Dead Man's Tale (7 page)

I feel guilty about Steve, though. We had a sort of tacit understanding. As far as he knows, I'm busy trying to get information out of the difficult Miss O—. That suits Steve; looking for Milo Hacha has always been two steps forward and one back, as if he's not sure he wants to find the guy …

But Steve can't go on living in limbo like this, which is where my guilty feelings come in. I ought to be working at it day and night, and I'm not. Not at that, anyway. Steve, meanwhile, is trying to have himself a ball. He's really trying, but he's too gloomy.

We're staying at the Hotel Montana, so he generally walks down the hill after dinner to the Kursaal to try his luck at the boule tables. So far he hasn't dropped too much. Days, he just mopes around. Or so I gather. And at breakfast he hasn't mentioned Milo Hacha's name once.

If we ever do track down Hacha—and I'd be willing to bet now that we do—I wonder what Steve will do about it.

Lake Lucerne—which the natives call the Lake of the Four Cantons, or Vierwaldstaettersee—is one hell of a fine spot for a vacation. It's deep and blue and clear, and all the municipal piers and mooring posts are whitewashed a dazzling white. And there are plump white swans in the water. The city is on the west shore of the lake, a labyrinth of crooked medieval streets and cobbled squares with ornate fountains gushing icy mountain water at almost every corner.

To the east are the lower Alps, green and rounded, with the Rigi dominating them. To the south, seen distantly across the blue water and on clear days rearing impossibly high into the blue sky, are the higher snowy Alps.

They inspire awe, sure; but there's something serene and comforting about them, too. I tried to put it into words for T—once, but she only laughed and said her “detective” was a frustrated poet. That night she was really something in bed, but I guess there's no connection.

T—'s a big, lusty girl with a tremendous appetite for life. Girl—she's probably ten years older than I am. She says, quite matter-of-factly, that love is her one talent.

She means physical love, and we both let it go at that. Because only once in her life was there any other kind of love to go along with it, and that one time was Milo Hacha.

The other night after dinner I asked her if she had a picture of Hacha. She smiled a little sadly and shook her head. Then she said, “You do not understand about Milo Hacha. He destroys his past. How do you say it?—he burns his bridges. I had a photograph, yes. But I no longer have it. His lives are separate. A life for the Netherlands, a life for here, a life for—where he's gone.”

“Where did he go?”

“But if I tell you, you'll go away, too.”

“I came here looking for Hacha,” I admitted.

“And found me.” She took my hand, and kissed the palm and placed it on her breast, so of course we stopped talking about Milo Hacha.

It's been like that ever since the first night. That first night was something out of a comic opera. We were asleep in bed when I heard a bang. I'm a slow waker. T—was slipping into her robe while I was still knuckling the sleep out of my eyes.

“You look just like a little boy, Andy.”

I mumbled something.

“It's Heinz.” She padded to the closet and brought me a robe. “Here.”

“Heinz?” That woke me fast. “Don't tell me you're married!”

She shook her head. “Silly.”

I put the robe on and she prodded me ahead of her out into the living room. I began to feel like fifty-seven varieties of damn fool.

I recognized him right away. He was the orchestra leader at the Kursaal garden.

He opened his mouth and made a loud noise, then charged.

He swung, wrapping his arm around my neck. I shoved him away. His fist bounced off my shoulder. So I swung—and missed. It was like one of those quickie movie fights, very badly directed. We moved around each other like a couple of hams in a vaudeville show.

I pushed with both hands flat against his chest and gave T—a despairing look. She seemed amused. But looking at her was a mistake. He hit me in the stomach and I doubled over.

When I straightened up, my head butted his face. Right away his nose started to bleed. He snuffled, but the blood ran like a faucet.

“It's his poor nose!” T—cried. She took him by the arm and led him, unresisting, to the sofa. He stretched out on his back with his head dangling over the edge. “Quick,” T—told me. “Get a wet towel.” Would you believe it? I ran for one.

She frowned at me when I got back. “No, no! Wring it out.”

