Build My Gallows High (7 page)

Through the window Petey Berg could see the bridge spanning the river—the long cables like webs of silver in the moonlight. But he didn’t care about bridges now. All he wanted to do was to get the hell away from this place. Jesus, why hadn’t he gone home? Why had he waited around hoping to pick up a few extra bucks before midnight?

Blood oozed across one cheek. He took out a dirty handkerchief and dabbed at it and stabbing pain cleared some of the fog from his mind.

‘You ready to talk?’ Lou Baylord asked. Baylord’s bruised, swollen face moved into the cab driver’s line of vision. Behind Baylord stood the two men who had walked up to the hack stand around the corner from the Gotham Hotel, climbed into the cab then shoved guns in his back and told him to take them to the Hudson River Club. One was a little Greek with thick, soft lips. The other was a string bean of a man who looked like an undertaker.

What the hell! the cab driver told himself. Why get your brains beat out for a guy you never saw before—a guy who didn’t give a damn what happened to a hack driver named Petey Berg?

‘Yeah, I picked him up,’ Petey admitted.

‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ Baylord hit him with the back of his hand.

‘Don’t,’ Petey protested dully. ‘Don’t do that any more. He told me not to. He gave me a saw buck to clam up.’

Baylord made a threatening gesture. ’No, Lou,’ the thin guy said. ’He’s just a poor dumb son of a bitch.’

‘I’m running this.’ Baylord turned angry eyes on the thin guy.

‘Wait and take it out on that red bastard,’ the thin guy advised.

‘I’ll talk,’ Petey said.’ Ain’t no sense in me not.’

‘Where’d you take him?’ Baylord asked.

‘Grand Central. Then I went back to the St. Regis and paid his bill and got his bag. Took it to the waiting room. I didn’t see him no more after that.’

‘He take a train?’

‘I don’t know. Ain’t no trains I know of but locals that time of night. Maybe he took a local. Maybe he got himself another hotel room. Commodore and Biltmore are handy.’

‘You sure used up a lot of our time,’ Baylord said.

‘Principles, that’s why,’ Petey answered. ‘You give me dough to clam up, I clam up.’

The thin guy fumbled in his pocket, found a bill, tossed it in Petey s lap.’For your principles, Buster.’

‘No.’ Baylord reached for the bill. ‘There’s better ways.’

‘Use your head.’The thin guy took Baylord’s arm and led him over to a corner. Petey heard them mumbling but he couldn’t make any sense out of the mumbling. The little Greek came over, put a cigarette between his lips and lighted it.’Thanks,’Petey said. The thin guy came back, put one hand on Petey s shoulder and grinned down at him.

‘Mr. Baylord is all for dumping you off the bridge,’ the thin guy said. ’He’s a little out of sorts tonight.’

‘Shut up!’ Baylord snapped.

‘Like I said he is out of sorts,’ the thin guy said. ‘Your redheaded fare worked him over.’

‘You and your goddamned cracks.’ Baylord started for him, changed his mind and directed his anger at Petey.

‘Maybe tomorrow or next day the cops will pick you up. Okay. You clam up about us. Get it?’

‘I get it.’

’Just forget certain things,’ the thin guy suggested. ‘Like bringing the redhead out here. You picked him up. He had a tan brief case with him and you seen a name on the case. Lloyd Eels’ name. Go on from there. The St. Regis. Grand Central. And that’s all.’ His voice got thin and sharp. He looked more than ever like an undertaker.

‘You want to know why?’ Baylord asked.

‘I don’t want to know anything,’ Petey said.

‘Let’s go,’ the thin guy said. ’Drop us off at Grand Central on your way home.’

Petey got weakly to his feet. Through the window he looked at the river and at the bridge spanning the river. Now the bridge was a thing to be afraid of, ugly and threatening. He closed his eyes to clear the dizziness from his brain.

Red’s footsteps echoed through the empty ill-lighted street. As he approached the alleyway leading past the church, he moved more softly. Walking on the balls of his feet he went down the alleyway to the fence and cautiously pulled himself up. The lights were on in Meta’s apartment and he could see through the glass doors into the big room. There was no one in the room.

