Walking Dead Man Page 9

  “And how did he tease you?” I asked.

  A faint color rose in Shelda’s cheeks. “He seemed to know about you and me, Mark. He kept asking me if I was saving myself for you—when I had evenings off. If I was, I was wasting my youth.”

  “And were you?” I asked.

  “We will talk about that some other time,” she said.

  Ruysdale broke that up. “It’s going on four o’clock,” she said. “You’ll be needed, Mark, shortly after nine o’clock when the banks have opened. God knows how far you’ll have to go with the money or what it’s going to involve. You’ve got time for five hours to get some sleep.” She glanced at Shelda. “And I mean sleep.”

  If you had asked me if I would sleep, I’d have expressed doubt. I had wanted time with Shelda. My deep concern for Chambrun was gnawing at my gut. I went to my room, left a call at the switchboard for eight o’clock, and went out like a fuse-blown light. My bedside telephone must have rung for a solid minute before I managed to reach out for it and thank the operator for calling me.

  It was pouring rain outside. I shaved, showered, and dressed while the percolator in my kitchenette bubbled away. At the last minute I had coffee, toast, and a slice of cold ham for breakfast. I hadn’t had enough sleep and I felt up tight. In the next hour I’d know what my assignment was going to be, and how I carried it out might determine whether or not we got Chambrun back safe. It was a scary thought.

  I guess I had no complaints, because nobody else had had much or any sleep. I went down to the lobby, carrying a raincoat and hat, to get the special elevator to the roof. On the surface everything looked normal. I called the penthouse on a house phone and was instructed to come up at once. The lobby clock showed a quarter to nine.

  Upstairs things did not look as unruffled as the lobby. Battle and his staff were not in evidence in the living room, but Jerry was there, needing a shave, eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. They had, he told me, continued the search of the hotel all night. Unless Chambrun was being held in one of the occupied rooms in the hotel, he wasn’t on the premises.

  “That’s a good sign, isn’t it?” I asked. “It means he wasn’t slugged right on the spot—the minute he stepped out of his office.”

  “We hope!”

  “Anything new here?”

  Jerry laughed and glanced at Hardy, who was sitting in a corner of the couch frowning at his notebook. “The police department discovered a new dish for breakfast. White fish cooked in wine.”

  Hardy looked up at me and grinned. “The cook has taken a shine to me,” he said. He closed the notebook and put it in his pocket. “The Master is having his in the bedroom at this moment. It is very good with little new potatoes covered with butter and parsley sauce. If you care for gooseberry preserve on toast, with sweet butter, it adds. And the coffee would put Chambrun to shame.”

  “It is hoped the special breakfast will sharpen his brain,” Jerry said.

  Hardy glanced at his watch. “Going on nine,” he said. “The money should get here from the bank in about twenty-five minutes. You want advice?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do whatever you’re told, Mark.” He’d turned serious. “Don’t make demands. If they don’t turn Chambrun over to you, don’t argue. Give them the money.” He glanced at the bedroom door. “That old buzzard can be bled for a lot more than a hundred grand. They may try it. Don’t try to be a hero. You understand, it’s idiotic not to have called the FBI, but you can’t find too many friends who can dish out this kind of bread without wincing.”

  “Have you made any progress?” I asked.

  “I kept hoping you wouldn’t ask,” Hardy said. “On what we’ve got, it seems almost impossible this masked gunman could have come from the outside. So you pays your money and takes your choice—Butler, Allerton, Dr. Cobb, or my white fish cooker.”

  “And you’re letting them run around loose?”

  “I’ve got a man in there,” Hardy said. “Under protest, would you believe? He’s watching Gaston bring in the breakfast, Allerton taste and serve it, Butler acting like a watchdog, with Dr. Cobb standing by in case he needs an Alka-Seltzer. You know why I let that happen?”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “I tell our friend Battle that I’m convinced no one got in or out of the penthouse. That means that Stocking Mask was one of his people. I suggest they be removed and we get some other people to take care of him. He laughed in my face. He told me I was some kind of mental defective. These, he told me, are trusted people, been with him for years. He would trust them sooner than he would his own mother. I will let them alone or he will bring pressure to bear—maybe even from the White House, if necessary. I think the would-be murderer is right here in the apartment and all I can do about it is check, and re-check, and wait for something to happen.”

