Dressed to Killed (5 page)

Sensing danger behind me, I spun around.

Richmond, with a smile stiffer than a wrought-iron fence on his somber face, was closing in with a knife. The weapon had a long, slender, keen-looking blade, and he held it low in the loose, balanced way of an experienced slasher. His pale eyes, excited by the anticipated kill, had the translucent quality of seedless grapes, yet seemed more shiny, as if oiled by hate.

I leaped sidewise, forcing myself to ignore the knife and to keep my eyes on his. As though we were treading pie crust, we circled cautiously, each trying to guess the other's next move. I started to give ground, hoping to maneuver my way across to the workbench and snatch a wrench or hammer before he closed in. He guessed my intent, and, without changing the tempo of the dance, began forcing me toward the other wall.

"Is this the way you got Eddie Sands?" I said. Richmond was a fellow devoted to his work and allergic to conversation. Without varying the tightness of his smile, he crept closer, holding the blade close against his side. I caught a faint flicker in his eyes a split instant before the blade snaked toward me. I leaped into the air, rolled back, and kicked both legs into his belly.

He bent double, groaning like a man who has lost a dear friend. The knife rattled on the concrete. I came down hard on my shoulders, rolled over, and crawled frantically toward the knife.

I never reached it. I had forgotten Sam, but Sam had not forgotten me. A beam from the ceiling fell across the back of my neck.

A CLOCK was ticking. Each tick sent a long tentacle of feeling thrusting through my protesting body. I moaned softly. The tentacles reached my arms, then my legs. Something told me that I was prone and that I didn't want to remain that way. With considerable effort, I clicked at the mental switches which should have changed my position to supine. Nothing moved except a few sharp pains, which blazed through my legs toward the emptiness where my stomach usually was. I moaned again, not quite so softly.

"He's coming to," a voice said.

Stupidly, I listened to the voice, trying to understand what it said. The clock kept ticking, louder and more monotonously, and the tentacles kept reaching. Gradually, like scenes from a defective projector, things began flashing through the tired darkness of my mind: Sam. Richmond. Garage. Knife. Fight. Dead. That last was a definite thought which ballooned into a question: dead? It repeated itself several times, then triggered a rapid deductive process: Heaven? No. If so, not as advertised. Hurt too much. Probably Hell. No dancing flames, though. No naked devils. If not Hell, then—?

"So what?" another voice asked. "He isn't going anywhere."

This voice was familiar. The projector started flashing again and gradually steadied on an image. Richmond. The image became clearer. Arnold J. Richmond. Then: trapped. That did it. Consciousness swept back and I knew, once again, the what, where and why of things.

I was lying on a sofa, bound and gagged, with my head only inches away from an ornate, gold-trimmed clock. I was not in the garage. I was in someone's apartment. Richmond was in the room, talking to someone. I forced my head to turn toward the voices. Richmond came into focus. He was sitting stiffly in a Morris chair, gnawing at his lip and glaring disgustedly at me.

"What I've suggested is the only sensible course of action," the first voice said smoothly. "Killing him will remove him from action—that's true. However, it will leave us with another body, another murder—and considerably more heat upon us. Doing as I suggest will solve all our problems, or nearly all of them, and will make it possible for us to continue operating."

With difficulty, I strained my neck around until the other side of the room came within my range of vision. He was a short, chunky guy with graying, curly hair, a square face freshly shaven and nicely talcumed, dark eyes, and the prettiest brown plaid suit I'd ever seen outside of a tailor's window. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but I didn't recognize him until he paced slowly in front of me, folded his hands behind him, and gave me the considering stare of a man who's studying a fly on the end of a pin.

Then his name popped into my mind: Leo Gold! I didn't groan, but I felt like it. Gold was king of the local shysters, a great guy with the bright boys and smart girls, the kind of lawyer who rarely had to soil his manicured nails by touching briefs or law books.

"I don't like it," Richmond said flatly.

"Of course not," Gold agreed in dulcet tones. "I don't either. It's simply a matter of choosing the lesser of two evils. Fortunately, you had sense enough to consult me before you did anything irrevocable." He lifted his eyebrows delicately and looked at Richmond. "I'm a businessman, Arnold. I'm interested in making money—and I assume that you are, too. The less violence we have, the better for both of us."

"But for chrissake, Leo, the guy's wise to us!" Richmond snapped. "The only way to stop him from spilling the whole set-up is to kill him."

"You're wrong, Arnold." Gold's tone was quiet but firm. "Killing him will merely multiply our troubles. As things stand now, the cops are after Sands' killer—and this guy is a natural suspect. The cops will love him. The newspapers will love him. And you and I ought to love him, because as soon as the cops get him all the heat will be off us."

