Dressed to Killed (6 page)

As soon as the door closed behind Richmond, she blew a kiss toward it and did a tricky bump-and-grind toward a tiny kitchenette. From a cabinet over the sink, she got down a water glass and a used bottle of Old Crow. Smiling purposefully, she came toward me with them.

"Scotch," I said. "Bourbon makes me sick."

She dropped onto the couch beside me. "This is all I've got." She filled the glass half-full and pushed the rim of it between my lips. "Have a slug, hon," she invited. "It's on the house."

Bourbon, to me, always has a sweet-sour smell which reminds me of a men's lavatory. I twisted my head, trying to avoid the glass, but she kept the edge rammed against my teeth and dribbled the biting liquor over my sore lips until I either had to swallow or to gag. I decided a swallow wouldn't kill me and might even have a medicinal effect. I took a big gulp, choked, gasped for breath.

"That's the idea," she chortled approvingly. "Not so bad, is it?" She splashed more into the glass and returned it inexorably to my mouth. "A few more of these and everything'll be rosy—for both of us, maybe."

"Richmond's suckering you," I gurgled around the glass. "You'll both burn for this."

"Richmond, maybe," she said coolly, "but not me." She tilted the glass. I shuddered as the burning liquor went down my throat. My stomach was beginning to feel like a bathtub full of hot, swirling soup. The glass came up again. I shook my head, tried to avoid it.

"Have a heart," I gasped.

"Oh, come on," she taunted. "Are you a man or mouse?" The phrase must have awakened memories in her, for her eyes narrowed suddenly and she gave me a shrewd look. "Say, how come you haven't tried to buy your way out of this?"

"I can't talk your language," I told her.

"You haven't got any dough?"

"Not nearly enough."

"Too bad." She looked regretful. "You look like a nice guy and I hate Richmond's guts, but—" She sighed resignedly. "I guess a girl's got to make the best of things." She splashed the rest of the liquor into the glass. "Come on, this'll kill the bottle."

"It may kill me, too—"

"Not a big guy like you! Come on—!"

By the time Richmond got back, the room was moving about me with a gentle, undulating motion and my stomach seemed to be pumping hot lava through my veins. I felt sick, but happy-sick, and the hell with Richie and Goldie. He gave me a quick, appraising glance, then grinned at her. "How's he doing?" he asked. "Any trouble?"

"No trouble," she said shortly. "You got the dough?"

"Yeah, but I had a hell of a time scraping it together." He took a bulky envelope from his pocket and tossed it to her. "I brought a couple more fifths. It ought to do the job."

"Sure." She was busy riffling through the contents of the envelope.

"You can count it later," Richmond said impatiently. "Hurry up and get him loaded, can't you?"

"Why, sure, Arnold," she retorted with mocking sweetness, "just as soon as I stash this away." She eyed him slyly. "You wouldn't want the cops to get their hands on all this dough, would you?"

"Of course not, Fia—but for godsake, hurry up and stick it wherever you're going to stick it!"

"Sure thing." Pushing the bills back into the envelope, she sealed it, got a pen from a drawer, wrote a name and an address across it. Then she rummaged around in a purse and produced a strip of postage stamps. With a wink at me, she licked the stamps and plastered them across the envelope. "Be right back," she said gaily. Opening the door, she ran lightly down the corridor.

"Think you're smart, huh?" Richmond commented when she returned. "What'd you do, mail it to yourself?"

"Why should I tell you?" she asked, somewhat acidly. "It's my business what I do with it, ain't it?"

"Guess so." Richmond jerked his shoulders. "Let's get this over with, Fia. You know the program: Get him loaded. Take off a lot of the rags. Make like a party."

She paused in the act of opening a fresh bottle and gave me an arch look. "Sounds like fun, doesn't it, honey?"

"Shure," a blurred voice replied. It seemed to come from behind me. I twisted my head, trying to verify the source.

"Shure, kid," it said again, "lesh make shum party." A moment later: "Shay, ish me talking!"

"What you need is another drink!" she cried, laughing. "Here, have one on me!" She came toward me, executing the bump-and-grind routine again.

"Say, have you been lapping the stuff?" Richmond demanded.

"No, but it might be a good idea," she retorted. "You know, to make things look good." Raising the glass to her own lips, she sucked off a good third of its contents, shuddered, then took a smaller swallow as a chaser. "Now it's a loving cup," she giggled, forcing the glass between my lips. "You're supposed to drink all of it and then make a wish!"

I gulped obediently. "Brr. Wish he'd go 'way!"

"Sure, honey, we're going to get rid of him in a hurry," she promised, splashing more liquor into the glass. To Richmond, she added: "He's getting pretty loaded. You don't want him blind, do you?"

"Better give him another good slug," Richmond advised. "It might be an act."

