The Dark Sleep
Chapter 7
His gaze hit mine and there was a definite air of mutual disconcertment and annoyance hanging in the space between us. His quickly vanished behind his signature grin, and he put aside the magazine to stand and walk over, hand out.
"Well, if it ain't young Mr. Fleming!" He really sounded sincere in his delight. "How y'doing?"
"Fine, thank you." I wondered if Gordy had had that word with Ike LaCelle and if it had filtered down to Grant yet.
He pumped my hand, apparently pleased to see me. The room seemed to get smaller with his presence suddenly filling the space. It was the same kind of thing Bobbi did when she tapped into her personal voltage in front of a crowd, and maybe Grant was doing it for the same reason; he wanted to be liked, and it didn't matter by whom. For him it must have been as automatic as breathing. Bobbi knew when it was appropriate, though, and when to switch it off and just be herself.
"I'd heard that you were working tonight," he said. "Glad you got finished in time to come by. I was going to take Bobbi to a late dinner, but now I can bow out-reluctantly, I will add-and turn things over to you."
"It's good of you to be looking after her interests," I said, determined to be gracious even if it choked me.
"My own interests, you mean. That girl is one talented ball of fire and it'll be a feather in my cap to have her on my show. I only want to keep her happy."
"That's good." Over by her closet stood a fresh bouquet of a couple dozen long-stemmed roses, and on the table in front of the couch was a huge open box of chocolates. He wasn't missing any of the traditional courtship gifts. In spite of my resolution not to give in to jealousy I couldn't help feeling a sharp warning stab. There was no reason for it; Grant's behavior wasn't Bobbi's fault. I knew that in my head, but it was harder to convince my gut.
He bounced cheerfully on his heels. "I'll stay long enough to tell her good night and be on my way. Have a seat."
"Thanks, I will in a minute. I want the leg stretch." And to avoid the dressing-room mirror.
He went back to sit on the couch and picked up his drink again. "What you been up to? If you don't mind my asking."
"A little interviewing."
"Bobbi told me you're a writer." The almost-but-not-quite-patronizing tone and the look in his eyes said that he remembered my errand-boy story from last night. "You doing an article on someone?"
"Different kind of interview. I write, but I also work for a private agent." That's the name my partner preferred over
"gumshoe" to describe the job.
Grant let his forehead furrow, a comic exaggeration.
"What's that? Insurance?"
"More like investigations."
"Detective work?"
"Something like that. The Escott Agency."
"Really?" He paused a moment, lips pursed. Maybe I didn't fit his idea of a detective. "The Escott Agency. Sounds...
interesting."
"Yeah, sometimes it's a real riot."
He finished his drink, putting it on the table, and helped himself to a chocolate, chewing it slowly. Before he could continue his questioning, Bobbi came in, a noisy crowd at her heels.
"Jack!" Nothing false in her reaction of pleasure at seeing me. She gave me a light kiss, careful of her makeup.
"I got away from Charles sooner than I thought."
"Good! Look, Archy invited me to dinner, so why don't we all go out together? That is, if you don't mind, Archy."
He'd risen from the couch as soon as she'd come in and seemed nonplussed. "Well... ah..."
"Is there a problem?" she asked. "It's been a long day, maybe you're too tired?" Having quickly figured there was something wrong, she was trying to give him a graceful exit.
"Ix-nay on the inner-day," said Grant, abruptly switching on a rueful face and holding his palms out. "For now at least. After all, I was just pinch-hitting for the real thing. Your boyfriend's here to take charge, so I will diplomatically toddle off."
"But, Archy-"
"Three's one too many. Just be on time for tomorrow's rehearsal, little teacup." As before, he bowed to kiss her hand, then swung past, wishing me good night with a quick nod and a forced smile. Even its pretense didn't quite reach his eyes.
The crowd of chorus girls hanging outside, attracted by Archy's brighter light and his loud, broad greeting to them all, went with him, and I shut the door.
"What happened?" Bobbi asked in the silence.
"Absolutely nothing. I came in to wait for you and found I had to get in line."
Her mouth sagged. "I hope you didn't mean that as some kind of crack." Her voice was oddly thin.
I realized just too late what I'd sounded like. "For God's sake, no. It's nothing against you, it's just him. He gets under my skin. I didn't expect him to be here."
"No need to worry, I'd have left the door open," she said, going to her dressing table and taking off the black wig.
Her movements were alarmingly fast and jerky.
"Jeez, Bobbi, you can't think I'd think anything like that of you! And certainly not after last night."
She didn't make any reply. There looked to be too many of them hovering on her lips. She gulped, taking a few breaths. "Did you hypnotize him into leaving?"
"No! Of course not!" What the hell was going on here? "I promised you I wouldn't interfere, but you're making me worried. Did you really want to go out to dinner with him?"
"If I did, it would be for business reasons. But what am I to think when I come in here and see you looking like a volcano about to erupt?"
"That maybe your boyfriend is ticked off at another man who's trying to move in on you and pretty much rubbing my face in it. I thought I was cute when I got jealous."
"Not that way you aren't. For a minute you looked just like Slick used to."
The dawn finally came. A tightness I'd not been aware of eased from my shoulders, as everything made sense again.
I walked toward her. "Come here." I opened my arms and pulled her close.
She stiffened.
"Come on, angel."
She resisted, trying to push away. "I'll get greasepaint on your suit."
"Another suit I can get. Another you would be impossible. Come here."
She allowed me to gingerly hold her and hiccupped a few times, but still resisted.
I whispered, "I'm not going to turn into Slick and never will. That's my cast-iron guarantee to you. If I should ever be so stupid, you kick me right in the pants, front or back, as high as you want to go."
Another kind of sound from her. Something halfway between a moan and a whimper. She hated to cry, but the tension had to go somewhere, so having it leak out of her eyes was the method this time. I could hold her closer now that she'd relaxed. "How come." She gulped. "How come. You're. So damned nice?"
I moved us toward the dressing table, scooped up a box of tissues, and eased my hug enough so she could get to them. She plucked several and blew her nose a lot.
"Because of this," I said. "The last line." From my pocket I drew out a slightly crumpled paper and unfolded it. It was the note she'd written me. "I believe what's here, especially the last line."
Maybe that was a mistake. She read it and then really started to cry. But she was laughing at the same time, and it gave her more hiccups.
After we traded sufficient hugs, kisses, and reassurances, I left so she could change and clean up in peace. I'd buy her that late supper at a place she liked, then take her home. In the meantime I asked around and heard that Gordy was at one of the back tables way up on the third tier. The view of the stage was so-so, but the location was dark and discreet. He and Adelle Taylor were working on what looked to be their second bottle of champagne, and whatever he was saying seemed to be pleasing her. She was elegant again tonight in black satin and diamonds.
I was going to ask him if he'd had his talk with Ike, but changed my mind. Far be it from me to interrupt a budding romance.
The crowd had thinned to diehards with the conclusion of the show, lingering over their last drinks and conversations. Someone in the sound booth had put a record on in place of the long-gone Melodians, and piped its music over everyone's head. Soft dance stuff, but no one was dancing. It was Sunday night and most would have to leave soon to totter off Monday morning to deal with short sleep, hangovers, and work.
To be strictly accurate, it was Monday already, but I'd never bought into that one-day-changes-to-the-next-at midnight thing. It was Sunday until I woke up tomorrow and not before.
On the other side of the room I noticed that Grant was still hanging around. He was at Ike LaCelle's table with Dalhauser and the Carole Lombard blonde. She looked sleepy and bored. The three men had their heads together; Grant did most of the talking, and did his talking to Ike. Ike had on a serious face and kept nodding to show he understood. Maybe I was flattering myself, but I thought my ears should be burning again.
The impulse came over me to vanish and float up there for some eavesdropping, but by the time I was ready to act on it, Grant and the others stood to go. LaCelle helped the blonde to her feet, but she was more interested in trying to get a grip on Archy Grant's arm. She woke up enough to keep flashing him an inviting, if bleary-eyed smile. LaCelle laughed and took the unsteady lead. None of them saw me as they went out, but then I was standing very still in a patch of shadow. They'd either forgotten about Adelle having been in their group or knew she was being looked after.
I kept an eye on them from a distance, but they only collected their coats and hats. LaCelle made a phone call, probably for a taxi, then they all went outside, sheltering under the awning from a sudden rain. Their pending departure didn't exactly make me sigh in relief, but I did feel better. The real relief would be when the radio show was concluded and things could get back to normal.
On the other hand, if Bobbi went over really big-and there was no reason to think she wouldn't-then she might have regular return spots on the show. Grant could become a chronic problem.
If I let him.
I'd promised Bobbi not to influence him concerning her career. I never said anything about curbing his romantic impulses. All I needed was a couple minutes with him to make him back off on the flowers-and-candy routine. If I was subtle about it, made it a gradual thing, even Bobbi wouldn't notice the change, and he sure as hell wouldn't be aware of it.
He'd underestimated me, Bobbi, and our connection to each other, which annoyed me more than anything else.
