Stab in the Dark (7 page)

K
NOX HAD
his key in the door when he decided that he could no longer postpone a task he had been ignoring up to now. He disliked doing it; it was the kind of thing that he never enjoyed. But it had to be done and he could think of no better time than now.

Turning from his door, he went to the stairs and down two flights, along the corridor, and stopped before eight-o-eight. This had been Leo Auffer’s suite and, as far as he knew, the police order that it remain unoccupied was still in force.

It took three tries with his set of keys before he got the door open. He slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him, and stood listening intently. There was no sound other than those usual early morning sounds that seep in from the streets below. A car went by. In the near distance, a truck rumbled across the viaduct. Far out, a ship’s foghorn hooted. That made Knox wonder if it wasn’t fogging in now that the rain had stopped.

He waited a moment more to be sure and then went into the living room. He didn’t expect to find much. Beeker had said the place was clean, and Beeker was a careful man. On the other hand, the police would not have looked for the same things he was interested in. There was always the chance of finding something that would have little significance to anyone but himself.

He was not surprised that they had left Auffer’s things here. Knox found them as Leo Auffer himself must have left them when he want into the basement in the afternoon. The drawers in the dresser were filled with his underwear and shirts, the closet held four suits, robe, slippers, and pajamas. In the living room there was a highball glass with a little water in the bottom, an ashtray with half a dozen butts in it. Knox poked around. All of the cigaret stubs were Auffer’s brand, imported Turkish, very expensive, and very nauseating to Knox. One had lipstick on it and this Knox looked at for some time. It could be Cora Deane’s if she had come up to work for Auffer. It could be Natalie Tinsley’s. There was no law against her visiting. Or it could have belonged to someone else.

This was getting him nowhere. He looked into the desk and found nothing in it but the usual impersonal hotel stationery. He tried the bedroom again. There were two large and expensive suitcases in the back of the closet. They were unlocked and empty. Knox worked on them for some time but the lining in both was solid. If Auffer had concealed anything, he had not done so in the obvious places.

Knox stood in the center of the bedroom and swore softly at his own helplessness. He wished that he had worked more with Auffer. In a way he was glad that he had not known the man better; it made this less personal, easier to face objectively. On the other hand knowing Auffer’s habits would make the job a lot easier in some respects.

He prowled into the bathroom. The medicine chest yielded the usual items—a tootbrush and paste, odorless body powder, an electric razor, lotion, some hair oil in a tube. Knox grunted. For all of his wealth of luggage, Auffer seemed to have lived as impersonally as the hotels he frequented.

Knox was about to examine the items in the medicine chest more closely, motivated by the faint hope that Auffer had used one of them as a place to conceal some records or his data, when a faint noise stayed his hand. He drew it back from the electric razor and stood motionless, his head cocked.

The noise came again. A too careful sound. A footstep on carpeting, the tick of metal against metal. Someone was at the door in the hallway.

He moved swiftly now, switching out the lights as he went through the bedroom and living room and into the entrance hall. It was completely black in here now, the draperies loosely drawn against the early morning darkness of outside.

He stopped by the door, pressed against the wall. When the door swung open, it covered him. A thin beam of light came in through the crack that formed as the door swung back. Knox looked through the slit. He had a glimpse of only two men. Maddy Keehan stood there, accompanied by a sleepy-looking and half dressed McEwen.

Keehan reached a hand in and snapped on the light switch. He jumped forward, in a kind of elephantine dance, his gun out. “Watch this door!” He rushed on into the living room, turning on lights, swung around and lumbered into the bedroom. To Knox it was absurd, but it was also typically Keehan.

Knox took advantage of it. He stepped around the door and put a hand out to McEwen. The hand contained a fifty dollar bill. McEwen’s eyes came open; he was suddenly wide awake. The bill disappeared.

Knox whispered, “Tell you later, Mac,” and then he was past, going down the hall. He stopped at a turn in the corridor and glanced back. McEwen was standing as he had been, guarding the door sleepily.

Knox went on up the stairs and paused on the landing to catch his breath. He wasn’t sure just how far he could trust McEwen, but he knew that the man preferred almost anyone to the members of the present police department. And he definitely preferred bills, big bills, to any glory that might rub off on him if Keehan should make an arrest.

Knox knew that in the long run he could talk himself out of trouble if Keehan should arrest him. But right now he had neither the time to waste nor the desire to let Keehan push him around.

He had been a fool for turning on lights so blithely. He was sure that Beeker had not ordered the room watched. That would have been Keehan’s idea, part of his often quoted “the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime” theory. And since Keehan had been watching Auffer’s room rather than the actual spot of his death, Knox was quite sure that he was operating on the theory of a thief. Knox felt faintly sorry for well known members of the local underworld since Keehan was undoubtedly using his spare time to work them over, one after the other.

