Kill box, p.3
Kill-Box, page 3
The doctor slapped my face tenderly with a wet rag; the porter just stood there and made no comment.
I waved away the wet rag and managed to sit up. I felt for my head and made it. My fingers touched a large and growing lump behind my ear.
The doctor said, “You’ve been hit, but it isn’t too bad. Nothing open or bleeding.”
“Fine,” I said. “That’s just dandy.”
“Who hit you?” asked one of the strange gentlemen. He was a tall, thin, serious man. His voice floated down to me, a gentle voice, full of sympathy and curiosity.
“Isn’t the victim supposed to ask that question? I don’t know who hit me, but if I ever catch up with him I’m going to shake his hand. It was a neat job. How long have I been out?”
The doctor said, “I’ve only been gone a few minutes. I should say that whoever hit you must have seen me go.”
“A good guess, doc.” I felt in my pockets. My wallet hadn’t been touched. I had just as little money as ever. My few assorted papers were intact. And the little drugstore bottle still reposed in my jacket. Whoever hit me was after bigger game than my wallet or my papers or the little bottle. Whoever hit me was well muscled and in a great hurry.
The porter said, “Nobody passed us when we were coming into the car. But this gentleman here says he saw somebody.”
The other man stepped forward. He was of medium height. He looked down at me through heavy lenses. Through the lenses his eyes were cow-like and out of proportion to his gnome face.
When he talked, his beetle brows oscillated. “Professor McCormack and I were on the way back to our room. I walked ahead of him as we entered this car. I am quite sure I saw a man come out of this room and run up the corridor. Quite sure.”
“And who are you?” I asked.
“I am Professor John Frotti,” he said, as though I were a student who didn’t know his lesson. “And this is Professor McCormack.”
“Delighted,” I said. “And how is it you two were up so early in the morning?”
McCormack smiled at Frotti. Frotti glared at me, glared at McCormack, glared at me again. “I see no reason for answering your impertinent questions, young man.”
McCormack continued to smile. “There’s no need for temper, John. Nor is there any necessity for withholding information from this gentleman. The reason why we are up so early in the morning is quite obvious. We just didn’t go to bed. John and I and another colleague, a man named Gunther, were simply talking. You might call it a business talk. We lost ourselves in our own chatter, became so engrossed in our discussion that we completely forgot about sleep. That happens often, young man, when a good argument gets going.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Now let’s start all over again.” I turned to Frotti. “You saw somebody on the way out of this compartment?”
Frotti nodded. “I did.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see his face.”
“And you, Professor McCormack?”
McCormack smiled his gentle smile and shook his head. “I saw nobody. I entered the car a few minutes after Professor Frotti, you see.”
Frotti began to puff. He eyed his colleague with sudden anger. Through his heavy lenses the anger was emphasized, enlarged, exaggerated. “What do you mean by that, McCormack?”
“Mean?”
“You were behind me, weren’t you?”
“Oh, no,” said the other, gently. “I wasn’t that close to you, John. I had stopped in the next car, to say goodnight to Gunther, you remember.”
“I remember nothing!” Frotti shouted. “I took for granted the fact that you had followed me into this car.”
“Tut, tut, John. Isn’t that a peculiarly unscientific assumption?”
“Ridiculous! You were right behind me!”
McCormack shrugged. “Gunther will prove you wrong, I’m sure.”
I said, “Let it pass. You didn’t see the man’s face, Frotti?”
He shook his head, violently. “I did not.”
“What did you see?”
“A man. I saw a man.”
“A tall man?”
“I cannot say whether he was tall or short. I did not measure him. He was running away.”
“You didn’t see his face, then?”
“I saw only his back.”
“Oh, fine,” I said. “You’re a big help, Frotti. You saw a man, yet you didn’t see him. He wasn’t tall or short, and for your money he didn’t even have a face. He didn’t happen to be a friend of yours, did he?”
“I resent that!” shouted Frotti, and adjusted his features to promote his resentment. “I don’t like your insinuations!”
“And I don’t like your testimony. That makes us even. You’re doing me as much good as another lump on the head. Or am I offending you again?”
McCormack interceded for his friend. “You must remember that John’s eyes are bad.”
“My eyes are very bad,” said Frotti. “Any fool would deduce that fact by simply examining my lenses.”
I said: “I’m idiot enough to have taken your glasses into consideration, Frotti. But you’re testifying like a blind man. How about the suit he wore. The color?”
“I cannot help you, I’m afraid. It was a dark suit; that is all.”
“Blue? Brown?”
“It was dark.”
I turned to the porter.
“Who’s bedded down in this car, porter?” I asked.
“The car is taken up with the scientific party, sir. That is, for the most part it is. Mr. and Mrs. DePereyra are the exceptions.”
“And there is a fellow named Folsom, too, who isn’t a scientist,” said McCormack. “I know this because I met the gentleman.”
“You met him on the train?”
He nodded. “Tonight. A nice enough sort of chap—a merchant from New York. Dry goods, Ï think he said.”
“Where is he?”
“I left him back in the club car.”
