Which Way to Die? (8 page)

The wiry man's binoculars were aimed directly at him. The man immediately lowered them, made quickly for the roof door, and disappeared. But not before Corrigan had got a good look at the scarred face. It was Al Jennings, the one known as the Acid Kid.

Corrigan stepped back and returned the glasses to Norma.

“What is it, Tim?”

“One of Martello's hoods was on that roof across the way using high-powered binoculars,” he said grimly. “That ought to remove all doubt about the limousine's having been tailed here from Ossining.”

He started toward the other side of the house. Norma hurried to keep up with him.

“What are you going to do, Tim?”

“Something I should have done before,” Corrigan said.

9.

The dishes had been cleared from the lawn table; Frank and Andy were back playing cribbage. Baer, puffing on a panatela, was kibitzing. Mrs. Grant and Gerard Alstrom had retreated to the living room.

Corrigan drew Baer aside and told him about the Acid Kid on the roof across the street.

“I'm going to drop by Martello's and straighten him out, Chuck. I suggest you announce that the street side of the roof is off-limits to everybody.”

“Including me,” Baer said. He added wistfully, “I don't suppose it would be a very good idea for me to leave the boys here alone while I came along?”

“No.”

Baer and Norma accompanied him to the elevator. As Corrigan stepped into the car, Norma said, “See you at seven, Tim.”

Baer glared at him.

Corrigan grinned and pushed the down button.

Martello's front for his numerous illegal activities was The Martello Realty Company. It occupied the entire top floor of a twenty-five-story office building on Madison Avenue.

Among the “salesmen” on the “staff” of The Martello Realty Company was a phalanx of junior executives in the Cosa Nostra known by the police to direct bookmaking activities, numbers banks, prostitution, narcotics distribution, and other non-realty activities. The soldiers of the Family were all licensed real estate salesmen, however, and there was nothing the police could do about their consorting at the offices where they ostensibly worked for honest wages. The company did, in fact, engage in its professed business. In addition to his soldiers, Martello had a staff of legitimate employees; these did the actual work of running his real estate enterprises.

The elevator discharged Corrigan on the twenty-fifth floor into an ordinary reception office. A middle-aged woman with a glistening hairdo occupied a desk beyond an aluminum railing. She gave him a customer-greeting smile, but Corrigan noticed that her once-over was sharp.

The smile grew forced as she recognized him. It was not Corrigan's first visit to The Martello Realty Company.

He swung through the gate and held his I.D. up to the receptionist's eyes.

“If you're looking for Mr. Martello,” the woman said, “he isn't in.”

Corrigan went by her to the hall door behind her desk. She turned quickly in her chair. “You can't go back there until I phone to see if it's all right, Captain—”

“It's all right with me,” Corrigan said, “and that's what counts.”

He turned down the hall to his left (on the right were the offices where legitimate business was transacted). The left side was only a few yards long, ending in an unmarked frosted glass door. Corrigan opened it and walked the length of a corridor with doors on both sides. At the very end there was another frosted glass door with the word PRIVATE on it.

He opened this door and stepped into an airy, plush office. A svelte enameled blonde with upswept eye makeup sat behind a desk; the eyes made her look like a cat. Lounging in chairs, studying girlie magazines, were Little Jumbo Barth and Thin Man Benny Grubb.

The blond was just hanging up a phone. She looked flustered. “I'm sorry, Captain, but Mr. Martello isn't in.”

Corrigan looked at the two men. They stared back at him.

“Then what's his muscle crew guarding—his ghost?”

He headed for a door beyond the secretary's desk. Little Jumbo bounded out of his chair and stepped between Corrigan and the door.

“Got a search warrant?” He croaked like a frog.

Corrigan was conscious that Benny Grubb had got to his feet and was moving in behind him.

Obviously Martello had issued instructions that he was not in to Captain Corrigan in case Corrigan came visiting. It hurt Corrigan's feelings. He was ordinarily scrupulous not to tread on the constitutional rights even of hoods; their lawyers were too good. In most cases he would have said no, but he could get one; would have used the blonde's phone; then planted himself where he was until the warrant got there.

