Judge Me Not (18 page)

Powell spoke softly. “The police will come. I think those people are going to call.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get those letters. The inside jacket pocket. Teed. I’ll call Raval and tell him he can have the letters.”

“And say that Carboy walked up and shot Weiss? Who do you think we can sell that to?”

“Get the letters, Teed.”

Teed put his hands under the body, flipped it over, withdrawing his hands quickly. He parted the coat, opened the jacket. He reached in, felt wetness and felt metal, cool against warmth, against fading warmth. He took the slim automatic out of the holster, pulling against the spring, wiped it flat against the grass and put it into his side pocket. He wiped his fingertips on the grass and felt for the letters. They were undamaged. Powell had gone into the house. The street, at two-something on a Monday morning, was dark and silent. A street light two blocks away turned from red to green, a patient methodical robot controlling traffic that was not there.

Teed grasped Weiss’ ankles and backed across the lawn, across the sidewalk, to the sedan that Weiss had come in. The coat turned back under the shoulders and the head rested on the coat, lolling loosely over the irregularities in the yard. The loose arms rode with elbows out, hands above the head, palms upward.

Teed opened the back door of the sedan on the curb side. He pulled Weiss in as far as he could, hurried around the car, opened the back door on the other side, reached through and grasped the ankles again, pulled him all the way in. The dome light did not go out until both doors were shut. He leaned against the sedan for a moment, his knees trembling. He bent and looked through the front window. The street light touched the keys, hanging from the ignition.

The porch light went on and Marcia came out, looking out toward the two cars. He went to her. “Get back in the house. Get the lights off. I put him in his car.”

Powell was hunched over the phone. He said in a low voice, “But I tell you we have the letters.” He listened, then looked up at Teed with a helpless expression.

Teed picked the phone out of his unresisting hand. “Who is this?” he asked.

“This is Miss Trowbridge, Mr. Raval’s secretary,” the
sleepy irritated voice said. “And I can’t make head or tail of what …”

“This is Morrow. I’ve met you. The time Lonnie zeroed in on your head with the golf ball. I’ve got to talk to him, Alice.”

“He doesn’t like to be …”

“This is important. Wake him up, dammit!”

He heard her yawn. “Hold the phone, then. I don’t know anything about any letters.”

Teed leaned against the wall and waited. He fished a cigarette out of his pack. Marcia came over with a lighter. He saw her wince and followed the direction of her glance. His right hand was blood-smeared, with bits of grass clinging to the stains. But her hand didn’t tremble as she held the light for him.

“Who the hell is this? Morrow? What do you …”

“Look, Raval. Just let me talk. Weiss made Dennison a proposition tonight. Don’t act like you never heard of it.”

“I haven’t heard of it. Keep talking.”

“Dennison agreed. He did what Weiss asked him to do. Now he wants the other end of the bargain kept, Raval.”

“So that’s up to Weiss. I got nothing to do with him. I barely know the guy.”

“Look, Lonnie. This isn’t being recorded. I know you sent Weiss here.”

“You’re nuts!”

“Something has changed the picture. We still have what Weiss came after. Who do we give them to?”

“Why don’t you give them to Weiss? Whatever they are. From what I know about him, he keeps an agreement once he’s made it.”

“Weiss is dead.”

Teed heard Raval’s grunt of surprise. Raval said angrily, “Friend, that’s one hell of a way to conduct a negotiation.”

“But listen! Dennison didn’t …”

“Shut up, Morrow. You make a choice and then you don’t like it. The hell with that noise. That’s no way to act.” There was righteous indignation in Raval’s voice.

“Give me a chance to …”

“Tell that Dennison bastard he had his choice. Tell that Dennison bastard that it isn’t any negotiation any more. Now it’s personal. And tell him he can take those letters and he can …”

“Will you listen to me!”

“Go write up a petition, you son of a bitch.” The line clicked.

“Raval! Carboy did it. Raval! Hello!”

He hung the phone up slowly. “Hung up on me. Wouldn’t listen. Apparently he thinks we killed Weiss. You or I. He’s sore. They’re going to take it out on Jake.”

“No!” Marcia whispered, the back of her hand at her lips, eyes wide.