Poking sticks at tigers was fine, but this particular tiger wasn't restrained by any cage.
After giving them enough time for their cab to come and go, I went out and brought my car around so Bobbi wouldn't have to walk far in the downpour. She had an understandable fear of catching cold. I put the heap in a no-parking zone right out the front, but one of the guys promised to watch it for me in case a bored cop cruised by. Fat chance of that happening here, most of the cops knew to give the place a wide berth so long as Gordy kept up with payoff money.
Bobbi emerged, all scrubbed and ravenous. It had begun to rain, so I hustled her into the Buick, and off we went to an all-night diner that, according to her, was both cheap and good. I bought her a meal, ordered yet another cup of coffee I would never drink, and worked hard not to breathe in the food fumes while she ate. We talked about this and that, and I was glad things were easy and fine between us again. I did not mention to her my decision about Grant, nor did it seem important to call her attention to the car that followed us from the Nightcrawler.
It waited across the street. From our rain-spattered window I could see it from the corner of my eye. Bobbi and I were in a well lighted booth, very visible from the street, but I wasn't worried about someone taking a shot at us. If that happened, the shot would be for me not her, and I was fairly certain there would be no shooting until and unless she was well out of the picture.
She filled my ear with what had gone on at the rehearsals that day, for she'd done two, one at the radio station and one back at the club, helping Adelle.
"Poor thing," she said. "It's exhausting. She has to memorize the songs and get the dance steps down in such a short time. The songs are no problem, she can do that at home, but the dance routines she needs to practice with the others to get the timing. Then she has to put it all together with the singing and make it look smooth."
"I thought it took weeks to do that kind of thing." I remembered all the work Bobbi had put into just this one show.
"It takes weeks to develop, but once a routine is set, then it's a matter of memorization and practice. Adelle got all that by the end of the day, she's a hell of a hard worker. Now she has to polish it."
"So it doesn't look like work?"
"Exactly. I've got it much easier with the radio job because I can have the music in front of me to read from, and I don't have to memorize the script so much as learn it enough to make sure the lines are funny when I say them."
"Adelle must be pretty good to pick it up so fast."
"Oh, she's wonderful. She was having a ball clowning around with that dragon's head. It's a different kind of comedy than she's used to doing, but she's great at it. Maybe I should worry about her turning out to be better in the show than me."
I told her not to worry. "How did she let herself get talked into doing this on such short notice? I mean, it looks like she's giving up her star spot to you."
Bobbi made a face. "It's complicated."
"I'm reasonably smart."
"And it brings up a sore subject."
"I expected Grant to be involved. Go on."
"The story I heard was that he got to talking with Gordy about my radio spot, then had a brainstorm about Adelle taking my place for the night of the broadcast so I could be free to do the whole thing."
"And you got this story from... ?"
"Gordy. Of course, Archy didn't really get the brainstorm right there and then. He'd obviously thought it all through. Gordy knew better, but let him play it out and agreed to be the one to talk Adelle into it. Apparently he didn't have to talk much. He made her a generous offer for the loan of her talent to the club show, and she's going to get her pay for the broadcast as well."
"How is that possible if she's not in it?"
"Her contract. She gets paid whether she appears or not. I just gotta get the name of the agent who made a sweet deal like that for her. I'm getting money for the broadcast, but forfeiting one night's pay on the show. Not that I mind, the radio work pays lots more."
"So what's the story with Gordy and Adelle? I saw her winning a wheelbarrow full of money from him in the casino, and he looked happy about it."
"With Gordy it's hard to tell, but I think he's head over heels."
Gordy Weems in love. My mind boggled. "What about Adelle?"
"It may take her a little longer to figure it out, but right now Gordy's giving her the kind of attention she used to get from Archy. That's got to count for something. For her career, Archy is still the better deal, though, so I don't know what's going to happen."
"It could work out as a fair trade. Archy gets you and Gordy gets Adelle."
"Not funny."
"Yeah, I know. But tell me, if I wasn't in the picture, if you hadn't met me, you think you'd go for Archy?"
Another face as she thought about it. "Oh, he's fun to flirt with, and very attractive, but no, absolutely not. He'd use me up and spit me out like a piece of old gum."
"Don't sell yourself short, angel. It could have been the other way around, and you'd be breaking his heart."
"You're sweet to say so."
"You don't believe me?"
"If anyone else but Archy was involved, I would. He's too sharp to let himself lose his head over a girl. Like I said, he's after the idea of me, but not me. I'm a prize, nothing more. He probably doesn't even realize it himself. I don't think he could even talk to a girl in a normal way; it'd all have to be flirting. For instance, I couldn't have this kind of conversation with him-he wouldn't know how-but I can with you."
She made a lot of sense, and this was so different from how she'd been acting earlier. The man she'd been with before me had done a lot of damage. She was pretty much over it, but in odd moments, when something sparked an unpleasant memory for her, she'd slip and give in to the past. Her behavior then was how she'd survived. These days it tended to trip her. But that was okay, I was good at catching.
I had my eyes open for the mystery car, and it was still there when we left. The driver was slumped down in the seat, so I couldn't get a good look at him. I drove Bobbi home and tried not to watch the rearview mirror the whole time. Whoever it was followed at a good distance; this late at night he could afford to do so. As I walked Bobbi into her hotel, he parked half a block away from my spot, cutting his lights.
After a long day of practice and performance she was nearly asleep on her feet, so we limited ourselves to a chaste good-night kiss in her doorway, though I did set a date with her tomorrow night for a real dinner out after rehearsals.
I'd take her to a nice place with tablecloths, crystal glassware, and a wait staff with foreign accents.
After the elevator dispensed me in the lobby, I departed by way of the hotel's back entrance, taking to the service alley that ran through the center of the block. Buildings loomed tall and sinister on either side, but I eventually emerged unscathed onto the street and cut right. When I rounded the corner I was exactly behind my shadow's parked car. It was a Buick similar to mine, but a different color. One man was behind the wheel, and now and then a plume of smoke came out the half-open driver's window as he puffed on a cigarette. As I'd hoped, he'd been content to watch my car, not me.
I walked soft, getting fairly close, knowing the rear-view mirror would be useless to warn of my approach and the rain would cover any noise. When I got even with the back bumper I vanished and worked my way around to that open window and slipped in. The only hint of my presence to the driver would be a feeling of intense cold as I passed.
Escott said it was the kind of chill that went bone-deep. Just to be mean about it I hung close to the driver until with a violent shiver and a curse he suddenly rolled up the window.
I was laughing when I materialized in the passenger seat and laughed again at the look on his mug when he turned to face me. If anyone could really jump out of his skin, this guy would have been the one to do it. He also let out with quite a yell of terrified surprise. Startled as he was, he had enough presence of mind to claw inside his coat for a gun, which I took away from him without much trouble. He threw a wild punch in my direction, then hit the door handle and shot out, running as his feet hit the pavement. I shoved the gun away in a pocket and vanished again to ease my own hasty departure.
Ghosting after him at a pretty fast clip, I got right on his heels, then poured back into myself. I also landed running, but didn't have to go far. I clapped a hand on his shoulder and spun him off balance. He yelled again, making an echo off the buildings. I got a solid grip on him, put on the brakes, and dragged him over against a wall.
He put up a good struggle, or did until I lifted him clean off his feet and pinned him against the bricks. He started up with more noise, but I cut that off with a hand over his mouth. After that I got his full attention and told him to pipe down and cooperate.
We were close to a street lamp, giving me sufficient light to make a firm impression. He got quiet in a magically short time, so I let go my grip. No running away now, he just stood there looking like a beached fish. That's the chief drawback for me whenever I put anyone under-that dead look they get in their eyes.
"What's your name, mac?" I asked.
"Shep Shepperd."
Well, if his parents had inflicted that one on him, no wonder he'd turned to crime. He had a thick body wrapped in a none-too-clean topcoat that was too big for him. He smelled of stale tobacco and garlic, but no alcohol. "Who sent you after me?"
"Ike LaCelle."
That I had expected. As soon as I'd seen the headlights I remembered the phone call LaCelle made before leaving the club. It sounded like Gordy hadn't gotten around to that talk after all. He'd probably been too busy with Adelle Taylor. What the hell, she was an understandable excuse.
"What did Ike tell you to do?"
"Follow you, find where you lived, where you work, who you-"
"I get it. And then what?"
"Then tell him."
"So he could tell Grant?"
"Who?"
I let it go. There was no need for LaCelle to fill one of his soldiers in on the background. "Did Ike say what he was going to do after you found out all this?"
"No."
"You done this kind of thing before?"
"Yes."
"What usually happens afterward?"
"This!"
The reply did not come from Shep.
Someone punched me one hell of a hard one in my right kidney. I couldn't help but drop. What wind I had in me for talking whooshed right out and wouldn't come back. He followed up immediately with a sharp, brutal clip behind one of my ears, and that sent me plummeting the rest of the way to the sidewalk.
