Masters Of Noir Vol Iii Part 6

"The bullets," I said. "Were "Were they part of your business?" they part of your business?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Then what's all the objection to my going to the cops?"

"Well, because ... " She turned and looked at her uncle and aunt.

Aunt Ethel continued to smile pleasantly, but Uncle Harry pursed his lips, coughed, grunted, hoisted the eyebrows, then said, "I think you ought to tell him, Florence. Since he was selected for so delicate a mission, he must must be a man of character." be a man of character."

"Tell me what?"

Aunt Ethel said, "Why you shouldn't, young man, at this particular time, take your troubles to the police."

"My troubles," I said, "seem to be your troubles." I looked at Mrs. Reed. "Then the bullets were your business, weren't they?"

"No. I'm certain they weren't. There wouldn't be any purpose ... "

"Look. What the h.e.l.l is ... ? Pardon me."

"Time," Aunt Ethel said, "for a drink. Brandy for me. What will it be, please? I'm serving."

Nothing for Florence Fleetwood Reed and nothing for Peter Chambers but Aunt Ethel and Uncle Harry buried their noses unto the bouquet of over-sized snifter-gla.s.ses into which Aunt Ethel had poured as though she were a bartender who hated the boss.

Florence Reed said, "Have you any idea, Mr. Chambers, what was in that package?"

"Goulash," I said. "For ghosts."

Very funny. Mrs. Reed looked blank, not even contemptuous. Uncle Harry gazed at me sadly over his brandy. But Aunt Ethel winked slyly and smiled. There was plenty of life in that old dame, too much life for Uncle Harry, no question about that.

"Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars," Mrs. Reed said.

It went by me the first time. Mildly I said, "Pardon?"

"Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"What?"

"Three quarters of a million." Uncle Harry wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "In thousand dollar bills."

I came back to Mrs. Reed. I said, "Look. You've got a reputation for being, well ... two things ... stingy and eccentric. Stingy, that's none of my business. Eccentric, that fits in with this. You're also supposed to have a lot of good practical horse-sense. So, business transactions in the middle of the night, even in a graveyard, n.o.body'd put it past you, n.o.body'd think twice about it, you're supposed to have pulled a couple of real wing-dings in your time, but-"

"That wasn't exactly a business transaction, Mr. Chambers?"

"What then-"

"It was a delivery of ransom money."

"What? What the h.e.l.l is going on around here? You mean to tell me that I'm involved in some kind of c.o.c.keyed kidnapping?" What the h.e.l.l is going on around here? You mean to tell me that I'm involved in some kind of c.o.c.keyed kidnapping?"

Aunt Ethel didn't stop smiling. "That's what she means to tell you, young man."

"Not exactly involved," Mrs. Reed said. "You were an instrument of delivery. An instrument, period."

"Instrument, huh? The police know about this?"

"No, they don't."

"Don't, huh?" Sarcasm blurred my voice. "Expect to inform them?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning."

I headed for the brandy bottle. I poured and I drank brandy like it was a chaser for bourbon. Then I smacked down the gla.s.s, turned, said, "Look. What happened here? Let's have it, huh? Let's stop with this casual deal. Let's have the story."

Florence Reed went to a divan, sat wearily, lowered her head and touched fingers to her temples. "Last night. It seems a year ago. Last night, he went out, my husband, he went out for a newspaper."

"What time?"

"About ten o'clock. He ... didn't return. It's happened before. He'd step into a tavern, become involved in a discussion, or just drink in the company of others. Anyway, I went up to bed, fell asleep, and when I awoke, suddenly ... it was two o'clock, two in the morning. He wasn't back yet and I became ... apprehensive. Just then, the downstairs bell rang. I thought it was he ... that he had left his keys. I slipped into a dressing gown quickly, I hoped the servants hadn't awakened ... and I opened the door myself. It was Uncle Harry."

"I think," Uncle Harry said, "I ought to take over at this point."

I said, "Okay with me."

"Well, sir, I live nearby, on lower Fifth Avenue. At about one-thirty last night, I received a phone call: It was from Abner ... my niece's husband, Abner Reed. His voice sounded somewhat m.u.f.fled, and for a moment, if you'll forgive me, I had an idea that he was inebriated. But that idea was quickly dispelled. He informed me that he was talking to me with a gun pointed at his head. He told me that he'd been slugged, rendered unconscious, and kidnapped. Naturally, I was frightfully perturbed."

