back that the body was buried without an autopsy. Furthermore, the undertaker who buried him said the man had somehow lost all his fingers—‘perhaps eaten by scavengers' was his verdict.”

“I get your drift. The body was probably an unlucky hobo that Carson used to cover his tracks.” Farrell crossed his legs, rubbed a thumb along his jaw. “Tell me, Mr. Gaudain. If you went that far with your investigation, why didn't you turn what you'd found over to the police?”

Gaudain smiled. “Mr. Farrell, were you not acquainted with a police captain named Gus Moroni?”

Farrell blinked as his mind raced back to a night in 1936 when he'd gone into a dark house after a gangster named Ganns and his confederate, Captain Gus Moroni. He remembered vividly the bucking of the gun in his hand as he sent three bullets into the renegade police captain.

“Yes,” Gaudain said softly. “I see you remember. You remember, as well, that Moroni was a blackguard, and that his boss, Emile Ganns, was one of Richards' supporters. Does that tell you anything?”

Farrell nodded slowly. “Moroni helped Richards cover everything up.”

“Mere speculation, but you'll grant that there is some basis for it. Might I trouble you for a cigarette now?” He selected one from Farrell's proffered case, then leaned over to get the light. As he leaned back, exhaling the smoke luxuriously, he pointed a finger at Farrell. “If Carson still lives, I can think of no one who'd hate Richards more than he.”

Farrell stared out the window at the gamboling nymph. “If you're right, the cops will never figure it out. Carson's bound to have changed some in ten years. With the police believing he's dead, there'd be no one looking for him to come back. Not even Richards.”

“Oh, I'm certain Whitman knows who's stinging him.”

Farrell's brow puckered. “Any idea why he framed this Carson?”

“Just thieves falling out, I suppose. We may never know, and of course, Whitman would not dare tell the police. He has too many secrets he has to keep hidden.”

Farrell took in some more smoke, let it out gently. “I'm grateful to you for the help, Mr. Gaudain. If you're right, this is the first good lead in the case.”

Gaudain put the cigarette between his lips, then smoothed an eyebrow with his finger. “Think nothing of it. It's quite stimulating to have such a famous brigand as yourself visit. I dare say you could tell
me
some good stories. Perhaps you'll come again and indulge me.”

Farrell was silent for a moment, watching the other man. Finally he stirred. “It sounds like fair payment.”

Gaudain made a dismissive gesture. “Not at all. I'm being quite selfish. If you should come again, I hope you'll tell me how all this turns out. Particularly if you have bad news about Whitman. I should very much like to hear some bad news about him.”

Farrell stood and offered his hand to the languid millionaire. “There aren't very many ways for this to turn out, and most of them are bad.”

Gaudain smiled dreamily. “Lovely. Simply lovely.”

***

Farrell departed Gaudain's house warily, using the front porch pillars as cover until he could reach the shrubbery in the yard. When he reached the fence, he spent two full minutes examining the neighborhood until he was satisfied that no one was lurking within gunshot of him.

He drove back Downtown on Magazine, pausing at a telephone booth at the edge of the Lower Garden District. He caught Casey just as he was about to leave the office.

“I'm glad I caught you,” Farrell said. “I've got a lead that only a cop can follow.”

“And I've got one for you,” Casey said. “That tie bar found at the Glasgo murder, one was sold to a man named Johnny Parmalee about three weeks ago. You know him?”

“Ex-prize fighter. Last I heard he was muscle, squeezing people who owed Diamond Phil Fanucci.”

“Not anymore. He quit about two weeks ago. Told him he had a shot at something better and was going to take it.”

“Really.”

“There's more. Did you know Parmalee had a brother?”

“Uh-uh. He must be quite a bit younger than Johnny.”

“About ten years according to his record. He was working for Fanucci, too, and he's got an arrest record that includes three arrests for assault with a deadly weapon. All three involved a knife.”

“And Glasgo was knifed to death,” Farrell mused. “That sounds like a very good lead, Dad.”

“I think so, too. I sent men to their last known address—a hotel off Lee Circle—but they're both gone. Left no forwarding address. I've got their descriptions out on the air already, but I've got a hunch you'll turn something up on them before I do. So what've you got for me?”

Farrell laughed. “I learned one thing, and that's not to make an enemy of a rich, bored man. Neil Gaudain paid for his own investigators when his uncle, Charles Tarkington, was killed. It seems that Richards got our old pal, Captain Gus Moroni, to help him pin Tarkington's murder on a man named Pete Carson. Carson escaped arrest, and seems to have faked his death somewhere up north.”

“That sweetens the pot a little,” Casey said. “If Richards framed Carson, he'd have plenty of reasons to want to destroy him, and he might not be too particular about how he does it. I'll get a bulletin out to the radio cars.”

“Don't go away yet,” Farrell said. “I've got one other little tidbit for you.”

“I'm listening.”

“When I left you after lunch, somebody took a shot at me on Tulane Avenue as I was walking to my car. I didn't get a look at him, but the hole in my hat couldn't be anything but a .22.”

“Mother of God.” Casey's voice was a harsh whisper. “You all right?”

“So far, but I'll feel better when I know who this is.”

