Build My Gallows High (2 page)

He lay there watching the sun come up, not able to sleep because there was too much to think about. There was Ann and there was Guy Parker, who had him where the hair was short. He tried to keep his mind on Ann. But she became misty, unreal. Out of his life now. Out of it for good. When Guy got his hooks into you, that was that. He thought about Mumsie and wondered if she had changed much inside. A strange dame Mumsie. His mind went back ten years:

It started to snow when Red came up out of the subway. He turned the collar of his camels-hair coat up around his ears, shoved his hands deep in the pockets and headed for his office, wondering why in hell he bothered coming to work, why he didn’t turn the joint over to his partner and hop a train west or south—it didn’t matter where. Just so there was sun. Passing a line of shivering, shabby men in front of a soup kitchen, he stopped pitying himself. He hurried past, felt their dull glances following him and even when he pushed through the doors into the warm shelter of the dingy office building he felt the hopeless envy of those rheumy eyes.

The blonde at the cigar counter tried with a smile to brighten his day.

‘Morning, Mr. Markham,’ the blonde said. He returned the smile, stopped long enough to buy a pack of Virginia Rounds and make a few unenthusiastic verbal passes. Then he stepped into the waiting elevator and let it carry him slowly and painfully up six floors.

The elevator smelled of moth crystals. So did everything else in the place. When the windows of the building were open, the sharp scent of the crystals was almost overpowering. Even when the windows were closed, you could still taste the stuff. There was no escaping it short of moving out of the wholesale fur district. You talked about moving. You considered taking a suite in some modern office building farther uptown. But you kept putting it off, for some reason or another. Anyway, most of your clients were such crumbs that you rather welcomed the smell drifting up from the narrow street.

‘Cold out—ain’t it, Mr. Markham?’ the elevator operator said.

Red admitted it was. He dusted powdery snow off his shoulders.

‘Kids like it,’ the elevator operator said. ’Kids can slide. Me, I ain’t got a sled.’

‘I’ll lend you mine,’ Red said. The doors opened. He stepped across the hall, fumbling for his keys. The gesture was unnecessary. The door, whose frosted glass informed the world that Peter Markham and Jack Fisher, Private Investigators, held forth inside, was unlocked.

The small reception room was empty. From beyond,the door leading into the office he shared with Fisher came a girl’s silly giggle. Mr. Fisher was in, apparently. And Mr. Fisher was starting early. Red coughed as he crossed to the door then pushed it open.

Fisher and the redhead grinned at him embarrassedly, moved a few inches farther apart.

‘Good way as any to keep warm,’ Red said. ‘Both of you fix your lipstick. It’s on crooked.’ He left the door open and went over to his desk.

‘You might at least say good morning,’ the redhead pouted. A green sweater was stretched tight across her big, high-pointed breasts. Red wondered if it was the chest that inspired his partner’s yen for the girl.

‘Good morning, my pet,’ Red said. ‘Good morning, Jackson.’

‘We have a client.’ Fisher scrubbed his lips with a crumpled handkerchief.

‘Your wife?’ Red dropped into his worn leather chair and propped his feet on the desk.

Fisher scowled at him. ’Little early to be so full of quips.’

Red waved at the door. ‘Back to the treadmill, Gertrude.’ She smoothed her skirt over her hips, batted her eyelashes at him and slithered out.

‘I’d be happier if she could spell,’ Red said. ‘But anything to keep you content, Jackson.’

‘Stop riding me—I get enough of that at home. I said we had a client.’

‘What do you want me to do—cheer?’

‘You might show some interest in the business.’

‘It has ceased to fascinate me,’said Red. ’And I have no yen for Gertrude to brighten my day.’

Fisher ignored the remark. He gave Red a name. ‘Whit Sterling.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s the client.’

‘Somebody welch on him?’

‘Would he call us in for that?’

Red shook his head. ‘Just let me keep guessing.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Fisher.’I don’t know what he wants us for. All I know is he called and said to come on over.’

‘Probably lost one of his dogs.’ Red didn’t move.

‘You gettin’ choosy?’ Fisher grumbled. ‘Christ, let’s see what he wants!’

‘Leave us stick to good clean work like following husbands around,’ said Red. ‘Mr. Sterling plays too rough.’

‘You ain’t scared of him—’ sneered Fisher, ‘not Red Markham?’

‘Scared to death,’ said Red cheerfully.

‘Me, I got responsibilities,’ Fisher argued. ‘Here’s a chance to pick up some dough. A chance to keep on eating.’