Knox grinned as an idea came to him. He would give Keehan something to chew on. Walking around to the service elevator, he took it down to the lobby floor and walked through the side corridors to the men’s room and from there into the lobby. His idea was to be seated there when Keehan came fumbling back downstairs.

Only now the lobby was not quite as deserted as it had been. There was a lounger in addition to the clerk and the bellhop. It was the wispy-haired man. He was deep in an easy chair, yawning slightly and looking now and then at his watch. He had the redline edition of the morning paper in his lap and occasionally he glanced at it.

Knox forgot about Keehan. Seeing the thin-haired man made him remember Jock and he got mad all over again. Whether or not this man had had anything to do with Jock’s death, Knox did not know, but he was willing to take a little time to find out.

He walked across the lobby, slowing as he neared the desk to call to the clerk, “If you’d keep that newsstand open a man wouldn’t have to go out for cigarets.” He made his voice a little slurred.

The clerk just grinned. Knox walked on by, through the doors, and into the night. The street was empty now but for a police car across the street. It was probably Keehan’s. The weather was definitely foggy as he had suspected. It was a thinnish fog here but down the hill in the direction of the waterfront it was a thick, opaque blanket that made the pre-dawn darkness even darker. Knox started for that heavier fog.

It wasn’t long before he heard the footsteps padding along behind him. He kept going, ambling along, but once he reached the thicker fog, he stepped up his pace until he reached a main North-South arterial. Here he stepped sideways, around a corner, letting the deep darkness of a theater entry swallow him.

The other steps came on, hesitated, turned. Knox made out the shadowy figure of a man as it passed him. The man went on for a few feet, turned, and started back. He returned to the corner and continued the route Knox had started and now Knox was doing the following. He was a half dozen steps behind when the man crossed the street, and he stayed that distance as they dropped down the hill.

Where the hill sloped sharply down to the waterfront, a foot viaduct took off, bridging the truck highway and ending in the second story of a ferry dock. It was still and empty, a mere blob in the foggy darkness ahead. Knox paused, listening to the footsteps as the man ahead crossed the viaduct.

Now Knox hurried, trotting down the steep sidewalk that led past bleak warehouses and down to the truck highway. It was empty and he crossed it, swinging wide to escape the radiance from a sodium vapor lamp, and then he was tiptoeing up steps that led to the ferry dock end of the viaduct.

He paused once, listening for the other man. He heard him, not yet quite across the viaduct. He moved on, reached the top of the stairs and, still moving quietly, ducked into the doorway of the ferry dock waiting room. The big doors were shut but there was sufficient room in the recess for him to stand unobserved.

The thin-haired man walked into it—almost too easily. Knox heard his footsteps coming closer, and then he was there. Knox put out a hand, touching the roughness of a tweed overcoat. The man gasped and tried to jump back. Knox tightened his grip and moved in. He felt for an arm, got it, and moved it up the man’s back, his other hand at the same time going around the man’s throat.

“Take it easy,” he cautioned, “and nobody gets hurt.”

There was a gurgle he took for assent and he eased up on the pressure. The voice that came through was thin and colorless like its owner. “I haven’t anything. You’re wasting your time, mugging me.”

Knox pulled him deeper into the shadow of the entry-way. “I’m playing a different game,” he said cheerfully. “Who hired you to tail people?”

The man wriggled and then groaned as the pressure from the hammerlock pulled at his arm muscles. “You’re crazy,” he said. “I’m not tailing any body.”

“Sure,” Knox agreed. “You weren’t tailing a hotel maintenance man named Jock, for instance.”

“Never heard of him.” He didn’t sound as if he were making much effort to be convincing.

“You didn’t’ put the finger on him so that he got killed tonight?”

There was a gasp, quickly clipped off. “I tell you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What did the girl you were watching do after I left the bar tonight?” Knox went on. His voice was still soft, cheerful, but there was nothing soft about the grip he had on the man’s arm.

“Listen, mister, you got me mixed up with someone else.” There was a whine in the voice now.

Knox put on a little more pressure. “I could make this tough,” he said. “Damned tough, if that’s the way you want it. Or maybe you’d rather the cops asked you these questions. There’s a big sergeant named Keehan that would love to have you downtown. He’d really enjoy it.”

“I don’t know what …”

Knox was so busy figuring out his next move that he only heard the padded footstep when it Was too late. There was the whispering sound of a crepe sole on cement. Knox moved as the meaning of that sound impinged on his brain. Twisting to his left, he brought the thin-haired man around to where he had been standing. But he hadn’t moved soon enough. He stepped directly into the sharp, ugly swishing of a blackjack.