“Be careful, son. I know I asked you to mix into this, but you can back out anytime. I'd rather have you alive than catch all the crooks in New Orleans.”

“Don't fret, Dad. I'll see to it you get to the altar on time.”

Farrell stepped quickly from the phone booth to the recessed entrance of a nearby jewelry store, melding his form to the shadows there. He saw nothing in any direction, but his sixth sense was as insistent as blood pumping from a severed artery. Whoever was stalking Farrell, he was still out there, looking for his chance.

Setting his jaw, the bronze-skinned man moved deliberately to his car, hit the ignition, then drove away.

***

Georgia Miles Richards looked like almost any other pampered rich man's wife, but, unlike most, she'd been mistress to two criminals, each of whom had committed violence while she lived with them. For that reason, she was sufficiently familiar with crime to be less appalled by it than a more sheltered spouse. She was also fed up with waiting for some man to get her daughter back. She'd been to Farrell, Rob Landgon, and Whit, and so far none of them had delivered. She decided it was time to do something on her own.

Swearing her cook, Bessie Mae, to secrecy, she left the house through the kitchen. The garage opened onto a service alley, which allowed her to leave while avoiding the scrutiny of the two deputies who'd been detailed to watch the house. It appeared that neither of them realized that guarding the house included keeping a watch on the rear.

Lacking anything like a clear-cut plan of action, she headed Downtown. As much as she wanted to find her daughter, she also wanted someone to tell her what this was all about. Of course, some enemy of Whit's had stolen the girl, but who was it?

She had one friend left from the days when she'd come to New Orleans looking for adventure. Annie Riley had been merely an enterprising whore in 1921, but now she used the name Joyce Delessups and ran a high class bordello.

She drove through Downtown until she reached Canal, following that westward until she neared City Park Avenue. Across from St. Anthony of Padua church, she found the house she was looking for, a magnificent antebellum mansion with three floors and a gallery supported by smooth white columns. The woman who answered the door took her to Mrs. Delessups's drawing room.

“Georgia, darlin',” Annie Riley said, throwing her arms wide. “What's the respectable wife of a city councilman doin' comin' in this place in broad daylight?” She let loose a delighted bray as she hugged Georgia.

“I've got worse trouble than being seen at a bawdy house, honey,” Georgia replied, kissing Annie's cheek.

“Sit down and tell mama all about it,” Annie said, leading Georgia to the couch.

“Somebody's kidnapped Jess. I don't know who it is, but Whit does. He threw the police out of the house, and since then all he's done is fuck his secretary and leave sheriff's deputies on the front lawn.”

Annie shook her head. “Men. They sure as hell are predictable, ain't they, honey? When did all this start?”

“They grabbed Jess on the grounds of her school yesterday morning. I don't know who or why. Whit's the only one who's even talked to the kidnappers.”

Annie unstoppered a decanter of scotch and poured two healthy measures. She gave one to her friend, then took a bite out of her own. “Well, it's no secret that your hubby's stepped on a lotta faces over the years. Pickin' out the who from that list would take a crystal ball.”

Georgia leaned back in the chair and placed the cool glass against her forehead. “Christ, this waiting is killing me. I just wish something would happen.”

Annie raised an eyebrow. “Honey, I think you forgot how we used to do things when we were young.”

Georgia looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

Annie shrugged. “Think about it. We wanted something to happen, we made it happen. I think you forgot how.”

“I didn't forget everything,” she replied soberly. “I went to the one man I thought could or would help. He said he would, but I've heard nothing from him.”

“Who might we be speaking of, darlin'?”

“Wes Farrell. I figured if anybody could find Jess it would be him.”

She laughed. “Yeah. If a third of the stories about him are true, he's half ghost and half Apache Indian.” Her face grew a sly look. “Funny you'd think of goin' to him. What made you think he'd help you?”

Georgia felt heat growing in her face. “For old time's sake, I guess.”

Annie's expression grew thoughtful. “That all? You didn't give him any better reasons?”

Georgia shot Annie an irritable look. “You mean like offer to sleep with him? You're damned nosy sometimes.”

Annie regarded her soberly. “Don't be too tricky for your own good, Georgia. You ought to find some reason to get him to take you into his confidence. If he didn't still feel something for you, he'd of thrown you down the stairs. Remember, it's Wes Farrell we're talkin' about. He's either your best friend or Satan's stepson.”

Georgia sighed as she put the glass on the table. “All right. Thanks for the advice, Annie. I guess I needed it.”

Annie grinned at her coyly. “Advice? Was that what I gave you? We were just talkin', sugar. Talkin' like old girlfriends from the neighborhood. Come back and tell me when everything's over. I never got to ride the coattails of Wesley Farrell. Bet it'll be a hell of a ride.”

Georgia shook her head as she stood up. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

***

Skeeter returned to consciousness hearing water lap softly against the shore. He tried to move, but found his hands and feet tightly bound. The piercing aroma of rotting marine vegetation made him gag, setting off a sharp pain in the base of his skull. Somehow he managed to neither vomit nor pass out. After a while he was able to roll to his side.

His kidnapper sat stoically on the running board of the Plymouth. His hard features were twisted with some emotion that Skeeter had no desire to learn.

“Well, you finally come back to life.”