My near-automatic reaction to escape such pain was to vanish, but it didn't happen. He'd used wood, then. Some kind of club. Just enough force to knock me down but not out, and it hurt just as much as it would a normal man.
Lucky me.
The initial shock faded slowly as I lay on the wet pavement with the rain hammering my back. When things eased enough for me to start moving again, my attacker used his foot to turn me over. I squinted up at him, not liking him much.
He was bigger than his friend, with prizefighter ears and a beat-up face to match. He looked too old for the ring, though. Maybe he sparred for a living when he wasn't out in the middle of the night helping Shep tail a vampire. He was well armed, competently cradling one of Colonel Thompson's .45 caliber specialties. It was fitted out with a fifty-shot drum and a fine stock that looked to be made out of walnut. In my opinion, that was overdoing things.
I sat up, testing my recuperation, and rubbed the sore spot on my head. I'd had worse. "Dr. Livingston, I presume?"
He either didn't appreciate my humor or didn't get it. He balanced himself to aim a kick to my gut, but I made a fast lunge and caught his leg in both hands, turning it hard. He gave a surprised grunt and toppled, arms flailing out to save himself. The machine gun clanked heavy as it landed in the streaming gutter.
His recovery was quick; he must still have had some speed in him left over from the prize ring. He twisted, trying to get to the weapon before I did. We each scrambled hastily across the walk on all fours.
I won by half a second and managed to violently shove the gun a good five yards out of his reach. Instead of going after it, I got to my feet, pulling Shep's gun from my pocket, and aimed it like I meant it.
"Hold it right there, Ace," I told him as he lurched up. "I'm a rootin' tootin' son of a gun from Arizona, so don't dance with me."
"Yeah, sure, with the safety on," he said, grinning and moving forward in a fighter's crouch.
I twitched the muzzle in a threatening movement that made him stop. "It's a revolver, Ace, and we both know they don't bother with pesky things like safeties. Next time try teaching your granny to suck eggs, you'll get fewer laughs."
He scowled mightily.
"In fact, this is a sweet little double-action model, so I don't even have to cock it to make big holes in your skull, so why don't you back off and stand over there with Shep?"
He growled something under his breath about my mother that I pretended not to hear, but did as he was told while I retrieved the machine gun. Shep had woken up from his trance at some point and stared, still looking like a fish, just slightly more animated.
"What the hell happened?" Ace demanded of his friend. "I go off for one minute to take a leak and-"
Why Ace needed a machine gun along for that errand I didn't want to know.
"Gah!" Shep's memory had evidently caught up with him. He pointed at me with a quivering hand. "This guy got inna car, right inna car with me! You shoulda seen! He was just there!"
"Shep," I said calmly, looking hard at him. "Take a nap."
His eyes rolled up, and he slid to the sidewalk.
Ace's own eyes went wide, staring at his unconscious friend, before he turned them on me. It was all I needed, just a little of his undivided attention to put him under as well. I gave him the same questions I'd put to Shep and got the same answers. Ike LaCelle was accustomed to hiring them for odd jobs at odd hours, so when he called with instructions for them to get over to the club and follow me, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Night work was one thing that gangsters and the undead definitely had in common.
They were usually told to rough up the bird they were after, but not this time. I supposed LaCelle just wanted information to start with, then he'd send in his boys to discourage me from seeing Bobbi again. Maybe I was to come home one evening and find them waiting for me with brass knuckles and big grins.
Fat chance.
When I'd finished with them both, they'd have to report a dismal failure to LaCelle. I primed them to say they'd followed me diligently, then lost me sometime after I crossed the state line into Wisconsin. In fact, at three in the afternoon tomorrow they would make a collect long-distance call to Mr. LaCelle from wherever they happened to be in that state to let him know about it. I walked them back to their car, saw them tucked in all cozy, and waved good-bye as they drove off.
I hoped they had enough gas for the trip. I'd forgotten to tell them to stop for it.
The house was dark when I got back, though Escott had left the upper-landing light on for me. For once I was sorry that he was attempting to get one up on the insomnia; I'd wanted to tell him about my little interruption, and let him know about Ike LaCelle's bullyboys.
Just because I'd taken care of the two he'd sent didn't mean he couldn't find more.
I sieved upstairs lest the creaking of the house's old floorboards disturb my sleeping partner and shucked out of my thoroughly soaked clothes. Maybe I could get LaCelle to pay the cleaning bill.
Having changed into pajamas and a robe, I went silently down to the kitchen and spent some time scribbling Escott a letter on the situation, adding in the news about Bobbi being a full-fledged guest on the Variety Hour. He also had an invitation to come to the studio and watch-Bobbi's way of thanking him for the orchid. I left the note on the kitchen table with the revolver and machine gun, wishing I could see the look on Escott's face in the morning when he saw them.
It'd be a beaut, I was sure, especially before he had his coffee.
There was still a big slice of waking night left. My condition wouldn't allow me to cheat and go to bed early, so I caught up on reading the papers. Escott had gotten to them first; some were in tatters from his habit of cutting out any articles that caught his eye. He'd left the clippings on the coffee table; I didn't miss much. They were mostly concerned with crimes. I skimmed those enough to know what they were about then moved on to other news, little of which was good. The civil war in Spain was going great-for the side that the Nazis were backing. The word "atrocities" was used a lot, but the paper either wouldn't or couldn't get more specific than that.
I got sick of it and the state of mankind in general pretty fast and gave up on current news, trying a magazine instead. The first page I turned to informed me that dynamite was the preferred method of suicide in a Montana mining town. That was enough to send me back up to my room to find a book. I spent the remaining hours reading about a detective who talked tough, got hit on the head a lot, and planned to marry the girl right after the case was finished.
He shot several gangsters stone dead and sent the chief bad guy plunging into a cement mixer, none of which brought any objections from the grateful cops. Not a bad life at all.
It occurred to me at several points in the story that I could do a better job of writing myself, but I just couldn't trouble myself enough to go down to the basement and prove it. I finished the book off, tossed it on a pile of others I'd gone through, and stared at the ceiling, not thinking about much of anything except Bobbi for a long while. I'd let her read some of my stuff, and she'd said it was good and that she'd liked it, but I wasn't all that sure myself. She was a singer, not a writer; I needed someone in the writing business to look at it. Since no editors were knocking themselves out to make appointments with me, the only course left was to get to work, finish something, and send it in.
Which I'd have to do some other night. The clock said I had just enough time to get to my basement sanctuary. I did exactly that, and for my last moments of consciousness I concentrated hard at not looking at my abandoned typewriter.
It was still in the same spot when I woke up, but I had a busy evening ahead and cheerfully quit the chamber to join Escott upstairs. He sat at his ease at the kitchen table surrounded by several empty cartons of Chinese food and sipping a gin and tonic. He was doing the newspaper crossword puzzle with that damned hypodermic pen.
"Cripes, it's the easy life for you and no mistake," I said, knotting the tie on my bathrobe.
He was fairly used to my sudden materializations by now and hardly bothered to look up. "Yes, it's been so dull here lately I was thinking of spending the next weekend in Cuba."
"Didn't you like the presents?"
Now he managed to crack something close to a smile. "Rather. Especially the machine gun. I took it out to the firing range today and had a bit of fun. The stock got slightly damaged from that roughhousing you described in your note, but it is a very fine weapon, indeed."
"You sound like you're keeping it."
"Why not?"
"Because it might have been used in a crime. The cops could be looking for it."
"Not to worry, I'll turn it in when I've finished playing. It's not often I get a chance to make so much noise in so short a time. You'd be surprised at how quickly one can empty those drums. It's a pity the Treasury Department has such a tight control over those things; I should like to have one for myself."
"Maybe you could ask that mug where he got it."
"I meant legally. I doubt he paid much attention to the restrictions."
"Yeah, crooks are funny that way. Where is it?"
"In the basement behind the safe's alcove. The revolver's there, as well."
We were the only two people on the planet who knew how to open the trick wall that hid the safe. "How're things going with the Sommerfeld girl?"
He made a sour face and capped the pen. "They're not. She's all right, or was so when she phoned this afternoon to check on me. In fact, she's phoned several times today, according to my service."
"Getting antsy?"
"That's an accurate enough description for her growing impatience."
"What about that guy Paterno? Find him?"
"No," he said, which really surprised me. Escott was capable of tracking down a black cat in a coal mine without breaking a sweat. "I tried asking at the tavern McCallen frequents, and several other leads, but nothing turned up concerning his mystery friend. The single name you provided could be a first name, an alias, or a nickname. Whichever it might be, he's never broken any laws using it."
"I'll do what I can to clear the books tonight when I see McCallen."
"Which may not be possible."
"Now what?"
"He did not go in to work today, nor was he at home."
"Where, then?"
He shrugged.
"My guess is that he's either hiding out from us or devoting his time to searching for Miss Sommerfeld."
"That's just great."
"Yes, it is rather disappointing."
"I don't figure him for hiding out, though. There's probably nothing better he'd like to do than find us. He was steamed hot as hell about my going through his place."