“Call back,” Powell said heavily. The number was scribbled on the phone pad. Teed dialed again. The busy signal was a fast, acid bleat. He waited a few minutes and dialed again. After the phone rang six times, the Trowbridge girl answered.

“Let me talk to Raval again, please.”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Raval has left.” She hung up.

“I’ll move that car,” Teed said. “Turn the house lights off, Marcia. We’ve got to have time. If the police come and take us down for questioning, we won’t …”

“Where will you leave his car?” Marcia asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll find a place.”

“I’ll follow you in your car and bring you back.”

“Good girl. Powell, while we’re gone, see if you can get hold of Captain Herb Leighton. Get him over here, alone.”

He gave Marcia his keys. He started the big sedan and swung around her. In the rear-vision mirror he saw the lights of his car following. There was a sickish sweet smell inside the sedan. He rolled the window down, moved to the left so that the cold wind struck his face. Moving Weiss’ body had reawakened the soreness in his abdomen, the pain of damaged muscles.

He avoided main streets, zigzagged through the dark old residential section. He found a gas station with cars parked behind it, a night light over the pumps. He turned in behind the station, eased the sedan into a space between two cars. With his handkerchief he wiped the steering wheel, starter button, window crank. He got out and wiped the door handles he had touched. Marcia had parked across from the gas station, lights out, motor running.

When he opened the door, she slid over away from the wheel. As he started up, he thumbed open the glove compartment, took out two fresh packs of cigarettes, dropped them in her lap.

“If the law is there when we get back, we went out to buy those.”

“How can we find her, Teed? How can we know where to look?”

“Maybe Leighton will know. That’s what I’m hoping.”

“And if he doesn’t know? If we can’t find her?”

“Don’t think about it, Marse. We’ll find her.”

He turned the last corner. A car was parked in front of the house. Teed pulled in behind it and they got out. As they went up on the porch, he looked through the glass door and saw the men who talked to Powell. Boyd, with the tape white across his nose. Pilcher with the battered hat shoved back, the match bobbing as he talked.

Teed caught Marcia and pulled her back. “I’m getting out of here. When and if Leighton comes, whisper to him. Tell him that Rogale will know how to get in touch with me. I’ll phone Rogale when I get to some place where I can phone.”

He walked quickly away from her, cutting across the yard, instinctively avoiding the place where Weiss had fallen.

The door of the police car opened. “Hold it, you!” a voice said.

Teed recognized the tall young patrolman he had seen on the morning, a million years ago, when he had gone across to headquarters to check Miss Anderson’s rumor about Felice Carboy. He couldn’t remember the patrolman’s name.

“Come over here. Where are you going?”

“What’s the trouble, Officer?”

“We’re investigating,” the man said importantly. “Somebody heard shots around here. Say, you’re Morrow, aren’t you? Don’t you get tired of having your neck out, mister? Go on in the house.”

“I want to show you something, Officer. Over here in the yard, below the broken railing. It might be blood.”

“Blood, eh?” the policeman said. “Well, let’s have a look.”

He made Teed walk ahead of him. Teed pointed to the spot. The man stared into the darkness, then bent down, reaching his fingers toward the indicated area. Teed pointed with his left hand. He took the automatic out of his pocket with his right hand and swung the flat of it against the side of the patrolman’s head, over the left ear. It made a crisp sound. The man dropped to his hands and knees, moaned softly, and toppled over onto his side. Teed
sprinted for his car, shoving the gun into his pocket. He had the car in motion almost before he slammed the door. He went down the street and gunned it around the corner, wheels spinning on the dry pavement.

The fear of the consequences of the act was a small thing compared to his fear for Jake Dennison.

There was silence on the line. When Armando Rogale spoke again, all the dullness of sleep had left his voice. “Once again, Teed, and slower.”

“They grabbed Dennison’s younger daughter. With her as a lever, Weiss came and broke Dennison down. He wrote two letters, copied two letters, that put him firmly in the bag. It was a trade. As Weiss left the house, Carboy killed him, walked down to his car and drove off. Apparently he followed Weiss.”

“Carboy!”

“Yes, Carboy. And Raval thinks Dennison killed Weiss, and we can’t get hold of him to correct his impression. That leaves the daughter in a bad spot. Dennison was supposed to get hold of Leighton. While I was ditching Weiss’ body, Pilcher and Boyd arrived to investigate. Somebody heard Carboy shoot Weiss. They didn’t see me, but the driver did. I knocked the driver out and left. The older daughter is supposed to let Leighton know, if Powell was able to get hold of him, that he is to call you to find out where I am. I thought Leighton might have some idea of where the younger daughter is being held.”

