Farrell switched on the movable spotlight attached to the door hinge and played it along the scrub across the road from them. A bit more than a half-mile beyond the oaks, he saw a pair of ruts heading off toward the river. Farrell cut his lights and eased the Packard off the road.
“Keep still,” he said softly. “Louie might just take a shot at us, and I happen to know he's a good shot. If I tell you to get on the floor, just do itâquick.”
The brightness of the moon provided enough light to keep them on the rutted path, and a few moments later, the shack came into sight.
“Doesn't look like anyone's home,” he breathed.
“What now?” Jelly whispered.
“Keep still. I'm going to drive as far as I can, then get out and hail him. We'll play it by ear from there.”
“You mean
you'll
play it by ear. What if he shoots?”
“Then you'll have to help him. I'll be past caring.”
He got out of the car, taking a flashlight from the door pocket. He walked to within twenty feet of the shack, switched on the flashlight, and called out. “LuisâLuis Martinez. It's Wes Farrell. LuisâI'm here to help.”
He waited for a moment then advanced slowly on the rude cabin, letting the flashlight beam light his path. When he reached the door, he stepped to the side, rapped on the door, and called out again. When nothing happened, he pushed the door open and flashed the light around inside. “Come on up. It's empty,” he called.
Jelly left the car and tottered over the rough ground to the cabin door on her high heels. “Damn. These shoes are worthless out here,” she hissed. She went in behind him and waited for him to light a kerosene lamp. It bathed the interior in an anemic yellow glow that wasn't quite sufficient to light the gloomy corners. “Jesus wept,” she said. “What a dump.” She wrinkled her nose at the musty smell. “It smells like an animal pen in here.”
“Baby, you've lived one hell of a sheltered life. I know Negro families back in town who'd think this was a palace.” He poked around the room until he found the saucepan with the remains of Martinez's hasty supper. He sniffed it, touched the bottom and then rubbed his fingers together. “He's been here, and not long ago, either. Not more than a few hours.”
“There's his suitcase.” Jelly pointed at the foot of the cot. “It's got his initials on it.”
Farrell slapped his leg impatiently. “Where the hell are you, Louie? This is a rotten time to go missing.”
“He's bound to come back,” Jelly said. “Probably everything he's got is under this roof.”
“If he's able. If he went back to town to give Compasso another hotfoot, he may not be able to come back. Each time he goes into the city he takes a bigger risk.”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts and poked around the room, thinking. She took a breath, then looked back at him. “Then you should go back to town and keep looking for him. I'll wait here, and if he shows up, I'll convince him to come in to you.”
Farrell regarded her solemnly as he rubbed the stubble growing on his chin. “I don't like it. This is no game, Margaret. Don't forget, somebody's already killed two women to get to Luis. It's too big a risk.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “I don't expect you to understand this, but I owe Luis. I was a spoiled, rotten little bitch when I walked out on him. Maybe if I'd stayed with him, he wouldn't be in this mess now.”
“You don't know that. When a man and a woman split up, there's usually blame on both sides. He wouldn't want you to risk your life.”
She was exhausted and didn't have the strength to talk much more. “I'm staying. Just go and find him, if you can. Come back and get me later today. It's a way to cover all the bases, Farrell. It makes sense and you know it.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but he was tired, too. He stalked out of the house without another word. He was back in a couple of minutes with something in his hand. “Here. Take this and keep it with you.” He opened his hand and a small black .32 Colt revolver lay in it. “If somebody besides Luis comes in, get your back to a wall and squeeze the trigger until it's empty, you understand?”
Reluctantly, she took the gun, looking at it as though it were an unexpected bill. “I'm not crazy about this.”
Farrell snorted. “We're even. I'm not crazy about leaving you here. Be safe, Margaret. Don't take any chances. I'll be back before nightfall.” He turned and walked out of the shack, and a moment later, she heard the Packard roar into life, and gradually fade away.
She looked down at the gun, and for the first time, felt terribly afraid. She sat on the cot with the pistol in her lap, her eyes moving from one dark corner to another, until, exhausted, she lay down and fell into a deep sleep.