"So you've said, but he avoided the office-at least when I was there."
"You mean you've been waiting for him?"
"Well, I did give the correct name of the agency when I first contacted him for that cafe meeting. If he remembered it he need only look in the telephone directory to find the address. I did rather expect him to walk in at any time today, but..." He made a small throwing-away gesture.
"I hope you thought to-"
"My dear chap, I'm no fool, I took suitable precautions to arm and protect myself."
"There's a relief. I just wish you'd told me-oh. You couldn't."
"You do miss a few things with that daily coma of yours."
That called for a snort. "Now what?"
"It depends how much time you have to spare tonight."
I knew what he wanted me to do. "Not much, at least early on. I'll drive over to McCallen's, see if he's there. If he is, then the problem's solved; but if not, then I can't wait around. I promised to take Bobbi to dinner."
"How is Miss Smythe? She must be most pleased with the turn of events you mentioned."
"She's fine, all excited about the radio broadcast tomorrow. There're tickets reserved for us at the studio, and we're to go to the party at the Nightcrawler afterward."
"That is most generous of her, but I-"
"Charles, she likes you. It'd really make her happy if you accepted her invitation."
He bounced one eyebrow. "And I thought it was Mr. McCallen who was the blackmailer. What about this LaCelle and his toughs? Will he be at this event?"
"Probably."
"Then I shall be happy to attend."
"Great, just don't tell Bobbi you're there adding to your rogues'-gallery files."
"Certainly not. You do seem determined to fill up my social calendar this week. I phoned Shoe, and we've an appointment for dinner and to see the show playing at his club on Wednesday."
"You can have my plate of snails."
"If Shoe is not merely boasting about this new chef he's acquired I just may do that."
As this was the first real date Bobbi and I had had in a while, I put a little extra effort into making myself presentable. The tuxedo with the white coat was back from the cleaners, but I double-checked it for any sign of dark lint, just in case. Though I couldn't see anything in a mirror, I at least felt like I looked damned sharp. Escott glanced up long enough to say that I'd outdone myself, wished me and Miss Smythe a most enjoyable time, then went back to his evening papers. Unless work beckoned, he was more stay-at-home than Emily Dickinson ever thought to be, but minus the poetry writing to distract him. He had other activities to fill the hours.
His latest project with the crossbows appeared to be complete. The dining room and its big table were all cleared and cleaned, and hanging from its walls like trophies were the weapons he'd repaired. He'd been doing some practice with them, too. At the far end of the downstairs hall he kept a bale of old rolled up carpet about two feet thick and four feet square bound tight with rope. Most of the time he threw a tablecloth over the ratty thing to conceal it, but that was off now, revealing the target he'd tacked on the side. The red bull's-eye center was nearly eaten out by holes made from crossbow bolts.
Everyone should have a hobby. Besides, this beat the indoor pistol firing that had come before the crossbows. The neighbors had had fits complaining about the noise until I persuaded him to start going to a real shooting range.
I hopped in the Buick and went straight to Jason McCallen's place. It didn't look too promising; all the lights were out and his car was gone. On the slim chance that he might be playing games and skulking inside, I did another break-and-enter routine, though with me it was more of a vanish-and-slip-in-through-the-cracks act.
The living room was very still and dim. I listened hard before moving, but couldn't hear anything. My flashlight brightened things considerably, but did not reveal the presence of the owner, though it flushed the cat out as I went searching. The bedroom was in order, the clothing in the closet and bureau undisturbed, so McCallen hadn't packed for a lengthy trip-unless he planned to buy what he needed along the way.
In the kitchen the ample food in the cat's dish was still fresh, so the animal was in no danger of starving. It reassured me more than anything else I'd seen here that McCallen planned to return. He could have dropped in at any time today to feed his pet, who was presently trying to leave a coating of shed fur on my tux pants as he rubbed against me. I found the phone and called Escott. He took the negative news with a kind of verbal shrug.
"Nothing for it then but to get on to the rest of your evening."
"I'll try here again later. He has to come back to sleep sometime." I had the idea of waking McCallen in the wee hours to deliver my message. If I did it right he wouldn't even remember it as a dream.
"Only if it's convenient to you," said Escott.
I hung up and vanished, which scared the hell out of the cat, to judge by his hiss and yowl as he tore from the room. Animals are usually fine with me until I try disappearing. Maybe they don't like the cold in the space I occupy. I floated all the way across the street to the car, filling back into myself right in the driver's seat and feeling pretty smug about my ability to do so. Of course, I'd have felt a whole lot more smug if I'd actually reappeared in my own vehicle.
The damp wind from the north had caused me to drift too far to the left. I was in somebody else's Studebaker.
A nice car, but my key wouldn't fit. I sieved out and humbly walked to my Buick.
A short drive later and I found a parking space no more than a dozen steps from Moe's tavern. Maybe I'd have better luck than Escott at finding McCallen here.
The main room held only a scattering of couples, but no sign of McCallen, Paterno, or any of the others who had chased me. I crossed to the curtained-off area they'd emerged from, but no one was there either. The only familiar face in the joint was Jim Waters, who sat sideways at one of the tables so he could stretch out his legs. I had time for a short visit, so I went over, said hello, shook hands, and apologized for my swift exit the other night.
"What was that all about?" he asked after inviting me to sit. "What did you do to get that big guy so mad at you?"
"It's a long story with no payoff. I need to settle something with him, but not when he's surrounded by a crowd."
"Well, I'm glad you got away. Leastwise, you don't look worse for the wear, so I'm assuming you got away." He gave my duds a thorough eyeballing. My topcoat must have represented a month's earnings for him, even with an army pension.
"I'm taking my girl someplace fancy tonight," I explained. "Buy you a beer?"
He had one empty bottle on the table by him. "I won't say no so long as I buy the next round."
I lifted the bottle so the waiter at the bar could see and he nodded back. "This'll sound crazy, but I can't drink alcohol."
Waters laughed once. "I knew there was something wrong with you. You under the age limit?"
"No, it's just bad for my insides. Makes me sick as a dog, but I don't mind watching someone else enjoying a cold one." The waiter misunderstood my order and brought two bottles. Waters assured me he could make a home for the spare. I let him clear his throat with a good swallow of brew. "That big Scotsman, you know anything about him?"
"Thought he was your friend."
"No friend. It's a business deal with us, and I don't know him that well, or the people with him."
"I see him here a few times a week with his crew. They don't mix much with the rest of the crowd, mostly stay in the back."
"They must be tone deaf. What do they do there?"
"Talking and drinking. Once in a while I hear them arguing about stuff when I'm trying to sing. I usually just do a louder number."
"Arguing?"
"Donno about what, I don't pay 'em much mind. Weird-looking bunch. Couple of 'em have that hungry, mad-at-the-world look. Maybe they're communists."
That caught my attention. It might explain a few things about why someone was willing to pay McCallen a couple of grand. Maybe he'd gotten Miss Sommerfeld to join the communist party and instead of love letters the envelope was full of papers proving it. That would break the engagement to her prince fast enough. If there was one thing royalty hated more than rioting peasants, it was rioting communist peasants.
"Does anyone else here know for sure? The staff? The owner?"
"I doubt it. Moe lets 'em have the room so long as they keep buying beer. He doesn't ask questions unless somebody starts busting furniture."
Since this seemed to be the limit of his information I asked him about his music. "Singing tonight?"
"It's early yet. I like to have some kind of a crowd before I interrupt their talking. You still serious about that nightclub?"
"Yeah." But I could tell he wasn't quite buying it yet. I wanted very much to convince him what I had planned was more than just some kid's ambitious pipe dream. "Look, how would you like to meet Bobbi Smythe? She's going to be on the Archy Grant Variety Hour tomorrow night and afterward there's going to be a celebration at the Nightcrawler Club. I'll introduce you."
"I don't know if that's my kind of party-"
"You need to meet her anyway. Once my club's up and running you'll be working together."
He hemmed and hawed until I was tempted to give him a little hypnotic nudge. Then: "Is she as pretty as she sings?
I've heard her on the radio a few times."
"Brother, she's a knock out."
"Well... I think I could be persuaded to-"
"Great, I'll have a paid-up cab outside your store tomorrow at seven-thirty."
He gave me a startled look and chuckled. "You don't want me to change my mind, do you?"
I grinned back. "Nope."
He shook his head and started on the second beer. "This club of yours, where you setting up?"
I gave a shrug. "The best location I can afford."
"Well, you look like you can buy the best. Is it your money or the mob's?"
Maybe I'd been hanging around Gordy and his friends too much. Something of them must have been rubbing off onto me. On the other hand, in these hard times the only people with bucks were the racketeers. "I earned it, and I pay taxes on it." True statements, but both avoided a direct answer about its source.
He nodded, a wise gleam in his eyes. He was on to me all right, but willing to let me keep my secrets. "You got a name for this place yet?"
I'd been sitting on that one for a long time. The name had come to me one night with no effort or thought, yet it struck me as being absolutely perfect. "Oh, yeah. I do."