He swung over into the courtyard and tiptoed forward across the wet bricks. His gun was ready in one hand. Meta might be in the bedroom and Joe Stefanos might be waiting with her. Or they might be in the building on Central Park South trying to find Eels’ body. The door was locked. His passkey opened it and he stepped quietly inside.

No one in the bedroom. No one anywhere. He considered sitting down, having a drink and waiting for her then put the idea aside. He had wasted too much time already, could afford to waste no more. That hour he had spent in Eels’ office trying to crack a safe with nothing but his bare hands had netted him nothing of value. Unless you could call finding out that Eels had once been Whit Sterling’s attorney valuable. That was interesting. That helped you look on Eels’ murder more realistically. But it didn’t get you out of the spot you were in.

He found the telephone directory in a drawer of the desk, got the number of the Hudson River Club and dialed.

‘Lou Baylord, please,’ he said when a girl’s low voice answered.

‘Who’s calling?’

“It’s about a brief case. Tell him that. He’ll understand.’

He sat on the corner of the desk, holding his gun in one hand and the receiver in the other, watching the door that led into the hall. He hoped Stefanos wouldn’t show up for a while because then he would have to shoot the little Greek and all the cops in town would come barging into the joint.

The telephone came to life. Baylord’s voice asked, ‘Who is this?’

‘Red Bailey’

‘You bastard,’ Baylord said.

‘Don’t you want the Eels file back?’

Baylord didn’t answer for a minute. Red wondered if Stefanos had reported to him yet. But he didn’t ask. It really didn’t matter.

‘Well, don’t you?’ Red insisted.

‘Yes.’ Baylord replied grudgingly. ‘How do I get it?’

‘Put Meta Carson on the phone.’

‘She isn’t here.’

‘Then scare her up,’ Red said. ’Tell her to go to Eels’ office and get that affidavit out of the safe. Tell her to bring it to the information desk in the lower level waiting room at Grand Central. Alone. I’ll be around somewhere watching. I’ll have the brief case. We make a trade.’

Baylord cursed him softly but very fluently.

Red decided to surprise him. ’I’ll even tell you where Eels’ body is. You might want to keep it away from the cops.’

There was no exclamation of surprise at the other end of the wire. So Baylord knew. He had been in touch with Stefanos and Meta. ‘I don’t trust you,’ Baylord said at last, ‘I want the affidavit. I don’t give a damn about the brief case.’

‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ Baylord replied. ‘I’ll meet you in Grand Central.’

‘No.’

Baylord’s tone changed.’Now look here, Red. I got to have that file. You know what a spot I’m in. And from here out I ain’t trusting nobody. How do I know you won’t run out with the brief case as soon as you get your hand on the affidavit? I want to be there.’

‘You’ll be alone?’

‘Sure.’

It sounded reasonable enough. Red didn’t blame Baylord for being suspicious, for not trusting him. Certainly he had never done anything to prove himself worthy of Baylord’s trust.

‘All right. But keep your hands out of your pockets. Come in from the Lexington Avenue side and don’t have any boys tagging along.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Get going,’ Red said.’I want to leave town.’ He hung up. wiped the sweat from his forehead and got off the desk. The whisky bottle was still on the coffee table. He poured out a generous drink, downed it and went out into the courtyard.

It was dark there, dark and cool. For a while he considered waiting. Too tough a place to get out of if things went wrong. Someone could come up the alleyway from Forty-Seventh Street and he’d be sunk. So he crossed to the wall, dropped lightly over and hurried away, this time caring not at all if anyone heard him.

Ten minutes later he lounged in an entryway across from the Graybar Building, watching the entrance through which presently Meta Carson would hurry—unless his luck ran out. It wouldn’t. He was confident of that now. By morning he would be on a plane and the plane would be heading west. Tomorrow he would hold Ann in his arms again. He grinned up through the dark canyon at the pale strip of sky.

Not half a mile away another man stood in a dark entry-way, scanning the names under the mailboxes. Finding the one he sought he put a finger on the bell and waited for the answering buzz that would admit him.

August Tillotson threw off the blanket of sleep, sat up and padded groggily across the littered room to the door. His finger found the button that would release the catch downstairs. He pushed it, grumbling sleepily, hitching up his rumpled pajamas and pulling the drawstring tighter around his flabby middle.

