This Way for a Shroud Page 17

  “I will,” Conrad said, and made for the door.

  When he had gone, Forest stared gloomily down at his blotter.

  He sat thinking for a few moments, his face worried, then with a sudden shrug of his shoulders, he reached for the pile of papers that were waiting his attention.

  II

  Sergeant Tom O’Brien stood at the foot of the bed and looked down at his son. O’Brien’s usually granite-hard face had softened, making him look younger, and there was a twinkle in his eyes never seen by either his colleagues or by his customers.

  “Go to sleep,” he said, “or you and me will run into trouble when your mother comes home.”

  His son, a freckle-faced youngster within reaching distance of a seventh birthday, gave his father a wide, disarming smile.

  “How’s about telling me how you cornered Little Caesar and the fight you had with him?” he inquired hopefully. “It won’t take long, and we needn’t tell mummy.”

  O’Brien pretended to be shocked. His son’s hero-worship was the biggest thing in his life. For a moment he wrestled with the temptation to tell the old favourite again, but it was already past nine o’clock and he had promised his wife he would have the kid in bed and asleep by eight.

  “Can’t do it, son,” he said gravely. “We’ve got to keep a bargain. You said you’d be satisfied if I told you about Lingle, and we’re late as it is. I’ll tell you about Little Caesar when next I get some time off.”

  “Is that a promise?” his son asked gravely.

  “Yes, it’s a promise. Now go to sleep. If you want anything give me a call, but no false alarms.”

  “Okay, pop,” his son said, accepting the inevitable. He had long learned it was useless to argue with his father. “See you in the morning.”

  “God bless, son.”

  “God bless, pop.”

  O’Brien turned off the light and went down the stairs to the hall. The little house was very quiet. His wife had gone to the movies with her mother. She wouldn’t be back for another hour. O’Brien wondered if he should wash up the supper dishes or take a look at the fights on the television. The fights won after a minor wrestle with his conscience.

  He pushed open the sitting-room door, then paused, frowning. He hadn’t remembered leaving the standard lamp on. He was usually pretty good about turning the lights off. He entered the room and shut the door. He had scarcely taken three steps towards the television set when he came to an abrupt standstill, his senses suddenly alert.

  O’Brien was a tough, hard cop, with nerves like steel, but in spite of his toughness he felt his heart skip a beat when he saw a small figure in black sitting in an armchair.

  The figure was in the shadows, and at first glance O’Brien thought it was a child, but then he noticed the small feet in black suede shoes that hung a few inches from the floor and the spindly legs and bone thin ankles. They had a matured look about them, and couldn’t belong to a child.

  He had a sudden creepy feeling that he was looking at a ghost, and he felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stiffen. Then he pulled himself together and took a step forward.

  “What the hell…?” he growled, and came to an abrupt standstill as the glittering barrel of a .38 automatic appeared in the light and pointed at him.

  “Hello, sergeant,” a husky voice said. “Sorry to have startled you. Don’t do anything brave. At this range I couldn’t miss you.”

  O’Brien felt sweat start out on his face. There could be only one owner to that husky, menacing voice. Years ago, when he had been on the New York force as a patrolman, O’Brien had once run into Vito Ferrari. It had been an experience he had often thought about, and there were times when he had gone to bed after a heavy dinner that he had even dreamed about it.

  He peered down at the chair, and Ferrari looked up so the fight touched his face. The two men stared at each other.

  “I see you remember me, sergeant,” Ferrari said.

  “What are you doing here?” O’Brien demanded, not moving a muscle. He knew how deadly dangerous Ferrari was, and his immediate thought was Ferrari had come to kill him. Why, he had no idea, but the Syndicate’s executioner never made social calls. He only paid business visits.

  “Sit down, sergeant,” Ferrari said, waving to an armchair opposite. “I want to talk to you.”

