Dressed to Killed (14 page)

"You can whistle for the fifty. You know that, don't you?"

"I'm a good whistler."

"Where are those sets, Forbes?" He asked it quietly but in a tone which seethed with no good.

"I sold them to Trottmann. As far as I'm concerned, they're his now."

Gold spat an ugly word. "Take him inside and get the address," he told Richmond.

I looked at Max. I looked at Richmond. Their insides were coiled tight with fear and anger, eager for the release which cursing and beating might give. I asked myself: What's the difference between a crooked cop and a crooked lawyer? Reason answered: None. I asked myself: What's the difference between remaining whole and being beaten to a pulp? Experience answered:-Plenty.

My conscience thus placated, I said: "Okay, you win." I murmured the address.

GOLD ran the car into a parking space and braked it with a viciousness which echoed his inner turbulence. He got out and lifted the front seat. From somewhere beneath it, he produced two automatics and handed one to Richmond. I got only a glimpse of Richmond's, but it looked like a .45 caliber service automatic. Gold rammed the seat back into place.

"Let's go," he said tensely. He stood on the sidewalk, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet.

Max scrambled out, looking frightened but game. Richmond nudged me with his automatic. "Out," he rasped. "You're invited."

"Let me stay here," I said. "I swear to God I won't run."

"Out," he repeated. The gun jammed into my kidney. I jumped, imagining his finger squeezing the trigger a tiny bit too much and a stream of hot lead playing atom bomb with my insides. I joined Max and Gold on the sidewalk. Richmond, cursing softly, got out and slammed the door.

"You're sure this is the place?" Gold asked.

I shrugged. "I got it from an unimpeachable source."

"Let's go in."

It was a huge frame building, three stories in height, built with an orange crate as a model, and occupying the better part of a block. The ground floor contained a series of narrow stores, each with an identical front of grimy plate-glass, narrow doorway, and faded gilt lettering. The store, which matched the number Ginny had given me, seemed even grimier than the others. The legend across its window was: BRUNS ICK BOX CO PANY. Behind the dirty glass, its window was piled high with dusty paper boxes.

"Move," Richmond directed. The gun punctuated the command, making a hard, deep comma against my spine. I followed Gold into the doorway. He twisted the knob, then cursed softly.

"Locked," he said.

"Trottmann has the key," I told him.

Without answering, he smashed the panel of glass in the door with the butt of his automatic, reached in, twisted the lock. He kicked the door open and stepped in. Richmond crowded against me. I stumbled in after Gold and heard the door rattle a tinkly protest as Max closed it.

Gloom and silence enfolded us. We were in a long, narrow store, packed nearly to the ceiling with huge, dusty paper-wrapped packages. Gold poked his fingers into one and tore its paper covering away. A layer of excelsior dripped onto the floor, revealing the serrated edges of stacked, unfolded paper cartons within. We walked the entire length of the store, with Gold, at frequent intervals, repeating his examination of the various packages.

"They're not here," he announced angrily.

"Maybe upstairs," Richmond suggested. His eyes traced a stairway which led up into darkness.

"Maybe," Gold agreed.

We retraced our steps and, in a tight little body, went upstairs. The gloom was thicker and so was the dust. My throat tickled and I stifled an urge to cough. With Richmond urging me on, I stumbled down a narrow lane, trying to follow the sound of Gold's impatient footsteps.

Behind me, Max released a low cry: "Hey, I think I found 'em."

Gold, from far to the rear, shouted: "They're here, Arnold. Hundreds of them!"

Richmond ran toward the sound of Gold's voice. I stayed put, trying to remember the direction in which the stairway was and wondering whether or not it would be smart to try to duck and run. The necessity for decision was taken away from me by the sound of the downstairs door opening and closing. The others heard it, too, for within a split second the silence became intense.

"Who's up there?" a voice shouted.

