Murderers' Row (14 page)

“Still?” she murmured, warm in my arms.

“Cut it out,” I said. “You're making the mistake dames always make. They all think their bodies have got something to do with business.”

She was silent for a moment; then her soft laughter came again. “Rebuked, by God! Petroni, you're wonderful! It was Louis, wasn't it?” I didn't say anything, and she went on, “Oh, don't bother to deny it. He was pretty obvious about picking a quarrel with me so I'd drive off alone. And I saw his face when I came home. He'd never expected to see me alive again; he was absolutely petrified. He's off getting drunk right now, recovering from the shock. He'd have betrayed himself right there if that odd little girl, Michaelis' idiot child, hadn't managed to spill whisky all over herself, gawking. That gave him time to recover, helping to mop her off. You know Louis. If the world was coming to an end, he still wouldn't pass up the chance to pat a pretty girl with a paper towel.”

“You know Louis,” I said. “I didn't say I knew Louis.”

She patted my hands lightly, and lifted them away, disengaging herself. “I think that's enough erotic stimulation for the moment. Where's my drink?”

“Where you left it,” I said. “Erotic stimulation. That's fancy for kicks? I'll have to remember it.”

“I didn't think Louis would have the nerve to kill me,” she said, moving towards the coffee table. “Or even hire someone to have it done. Of course, he's been acting strangely of late, ever since Norman disappeared. I wonder.”

She gave me my glass as I came up. I took it and said, “Thanks. I still haven't said anything.”

She smiled, raising her own glass to me. “Keep your damn principles. I know it was Louis. The only question is why.”

“I'm not saying one way or another. But if he did want you killed, I could think of a reason.”

“Money?” She shook her head. “Louis wouldn't kill for money. Oh, I don't mean he doesn't like it; but he's even more cowardly than he's greedy. He's a rat; he'll only bite if he's cornered and scared, really scared.”

“That's a hell of a way to talk about your own husband.”

She ignored the comment. “Louis has been scared ever since we found Norman's boat empty; scared I'd noticed something, I guess. Only it goes back farther. I think dear Louis has got himself involved in something big and dangerous, so big and dangerous he has to kill his way out. Did he ever mention Mendenhall to you?”

“Mendenhall?” I said. “What's that? And who's Norman?”

“Mendenhall used to be the family estate; it's part of a restricted Marine training area now. Norman was—is a friend of mine. He vanished mysteriously some weeks ago. Louis must have told you.”

“Don't be clever. Why should he tell me and when? For the record, I've only seen your damn husband a couple of times in my life, and talked to him, never. What about this Mendenhall place?”

“The government took it away from me,” she said. “We talk big about how bad they have it over there, with the dirty communists and their tyranny; and all the time we've got our own little bureaucratic tyrants right here, with their confiscatory income taxes and ruthless condemnation proceedings. Well, never mind all that. The funny thing is, Louis was almost as upset as I was when it happened, although he doesn't give a damn about the family. He's been fascinated by Mendenhall for years, for some reason, particularly the island—”

“The island?” I couldn't help asking the question. “What island?”

She didn't seem to notice that I'd stepped out of character, if I had. “Well, it wasn't originally an island,” she said. “Originally, when the land was first settled, it was a peninsula, a long, wooded point of land; and the first house was built out there among the pines, facing the little bay. Then the land gradually washed away, and even the big house—a hurricane took that in the eighteen-seventies—and the family rebuilt on the mainland. There's nothing out there now but a chain of little islets and one real island about a mile by a half with a stand of pines and a few old ruins, all cut off from the mainland by a mile of shallows and an eight-foot channel washed out by the tide.”

I said, “Geography is interesting, honey—history, too—but I like erotic stimulation better.”

I hoped my voice was level and casual; and I hoped my words wouldn't discourage her from telling me more, but I didn't really think they would. She wanted to tell me all this—she wanted to tell Lash Petroni all this. The question was, why?