"Look, honey, I got another loving cup for you!" She waved the glass beneath my nose, tilted it briefly to her lips, then held it against mine. "I'll even let you make another wish!"

"No more...!" The room was slipping and sliding around me and Richmond's bulky figure was rapidly going out of focus. "Pleash, no more!" I protested.

Hands, prodded me, pushed me, turned me over. Somewhere someone was laughing. I tried to crawl away from the laughter. It came closer and the laughter blurred into words: "Hey, lover boy, where do you think you're going?"

"You think he's got enough?" Richmond's voice asked worriedly.

"Jees, he don't know which end's up!"

"Okay, snuggle. Remember, make it look good. I'm going to beat it."

"How long'll it take them?"

"Fifteen-twenty minutes, maybe." A door opened and closed.

An instant later, a cool body wriggled close to me and slim arms encircled my waist, holding me tightly. A shoulder stung annoyingly. I tried to scratch it but, confusingly, the shoulder eluded my fingers and I seemed to be stroking her hair instead. The sting transferred itself to my neck. I tried to roll away, to avoid it, but the arms held me and the sting flickered about, like a persistent mosquito, returning from time to time to various places on my neck and chest.

Far away, I heard a banging noise.

The sting left me for a moment, then the weight of the world settled on my chest and my mouth began to hurt. I couldn't breathe. I tried to gasp for air, but her mouth was over mine. She was kissing me, grinding her body against mine. Drunkenly, I clasped her and tried to move my lips in rhythm with hers.

That's the way we were, I guess, when the cops broke in.

I WAS SICK. Someone was slapping my face methodically, insistently. Cold water deluged over me and I cried out. Then I was sick again. After a brief respite, the slapping resumed. My insides squirmed, turned over, began to bubble. "There he goes again," a voice said disgustedly. "What a Pig!"

"What a party, you mean," another voice put in. "You see the babe he was with?"

"Yeah. I wouldn't mind a few drinks with her myself."

Raucous laughter. "You mean you wanta earn a Purple Heart?" More laughter.

"Won't be long now. He's coming around some."

Ice water cascaded over my shoulders. I huddled down, with my head nearly touching my knees, and let my insides shudder and twist Hands forced my head up. With increased vigor, the slapping resumed.

"Not so much muscle, sergeant," a voice suggested. "We don't want him bruised."

"We'll be careful, lieutenant."

The slapping began again, but with restraint. It took all my strength to open my eyes. Immediately, someone turned a lamp on, blinding me. I blinked. The room swayed, then gradually settled into focus. It was a small, dank room, illuminated by bare bulbs hanging from wires. My eyes fixed on a waist-high table, on which rested two narrow pieces of black stone, an ink roller, a tube of carbon-black, several pieces of square paper. Then I knew where I was. I was in the basement, the fingerprinting room, of the Chicago Avenue police station.

With infinite weariness, I moved my head a few inches. Three cops were standing about me, two of them in their undershirts. One held a dripping tin bucket, the other was slapping his leg restlessly with a wet rag. They were both grinning malevolently at me. I shifted my eyes to the third. A gold badge was pinned to the pocket of his blue shirt. I remembered him vaguely. Lieutenant something. The name escaped me. I sighed, closed my eyes, and slumped listlessly in the chair.

The wet rag gave my cheeks a quick one-two. I got my head up again.

"Okay," I muttered. "Okay."

"How do you feel, Forbes?" The lieutenant bent toward me.

I stared at him. "Okay," I said again. I took a deep breath. "Okay, I guess..."

"All right, boys, take care of the mess." He jerked his head at the others. "I'll take him up to the captain. Come on, Forbes, get on your feet."

I pushed myself up and stood swaying beside him. He grabbed my arm to steady me and swung me toward a stairway. I stumbled toward it, fighting to keep my balance, and got to the iron rail beside it. Clutching the rail, I pulled myself up, step by step. As I reached the top step, his name floated into my mind. Trottmann. Lieutenant Trottmann.

Somehow, remembering his name made me feel better. Maybe I was getting a grip on things.

We paused in front of a door. Trottmann squeezed my arm. "You're in for a rough time," he said, not unkindly. "I know you feel like hell, but you may as well make up your mind to face it. After all, it's your own damned fault."

"Yeah," I muttered. "I know."

He turned the knob and pushed me in ahead of him. Matthews lifted his head from the newspaper he'd been reading and gave me a nod the size of a baby pecan. I sank into the wooden chair in front of his desk.

"Forbes." He rolled the word around in his mouth as though it were an olive which he was preparing to nibble. "Private eye." Snort. "Killer!" Snort. "Lover-boy!" His fist smote the desk. "You goddamn bastard!"