***
The news that the Treasury Department had recognized New Orleans as the probable distribution point for the counterfeit money put Compasso into an unusually introspective mood. Even if Dixie Ray Chavez or his own men found Martinez and retrieved the plates, the operation in this part of the country was pretty well finished. His silent partner was aware of that, too, or he wouldn't be talking about leaving. There was the chance, too, that the police might get their hands on Martinez before anyone else.
He went to Tink's room and woke him. The bruiser sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What's up, boss?”
“We're getting out of here. Get the others up and get everything of value into the Lincoln. Do it quietly but as quickly as you can.”
The thug moved to obey, and Compasso returned to his study. The most expedient way out was by water. McMasters could take them to Mexico, where Compasso had friends.
It was nearing dawn when he picked up his telephone and gave the operator McMasters' number. The phone rang at least eight times before a woman answered.
“What the hell is it now?” she shouted.
Compasso's lip curled with contempt. “Put McMasters on the phone. Tell him it's Compasso.”
“Oh,” she said, “it's Compasso, is it? Well, get a load of this, you spig sonofabitch. Pete's down at headquarters being taken apart right now and it's because of you and that stinkin' boat of yours. Pete won't turn rat, and they'll pitch his ass into the jug. But I'll go down and tell 'em what they want to know. Pete ain't goin' back to the pen because of you nor nobody like you, see?”
“Why have the cops got Pete?” he shouted.
She laughed. “'Cause somebody burnt your friggin' boat to the waterline, and shot a cop, that's why. So start runnin', Big Shot, 'cause when I'm through, they'll have chains all over your stinkin' carcass.” She slammed the telephone down in his ear before he could respond.
With a shaking hand, he dropped the receiver into the cradle. Martinez again. And the cop he shot was probably Paret. Paret would talk, too. He'd have to, before it was all over. He slid the big Astra automatic into the holster under his arm and was putting on the jacket to his dark brown tropical wool suit when Tink came into the office.
“We got it all loaded, boss, but Rojo says there's a car watchin' the front. What do we do?”
“You and Rojo make sure they don't follow. No guns.”
Tink turned and disappeared. He and Rojo had removed inconvenient people before, so there was no need for elaborate instructions. Twelve minutes from Compasso's order the two men met him and a third man named Gil Davenport at the garage. Rojo indicated the completion of his instructions with a brief nod of his shaggy head.
The pale light of dawn was faintly glowing in the east as the heavily laden Lincoln slid quietly into City Park Avenue. Rojo, the red-haired ex-
gaucho
Compasso had brought with him from Buenos Aires, was at the wheel. He was a good, steady man who didn't need a lot explanation. He drove as though they were part of a funeral.
“Rojo,” Compasso said.
“
Si, patron
?”
Compasso slipped easily into the gutter Spanish that he used with the red-haired man. “We are going to have to hide from the police until we can leave the city.”
“But the boatâ”
“Was burned last night. I just spoke to
la Señora McMasters por el telephono
. The police picked Pete up.”
“Basta,”
the old gaucho muttered darkly.
“So we need a place to lay low until we can get some clean license plates. After that we head south to Mexico.”
The red-haired man drove in thoughtful silence for a moment. “
Patronâla estancia por el puente grande
.”
Compasso almost smiled. To Rojo, any house with more than one floor was an
estancia
, or estate, but he was right. The property not far from the foot of the Huey P. Long Bridge in Jefferson Parish was distant enough from New Orleans that they could not easily be located. “
Muy bien, muchacho. Andele.”
For the benefit of Tink and Davenport, Compasso said, “We are going to the house near the bridge. If we can acquire some new license plates, we can be halfway to Mexico by tomorrow evening.”
“Sounds good, boss. I know a guy who can help us out.”
“Good. A helpful man would be a pleasant change.”
Tink knew when to shut up. He folded his arms and settled back in the seat.
