Coates paced my living room carpet. This was the second time he’d been awakened in a few hours, and he looked it. He had no hair to be rumpled, but he did all right with ragged eyebrows and red eyes.
“You’re sure,” he said, pacing, “that the two men pulled out of that burning car were with Lagusta when he went to your apartment.”
“Your man Bagley will verify that,” I said. “He was there.”
Coates snorted and kept pacing. “Damned bad luck. If only one of them had lived for at least a few hours! Esposito preferably. After getting two bullets in him I’m sure he’d have done some talking.” Coates sat down suddenly. “Now that vote is three-to-three.”
I told him that Lagusta had picked up one more vote in favor of me being put back on the kill list.
I blew cigarette smoke. “Louie Bacardi might cast his vote in my favor.”
Coates’ mouth opened and stayed open for a moment. Then he closed it slowly and sniffed. “I can see that Esposito did some talking after all.”
“He fixed it so you won’t have to check higher up. He told me about Eleanor.”
“Oh? What did he tell you?”
“That she was christened Bacardi.”
“I see. I …” Coates coughed. “I’m sorry, Kent.”
“Why?”
“Well, I—I’m just sorry.”
“There’s no reason to be.”
His voice went down. “Isn’t there?”
“No. There isn’t. You see, I’ve been doing some thinking the last few hours. When I met Eleanor it was six months before she separated from Brink. One night she started to tell me her troubles. She said it was so nice to be able to talk to someone who understood.”
“She may have meant it.”
“I was then on the Mafia kill list. Her husband was a Mafia man. Her uncle was the director of the board. Now tell me she didn’t know I was on that list.”
“I ...” Coates put out his hands. “There’s no way to be sure.”
“She asked me to come to her apartment the next night. Asked? No, that’s the wrong word. She practically begged me to. But then, the following afternoon, she phoned me at the office and called off our date that night—she said she was leaving town. But she didn’t leave town. She was still here the next day. Are you getting a picture yet, Inspector?”
“No.”
“Then this ought to do it for you. I found out later that I was taken off the kill list that afternoon—the same afternoon she phoned to break our date.”
“And what does that tell you, Kent?”
“The whole story. It was her job to finger me.”
“Don’t be a damn fool! The Mafia doesn’t use women like that.”
“She’s not just an ordinary woman. She’s the niece of Louie Bacardi.”
Coates nodded at this. “Yes. Still ... why don’t you trust your instincts, Kent?”
“My what?”
“Reading between the lines, you got pretty close to that girl. Hell, I don’t have to read between the lines—all I have to do is remember what you said in my office this afternoon.” Coates looked at the daylight streaming through the window and corrected himself. “Yesterday afternoon.” He shook, his head. “I don’t know too much about this love business, being a bachelor all my life, but I’d have been willing to bet that you had a bad dose of it. From what I’ve read on the subject, loving a woman is a matter of instinct. So, why don’t you give your instincts the benefit of the doubt until you know better?”
“Instinct has to balance with the available evidence, Inspector. You of all people should know that.”
Coates looked away. “There are times when I think I don’t know much at all.” He glanced at his watch. “You need sleep and a lot of it.”
“A few hours will do.”
He seemed mildly surprised. “You’re seeing this through?”
“There’s one more door to open, Inspector.”
“In your mind you’ve already opened it.”
“The jury needs more facts.”
Coates nodded approvingly. “Sensible jury.” He sniffed. “Well, the longer I stay here the less sleep you get.”
I went to the door with him, opened it. Then the Inspector did a strange thing; he offered his hand. I took it. He had a strong grip.
“The best of luck, Kent.”
I was touched, really touched. “Thanks.”
He cleared his throat, made a semi-disgusted nasal sound and turned away. I closed the door, went to the cocktail cabinet, got out the bottle of Irish and opened it. I poured a stiff belt, drained it, poured another. Then I lifted the phone from its cradle and dialed a number. The phone at the other end buzzed on and on. I sipped Irish as I waited. Finally there was a click.