"But he'll talk!" Richmond interrupted. "How do you expect to stop him from talking?"

"I don't." Gold paced back and forth slowly. "Well let him talk. The way I'll have things fixed, the more he talks the less anybody'll believe him!" Gold made a dramatic arc with one hand. "I tell you, all we need is the right girl, one who'll put on a good act, follow directions, and keep her mouth shut afterwards."

Richmond frowned and shook his head. "I hate to bring another dame into this. We were okay until you started mixing dolls into the racket."

"You're imagining things, Arnold. Giselle followed through perfectly on every job we gave her, except this last one. What happened was purely accidental. It wouldn't happen again in a thousand years." Gold glanced at a gold watch on his wrist. "Time is flying. Let's make up our minds."

"Well, you're the boss," Richmond said, not very enthusiastically. "I still don't like it, but I'll play along if you're sure that—"

"I'm sure," Gold said.

"Okay. Suppose we give the job to Fia Sprite?"

Gold squinted at the ceiling. "The Calypso babe?"

"Yeah. She's clean as far as the law goes, and she's damned anxious to get her hands on a wad of dough."

"Why?"

"Wants to quit thrashing in the joints and open an interior decorating shop. For a few grand in real money, I think she'd hold still for nearly anything—and she's got enough looks to put the act over, I think."

"Can she keep her mouth shut?"

Richmond shrugged. "Can any woman?" he asked. "All I'm saying is that if we make the price right, I think she'll follow through."

"How soon can you get her here?"

"She lives in the building."

Gold nodded his satisfaction. "Get her here. Have her pick up some liquor." His voice became softer. "You won't need me. As soon as you have things set, phone my office. Then clear out. Understand?"

"Sure, Leo." Richmond nodded. Gold returned the nod, opened the door, and left. Favoring me with an angry glance, Richmond grunted and got to his feet. I made sounds in my throat, hoping to suggest that the gag was strangling me. "Shut up, you bastard," Richmond muttered. The flat of his hand cracked across my face. I subsided.

Richmond left the room and I heard the staccato whir of a telephone dial being spun impatiently. I strained at the ropes around my ankles and wrists. They gave about as much as a miser on Tag Day. I bent my legs at the knees and arched my back, trying to reach the knots with my hands. Impossible.

Richmond, speaking in a low, brisk tone, said abruptly: "Fia? This is Arnold.... Are you alone?.... Well, get rid of him... I've got a deal on, the kind you've been looking for.... Yeah.... I wouldn't kid you. This is something big. Tell the guy to scram.... I want to bring a someone up to your place in about ten minutes.... Hell, I can't talk about it now. Use your head.... Okay." The receiver banged onto its cradle.

Richmond strode back into my field of vision, moving purposefully. With what looked to me like an old undershirt, he polished the arms of all the chairs, the tops of all the tables, the doorknobs, and the front of a radio-phonograph console. He emptied all the ashtrays, rinsed them with water, dried them thoroughly. Then, grabbing me by the shoulders, he half-pulled, half-lifted me into a sitting position.

Kneeling beside me, he adjusted the rope about my ankles so there was quite a bit of play, thereby permitting me to separate my feet about twelve inches. I watched him closely, hoping he might be careless enough to give me a chance to kick him in the teeth, but he cautiously kept well to one side and pressed one of his arms across my shins. "Okay, get up!" he ordered.

With a grunt, I threw my weight forward and levered myself up.

He inspected me critically for a moment, then went to a closet and returned with a woolen bathrobe. He draped it over my shoulders so that my bound hands were concealed, folded the front together, and tied the rope-like belt. He gave me another critical inspection. This time he nodded with satisfaction. I essayed a step.

He nicked a fist into my kidneys. I gurgled, started to double with pain, and nearly fell on my face. He caught me, pushed me back onto my feet. "Stay right there," he ordered tersely. "Don't move. Give me a good excuse, and you're dead—get it?"

I managed to nod.

Hurriedly, he went into the other room and returned with a small vacuum cleaner. Using the machine expertly, he vacuumed the floor in front of the sofa, then the cushions, then the back and arms. I had to give him credit for doing a good, intelligent job of destroying evidence that any of us had been lounging around the place.

"Okay, Forbes," he said finally, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. "We're going upstairs." Stepping behind me, he unknotted the gag and jerked it out of my mouth. "You're a very sick man and can hardly walk.... and if you try any tricks, you'll be sicker. Catch on?"

I choked, licked my sandpapery lips, and sucked around in my mouth for spit. As soon as I could get the words lubricated, I rasped out a phrase uncomplimentary to his mother.