Somehow, Casey wasn't surprised to discover that Santiago Compasso had flown the coop by the time five police cars converged on his house at 5:30 that morning. Inspector Grebb and his men found the doors unlocked and everything incriminating gone from the yawning file cabinets and desk drawers. “They've skipped, Chief,” Grebb reported. “Both men in the surveillance car were knocked cold. We just sent 'em to the hospital.”
Casey's mouth was stretched tight with chagrin, but he realized that if Compasso had flown, he was running scared. He also knew Compasso was too wily to try to drive out of the city limits just when he figured the cops might be looking for him. “My money says he's lying low until he thinks the heat's off. I'll notify the Jeff Parish and St. Bernard Sheriff's Departments, too. There are a couple hundred places they could hide to the west and south of us.”
“What do you want us to do, Chief?”
“Come back in and get your men on the phones. I want every stool pigeon you can find listening at keyholes and peeping over transoms until we get a lead.”
“Right, skipper. I'll leave two men and bring everybody else back home.”
“Good.” Casey hung up his telephone and rubbed his reddening eyes. Getting too old for this, he thought. He looked at the clock and saw that it was about the normal time he arrived at the office. He keyed his intercom. “White, go across the street and get me two fried egg and bacon sandwiches on rye toast and a gallon of black coffee.”
The officer responded and Casey heard him leave the office. He found himself rereading the report of the Leake shooting. There was something about that case that bothered him. Why had the gunman so precisely drilled Marston Leake, but left the other man alive?
He picked up his phone and dialed the three-digit extension for Daggett's office. It rang only once.
“Negro Squad, Sergeant Daggett.”
“This is Casey. Were you able to nail anything down about the shooting of those two bankers yesterday?”
“Sam and I both believe something stinks, sir.”
“Uh, huh. Tell me more.”
“Well, for one thing, this Negro gunman's out of his patch. You know that a colored stick-up artist isn't gonna ply his trade Downtown when the sun's still shining. Too much chance of having your face remembered.”
“That crossed my mind, too.”
“The next thing,” Daggett said, “is that the guy's packin' a lot of gun for a stick-up man. Most of those characters carry Owl's Head .32s or some relic from the Spanish American War. This guy has a Colt .45 automatic, in A-one condition according to the forensics report.”
“Anything strike you as funny about how the shooting went down?” Casey asked.
“I was getting to that. The shooter was right on top of both men. He kills one and leaves the other one alive.”
“That bothered me, too.”
“The last thing, though, is the item Sam and I both chewed over all last night. There's evidence that the shooter was waiting in that alley for somebody. He was there long enough to smoke a cigarette all the way through, then start another. The second one was still smoldering when Sam and I investigated the alley he came from.”
“It adds up to murder,” Casey said. “But if that's what went down, what made Marston Leake so dangerous that someone had to kill him for it?”
“That one kept me awake, Captain, but I don't have even a faint glimmer of an idea this morning.”
“Have you got anything on the killer?”
“We got a fairly good description from the survivor and we found some men who were a close match. Trouble is, they've all got believable alibis. This guy may be new in town, but if so, he's several notches up from our local talent. He's clever, ruthless, and you might even say reckless for a simple holdup man.”
“Yeah,” Casey said thoughtfully. “I tell you what, let's go on the assumption that this wasn't simply a garden variety stick-up. See if your men can pick up any gossip about a Negro hit man, somebody new in town. I've got another angle I'm going to follow, so check back with me later.”
“Will do, Captain.” Daggett broke the connection.
Casey tapped the button in his cradle until he got the operator. He asked her for the office of Treasury Enforcement in the Customs House. Within a few minutes he was on the line with Agent Paul Ewell.
“Paul, it's Frank. Have you got a few minutes?”
“Sure, Frank. What's on your mind?”
“Did you get a report of a shooting yesterday afternoon involving a pair of vice presidents from First National?”
“Why no.” Surprise was evident in Ewell's voice. “What happened?”
“The short answer is that Marston Leake and Max Grossmann were confronted by a Negro stick-up man. When it was over, Leake was dead and Grossmann was wounded, although not badly.”