“And where are you?”

“I’m in a booth in the bus station near the Fremont Theater.”

“Good God! I hope to hell I’m dreaming all this.”

“You’re not. Believe me.”

“Why did you hide Weiss’ body? That was stupid!”

“Because,” Teed said patiently, “we would have all been hauled off for questioning. And what would happen to Jake in the meantime?”

“Who is Jake?”

“The daughter, dammit! The one I’m going to find.”

“You’re not safe in a bus station, Morrow. You’ve got to go to a better place than that. All I seem to be doing lately is hiding people. I’m running out of places. You know where Peterson Street is?”

“One of those streets that turn off Colony Avenue, isn’t it?”

“Yes. There’s a fire house on the corner. Two blocks down, second house on your left. The street door isn’t locked. Push the bell for Fermi and walk up to the third floor. I’ll tell them you’re coming.”

“Who is it?”

“A cousin. What do you care? Don’t leave your car in front of the place, either.”

“I’m not that stupid, Armando.”

“I’ve got to be convinced. Get going. I’ll see if I can contact Leighton.”

Teed went down Colony and parked three blocks beyond the fire house. He walked back and turned down Peterson. It was a depressing neighborhood. The tall narrow houses fronting on the sidewalk leaned against each other. Cats sang shrilly of love and passion. A man lurched down the sidewalk on the other side of the street, singing in a bass monotone.

The hall light was out and he had to use his lighter flame to find the button for Fermi. He pressed it, then went up the narrow wooden stairs, feeling his way. The hall light on the second floor was on. Someone was snoring thunderously, regularly. Across the hall a baby cried without heat, with merely a plaintive exhaustion.

As he reached the third floor a woman opened a door. It was a kitchen that opened onto the hall. She wore a bright red robe and her general shape was that of O. Soglow’s “Little King.” Her face was swarthy, pyramidal, the eyes button bright.

“Mr. Morrow,” she whispered, “I am Anna Fermi. Come in, come in. And you sit there. Armando has called. He said you would need coffee. It has just been put on.”

She closed the door behind her, walked heavily to the gas range. He sat at the kitchen table. A fat puppy slept in a cardboard carton near the stove, his legs making twitching motions as he chased faraway rabbits in the tangled dreams of puppyhood.

“I don’t like to impose on …”

She spun, her hands on the vast slabs of her hips, eyes crinkling. “Impose! Impose! There is no such word. You are Armando’s friend. This is his house.”

“His house?”

“He would deny it. Since my husband died, my husband
who was his cousin, Armando has sent the money. Three boys I have. All little. Oldest ten. I work, but I cannot make much. So no talk of this imposing.”

“O.K.,” he said, returning her smile, liking her. The fat was deceptive. He saw that she was younger than he had first imagined. In her early thirties, possibly.

She frowned. “Will you sleep here? That is a small problem.”

“I don’t believe so, Mrs. Fermi.”

“It can be done. I put two boys on the couch, and you can take their bed. In the extra bed is the girl.”

“The girl? Would her name be Barbara?”

“So! You know her! A good girl, and in bad trouble, Armando says. She does not leave this place since … I must count … late on Wednesday. She says very little and she is sad and in the night I could hear her weeping because her bed is close to mine. She gave the money for the puppy. Fat Stuff, his name is. Now Barbara learns to make a spaghetti sauce.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about my sleeping here. I’ll just be here probably until Armando phones again.”

“Here is the coffee. Strong. Sugar?”

“No. Just as it is. And thanks. If you show me where the phone is, you can go back to bed, Mrs. Fermi.”

“No, if you do not mind I will sit and have coffee. There may be something Armando will want. Tomorrow night, there will be no problem of the beds. Tomorrow Barbara goes, she said. Two boys go in my bed then, and you take the bed she is now using. I sleep in the room with the oldest boy. Are you hungry?”

“No, thank you.”

“Armando should marry. I tell him often. Too bad, I thought for one day that this Barbara, it was more than helping her only. So pretty a girl, and educated.”