"Naturally."

"He said that he didn't know where he was, that he was blindfolded, that this phone call had been made for him, and then he was put on, and that he was merely repeating what he'd been told to say."

"And what was that?"

"That I was to come here and inform Florence, and that there would be another call, here, in the morning. And, that if the police were notified, he'd be killed. Then there was a click, and the wire was dead."

"Then?"

"I came here-I told my wife to follow in half an hour, which she did-and the three of us sat up until morning. At eight o'clock in the morning, the second call came."

"Abner again?"

Mrs. Reed said, "Yes."

"You sure it was he?"

"No question. He sounded tired and ... and beaten ... physically beaten ... but it was he. Anyway, to make a long story short, the arrangements were made, and ... you must have quite a reputation, Mr. Chambers ... because your name was given to him to give to me as ... I believe the word is intermediary. You know the rest."

"That all?"

She stood up. She tried to control it, but I saw she was trembling. Uncle Harry put his gla.s.s away and went near her, holding her lightly at the elbow. She sighed, said, "It was promised that he'd be returned to us during this night."

I shook my head and softly I said, "Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"I ... I'm regarded as, well, a rather frugal person." Tears brimmed over and spoiled her face, but it didn't break up, there was no grimace, the face remained haughty and expressionless. "But ... this is different. I love my husband. We've only been married six months ... "

Uncle Harry said, "I think you ought to go upstairs now."

I said, "But you are are going to notify the cops about this, aren't you?" going to notify the cops about this, aren't you?"

"Yes." She leaned heavily on Uncle Harry. "Tomorrow morning. Whether he's returned to me or not. I've got to give it a chance ... and then I'll go to the police, either way." She shivered once, violently. "I was warned ... we were being watched ... that even the phones were tapped ... that if we went to the police ... they'd ... kill him."

"I understand, Mrs. Reed. I'll keep my nose clean. It's your affair, entirely. Now, easy does it, ma'am."

Uncle Harry led her toward the door. He said, "Ethel, you'll show Mr. Chambers out," and then they were gone.

Aunt Ethel came to me, still smiling and smelling of brandy. Aunt Ethel's silver hair was deceptive. Aunt Ethel was no youngster but she wasn't senile. Aunt Ethel was a beautiful woman, mature but not aged. Aunt Ethel wore a blue dress which matched her eyes. Aunt Ethel's blue dress was cut deep in front and a good deal of firm cream-skinned bosom was exposed. She took me out to the small dim vestibule. Aunt Ethel wasn't smiling now and her lips were full and red and glistening. Aunt Ethel said, "I'm drunk."

"So?"

"So ... this."

She slid her arms under my arms and hooked her hands over my shoulders. She drew me close and opened her mouth on mine. Oh, Aunt Ethel. She smelled of brandy but she smelled too of a vague and attractive perfume. She moved her mouth away and I made one last small attempt at trying to keep the track clear. I said, "You people could have gone to the cops. There are ways. Who advised her?"

At my ear she said, "n.o.body advises Florence. She supports us, just as she supports her husband, not too liberal with any of us, so ... n.o.body advises Florence ... except Florence. You're sweet." The hands on my shoulders tightened and her warm body was close. "I'm drunk, but I've wanted to do this from the moment I came into that room. Drunk. Anyway, it's an excuse."

Then her mouth came back to mine.

It was late, but I tried the Club Trippa Club Trippa anyway. There was a bar in front and a c.o.c.ktail lounge in the rear. It was done in maroon and silver and had a glow that was warmer than a bachelor-girl on vacation. The bar was crowded three deep and the inside room was jumping. The bartender winked and waved and said, "Hi." anyway. There was a bar in front and a c.o.c.ktail lounge in the rear. It was done in maroon and silver and had a glow that was warmer than a bachelor-girl on vacation. The bar was crowded three deep and the inside room was jumping. The bartender winked and waved and said, "Hi."

"Nick around? Or Johnny Hays?"

"Don't know myself, Mr. Chambers. Try Upstairs."