Red leaned his chin on his fists and eyed his chubby, balding partner. ‘You don’t look hungry.’

‘Give me time. The way things have been going it won’t be long.’

‘Tighten your belt,’ said Red. ’Stay out of bars and give up Gertrude. Patronize the soup kitchens.’

The telephone snarled. Red picked up the receiver.

‘Yes,’ he admitted, ’this is Markham. All right. Put him on.’

Whit Sterling’s thin voice said, ‘Hello, you big red bastard. Get on over here.’

‘Why?’asked Red.

‘Because it’s snowing.’ The thin voice got even thinner. ‘Because I think you need a vacation.’

‘When did you start worrying about my health?’ Red asked.

‘A couple of days ago,’ the voice replied. ’When a dame put a thirty-two slug in my tummy. Now be a good boy and come on over, because this is something I cannot discuss with the Johns. Not and keep their respect.’

Fisher had moved over and was standing above him.

‘Christ, say yes!’ Fisher urged. Red looked up at him, shrugged.

‘All right,’ Red said. ‘We’ll be over.’

‘Thanks.’ The voice died. Red put the receiver on the hook, lighted a cigarette, and stood up. ‘But against my better judgment, Jackson. And only because I don’t want Gertrude to suffer.’

‘A card,’ said Fisher as he put on his coat. ‘That’s what you are—a card.’

The angry wind threw snow against the windows of Whit Sterling’s apartment on the seventeenth floor of a house on Fifty-Seventh Street. Out there in the mist was the East River and a tugboat complained mournfully as it headed north. Sterling lay under a tufted quilt and the pink silk made his cheeks pinker than ever. He had a fine head of black hair and a thin mustache. The mild young man who let Red and Fisher in went back to the chair beside the bed and sat down. He was holding a copy of
North of Boston
and his forefinger marked his place in the book of poems.

‘Take your coats off and sit down,’ Sterling said. ‘Lou, break out the Scotch.’

‘Too early,’ said Red.

‘Speak for yourself,’said Fisher. ’I could use a drink.’

Wearily the mild young man got up, put his book on the chair and went into the other room. Red indicated the book.

‘Lou was reading to me,’ Sterling said. ‘How you been, Red?’

‘Fair, Whit.’

‘Business good?’

‘Lousy. And yours?’

‘Average.’

The man named Lou returned with Fisher’s drink, gave it to him grudgingly and resumed his seat. ‘Don’t talk any more,’ he told Sterling.

Sterling’s head relaxed on the pillow. There were lines of bitterness around his mouth and his eyes were clouded with pain.

‘Somebody has to talk,’ Red observed. ‘This is no social call.’ Fisher shot a pained look at him.

‘Mr. Sterling wants you to find a young woman for him,’ Lou explained.

‘I thought he might,’ said Red. ’Mr. Sterling is not the forgiving type. Why did she shoot him?’

‘That’s unimportant,’ Lou brushed the question aside.

‘Except to Whitney,’ grinned Red. ‘Eh, Whit?’

Sterling’s expression hardened. He wet his lips and his lids lowered over his eyes.

‘Her name is Mumsie McGonigle,’ Lou went on in his cool, precise voice. ’After the shooting she disappeared. So did fifty-six thousand dollars.’

Fisher looked up from his drink, whistled softly. Lou gave him a disapproving glance.

‘A police case,’ Red observed.

Sterling spoke without opening his eyes. ‘No. Yours.’

‘So that’s how it was,’ said Red.

‘We’re not asking you to think.’ Lou took a wallet from his pocket, extracted five one-thousand-dollar bills and held them out to Red. ‘Find her. Bring her back here and forget it.’

‘You want her, or the dough?’ Red asked, ignoring the proffered bills.

‘Both.’

‘And what happens to her?’

‘Nothing.’

Red’s look had disbelief in it. Lou smiled. ‘She left under the impression she had killed Mr. Sterling,’ said Lou. ‘Naturally she was frightened.’

‘And her conscience hurt her,’ Red said.

Sterling opened his eyes. They were as warm as a cat’s. ’My gut keeps me from laughing. Will you get busy?’

Through the smoke of his cigarette, Red grinned at the man under the pink quilt. ‘Tell me more about Mumsie, Whitney.’

‘He shouldn’t be talking,’ Lou protested.

Sterling ignored the protest, adjusted his pillow so that he could look across at Red, gingerly touched his stomach. ’I had it coming. She found me with another dame. I want her back.’ He motioned to Lou. ‘Show him her picture. Then maybe the bastard will believe me.’