Knuckles rapped on the door. Tillotson flicked on the light, opened the door a crack and peered out. A policeman stood in the hall. A deep respect for law and order made Tillotson suddenly humble. He forgot his annoyance at being awakened at this ungodly hour and said, ‘How do you do?’

‘One of your tenants is upset,’ the policeman explained. ‘He says some dame was screaming on the fourth floor.’

‘There are no ladies on the fourth floor,’ said Tillotson. ‘Only Mr. Eels.’

‘This guy called about an hour ago,’ the policeman said. ‘They just got around to telling me. Maybe they ain’t nothing to it but suppose we take a look just for ducks.’

‘I hate to disturb him.’ Then Mr.Tillotson remembered the telephone call from Miss Carson earlier in the evening so he donned a worn flannel bathrobe and slippers, got his keys and escorted the policeman upstairs.

Apologetically he thumbed the bell. There was no answer so he pushed it again and again. Then timidly he put the passkey in the lock and opened the door.

The room was dark, save for what little light was cast through the open windows by the waning moon.

’Mr. Eels,’ Tillotson called softly. ‘Oh, Mr. Eels. It’s me.’ The policeman pushed past him, barged forward then stumbled and said ‘Jesus Keerist.’ Tillotson flipped on the lights.

‘Oh, dear!’ said Tillotson. Meta Carson was sprawled on the carpet. He didn’t have to look twice to know she was dead. He turned away sick and shaken and would have run into the hall had not the policeman stopped him.

‘Stick around,’ the policeman ordered. He dropped on one knee beside the girl’s body. ‘Blunt instrument,’ he said sagely, gingerly touching her cold cheek. ‘Dead maybe an hour. Now you was speaking of a Mr. Eels. This obviously ain’t him.’

‘His secretary’ Tillotson said weakly. ‘Her name is Meta Carson. She called me tonight.’ He paused, remembering the call, telling himself it was all very strange.

‘Oh, she did?’

Tillotson nodded. He repeated his thoughts aloud. The policeman took out a book and made notes, mumbling as he wrote. Meanwhile Tillotson was looking around the disordered room. A chair lay overturned. Papers were strewn around and where the picture had been pushed aside the wall safe gaped open. He pointed. The policeman indicated that he was quite aware of things. He wrote a number down, tore out the page and handed it to Tillotson.

‘Run on downstairs and call that number. Say there’s been a murder. I don’t want to use the phone up here.’

It took all his will power to get him across the shadowy, badly lighted hall to the waiting elevator. He glanced back at the policeman standing in the doorway, summoned up his courage and closed the door. The policeman turned and began a methodical search of the apartment. Now he had his gun in one hand and he, too, knew what fear was. He found the balcony door, opened it and went out and along it to the iron fence that separated Eels’ balcony from the one leading into the next apartment. He stepped over the fence, flashed his light through curtainless windows into the vacant apartment, tried the door. It gave under his hand. He stepped inside and played his light around. Finding nothing but evidence of work in progress he returned to Eels’ messy abode.

Tillotson, his hands stuck in the pockets of his robe to stop their trembling, returned and watched the policeman as he continued his search. A portable typewriter stood on the desk by the telephone and when the policeman, now killing time until the boys from homicide showed up, opened it he saw the paper and read the typed script.

‘If anything happens to me there’s a document in the safe in my office that is self-explanatory.’ Eels’ name was typed under the brief note.

‘It don’t say nothing about if anything happened to the dame, however,’ the policeman observed, cocking his head at Tillotson. ‘And that is who something happened to. It looks like the homicide boys’ll be very busy for a while.’

A police car slammed to a stop in front of the Graybar Building, then another. Men got out and hurried inside. Red, standing in the shadows, watched them and figured his luck had run out. A feeling of hopelessness and helplessness held him there in the entryway. He had been too sure of himself, too certain of his own omnipotence. A moment later a cab pulled up behind the police cars and four men, one carrying a camera case, spilled out and started for the door only to be stopped by a policeman.

Angry voices drifted across to Red. The men wanted to go in and no cop was going to stop them.

‘Simmer down,’ the policeman said. ‘Ain’t the dame being dead enough for you guys?’

