The Long Night (11 page)

“Yes, I know the kind of thing. But—why me?”

“Because you got a clean name. They tell me you're always on the level. I need a guy I can trust.”

“Craps!” I said. “A few hours ago you showed your trust with a slug from an army .45. Suppose we cut out the hokum. Why do you want to get me out of town?”

“For five grand——” his voice had an edge like a rusty razor “—I don't have to sit through a quiz. D'you want the dough or don't you?”

“How and when do I get the feel of it?”

“Soon's you check in at the Winchester Hotel. The desk clerk will hand it to you . . . well?”

“Supposing I pick up the cash and come straight back to New York . . .?”

“I wouldn't do that kind of supposing. If you double-crossed me, Bowman, they'd use the money to give you a slap-up funeral. All my boys aren't damn' fools like Tad.”

“Then why don't you turn them loose on me now? Seems
you're going to a lot of trouble and expense for no reason. Or have you a reason?”

He took quite a time to answer. When he did, he picked his words very carefully like he didn't want me to be in any doubt. The way he spoke, I knew he wasn't kidding. He said, “Rubbing you out now, Bowman, would be inconvenient. I never expected you'd get in my hair this way. If Tad hadn't been a moron, he'd have left you alone. I didn't tell him to blast you. All this wouldn't have been necessary if he hadn't given you a lead to me.”

“So now,” I said, “it would be inconvenient. What about later?”

“It won't matter later. Take a three weeks' vacation in Washington at my expense and you've nothing more to worry about.”

“I'm not exactly neurotic right now. And what's to stop me putting the finger on you in three weeks' time?”

“You couldn't finger me for anything, Bowman. I'm clean. I'm always clean. You've got the wrong slant on this business.”

The music had started again—a thin rhythm of sound overlying his voice. Somewhere far off, a woman was singing. I said, “Not me, Gilmore, not me. I haven't got the wrong slant. I know you're tied in with the killing of Judith Walker. And I also know you triggered off what happened to the Gordon woman. Taken all round, I know too much. Either now or in three weeks, you'll have to do something about me . . . so don't give me that stuff about inconvenience.”

King Gilmore said, “If you could prove anything, I wouldn't be paying you to leave town. I'd be stopping your big snook with something more permanent than dollar bills. But you've got no proof; you're just guessing. And there's one thing you might as well know—I didn't kill Judith.”

“Then why the five grand?”

“You've got nuisance value. You'll go around asking too many questions. That could upset a——” he hesitated and he covered his hesitation with another cough— “a little deal I'm trying to put through. If I had you tossed in the river, that might make newspaper talk. I don't want too much talk.”

“What if I tell you to do something rude with your five grand?”

“Try it. Just work some more of your gall on me and I'll take a chance with the newspapers.” He made it sound like he meant it, too.

I thought it over. Five thousand bucks is a lotta bucks. I said, “When do I leave?”

Without any haste, he said, “In the morning. You can either fly or go by train. So long as you go. And so long as you stop there.”

“You make me curious to know what comes off in this town while I'm away.”

“Pacify your curiosity with the easiest dough you've ever picked up. Is it a deal?” Now he sounded like he was in a hurry.

“It's a deal,” I said. “I'll leave town no later than midday.”

I have friends in many places, both high and low. Each in his time has served his purpose—without question, without thought of personal reward. That's what friends are for.

Gerry Tate mixes with the high and lives with the low. He does a daily column for some paper on what gives in court circles: law court circles. He knows every bookie, crook, mobster, racketeer, chiseler, and hoodlum on the East Coast and lots of points west. If it's monkey business . . . Gerry knows the ins and the outs.

So I called Gerry and I made a date with him to meet me at the depot half-an-hour before my train left. I told him I was curious about one Richard (King) Gilmore and did he know why Gilmore should be sensitive about events due to happen in his life during the next three weeks?

Gerry said, “If we're both talking about the same guy, I can answer that one. It's in the clippings you asked me to heist from our files.”

