A Song In The Dark (19 page)

“You think Mitchell pulled this?” Kroun didn't seem angered by the implied accusation, only curious.

“He and Caine had a history, what was it?”

“Damned if I know.” The deadpan look moved back in. He should charge it rent.

“How can you not know?”

“Mitchell's job is to watch my back and run errands, I don't need his life story for that.”

“He was throwing looks at Caine.”

“He does that for everyone. You, too, I noticed.”

“Yeah, but I'm not strangled yet.”

Kroun pushed the dressing-room door open. “Is that how it happened? He was strangled?”

“Yeah. Quiet.”

“Knives are quiet, too.”

“No knife, or I'd have sme—seen the blood.”

He backed out. “Look, Fleming, you got a half-assed reason against Mitchell, and I'll admit it's a possibility. Who else is on your shit list?”

“A guy named Hoyle. We'll find him before the night's out.”

“There must be others. From what you've said there could be a hundred people all wanting Caine dead. You said he owed markers?”

“To this club, maybe others. The money was coming out of his pay. He was more valuable alive.”

“Not to one person.” From where he stood Kroun took another look at the room, a long one, then shut the door. “That's all it takes.”

“Figure the cops are going to go in big on this,” I said. “Caine was popular. Catch his killer fast, and they get approving headlines. We gotta hand them someone. Preferably the right someone.”

“His ex-wife or girlfriend? There's usually a dame behind these things.”

I told him why I didn't think they were likely prospects.

He was unimpressed. “Maybe you haven't seen how
worked up a woman can get when she's mad enough. I have, and it's damned scary.”

Actually I had seen a small woman take on two grown men and nearly win before the handcuffs were safely in place and we could call the cops on her. Escott still had the scars. Mine had healed. “I don't get that feeling here.”

“Feeling. Uh-huh.” Kroun clearly didn't think much of my instincts, and he was probably right. Just because I liked Jewel and thought Evie was cute was no reason to take them out of the running.

“Okay, they're on the list. Might as well add in the chorus girls and the band.”

“The band was performing the whole time. Listen, let's just go find these two dames, have a talk, and settle it.”

“Why are you so lathered to find the killer?” I asked.

More of the deadpan stare. “Why not?”

Couldn't think of a reply to that one. I'd rather have Kroun stay out of the way, but he was the big boss, and I still had to listen to him. It rankled not being able to influence him to my way of thinking. I'd gotten too used to the luxury of being able to order people around.

Derner came back to say arrangements were in hand, and he also had addresses for Jewel, Evie, and Hoyle. “I'm sending some of the boys for Hoyle. You want him alive?”

“Yes. Even if he didn't kill Caine, he owes me for those damn tires. What about Ruzzo?”

“They move around a lot. Landlords keep kicking them out.”

“Lemme know when you bring 'em in. I need a car, too.”

“Gordy's is back, but Strome took off to fix things. I can get another driver.”

“I'll drive myself. You check everything on everyone who
was backstage. Make up whatever story you need for cover and make it reasonable; don't leave them room to guess what really happened.”

Derner nodded, then reached in again from the hall to shut the light off before locking up. Apparently he didn't like putting himself any closer to the dead man than the rest of us.

Kroun and I left by the club's back door. The outside cold abruptly and painfully meshed with my inside chill. Ganged up on me like that, I didn't stand a chance and nearly doubled over from the shivering that hit like a gut punch.

“You okay? What's the matter?” Kroun paused from opening the passenger side of the Caddy, looking over the roof at me, half-annoyed, half-concerned.

“Freezing my ass off,” I muttered, and slammed in behind the wheel. The keys were in their slot. No need to worry about anyone thieving this car. I tried to control the shaking to get it going.

“Stop,” Kroun said.

I wasn't used to being ordered, even when I knew it was part of the job. “What?”

He made no reply, just walked around and opened my door. “Move over, I'll drive.”

“But—”

“Do it.”

I did it.

Kroun gave me an irritated up-and-down. “You got a fever or what? Only time I saw a man in your kind of shape he had the DTs. You sick?”