"Ready to share it?"
I had to grin again, I was so pleased with myself. "Club Crymsyn."
"Well, if it ain't young Mr. Fleming!" He really sounded sincere in his delight. "How y'doing?"
"Fine, thank you." I wondered if Gordy had had that word with Ike LaCelle and if it had filtered down to Grant yet.
He pumped my hand, apparently pleased to see me. The room seemed to get smaller with his presence suddenly filling the space. It was the same kind of thing Bobbi did when she tapped into her personal voltage in front of a crowd, and maybe Grant was doing it for the same reason; he wanted to be liked, and it didn't matter by whom. For him it must have been as automatic as breathing. Bobbi knew when it was appropriate, though, and when to switch it off and just be herself.
"I'd heard that you were working tonight," he said. "Glad you got finished in time to come by. I was going to take Bobbi to a late dinner, but now I can bow out-reluctantly, I will add-and turn things over to you."
"It's good of you to be looking after her interests," I said, determined to be gracious even if it choked me.
"My own interests, you mean. That girl is one talented ball of fire and it'll be a feather in my cap to have her on my show. I only want to keep her happy."
"That's good." Over by her closet stood a fresh bouquet of a couple dozen long-stemmed roses, and on the table in front of the couch was a huge open box of chocolates. He wasn't missing any of the traditional courtship gifts. In spite of my resolution not to give in to jealousy I couldn't help feeling a sharp warning stab. There was no reason for it; Grant's behavior wasn't Bobbi's fault. I knew that in my head, but it was harder to convince my gut.
He bounced cheerfully on his heels. "I'll stay long enough to tell her good night and be on my way. Have a seat."
"Thanks, I will in a minute. I want the leg stretch." And to avoid the dressing-room mirror.
He went back to sit on the couch and picked up his drink again. "What you been up to? If you don't mind my asking."
"A little interviewing."
"Bobbi told me you're a writer." The almost-but-not-quite-patronizing tone and the look in his eyes said that he remembered my errand-boy story from last night. "You doing an article on someone?"
"Different kind of interview. I write, but I also work for a private agent." That's the name my partner preferred over
"gumshoe" to describe the job.
Grant let his forehead furrow, a comic exaggeration.
"What's that? Insurance?"
"More like investigations."
"Detective work?"
"Something like that. The Escott Agency."
"Really?" He paused a moment, lips pursed. Maybe I didn't fit his idea of a detective. "The Escott Agency. Sounds...
interesting."
"Yeah, sometimes it's a real riot."
He finished his drink, putting it on the table, and helped himself to a chocolate, chewing it slowly. Before he could continue his questioning, Bobbi came in, a noisy crowd at her heels.
"Jack!" Nothing false in her reaction of pleasure at seeing me. She gave me a light kiss, careful of her makeup.
"I got away from Charles sooner than I thought."
"Good! Look, Archy invited me to dinner, so why don't we all go out together? That is, if you don't mind, Archy."
He'd risen from the couch as soon as she'd come in and seemed nonplussed. "Well... ah..."
"Is there a problem?" she asked. "It's been a long day, maybe you're too tired?" Having quickly figured there was something wrong, she was trying to give him a graceful exit.
"Ix-nay on the inner-day," said Grant, abruptly switching on a rueful face and holding his palms out. "For now at least. After all, I was just pinch-hitting for the real thing. Your boyfriend's here to take charge, so I will diplomatically toddle off."
"But, Archy-"
"Three's one too many. Just be on time for tomorrow's rehearsal, little teacup." As before, he bowed to kiss her hand, then swung past, wishing me good night with a quick nod and a forced smile. Even its pretense didn't quite reach his eyes.
The crowd of chorus girls hanging outside, attracted by Archy's brighter light and his loud, broad greeting to them all, went with him, and I shut the door.
"What happened?" Bobbi asked in the silence.
"Absolutely nothing. I came in to wait for you and found I had to get in line."
Her mouth sagged. "I hope you didn't mean that as some kind of crack." Her voice was oddly thin.
I realized just too late what I'd sounded like. "For God's sake, no. It's nothing against you, it's just him. He gets under my skin. I didn't expect him to be here."
"No need to worry, I'd have left the door open," she said, going to her dressing table and taking off the black wig.
Her movements were alarmingly fast and jerky.
"Jeez, Bobbi, you can't think I'd think anything like that of you! And certainly not after last night."
She didn't make any reply. There looked to be too many of them hovering on her lips. She gulped, taking a few breaths. "Did you hypnotize him into leaving?"
"No! Of course not!" What the hell was going on here? "I promised you I wouldn't interfere, but you're making me worried. Did you really want to go out to dinner with him?"
"If I did, it would be for business reasons. But what am I to think when I come in here and see you looking like a volcano about to erupt?"
"That maybe your boyfriend is ticked off at another man who's trying to move in on you and pretty much rubbing my face in it. I thought I was cute when I got jealous."
"Not that way you aren't. For a minute you looked just like Slick used to."
The dawn finally came. A tightness I'd not been aware of eased from my shoulders, as everything made sense again.
I walked toward her. "Come here." I opened my arms and pulled her close.
She stiffened.
"Come on, angel."
She resisted, trying to push away. "I'll get greasepaint on your suit."
"Another suit I can get. Another you would be impossible. Come here."
She allowed me to gingerly hold her and hiccupped a few times, but still resisted.
I whispered, "I'm not going to turn into Slick and never will. That's my cast-iron guarantee to you. If I should ever be so stupid, you kick me right in the pants, front or back, as high as you want to go."
Another kind of sound from her. Something halfway between a moan and a whimper. She hated to cry, but the tension had to go somewhere, so having it leak out of her eyes was the method this time. I could hold her closer now that she'd relaxed. "How come." She gulped. "How come. You're. So damned nice?"
I moved us toward the dressing table, scooped up a box of tissues, and eased my hug enough so she could get to them. She plucked several and blew her nose a lot.
"Because of this," I said. "The last line." From my pocket I drew out a slightly crumpled paper and unfolded it. It was the note she'd written me. "I believe what's here, especially the last line."
Maybe that was a mistake. She read it and then really started to cry. But she was laughing at the same time, and it gave her more hiccups.
After we traded sufficient hugs, kisses, and reassurances, I left so she could change and clean up in peace. I'd buy her that late supper at a place she liked, then take her home. In the meantime I asked around and heard that Gordy was at one of the back tables way up on the third tier. The view of the stage was so-so, but the location was dark and discreet. He and Adelle Taylor were working on what looked to be their second bottle of champagne, and whatever he was saying seemed to be pleasing her. She was elegant again tonight in black satin and diamonds.
I was going to ask him if he'd had his talk with Ike, but changed my mind. Far be it from me to interrupt a budding romance.
The crowd had thinned to diehards with the conclusion of the show, lingering over their last drinks and conversations. Someone in the sound booth had put a record on in place of the long-gone Melodians, and piped its music over everyone's head. Soft dance stuff, but no one was dancing. It was Sunday night and most would have to leave soon to totter off Monday morning to deal with short sleep, hangovers, and work.
To be strictly accurate, it was Monday already, but I'd never bought into that one-day-changes-to-the-next-at midnight thing. It was Sunday until I woke up tomorrow and not before.
On the other side of the room I noticed that Grant was still hanging around. He was at Ike LaCelle's table with Dalhauser and the Carole Lombard blonde. She looked sleepy and bored. The three men had their heads together; Grant did most of the talking, and did his talking to Ike. Ike had on a serious face and kept nodding to show he understood. Maybe I was flattering myself, but I thought my ears should be burning again.
The impulse came over me to vanish and float up there for some eavesdropping, but by the time I was ready to act on it, Grant and the others stood to go. LaCelle helped the blonde to her feet, but she was more interested in trying to get a grip on Archy Grant's arm. She woke up enough to keep flashing him an inviting, if bleary-eyed smile. LaCelle laughed and took the unsteady lead. None of them saw me as they went out, but then I was standing very still in a patch of shadow. They'd either forgotten about Adelle having been in their group or knew she was being looked after.
I kept an eye on them from a distance, but they only collected their coats and hats. LaCelle made a phone call, probably for a taxi, then they all went outside, sheltering under the awning from a sudden rain. Their pending departure didn't exactly make me sigh in relief, but I did feel better. The real relief would be when the radio show was concluded and things could get back to normal.
On the other hand, if Bobbi went over really big-and there was no reason to think she wouldn't-then she might have regular return spots on the show. Grant could become a chronic problem.
If I let him.
I'd promised Bobbi not to influence him concerning her career. I never said anything about curbing his romantic impulses. All I needed was a couple minutes with him to make him back off on the flowers-and-candy routine. If I was subtle about it, made it a gradual thing, even Bobbi wouldn't notice the change, and he sure as hell wouldn't be aware of it.
He'd underestimated me, Bobbi, and our connection to each other, which annoyed me more than anything else.
Poking sticks at tigers was fine, but this particular tiger wasn't restrained by any cage.