  O’Brien sat down. He was glad to; his legs felt shaky. He thought of his sleeping son upstairs and his wife due back in an hour. For the first time in his career he was aware that his work was putting his own family in danger, and the thought made him feel sick.

  “What are you doing in Pacific City?” he asked, determined that Ferrari shouldn’t know his fears. “It’s off your beat, isn’t it?”

  Ferrari put the automatic in a shoulder holster under his coat. This move gave O’Brien no hope. He knew Ferrari could get the gun out and kill him before he could lift himself a few inches out of his chair.

  “Yes, it’s off my beat, but I’m here on business. I’ve come for Weiner,” Ferrari said mildly. He crossed his spindly legs and swung one tiny foot backwards and forwards.

  O’Brien stiffened, and for a moment he felt relieved. He should have thought of Weiner the moment he had seen Ferrari.

  “Then you’re unlucky,” he said. “Weiner’s inaccessible.”

  “No one’s inaccessible,” Ferrari returned. “People just think they are. I want you to tell me how I can get at him.”

  O’Brien was well aware of Ferrari’s reputation. He knew Ferrari would never make a statement unless he was sure he could back it up.

  “What makes you think I’m going to tell you?” he asked in a voice that was far from steady.

  “What makes you think you’re not going to tell me?”

  O’Brien stared at him. He felt himself change colour, and his great hands closed into fists.

  “How’s your little boy, sergeant?” Ferrari went on. “I saw him this morning. A fine boy.”

  O’Brien didn’t say anything. He had a sick feeling of being trapped. He could see what was coming.

  “Shall we talk about Weiner?” Ferrari asked, after a long pause. “You don’t want me to draw you a map, do you, sergeant?”

  “You won’t get away with it this time,” O’Brien said hoarsely. “And you’ll be crazy to try.”

  Ferrari lifted his emaciated shoulders.

  “Let’s skip talking crap,” he said curtly. “What time does Weiner take a tub at night?

  “Ten o’clock,” O’Brien said. “How the hell do you know he takes a tub at night?”

  “I always study the background of my clients. It’s little things like a bath-anight habit that makes my work easy. Is he alone when he takes the tub or does a guard stay with him?”

  O’Brien hesitated, but not for long. He was being threatened with something much worse than his own death.

  “He’s alone.”

  “Describe the bathroom, please.”

  “It’s like any other bathroom. It’s on the second floor. There’s one very small window with a bar. There’s a shower, a cupboard, a tub and a toilet.”

  “Has the shower curtains?”

  “You’re wasting your time, Ferrari. Don’t kid yourself. You couldn’t get into the bathroom. A mouse couldn’t get in without being seen. We’ve really got this setup organized.”

  Ferrari wrinkled his upper lip into a sneer.

  “I can get in. I’ve cased the joint already. There’s nothing to it. I walked around the joint this morning.”

  “You’re lying!” O’Brien said, shaken.

  “Think so? Okay, I’m lying.” Ferrari ran his bony finger down the length of his nose. “Before Weiner takes a tub is the bathroom searched?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Who searches it?”

  “Whoever’s in charge for the night.”

  “When are you in charge, sergeant?”

  O’Brien drew in a deep breath

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “I
was hoping you’d say that. Now listen carefully: here’s what you do. When Werner’s ready for his tub, carry out the search in the usual way, but be damned careful how you look in the shower cabinet. That’s where I’ll be. Understand?”

  O’Brien wiped the sweat off his face with his handkerchief.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying. You can’t get into the bathroom. I don’t believe you’ve been up there! The road’s guarded so tight a cat couldn’t get through without being seen.”

  “I didn’t go by the road,” Ferrari returned. “I went up the cliff.”

  “You’re lying! No one could get up that cliff without ropes and tackle!”

  Ferrari smiled.

  “You’re forgetting I have a certain talent for climbing.”

