Pale Shadow (18 page)

“Now, let's hear some straight talk about the man who killed Theron Oswald. Who is he, and where is he?”

Payne showed no sign of recognition. “Who? Sorry, brutha, I don't know what you're talkin' about.”

“Who was the medicine for, then?” Marcel demanded.

“What medicine?” That question shook Payne's
sang froid
, but he recovered quickly.

“The trioxalen you left in Theron Oswald's pawnshop. And don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about, because I looked at the label. It had your phony name and office address on it.” Marcel grabbed Payne's shirtfront, shaking him until his teeth rattled.

“It was just somethin' I got for Oswald.”

Marcel didn't know what trioxalen was for, so he couldn't dispute Payne's answer. He released Payne's shirt and pushed him away. “Then what happened to it? We searched Oswald's shop from top to bottom less than two hours ago and it's not there now.”

“Man, what the hell do I know? I dropped the stuff off there and that's it. I don't know what he did with it.”

Marcel knew somehow that the man was lying, but he didn't know how to prove it. He glanced quickly at his cousin, and saw that glitter in his eyes that told how close he was to the edge. If Marta hadn't been there, Marcel would have been content to let Farrell do his worst. “Let's take him to the police. Marta can press charges against him for assault and kidnapping. That'll keep him on ice until we get this untangled.”

The secretary stood in the open door, wriggling back into her dress. Her eyes blinked uncertainly. “W—what are you going to do with me? I didn't know anything about that woman, I swear it.”

“What's your name?” Marcel asked.

“Phyllis. Phyllis D'Abadie. I started working for Dr. Rodrigue— I mean, him—about a month ago. I didn't know anything, I swear it.”

Marcel shook his head. “If they put people in jail for bein' stupid, Miss D'Abadie, you'd get a life sentence. Since they don't, get on out of here and tell your folks the doctor had to close his practice and go on a long trip for his health.”

Phyllis D'Abadie disappeared with a startling alacrity. Seconds later they heard the front door slam shut.

Marcel grinned. “I guess we're finished here.”

“Then let's go,” Farrell said. “We've cleaned up your half of this, now let's see what we can do with my half.”

***

Max Grossmann left work early and went home by taxi. The past few days had been difficult for him. He was, by nature, a confident man, but it was difficult for him to maintain any feeling of optimism the way things stood now.

The cab had him at his front door within fifteen minutes of leaving the bank. He paid the driver and tipped him an extra fifty cents, then went inside. His houseboy was waiting for him with a smile. “Everything's been taken care of, Mist' Grossmann. They delivered your ticket an hour ago and I got your bags all packed and ready to go.”

“That's fine. I'll have dinner at the usual time, and that'll give me plenty of time to make the plane. I'll go to my room and clean up a little, I think.”

“Yes, sir.”

Grossmann went upstairs to his room, taking the sling off his arm as he walked. He flexed it several times, and found that other than a tightness where the flesh was healing, the arm was as good as new. Inside his room, he took off his coat and loosened his tie, then went to his private line and asked for an Uptown number. It rang three times before Dixie Ray Chavez answered.

“This is Grossmann calling. Things have begun to come unglued, I'm afraid.”

“That's tough, Mr. Grossmann. I been arranging things for people for quite a few years now, and I've seldom seen so much bad luck in an operation. I got wind of how the Treasury people found the half-burned money floatin' around out by the lake. Hot damn—I made a joke—‘wind.'” He giggled while Grossmann bore it stoically. “What was it you called about, Mr. Grossmann?” he asked finally.

“Have you had any luck getting the plates?”

“It's mostly been bad, Mr. Grossmann. I had a friend of Martinez's in my grip, so to speak. Had that boy so scared I was positive I could get him to turn Martinez up for me. Had him lure Martinez to a place where I could ambush him, but the boy—Oswald was his name—had more spine than I thought. He betrayed me to Wes Farrell, and I just escaped with my life. Had to kill Oswald, of course, but that didn't get me no nearer to the plates.”

“Perhaps you should fold your tent, Mr. Chavez. It seems that our friend, Compasso, caught his lady friend working with Farrell. He found her at Martinez's hideout, and I suspect he plans to trade her for the plates very soon, if he doesn't kill her. He's a vengeful man.”

“You have more faith in Santiago than I do, Mr. Grossmann. I admire loyalty in a man, but Santiago's a prideful fella. He's more worried about his ego than he is about business. He ain't gonna last the long haul, I'm afraid. You'd do well to get shut of him, while you can.”

