The Long Night (14 page)

A cab took me back to the nice quiet dive where Mister Cliff Wylie had a nice quiet room. I took off my shoes and slipped my suspenders and unfastened my collar. With a
full pack of cigarettes, a box of matches, and an empty ashtray on a chair beside the bed, I lay down and relaxed.

It was only one o'clock. I had plenty of time. A guy ought to refresh himself with a couple of hours' meditation before he undertakes attempted murder.

At ten minutes off four, Forty-second Street had lost some of its glitter but the wet was just the same. Rain dripped from the line of parked cars opposite the Silver Peacock; a haze of damp made a halo around every light; in the alley beyond the cars, a broken fall-pipe leaked water down the wall beside me.

A lot of the sky-signs had been turned off but the peacock still flaunted its iridescent tail. Down below at the kerb, Mister Gilmore's patrons got into their cars and drove away . . . party after party . . . slamming doors . . . revving motors . . . the swish of tyres on the glistening pavement. . . .

When my watch said it was four o'clock precisely, the twenty-foot bird blinked out. Then the arch of letters above it went dark, too. I eased the .38 from my pocket and got set.

There was only one car left, now. At five minutes after four, a guy came out and crossed the street and climbed in behind the wheel. It wasn't King Gilmore. It wasn't anyone I'd seen outside the Silver Peacock since I'd taken up my position at the mouth of the alley.

He was wearing neither hat nor coat. When he'd tooled the car in a wide U-turn to the opposite kerb, he killed the motor and got out and sprinted across the sidewalk. His patent leather shoes twinkled in the entrance light as he went back into the club.

Two minutes later, the door revolved again. King Gilmore came out. He looked more like his newspaper pictures than I'd expected: well-shaped head, good mouth, a man's jaw. There was a faint sprinkle of grey in his hair. Diamond studs sparkled in his shirt-front and he was wearing a hundred-dollar topcoat. In one hand, he carried a dark homburg. With the other, he was juggling with his car keys.

Close behind him came the big gorilla who'd tried to gun me in the lobby of my office building—the gorilla he'd called
Tad. Since we'd last met, Tad had found himself a sling for his right arm.

Half-way across the sidewalk, Gilmore glanced back and said something. There was no one else near them, no one to get in the way. That was the moment I chose.

The .38 made a helluva lot of noise. Neither of them did anything when the first report slammed out of the alley. Tad stood still with his mouth gaping; Gilmore seemed frozen with his head twisted to look over his shoulder, like he was watching the slug split chips from the wall behind them.

But before I'd squeezed the trigger a second time, they came out of their trance. Tad dropped flat like I'd shot his legs away. Gilmore ducked in a long, flying dive into the shelter of the car. They were hidden from me when I saw the second slug strike sparks not far from where the first one had flattened itself.

That was all I saw. With the gun in my hand I took it on the lam down the alley, keeping to the shadows and fleeing like a tomcat with a firecracker tied to its tail. Whether either of them had a gun handy or not made no difference. You can't let off artillery in Forty-Second Street at four a.m. without inviting the attention of the law. I preferred to let King Gilmore do all the explaining.

I didn't hear anyone follow me. When I came out of the alley I slowed to a walk and did some fancy weaving for the next five minutes. Then I picked up a hack and went back to my temporary home.

All the time, I was wondering if it would've been just so easy to escape if I'd pumped both shells into King Gilmore in the right places. I could've done at that. But even a pretty doll like Deborah Warner couldn't turn me into a hired killer . . . even for the ten grand she'd promised me when King was dead.

As I crawled into bed, I was still wondering. But not about that: about what she'd think when she read the morning papers . . . and if she'd be satisfied . . . and what her father would've said. . . .

Just as I was falling asleep, my thoughts went off obliquely in a new direction. I wondered where Susan Warner had been the night Judith died . . . and what reason Susan could've had for picking me to be the fall-guy.

Deborah called me shortly before noon. The deaf-mute who ran the rooming house wakened me by using a key-mate on the door and walking in. I told him I craved privacy and I was paying for privacy and the hell with phone calls.

