From Manhattan to Exit 18 on the Connecticut Turnpike it’s usually a seventy-minute drive. I took the Corvette and kept her open all the way, hitting Exit 18 fifty minutes after leaving my garage. Luckily the patrol cars were busy. I passed two of them at the scene of accidents.
Fulton Street led to the water’s edge. I slowed down when I saw the lighted phone box at the edge of a salt marsh, wheeled the Corvette off the road and braked. The .45 was in my hand as I left the car. I kept to the shadows of the marsh across the street from the phone box. Dry reeds rustled beneath my feet. I was past the phone box when I saw the dark mound on the grass across the road.
I ran over. The mound took definite shape, became a body. Tom Sloane. I knelt beside him, grasped his wrist. There was no pulse. I touched the back of his coat. My fingers came away coated with coagulating blood. I was empty for a moment, numb. But then feeling came to me, burning hot, starting in my stomach and branching out. I had to do something!
It was at that very moment that I saw the gun flash across the road and felt the whisper of the bullet over my head. I threw myself onto the grass on my stomach, saw another yellow jab of flame from a silenced gun, pushed the .45 in that direction and pressed the trigger again and again and again. A man cried out in pain. I jerked out the clip, put in another, saw a blob of movement in the darkness, going away from me. I ran after it—a staggering figure, almost falling, hands clutched to stomach. I got to within ten feet of the man, dropped to one knee. Then I aimed carefully and fired. He went down, his knee shattered.
I walked to him, my gun ready. He was on his back, moaning. I stood over him, looked down at his face contorted by fear and pain.
“Good evening, Mr. Lagusta,” I said.
“Please ... a doctor ...” he begged.
“A doctor? Doctors patch up people. But they can’t patch up Tom Sloane, can they?”
“I’ll ... I’ll talk, Kent.”
“Now you say that. But you’ll change your mind later.”
“No! I swear it!”
“What have you done with Eleanor?”
“She’s all right. I haven’t gone out to the island yet.”
“Sure. You used Tom like tiger hunters use goats. You wanted me first. Well, here I am.” I aimed the .45 carefully.
“No!”
I shot him in the head.
The cops would be there soon, for surely someone would report the eight .45 shots I’d fired. So I went back to my car and drove down to the water without lights and parked behind an old shed. Then I inspected a line of moored boats until I found a skiff that had a broken oar under the seats. The island was only a few hundred yards out. I paddled for it. As I reached the side of the island I saw a low house in the center, surrounded by trees. One window showed light.
There was a small crescent of beach. I paddled the skiff onto the sand, jumped out and pulled the small boat well clear of the water.
Soon I’d be seeing Eleanor. Mine was a mixed bag of feelings, but dominating all was a thrill of anticipation that coursed through me. And I cursed myself for it.
I reached a pebble-covered path. There was grass beside the path but I chose to let the pebbles crunch beneath my feet. Maybe it was a death wish ...
Here I come, Eleanor. Am I the enemy? If I am the enemy, then shoot me ...
The house loomed before me. There was just enough moonlight to show blue stone walls, a slate roof. Four or five stone steps led to a front porch. I climbed the steps, making plenty of noise, walked heavily to the door and knocked hard.
A foot scraped on wood to my right. I turned slowly.
And there was Eleanor.
She held a gun.
“Hi, kiddo,” I said.
She wore a filmy nightgown. Her face was pale in the moonlight. She took a few slow steps towards me and I saw the gleam of her large, dark eyes ...
“Larry?” she said, unbelievingly. “Is it you, Larry?”
Despite all I’d seen, all I knew, her husky, trembling voice—her torch singer’s voice—worked its old magic on me.
“It is you,” she said. “How did you—”
“Find you? Well, it’s a long, meandering trail, kiddo, and you have to step over a lot of bodies. Are you going to add one more to the list?”
She glanced down at her gun. “I thought ...” She dropped the gun onto a wicker chair, then she covered the rest of the distance between us and stood very close to me. “Larry?” It was a question.
I was like stone.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me?”
“Kiss you?” I laughed and all the bitterness inside me was in my laughter. “Kiss you? Like I said, there are a lot of bodies. There’s one of my best friends, there’s your dear husband—”
“Stanley?”
“You’re a widow, honey, not a gay divorcee. And there are other widows—Mrs. Tom Sloane, Mrs. Carl Esposito, Mrs. Raphael Lagusta—”
She sucked in her breath and stepped back.
I laughed again. “I thought that’d get to you. The board of directors of the Mafia now has only five members. You’ve heard of the Mafia, haven’t you?”
“Don’t,” she said. “I—”
“You never told me about the Mafia, Eleanor. Why didn’t you?”
“Knowing how you felt, how could I?”
“I think there’s more to it than just that, kiddo. Remember the time you said you had big trouble? You asked me to go to your apartment the next night, when your husband would be out of town. You said you had something important to talk about. Then you called it off. Why?”