I stared at the round, pinkish face which hadn't caught up to his 60 years and at the stubby gray hair which bristled like a nylon brush, and I tried to remember what I had heard about him. A tough man to tangle with, a cop who had worked his way up from the ranks. Unswerving in purpose, unbribable, efficient—but eager, too eager, sometimes, when it came to pounding a charge home. My lips trembled and a shiver coursed through my body. For the first time, I realized that I was wearing shoes and trousers—and nothing else.

"I want a confession!" Matthews shouted. "You understand? I want a confession right now!" He punctuated the last two words by banging his fist on the desk again.

"That depends." The sound of my own voice startled me.

"On what?" There was a sharp cutting edge to his inflection.

I sucked in my breath. "On what you expect me to confess to."

There was a silence for a moment, then his face got pinker and he half-rose as though preparing to spit in my face. "To Sands' murder, you fool!" he bellowed. "Who the hell else's?"

"I haven't killed anybody."

"You haven't... what?" Matthews' eyes popped with anger and the flesh quivered on his cheekbones. "Why, you—!"

"We've got you cold, Forbes," Trottmann said quietly. "You'll save yourself a lot of grief by giving us the story."

"Look," I said, turning to him. "I'll give you the story, but it's got nothing to do with my killing Sands. I've been framed. I've been—"

"Framed!" Matthews groaned and banged the desk in unison. "You think that old gag'll hold water? Look at this!" He slapped the Journal he'd been reading around so I could see the headlines:

SANDS' KILLER NABBED

IN LOVE-NEST

Victim's Girlfriend

Found with Killer

in Drunken Tryst!

The type blurred before my eyes and I had to clench my hands to keep them from trembling. "I don't give a damn what it says," I heard myself say slowly. "I didn't kill him. I was drunk, but the girl—"

"You're damned right you were drunk!" Matthews exploded. "And you needn't try to blame the girl, either!"

"She helped frame me. She forced me to drink the—"

"I suppose she helped you write my name in that damned motel's book, too!" Matthews shouted. "You're trying to crap me, Forbes—and you don't stand a chance in hell of doing it. You're supposed to be a sharpie. Prove it by getting wise to yourself!"

"Will you let me tell my end of the story?" I looked at Trottmann. "You listened to her. Why not listen to me?"

Trottmann shrugged and darted a glance at Matthews. "Why not?" he asked. "He's going to blow it off sooner or later, captain."

"Swell," Matthews rasped, making the word drip sarcasm. "Go ahead and blow, Forbes—a hell of a lot of good it'll do you!"

I talked slowly, trying to make the words fit together in a pattern which made sense, and gave them the whole works, right from the beginning. As I unraveled the sorry tale, Trottmann tapped his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair and Matthews glared at a calendar on his desk. When I got to the end, Matthews snorted and pushed back his chair.

"Crap," he said, his lips clipping it off like an electrician's pliers.

"Is that all?" Trottmann asked, frowning.

"That's all, except for the checking."

"What checking?"

"Your checking on the details. They loaded me with bourbon, and I can name at least fifteen bartenders who'll swear that I never touch the stuff. You can analyze the—"

"Hell, that's down the drain by now," Trottmann said. "Anyway, it wouldn't prove anything."

"Richmond paid her three thousand bucks in cash. She dropped it down a mail chute. You can intercept it. That'll prove...."

Trottmann shook his head. "You don't know where she sent it. It could be on its way to China, for all we know." "Question her. Make her admit it!"

"We've already had her over the coals. It'd just be her word against yours."

"She, of course, is a person of unquestionable veracity."

Trottmann ignored the sarcasm. "Ordinarily, I'd prefer your word to hers, knowing her type, but all the physical facts are against you."

"What physical facts?" I demanded. 'The fact that I was drunk and in her apartment?"

Matthews laughed harshly. "Maybe you haven't had a look at yourself," he snapped. "There's a mirror in the corner. Take a good look!"

I got up and walked to the mirror. The apparition which confronted me was almost unrecognizable. But it was me. I began to feel sick again. Then I took a good look—and felt even sicker. I saw what they meant by "physical facts." My mouth looked as though it had been coated with lipstick and my shoulders, neck and chest were covered with small butterfly-shaped bruises, the kind a woman's mouth makes when bite-kissing in passion.

Feeling discouraged, I asked, "Ever find the missing Caddy? The one I had at the cabin."

"Sure. We know all about that. Stolen from a jerk in Terre Haute. Private dick up the line turned it in with a body. Got a hundred for it." Matthews slapped the desk, then settled his pink face into a granite expression. "Look, Forbes, I'd like to give you a break, but people'd think I was nuts. I'd think I was nuts, myself. The best thing, the smart thing, for you to do is confess."

"I'm clean."