“Jesus. I was just talking to them in A. J. McCandless's office a couple of days ago. We'd just given them a clean bill of health after inspecting them for counterfeit. You say it was a stick-up man?”
“That's what it looks like, but we think there's more to it. The killer was waiting in a very convenient alley not far from the bank. The shooting happened in broad daylight. I just got through talking it over with my Negro Squad sergeant, and he found plenty wrong with the entire picture. I thought I'd run it in front of you.”
“Leake struck me as the brains of that bank, a very watchful, cautious man. The others seemedâI don't knowânervous or shaky about something. I just chalked it up to jitters over a possible scandal. But when a banker gets killed in the midst of a currency investigation, it's like a red flag waving. How badly was Grossmann wounded?”
“Barely. His arm was grazed and they released him after treatment. He might be back at work today.”
“Hmmmm,” Ewell said. “Have you got time to visit the bank president with me later today?”
“Let me know when and I'll meet you there,” Casey said.
“Good. I've never given a bank president the third degree. It might be handy to have a New Orleans cop there to give me a few pointers.”
Casey laughed. “I'll wait for your call.”
“Right.” Ewell hung up the telephone.
Casey put his own receiver back into the cradle and was rubbing his face as Officer White came in with a bag full of breakfast for him. Casey allowed himself to briefly imagine what circumstances could bring together a counterfeit ring, a murdered banker, and a lone Negro gunman with more nerve than sense as he bit into his first sandwich.
***
Farrell made it back to the Café Tristesse at about 4:00 AM feeling utterly worn out. He stumbled up to his rooms, took four aspirins with a big glass of water, then stripped and fell across his bed. He was deep into sleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow.
He saw himself walking down a dark city street with grotesque shadows playing all about him. Ahead somewhere, he could hear a voice singing a song that was oddly familiar. Farrell quickened his pace.
Soon he saw a man ahead of him. He was at some distance, but his posture, the cocky way he wore his hat, identified him to Farrell as Luis. “LuisâLuisâIt's Farrell,” he called. He was rewarded by a jaunty wave from his old friend, and he once again quickened his pace. Then Margaret Wilde appeared in front of him. She was on all fours, naked but for a collar around her neck attached to a long length of rope staked to the ground. He made to set her loose, but a noise stopped him. His father appeared with a pair of handcuffs that he dangled from his finger. He wore a stern look on his face and shook his head negatively.
Farrell backed up a step, and his father and Margaret vanished. Blinking with surprise, he ran toward Luis, calling out to him. However, as he got closer, he saw that Luis was blind, his red, empty eye sockets bleeding down into his smiling mouth. Farrell reached out to touch him, but a pale gray wisp came between them, a thing that was both shadow and specter. Farrell fought it, found it insubstantial and entangling all at once. He was yelling, cursing with frustration, tearing at the shadow.
The telephone woke him. It rang steadily and insistently on his nightstand, and he had to untangle himself from the sheets before he could grab it. “Farrell,” he said breathlessly.
“It's Sparrow. You sound tired, Farrell.”
“Yeah, I guess so. You have news for me?”
“Yes, and it seems reasonably good. A source tells me that Doc Poe has a new patient that checked in last night.”
“Tell me the rest.”
“Somebodyâit's believed it was Martinezâset fire to a boat operated by a seaman in Compasso's employ last night. During the fire, a cop named Paret intervened and there was shooting. Paret was injured, but there's some evidence the other man was wounded, too.”
“What makes you think the man at Poe's is Martinez?”
“I happen to know from another source that Martinez owns a new dark green Mercury coupé. A car like that is parked within a block of Poe's building. It has Arkansas plates, but the first thing a man on the run will do is steal some new license plates.”
“That would explain why Luis wasn't at his hideout last night. Margaret Wilde found out where it was and we drove out there, but it was deserted.”
“She's supposed to be an intelligent woman, in spite of that ridiculous nickname she uses.”
“It was pasted on her, Sparrow. She hates it. Call her Margaret and she'll be your friend for life.”