So I went back to the bathroom and wrung out the towel. When I brought it back, Kemka snatched it from me, glaring. They seemed to know just what to do. So after a while I went into the bedroom and got dressed.

When I returned, the bleeding had stopped and T—was patting Kemka's hand. “I'll be out of here in the morning,” she said in German.

Kemka must have felt ridiculous. I know I sure did.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“
Ja, ja,
” he said. “It is nothing. The nose bleeds easily, that's all.”

“Well, can I get you a cab?”

My fatuous solicitude practically made him speechless. All he could say was “I live here.” He had me there. I picked up my hat.

T—walked me into the hall. “I'll call you in the morning,” she said. “Where are you staying?”

“The Montana. Is it—I mean, will you be—?”

“When his nose bleeds like that he moves around for at least a day as if he is made from china.”

When I kissed her she began to giggle. “His eyes,” she whispered. “Did you see his eyes? He was furious.”

She pushed me gently from Kemka's apartment.

10

“No, listen, Ron,” Estelle Street said into the telephone. “He was from the legal affairs section of the State Department.”

“I still say you're making a mountain out of a molehill,” Ronald Hurley told her.

“But Barney's will hasn't been probated yet, has it?”

“I'm your lawyer, Estelle. Let me handle this.”

“Has it?”

“Well, no.”

“The State Department lawyer knew the name of the beneficiary. I'm worried, Ron. I'm scared sick. I don't want to lose that money, do you hear me? I don't want to lose it.”

“Well, you can stop your worrying. I said I'd handle it.”

“But what if Milo Hacha's alive?”

“I don't care if he's alive and has fourteen starving kids,” Hurley said. “I can conduct the best investigation on paper you ever saw.” He laughed. “And I've got friends when the time comes for probation. So will you just calm down?”

“How can I calm down? Steve Longacre found out that Hacha was still alive. He wrote me from Holland.”

“From Holland? What the hell are you talking about?”

Estelle told him. Then she said, “Don't you see, Ron? If you do it your way, even if you're successful, I'll spend the rest of my life expecting him to turn up.”

“You idiot! It was Steve's poking around that got the State Department interested. If you had to send someone, why'd you pick that damn has-been?”

“Don't talk to me like that,” Estelle said. “And that's one of the reasons I called you. Ron, tell me who did the job on Barney.”

“I can't hear a word you say.”

“I don't trust Longacre any more. I realize he was a mistake, but at the time he was all I had.”

“I'm glad you feel that way. Call him off, Estelle. Fast.”

“Who did the job on Barney?”

“Listen—”

“No. You listen to me. I was clearing out some of Barney's stuff. I found something.” Estelle paused, but Hurley remained silent. “Steve Longacre isn't the only one I can send to the chair now.”

“What did you find, Estelle?”

“Take three guesses, and the first two don't count.”

“Damn you, stop playing games with me!”

“There's another copy of Barney's deposition. I have it. In a safe place. With the usual instructions if anything happens to me.”

“… Estelle?”

“I'm still here.”

“What do you want?” Hurley's crisp voice sounded tired and defeated.

“I had a photostat made. Would you like to see it?”

“I asked you, what do you want?”

“Two million dollars, Ron. Minus lawyer's fees.”

“So?”

“The only way I can call off Longacre is in person, because I don't know where he is now. I'll have to track him down. I intend to do that. But I still intend to do the rest of it my way. Tell me, Ron, if the heir's dead …”

“You get the estate as Barney's next of kin. We went all through that.”

“Who did the job on Barney?”

“Estelle—”

“Because I have another job for them, Ron. Well?” Hurley sighed and said, “All right, I'll set up a meeting for you. But I still think you're making a mistake.”

“When?”

“After you show me the photostat.”

“I love you, too, Ron.…”

Estelle smiled and hung up.

Steve Longacre awoke in the night, sweating from a dream.

He went into the bathroom and sloshed cold water on his face. He was trembling. He had had the same dream before. His face in the mirror over the sink looked old. There were purplish pouches under his eyes.