She said, “I used to play there as a girl. We'd sail down and have picnics. I took Louis once, just to show him, before we were married; but he's not the picnic type. It wasn't until a few years ago that he began to act interested. He had us anchor in the little bay a few times, cruising in the
Freya,
while he rowed ashore and explored. That was before the government took it. I have a feeling that whatever he's got himself into, it's got something to do with Mendenhall Island.”

I said, “But if the Marine Corps has got it now, and it's restricted as you say—”

She laughed. “You're not a sailor, are you? They don't build many fences in the water, Jim. On a dark night, in a sailing vessel like the
Freya
down there, I could ghost right into Mendenhall Bay without a sentry noticing a thing. I don't think they use their radars except when they're actually firing. The question is, just what is Louis up to? There was that strange business about Norman; all kinds of government people were around asking questions.”

It was time for me to ask some more questions about the mysterious Norman, or maybe it wasn't. I didn't like that casual reference to government people.

I said, “Look, honey, this is fascinating as hell, but what's it got to do with me?”

She said, “It depends on Louis. I don't mind so much his trying to have me killed, although it does seem to indicate he's cracking up, doesn't it? And if he slipped out in a boat and hit Norman over the head with an oar that afternoon because he was jealous, well, I gave him lots of provocation. It would be kind of nice to think he still cared that much.” She shook her head abruptly. “I don't believe it for a moment. I think he's mixed up in something big and nasty. And if he thinks he's going to involve the family and me in some dirty scandal—He'll get caught, of course. He hasn't got the brains not to. Unless—”

“Unless what?”

She drained her glass and set it down on the table. It was low enough, and she was tall enough, so that she had to bend down a bit to make it.

“I'll pay well, of course,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Sure,” I said. “For what, and how well?”

She smiled at me, and made a slight gesture towards the drink in my hand. I finished it off, and put the glass down beside hers.

“I'd pay very well indeed, Jim Petroni,” she said, holding out her hands.

“I like cash,” I said.

She laughed, unoffended. “You're a cold, stubborn man. There'll be cash, too.”

Then she was in my arms, or vice versa. I can't lay claim to having originated the idea; but I saw no reason to fight it for that reason. Jimmy the Lash wouldn't be likely to put up a violent defense for his virtue. As for that sterling government employee, Matt Helm, I found it difficult to remember exactly who I was, of all the people I'd pretended to be, feeling the warmth of her lips and of her long, taut body, unconfined beneath the lace and nylon of the dignified gown. Some men prefer naked women, but I guess I like my presents gift wrapped, to start with, at least.

“You'll do it, won't you?” she breathed at last. “You'll get rid of him for me?” She laughed, her breath warm on my ear. “I'm rather bored with Louis, anyway, and divorces are so messy and expensive.”

I found myself thinking, vaguely, that I'd never come across such a murderous bunch of citizens in my long and bloody career; but to be perfectly honest, I wasn't paying all the attention I might have. Only so much can be accomplished standing up; and I had a certain leather sofa rather strongly in mind.

“Sure, baby,” I said thickly. “Anybody. Just name him and he's dead.”

That was Lash Petroni speaking, but his voice seemed to come from far away. I drew a long breath and straightened up and looked into Robin Rosten's face. It wouldn't focus clearly; it seemed to waver before me; but I could see that she was smiling oddly. I glanced quickly toward the glasses on the coffee table.

“You bitch,” Petroni said, a long ways off.

She laughed, watching me with speculative interest. I had a choice to make; and I reached out and took her by the throat before she could step back. I saw her eyes go shocked and wide.

“Too bad, lady,” Petroni said. “Too bad. You shouldn't have tried—”

I made the voice trail off incoherently. The apprehension went out of her eyes as my fingers relaxed. I went to my knees and pitched forward, grasping at her skirt. After a little, I felt her bend over me and free the filmy nylon, tougher and more elastic than it looked.

“Good night,” she murmured. “Good night, Matthew Helm—or should I call you Eric?”

As I closed my eyes, I knew I'd found what I'd been looking for: the muffled voice on the telephone, Jean's contact, the person who'd known all along I wasn't a gangster named Petroni...