After giving them enough time for their cab to come and go, I went out and brought my car around so Bobbi wouldn't have to walk far in the downpour. She had an understandable fear of catching cold. I put the heap in a no-parking zone right out the front, but one of the guys promised to watch it for me in case a bored cop cruised by. Fat chance of that happening here, most of the cops knew to give the place a wide berth so long as Gordy kept up with payoff money.
Bobbi emerged, all scrubbed and ravenous. It had begun to rain, so I hustled her into the Buick, and off we went to an all-night diner that, according to her, was both cheap and good. I bought her a meal, ordered yet another cup of coffee I would never drink, and worked hard not to breathe in the food fumes while she ate. We talked about this and that, and I was glad things were easy and fine between us again. I did not mention to her my decision about Grant, nor did it seem important to call her attention to the car that followed us from the Nightcrawler.
It waited across the street. From our rain-spattered window I could see it from the corner of my eye. Bobbi and I were in a well lighted booth, very visible from the street, but I wasn't worried about someone taking a shot at us. If that happened, the shot would be for me not her, and I was fairly certain there would be no shooting until and unless she was well out of the picture.
She filled my ear with what had gone on at the rehearsals that day, for she'd done two, one at the radio station and one back at the club, helping Adelle.
"Poor thing," she said. "It's exhausting. She has to memorize the songs and get the dance steps down in such a short time. The songs are no problem, she can do that at home, but the dance routines she needs to practice with the others to get the timing. Then she has to put it all together with the singing and make it look smooth."
"I thought it took weeks to do that kind of thing." I remembered all the work Bobbi had put into just this one show.
"It takes weeks to develop, but once a routine is set, then it's a matter of memorization and practice. Adelle got all that by the end of the day, she's a hell of a hard worker. Now she has to polish it."
"So it doesn't look like work?"
"Exactly. I've got it much easier with the radio job because I can have the music in front of me to read from, and I don't have to memorize the script so much as learn it enough to make sure the lines are funny when I say them."
"Adelle must be pretty good to pick it up so fast."
"Oh, she's wonderful. She was having a ball clowning around with that dragon's head. It's a different kind of comedy than she's used to doing, but she's great at it. Maybe I should worry about her turning out to be better in the show than me."
I told her not to worry. "How did she let herself get talked into doing this on such short notice? I mean, it looks like she's giving up her star spot to you."
Bobbi made a face. "It's complicated."
"I'm reasonably smart."
"And it brings up a sore subject."
"I expected Grant to be involved. Go on."
"The story I heard was that he got to talking with Gordy about my radio spot, then had a brainstorm about Adelle taking my place for the night of the broadcast so I could be free to do the whole thing."
"And you got this story from... ?"
"Gordy. Of course, Archy didn't really get the brainstorm right there and then. He'd obviously thought it all through. Gordy knew better, but let him play it out and agreed to be the one to talk Adelle into it. Apparently he didn't have to talk much. He made her a generous offer for the loan of her talent to the club show, and she's going to get her pay for the broadcast as well."
"How is that possible if she's not in it?"
"Her contract. She gets paid whether she appears or not. I just gotta get the name of the agent who made a sweet deal like that for her. I'm getting money for the broadcast, but forfeiting one night's pay on the show. Not that I mind, the radio work pays lots more."
"So what's the story with Gordy and Adelle? I saw her winning a wheelbarrow full of money from him in the casino, and he looked happy about it."
"With Gordy it's hard to tell, but I think he's head over heels."
Gordy Weems in love. My mind boggled. "What about Adelle?"
"It may take her a little longer to figure it out, but right now Gordy's giving her the kind of attention she used to get from Archy. That's got to count for something. For her career, Archy is still the better deal, though, so I don't know what's going to happen."
"It could work out as a fair trade. Archy gets you and Gordy gets Adelle."
"Not funny."
"Yeah, I know. But tell me, if I wasn't in the picture, if you hadn't met me, you think you'd go for Archy?"
Another face as she thought about it. "Oh, he's fun to flirt with, and very attractive, but no, absolutely not. He'd use me up and spit me out like a piece of old gum."
"Don't sell yourself short, angel. It could have been the other way around, and you'd be breaking his heart."
"You're sweet to say so."
"You don't believe me?"
"If anyone else but Archy was involved, I would. He's too sharp to let himself lose his head over a girl. Like I said, he's after the idea of me, but not me. I'm a prize, nothing more. He probably doesn't even realize it himself. I don't think he could even talk to a girl in a normal way; it'd all have to be flirting. For instance, I couldn't have this kind of conversation with him-he wouldn't know how-but I can with you."
She made a lot of sense, and this was so different from how she'd been acting earlier. The man she'd been with before me had done a lot of damage. She was pretty much over it, but in odd moments, when something sparked an unpleasant memory for her, she'd slip and give in to the past. Her behavior then was how she'd survived. These days it tended to trip her. But that was okay, I was good at catching.
I had my eyes open for the mystery car, and it was still there when we left. The driver was slumped down in the seat, so I couldn't get a good look at him. I drove Bobbi home and tried not to watch the rearview mirror the whole time. Whoever it was followed at a good distance; this late at night he could afford to do so. As I walked Bobbi into her hotel, he parked half a block away from my spot, cutting his lights.
After a long day of practice and performance she was nearly asleep on her feet, so we limited ourselves to a chaste good-night kiss in her doorway, though I did set a date with her tomorrow night for a real dinner out after rehearsals.
I'd take her to a nice place with tablecloths, crystal glassware, and a wait staff with foreign accents.
After the elevator dispensed me in the lobby, I departed by way of the hotel's back entrance, taking to the service alley that ran through the center of the block. Buildings loomed tall and sinister on either side, but I eventually emerged unscathed onto the street and cut right. When I rounded the corner I was exactly behind my shadow's parked car. It was a Buick similar to mine, but a different color. One man was behind the wheel, and now and then a plume of smoke came out the half-open driver's window as he puffed on a cigarette. As I'd hoped, he'd been content to watch my car, not me.
I walked soft, getting fairly close, knowing the rear-view mirror would be useless to warn of my approach and the rain would cover any noise. When I got even with the back bumper I vanished and worked my way around to that open window and slipped in. The only hint of my presence to the driver would be a feeling of intense cold as I passed.
Escott said it was the kind of chill that went bone-deep. Just to be mean about it I hung close to the driver until with a violent shiver and a curse he suddenly rolled up the window.
I was laughing when I materialized in the passenger seat and laughed again at the look on his mug when he turned to face me. If anyone could really jump out of his skin, this guy would have been the one to do it. He also let out with quite a yell of terrified surprise. Startled as he was, he had enough presence of mind to claw inside his coat for a gun, which I took away from him without much trouble. He threw a wild punch in my direction, then hit the door handle and shot out, running as his feet hit the pavement. I shoved the gun away in a pocket and vanished again to ease my own hasty departure.
Ghosting after him at a pretty fast clip, I got right on his heels, then poured back into myself. I also landed running, but didn't have to go far. I clapped a hand on his shoulder and spun him off balance. He yelled again, making an echo off the buildings. I got a solid grip on him, put on the brakes, and dragged him over against a wall.
He put up a good struggle, or did until I lifted him clean off his feet and pinned him against the bricks. He started up with more noise, but I cut that off with a hand over his mouth. After that I got his full attention and told him to pipe down and cooperate.
We were close to a street lamp, giving me sufficient light to make a firm impression. He got quiet in a magically short time, so I let go my grip. No running away now, he just stood there looking like a beached fish. That's the chief drawback for me whenever I put anyone under-that dead look they get in their eyes.
"What's your name, mac?" I asked.
"Shep Shepperd."
Well, if his parents had inflicted that one on him, no wonder he'd turned to crime. He had a thick body wrapped in a none-too-clean topcoat that was too big for him. He smelled of stale tobacco and garlic, but no alcohol. "Who sent you after me?"
"Ike LaCelle."
That I had expected. As soon as I'd seen the headlights I remembered the phone call LaCelle made before leaving the club. It sounded like Gordy hadn't gotten around to that talk after all. He'd probably been too busy with Adelle Taylor. What the hell, she was an understandable excuse.
"What did Ike tell you to do?"
"Follow you, find where you lived, where you work, who you-"
"I get it. And then what?"
"Then tell him."
"So he could tell Grant?"
"Who?"
I let it go. There was no need for LaCelle to fill one of his soldiers in on the background. "Did Ike say what he was going to do after you found out all this?"
"No."
"You done this kind of thing before?"
"Yes."
"What usually happens afterward?"
"This!"
The reply did not come from Shep.
Someone punched me one hell of a hard one in my right kidney. I couldn't help but drop. What wind I had in me for talking whooshed right out and wouldn't come back. He followed up immediately with a sharp, brutal clip behind one of my ears, and that sent me plummeting the rest of the way to the sidewalk.
My near-automatic reaction to escape such pain was to vanish, but it didn't happen. He'd used wood, then. Some kind of club. Just enough force to knock me down but not out, and it hurt just as much as it would a normal man.