“What's in the clippings?”

“Mister Gilmore comes up before a Grand Jury in——” he made a small mouth and scratched his chin “—seventeen days' time. With luck, they'll blow the king's crooked empire wide open. With a lot of luck.”

“Meaning?”

“A couple of juries have tried it before. And so have a few good guys here and there. But they've never made it stick. This time, I'll lay even money on King Gilmore. Something tells me even Lloyd Warner will take a brodie.”

“Isn't he chairman of the Citizens' Committee?”

“Same guy,” Garry said. He rolled his eyes up to the high glass roof and gnawed at his lip like he was listening to something. With no change of tone, he said, “D'you know there's a character watching us? A dark character with a dead pan . . . don't look round now . . . is it possible that you-know-who has detailed one of his pals to speed you on your way?”

“It's possible,” I said. “Tell me more about this Lloyd Warner.”

“Public-spirited type . . . plenty of dough. Apart from a flock of investments that bring in some neat jack, he controls a couple of flour mills and a few hotels and a canning plant in Newfoundland. Yeah . . . plenty of dough.” Gerry brought his eyes down and stared distantly past my head. “The worthy Lloyd is crowding fifty, has a charming wife whose main worry is middle-aged spread, and he's also got two daughters. From what I've seen of the girls, they'd get by without their old man's money.”

“And he's gunning for King Gilmore?”

“Sure. In a big way. Rumour has it that King thought the younger daughter quite a tasty dish and took her around for a while. Came the night when he popped the question that leads to a fate worse than death and Miss Susan gave him the brush-off. In a nice way, so my information goes. She'd like the idea herself—if he was prepared to make things all legal and kosher.” Gerry grinned without looking at me. “For the first time in his misbegotten life, King had a dame who was telling him he'd have to ask Papa.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah. And that's where he walked right into trouble. A
slick operator like King should've known better than to get hot pants over a dame who was way outside his class. Because Warner thinks more of his younger daughter than he does of the sun, moon, and stars.”

“And?”

“What d'you think? He turned a squad of private dicks loose on Mister Richard Gilmore's affairs and . . . blooey! That was it. They dug up enough dirt on King to make him less eligible than Mossadeq. When the big shot found out he'd been under the X-ray, he got mad and said some nasty things to his future father-in-law not quite. Which made Warner point out that he'd rather see young Susan dead than married to a louse like Gilmore . . . that character keeps looking at the clock like he thinks it was about time you were getting on your train.”

“Never mind him,” I said. “How did Susan take the break-up of her romance?”

“There you have me. The old man sent her off somewhere to heal her maiden heart. Europe, I think. I heard she was back but I wouldn't know for sure. While she was out of Gilmore's reach, her father was organising his Citizen's Committee in a big way. Now, he's got his teeth into Gilmore and he won't let go.”

“King must be slipping. What's happened to his accident policy? It's always taken care of awkward guys like Warner.”

“Up to now,” Gerry said. He glanced at his watch and took a long manilla envelope from his pocket. “Nearly time you weren't here . . . Lloyd Warner didn't pile up his sugar by being dumb. He's had a twenty-four hour bodyguard from the moment he decided to put the skids under Gilmore. The President isn't as well protected. King couldn't get at Warner if he controlled the U.S. Marines.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You're a useful guy to know. I'll return your clippings intact. Just one thing more. Would you happen to know anybody in Washington who could use a thousand bucks?”

“For doing what?”

“Nothing—but nothing.” I could hear Gilmore's cold, precise voice again inside my head saying almost the same words. He wanted his hands free same as I did. Only difference was he was prepared to pay much bigger dough.

“Ask Cartwright,” Gerry said. “He's on the
Washington Mail.
Tell him you're a pal of mine or he'll think you're nuts . . . ten C's for nix doesn't ride into the Capital every day.” He tapped me lightly on the chest with a hard fist and threw a parting glance at the guy who was watching us. He said, “Dead Pan's getting worried . . . wonder what his orders were if you didn't board the train?”