"Another crack like that will get you no teeth," Richmond commented. The back of his hand slashed across my mouth. I stumbled, spitting blood. "Get wise, Forbes. You're in the wrong spot to start trouble." He patted the side pocket of the serge suitcoat. "I'd just as soon blow a hole in you as not." He prodded me toward the door. "We're going upstairs, like I said. We probably won't meet anyone. If we do, keep your head down and remember that you're very, very sick. Is that clear?"

I couldn't trust myself to speak, so I grunted.

He opened the door, stepped into the corridor, then motioned me to follow. The rope permitted me to take a step of about ten inches. Feeling like an invalid Chinese maiden in a hobble skirt, I hunched my shoulders and minced after him. He shut the door and prodded me down the corridor. We reached a narrow flight of concrete stairs.

"Up," Richmond urged, prodding me impatiently.

"How the hell can—" I began.

His fist smashed into my side. "Keep your mouth shut and get moving," he ordered tersely.

Painfully, I lifted one foot and got it onto the first step, then I shifted my weight carefully and slowly brought the other up. No one was more surprised than I was when, finally, I gasped my way up the last step and tottered onto the landing. Richmond said: "Okay, straight ahead."

I minced past three doorways before I was jerked to a halt A brass 815 ornamented the varnished panel. Richmond tapped on it softly. When nothing happened immediately, he drummed his knuckles against it and rattled the knob. It opened suddenly, as though drawn back in anger.

Richmond pushed me into the room, then shut the door and bolted it. The girl confronting us was a slim Latin number with thin, painted cheeks, long black hair, and flaring dark eyes. She wore black satin toreador slacks and a rumpled plaid blouse which was only partially buttoned. Judging by the look she gave us, Dale Carnegie had had no affect on her. "Come in, for godsake," she said in an irritated, brittle voice. "I thought you said ten minutes! After I rush the guy out of here, you make me sit around here twiddling my—"

"We were delayed," Richmond explained shortly. He administered a shove which sent me toward a rumpled studio couch.

Her eyes flicked over me. "Who's the sucker?"

"A private dick named Russell Forbes."

"Oh?" Her eyebrows danced briefly and her eyes became dark alleys. "I'm listening."

"I want you to throw a little party for him. You know. The heat's on him and we want him picked up in the right sort of situation."

"What's he hot for?"

"Not for you, baby," Richmond told her, smirking a little. "We just want it to look that way. Catch on?"

She sniffed, not very delicately. "What's in it for me?"

"A cool grand."

Her lips twisted into a wry red bud. "Get him out of here," she said. She indicated the door with a toss of her head.

"What the hell, Fia, you toss your can around the joints for peanuts, and now when I offer you a real deal, you—"

"I can't hear you," she said. "Get him out. Beat it."

"Fifteen C's, then. That's a hell of a lot more than—"

"I still can't hear you."

"Hell, Fia, I'm doing you a favor!" Richmond protested. "You know that dames are a dime a dozen. I could have given the job to any one of fifty other babes—and they'da grabbed it!"

"That's for the birds," she said pleasantly. "You know damned well you can't trust them. You brought the guy here because you know I won't blab about it."

"How much, then?"

"Three grand." Her lips touched the words lovingly, like a mother cat tonguing a favored kitten.

"Impossible!"

She whirled. "What have they got on you?" she demanded. "What're you hot for?"

"Picking my nose in front of City Hall," I said bitterly.

"Oh, a wise guy." She confronted Richmond. "You may as well level with me. What's he wanted for?"

"What the hell difference does it make, Fia?" Richmond rasped, looking uncomfortable. "All you've got to do—"

"Answer me." She tapped a foot impatiently. "What's the bite?"

Richmond's shoulders moved in an involuntary gesture of defeat. "They think he knocked off Eddie Sands," he admitted.

"Well, what do you know?" Her eyes studied me speculatively. "A killer, huh? And you think I'm going to get myself smeared all over the papers for less than three grand?" She tossed her head and looked wide-eyed at Richmond. "I've got news for you, Arnold. You can stick him back where you found him."

Richmond shrugged. "I haven't time to argue, Fia. Three grand it is."

"On the line, too," the girl said quickly.

"I don't have that much cash with me—"

"Then get it."

"Okay, okay. I'll see what I can do." Richmond strode to me and unfastened the bathrobe. Rolling me over, he removed the robe and folded it over his arm. "How are you fixed for liquor?" he asked.

"I got maybe a fifth," the girl told him.

"I'll pick up a couple bottles," Richmond said. "You may as well get started. Liquor him up good."

"Remember, Arnold—" the girl warned, "—no dough and I queer the act."

Richmond nodded shortly. "I'll be back in a few minutes. He's tricky, so don't take any chances."