It was Trottmann's voice, angry and suspicious. Then I remembered: Gold's blue Caddy was parked in front. Trottmann had recognized it, as sure as hell, and the broken door pane had told him the rest of the story. The question, then, was merely an invitation to disaster. I listened to the sound of their prowling footsteps downstairs. There were two of them and they were checking the aisles downstairs, making certain that no one was there to initiate a flank attack.

The steps assembled at the foot of the stairs and began to ascend. I moved toward the front, where my eyes, becoming used to the gloom, had spotted another stairway, this one leading to the top floor. I was working my way toward it, when the floor beneath me screeched under my weight. Immediately, the sharp beam of a powerful flashlight cut through the darkness, illuminating an area where my head had been a moment before. I squatted down, hardly breathing.

"Come out!" Trottmann ordered. "You're all under arrest—"

I was not the only nervous one. From the rear, a gun of large caliber spoke twice. A high-pitched scream stirred the air and as the beam of the flashlight disappeared, a body thudded against the stairs and began a labored descent. Feet ran toward me and stopped. A second gun spoke, firing toward the first gun. Another gun... then another... joined in, each speaking the same language but from a different position. The crash of their explosions was deafening. Someone screamed and one of the guns became silent.

"Come on, you bastard," a voice invited hoarsely.

A gun answered him.

It was no place for a man to remain healthy. I sucked in my breath and made a dash for the stairs. I went up them fast, so fast that I didn't notice the trapdoor. My head discovered it abruptly as, with a showering of stars, a giant hand seemed to throw me back down the steps. I lay still, groaning inwardly. No one seemed to notice. I got to my feet and went up again, this time pausing to find the latch and push the trapdoor up.

I stood listening to the sounds below. Two guns were still active, but they were beginning to sound cautious, as though their users were conscious of a dwindling supply of ammunition. My nostrils flared. There was an acrid, biting scent in the air. I bent my head, sniffing critically. Then it hit me: Smoke. The place was on fire.

Another minute and the smoke was coming up in thick gusts, climbing as though alive. For a moment, I was immobilized by fear. The building was a firetrap. The entire first floor was crammed with dry paper and the building itself was first-class tinder.

I slammed the trapdoor shut and fought my way to the rear of the building. A row of narrow windows lined the wall. Dirt and grease, accumulated through the years, made their panes opaque. I fumbled with an ancient metal catch. It came away in my hands. I strained, trying to force the window open. Sweat stood out on me, drenching my back. In desperation, I rammed a pane with an elbow. It splintered. I rammed it again. The glass fell away in daggered shreds, leaving a small, deadly opening. I brushed sweat away from my eyes and got a shoe off. I hammered at the glass until there was an opening large enough to lean through.

I pushed my head and shoulders out, gasping for air. The flat roof of a garage was twenty feet below me—and it looked farther. I inched my shoulders back into the room and climbed onto the sill. I poked a leg through the opening, got a toe on the outer window ledge, worked my other leg out. A clang of fire-engines became audible. I hung by the waist and worked my arms free. Then I slid into space, kicking the boards of the building and clawing at the frame of the window with my hands. For a long moment I hung suspended over the garage roof, then I closed my eyes and dropped.

I landed with a jar which drove my knees into my belly.

Smoke was billowing out of the window I'd just vacated and the air was screaming with the wild concussion of many approaching sirens and engines. I crawled to the edge of the garage, got my legs over, and closed my eyes again....

GINNY'S head was warm against my shoulder. "Thank God, you weren't trapped like the others," she murmured. "That's all that matters. Now it's all over and—"

"It isn't all over," I said wearily. "The same thing will happen again and again, as long as there are crooked cops, and crooked lawyers, and people—let's face it—people like you and me, who aren't averse to making a quick buck. We're as guilty as they are."

"We didn't murder. Besides, money isn't everything," Ginny said. "I can do without quick bucks."

"You were singing a different song yesterday," I reminded her.

"Yes, but... that was before—" She snuggled closer.

"Before what?"

"Before I found out there were other things more important."

