Killer Mine (20 page)

Steve McDell handled special news bulletins for the radio network of the company, got my story down in thirty seconds, checked with headquarters and put the item on the air himself. Any cabbie who had picked up a fare from Madaline’s building was requested to report in immediately. When he finished the broadcast he said, “It’ll go out every two minutes. Let me contact the other networks in case the guy’s tuned into another station.”

“If he’s got a radio on,” I said.

“Most of them have those small transistors up on the dash these days when there isn’t one installed in the car,” he reminded me.

McDell flipped a switch and popular music swept into the room over a wall speaker, the continuity broken every so often by a taped rebroadcast of the announcement. Right after the third one the phones started and he answered them. “Reporters calling in,” he said. “What do I tell them?”

“Nothing. They’ll get a statement from the police.”

He passed the message on, hanging up when they became insistent. Then one phone to his right obviously reserved for special calls blinked on, the red light on its base flicking furiously. He picked it up, talked a moment and turned back to me. “The other network. They have your cabbie on the line.”

I grabbed the phone out of his hand. “This is Pat Regan, Police Department. Put him on.”

There were a series of clicks as the connection was made, then a guttural voice said, “You the guy I should talk to about that call?”

“That’s right.”

“I just now caught it. I picked up a fare there today.”

“How many?”

“Two… big guy and a good looking woman. He flagged me down on Forty-first, had me drive there and wait, then we went out to Long Island City. I let him off right by the B.M.T. station.”

“They take the train?”

“Nope.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I turned around at the next block and they was still there trying to find another cab, that’s why. I can tell you this… they ain’t gonna get none there. It’s raining like hell and all the cabs is filled. The taxi stands are empty and traffic’s pretty heavy. Plenty of people waiting. You know how it is.”

“Okay, thanks. We’ll pick it up from there.”

Steve McDell was looking at me anxiously. “Any help?”

“They’re in Long Island City. I have to get there.”

“Need a staff car? One’s standing by downstairs.”

I grinned at him. “Then let’s roll.” My ex-sergeant friend was caught up in the excitement like an old fire horse smelling smoke. I told him, “Call it in for me, will you?”

“Glad to, Pat.”

“Get a cruiser to pick us up to clear the way. There won’t be time for red lights. And tell the other networks to wipe out that broadcast. If he hears it he might jump the gun.”

He caught my meaning and reached for the phone as Steve McDell and I ran out to the bank of elevators, grabbed one before the doors closed and rode it down.

The rain had turned late afternoon into near-dusk, spiked by headlights of cars picking their way through the traffic. Store fronts and office windows put on a garish display of opulence as if all were well with the world. The police cruiser met us two blocks away, cut in front and angled east, threading the way through the flow of cars with its siren.

When we reached the subway station twenty minutes later another police car was already there, parked behind a cab whose driver was talking excitedly to one of the patrolmen. I introduced myself and the cop pointed to the cabbie. “We got the call to ask around and he said he picked up a couple who answered the description of the pair.”

I went over to the driver who waited anxiously. “Describe them.”

He did. It was Argenio and Madaline, all right. “Dropped a fare off right at the station here,” he told me. “They got in and I took ’em down to the Marco Bottling Works. That woman, she was scared, that’s what I told myself. Figured like he was her husband caught her roaming. Neither one of them said nothin’ while they was driving.”

“They go inside?”

“How could they? The place is locked up. I was wondering about it because I thought they got out at the wrong place and would need another hop somewhere else, but when I stopped at the red light at the next block I saw them in the mirror crossing the street.”

“This isn’t a residential section,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. So where could they go? Hardly no cabs take fares from down there unless there’s a direct call. Guys in the factories, they use the subway or got their own car pools.”

Another prowl car pulled up and the cop beside the driver hopped out and came over. “The dispatcher’s standing by for instructions.”

“Blanket the area,” I said. “We might have to do it building by building. Keep it quiet… if he knows we’re this close he’ll kill the woman.”