Upstairs, up a maroon-carpeted flight of stairs, was the floor show, the band, the dance floor, and the heavy spenders. Upstairs, too, were a couple of choice back rooms, one of which was Nick Darrow's office, if a studio fitted out like a sultan's reception room can be termed "office." The merry-makers were engaged in watching a stripper called Bonnie Laurie so I strolled along the periphery of dimness and opened the office door without knocking.

Nick Darrow wasn't there.

But Johnny Hays was.

He unfurled off a couch, black-eyed and contemptuous, and lounged toward me.

"Still looking for trouble, my dear shamus?"

"Where's Nickie?"

"None of your business. Any message?"

"Yes."

"I'll take it."

I gave it to him. High, hard and handsome with a lot of shoulder behind it. It splattered blood from his mouth and sat him down with his toes pointed at the ceiling. I didn't wait for him to get up. I went downstairs and had a Scotch highball and my palms were wet with expectancy. But nothing happened. Johnny Hays didn't show, nor did Nickie Darrow. Johnny was still sitting there, or he didn't want to come down, or he'd gone down the back exit and was out front waiting. I paid and went out. n.o.body was there. I walked along a couple of quiet streets but n.o.body sprang at me. So I gave it up and went back to the lights. I had ham and eggs in a cafeteria, with coffee, ketchup, and well-b.u.t.tered English m.u.f.fins. Then I went home.

I showered, dried down, slipped into a pair of shorts. I bought myself a Scotch and chased it with more Scotch and I was ready to wrap this day up and put it to bed. I thought about Florence Reed and felt a little sorry for her, as sorry as you can feel for a dame with a hundred million bucks, and then I thought about Aunt Ethel and I got a belt out of that. So ... my door-buzzer buzzed.

In the middle of the night, the door-buzzer buzzes.

Each to his own. Poets sleep in the daytime. Tramps work at night. Charwomen come home at dawn. Editors read in bed. Actors awake at the crack of noon. Atom experts ponder through the night. Doctors are always on call. And a private richard ... there is no reason why business should not be buzzing the door-buzzer in the dead of night. Private richard. He has about as much privacy as a parakeet in a kindergarten.

I opened the door to darkness. Somebody'd switched off the corridor lights. When lights are out that should be on, you drop, you learn that early when you're in my business. But I didn't drop in time. Blazes of light punctuated the blackness, and when I dropped, it wasn't because I wanted to drop, it was because I was knocked down by the force of the bullets. I heard the pound of feet in the corridor, but right then I wasn't interested. I felt blood on my naked body, and I heard the labor of my breathing. My one interest was reaching the phone. I tried to get up, but I couldn't make it. So I crawled, and I lifted the receiver, and dialed o, and heard my whisper: "Operator ... hospital ... hospital ... emergency ... "

I was under sedatives for a day, while they probed for bullets, and then I was sitting up in the hospital bed, ready to go, but they told me five days, five days before they'd let me out of there, and then I got a caller, amiable but worried-looking, Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker, Homicide, good cop and good friend.

"Hi, Detective," he said. "I hear you're coming around real good."

"Hi, Lieutenant. What brings you?"

"Well, when a friend is sick ... "

"What else brings you?"

"That Abner Reed shindig. I hear tell you were an innocent bystander ... in a cemetery. You well enough to chat?"

"I'm well enough to get the h.e.l.l out of here. Did they return that bird?"

"Yah." He sighed and sat down. Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker, squat, thick, ruddy and black-haired, stump of an unlit cigar in his mouth. "And none the worse for his experience. Got hit in the throat a couple of times, a little damage to the windpipe. Had to do the questions and answers by writing, but it's a condition that figures to clear up quick enough."

"Has it broken in the newspapers?"

"Nope. Not a word. We're trying to work it through before it gets any publicity. Now, let's hear your story."

I gave him the story without frill or furbelow. When I was finished he said, "Any ideas?"

"About what?"

"About what makes you a shooting-gallery target?"

"Yeah, I've got a couple of ideas, but I'd rather not talk about them."

"Why not?"

"Because they're personal, and I'd like to give them some personal attention, as soon as they let me out of here."

"Okay, Peter Pan, if that's the way you want it." The cigar rolled around in his mouth and stopped. "What about the s.n.a.t.c.h? Want to discuss that?"

"Love to."