“Because—” She took a deep breath. “Because you were supposed to be killed in an accident near my apartment building. It was all arranged.”
“And you saved my life?”
“I couldn’t go through with it.”
“How touching. Eleanor Bacardi fell in love.” I reached out, grasped her arm and dug my fingers in hard. Her eyes stared into mine. “That wasn’t how it went, honey. I was on the Mafia kill list, then I was voted off. Your dear uncle told you about the board’s decision just before you phoned me.”
“You know about my uncle,” she said tonelessly.
“I know everything that’s important.”
I let go of her arm. She put a hand over the spot where I’d grasped her, turned away, walked to the railing.
“You should have shot me while you had the chance,” I said.
A short, choked sound escaped from her. It could have been laughter or a sob, or both. “You’re right about the phone call from my uncle,” she said. “But it came after I called you.”
“Nice try,” I said.
“I—I couldn’t let you die, Larry. After I phoned you I packed a bag. I was going to your apartment. I planned to tell you everything ... and I was going to ask you to take me away with you. My uncle is very fond of me. I knew he wouldn’t have you killed if I were with you, because then he’d have to get rid of me, too. He’d have to do that to keep me from going to the police.”
“That’s a good story, kiddo.”
“It’s the truth, all of it. And it’s not what you think. About me, I mean, and the Mafia.”
“They twisted your arm.”
“My father was a member of the society.”
“And your uncles and cousins and brothers—”
“I was an only child. If I’d had a brother or a male cousin, then it would have been up to him. I’m glad I was the only one.”
I lit a cigarette. “You’re good, Eleanor, but right now I’m not following you.”
“My father was arrested. He wasn’t a very courageous man. He talked. After the police let him go there were other arrests. The society found out what he’d done ... he was killed. I was seven at the time. My mother died a few years later and Uncle Louie took me to live with him. When I was old enough he told me about my father. He—he said it was up to me to make up for what my father had done. I couldn’t believe it. This was the United States, not a remote village in Sicily. But my uncle was so serious about it that I—well, I just couldn’t tell him how I felt.”
“And where did Stanley Brink come into all this?”
“When he asked me to marry him I saw it as a way to escape. I was surprised when my uncle agreed to the marriage. I wasn’t in love with Stanley, but I was prepared to do everything I could to be a good wife. And then ... then I learned that Stanley was with the Mafia. I hadn’t escaped at all. Finally his cruelty was too much for me. The society is against divorce, but I didn’t care.”
“What did your uncle have to say about the divorce?”
“He did his best to talk me out of it. When he saw he couldn’t, he reminded me that I hadn’t been released from my obligation to the society. The divorce would have to wait until the family debt had been paid.”
“You’re doing just fine, Eleanor. Of course, I don’t believe a word of it, but it makes good listening. Now what about that—uh—attempt on your life?”
“He knew I had a great deal of influence over my uncle.”
“Who knew?”
“Raphael Lagusta.”
I drew hard on my cigarette. “Lagusta tried to kill you?”
“He ordered it, although it may have been Stanley or someone else who put poison in the milk.”
“Why’d you phone me in London?”
“I was afraid. I—I needed you! We—we kept saying we were just friends, but it was more than that with me.”
She closed her eyes and stood quite still. A moment passed, then I saw something glisten on her cheek. A tear. Suddenly I wanted to go to her, put my arms around her, hold her tight against me. But then I remembered how some women can bring on tears at will ...
“Our phone conversation was cut short,” I said. “What caused that?”
“I did that, Larry.”
“Why?”
Her throat worked and then she turned away again and leaned on the railing. Maybe a minute passed.
“Why?” I persisted.
“It suddenly came to me—what had happened—I knew it had to be Lagusta—and I saw what he was trying to do. And I also realized I was putting your life in danger.”
“Stay with Lagusta. Why did he want to kill you?”
“My uncle was in a rest home. He was very ill. I went to see him every day. Lagusta knew that Uncle Louie wouldn’t vote to get you back on that list while I was around. You see, my uncle’s sickness changed him, made him like—like a baby. If I drank that poisoned milk, then Lagusta could tell him that I committed suicide, and he’d find some way of blaming you.”
“Why’d you bring your uncle here?”
“I knew Lagusta wouldn’t rest until I was out of the way. And that would mean the end of you. Uncle Louie bought this island many years ago. I was almost certain that Lagusta didn’t know about it, for we hadn’t been here for a long time.”
“He apparently did some checking up.”
“He probably went through my uncle’s papers.”
Papers ... my mind went back ... regaining consciousness in Eleanor’s apartment after being sapped by Trillo ... drawers pulled out, pictures off the walls, things torn apart … Brink and Trillo looking for something. Could it have been a clue to where Eleanor had taken her uncle?
Suddenly Eleanor came to me, threw her arms around me. “Please believe me, darling, please ... please ... please ...” And then I felt the sobs that tore through her body.