“Well, as difficult as it is for me to admit a mistake, I'm forced to agree with you. At the very least, he is unlucky in the extreme. I am, in fact, about to leave the city. I would enjoy working with you again, Mr. Chavez, and I'm certain another opportunity will present itself very soon. My associates are only getting started.”

“That's white of you, Mr. Grossmann. A telegram sent to Josiah Huntsville, Esquire at the Goldwasser Hotel in Silver City, New Mexico will always reach me promptly.”

“Good. I'll make a note of that. We'll undoubtedly have need of your talents later on.”

“I'll certainly do that, sir. Have a safe trip, hear?”

“Yes. I shall. Goodbye.” Grossmann hung up the phone, then he went to his bureau and opened the top drawer. From it he removed a 7.62 millimeter Walther automatic. He made sure it was loaded, worked a cartridge into the breech, then let down the hammer. He slipped it into his inside coat pocket and patted it into place. He disliked guns, but America seemed obsessed with them. A barbaric place, America.

Putting his coat back on, he walked downstairs to see to his dinner. He was feeling lighthearted at the prospect of returning to South America. Buenos Aires was a particularly lovely place this time of year. There was a café he frequented that brewed the most delicious chocolate he'd ever drunk.

“How is dinner coming?” he called. He turned the corner at the stairs and found two men standing there. They were thick through the shoulders and had brutish faces. One had hair the color of gunmetal. The other had a wild head of red hair, and a long-tailed red mustache to match it.

“Mr. Compasso said you're to come with us,” the gray-haired man said in a flat voice.

“There's been some mistake,” Grossmann said reasonably. “I'm not going anywhere.”

The red-haired man brought a hideous knife from his side and pressed it gently to Grossmann's throat. It was a long splinter of steel with a carved handle, the traditional weapon of the Argentine
gaucho
. Grossmann had seen them before. He looked into Rojo's eyes. He saw nothing there. Rojo had been told to bring Grossmann, and he would do it, one way or another.

Chapter 16

Grossmann endured the ride into Jefferson Parish sullenly, sharing the back seat with the taciturn Rojo. He still had his gun, but there had been no opportunity to use it. He knew he would only get one chance with either of these men, so whatever he did must be decisive. “You wouldn't mind telling me where we're going, would you?”

“To a place,” Tink replied laconically. “Take it easy, okay? The boss wants all of us in one place before we head to Mexico.”

“I can't go to Mexico. My associates are in another place entirely.”

Tink shrugged. “Take it up with Mr. Compasso. I just take orders.”

Grossmann turned to Rojo. “I suppose you only take orders, too, so it would make no difference for me to plead my case with you.”

“Rojo don't talk much English. He understands when he's been told somethin', though. I remember we was havin' some trouble with a guy and the boss told Rojo he was tired of listenin' to the guy run his yap. Rojo comes back from seein' the guy with his tongue in a pickle jar. Funniest Goddamn thing I ever saw.”

Rojo looked at Grossmann with a big smile.

“Charming,” Grossmann muttered.

The Huey P. Long Bridge's east bank ramp was located in an area known locally as Jefferson Heights. However, there were no actual heights, and the surrounding land was largely undeveloped. A forest of pine and old oak gave the area a wild, untamed look.

Tink skirted the highway leading onto the bridge and drove down a marl road until he reached a three-story farm house and outbuildings located in a clearing a few hundred yards distant from the banks of the Mississippi. The house was in something of a state of disrepair, the original owners having left it years before.

Tink stopped in front of the house long enough to let Grossmann and Rojo out, then he took the car into the barn. Rojo pointed to the front door and grunted. Grossmann took the hint and walked into the house. There were a couple of men lounging in the living room. One played solitaire while the other read a racing form. Each favored Grossmann with a bored look before returning to his hobby.

Rojo pointed to an adjoining room and Grossmann walked into it. He found Compasso sitting at a wooden table, his eyes glittering dangerously. Grossmann knew he was in trouble, so he went on the offensive.

“I hope you've got a good reason for kidnapping me this way. I have things I must do, and I can't do them here.”

“Shut your mouth. I don't like you, fat man. I particularly don't like you trying to run out on me.”

Grossmann put his hands on his hips. “And what should I be doing? The police and Treasury Department are investigating the bank's senior personnel to find out who killed Leake. I had a day at the most to clear out and that's what I was doing. It's bad enough that you single-handedly destroyed an operation that took months of preparation. Must you jeopardize me in the bargain?”

“I did not have the banker killed. That was your doing. If you had kept your nerve, that would not have been necessary and we would not be forced to run from here with our tails between our legs.”

“I should have had Leake killed sooner. The very day of his death he communicated his suspicions to the Treasury Department. They're now investigating the Federal Reserve in Atlanta. It is only a matter of time before they catch some of my people in their net.”