Dame? So that was it. Then there was still a chance. Red started out of the shadows but stopped as another cab came from the other direction. It started to turn and he heard a voice say, ’No, go on.’ Two men occupied the back seat. One of them was Baylord. The cab drew away and vanished around the corner. Then the presence of the law was none of Baylord’s planning. Baylord had been headed for Eels’ office and those waiting police cars had scared him off. Now what? Well, he still had his bundle of dynamite and there must be some way to use it. And he still had time—not much but enough to put many miles between himself and New York. His agile mind put things together. The dame must be Meta and maybe they were looking for Eels. If they were, until they found his body Red was safe. Safe, that is, from the law. But not from Whit Sterling. Not from Baylord. Until Sterling got his hands on that file, Red would never be safe. Even then his life was a bad insurance risk.

Keeping in the shadow of the buildings he sauntered slowly to the corner. It seemed to him his footsteps filled the whole street with sound. Around the corner he moved faster and often he glanced back. But no one followed him and presently he found a cab. The driver dozed over the wheel. Red had to shake him to wake him up.

‘Biltmore,’ Red said.

‘Whyn’t you walk?’ the driver grumbled. ‘From there we go places.’

Grudgingly the driver motioned to the door. When Red got in he slammed the cab gear as though taking out on the aged mechanism his anger against his fare.

The night clerk dozed behind the desk. Red’s glance embraced the lobby. No one waiting for him but he mustn’t take chances. He crossed to the bank of house phones, gave the girl the number of his room, waited a little. When there was no answer he took an up elevator. Caution made him wary. He unlocked the door, kicked it open then stood aside with his right hand gripping the gun in the pocket of his raincoat. He reached in and flipped on the lights. Empty. His bag stood open on the stand as he had left it. Quickly he closed and locked the door, took a quick look in the closet and bathroom, then picked up the phone and told the night clerk to get his bill ready and send a bellboy up.

There was nothing much to pack—his razor, toothbrush, a few toilet articles. Before he closed the bag he tried to remember how things had been arranged, but could not. If someone had searched his room it had been done carefully. Yet he mustn’t take chances, mustn’t make the mistake of underestimating Whit Sterling. From now on there would be someone forever at his heels. Momentarily he considered sitting down and waiting for them. Get it over with. Call up the cops and say, ‘I’m the guy you’ll be looking for presently.’ Call Baylord, stir things up and take a chance that you’d come out of the mess with a second-degree murder rap.

He thought of Ann and put the idea aside. Too much to lose. Knuckles beat a sharp tattoo on the door. Still cautious, he opened it. A sleepy bellhop pushed past him, picked up his bag and, unsmilingly as though annoyed at life, led the way to the elevators.

‘You didn’t stay long,’ the night clerk said as he took Red’s money and stamped the bill. ’Leaving town?’

Red nodded. ‘Under the desk there’s a brief case.’

The night clerk found it, put it on the desk. Now it no longer bore Lloyd Eels’ name. A knife blade had scarred the leather deeply. Red thanked him, tucked it under one arm and followed the bellhop out to the waiting cab.

A quiet emptiness filled the street yet a threatening undercurrent seemed flowing through the silence.

‘Now where?’ the driver asked, as Red got in.

Red’s voice was low. ‘La Guardia Field.’

The bellhop chose that moment to stick his head inside the cab and thank Red for his tip. Maybe he heard the order, maybe he didn’t. Anyway it couldn’t be helped.

The cab rattled through the empty canyons, the driver bending over the wheel as though the trip required tremendous concentration—not speaking, apparently still hating wakefulness. The tunnel swallowed them. Red thought of the dirty river swirling above them and the depression that settled on him was not lifted when he felt clean wind and saw the city again. Occasionally he glanced back. Sometimes headlights showed behind then fell away. Safe for a little while but not for long. They would pick up his trail and follow him. All he could do until he was ready to move in on Sterling was cover up his tracks as best he could. Well, he knew a place they wouldn’t think of looking and that’s where he was headed.