I happened to glance at the clock. "Hey, it's nearly five o'clock. See if you can get the news, will you, hon?"

She went to the DuMorell set and twisted dials. Chesterfield cigarettes marched across the TV screen and a blonde-haired girl chanted a silly commercial, something about A-B-C's. Then a narrow-faced, thin-haired guy appeared, gave us a slow smile, and rustled a sheaf of papers importantly. I put my arm around her again and closed my eyes.

"The big news in Chicago this afternoon," he began, "is a million-dollar fire in the warehouse district on West Madison Street. Engines from six companies have been fighting the raging flames for more than four hours, and already five persons are known to have lost their lives. The known dead include Ben Trottmann, police lieutenant of the 35th District, who rushed into one of the buildings in an heroic attempt to warn occupants of the approaching flames; Leo Gold, prominent attorney, who is believed to have been conferring with a client in the building at the time the fire started; Miss Diane Doll, a dancer, who was in the company of Mr. Gold; Arnold J. Richmond, a manufacturer's agent, who was inspecting a consignment of valuable radio-TV consoles stored on the premises; and Robert Hall, the building's janitor, who was trapped amid fallen timbers in the basement of the building!

"According to Assistant Fire Marshall Peter Grote, the fire was of unknown origin. The building, located in a low-rent district, was of frame construction and flames from it have spread throughout the block...."

"My God," I groaned, "he's got the whole thing snarled up!"

"Shhh." Ginny hugged my arm.

"Federal agents were jubilant tonight," the newscaster went on, "over the break-up of a ring of big-time dealers in stolen merchandise. Agents of the F.B.I., acting on information received from Russell Forbes, a Chicago private investigator, raided a west-side garage and recovered over a half-million dollars' worth of merchandise known to have been hijacked during interstate transit...."

"Turn it off," I begged. "I don't want to hear any more. They've made Trottmann a hero and Richmond a manufacturer's agent, and by tomorrow they'll be around to hang roses around my neck. For chrissake, can't those reporters get anything straight?"

Ginny leaned toward the set and switched it off. "They're doing their jobs as well as they can, Rusty. They couldn't know what really happened, could they?"

"I suppose not. But making Trottmann a hero... 1"

"How do you think the fire started?"

"Diane was with Trottmann and maybe she had a cigarette in her mouth. When Gold or Richmond—or whoever it was —fired and hit her, the cigarette rolled down the stairs with her and—pssst! All that place needed was a spark."

"I know you think Diane killed Giselle, but—"

"Think, hell, I'm damned sure she did. Trottmann killed Sands because Sands had got wise to his hook-up with Discount Sales and was putting pressure on him, and Diane had to kill Giselle—or she thought she had to—because she'd found out that Giselle was Trottmann's wife."

"I don't get it." Ginny frowned.

"I'll draw you a diagram," I said. "Diane had made a pitch for Trottmann, or vice versa, and, either intentionally or accidentally, became with child, as they used to say in biblical times. So, in addition to wanting dough, Diane wanted a father for her child—and Giselle was in the way. By getting rid of Giselle, she figured she'd be able to get Trottmann to marry her. As a matter of fact, I think he would have, too. He was pretty hot for her, you know."

"What made you connect Diane with Trottmann, though?"

"Diane was just a younger addition of Giselle. Haven't you ever noticed how men seem to favor a particular type of girl? The psychologists call it a minor manifestation of an Oedipus complex. Sort of a mother fixation. In other words, some men are attracted to girls who remind them of their mother. They don't know it, of course, but the girls they fall for usually look pretty much alike."

Ginny was silent for a moment. "You ever been married, Rusty?"

"Nope."

"What was your mother like?"

"She was a great big woman, sort of a dishwater blonde, who was good-natured and liked kids. She was kind of hot-blooded, I guess, because there were six of us. I can remember her cooking dinner and singing at the top of her voice—"

"Darling!" Ginny's kiss put a period to talking for a while.

I winked at the ceiling.

THE END