In the dream he had killed the man exactly as he had killed him in real life. Except that the details were clearer.…

It had been raining. A cold, steady rain, drumming on the black asphalt just before midnight. Cars sped by, their headlights sending yellow probing shafts ahead, tyres whispering on the wet streets.

Steve had stood waiting in the rain with a man named Chester Little. Chicken Little, they called him. Chicken was a nerveless little man with a high, happy voice and absolutely no regard for human life. Chicken, in Sing Sing now, wouldn't have that dream. Murder was his business. It was something you did to earn a buck.…

What's the matter with that kid, Steve thought. We've got to find this Hacha. He rubbed a damp palm across his forehead and groaned. Sometimes he didn't want to find Hacha at all. Sometimes he thought he would rather die than find him. He had killed a man only once. He did not think he could do it again.

In the dream, as in real life, the door had opened just before midnight. It was the front door of a white clapboard house on Front Street, just outside the business district in Hempstead. A man stood silhouetted in the doorway with light behind him.

“That the bum?” Chicken Little had asked in his shrill voice.

They stood on the dark sidewalk, in the rain, thirty yards from the yellow rectangle. A girl appeared beside the man. She held his arm and smiled up at him.

They spoke, but Steve couldn't hear the words. Then the girl stood on tiptoes and kissed the man on the lips. He came down the flagstone walk, moving briskly, and she waved and shut the door. The man passed by the light that stood on a post at the beginning of the flagstone walk. Steve had seen his face very clearly. The man's name was Joey Imparato and he had been fingered for Steve in Nino's Restaurant in Westbury after the trotters at Roosevelt Raceway.

Joey Imparato ran a small garbage-trucking firm in two Oyster Bay towns in the days before garbage collection had gone municipal. He had been asked politely to amalgamate with the big boys. He had refused just as politely. He had been asked again, not so politely. He had refused not so politely. One of his haulers was mauled after leaving the dump in Syosset. Then Joey had made a lot of noise about organizing the half-dozen or so independent garbage firms that were left and along with the noise went unexpected progress. So the word was passed: Joey Imparato had to be hit.

“That the bum?” Chicken Little repeated.

Steve's throat had felt funny; he could only nod. Chicken smiled expectantly. They had been standing in the cold rain for almost three-quarters of an hour waiting for Joey Imparato to come out after walking his girl friend home from the movies.

“He must of laid the broad,” Chicken had said. “He'll die happy.”

Chicken Little had fired, twice. Joey Imparato spun around and started to fall. In the dream there was a surprised look on Joey's face, but that couldn't have been, for by then he was out on the sidewalk and they wouldn't have been able to see his face in the dark.

Steve had fired, too. His hand was shaking, so he probably missed, but that didn't matter. He was just as guilty as Chicken.

After Steve fired, Chicken had run over, stood over Joey, and shot him point-blank four times more. Then the revolver clicked on an empty chamber.

Things had happened fast after that. The front door of the clapboard house opened and the girl started to yell. A car, the getaway car, roared up the block and came to a stop.

The car had been stolen in Hicksville and Lou Goody, who could make your hair stand on end with the tricks he could pull behind a wheel, was driving.

But another car was behind him. It was a blue-and-orange county patrol car. The siren started its scream. Steve ran to the car Lou Goody was driving. Chicken Little, running across the wet street, wasn't so lucky. He slipped on the slick asphalt and fell down in the path of the police car.

“Close the freakin' door!” Lou Goody shouted.

Steve had slammed it and they shot away from the kerb.

By the time one of the cops could jump out and collar Chicken, Lou had had a fair head start. They careened out of Hempstead and along the Bethpage Turnpike. They could hear the siren wailing behind them.

Goody swung the car, tyres screeching, north on Post Avenue. This made very good sense, for the crowds from the old Roosevelt Raceway, slowed by the rain, were still funnelling out of the raceway exit. But then, Lou Goody was a very good getaway man.

They joined the raceway traffic heading north. The cop lost them there. They abandoned the stolen car in Westbury and went into Felice's Restaurant, where Lou Goody ordered a seafood supper for both of them. The sight and the smell of the food made Steve sick. He rushed to the men's room and vomited.