“Harry?”
“Whoosh ...?” This was followed by some undecipherable sounds.
“Wake up,” I said. “This is Larry Kent.”
More sounds, then, “What time ish it?”
“Nearly six.”
He groaned.
I said, “There’s an extra fifty in it for you, Harry.”
That woke him up. He listened carefully as I told him what I wanted. I finished with, “You’ll see an envelope sticking out from my apartment door. It’s yours. You can pick up the car tomorrow.”
“Right.”
“Much obliged, Harry.”
I cradled the phone, downed the Irish, set the alarm clock, prepared and placed Harry’s envelope under the door, walked to the couch and let myself fall. I was asleep before I landed.
The alarm jangled. I sat up, shook my head. A few jabs of pain went through my skull, a legacy of Trillo’s blackjack. I staggered over to the clock on the table, pressed in the button at the back. My mouth felt like the bottom of a parrot cage. I weaved to the bathroom, peeling clothes on the way. A hollow-eyed stranger looked out at me from the medicine cabinet mirror.
I made a disgusted face at him and he replied in kind. I brushed my teeth, dashed cold water in my face, turned on the cold shower. I still had my underclothes on; I removed them under the stinging cold water. The sharp needles of spray made me jump around and shout and slap myself. I hit a tender spot above my kidneys—a reminder of Lagusta and his two creeps. But finally there was life in my body, and the next time I looked in the mirror the fellow who stared back at me wasn’t quite so ugly. He wouldn’t win any beauty contests but at least he wouldn’t frighten small children.
I shaved and patted lotion onto my face, combed my hair, had another look at the guy in the mirror. He was still a stranger. This was nothing new—it had been like this for almost two years now, ever since government doctors took what was left of my accident-mangled face and created a new one—a face that didn’t match the photograph in Moscow’s Central File Bureau. They had managed to save most of my teeth and my eyes were still blue, but the bump was gone from my nose; a shame—some women were attracted by that bump.
Women.
Woman. Eleanor.
Always Eleanor.
There was a sick feeling in my stomach as I turned away from the mirror. I went out to the kitchen, turned on the gas under the kettle, spooned some instant coffee into a cup, went into the bedroom and got dressed. The kettle whistled and I went to the kitchen and poured boiling water over the instant coffee. I added milk and sugar and carried the cup of coffee to the living room window.
Parked across the street was a dirty blue Chevrolet. I glanced at the bottom of the front door. Harry’s envelope was gone. Good. I sipped coffee, glanced at my wristwatch. Ten minutes to nine. Plenty of time to get to the morgue before Stanley Brink arrived.
The phone rang. It was Tom Sloane and he didn’t waste time with pleasantries.
“I just had a look in the morning paper, Larry,” he said. “Esposito and—”
“He tried to help me, Tom.”
He snorted. “A top Mafia man?”
“He didn’t want me on that list. The two men in the other car—they were with Lagusta in my apartment. Lagusta’s trying to take over the operation.”
“He can’t do that while Bacardi’s alive.”
“According to Esposito, Louie Bacardi is missing.” Silence.
“Larry ...”
“Yes?”
“The main reason I’m calling is because I spent five or six hours at the News building last night. I went through everything they’ve got on the Mafia. It’s quite a file. Hundreds of photos, but only about six of Bacardi. One of the Bacardi pictures was taken with a telephoto lens. It shows him with a ... with a young woman.”
“Eleanor,” I said.
“You ... know?”
“Did the caption with the photo say she was Bacardi’s niece?”
“No. She wasn’t identified. But she was wearing a bikini and he was in shorts. They were on a beach. I—I thought—”
“That she was Bacardi’s mistress?”
“It looked that way to me.”
“Niece or mistress—what’s the difference?” There was a brief silence, then I said, “Look, Tom, thanks for calling but I’ve got things to do.”