But he was not in a reasonable mood. Because his attitude toward Gerard Alstrom and Frank Grant was all antagonism, he had to overcompensate. He knew Martello was in his office, and he was in no mood to take Little Jumbo's arrogance. Besides, he was fed to the eyebrows with Alstrom's and Grant's.

“Get out of my way,” Corrigan said to Barth.

Little Jumbo bared large, dirty teeth in a grin and fell into a wrestling crouch. A sharp breath from behind him reminded Corrigan of the danger from Benny Grubb.

He whirled and slashed the edge of his right hand into Grubb's Adam's apple just as the Thin Man was throwing a rabbit punch. Grubb slammed backward, caromed off the edge of the blonde's desk, and sat heavily on the floor. He stayed there, making strangling noises and clutching his throat.

Corrigan sidestepped a lunge by the ex-wrestler, stuck out a foot, and tripped him. Barth broke the fall with his hands, rolled aside, and bounced to his feet again. He launched a diving tackle.

This time Corrigan did not sidestep. As Barth's huge hands reached to encircle him, his knee whistled up and collided with the man's heavy jaw.

Little Jumbo fell to his hands and knees; he stared up at Corrigan, shaking his head. Corrigan gave him the
savate
. His shoe landed solidly under the chin, snapping the bullet head up and straightening the ex-wrestler on his knees. Then he toppled over on his side and lay still.

“No wonder he retired from wrestling,” Corrigan said conversationally to the blonde. He was not even breathing hard.

She stared at Mm wide-eyed. Corrigan glanced at Benny Grubb, who was still gripping his throat and gasping. Then he opened the door to Martello's office and stepped inside.

The mobster was seated behind a captain of industry's desk before a picture window which framed New York's skyline. His dark face turned darker as Corrigan closed the door and put his back against it.

“Usually you're not so inhospitable, Marty,” Corrigan said. “The only reason I can think of for your stupid ‘not in' act is that you know why I'm here.”

Martello said nothing. Corrigan advanced to the desk and leaned on it.

“The Acid Kid phoned you that I spotted him on the roof, right?”

Martello located his voice. “You got no right busting into my private office, Corrigan. I could have you boarded for this.”

“Then I'll give you some extra grounds,” Corrigan growled.

He vaulted the desk and hoisted the racketeer to his feet by his lapels. Martello raised both hands weakly, but he offered no resistance. Something in his liquid eyes boded ill for somebody—probably, thought Corrigan, Little Jumbo and Benny for allowing the great one to be manhandled like a punk.

Corrigan held on, emphasizing his point by a little shake. “Get this straight, Marty. If I spot any more of your hoods around that hideout, I'll have you behind bars even if I have to frame a charge against you. Any comment?”

Martello's hands were still raised protectively, but there was no fear in his dark face.

“Why do you care what happens to a pair of psycho killers, Captain?” he asked softly. “You know they killed my Audrey.”

“I'm sorry about that. From what I understand, you brought your daughter up to be a decent human being, which is about the only thing you've got going for you when you face the Man upstairs. But this is a matter of principle. Organized society isn't about to turn over the administration of justice to the Mafia.”

“What justice?” Martello asked bitterly. “They let the psychos go.”

“I could explain to you why it happened, but I doubt you'd understand. I'm just telling you, Marty. Hands off those two, or else.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” the mobster said sullenly. “You think I'm crazy? If they were hit, the finger would point straight at me.”

“Then why the stakeout?”

“So I'm interested in their plans. Is that a crime?”

“Remember what I said, Marty.”

He released his grip on the man's lapels. Martello brushed at the wrinkled cloth of his three-hundred-dollar suit.

“Okay, I got the message,” the racketeer said. “Now get out of my office.”

“If I have to come back, Marty, you're leaving with me in cuffs.”

He left quietly. Benny Grubb was on his feet, but he was still massaging his throat and gulping. He scurried out of Corrigan's way with a murderous glance.