  O’Brien remembered then he had heard that Ferrari’s parents had been circus acrobats, and Ferrari had been trained for the circus. Years ago he had earned a lot of money as ‘The Human Fly’, giving exhibitions of fantastically difficult and dangerous climbs. He had once stopped the traffic on Broadway when he had climbed the face of the Empire State Building for a publicity stunt.

  “I shall be there, sergeant,” Ferrari went on. “Make no mistake about it. Can I rely on you?”

  O’Brien started to say something, then stopped.

  “Some hesitation?” Ferrari said mildly. “I’m surprised. After all, who is Weiner? A cheap, treacherous little crook. You’re not going to risk the fife of your nice little son, are you, for a punk like Weiner?”

  “We’ll leave my son out of it,” O’Brien said hoarsely.

  “I wish we could, but I have to be certain I can rely on you. You know I never bluff, don’t you, sergeant? It’s his life or Werner’s. Please yourself.”

  O’Brien stared helplessly at the dreadful little man, watching him. If Ferrari said it was his son’s life or Weiner’s, he meant exactly that. O’Brien knew there was nothing he could do to prevent Ferrari either killing his son or killing Weiner. He knew that Ferrari wouldn’t give him a chance to kill him: he was far too cunning and quick for O’Brien. Ferrari had never failed to make good a threat. There was no reason to suppose he would fail this time.

  “And let’s get this straight,” Ferrari went on. “Don’t try to set a trap for me. Maybe it’ll come off, but I promise you your son won’t live five minutes after you’ve betrayed me. From now on every move he makes will be watched. If anything happens to me, he will be killed. I don’t want to sound dramatic, but that’s the exact situation. You play straight with me, and I’ll play straight with you. Can I rely on you?”

  O’Brien knew it was a straightforward, simple situation; he had to make a decision on his son’s life or Weiner’s.

  “Yes,” he said in a voice that had suddenly hardened. “You can rely on me.”

  III

  Conrad had not been entirely correct when he had told Forest that Frances and Pete had fallen in love with each other.

  Pete had certainly fallen in love with Frances. Love was something he had never before experienced, and it reacted on him with a tremendous impact.

  But he realized the experience could be but short-lived, and could never come to fruition. He had no illusions about Maurer’s power. He had been safe now for eight days, and this he considered to be a major miracle. He knew there could not be many days left for him to live: the margin, as the hours passed, was whittling away. Before very long Maurer would strike, and the combined vigilance of the police guards, Conrad’s careful planning and the supposed inaccessibility of the hunting lodge would then be proved to be as flimsy a protection as a thin veil held up to ward off the scorching flame of a blow lamp.

  Pete’s discovery of love came to him with an added poignancy because he knew it would be so short-lived, and he realized the experience would only be a kind of waking dream in which his imagination would play the major role.

  Whenever he caught sight of Frances when she sat in the walled-in garden and he stood at the window of his room, he conjured up vivid scenes in his mind of what they could have done together, how they might have lived, the house they might have owned, the children they might have shared if there had been no such man as Maurer to make such mind images impossible.

  He was quite stunned then when Conrad told him that he could talk to Frances if he wished.

  “She seems to think you saved her life,” Conrad said, moving about the big room where Pete slept. “She wants to talk to you. Well, I have no objection — have you?”

  Looking at the thin, narrow-shouldered young fellow with his serious eyes and the livid birth-mark across the right side of his face, Conrad suddenly realized that perhaps a girl like Frances could fall in love with such a man.

  During the week Conrad had been staying at the lodge, seeing Frances every day, he had come to love her more each time he saw her. She seemed to him, especially now she was no longer angry with him, to be the exact antithesis of Janey. Her voice, her movements, her eyes, even the way she moved her hands, expressed a kindness and an understanding for which Conrad had unconsciously been groping all his life.

  Janey had bitterly disappointed him. She took everything and gave nothing in return, but even then he might have been content to have an outlet for his affection had she not demanded more and more attention as if she were determined to find out the exact depth of his love.

  The depth was deep enough, but it revolted against Janey’s unreasonableness and her selfish and constant demands.