“Wait a minute. I’ve been doing some thinking, Larry. That photo in the paper was—”
“I’ve got to go, Tom.”
“But this could be important.”
“It’ll have to wait. So long.”
It was ten minutes to ten when I parked the blue Chevvy a few blocks short of the City Morgue building. A few minutes later I saw a black Lincoln Continental in the rear vision mirror. I’d bought a newspaper on the way. I put the paper in front of my face and looked at the road ahead through a hole burned by a cigarette tip. I saw the Continental cruise slowly along before turning into a parking slot. There was only the driver. He got out and put a coin in the parking meter.
Stanley Brink.
I watched him cross the street and enter the morgue. Then I put the paper on the seat and looked in the mirror for a while, just to make sure Trillo or someone else wasn’t trailing in another car. Not seeing anyone, I opened the glove compartment and took out one of the objects. It was a small but powerful transmitter. I cupped it in my left hand and got out of the Chevvy and walked to the Lincoln Continental. Reaching the back of the big black car, I stopped and looked down as though I’d dropped something. I stepped off the curb and bent down, put the transmitter in place inside the bumper bar. The powerful magnet on the transmitter would, Harry had assured me, hold fast for at least twelve hours.
I walked around the block, then back to the Chevvy, got behind the wheel. A few minutes later Brink emerged from the morgue. I used the newspaper again, watched him enter the Continental and drive away. I turned on the receiver when he was out of sight, got a strong signal that began to fade. I twisted the ignition key, kicked the gas pedal and rolled the Chevvy into the road.
Some twenty minutes later I saw the Continental parked outside the shell of a condemned tenement building on West 55th Street. I parked up the street and walked the rest of the way. There was a sign on the wall of the building, high enough above the door so that kids couldn’t pull it down It said: “CONDEMNED-DEMOLITION BY CONVAIR, INC.”
I pushed open the door, stepped in. There was just the stairway along one wall. All the floors were gone, right to the roof high above. I could see chinks of blue that suggested planks had been placed on the roof.
Brink had no possible reason for entering this place, I told myself—but then I heard thuds of feet on the stairway maybe four floors above, and dust and bits of debris came down. I listened hard. The footsteps continued, accompanied with tell-tale threads of dust, right to the very top. There was the creak of hinges, then nothing.
I started climbing the stairs, slowly and as quietly as I could. Every now and then one of the steps creaked and I stopped and waited. Finally I was on the last landing. There was just one flight of stairs and then a door that led to the roof. The demolition team had torn up the roof above the stairs and placed planks there. When work started again they’d start tearing the walls down, floor by floor. What in hell was Brink doing here?
I raised my foot—and pulled it back and slammed myself flat against the wall when I heard the scrape of a foot and saw dark movement that blotted out the blue sky between two of the broad planks. Then, where the planks were almost a foot apart I saw a face. Trillo!
He shouted something. I reached for the .45. The twin barrels of a shotgun emerged between the planks. Trillo shouted again. I dived for the stairs, twisted in the air so I’d land on my back. There were two explosions and the stairway shook with the impact of the shotgun pellets. I raised the .45 and pressed the trigger four times. The planks jumped. For a moment I thought I’d missed Trillo and was ready to fire again, then his face leered down at me, grotesquely contorted. His face got bigger and bigger and came to a stop between the broadly spaced planks. Then blood began to drip. Trillo groaned once and his face went slack. The blood kept dripping.
Now I heard the fast steps of a running man, just above. I climbed the stairs, opened the roof door. Brink was at the other end of the roof. He jumped onto the raised ledge.
“Stop!” I shouted.
He turned. There was a gun in his hand. He threw two shots at me. I went into a crouch. He twisted around to jump to the next roof. I pressed the trigger twice. He had a foot in the air when one of the slugs caught him in the shoulder and pirouetted him around.
“Fall this way,” I said.
But he didn’t.
He screamed all the way down.