“I love you,” she cried, “I love you.”
All at once I believed her. I put my arms around her and crushed her against me and said soothing things that made the sobbing subside. And then she leaned back and I saw the gleam of her teeth and my mouth claimed hers and I knew beyond all doubt that my instincts were right and true ... and that I loved her.
“Get away ...” A thin voice, weak. “Get away from her.”
Eleanor gasped. “Uncle!”
He leaned against the doorway, an emaciated old man in a wool bathrobe. He held a revolver in both his thin hands.
“I listened,” Bacardi said. “Esposito ... Lagusta ... dead ...”
“You didn’t hear it all,” I said.
“Maybe Lagusta ... was right ... kill—”
“No!” Eleanor screamed.
I got my hands on her shoulders and pushed her away. “Listen to the rest of it, old man,” I said.
His head rolled. His eyes peered from dark hollows. His skin had the waxy yellow of death.
“Kill,” he mumbled.
“Then kill me,” Eleanor cried—and she stepped between us.
“Do you want to kill me, Uncle?” she asked.
The old man made a sound in his throat. There was a heavy thud as the revolver fell to the floor. Eleanor put an arm around the thin shoulders.
“Come to bed,” she said gently. She looked at me. “Wait for me?”
“Yes.” I said.
I walked to the end of the porch and watched the whirling red roof lights of police patrol cars on Fulton Street. The shots had been reported and the bodies found. I lit another cigarette, sat down on the steps. Then Eleanor was beside me and my arm was around her. We sat there, close, for a long time, not saying anything, Then I kissed her and I could feel her respond from the very roots of her soul.
“The police are there,” I said. “I have to go.”
“You’ll tell them about us, of course.”
“Your uncle is dying, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see that they don’t bother you.”
“Will I see you soon?”
“I don’t know, Eleanor.”
“I must!”
“Take care of your uncle. Maybe he’ll consider that to be payment of the family debt.”
I kissed her again and then I left.
It was all over. Three weeks had passed. Bacardi was dead. Inspector Coates came to my office and told me that the Mafia was being hit in cities clear across the country. But the Inspector was a realist.
“They’ll regroup, Kent. They’ll lick their wounds and be quiet for a while, but in six months or a year they’ll be as strong as ever.”
“So you’ll hit them again,” I said, “and you’ll keep hitting them.”
Coates smiled. “We’ll try.”
My heart turned in my chest. I was looking past him—towards the frosted glass of my office door and the silhouette that had appeared there. Then the door opened and there stood Eleanor. She was thinner and pale, but more beautiful than ever. She walked to me, her large dark eyes intent on mine.
“Hello, Larry.”
Coates cleared his throat. “Well, I was just going.”
“Stay here,” I said.
“What?”
“Stay.”
The Inspector sat down. Eleanor seemed unaware of his presence
“I’m free now,” she said.
“You should go away,” I told her. “You need a long rest.”
“Take me away with you, Larry.”
God! Her love was in her eyes and my love made it hard for me to breathe.
“I love you,” she said.
I forced myself to turn away. “I’m sorry, kiddo.” I couldn’t see her, but I could feel her surprise, her puzzlement.
“Don’t you understand, Larry? I’m offering myself to you.”
I shook my head. “It won’t work. I’d keep remembering that your uncle was Louie Bacardi.”
“But—”
“That’s how it is, kiddo. Tom Sloane was a good man. He’s dead. Every time I kissed you I’d see his face.”
I heard her sharp intake of breath.. She was hurt. I couldn’t stand much more of this. Most of all, I couldn’t look at her. I walked to the window.
“I’ll always love you,” she whispered.
I said nothing. I didn’t trust myself to speak. Finally I heard her steps as she walked to the door. The door opened. I took a deep breath. Would that door ever close? It did, and the shock of it made my stomach muscles contract.
“You don’t fool me,” Coates said. “I’ll get her back.”
“No!” I whirled around. “What the hell kind of a life would she have with me? A case would take me to the other end of the country or the other side of the world and she’d be waiting beside the telephone. And when the phone rang she’d be afraid to answer it. She needs some guy who’ll come home at five every night—some guy who’ll give her a lot of kids and no heartaches.”
Coates looked at me for a long time before he nodded his bald head. “As I said before, I don’t know much about this love business. But I do know something about men. I think I’m beginning to like you, Larry Kent.”
“Inspector, you’ve just made my day.”
“Like hell I have. I know you’re hurting.” He patted at his coat before he located his stubby pipe. He blew through the stem. “I ought to clean this thing.” He sniffed. “See you around, Kent.”
He let himself out. I looked through the window. In a moment I saw Eleanor cross the street. She raised her right hand and a cab came to a stop and she got in. I watched the cab roll down 46th Street.
Maybe she’d get to smell the roses.
The cab turned into Eighth Avenue and disappeared.
I love you, kiddo.