Mourn the Hangman (9 page)

“Will you get Dr. Lowering?” Arrenhower said quietly.

Harrison looked at Blake and then nodded at his boss. He withdrew from the room, closing the door quietly after him.

Arrenhower seemed to forget that Blake was in the room. He went over to his desk and riffled through some papers on top of it. When the door opened again, he glanced up only briefly. Two of his company police stepped inside. One of them crossed to the double windows and stood there, a big man with thick shoulders and, Blake supposed, a thick head. The other, matching him like minted coins, stood beside the door.

Two hospital orderlies came in next. Harrison, Al White and Arnoldson followed and sat silently at the end of the room.

Blake decided the whole business wasn’t real anyway. It was a nightmare out of Dali. “Joe Stalin would envy you,” he said to Arrenhower. But Arrenhower didn’t even look up from the papers on the desk.

The orderlies moved without speaking. A small white table was brought out into the center of the room, a straight chair placed beside it. “Sit down,” one of the orderlies said to Blake.

Blake looked at them for a moment. They stood stolidly, waiting for him to sit down. One of them appeared to be the Hollywood-inspired version of the virile he-man. The other fellow could have been his wife. This little fairy simpered, moving a limp wrist. The other was the hairy-chest type, the aggressive homo, the fellow who looked like a football hero but was the most sickening type of fruit as far as Blake was concerned.

Everyone in the room was watching him. Blake turned from the pair of deuces to Arrenhower. He was looking at Blake now, passively. Blake shrugged and sat down beside the table. There was a time to act like a hero, he thought cynically, and a time to bow to superior forces. Blake was making his bow.

The pansy pair worked deftly. They removed his coat and his shirt. The big one held Blake’s right arm out rigidly. His helper set a board under it and bound it tightly in place with gauze. They told Blake to rest his arm on the table then. The bigger of the two queers swabbed at the blue vein above Blake’s elbow. Dr. Lowering came into the room.

Dr. Lowering was a small man with a large head, milk-pale flesh and spindly body. Arrenhower came forward now. There was pride in his face. “Blake, this is Dr. Lowering,” he said. “I was in his hospital. Dr. Lowering cured me. I have great respect for him. I contribute generously to his private hospital. In return, Dr. Lowering is happy to aid me with recalcitrants. Isn’t that right, Craig?”

Lowering’s voice was heavy basso. Coming from such a thin body, it was startling. “Of course, Mr. Arrenhower,” he said. But Blake saw the little man’s eyes were tortured. Lowering was scared of what he was doing, but he was more afraid of Arrenhower. The doctor looked at Blake. “Mr. Arrenhower wants to talk to you,” he said, his voice very low. “Now what’s going to happen to you won’t hurt you at all, Mr. Blake. Barbiturates don’t even cause local irritation. When I’ve given you this dosage, you’ll go into a dreamless sleep almost immediately. I hope you won’t be tense or frightened. It won’t hurt you to be tense, but it won’t lessen the effect of the sodium pentothal either. Like death and taxes, Mr. Blake, this is going to work, whether you like it or not.”

“Drugged,” Blake said with contempt. He struggled and found his left arm twisted up his back by the big queer. He was surprised at the strength in the man’s hands. Blake had the horrible feeling that the orderly could rip his arm from his shoulder.

“Don’t be contemptuous, Mr. Blake,” Lowering said evenly. “This is a little more than injecting a few cc.’s of barbiturate powder and water solution. Your respiration, circulation, metabolism and smooth muscles will remain normal. You’re going to sleep, Mr. Blake, only you’re going to be awake. You’re going to do what I tell you to do.”

“Go to hell,” Blake said.

Lowering nodded at the smaller orderly, “The solution, please.” He held the hypodermic needle upward in his hand, grimacing a little as he studied it in the light. “We could have given you this by capsule or tablet or dissolved in a hot liquid. But that is slower. Takes from ten to thirty minutes to begin to have any effect. There might be excitement, inebriation or even delirium which would cause further delay.”

As he talked, he injected the point of the needle into the blue line of Blake’s vein. “Slowly,” Lowering said. “This is accomplished slowly, Mr. Blake. No thrusting in a needle and shooting the solution in. This takes a little time. But you’ll be patient, won’t you, Mr. Blake?”

Blake was aware that someone had snapped off the overhead light. Only a bright light glowed in a reflector on the white desk cross the room. Blake decided he wouldn’t look at it. But the glare pained his eyes no matter where he turned. Defiantly, he closed his eyes.

The light was still there.

Lowering’s voice was soothing now, low, quiet, gray. Gray as gray cats, as gray shadows, as gray fog. He could no longer see the men at the far end of the room. Lowering’s voice was coming from some distant place.

Suddenly, Blake reared up in the chair. He felt restraining hands thrust him back. Then through the gray mists, he was aware of Arrenhower at Lowering’s side. “You bastard,” Blake said.