He was a ginger guy with sad eyes that could count the small change in your pants' pocket. He said, “I should worry if that's how you feel. But it's a dame. Nice voice, too.”

“Every dame I know has a nice voice,” I said. “But the result's always the same—trouble.”

“Yeah. But the cause of the trouble is generally fun. I like fun. . . . Get your pants on . . . I'll tell her to hold the line and she oughta see what you look like when you first wake up . . . and maybe she has. Wonder what you've got that I couldn't find any use for . . .?” He gave me a toothless grin and went out.

The phone was in the draughtiest place in the hallway. And the hallway had plenty of draughts. They should've helped to remove the smell of onions from the mouthpiece but they hadn't.

I said, “Thought you were going to wait until I called you?”

She said, “That was last night. I've read the bad news since then.”

“Anybody could've missed,” I said. “These things aren't easy when it's dark and raining heavily. Next time'll be different.”

“When the price is ten thousand dollars, the job isn't expected to be easy.”

“Don't harp on the money angle,” I said. “There are other things in life when you're young and healthy.”

“Keep your mind on one thing at a time. This is——” she made it sound like she meant it “—strictly a cash deal. I'm only interested in making sure our mutual friend doesn't
harm my father. When you've done that, I see no reason why we should ever meet again.”

“What if I see a reason?”

“You'll be in no position to tell me what to do . . . in the circumstances.”

“No? Aren't you forgetting that you're in this up to the neck same as I am. After what happened in the early hours of this morning, you can't back out now even if you want to.”

She took time out to consider which way to handle me. While she thought it over, she murmured, “There was no harm done this morning . . . what if I tell you to call the whole thing off?”

I said, “Plenty of harm would be done to me, in case you don't know it. Right now, they could send me up the river for three to ten. And I'd take darn good care they gave you a pretty uniform, too.”

The phone did some more thinking. Then she said, “Looks like I'm stuck with you . . . doesn't it? Unless. . . . How much would you want to keep the deal on a strictly business level?”

“Am I that hard to take?” I said.

The ginger guy came flatfooted along the hallway in scuffed slippers that had no heels. As he passed me, he made a vulgar gesture and hawked. Then he went on down the stairs.

As if she'd been waiting for him to go out of hearing, Deborah said, “We'll discuss it some other time. And I'll leave you with an idea that hasn't struck you yet . . . at least, I don't think so.”

“What is the idea?”

“Supposing,” she said very deliberately, “supposing I were to tell someone we both know that the alley cat which spat at him last night was called Wylie? M-m-m . . .? You wouldn't like that, would you?”

“And all because I want us to be friendly,” I said.

“All because you thought you owned me. Cut out the threats and——” her voice softened and I could see her smiling like she'd smiled at me over her peach brandy “—anything's possible . . . good-bye for now. . . .”

The noon editions ran a blown-up paragraph on the Gilmore story. My paper headed it:

SHOOTING OUTRAGE ON 42nd.
Four a.m. Murder Bid.

Shortly after four o'clock this morning an attempt was made on the life of Mr. Richard (King) Gilmore, owner of the well-known night spot—the Silver Peacock, on Forty-Second Street.

The club had closed for the night and Mr. Gilmore was about to get into his car to go home, when two shots were fired at him from an alley across the street. Both shots missed but an employee who was close behind Mr. Gilmore had a narrow escape.

Police searched the neighbourhood but no trace of the gunman was found. The chauffeur of a car that had been parked near the spot earlier reported he had seen a man lurking in the mouth of the alley around a quarter off four. He was able to provide the police with a description which has not yet been released.

After the incident, Mr. Gilmore stated he had received a telephone threat in a man's voice three hours before the murder attempt took place.

I had better than a hunch that King must've been an advanced case of the jitters by then between one thing and another. Which suited me O.K. Whether he had killed Judith or not was immaterial: he was involved in the Judith Walker set-up, and involved good and deep. To have him biting his finger-nails and looking over his shoulder was how I wanted to have him.