Languidly Lou crossed to the dresser, opened the top drawer, took out a photograph and, returning, handed it to Red. He stood over the detective, holding the wad of money in his right hand.

Red stared at the lovely oval face. After a moment he turned his attention back to Sterling. ‘I’d want her back too,’ he admitted. ‘But then, I’m a sentimentalist. I never suspected you of tender moments, Whit.’

Fisher spoke for the first time. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said, ‘don’t you ever run down?’

‘He’s having fun.’ Sterling offered Red a thin smile. ‘Five thousand now and another five when you bring her back. Plus expenses.’

‘And God help Mumsie.’ Red flicked the picture with his forefinger.

Whit shook his head. ’I won’t touch her.’

‘Any idea where she went?’

‘Mexico, probably. I took her there last year and she loved it. Anyway, that’s where I’d suggest looking.’

Across the bed Red could see the windows. He could see the snow flaking down and could hear the wind petulantly rattling the glass. There would be sun in Mexico—sun and a warm wind, orchids in the jungle and a sky washed clean of clouds.

Reaching out, he took the money from Lou’s hand and thrust it carelessly in a pocket. He stood above the bed, dribbling smoke from his thin nostrils.

‘A deal, Whit. On one condition. You don’t lay a hand on her and none of your boys lays a hand on her.’

‘I said that already.’

‘I’ll see you after a while.’ Red headed for the door, opened it, threw a bleak smile back at Sterling and went out. Fisher hurried after him.

At the elevator Fisher held out one hand. ‘Come on—give!’

Red gave him two one-thousand-dollar bills. ‘Wrap Gertude in mink,’ he suggested. ‘And start checking railroad stations.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Pack,’ Red said.

The door creaked. He didn’t look toward it, but he knew who was there. He knew Mumsie was looking at him. He kept his eyes on the window and pretended to be alseep. Beyond the barren, brown hills the Sierras were like ghosts of mountains.

There had been mountains in Mexico—great, towering cones of mountains. There had been plateaus patched crookedly with cane fields and there had been the lacy hem of the warm blue sea in Acapulco Bay. The lock clicked. Mumsie’s soft footsteps went away. He closed his eyes, remembering:

There was a little cafe named La Mar Azul, half a block from La Marina Hotel in Acapulco. It faced the plaza and on Saturday nights it was a fine place to sit and drink beer and listen to the band. Then it was very crowded. But on other nights it had plenty of room. Red used to drop in and sit there, watching the domino players, listening to the click of the ivory pieces and the soft voices, hearing the loud speaker on the theater around the corner. Late at night, when he lay in his hot room on the sixth floor of the hotel, the brassy music of the speaker was bad. But he didn’t mind it in the cafe.

The cafe was open to the world. Kids kept threading their way between the tables, trying to sell lottery rickets and postcards, or offering to shine your shoes for ten centavos. They bothered Red a lot at first. After a while they took it for granted he was not a tourist. So they let him alone.

And after a while the little boys who wanted to show you the town for fifty centavos gave him up as a bad job too. That first week, when he wandered through the hot little town, they were always at his heels, pleading, smiling, tugging at his coat. But presently he could walk unmolested. He used to move slowly through the dusk, past the open-air markets where you could buy a pair of huaraches for a peso and a hat for ten centavos, where you could get a meal for a tostan from a woman squatting by her charcoal brazier.

It was very hot that time. In the afternoons Acapulco slept. On the long crescent of beach to the south the people drowsed under yellow and green umbrellas. A few brown kids paddled in the warm water. No one swam much. Red did. He liked that water, so heavy with salt you could lie for hours on top of it, clean and blue and warm. You could lie and watch the odd cloud patterns on the bleached sky.

He had been there three weeks when he saw Mumsie. He was in La Mar Azul and she came along the street and stood in front of the place, staring in as though searching for someone. She flicked Red with a glance. Her gaze moved to the empty table near him and she walked slowly to it and sat down. She put her hands on the table and looked at them.

Red wasn’t the only one there who saw her. Every man in the place relaxed his attention from the game he was playing and watched her. There was a good reason. She was a slim, lovely little thing with eyes too big for her face and the serene look often seen on nuns. She wore a white linen dress and a hat of fine straw, as pale as her hair. The players gave her more warm looks from their dark eyes, shrugged and went back to their games. A lone woman, but an American. So that made it all right. Americans were odd. In Acapulco you saw so many of them you got used to their peculiarities.