The blonde was kneeling beside the still unconscious Little Jumbo, trying to revive him.

And what did that accomplish, Corrigan asked himself as he headed for the elevator, except to make me feel better? As Martello had said, the finger would point unwaveringly his way if young Alstrom and Grant were hit Probably the mobster's immediate plan was merely to keep track of the two killers—specifically, to learn where they were headed when they left the penthouse and under which aliases they intended to travel. Martello could afford to wait. With his Mafia connections, he could as easily have the pair burned in Timbuktu as in Manhattan. And far more safely. That was his plan, all right. Or was it? Was Martello's personal loss influencing his judgment? It was possible. He was reputed to have idolized his daughter, an only child.

When he got back to his office, Corrigan phoned Chief Technician Yoder at the police lab to ask what kind of typewriter had been used in the anonymous note Corrigan had sent over the day before.

Yoder said it had been done on a Royal portable.

Coincidence, Corrigan thought as he hung up. It must be. Harry Barber was too nice a guy to send unsigned threats, like some crank.

Then why had he bothered to check?

10.

That night Corrigan and Norma had a ball. He did not get her home until nearly three, an hour not appreciated by Chuck Baer, who had to stay up to let her in.

During the following week Corrigan took Norma out twice more; since he had to make duty the following mornings, he got her home at more reasonable hours.

By the time the next weekend rolled around, Norma had settled in, like a habit. Corrigan found himself expecting to see her regularly; he began to take their dates for granted. On Saturday she invited him over for lunch. As he was leaving, he said, “Around seven?”

“Hey, we're getting used to each other,” Norma smiled.

Corrigan considered this. “I guess we are. I kind of like it, Norm. Do you feel in a rut?”

“In a pleasant one. I'd forgotten what it felt like to depend on a man.”

It had been a long time since Corrigan had taken a woman for granted. His romances tended to be one-night stands. He wondered uneasily if he should pursue the relationship; it could get dangerously intimate. But then he shrugged. He was enjoying himself too much to let his natural skittishness spoil a good thing. He decided to ride it out and see what happened.

The only further threats against Gerard Alstrom and Frank Grant were seven more anonymous letters. Only one had been addressed to the police. One had been sent to the district attorney. The other five were received by the Court of Appeals; the justices had turned them over to the police.

The seven letters were semi-literate, none, was typed and, according to the lab, all had been written by different per sons. The technicians were able to match three to similar letters received four years earlier, but this proved a dead end, since they had never established the authorship of the original notes.

There was no further evidence that anyone was watching the penthouse.

Life there had developed its own routine. Gerard spent much of his time reading. Frank and Andy Betz endlessly played cribbage. Mrs. Grant continued to harass the household with her untiring complaints about her son's neglect. Norma, when she was not cooking or doing chores, spent most of her time in her room.

Chuck Baer, for lack of anything better to do, developed a panatela cough. When Andy was off on an errand, he played cribbage with Frank Grant, who always trounced him. It did not improve Baer's disposition.

Gerard's father went to his office daily; he visited the penthouse only for dinner and for a short time each evening. He had grown old-looking and ill.

Baer had been informed that his assignment would end some time during the week.

On Sunday evening, the tenth day of the siege in the penthouse, Corrigan took Norma to dinner. Because he had to be at work early the next morning, he got her back by eleven.

He found himself reluctant to let the evening end. The unseasonably warm weather persisted; it was a heavenly night; there was an absurdly full moon.

He kicked himself for not having suggested a nightcap at his apartment, a suggestion he had been working up to for the last two dates. He had not made it because he sensed that Norma was only just beginning to break out of the shell in which she had imprisoned herself following the breakup of her marriage; she was more likely than not to pull her head in again if pushed too hard. Tonight there was a special glow in her eyes. But he discovered it too late. Corrigan had to settle for second-best; he decided to stick around for a while.

Everybody but Baer had gone to bed. The redhead was in the front room grumpily watching TV. Corrigan politely inquired if they were keeping him up.