  “If the man who fired the shot is here, then the gun he used must be here,” I said.

  “I have searched every room, every drawer, every cupboard, and those four guys down to their skins. No gun. Don’t tell me it could have been thrown out a window or down the garbage disposal chute. It’s not on the roof; it didn’t reach the sidewalk or any overhang; we’ve sifted every bit of garbage and trash at the bottom of the garbage chute. It’s been a long night, friend.”

  “If you think it’s been long for you, Mr. Hardy,” Battle said from the doorway, “you can imagine how long it’s been for me, knowing that a killer can come and go without your knowing how.” He had a way of appearing in the middle of conversations. He was wearing dark trousers, a red velvet smoking jacket, a white ascot. He looked unnaturally cheerful for a man whose life was on the line. He glanced at his wrist watch. “The money should be here from the bank presently. Have you made any preparations to trace their phone call when it comes, Dodd?”

  “Of course,” Jerry said.

  “Cancel them,” Battle said. “If there’s any clicking on the line, they’ll know. I won’t have Pierre placed in any unnecessary danger.”

  “Suppose Mark hands them the money and they just walk off with it and Mr. Chambrun isn’t returned? We don’t have any kind of lead!” Jerry said.

  “The call will almost certainly be made from a coin box,” Hardy said. “Tracing it isn’t going to do much good, Jerry.”

  “At last you show some signs of common sense, Lieutenant,” Battle said.

  “We aim to please,” Hardy said, undisturbed. “Unfortunately it doesn’t please you to be told that one of the four men on your staff tried to kill you last night. All I can do is sit here and make certain that he doesn’t try again—at least until the Commissioner decides I’m wrong and that I’m not earning my money sitting around here eating gourmet breakfasts.”

  Battle’s eyes narrowed. “I may have to ask the Commissioner to assign someone to the job whose thinking is a little more flexible than yours.”

  The house phone rang and Jerry got to it ahead of Allerton, who came out of the bedroom. “Dodd here.” I realized the call from the kidnapers wouldn’t come on the house phone. “Send them up,” Jerry said. He put down the phone and turned back to us. “It’s the messenger from the bank and a couple of guards.”

  The room was suddenly crowded. Battle’s people appeared, as though the telephone ring had been a signal. With them were two of Hardy’s men. Battle had appropriated one end of the couch and seemed to be enjoying the moment. A very shaky Dr. Cobb asked me for a light for his cigarette. His lighter had run out of juice.

  “Remarkable man, your Mr. Battle,” I said, as I held a light for him. The room was suddenly loud with talk so what we said was between us.

  Cobb nodded, his cigarette bobbing up and down in my lighter flame.

  “You knock him out for twelve hours, he sleeps a couple, and now he looks brighter than any of us.”

  Cobb drew a deep, wheezing breath. “When there’s genuine activity, he can outlast anyone you care to name,” he said. His watery eyes fixed on me. “You nervous?”

  “Would you e
xpect something else?”

  “Not really. Your detective friend’s solved the case, you know. It’s me, or Edward, or Allerton, or Gaston.”

  “You’ve got an easy out,” I said.

  “Oh?” His eyebrows shot up.

  “Explain how Stocking Mask got in and out and you’re home free.”

  He gave me his flabby-lipped smile. “Just before they strap me in the electric chair, Mr. Haskell, I’ll do that.”

  “They’ve done away with the electric chair,” I said.

  “Then just before the dungeon door closes on me—”

  “You mean you know?” I thought, of course, he was kidding.

  He laughed, and the laughter developed into a coughing fit. “Of course I know,” he finally managed to gasp. “Don’t you, Haskell?”