Lucky me.
The initial shock faded slowly as I lay on the wet pavement with the rain hammering my back. When things eased enough for me to start moving again, my attacker used his foot to turn me over. I squinted up at him, not liking him much.
He was bigger than his friend, with prizefighter ears and a beat-up face to match. He looked too old for the ring, though. Maybe he sparred for a living when he wasn't out in the middle of the night helping Shep tail a vampire. He was well armed, competently cradling one of Colonel Thompson's .45 caliber specialties. It was fitted out with a fifty-shot drum and a fine stock that looked to be made out of walnut. In my opinion, that was overdoing things.
I sat up, testing my recuperation, and rubbed the sore spot on my head. I'd had worse. "Dr. Livingston, I presume?"
He either didn't appreciate my humor or didn't get it. He balanced himself to aim a kick to my gut, but I made a fast lunge and caught his leg in both hands, turning it hard. He gave a surprised grunt and toppled, arms flailing out to save himself. The machine gun clanked heavy as it landed in the streaming gutter.
His recovery was quick; he must still have had some speed in him left over from the prize ring. He twisted, trying to get to the weapon before I did. We each scrambled hastily across the walk on all fours.
I won by half a second and managed to violently shove the gun a good five yards out of his reach. Instead of going after it, I got to my feet, pulling Shep's gun from my pocket, and aimed it like I meant it.
"Hold it right there, Ace," I told him as he lurched up. "I'm a rootin' tootin' son of a gun from Arizona, so don't dance with me."
"Yeah, sure, with the safety on," he said, grinning and moving forward in a fighter's crouch.
I twitched the muzzle in a threatening movement that made him stop. "It's a revolver, Ace, and we both know they don't bother with pesky things like safeties. Next time try teaching your granny to suck eggs, you'll get fewer laughs."
He scowled mightily.
"In fact, this is a sweet little double-action model, so I don't even have to cock it to make big holes in your skull, so why don't you back off and stand over there with Shep?"
He growled something under his breath about my mother that I pretended not to hear, but did as he was told while I retrieved the machine gun. Shep had woken up from his trance at some point and stared, still looking like a fish, just slightly more animated.
"What the hell happened?" Ace demanded of his friend. "I go off for one minute to take a leak and-"
Why Ace needed a machine gun along for that errand I didn't want to know.
"Gah!" Shep's memory had evidently caught up with him. He pointed at me with a quivering hand. "This guy got inna car, right inna car with me! You shoulda seen! He was just there!"
"Shep," I said calmly, looking hard at him. "Take a nap."
His eyes rolled up, and he slid to the sidewalk.
Ace's own eyes went wide, staring at his unconscious friend, before he turned them on me. It was all I needed, just a little of his undivided attention to put him under as well. I gave him the same questions I'd put to Shep and got the same answers. Ike LaCelle was accustomed to hiring them for odd jobs at odd hours, so when he called with instructions for them to get over to the club and follow me, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Night work was one thing that gangsters and the undead definitely had in common.
They were usually told to rough up the bird they were after, but not this time. I supposed LaCelle just wanted information to start with, then he'd send in his boys to discourage me from seeing Bobbi again. Maybe I was to come home one evening and find them waiting for me with brass knuckles and big grins.
Fat chance.
When I'd finished with them both, they'd have to report a dismal failure to LaCelle. I primed them to say they'd followed me diligently, then lost me sometime after I crossed the state line into Wisconsin. In fact, at three in the afternoon tomorrow they would make a collect long-distance call to Mr. LaCelle from wherever they happened to be in that state to let him know about it. I walked them back to their car, saw them tucked in all cozy, and waved good-bye as they drove off.
I hoped they had enough gas for the trip. I'd forgotten to tell them to stop for it.
The house was dark when I got back, though Escott had left the upper-landing light on for me. For once I was sorry that he was attempting to get one up on the insomnia; I'd wanted to tell him about my little interruption, and let him know about Ike LaCelle's bullyboys.
Just because I'd taken care of the two he'd sent didn't mean he couldn't find more.
I sieved upstairs lest the creaking of the house's old floorboards disturb my sleeping partner and shucked out of my thoroughly soaked clothes. Maybe I could get LaCelle to pay the cleaning bill.
Having changed into pajamas and a robe, I went silently down to the kitchen and spent some time scribbling Escott a letter on the situation, adding in the news about Bobbi being a full-fledged guest on the Variety Hour. He also had an invitation to come to the studio and watch-Bobbi's way of thanking him for the orchid. I left the note on the kitchen table with the revolver and machine gun, wishing I could see the look on Escott's face in the morning when he saw them.
It'd be a beaut, I was sure, especially before he had his coffee.
There was still a big slice of waking night left. My condition wouldn't allow me to cheat and go to bed early, so I caught up on reading the papers. Escott had gotten to them first; some were in tatters from his habit of cutting out any articles that caught his eye. He'd left the clippings on the coffee table; I didn't miss much. They were mostly concerned with crimes. I skimmed those enough to know what they were about then moved on to other news, little of which was good. The civil war in Spain was going great-for the side that the Nazis were backing. The word "atrocities" was used a lot, but the paper either wouldn't or couldn't get more specific than that.
I got sick of it and the state of mankind in general pretty fast and gave up on current news, trying a magazine instead. The first page I turned to informed me that dynamite was the preferred method of suicide in a Montana mining town. That was enough to send me back up to my room to find a book. I spent the remaining hours reading about a detective who talked tough, got hit on the head a lot, and planned to marry the girl right after the case was finished.
He shot several gangsters stone dead and sent the chief bad guy plunging into a cement mixer, none of which brought any objections from the grateful cops. Not a bad life at all.
It occurred to me at several points in the story that I could do a better job of writing myself, but I just couldn't trouble myself enough to go down to the basement and prove it. I finished the book off, tossed it on a pile of others I'd gone through, and stared at the ceiling, not thinking about much of anything except Bobbi for a long while. I'd let her read some of my stuff, and she'd said it was good and that she'd liked it, but I wasn't all that sure myself. She was a singer, not a writer; I needed someone in the writing business to look at it. Since no editors were knocking themselves out to make appointments with me, the only course left was to get to work, finish something, and send it in.
Which I'd have to do some other night. The clock said I had just enough time to get to my basement sanctuary. I did exactly that, and for my last moments of consciousness I concentrated hard at not looking at my abandoned typewriter.
It was still in the same spot when I woke up, but I had a busy evening ahead and cheerfully quit the chamber to join Escott upstairs. He sat at his ease at the kitchen table surrounded by several empty cartons of Chinese food and sipping a gin and tonic. He was doing the newspaper crossword puzzle with that damned hypodermic pen.
"Cripes, it's the easy life for you and no mistake," I said, knotting the tie on my bathrobe.
He was fairly used to my sudden materializations by now and hardly bothered to look up. "Yes, it's been so dull here lately I was thinking of spending the next weekend in Cuba."
"Didn't you like the presents?"
Now he managed to crack something close to a smile. "Rather. Especially the machine gun. I took it out to the firing range today and had a bit of fun. The stock got slightly damaged from that roughhousing you described in your note, but it is a very fine weapon, indeed."
"You sound like you're keeping it."
"Why not?"
"Because it might have been used in a crime. The cops could be looking for it."
"Not to worry, I'll turn it in when I've finished playing. It's not often I get a chance to make so much noise in so short a time. You'd be surprised at how quickly one can empty those drums. It's a pity the Treasury Department has such a tight control over those things; I should like to have one for myself."
"Maybe you could ask that mug where he got it."
"I meant legally. I doubt he paid much attention to the restrictions."
"Yeah, crooks are funny that way. Where is it?"
"In the basement behind the safe's alcove. The revolver's there, as well."
We were the only two people on the planet who knew how to open the trick wall that hid the safe. "How're things going with the Sommerfeld girl?"
He made a sour face and capped the pen. "They're not. She's all right, or was so when she phoned this afternoon to check on me. In fact, she's phoned several times today, according to my service."
"Getting antsy?"
"That's an accurate enough description for her growing impatience."
"What about that guy Paterno? Find him?"
"No," he said, which really surprised me. Escott was capable of tracking down a black cat in a coal mine without breaking a sweat. "I tried asking at the tavern McCallen frequents, and several other leads, but nothing turned up concerning his mystery friend. The single name you provided could be a first name, an alias, or a nickname. Whichever it might be, he's never broken any laws using it."
"I'll do what I can to clear the books tonight when I see McCallen."
"Which may not be possible."
"Now what?"
"He did not go in to work today, nor was he at home."
"Where, then?"
He shrugged.
"My guess is that he's either hiding out from us or devoting his time to searching for Miss Sommerfeld."
"That's just great."
"Yes, it is rather disappointing."
"I don't figure him for hiding out, though. There's probably nothing better he'd like to do than find us. He was steamed hot as hell about my going through his place."
"So you've said, but he avoided the office-at least when I was there."
"You mean you've been waiting for him?"