Frotti snorted and diddled with his mustache.
I said, “How many cars up ahead of this one, porter?”
“Only three.”
I massaged the lump behind my ear, tenderly. “Three cars too many. Can I stand up now, doctor?”
“You can try.”
I made it. I leaned against the door and surveyed the compartment through the small fog that played around my eyes. The compartment seemed the same. The corpse still lay in the same place.
The porter said, “I’ll have to inform the chief conductor about this. I don’t imagine there is anything he can do about it until we get into New York.”
“When does that happen?”
“In about an hour or so. Is there anything I can do for you until then, sir?”
“What I need now is a stiff medicinal dose of whiskey followed by a cold shower. You know where to reach me, porter.”
I turned to leave, but didn’t quite make it. Max Popper was arriving, walking fast. He was wearing a new face, especially made up to convince everybody that he was a very worried man.
“Where can I find a doctor, gents?” Max asked. “I need a doctor right away!”
“You, too?” I asked. “Who slugged you?”
“Nobody slugged me. It’s that dame.”
The scene was as pat as a sequence from a bad movie. Doctor Emanuel put his hands behind his back and drew himself up to his full five feet two.
“I am a doctor, my good man,” he said. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“It’s not me, doc,” said Max, and opened his eyes wide to show his innocent worriment. “It’s a lady in the other car. I just saw her pass out cold!”
CHAPTER 5
It was 9:03 by the big clock in Grand Central Station.
Max and I stood at the right side of the gate, away from the exit. The early morning traffic slid past us in a never-ending stream, but we were out of it. Our backs to the marble wall, we surveyed the scene with ease and detachment. My eyes held down a small square of space around the gate to the Chicago train that had just brought us into New York. Every once in a while a group of people came out of that gate.
Max said, “What are we waiting for?”
“Dolly French,” I said. “Dolly DePereyra.”
“Don’t kid me, Steve. What would you want with that fruitcake?”
“I’ve got ideas,” I said. “And she paid us money.”
Max grunted. “I got ideas, too. I got an idea you’re parking your can here to catch something else.”
A group of two reporters and a cameraman came out of the gate, followed by four men. The four men stood there awkwardly, shifting their weight around uneasily. The cameraman stepped forward and grouped them. He walked backward, slowly, holding up a finger. The four men smiled. The camera snapped.
I said, “That should be the last of the atom scientists. Dolly will be along any minute.”
“You and your Dolly,” said Max. “Is it really Dolly, or are you expecting that blonde?”
I turned to thump him playfully on the shoulder. “Look, Max, that blonde left the train while the fat dick was grilling me. I saw her walk down the corridor with her little suitcase on the way out. And, before you ask me, I’m not waiting for Sybil Drake, either. She stayed behind with her friend Dolly. She went soft and decided to take care of her. Any more ideas?”
Max shrugged, fussed with a package of cigarettes.
I couldn’t blame him for being upset. It was the fat dick who had upset him. Other things had upset Max, too.
The fat dick was Jim Heath, a New York homicide man who had a habit of spitting at you when he asked you questions. Heath had held us for too long. He had beaten down our self-respect with a stupid routine.
Heath had enjoyed playing with Max. He was very curious about Max’s visit to Sybil’s room. He teased Max. He suggested that Max explain why Mrs. DePereyra fainted. He tried to build up the theory that Max was on the make for Dolly. There were hard, hot words between Max and Heath.
It all ended, finally, and we were allowed to go home. It was then that we ran into the press.
A covey of news quail had come down to the station to interview the atomic bigwigs. There were many familiar faces in the mob, among them Lester Henshaw, an old saloon friend. Lester ate up the story of Michael DePereyra. Lester figured it would rate space because of the atomic bunch. I didn’t understand Lester. That, however, didn’t matter to Lester. He cornered me on the platform and held me there until he had enough facts for an angle story. He went even further. He had his photographer tail us up the ramp and snap our picture as we passed through the gate. When the flashlight bulb went off, Max uttered an obscenity and chased the lens man all the way out of the station. He returned breathless and on fire with unbridled disgust.
I didn’t blame him. I said, “I don’t blame you for being mad, Max. But I may have something with Dolly DePereyra.”
“A pitch?”
“A big pitch,” I said. “She didn’t spill to you because she was hysterical.”
“If she wasn’t, she made a damned good attempt at proving herself batty. That fruitcake is either Greta Garbo or just plain nuts. I don’t like playing games with dames like that. I have more fun in an empty closet, talking to myself.” Max finally lit his cigarette and glared at me through the first smoke cloud. “What kind of a pitch?”
“A little bottle from a drugstore. In her valise.”
“You got it?”
I patted my coat. Max laughed out loud. I laughed, too.
Max stopped laughing. “Quit playing tag with me, Steve. What’s in the bottle, cough medicine?”
“Maybe. Little bottles don’t usually hold enough medicine, though. I like to think of little drugstore bottles holding arsenic, or strychnine, or other appetizers of that variety. I keep asking myself foolish questions about this deal. Why was the bottle of poison left in my pocket? If the gent who slugged me wasn’t after the poison, what did he bat me around for? Was he after that roll of film? And if he wanted that film, we’re off on another tangent that doesn’t make sense at all.”