Few people were in the waiting room. He sought a familiar face but found none, crossed to the ticket window and asked an overly genial clerk about planes. No flights for the coast until morning. But there was a plane for Cleveland in ten minutes. That, Red said, would do. He handed over his grip and brief case, casting nervous glances toward the entrance. Pocketing his ticket he went outside and found a bit of darkness near the gate. Three cheerful drunks were telling a fourth how sorry they were to have him leave. A man and woman stood close together whispering gravely. Out on the field lights bloomed around a moth-like silver plane and monkey-figures clambered over it.

Two men came along the walk and took their places near the gate. Momentarily Red pressed back against the fence until they turned their faces toward him and he knew they were strangers. Then the gate opened and he joined the small hurrying procession to the waiting plane.

His seat was forward and through the window he could see the gate. Relaxed now he sat there watching. A smaller gate stood beyond. Through it came a uniformed attendant pushing a cart loaded with baggage. The man stopped just inside the gate to pitch a cigarette away. Light from the battery of flood-lamps fell on the cart. Red could see his bag and the brief case resting on it. Now instead of watching the gate he was watching the cart.

The attendant started forward. Something moved behind him. A man sprang at him, pushed him aside, snatched the brief case from the cart and raced away through the gate and along the fence to disappear. The attendant emitted a yell and leaped in pursuit. There was bedlam on the field. Ten minutes later, when the baggage was aboard and the door was closed and the big ship was taxiing down the field, the stewardess moved down the aisle to stand beside Red.

‘I’m sorry’ the stewardess said.‘I think someone stole your brief case.’

Red grinned at her. ‘He’s welcome to it. It may bring him salvation.’

The girl eyed him with frowning curiosity. ‘There were two Gideon Bibles in it,’ Red said.

Lou Baylord pulled back to hurl the Bibles at Joe Stefanos, but the thin guy standing behind Lou grabbed his arm.

‘Don’t go heaving them books around,’ the thin guy said, ‘I’m superstitious.’ He took the Bibles, put them gently on the window sill and stood looking south and east across the river. Dawn wasn’t far away and the buildings were like cardboard cutouts against the pale sky.

Deprived of his missile Lou hurled a name at Joe. ‘You Greek son of a bitch!’

Joe got slowly off his chair, shoved his hands deep in his pockets and started across the room. ‘Don’t call me that.’

The thin guy turned and stood grinning at them both. ‘He’s sensitive about being a Greek.’

‘Shut up!’ Joe said. ‘Who let him walk out with it in the first place?’

‘Lou,’ replied the thin guy. ‘Cool off, Joseph. You’ve been doing fine. Outside of losing a stiff and stealing from the Gideons you’ve been doing perfect. Now let go of that cannon because we can’t go around knocking each other off. Whit wouldn’t like it.’

Joe had a vulgar suggestion as to what Whit and Lou and the thin guy could do. But he took his hands out of his pockets and went back to his chair, ‘I don’t have to take any crap off you dopes. Guy Parker’s my boss.’

‘And he’ll give you a gold star,’ said the thin guy.

‘How can I think with you birds gabbing all the time?’ Lou growled. “What do the morning papers say?’

‘Not much,’ the thin guy replied. ‘Because this is Sunday and murders don’t get much play on the Sabbath. They are looking for Eels. They don’t say he killed her but they hint at it. Then they turn around and say maybe he met with foul play too.’

‘He sure did,’ said Joe. ‘I wonder what that bastard did with him.”

‘Put him in the icebox maybe.’

‘I looked.’

‘What else?’ Lou disregarded Joe.

‘If Eels don’t show up they are going to open his safe,’ the thin guy said. ‘Until they do, two guys armed with machine guns, hand grenades, tear gas and I don’t know what the hell else are parked in Eels’ office.’

‘Papers say that?’ Lou scowled across at the thin guy. He hoped it wasn’t true. He wanted very much to get that affidavit because right now Red had the dice and was throwing sevens. Lou didn’t like to make deals but there were times when you had to. This looked like one of them. The thin guy nodded. Lou puffed out his cheeks. ’Maybe when they go out to lunch you could sneak in there and blow the safe.’

‘Not me. You couldn’t get past the front door. If you did there’s the elevator. Guy running it keeps track of everybody going up and down. That’s how they know she was in there last night. And about the brief case. The cops are very familiar with our pusses and we don’t want to get our names in the paper—do we?’