I said,
“
No need to wonder. You shouldn't know of such things. So long . . . and thanks again for everything.”

“You're very welcome,” Gerry said. For a moment, I thought he had just recalled something that had slipped his mind. Then he smiled and said, “So long, soldier. Take care of yourself. See you in three weeks' time. . . .”

The dark, impassive character who'd tailed me all morning followed me through the gate and watched me go on board. In the two or three minutes before departure, he strolled past my coach twice. He didn't look at me or near me, but he had me placed all right.

When we pulled out, he was still there—still looking at nothing and seeing everything. Ricky Gilmore was taking no more chances.

In the next few hours I had plenty of time to think while I read and re-read the clippings and ate cigarettes. Everybody else called him King . . . or plain Gilmore. But the name on the scrap of paper in Pauline Gordon's bag was Ricky . . . she'd guessed the phone number . . . maybe she'd been around when Judith called him . . . if you keep your eyes open, you can sometimes spot the numbers that are being dialled . . . and she could've heard Judith use the name Ricky. . . .

Or it might've been Carole Van Buren . . . except that he'd tacitly admitted he was tied in with Judith Walker . . . but he hadn't killed her . . . or so he said for what it was worth. Yet, someone had—someone who'd turned circumstances to his own advantage . . . her crazy talk on the phone that had set the stage for murder and a frame-up which had come unstuck.

And there was another funny thing: Gilmore knew that she had called me at two a.m. Only Cooke and Sullivan
should've known that. How did Gilmore know? It could be he had a private line to Headquarters and somebody was feeding him info. . . . Had he been the party who'd bopped me in the bathroom? If so, why was he there? Why hadn't he strangled her and got the hell out of the apartment before I arrived? Why had he expected me to go into the bathroom? Why had Judith set the trap to encompass her own death?

For one fleeting moment, I saw a picture shine brightly at the back of my mind—the picture of a girl who'd used herself as bait. And I had an idea that was nearly as crazy as the rest of the set-up.

Then the idea faded because I remembered her dark beauty . . . and King Gilmore's reputation. Yet . . . he'd been willing to marry Susan Warner. He'd stuck out his neck for her. And he'd made her father his greatest enemy. Warner was out for the kill with no holds barred . . . maybe the idea wasn't just so crazy.

In the last hour of the journey, I fell asleep on it. Funny thing, it was the best sleep I'd had in the past forty-eight hours.

Travelling two hundred and fifty miles hadn't got me away from the New York weather. Washington was wet and cold, with a blustering wind that froze the marrow. It was getting dark by the time I contacted Cartwright.

He was a cynical guy with a thin, shiny face and deep-set eyes. Eyes and face and voice were sardonic. I got the impression he'd seen and heard most things and didn't fancy any of them.

I asked him if he knew anybody who was interested in picking up a fast buck and he gave me a sour grin. “How big is this buck?”

“Ten yards,” I said.

“The rate of exchange being one century per yard?”

“That's how it works out where I come from.”

“So's I can be sure we're both talking the same language,” he said, “you're offering a thousand dollars to the right person . . . is that it?”

“In cash, in advance . . . and tax-free,” I said.

He took hold of me by the elbows and put his head on a side and studied me like he was counting my eyelashes. Then
he said, “I'm the right person. Who d'you want me to kill?”

“Nothing like that,” I said. “This is a sucker job—no work, no backfire. Only one thing: you married?”

“Brother——” he let go of my arms and rubbed the back of his hand over his chin “—the lines you see here are from ulcers, not incompatrimony. When do I start?”

“When I've told you what you have to do and had your word you'll ask no questions and keep your lip buttoned for at least three weeks.”

“You make it sound like it was maybe kinda criminal.” He didn't care either way. Before I could say anything, he added, “If it is, don't tell me, then I can always say I didn't know.”

“Unless it's a crime to take a gonnof for a ride,” I said, “there's nothing criminal about any of this.”

“Who's the gonnof?”