"Well, I did give the correct name of the agency when I first contacted him for that cafe meeting. If he remembered it he need only look in the telephone directory to find the address. I did rather expect him to walk in at any time today, but..." He made a small throwing-away gesture.
"I hope you thought to-"
"My dear chap, I'm no fool, I took suitable precautions to arm and protect myself."
"There's a relief. I just wish you'd told me-oh. You couldn't."
"You do miss a few things with that daily coma of yours."
That called for a snort. "Now what?"
"It depends how much time you have to spare tonight."
I knew what he wanted me to do. "Not much, at least early on. I'll drive over to McCallen's, see if he's there. If he is, then the problem's solved; but if not, then I can't wait around. I promised to take Bobbi to dinner."
"How is Miss Smythe? She must be most pleased with the turn of events you mentioned."
"She's fine, all excited about the radio broadcast tomorrow. There're tickets reserved for us at the studio, and we're to go to the party at the Nightcrawler afterward."
"That is most generous of her, but I-"
"Charles, she likes you. It'd really make her happy if you accepted her invitation."
He bounced one eyebrow. "And I thought it was Mr. McCallen who was the blackmailer. What about this LaCelle and his toughs? Will he be at this event?"
"Probably."
"Then I shall be happy to attend."
"Great, just don't tell Bobbi you're there adding to your rogues'-gallery files."
"Certainly not. You do seem determined to fill up my social calendar this week. I phoned Shoe, and we've an appointment for dinner and to see the show playing at his club on Wednesday."
"You can have my plate of snails."
"If Shoe is not merely boasting about this new chef he's acquired I just may do that."
As this was the first real date Bobbi and I had had in a while, I put a little extra effort into making myself presentable. The tuxedo with the white coat was back from the cleaners, but I double-checked it for any sign of dark lint, just in case. Though I couldn't see anything in a mirror, I at least felt like I looked damned sharp. Escott glanced up long enough to say that I'd outdone myself, wished me and Miss Smythe a most enjoyable time, then went back to his evening papers. Unless work beckoned, he was more stay-at-home than Emily Dickinson ever thought to be, but minus the poetry writing to distract him. He had other activities to fill the hours.
His latest project with the crossbows appeared to be complete. The dining room and its big table were all cleared and cleaned, and hanging from its walls like trophies were the weapons he'd repaired. He'd been doing some practice with them, too. At the far end of the downstairs hall he kept a bale of old rolled up carpet about two feet thick and four feet square bound tight with rope. Most of the time he threw a tablecloth over the ratty thing to conceal it, but that was off now, revealing the target he'd tacked on the side. The red bull's-eye center was nearly eaten out by holes made from crossbow bolts.
Everyone should have a hobby. Besides, this beat the indoor pistol firing that had come before the crossbows. The neighbors had had fits complaining about the noise until I persuaded him to start going to a real shooting range.
I hopped in the Buick and went straight to Jason McCallen's place. It didn't look too promising; all the lights were out and his car was gone. On the slim chance that he might be playing games and skulking inside, I did another break-and-enter routine, though with me it was more of a vanish-and-slip-in-through-the-cracks act.
The living room was very still and dim. I listened hard before moving, but couldn't hear anything. My flashlight brightened things considerably, but did not reveal the presence of the owner, though it flushed the cat out as I went searching. The bedroom was in order, the clothing in the closet and bureau undisturbed, so McCallen hadn't packed for a lengthy trip-unless he planned to buy what he needed along the way.
In the kitchen the ample food in the cat's dish was still fresh, so the animal was in no danger of starving. It reassured me more than anything else I'd seen here that McCallen planned to return. He could have dropped in at any time today to feed his pet, who was presently trying to leave a coating of shed fur on my tux pants as he rubbed against me. I found the phone and called Escott. He took the negative news with a kind of verbal shrug.
"Nothing for it then but to get on to the rest of your evening."
"I'll try here again later. He has to come back to sleep sometime." I had the idea of waking McCallen in the wee hours to deliver my message. If I did it right he wouldn't even remember it as a dream.
"Only if it's convenient to you," said Escott.
I hung up and vanished, which scared the hell out of the cat, to judge by his hiss and yowl as he tore from the room. Animals are usually fine with me until I try disappearing. Maybe they don't like the cold in the space I occupy. I floated all the way across the street to the car, filling back into myself right in the driver's seat and feeling pretty smug about my ability to do so. Of course, I'd have felt a whole lot more smug if I'd actually reappeared in my own vehicle.
The damp wind from the north had caused me to drift too far to the left. I was in somebody else's Studebaker.
A nice car, but my key wouldn't fit. I sieved out and humbly walked to my Buick.
A short drive later and I found a parking space no more than a dozen steps from Moe's tavern. Maybe I'd have better luck than Escott at finding McCallen here.
The main room held only a scattering of couples, but no sign of McCallen, Paterno, or any of the others who had chased me. I crossed to the curtained-off area they'd emerged from, but no one was there either. The only familiar face in the joint was Jim Waters, who sat sideways at one of the tables so he could stretch out his legs. I had time for a short visit, so I went over, said hello, shook hands, and apologized for my swift exit the other night.
"What was that all about?" he asked after inviting me to sit. "What did you do to get that big guy so mad at you?"
"It's a long story with no payoff. I need to settle something with him, but not when he's surrounded by a crowd."
"Well, I'm glad you got away. Leastwise, you don't look worse for the wear, so I'm assuming you got away." He gave my duds a thorough eyeballing. My topcoat must have represented a month's earnings for him, even with an army pension.
"I'm taking my girl someplace fancy tonight," I explained. "Buy you a beer?"
He had one empty bottle on the table by him. "I won't say no so long as I buy the next round."
I lifted the bottle so the waiter at the bar could see and he nodded back. "This'll sound crazy, but I can't drink alcohol."
Waters laughed once. "I knew there was something wrong with you. You under the age limit?"
"No, it's just bad for my insides. Makes me sick as a dog, but I don't mind watching someone else enjoying a cold one." The waiter misunderstood my order and brought two bottles. Waters assured me he could make a home for the spare. I let him clear his throat with a good swallow of brew. "That big Scotsman, you know anything about him?"
"Thought he was your friend."
"No friend. It's a business deal with us, and I don't know him that well, or the people with him."
"I see him here a few times a week with his crew. They don't mix much with the rest of the crowd, mostly stay in the back."
"They must be tone deaf. What do they do there?"
"Talking and drinking. Once in a while I hear them arguing about stuff when I'm trying to sing. I usually just do a louder number."
"Arguing?"
"Donno about what, I don't pay 'em much mind. Weird-looking bunch. Couple of 'em have that hungry, mad-at-the-world look. Maybe they're communists."
That caught my attention. It might explain a few things about why someone was willing to pay McCallen a couple of grand. Maybe he'd gotten Miss Sommerfeld to join the communist party and instead of love letters the envelope was full of papers proving it. That would break the engagement to her prince fast enough. If there was one thing royalty hated more than rioting peasants, it was rioting communist peasants.
"Does anyone else here know for sure? The staff? The owner?"
"I doubt it. Moe lets 'em have the room so long as they keep buying beer. He doesn't ask questions unless somebody starts busting furniture."
Since this seemed to be the limit of his information I asked him about his music. "Singing tonight?"
"It's early yet. I like to have some kind of a crowd before I interrupt their talking. You still serious about that nightclub?"
"Yeah." But I could tell he wasn't quite buying it yet. I wanted very much to convince him what I had planned was more than just some kid's ambitious pipe dream. "Look, how would you like to meet Bobbi Smythe? She's going to be on the Archy Grant Variety Hour tomorrow night and afterward there's going to be a celebration at the Nightcrawler Club. I'll introduce you."
"I don't know if that's my kind of party-"
"You need to meet her anyway. Once my club's up and running you'll be working together."
He hemmed and hawed until I was tempted to give him a little hypnotic nudge. Then: "Is she as pretty as she sings?
I've heard her on the radio a few times."
"Brother, she's a knock out."
"Well... I think I could be persuaded to-"
"Great, I'll have a paid-up cab outside your store tomorrow at seven-thirty."
He gave me a startled look and chuckled. "You don't want me to change my mind, do you?"
I grinned back. "Nope."
He shook his head and started on the second beer. "This club of yours, where you setting up?"
I gave a shrug. "The best location I can afford."
"Well, you look like you can buy the best. Is it your money or the mob's?"
Maybe I'd been hanging around Gordy and his friends too much. Something of them must have been rubbing off onto me. On the other hand, in these hard times the only people with bucks were the racketeers. "I earned it, and I pay taxes on it." True statements, but both avoided a direct answer about its source.
He nodded, a wise gleam in his eyes. He was on to me all right, but willing to let me keep my secrets. "You got a name for this place yet?"
I'd been sitting on that one for a long time. The name had come to me one night with no effort or thought, yet it struck me as being absolutely perfect. "Oh, yeah. I do."
"Ready to share it?"
I had to grin again, I was so pleased with myself. "Club Crymsyn."