"Admit that you killed him. After all, the guy was a small-time punk and maybe he needed to be killed. See what I mean? Hell, you'll be sensational. The magazines and papers will pay big dough for the story—maybe the movies will go for it, even—and you can buy yourself a high-powered lawyer. By the time the courts hash it around, public opinion will be cooled off and he'll be able to get you a manslaughter deal. You know the routine. By pleading self-defense, temporary insanity, or something like that, you'll have a fighting chance of not burning—"

"But I didn't kill him," I interrupted. "Honest to God, captain, I'd never even met the guy!"

"You didn't have to know him," Trottmann pointed out. "Not when you were messing around with his girl. She admits she was two-timing him."

"You don't think I'd kill a guy for the sake of a little tart like that!"

Trottmann moved his shoulders. "It takes all kinds. She wouldn't set things on fire for me, but maybe she did for you."

"Look, be reasonable," I pleaded. "You're taking her word as though she were Moses with a couple of stone tablets. At least, get Giselle Kent in and get her story. She was there when I found Sands' body. She knows I didn't kill him."

"We haven't picked her up yet. There's an order out for her."

"Then at least give me a break until you bring her in and can listen to her end of the deal!"

"Captain—" Trottmann interposed quietly.

"Yeah?" Matthews looked at him.

"I wouldn't like to make a mistake about this," Trottmann said, dealing the words out carefully. "I know you wouldn't, either. Here are a couple of things we ought to check. First, he said his arms and legs were tied with rope. We've got his clothes downstairs. Why not check and see if there are any rope fibers in evidence? If there are none, then we'll know positively that he's lying."

"Damned good idea, lieutenant." Matthews jerked his head affirmatively. "Take care of it. What else?"

"Second, one thing seems curious to me: We got the tip through the Journal; in other words, they got it first and passed it along to us. And without waiting for verification from us, they splashed all this stuff about Fia Sprite and Sands across their front page. I'd like to know how come."

"By God, that's right." Matthews rolled his lower lip. "Sounds like they had a pipeline to the source."

"Exactly. Third, on the slim possibility that Forbes' story is true and Leo Gold is mixed up in this, then I'd like to worry him a little. He's been in our hair for years, and—"

"That crummy shyster." Matthews looked as though he'd like to heave. "I'd give a year of my life just to get my hands on him and wrinkle up one of those fancy suits he wears!"

"Another thing," Trottmann went on, "is the matter of this Kent girl. We ought to have her in hand before we break the whole story."

"Mmm." The captain's eyebrows flew in V formation.

"What I'm getting at, of course," Trottmann concluded, "is that while Forbes looks guilty as hell, there are a few peculiar —and as yet unchecked—aspects to the case. It might be a good idea to protect ourselves by keeping him on ice for a few hours while we clean up these angles." He looked at me. "Don't get me wrong, Forbes. I'm not arguing your side. I'm protecting myself and the police department."

Matthews grunted. "You're right, lieutenant. Either way, an hour or two won't make any difference... and I'd welcome a chance to put the Journal in its place. They've been on my tail ever since I got assigned to this district."

"Right," Trottmann said, getting up. He gestured to me. "Come on, Forbes. Let's see if there's room in the tank for you."

I followed him out. When we were on the stairs, I said: "Thanks, Trottmann."

"No thanks due," he told me shortly. "The captain is on the hook and is apt to rush into things, especially when he thinks he'll get some good publicity out of it. I just happen to think it's a good idea to make sure before we leap."

"You'll try to get the Kent girl?"

"We'll get her," he promised. "But if she doesn't back you up, you'd better take Matthews' advice and confess."

"Like hell," I said. "Like hell!"

He shrugged and banged the cell door behind me.

The hours crawled like invalid eels. I paced back and forth, avoiding three drunks who were sleeping off a cheap jag, and tried to find a chink in the wall of evidence against me. The more I thought, the less I blamed Matthews—and the more grateful I felt toward Trottmann. I kept telling myself that Giselle Kent would back me up. She had to. Once they heard her story, they'd have to believe that Richmond had planned the frame.

The cell door opened briefly and a guard tossed the rest of my clothes to me. I tried to question him, but he gave me a grin no wider than a toothpick and went back upstairs. I put the clothes on, wondering if Trottmann had really gone to the trouble of having a lab analysis made. I decided he was as fair-minded as a cop could be and that he must have had my stuff vacuumed, at least. Which reminded me: What about Richmond's vacuum cleaner? Had it occurred to anybody to check it?

The guard reappeared after a while, bringing a paper plate on which two cold wieners huddled against a mound of warmish potato salad. It was tasteless, but I stuffed it down to appease the growl in my stomach.

More pacing, more mind-beating, even more frustration.

At last a cop appeared. "Captain wants you," he announced brusquely, unlocking the cell.

"What's going on?" I asked.