“The hypnotic trance is preceded by this period of delirium and excitement,” Lowering was saying. “It will be very brief. See, the pupils of his eyes are contracted, they’re fixed and irresponsive to the brilliance of the light. It won’t be long. He’ll be ready for you.”

The need for sleep overcoming him, Blake slumped in the chair. He heard Arrenhower protest, “If he sleeps, how can we talk to him?”

“Don’t worry,” Lowering said. “He’ll want to sleep. He’ll hate us because we won’t let him sleep. But he’ll talk, Mr. Arrenhower. Ask him what you want to know and he’ll blab his little heart out, won’t you, Blake?”

WHO HIRED you?” Arrenhower said.

Blake looked up blurredly at the tycoon. He wanted to spit in the fat, jowled face. But he had no will, no strength to spit. He knew Arrenhower had cleared the room. Only the manufacturer, Harrison and the doctor remained in a vulture’s circle about his chair. But it no longer mattered. Blake was helpless to move. He could only nod his head and say, “Dickerson hired me, for his company. American Materials.”

“Why?”

“Sleep. Must sleep.”

“Why, Blake?”

“Find out why Roberts died. Find out why American Materials furnishes raw stuff that government never gets benefit of. Why some of your finished parts are never sold in this country. Where they go. Why? You’re credited with a lot of raw material. But government isn’t getting enough finished work. Very naughty. Very naughty man, Arrenhower.” Blake’s head slumped forward on his chest. His eyes burned, the lids felt as if they were unbearably weighted.

“What else, Blake? What else?”

“Why men afraid to join union. Sleep. Let me sleep.”

Lowering’s voice came distantly, commandingly. “Sit up straight, Blake.”

Blake craned his head around slowly. He tried to twist the muscles of his face into a sneer. But he was pushing his head up straight instead!

“Did you find out why men are afraid to join a union?” Arrenhower said. He was bending forward, his well-fed face sweated. He was peering into the contracted pupils of Blake’s dry eyes as though he hoped to read his answer there.

Blake’s head slumped. He felt he had to sleep before the need for it killed him. He said, “Yes. I found out. Company police. Watchers. Spotters. Very nasty. Man can’t call his soul his own. Very nasty. Loyalty tests. Snitches. Rats. Getting extra pay to snitch on men they work with.”

Arrenhower spoke to the other two men in the room. “This Blake was a very busy little fellow! And working right under our noses!” He wheeled back to Steve. “Who else, Blake? Who else works for Dickerson in my plant?”

Blake’s head went up. “I’m no snitch,” he muttered. “Not gonna ‘danger life of some working stiff.” No wonder poor Terravasi had been shadowing him! Terravasi was mortally afraid that Blake might be forced to talk to Arrenhower. Terravasi might die! Blake shook his head.

From afar, through the shadowy gloom, the doctor spoke. “Tell Mr. Arrenhower, Blake. Tell him everything you know.”

Blake was talking, powerless to remain silent. “Terravasi. Company police. He was one. He was watching. Knew all about company police. I was watching in plant. Sleep. Let me sleep.”

“Talk! You’ll sleep when I’m ready for you to sleep!” Arrenhower snarled at him. And it went on. For hours they kept at him under the glare of the white light on Arrenhower’s desk. Harrison questioned him. And then Arrenhower was back at him. They kept talking even when Lowering was supporting Blake’s head with a handful of hair caught in his fist.

From somewhere, a hundred miles removed, Blake heard Arrenhower say, “Is that it, Harrison?”

God knew they had his guts, Blake thought. There was nothing left in him — no secrets, no life, no strength. The lawyer swam into Blake’s dimmed vision.

“It should do for now,” Harrison said. “You know whom you have to deal with now. This man’s just a private dick, working for pay. Your game is with the men who hired him.”

“Yes,” Arrenhower agreed. Blake saw him swing back around. Arrenhower doubled his fist and struck Blake back-handedly across the face as hard as he could swing. “Sleep, damn you, and you’re getting off easy!”

Blake just stared up at him. The blood in his mouth was nothing. He couldn’t even taste it.

He heard Lowering’s voice from afar. “It’s all right, Blake. You can sleep now.”

And Blake slept….

Monday morning sunlight streamed into the upstairs bedroom window. Listlessly, Blake opened his eyes. His head moved languidly on the pillow. He was in a warm white bed with the covers up about his chest. His mouth was cottony and bitter. His parched throat burned. He wanted a drink of water and knew the taste of it would make him ill.

His eyes found Al White sitting loosely in a wicker rocker across the room. Their gazes met, locked and Al White straightened a little.

“You ‘wake, sonny?” he said.

“I’m awake,” Blake said.

“Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you.”

“You out of it? You know what I’m saying?”

“Say something. I’ll let you know.”

Al White nodded. He leaned forward a little, the muscles bunching across his yard wide shoulders.

“I ain’t slow on my feet,” he said gravely. “I wasn’t ever. Not when you saw me at Soldiers’ Field. Not now.”

Blake grinned tiredly. “Okay. So you heard me. Okay, so you don’t like me. I’m going to hate myself all day.”