“You are not much of a gambler, Grossmann. You must know when to take risks and when not. At any rate, you are staying with me. That way when we arrive in Buenos Aires together, I will not have to defend myself from the slander you would make behind my back. Our friends will know from me how you stupidly brought in that
gringo rustico
. I would have found Martinez my way, and caused far less trouble.”

Grossmann considered flying into a rage, he considered attacking Compasso here in this room. But he realized he was in a weak situation. Compasso could order him killed and then plead ignorance of what had happened to Grossmann when he reached Argentina. No, this was a game that must be won by stealth, and Grossmann was a past master at that. He turned and left the room with an idea forming in his head.

***

Margaret Wilde returned to consciousness slowly, like a swimmer paddling up from the depths. It was hard work, and she was very tired. She moved one of her arms, and the movement sent off a wave of pain that made her breath catch in her throat. She tried to open her eyes, but they were badly swollen, and a slit was all she could manage.

She was still in the same room where Compasso had beaten her. She wondered how long the beating had gone on—she couldn't remember because she'd passed out several times. Each time she'd returned to consciousness, Compasso had been there to resume his torture. He'd wanted to know where Martinez was, but since she didn't know, all she could do was bear the beating until she passed out.

Her body was a mass of bruises and welts, and it seemed to her that there were some broken ribs. She couldn't breathe through her nose very well, or lay on her right side at all for the sharpness of the pain there.

Eventually she was able to move enough to realize that her bounds had been loosened by the beatings. She gently shrugged them clear of her body, and tried to sit up. The pain in her side brought a muffled cry from her, but she managed to swing her legs over the edge of the bed and hug her body until the sharp pains subsided.

There was a small sink in the corner of the room. The sight of it brought a desperate thirst into her. Standing hurt as badly as sitting had, and the pain was more persistent. Using a chair as a crutch, she made it to the sink and turned on the tap. A trickle of rusty brown water came out, but eventually the color disappeared. She began bringing handfuls up to her face and mouth. She couldn't remember champagne tasting any better, nor recall a cool shower that was any more refreshing.

She staggered back to the bed and gingerly lowered herself down to it. She gathered the ropes she had shrugged off earlier and wrapped them haphazardly around her ankles and wrists, then lay back down. She was too tired to invest in much thinking and in too much pain to worry about staying alive. She had heard that deaths came in threes. Two women had already given up their lives for Luis Martinez. She would round things out. She didn't want to die, but she didn't want to give Compasso any satisfaction, either. She concentrated on that single idea until fatigue and pain drove her back into oblivion.

***

Farrell and Marcel took Payne and Marta to the Negro Squad room at Police Headquarters. One of the senior detectives, Merlin Gautier, had the day watch. He listened intently as Farrell and Marcel, with asides from Marta, told their story. Payne, his legs shackled to a bolt in the floor by Gautier's desk, maintained a sullen attitude, volunteering nothing.

Gautier called up to R and I and asked if they could locate fingerprints and a mug shot for Payne, suggesting a call to Angola to expedite things. As he listened, Payne began to slump in his chair and his eyes took on a faraway look. Farrell stared at him pitilessly as Gautier interrogated him.

“You could do yourself a favor, Payne. We know that the killer's name is Dixie Ray Chavez. You know him, and you know where to find him. Spit it out and it might get you a reduced sentence.”

Payne ignored Gautier and looked at Farrell. “If I go to prison, at least I'll still be alive. You damn fools think you know what you're dealin' with. You haven't got an idea in this world. You don't cross Dixie Ray Chavez but once. He sees to that mighty damn quick. Yeah, I knew him when we were in Huntsville Prison together. We got to be friends, but he'd kill a friend as quick as an enemy if you crossed him.”

Two uniformed officers came to take Payne to booking and then to the Parish Prison. Payne allowed himself to be led quietly away.

“That was a big help. We'll be lucky to ever find this Chavez guy,” Gautier said.

“He's been busy today,” Farrell said. “You'll find his bullet in Theron Oswald and several more in the walls of an abandoned office building on South Cortez where he almost got me. Say, where's the rest of the squad?”

Gautier shook his head. “Half the department's out lookin' for Compasso and his gang. They broke out early this morning after knockin' out the surveillance team. Most of this squad's out lookin' for the triggerman who killed the banker yesterday.”

“Banker?”

“Uh, huh. Negro, the eyewitness said. Not very tall, brown in color, wearing a green jacket and cap. He uses a .45 automatic and Western brand ammo. That's about all we know.”

“A .45 and Western ammunition?” Farrell said. “That's the caliber and brand used on Oswald. And the same fired at me.”