  Frances wouldn’t be like that, Conrad told himself. Experience had opened his eyes. He wished he had his time over again, and he cursed himself for being such a fool to have persuaded Janey to marry him.

  His love for Frances had the same poignancy as Pete’s, for he believed, like Pete believed, that his love would never come to fruition. Instead of Maurer standing in the way as in Pete’s case, it was Janey.

  Conrad had made the mistake that Frances’s interest in Pete was founded on love when in fact it was founded on compassion.

  Frances wasn’t in love with Pete, but she was sorry for him, and in a girl of her sensibility, pity was as strong, if not stronger, than love.

  She knew he had had the chance to kill her. He had had the weapon and the opportunity. He had been ordered to kill her, and he had risked his own life by staying his hand. That act made a great impression on her, and the fact that the crude naevus that disfigured his face must have embittered and soured his life made her want very much to try to make up in kindness for the years of bitterness he must have suffered.

  When they met in the garden on the afternoon of the day Conrad had talked to Forest, Frances was very kind and sweet to Pete. They talked as other young people will talk to each other for the first time. They were shy and hesitant, groping for common ground.

  It wasn’t an easy meeting. They were sharply aware of the guards who patrolled the garden and who watched Pete with stony hard eyes.

  Pete was painfully conscious of his birth-mark; he sat on Frances’s right, and he kept his face turned so she shouldn’t see the birth-mark. When he did turn to

  look at her, his hand went instinctively to cover the mark.

  Frances felt that this embarrassment was a slight on her own feelings, and after they had talked for a little while, she said suddenly, “That mark on your face is called a naevus, isn’t it?”

  He flinched and blood rushed to his face, and his eyes suddenly angry and hurt, searched for the slightest hint that she was about to bait him.

  But he couldn’t mistake the kindness he saw in her eyes nor the sudden friendly smile she gave him.

  “I want to talk about it,” she said quietly. “Because it so embarrasses you, and it shouldn’t. I believe you think it shocks me, but it doesn’t. Don’t you realize when I’m talking to you I look beyond that, and I don’t really see it?”

  Pete stared at her, and he was convinced at once that she was speaking sincerely. He realized she had said something he had longed to hear said by someon
e — anyone — but had never believed he would hear it. He was so moved he had to turn his head while he struggled to control his feelings.

  He felt her hand on his arm.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, but isn’t there something that could be done about it? I’ve read, I’m sure, that people can be cured. Haven’t you thought about it?”

  “I guess so,” he said, not looking at her. “It means an operation, and I’ve got some blood condition that makes an operation unsafe.” He swung around to face her. “But never mind about me. I want to talk about you. I’ve never met a girl like you before. You’re real and kind and decent.” He looked down at her hand, still on his arm. “You don’t mind touching me. What a fool I’ve been! If I’d met you before I wouldn’t have done what I’ve done. It was because the way people treated me, the way they looked at me, that I hooked up with the gang.” He moved closer to her. “But never mind that either. I’ve got to tell you something. This guy Conrad wants you to give evidence against Maurer. You’ve got to realize what I’m saying is right. I know. Don’t listen to Conrad or any of these coppers. They don’t know; they only think they do. They think you saw Maurer at Dead End. Now listen, I don’t want to know if you saw him or if you didn’t see him. The thing that matters is you must never admit having seen him; not to me, nor Conrad, nor anyone; not even to your mother or your father. You must never admit you saw him; not even to yourself! You stand a slight chance of keeping alive so long as you say nothing. It’s not much of a chance, but it is a chance. But understand this: if you let Conrad persuade you to tell him what you know — if you know anything — then no power on earth can save you!”

  Frances was a little shaken by his tense fierceness, but she wasn’t frightened. Conrad had explained the impossibility of anyone reaching her, and she had been impressed by the precautions he had taken.

  “I know I can’t stay here for ever,” she said, “but so long as I’m here, I’m safe, and so are you.”