I was facing the gate as we talked. I watched the gate casually, as though I didn’t have a reason for watching. The small knot of people who had been waiting for friends on the train had long since met their friends and disappeared into the nether reaches of the station. Yet, there were still a few people hanging around. There was a young boy in a Navy uniform, reading a paper and glancing up at the clock every once in a while. There were a man and a woman, off to one side, talking earnestly near the gate.
And there was the woman in the leopard coat.
I watched the woman in the leopard coat. She was a youngish woman, medium-sized. She had fine, rounded hips. The leopard coat was cut to promote those hips. The leopard coat was half open, as if she had intended to use it as a fashion model would use it—open in front to display the dress beneath. The dress was well worth featuring. It was a simple number, so simple that it held my eyes at her chest and made it tough for me to assess her face.
Her face was of the black and white variety. She wore a lot of powder, but little rouge, and the effect was startling because her features were so beautiful. She had dark eyes. She played games with her eyes. She pretended that she wasn’t interested in the Chicago gate. She stole a glance at the gate at regular intervals and then focused on our wall, the far wall and, finally, the clock. It was fun watching her.
Max said, “Look! Your girl friend Sybil is coming out with Dolly!”
I looked, but not at Sybil and Dolly. The woman in the leopard coat began to fascinate me, suddenly. When she saw Dolly, she turned on her heel and made a great show of dropping her purse. She bent over for the purse and seemed in no hurry to recover it. When Dolly and Sybil passed, she stepped backward a few paces and bit her lower lip.
I said, “Wait here, Max. I’ve got a job to do.”
I walked over to the gate and peered down the ramp. I shook my head sadly and stepped to within five feet of the leopard coat. I waited for her eye, got it and moved in.
I said, “You’re not Midge Tucker, are you?”
She was not Midge Tucker. She shook her head and didn’t smile.
I said, “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“I’ll forgive you,” she said. “Now go away.”
“This Midge Tucker,” I went on, “I’ve never met her. She came in on that Chicago train and my boss sent me here to pick her up—”
“Did your boss tell you to pick up a substitute?” she asked, giving me a close-up of her back and her beautiful hips. “You’d better start moving, big boy.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, as though I was sorry. “I’m not on the make, young lady. I guess I got here a bit too late to catch Miss Tucker. I suppose that business on the train upset her, anyway, the poor kid. All that excitement on the train—”
She grabbed the hook. She turned my way, slowly, and gave me her big black eyes.
“Excitement?” she asked. “What excitement?”
Her guard was down now. She took a tentative step toward me.
I said, “Didn’t you hear about all the fuss on that train? Gosh, they had a flock of reporters all over the place.”
“The reporters were down here to get those professors,” she snapped. “What other excitement was there?”
“I know,” I said, and played my dialogue soft and stupid. “But then there was that man who died, and all.”
She put a hand on my arm, suddenly. “What man?”
“The man who died?” I went through a three-round wrestling match with my memory. I watched her as I stalled. She was on edge now. I held her there for a moment. “He had a funny name. Sort of a foreign name, they told me. Can’t quite recall it.”
“A foreign name? Like what? Was it Spanish?”
I studied the floor, trying to find the name in the marble. I gave up the floor and concentrated on the ceiling mural. Her hand was tighter on my arm now.
“Think!” she begged me. “Was it a Spanish name?”
“That’s it, exactly. His name was something-like DePinada, or DePeralda, or—”
“DePereyra?”
“That’s it! Gosh, don’t tell me you knew the poor fellow?”
She stood there for a long moment, fighting for composure. She didn’t quite make it. She began to tremble a little and her hand left my arm and twitched a bit. She turned away from me, finally, and ran off toward the Vanderbilt Avenue exit.
I motioned to Max and he came running over.
I said, “Tail that dame in the leopard coat. Keep after her all day. Get me the works on her, but don’t let her know it.”
Max didn’t pause to react. I watched him climb the steps to the exit. He caught her easily. He was leaving a scientific gap between them so that he could operate.
I walked back to the wall and picked up my bag and headed across the station for a cup of coffee.
CHAPTER 6
I stood in the phone booth for fifteen minutes, fiddling with the dial. I rang Mrs. DePereyra’s number twelve times in all, allowing a reasonable interval for each signal. I smoked cigarettes and kept ringing Mrs. DePereyra’s apartment and listening to the flat buzz at the other end. Nobody answered the phone at Mrs. DePereyra’s ménage.
I walked around the station for twenty minutes, making a wide, slow tour of the place, enjoying the tide of human traffic, and returning finally to the same phone booth. I called her number twice again. I stood in the booth and meditated until the smoke from my cigarette forced me out.
I checked my bag at the station and walked out into 42nd Street.
Along 42nd Street I held a slow pace, idling at store windows, breathing deep of the crisp Fall air and tossing around a few ideas. When I reached Times Square I had made up my mind.