“I donno. Don't feel sick.” I hated that he was picking me apart.

“You don't look sick. Not much.” He figured out the starter, put the car in gear, and we glided forward. “Which way?”

“Left at the corner, then right.”

He drove as directed, throwing a glance my way now and then. The car was still warmed up from taking Gordy to the Bronze Belt. Kroun fiddled with the heater and opened the vents wide. Hot air breathed on my feet and legs. “Better?”

“A little.”

He looked unconvinced but kept it to himself. “So what's really wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Fleming, you don't have DTs, St. Vitus Dance, or malaria, and that's the limit of my educated guessing. You know what's wrong.”

“It's probably the shot I had.”

He threw a hostile glare remarkably similar to Mitchell's. “Shot. There's no medicine makes a man cold like that. If it was the winter getting to you, then your teeth would be chattering, too. This has to do with what Bristow did to you.”

I shook my head to mean I didn't want to talk about it.

“Yeah, and it's got you bad. I've seen guys just like you going right off the dock, but because they were in the War. It did that to them. You didn't have the War; you had Bristow. The son of a bitch is
dead
, he can't come at you again.”

Which I knew very well. Funny, but Escott had been on this same trail the night before.

“I told you to ease off on yourself, so when's it going to commence?”

No answer to that one, since I sure as hell didn't know. “Let's stick to business, if you don't mind.”

“Business. That's what we call it. It's what got you where you are. It's what killed that guy back there, sure as shit. Business.” He sounded none too pleased with it.

What was this about? But he shut down.

The heater was a good one. Eventually the hot air blowing against my legs filled up the rest of the car, blunting the edge. The pain from the inner cold eased, whether from the warmth or Kroun trying to talk some sense into me, I couldn't tell.

He turned on the radio. “This okay with you?”

“Go ahead.” I was surprised he'd bothered to ask.

We listened to Harry James. The music gave me something else to think about besides myself. I'd interrupt with directions now and then, as needed. Our route more or less followed the El line as we headed to Jewel Caine's home. It was the closest to the Nightcrawler.

The song ended, a grimly serious ad instructing everyone to use Bromo-Seltzer to fight off colds replaced it. Foiling the announcer, Kroun turned the sound down. “This is some car,” he said. “Gotta plan ahead to make turns, but it's a smooth ride.”

“It has truck shocks to take the extra load,” I told him. So long as we kept the topic aimed away from me, I didn't mind socializing.

“That would be the armor plating making the weight?”

“Yeah. Top, bottom, and sides, with bulletproof window glass, special tires. This thing's built like a German tank. Gordy had it done by this guy in Cicero. I think he was the same one who fixed up Capone's car likewise. Did a better job for Gordy, though.”

“He fix the motor up, too? She runs easy for this kind of load.”

“Some other guy did that. I'm not sure exactly how, but she'll do one-twenty on the flat and not raise her voice.”

“Sounds sweet. Real sweet.”

I could agree with that.

“This the place?”

“Yeah.”

He had to circle the block to find parking. The neighborhood was run-down, but not quite on the skids. Sad old piles of brick made up the better buildings, jaded clapboard was on the rest. Even when new, the area would have been depressing, and I speculated whether the architects had been solitary drinkers.

A three-story brick was our destination. It had once been a hotel, but was converted to flats. Nothing fancy. No doorman, no night man out front to watch things. We walked in unchallenged and went up to the second floor. No elevator.

I heard radios tuned to different shows as we walked down a dim, door-lined hall. Someone with a fussy baby walked the floor in there, a couple traded opening salvos in that one, somebody snoring just here—the usual. Down at the end a radio was turned up loud, but not too loud. It was in Jewel Caine's flat.

Kroun did the honors, banging on the door. “Mrs. Caine?”

I stepped close to call through the thickly painted wood. “Jewel? It's Jack Fleming from the club. Open up, would you?”

We waited and tried again.

“This doesn't look good,” said Kroun. “Why turn the radio on and go out?”