“I’ll call it in,” he said and went back to the cruiser. The other cops got in their cars and swung out into traffic.

McDell was waiting for me, leaning out the window. “Anything you want me to do?”

“You’ve done enough. Stay out of it for now. If there’s a story I get it to you.”

“Watch yourself, Regan. Glad I could help.”

“Thanks,” I said. The cabbie was still standing by and I got in his hack. “Take me there,” I instructed him. “Cut down the street they took. I want to look it over.”

His nod was eager and he didn’t bother putting the flag down. This ride was on the house, one of the things he had wanted to do all his life. If he had known all the details he might not have been so eager. The place they had left the cab was only seven minutes away. He pointed out the building, then turned left up the street he had seen them entering. Both sides of the block were flanked by structures housing small industries and businesses that couldn’t stand high overhead.

Three times I had him stop when I got out and asked a few loiterers grabbing a smoke in the rain if they had seen the two of them. All I got was a negative. We kept on going, crossed the next intersection and I tried a newsstand that was behind dirty, fly-specked windows. The fat little guy behind the counter said no; until five o’clock when the factories let out nobody ever came by the place after the one o’clock lunch hour, specially on a day like that.

I was going to leave until the sallow-faced kid leafing through the comic books near the entrance muttered, “One guy came in,” he muttered. “Bought cigars.”

“That was this morning,” the counterman said, annoyed. “Put them damn books down if you ain’t gonna buy none.”

Absently, I said, “Who?”

He tossed the books back and shrugged. “That guy with the bum hand. Got it bandaged. He got cigars.”

I should have remembered. It was one of the things I hadn’t had time to check before the stuff was stolen from me. Leo Marcus had used a building somewhere in this neighborhood for a drop when he was running the protection racket. “Big fat guy?” I asked him.

“Something like that. He was a baldie.”

“What was with the hand?”

The kid looked up at me curiously. “He had it all wrapped up like it was broke or something.”

“Ah, don’t pay any attention to him,” the counterman said. “He talks off the top of his head.”

I took out a buck and passed it to the kid. “Buy those comic books. You earned them.”

Outside, night had closed in all around us. The rain was a driving thing with clawing fingers that bit right through you, but I didn’t mind a bit. The cabbie was reluctant to go until I told him to find a phone and call in my location, then he took off down the street and turned right at the corner. I walked north, looking at each building as I passed, knowing that when I saw the number it would register. The pattern was clear now. Argenio was in and he was going to use all the forces at his command to get out. He couldn’t do it alone any more, knowing damn well how the department would work. Every known avenue would be cut off if he tried it alone and he wasn’t up to dying slowly on the long walk to the hot seat. He had another organization with their resources to use now. Marcus could provide a way out, knowing Al had the finger that would hang a murder charge on him. One thing Al didn’t know. The finger wasn’t where he had left it. Later he’d try to pick it up. He might even have made it if a little professional crook like Walter hadn’t known the right places to look.

I kept walking.

A couple of faces peered out the windows at me curiously. Trucks rumbled past, the drivers intent on getting through the rain.

A wino was sprawled in a doorway, sleeping, oblivious to the wet.

The sky laughed deep in its belly and spewed another mouthful on the city.

And I saw the number 1717 and knew I was there.

It was an old dilapidated building with the front windows boarded up. No lights showed in the upper stories and the front door was locked. I went through the front door of the ornamental ironworks place next to it and an obliging guy in a canvas apron let me out the back. There was a communal area there filled with trash, a path through it leading to the electric meters on the outside of the wall. The one on the 1717 was buzzing and when I checked the rotor inside by the light of a match it was turning slowly. The place wasn’t empty as it looked. Somebody was using power up there.

Above me I could barely see the vague outline of the rusted fire escape. It was within reach, but I knew the noise it would make if I tried to pull it down. Rather than try it I felt my way along the wall, found the framework of the back door and felt for the knob. It turned easily, but an interior bolt held it fast. The place was buttoned down tight, but it was to be expected. If Marcus had arranged for the place to be a hideout he wouldn’t take a single chance at all. Any means of entry was probably guarded with an alarm system and probably up there he had another escape exit ready if he had to use it.