The blow took him alongside the neck. His muscles went loose with the shock. The thin-haired man slipped free and swung around with a hard fist that caught Knox under the breastbone. He tried to move again, this time to the side, lashing out with his hands in the darkness.

A hand knocked his hat from the side of his head. He reached up angrily. The sap whispered through the air, catching him behind his now uncovered ear. He grabbed at the thick air in front of him, grabbed at nothing. He scarely felt the cement when it rose up and hit him in the face. His last thought was bitterness at the ease with which he had let himself be suckered.

K
NOX
didn’t like where he was, neither the feel nor the smell of it. The floor where he lay smelled like ancient fish and it wouldn’t hold still. It kept pitching around making the mess that was his stomach feel even worse. He tried to open his eyes and nothing happened. He tried to lift a hand and it was as though he were paralyzed. He made an effort to swallow and that was useless. It took him a few moments to figure out that he was bound and gagged and that his eyes were taped.

“He’s wriggling,” a cultured voice said in a pleased tone.

“Took him long enough.” He recognized the colorless voice of the thin-haired man. “You hit too hard, Toll.”

“This is the kind you have to hit hard,” the cultured voice said. “Sometimes, Binks, I don’t think you have the temperament for this kind of work.”

“I got my job; I do it,” the colorless man retorted. “It doesn’t include liking to hurt people.”

“Wer’e all different, Binks. And as for hurting him, why not? What have we here—a private operative working for World-Circle. He may know something that will be to our advantage. If so, we want him to talk, don’t we?”

“You might ask him before you kick him around.”

“I was merely testing to see if he was playing possum, Binks.” The cultured voice lost its amiability and became slashing. “If you prefer to do something else, leave.”

Binks still sounded unhappy. “My orders were to shadow, that’s all. Nobody pays me for this kind of thing.”

Toll just laughed at him. It was the kind of sound that Knox didn’t like. The kind of sound made by a man who enjoyed making things suffer. Now Knox understood why his ribs hurt as they did.

A foot caught him in the side, making him grunt in surprise. Toll laughed again. “See, he’s awake now. Pull out that gag.”

Knox felt hands fumbling at him. Then his mouth was free and he could swallow again. His jaws hurt and he worked them a moment in silence. With an effort, he rolled onto his back.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.

“You,” Toll said. “You—to wake up.”

“I’m awake,” Knox said. “Let’s get at it.”

“He’s awake. He wants to get at it,” Toll mocked.

Knox said coldly, “Your repartee is on the level of a ten year old. I imagine your mental processes are too.”

He heard an angry breath being sucked in, and a repressed giggle that could only have come from Binks. “Try that on for size, professer,” the colorless voice said.

Toll sounded furious, less under control. “Get out of here. You wanted to go—now go!”

“No,” Binks said. “I’ve changed my mind. If there’s any killing done here, I want to know about it, not be framed for it.”

“You’re a fool. No one is killing anyone.”

He sounded quite sincere. Knox felt a little better. He also was slightly puzzled. Since hearing Toll, he had been building a theory that the man had a hand in Leo Auffer’s death. He said nothing, just let the two of them fight it out.

But they apparently had reached an agreement. Knox heard a footstep, then a hand smashed against his mouth, driving his lips against his teeth.

“That’s what I mean,” Knox said. “Your actions are on a ten year old level too.”

The hand caught him again, on the cheekbone this time. He had an idea the blow had drawn blood.

“Shut up,” Binks said. “The professor is touchy about his brains.”

Toll didn’t answer this time. He was apparently taking time out to light a cigar. Knox could smell it. Despite the churning of his stomach, it made him want a cigaret badly.

Toll said suddenly, “What are you doing here—in this city?”

“Working on a case,” Knox said readily. “A Missing Persons.”

“Who?”

“What’s that to you?”

He expected it and got it—another fist to the face. This one slid as he rolled his head. There didn’t seem to be much damage.

Binks said, “Cut that out. Can’t you see he’s the kind that slugging won’t loosen up? Let me try.”

“I want answers to my questions—straight answers.”

Knox thought how he would like his hands free and two minutes with Toll. He lay listening to sudden heavy breathing, to a grunt and then swearing from Toll.

“Damn it, Binks, you were hired to shadow—as you said. Leave this to me.”

“I said quit it,” Binks told him. From the sound of authority, Knox guessed that he held a gun. He certainly wasn’t man enough to hold off Toll otherwise. From the feel of the blows and the sound of the man moving about, Knox pictured him as about Beeker’s size.

“Now,” Binks said, “you’re on an MP for World-Circle. Maybe we can help. Who is it?”