  The doorbell rang, and Jerry Dodd went to answer it. We were all watching. I felt a tug at my sleeve. It was Cobb, looking as if he was about to strangle. “What I said is privileged, Haskell. Just our little joke. Right?”

  I wasn’t in the mood for jokes, macabre or otherwise. The bank messenger was a little man in a dark suit who looked like an undertaker’s assistant. He was surrounded by two uniformed bank guards and two uniformed patrolmen. He was carrying a square black attache case that presumably contained a hundred thousand dollars in unmarked tens and twenties. He took the case over to the couch and handed it to Battle.

  “Will you be good enough to sign a receipt for this, sir?” he asked.

  “Without counting it?” Battle asked.

  “It was counted in front of Mr. Colchester, the bank president, and Mr. Worthington, the first vice-president, sir.”

  “But can they count?” Battle asked. He was enjoying himself, and I was getting sick of his needle.

  “Well sir,” the unhappy messenger said, “I’d be glad to count it in your presence.”

  “You do just that,” Battle said.

  The little man put the case down on the couch beside Battle and opened it. A small crowd collected around him. I don’t suppose any of us had seen that much money in cash before. He began to count.

  The outside phone rang. Jerry Dodd grabbed it up, and the room was suddenly dead still except for the messenger’s whispered counting.

  Jerry turned to me. “For you, Mark,” he said. His hand covered the mouthpiece. “This is it, baby. Play it cool.”

  My legs had to be forced to work. The minute I took the phone from him Jerry raced for the bedroom and the extension there.

  “Mark Haskell here,” I said.

  A thick, muffled voice came over the line. It sounded as though the man was talking through a towel or a handkerchief. “It’s not going to do any good for anyone to listen in, Haskell.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “You are to bring the money to 134 East 65th Street,” the voice said. “You will carry it up to the second floor where someone will take it from you. You’ve got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, listen very carefully. Haskell. You will be watched from the minute you step off the elevator into the hotel lobby, every step of the way to the address I’ve given you. If you are followed, there won’t be anyone to accept the money. If police appear at that address, there won’t be anyone. And if there is no one there, you can save the money for an elaborate funeral. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s only about three blocks from where you are now, Haskell. If you walk briskly, you should make it in about twelve minutes. If you haven’t arrived in fifteen minutes, there won’t be anyone there and you can start notifying the mourners.”

  There was a click off and he was gone.

  Jerry came running out of the bedroom. He pushed the messenger aside and snapped the case closed. “No time to count or talk,” he said. “I’ll go down in the elevator with you.”

  I grabbed up my raincoat and hat and took the bag from him. It was heavier than I’d expected. The elevator was at the roof level. We stepped in with the operator and a plainclothes man who was assigned to the car.

  “They’re not stupid.” Jerry said. “They’ve made the pickup close by and set a time limit for you. There’s no time for us to get clever. The minute you step off the elevator, you’ll be watched. So walk straight to where you’re going, baby, and walk fast!”

  I nodded. My mouth felt dry.

  “He’s right. You should make it in twelve minutes. Now, listen to me, Mark. Give him the money. Don’t talk or argue or make demands to see Chambrun safe. Just give it to him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get to a phone as quickly as you can and ring me here. If we haven’t heard from you in twenty-five minutes, we’ll come looking for you.”

  “That could screw it up, couldn’t it?”

  “They’ll be long gone then.”

  The elevator reached the lobby level and the doors opened. Jerry didn’t move. I looked at him. I didn’t want to leave him.

  “Go!” he said. “If I show, they may think I’m trying to spot them.”

  I stepped out into the busy lobby and the elevator doors closed behind me. I was on my own.

  I carried the black case under my arm, holding onto it for dear life. I crossed the lobby without looking right or left and went through the revolving door to the side street and into the sluicing rain. Jesus, I don’t think I ever felt so alone in my whole life.