Had I been alone, I could have answered that for myself by vanishing and sieving inside. Without hypnosis to make him forget, I was crippled on what I could do.

Kroun reached up, feeling along the trim above the door. “No key. I don't want to bother looking for anybody who has one, either. We'll do it the hard way.”

He dropped to one knee and pulled out a small case. Picklocks. A very nice set. He used them. To him it was the hard way, to me it was expertly and quickly done, and I was accustomed to Escott's skills. Even he couldn't work with gloves on.

“Turn it,” Kroun said, holding two of the picks in place.

I turned it; the door drifted open. He withdrew the picks and put his kit away.

Lights were on, and a single window overlooking the front of the building on the right had its shade drawn. Jewel had left after dark, then. Or come home and left again. I hoped so. The radio was in a corner, a table model. Kroun started over, a hand reaching to perhaps turn it off, then stopped. He put his hands in his pockets.

“What?” I asked quietly.

He shook his head and seemed to be listening, but I couldn't hear over the radio noise. I took in the rest of the place. Jewel was an indifferent housekeeper. The room was small, a kitchen and parlor in one, with only the barest necessities, cheap stuff. Mail, opened and not, was scattered on what served as a dining table. She had a fine collection of sleeping and some other kind of pills for her nerves which made me uneasy. I knew what too many of those in one dose could do. Most of the containers seemed to have stuff in them. The bad thing would have been finding them empty. I wish I'd not thought of that angle.

Kroun went into her bedroom. I followed.

Unmade bed, clothes piled up. I took a whiff and got
stale cigarette smoke, very heavy, some kind of perfume vainly fighting it, and the scent of desperation. I couldn't explain the last one; the feeling just swelled up in me.

And one other . . . oh,
damn
.

I slumped. We were too late.

The bathroom. Pushed the door open. It wouldn't go all the way. Her body prevented that.

Didn't want to, but I had to look, to make sure.

The bloodsmell overwhelmed even the old cigarette reek. It looked like she'd stood in front of the mirror over the sink, put the gun to her head, and that was it. No doubt about her being dead. The white-painted walls were splattered with blood and . . . and other stuff.

“What?” asked Kroun. He had to pull me out to see for himself.

She still wore her coat. Was that normal? If there was a normal. Didn't suicides prepare themselves? Write notes or something . . . ?

Distraction. It wasn't working. I backed away, going to the small kitchen, stood by the sink there, and waited. I was hot and cold both together, feeling the sweats you get as your body works itself up to vomiting.

That didn't happen, though. The sick weight stayed bunched in my throat, twisting through my belly. I wanted to throw up just to get it over with.

The cold won out. I leaned forward and trembled from it. My knees started to go. Managed to fall onto one of the chairs by the dining table instead of the floor.

Kroun came out. Kept silent a while. I couldn't look at him. Too busy fighting off the shakes. I would
not
let myself give in into another damned fit with Kroun looking on.

“Wasn't anything you could have done,” he said, after some moments.

“Gotten here sooner.”

“I don't think so. Listen, someone makes up her mind to do that, she'll find a way no matter what.”

I shook my head. Didn't quite know why.

“What is it?” he asked.

“She didn't kill herself.”

“Looked pretty clear to me.”

“Someone made it look that way.” I sat up straight and did what I could to shove all the sick darkness within into a box and slam the lid. I needed to be thinking. “See if you can find her purse.”

He moved around, turned up three purses. One was the same blue as her dress. I upended it on the table, amid the clutter of makeup, keys, tissues, matches, and crushed cigarettes—the twenty and two tens I'd handed over to help with the back rent.

“That's my loan to her.” I gave him a short version of my talk with Jewel earlier. “The woman was cleaned up. There's no booze here, check and see. She was sober and had some hope back, had a job waiting. She wouldn't have shot herself.”

“She would if she'd murdered Caine.”

True. Jewel
could
have killed her ex, then in a fit of remorse came back here to escape earthly justice. But everything in me said it was wrong. “He meant money to her. She had no motive.”