I awoke on a boat. I knew this much about my surroundings before I opened my eyes. There were small, distant wave noises, and there was a certain amount of nautical creaking and groaning—the really big ships don't talk much in ordinary weather, but the smaller ones do, and once you've heard the sound, even if it was a long time ago, you don't forget it. I could hear footsteps on the deck over my head. There was some motion: the limited, rather jerky motion of a vessel lying at a dock and bumping up against it once in a while.

I knew all this, and I knew there was someone in the room, or cabin, with me. He wasn't noisy, but he breathed and, now and then, shifted position slightly. I opened my eyes and looked at him where he stood leaning against the door because the cabin offered no facilities for sitting except the bunk on which I lay.

He was one of the biggest men I'd ever seen, very black, with a bony shaved head adorned with a curving white scar that looked as if someone had tried to split his skull with a meat cleaver but had failed simply because the tool wasn't up to the job. It would take an ax. He had broad nostrils and a broad, thick-lipped mouth. I suppose you'd call him ugly. He certainly wasn't pretty, but there was a kind of magnificence about him, even in faded denim shirt and pants, that reminded me, somehow, of his mistress—who was also pretty magnificent, I recalled ruefully, if in a different way.

“Hi, Nick,” I said.

He leaned there lazily, unmoving. “You know me, man?”

“Nicodemus Jackson,” I said, repeating information I'd got from Washington over the phone. “Six-five, two hundred and sixty pounds.”

“Two hundred and sixty-five,” he said. “I put on a little weight, loafing around up the creek there with nothing to do but polish the brass. I'll go tell Miz Rosten you're awake. She figured you'd be coming around about now.” He straightened up, towering above me in the little cabin, and grinned, showing large white teeth. “She's a welded steel schooner, man. Built in Germany before World War II, but still sound as the day she was launched. The hull's steel. The bulkheads are steel. Even this here door—” he gave it a blow that made it ring dully, “is steel, and it's got a powerful strong bolt. The porthole's dogged down tight; you couldn't budge it without a two-foot wrench. You catch my drift? I'd sure hate to see you waste your time and scratch up my paintwork.”

“I catch your drift,” I said. “What's a bulkhead? Oh, you mean the partitions?” I regarded him for a moment. “You know I'm a government man, Nick? You could get in trouble, keeping me locked up in here.”

I had to say it, if only to give him a break if he didn't know, but I didn't expect it to impress him greatly. It didn't. He merely grinned again.

“I don't know nothing,” he said. “Miz Rosten, she does the knowing. I just does the doing, if you catch my drift. Miz Rosten takes care of the trouble, if it comes.”

Well, that took care of my responsibility towards Big Nick, and I could clobber him with good conscience if I ever had the chance, the strength and a heavy instrument, blunt or edged. With a man that size, it doesn't pay to be particular.

“That program could keep you both pretty busy,” I said.

He grinned more broadly. “Man, you don't look like much trouble to me, a skinny gentleman like you.” He gestured towards a narrow door. “The head's in there.”

“What's a head?” I asked. “Oh, you mean the plumbing?”

“That's right, the plumbing,” he said. “Open the seacocks before you pump. I'll go tell Miz Rosten.”

He went out silently. I noticed that his feet were bare. The door closed and I heard the bolt go home. It sounded powerful strong, just as he'd said. I was left alone in my quarters, if that's the proper seagoing term for accommodations. It had been a long time since I'd had to remember port from starboard, and I had no intention of revealing the little nautical information I retained. A show of ignorance can be a useful weapon.

Aside from a trick belt buckle—standard equipment— designed primarily for cutting the hands free in an emergency, it was the only weapon I had, unless you included the do-it-yourself suicide kit from my discarded drug supply. Since there was no rope on my wrists, and nothing else around to cut, the buckle wasn't much use at the moment, although it might come in handy later. As for the death pill, concealed never mind where, it might come in handy, too, but I might be forgiven for hoping it wouldn't.