And not only King Gilmore. I fancied it would be a good idea to get one or two others running around in circles as well.

So I made a list of names and spent a few nickels on a few phone calls, starting with Susan Warner.

She sounded a bit like her sister and not any younger, either. Another nice voice. She could've been the one who'd said she was Judith Walker and she wanted to try the long sleep. So could half the dames I knew if they'd been carrying a load of liquor.

But Susan was cold sober. Her voice was sober and her manner was cold. She gave me the impression I'd interrupted
something she preferred to be doing right then. She said, “This is Susan Warner. Who's calling?”

“I'll ask the questions,” I said. “Or to be more precise, the one big question: where were you the night Judith Walker was strangled? Got it?” Then I rang off.

Next came Ivor Kovak. He used rounded syllables and his voice sounded like well-oiled pebbles having a bubble bath. And he must've been a trifle hard of hearing. He didn't understand the first time.

For the same nickel, it cost me nothing to repeat it. I said, “I asked you where you were the night Judith Walker was strangled . . . that was all.”

He made a long, pained “O-o-o-o-h . . . !” like I'd pricked him where you shouldn't mention it. Maybe he said something, too. I didn't hear any more. I was spending another nickel.

It took me quite a time to get through the human undergrowth surrounding Lloyd Warner. A secretary's secretary passed me to a vice-president's deputy and thence through a couple of P.I.P.'s to the V.I.P. himself. It would've been easier to talk to a political prisoner in Siberia.

Warner said, “Hallo! I'm told this is a private matter and you won't give any name. Why didn't you——”

“You were told right,” I said. “This is a very private matter. Are you alone?”

“Yes. But what has that to do with it?” The petulance in his voice was just right. What he didn't know was that he sounded like he hadn't been sleeping too well.

I said, “You wouldn't want one of your staff to overhear what I'm going to ask you. A man in your position can't be too careful.”

“Never mind my position.” Now he'd traded his petulance for honest irritation. “What is it you want?”

“Me? Nothing,” I said. “Except the answer to a small question.”

He should've passed me back down the hierarchy at that. But he didn't. It was interesting to conjecture why he didn't. He just said, “I have neither the time nor the patience for any more of this horsing around. Let me hear the question or ring off.”

“Sure,” I said. “This is it: where were you, and why, the
night Judith Walker got a belt fastened round her pretty neck?”

Warner didn't react like Kovak. He didn't make a sound. And it was he who hung up on me.

Finally, I attended to Mister King Gilmore.

It was a shame to disturb the guy when he'd had less than his quota of rest, especially after such an upsetting experience. And he thought it was a shame, too. When at last he answered the phone, he didn't need to tell me he was in one helluva temper. Through a curtain of sleep and resentment, he growled, “Whadaya want?”

“To bid you your last good morning,” I said. “Judith says to tell you next time you're going to be right out of luck. . . .”

For the rest of the day I snooped around, spreading a dollar here and a dollar there and listening to a few tongues wagging. Innocent-minded people think it's all right to gossip about other people so long as the gossip isn't malicious. What they don't know is that the most informative chit-chat is the harmless kind.

Among the many items I collected there were several I filed away for future reference. Such as:

Ivor Kovak had a substantial home on Riverside Drive, ran two cars, and took his winter vacation at Palm Beach. He also had a wife. No children. It was said that Mrs. Kovak was somewhat older than Mr. Kovak. It was also said it was Mrs. Kovak's money which had financed Mr. Kovak when he went into the big-time business on Fifth Avenue. Furthermore, the suggestion was made that, when glamour was being dished out, Mrs. Kovak was somewhere else.

All very interesting. So was the stuff I dug up about Carole Van Buren:

She was twenty-six, had a modest apartment not far from the Village, and no folks. At one time she'd kept house for her brother. Two years ago, brother Clive had got himself into trouble and was put away for a stretch not exceeding five years. There was talk that he was due out soon. There was also talk that he'd been stepping out with a swell-looking dark girl who worked in the same place as Carole. Since
Clive had been sent to the rock pile, his girl-friend hadn't been seen around any more.