“I'll remember that if I ever invite her for tea. You'd better get moving, Farrell. Martinez may try to leave Poe's, or Compasso's man may discover his whereabouts.”
“Thanks, Sparrow. I'm once again in your debt.”
“Just stay alive, Farrell. That negative energy I mentioned is still there, and you're in the middle of it. Good luck, my friend.” She hung up before he could reply.
Farrell looked at the bedside clock and saw it was 9:00. He wanted to go back to sleep, but he knew that was out of the question. He walked to the bathroom, turned on the hot water full blast, and stepped into it. The heat soaked into his bones and brought him the rest of the way to wakefulness. He soaped himself, then lathered and shaved his face in the metal mirror bolted to the tile wall. When he was finished, he stood under a stinging blast of cold water for a full minute before climbing out and drying off. It took him another ten minutes to dress in fresh clothing, and two more minutes to get his German steel razor and .38 Colt automatic from his desk. He wanted coffee and food, but that would have to wait.
It took about twenty minutes to make it to Poe's neighborhood in the early morning traffic. As he rolled to a stop across the street from Poe's, he saw the new green Mercury coupé parked nearby. He passed it on his way to Poe's locked gate to ring the doorbell.
He recognized Poe's bulky shape as he appeared at the end of the alley. He approached cautiously, and Farrell noticed his right hand was held a bit behind his hip, no doubt holding a gun. Farrell reached up with both hands and grabbed the bars to show he was empty-handed.
Poe eyed him skeptically. “Well, well, well. What's the matter, Farrell? Infected hangnail, or perhaps you cut your finger on a sharp playing card?”
“Let me in, Doc. I want to see Luis.”
“I tried to get the dumb bastard to call you last night. He knows you're looking for him. Before I let you in, I've gotta know you're not gonna try to harm him. I can't afford that here.”
“I'm here to help, Doc, not make things worse. Let me in and he can make up his mind what he wants to do.”
“Come in, then.” Poe shoved his pistol into his hip pocket, then unlocked the gate so Farrell could squeeze into the alley. He led him back through the courtyard and into the infirmary where Luis lay. His body was swathed in bandages and his face was pale. He offered Farrell a wan smile as he entered.
“Hey,
chivato
. Talk about a coincidence. You been lookin' for me, eh?”
Farrell tipped his hat up off his forehead and looked at Doc. “Nobody's called me
chivato
in years. You got any coffee, Doc? I haven't eaten today.”
“Or yesterday from the look of you. I'll get something for the two of you.” Poe turned and left them alone.
Farrell dragged up a chair and straddled it, leaning on the back with his arms. “Boy, you're really in it now.”
Martinez affected an air of nonchalance. “Nothin' big, just takin' care of a li'l business.”
“Save the applesauce, Luis. The cops want you for murder and arson, the Feds want you for counterfeiting, and Compasso's men just want to kill you. Your life isn't worth a plugged nickel right now.”
“Man, you're a grouchy bastard when you don't get your morning coffee, ain't you?”
“Okay, tough guy. I get it. You can handle it all by yourself.”
“Sure, just like I did in the old days before you started taggin' along.” He moved his arm a bit thoughtlessly, and a grimace of pain swept across his face.
“Luis, Compasso's pretty much finished. If you're smart, you'll go to the Treasury Department and make a clean breast. It may be enough to get you out from under the murder charges. A smart lawyer can play the jury in such a way that you'll get off with a few years at Leavenworth.”
Martinez's eyes flattened and his mouth tightened. “Well, well. My old
compadre
, my partner in crime. You've turned into a real
ciudadano sólido
, ain't you?
Gracias
, but I'll take my chances with Compasso.”
Farrell shook his head. “No matter how much you hurt him, you can't bring Linda back. Play it smart and own up to your part in it. It's the only way to live with it.”
The words came out harder than Farrell meant, and he saw the muscles in Martinez's jaw ripple. He turned his face from Farrell and sucked his breath in. Farrell saw his mouth stretch and crumple.