“Was the shooter a Negro?”

“I wish I could tell you for certain. That office building was pretty dark inside. All I saw was an outline, but I heard the voice. He sounded like a west Texas cracker to me.”

“Well, I know one way to find out. We'll get the lab men to those two locations. The cartridge cases will confirm it for sure.” He got the crime lab on his telephone and relayed instructions to one of Delgado's technicians.

Farrell looked at Marcel as Gautier spoke on the telephone. “If you've had enough gumshoeing for one day, you can see the young lady back to her hotel, make sure she's all right. She's had quite a scare.”

Marcel looked at Marta, who was sitting in a chair studying her face in her compact mirror. He grinned, thinking how resilient she was. “I better stick with you until we see this through. Like you said, we've only taken care of half of this job. We can drop her at the hotel, and this time I'll make sure somebody there takes care of her.”

They left the police station at mid-afternoon, weaving in and out of the late day downtown traffic until they reached the hotel. Marcel left Farrell in the car to help the young woman inside. Arthur Bordelon, the hotel manager, met them in the lobby, a look of concern on his face.

“Somebody called me and let me know about what happened, Marcel. I'm sorry as I can be.”

“Please,” Marta said. “Don't blame yourself. It was all my fault, really, going off alone like that.”

“Okay,” Marcel said. “Let's all take some blame and then be done with it. Marta, I've got to help Mr. Farrell find the people behind all this. I hope you don't mind staying alone for a while. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“I'm not leaving my room tonight,” she said. “I know already that a small-town girl has no business roaming around the big city.” She smiled impishly. “Thanks for saving my life. I've never been so happy to see someone as I was when you pushed Wilbur Payne through that door. I'll remember it all my life.” She put a hand on his face and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

Marcel felt a pleasant flash of warmth at the touch of her mouth on his. He smiled, squeezed her hand, then left the hotel.

“What's the matter?” Farrell asked when the youngster returned. “You look like you just hit the big number.”

“Uh, huh,” Marcel said.

Farrell parked in front of the Café Tristesse and they went in through the front door to check for messages. Farrell was somewhat surprised to see Father Maldonar perched on a leather setee in the lobby, his crippled leg stretched out in front of him. He looked up with a broad smile on his brown face.

“Mr. Farrell. I was hoping to catch you in. Have you any news about Señor Martinez?”

“Afternoon, Father. This is my business associate, Mr. Aristide. Father James Maldonar, Marcel.”

Maldonar stretched forth his mottled hand. Marcel unhesitatingly took it and gave it a warm shake. “Glad to meet you, Father.” He glanced at Farrell to see what he would say about Martinez.

“I've been in contact with Luis, Father, but there's been no time to tell him about his mother. Frankly, he's been wounded and in a pretty bad way emotionally. I'll tell him just as soon as I can, and bring him to you.”

Maldonar looked unhappy. “Don't you think he deserves to know the situation, Mr. Farrell? His mother is in a serious condition. I'm very worried.”

Farrell nodded. “I appreciate your concern. I'll tell him just as soon as I can. I don't think it'll be much longer.”

The priest saw that Farrell would not be moved, and he nodded a bit dejectedly. “So be it, then. I'll pray for Señora Martinez's health and soul, and hope for the best.” He pulled his crutches to him and attempted to get up. He seemed more tired than when Farrell had last seen him. Farrell put a hand under Maldonar's left arm and lifted him easily to his feet.

“Can I get you a cab, Father? It's quite a trek to the mission.”

“I have one waiting outside. If you'll help me to the door, I'll be on my way.”

Farrell and Marcel helped the frail man out the door to the sidewalk. Farrell spotted a Chauncey Brothers Red Top cab and whistled at the driver. The Negro cab driver eased up to the club canopy, got out and helped Maldonar into the back seat.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'll pray this situation will soon be over.” The priest shook hands with both of them through the window just before the cab rolled down Basin.

“What was that all about?” Marcel asked.

“He's a Josephite priest who runs a mission for poor people over in Carrollton. He came here with a message that Luis's mother is dying from lung cancer in El Paso. There wasn't any time to tell him, and with all that's been going on, I just decided to keep it to myself.”

Marcel nodded. “You're probably right.”

After a brief word with Harry, they took the stairs to the second floor where they found Fred reading a magazine in his shirtsleeves.

“All quiet here?”

“Like midnight at the North Pole,” Fred replied. “How'd it go?”

“We followed the secretary to Payne's hideout. The girl had already become his new sleepy-time friend, which was a break. Marcel got through the door and knocked him down while I came through the back. A few minutes later we found Marta upstairs bound and gagged.”