  I guess there were people on the streets, but I didn’t see them. I had the bag under my arm, and I was almost jogging and the rain was beating against my face so that I kept my hat pulled down and my head lowered. It must have taken five minutes or more to come down from the penthouse to the lobby and out onto the street. I didn’t have much time to cover the one long block east, the two blocks north, and half a block east again. I didn’t wait for the traffic lights to turn my way at the corners, and once I heard someone yelling at me and realized I’d been almost run down by a taxi. When I stopped outside the address of 65th Street, I glanced at my watch. The whole trip, from penthouse to there, had taken me exactly thirteen minutes.

  It was an old brownstone house, looking pretty shabby. I saw a ROOM FOR RENT sign in one of the downstairs windows. I had just two minutes to get to the second floor, and I felt panicked. Suppose I couldn’t get in? Suppose I had to wait for someone to answer a ring of the doorbell?

  I tried the front door and it was unlocked. I stumbled into a dark foyer and saw a dirty stairway leading up into gloom. I took it, two steps at a time, and reached the second floor with a minute to spare. I stood there, breathing hard, clinging to the black bag full of money, waiting for something to happen.

  A door at the end of the hall opened. A man came out and closed the door behind him. Like me, he was wearing a raincoat and a soft hat with the brim pulled down. I prayed he would turn out to be my contact. When he was only a few feet from me, I knew he was. He was wearing a pale, brown stocking mask. He looked like something out of a 1930’s horror movie, faceless with two little peepholes for eyes. He came straight up to me and held out his left hand, gesturing toward the bag.

  “Where is Mr. Chambrun?” I asked him.

  He repeated the gesture toward the bag, this time with impatience. Jerry had told me not to ask him anything, not to argue with him just to give him the money. But, somehow, I had to try.

  “Please tell me where he is,” I said.

  He took a step closer to me, raised his right hand, and brought it down in a chopping movement to the side of my neck. I don’t remember falling.

  When I opened my eyes, I found myself looking up into Jerry Dodd’s anxious face. It flashed through my mind that I must have been lying there a good twenty minutes. He couldn’t have gotten here any sooner than that. I tried to turn my head and I thought my neck was broken.

  “Easy,” Jerry said. He put his arm under my shoulders and helped me to sit up. “Looks like you met up with a karate expert.”

  “The money?” I asked. I found I had the voice of a sev
ere laryngitis victim.

  “He got it. Did you see him?”

  “Stocking mask,” I said.

  Jerry made a whistling sound between his teeth. “Let me help you stand up,” he said.

  I managed, somehow, with the dark hallway spinning around me for a few seconds. I ached all over. I must have hit the floor hard when I was struck. But the dizziness began to subside.

  “Can you describe him?” Jerry asked.

  “Raincoat, hat, and that damned stocking mask. He looked like Vincent Price in The Invisible Man.”

  “Tall like that?”

  “Nearer my height,” I said.

  “Was he waiting here for you?”

  I shook my head and wished I hadn’t. “He came out of that room there at the end of the hall. The minute I hit this landing here, he came out. I—I made a mistake. I asked him where the boss was, and he chopped me down.”

  A little muscle rippled along the line of Jerry’s jaw. He felt in the pocket of his raincoat and produced a small handgun. “Let’s have a look,” he said.

  We walked down the hall to the door of the room. Jerry hesitated, and then, with his left hand, he tried turning the doorknob, his gun at the ready. The door made a faint squeaking sound as it opened, and Jerry stepped quickly into the room.

  It was a dismal, dirty little place. There was a bed, a bureau, and a straight-backed chair. Sitting in the chair was a man with a piece of wide adhesive taped over his mouth, his arms locked behind the chair.

  It was Chambrun.

  Chambrun’s eyes were two bright, glittering slits in their deep pouches. Jerry stood in front of him.

  “This is going to hurt,” he said.

  He got his fingernails under one edge of the adhesive tape and gave it a quick, sharp tug. Chambrun swore softly under his breath. He moved his mouth to try to get some feeling back into it. I had gone around behind the chair and saw that his wrists were handcuffed together.