“Doc says you ain’t going to have strength enough all day to hate yourself,” Al White smiled. This seemed to please him.

“The doctor doesn’t know how much I have to do,” Blake replied. But the weariness he felt in his brain was even worse in the muscles of his body.

“You might as well forget what you got to do,” Al White said. “You ain’t going anywhere. You’re going to stay here. Just you and me.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Don’t you count on it. You spilled your guts, brother, last night. You ain’t worth much this morning.”

“Is that what happened to Roberts the night before the die casting machine blew up in his face?” Blake inquired.

Al White stiffened. “I don’t know nothing about it,” he said. “You’d be a lot better off right now if you didn’t know nothing either.”

Blake looked at him. “You’re pretty loyal to your boss, eh, Al?”

“I get along. I’m smart enough to live.”

“And I’m not?”

Al White just grinned at him.

“Why are you loyal?” Blake taunted after a moment. “Because you believe in that human vulture? Or because you’ve got a price and Arrenhower has met it?”

Al White leaned forward. His face was taut. “I get along all right.”

“Up until now,” Blake said. “You never met me, Al. You never tried to keep me where I didn’t want to stay. You better get help.”

“I’ll do all right.” He sank back and smiled contentedly. “You talk brave. A brave little man. They’re the kind that die early. Runnin’ around pokin’ their noses in other people’s business.”

“Is that all you got to say?”

“Not quite, sonny.”

“Say the rest of it.”

“Okay. Mr. Arrenhower says for you and me to sit here until he sends for you. If you got any idea that you’re getting out of here to talk about what happened to you last night, forget it.”

“I’ll never forget it,” Blake answered. “You can tell him that.”

“I heard a lot of tough talk in my time,” Al White said. “It don’t mean much to me any more. I’m just telling you. The boss says you should be happy. You’re still alive.”

Blake looked at him. “For how long?”

He struggled up on the bed. The room careened dizzily for a moment. Blake closed his eyes tightly. The spinning stopped and when he opened his eyes, Al White was standing at the foot of the bed, grinning disparagingly at him.

“Listen,” Blake said raggedly. “You tell Arrenhower — you tell him I’m looking for a murderer. I’m gettin’ out of here, if I have to walk over him to do it.”

Al White shrugged and went on grinning. “Just tell us where you want the body sent,” he said indifferently.

“It’ll be in my wallet,” Blake told him. “It’ll be there when you pick my pockets.”

• • •

It was late afternoon before Al White left the room at all. Blake got out of bed groggily. No wonder they called them goof pills, he thought. He walked as far as the door. He was sweated down. His legs were trembling. He sank down on a straight chair, breathing shallowly through his mouth.

He looked longingly at the comfortable bed. He wanted to get back into it. He wanted more sleep. There was no relief from the effects of the drug yet. But the fact of Stella’s brutal murder worked its way through to his mind and he knew he could not rest.

He dressed slowly. He knew only the fact that Stella’s murderer still moved free forced him to get dressed. Now it forced him to stand up again, his eyes aching, his legs weak.

The door was unlocked. He smiled grimly. Al White had underestimated him. He left the room and started down the hallway. He was tense in every muscle, waiting for the sound of Al White’s roar to pin him helpless against the wall.

He straightened his coat on his shoulders. There was a chair near the head of the stairs. He was breathless and bone weary. He sat down to rest, feeling the sweat in cold beads across his forehead.

When he looked up, he saw Al White. The big boxer was standing at the head of the stairs, smilingly pleasedly.

“Big brave man,” Al White said. “Going to walk right out.”

Blake stood up. “Get out of my way,” he said.

White laughed. “You’re going back to bed, sonny. Come on.”

“I’m warning you, White. Keep out of my way.” Blake felt his lips pull back, baring his teeth.

“I told you. I heard me tough talk before, sonny,” Al White said.

“You ever see a man who’d love to kill you?”

“Plenty of times.”

“You’re looking at another one. Get out of my way, White.”

“Temper! Now look here, guy. You won’t have any trouble if you’ll come back to your bed like I tell you.”

“I told you, White. I’m looking for the man who killed my wife. That’s all there is to it. I’m not going back in there. I’m not staying here. I’m leaving.”

“Don’t talk to me that way. It makes me mad. I don’t like to get mad.”

“Get out of my way. This is the last time I’m telling you.”

White reached out for him. He made one serious error. He reached with his long right arm. As the huge fist closed on Blake’s shoulder, Steve stepped in close, sweating and trembling, and drove his left fist as deeply as he could sink it into the ex-fighter’s pot belly.

There wasn’t anything behind that fist but desperation. But it paid off. Blake heard the breath retch outward across White’s mouth. The big man’s face went pale and he doubled slowly forward. Stepping aside, Steve chopped down across the back of White’s neck with his hand. White seemed to gather momentum and struck the hallway runner hard, on his face.

Steve, breathing through his mouth, looked around. The house was silent. But he knew how well it was guarded. Now there was only one thing to do. Get out of here alive. And fast.