One window shone dully in the light close by. Time was ticking off too fast, and I couldn’t go probing for other ways of getting in. I stood there trying to decide what to do and the sky was ripped apart by a brilliant streak of lightning. Then I knew what I was going to do.

When the thunder came with a shocking crack of sound I rammed my elbow through the pane and no fall of glass could be heard above the reverberation of nature at all. I picked the shards out of the frame, and when there was room to get through, felt for the wires of the signal system, located them and slid inside.

Leo Marcus should have updated his alarm setup. It was the old style dependent upon the raising of the window to activate it. I stood inside getting used to the deeper darkness, the .45 cocked in my hand. Little by little I felt my way across the room and into another, careful where I placed my feet so that a stray sound would carry upstairs.

One room opened into another filled with stored furniture I had to edge around. Once I had to hold a stack of chairs that nearly toppled, then I got them balanced again and circled to the door. I pulled it open slowly, tuning the squeaking of the hinges to the rumble of traffic from the street. Enough light came in the front windows to outline the hallway and the staircase that led to the floors above.

I stayed close to the wall where there would be less chance of hitting a creaking board, taking every other step, diminishing the chances of touching one wired to the alarm circuit. My hand felt for trip wires, found one and I stepped over it, grinning silently in the darkness. Other people knew the tricks too.

I looked into one room on the second floor where all the desks were, the windows painted black, then didn’t bother with that floor at all. I went up the next flight, ran into a duplication of the trip wires down below and got over them. Once a board creaked ominously and I paused, waiting to see if there would be a reaction.

None came and I knew why it didn’t.

From someplace on the next floor came the muffled sound of a woman’s screams and it covered any sound I made getting to the top. She screamed again and I located the sound behind a steel door studded with rivets, a barricade only a dynamite charge could break down.

My mouth muttered impotent curses and I didn’t give a damn any more. I struck a match, saw another door at the end and ran down to it. Behind the steel she screamed again and somebody laughed. I recognized Argenio’s voice.

This door wasn’t steel. The tongue of the lock on the inside ripped loose from the dry rotted wood when I threw enough pressure against it and I shoved it open, then closed it behind me. Another match reflected off a black painted window and guided me to it. I found the alarm switch at the top of the frame, threw it into the off position, unlocked the catch and pried the window up.

Under the window a four-inch ledge ran the length of the building. Not wide enough to walk, but enough to give me one vital step that would put my hands within catching distance of the fire escape that was outside the other room.

I hated to do it, but I needed the cover. I didn’t know what they were doing to her or what it cost her, but I needed another scream wrung from her mouth. I waited, poised, heard that muffled laugh, barely audible, then the piercing note of a scream that barely reached me.

I jumped.

For a second I thought I’d lost it, but my fingers hung on and I dragged myself up and over the rail and reached for the .45 before it could fall out of my waistband. I stood there outside the window and she screamed again. The sound barely penetrated. I struck a match, saw myself reflected in the black of the window, but through a scratch in the paint saw the planks that covered it from the inside.

The entry had to be quick. There had to be a diversion, enough to rattle them. Surprise was gone now, but a diversion would work. One of the steel slats that formed the floor-work of the fire escape landing was loose at one end and it only took a minute’s work to work it loose, one end breaking with a shallow hook on it like a crowbar.

From his seat in the coliseum, the old man with the scythe roared with pleasure at my tactic in trying to beat the game and applauded with a clap of thunder. I got the curved edge between the two windows, snapped the catch when he clapped again, then eased the window up.

The bell went off inside, a high-pitched, tinny sound that came from outside the room. Through the crack in the boards I saw part of a man run past, heard the stifled curse, then kicked the board in with my foot and ducked my head into the opening to stare at the hideously grinning face of Al Argenio.