Knox picked one of the names Leo Auffer had been known to use. “Fellow named Ronald Heegan. Small, graying, close to forty, rich.”

There wasn’t a sound. Knox thought for a minute that the pair had stopped breathing. On his back as he was, he had been busily testing the knots around his wrists, concealed under him. They were a hurried job and he was making progress. But now he stopped, afraid the scrabbling of his nails would be heard in the silence.

Toll said suddenly, “That could be anyone. You, Binks.”

“I’ve watched Binks play tail all evening,” Knox said. “I got tired of it and moved in on him. I don’t know what you two think I’m mixed up in, but you’re wrong.”

He rolled a little, making himself more comfortable, and at the same time getting a little slack in the rope on his wrists. He talked to cover the sounds he made as much as anything. “This Heegan is wanted by his wife. What’s he to you?”

“Nothing,” Toll said quickly. “But I don’t believe you. World-Circle doesn’t mess with that kind of a deal.”

“It does when there’s a couple million riding on it,” Knox answered.

“You were talking to the maintenance man and the stenographer at the hotel today,” Toll said accusingly.

“Why not? I had a tip Heegan had been staying there.” Knox kept his voice cool. “And I thought maybe the guy that got killed was him.”

“Was it?” This came from Binks.

“I don’t know,” Knox said. “Nobody’d tell me anything.” It was hot in here. He could feel the sweat running down his face. He had placed the location now. They were on a fishing boat. That explained the smells and the movement. They were docked somewhere. But right now that didn’t matter. Getting free did, and that was hard work.

“He’s trying to mislead us,” Toll said suddenly. “Let me have him again. I’ll find out what he’s after.”

“I’m tired of watching you beat on him.”

“I won’t. I have more subtle methods when I need them.”

“I told you,” Knox said. “Do you want me to make up a story so you’ll be happy? I can throw in jewel thieves and smuggling rings if it makes you any happier.”

“Smuggling what?” Toll’s voice was so tight that Knox almost forgot that he had been sarcastic.

He said quickly, “You name it. If that’s the way you want to play, name whatever you want.” He had one hand free now and he was wriggling the fingers to restore the circulation. The other hand had rope on the wrist but it was usable. He made his voice mocking, “I’ll tell you all the fairy tales you want if it’s going to please that muscle-bound mentality of yours.”

Toll hit him again. He had expected it. He had wanted it. He heard the sucked in breath, the footstep. The hand caught him on the side of the head as he rolled away from it. His own hands came up and found a wrist. He pulled, hard. A huge weight dropped on him, half kicking his breath out. He rolled again and brought up both knees. He felt the satisfactory sensation of his kneecaps driving into belly muscle. He heard the gagging grunt.

“Get off him,” Binks squealed. “He’s free.”

It was such an obvious remark that Knox would have laughed if he hadn’t been so busy. He had one hand loose. With the other, he was gripping Toll by the shirt-front, holding him close. Toll was trying to hit him, but Knox wasn’t allowing him much room to swing.

With his free hand, Knox ripped the tape from his eyes. That hurt. So did the light that poured down into them suddenly. Then he could see and he had a glimpse of Toll, of a lean, gaunt face, an intellectual face, the eyes in it dark and wild, hair mussed now, graying and heavy.

Knox was as happy to hit a man with graying hair as anything else. He heaved up, handicapped by tied ankles. Toll went backwards just enough for Knox to get the heel of his hand under the man’s chin. Knox thrust. Toll’s head went back sharply. He made a gagging sound.

“Get away,” Binks said.

Knox had a glimpse of the man from the corner of his eye. He was dancing around, a large gun in his hand. He held it by the barrel, looking for a place to strike.

Knox kept working, taking wild, hurting swings from Toll for the privilege of bending the man’s head back farther and farther. Then Toll’s neck was where Knox wanted it. He wriggled his left arm free and brought the edge of his palm against Toll’s adam’s apple. He let loose. Toll flopped on his side, making a great gagging sound, and lay beating his fists on the deck as he sought air.

Knox got his legs under himself and pushed. Binks had a free shot now and he swung the pistol. It came down on Knox’s arm as Knox fell toward him, reaching out in a tackle. Knox felt the numbness travel from his shoulder to his elbow. Then Binks was down, on his back. He opened his mouth once.

Knox thought at first he had broken his hand and then he thought he had broken Binks’ jaw. Binks was out, not twitching a muscle. Knox rolled off, unlashed his ankles and rubbed at them. He got a hand on the gun. He was still sitting and rubbing when Toll found his breath and pushed himself to his feet.

Knox said amiably, “Now it’s my turn to play.”