The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (5 page)

A few more questions elicited the information that she had not seen him in three months. He had left her…a blonde, a girl named Phyllis Edsall.

Lola talked and talked fast. Kurt Eberhardt thought he was a big shot, smart. That was because he had been in prison with Rubio Turchi. He had driven a car for Turchi a few times, but he bragged too much; Turchi dropped him. She had not seen him in three months.

Now they had another name, Phyllis Edsall. No record. A check on Edsalls in the telephone book brought nothing. They did not know her. Reports began to come in from contacts in the underworld…. Eberhardt probably had stuck up a few filling stations, but usually he had his girl get drunks out where he could roll them. Sometimes it was the badger game, sometimes plain muscle.

Nobody knew where he lived. Nobody knew where the girl lived.

Nothing more from the Shadow Club. Nothing from the bank. Nobody in the morgue that fit the description. Rubio Turchi still missing.

Mike Frost and Noonan went out for coffee together. They stopped by the liquor store where Sixte had been buying his Madeira. The fat little proprietor looked up and smiled. “Say, you were asking about Madeira. I sold a bottle yesterday afternoon. I started to call, but the line was busy, and…”

Frost found his hands were shaking. Noonan looked white. “Who bought it? Who?” Frost’s voice was hoarse.

“Oh,” the little man waved his hand, “just some girl. A little blonde. I told her—”

“You told her what?”

The little man looked from Frost to Noonan. His face was flabby. “Why…why I just said that was good wine, even the police were interested, and—”

Mike Frost felt his fist knot and he restrained himself with an effort. “You damned fool!” he said hoarsely. “You simpleminded fool!”

“Here!” The little man was indignant. “You can’t talk to me like—”

“That girl. Did she wear a suede coat?” Noonan asked.

The little man backed off. “Yes, yes, I think so. You can’t—”

It had been there. They had had it right in their grasp and then it was gone. The little man had not called. She looked, he said, like a nice girl. She was no criminal. He could tell. She was—“Oh, shut up!” Frost was coldly furious.

One fat, gabby little man had finished it. Now they knew. They knew the police were looking for Sixte, that they were watching the sales of Madeira, they knew….

“S’pose he’s still alive?” Noonan was worried.

Frost shrugged. “Not now. They know they are hot. They probably won’t go near a bank. That blew it up. Right in our faces.”

“Yeah,” Noonan agreed, “if he’s alive, he’s lucky.”

T
OM
S
IXTE LAY
on the floor of the cellar of the old-fashioned house with his face bloody and his hands tied as well as his feet. Right at that moment he would not have agreed that it was better to be alive. When Phyllis came in with the wine, she was white and scared. She had babbled the story and Kurt had turned vicious.

“Smart guy, huh?” he had said, and then he hit Sixte. Sixte tried to rise, and Kurt, coldly brutal, had proceeded to knock him down and kick him in the kidneys, the belly, the head. Finally, he had bound his hands and rolled him down the cellar steps to where he lay. The door had been closed and locked.

Sixte lay very still, breathing painfully. His face was stiff with drying blood, his head throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, his body was sore, and his hands were bound with cruel tightness.

They dared not take him to the bank looking like this. They dared not put him on a plane now. Phyllis was sure she had not been followed. She had taken over an hour to come back, making sure. But there was no way out now. They would kill him. Unless he could somehow get free.

Desperation lent him strength. He began to struggle, to chafe the clothesline that bound him against the edge of the wooden step. It was a new board, and sharp-edged.

Upstairs, he heard a door slam and heavy feet went down the front steps. The floor creaked up above. Phyllis was still there…no use to ask her help, she was the one who killed the man on Redondo.

He began to sweat. Sweat and dust got into the cuts on his face. They smarted. His head throbbed. He worked, bitterly, desperately, his muscles aching.

K
URT
E
BERHARDT WAS FRIGHTENED
. He got out of the house because he was scared. Despite what Phyl said, they might have followed her. He walked swiftly north, stopped there on a corner, and watched the house. Nobody around, no cars parked. After ten minutes, he decided she had not been followed and walked on, slower.

He had to see Rubio. Rubio would know what to do. He went to his car, got in, and drove downtown. He tried to call Rubio…no answer. He called two or three places, no luck. At the last one, he asked, “When is he leavin’?”

“You nuts?” The man’s voice was scoffing. “He ain’t goin’ noplace. He can’t. He’s tied up here, wit’ big dough.”

Then, maybe Rubio would not use the tickets, either. He wouldn’t want the visa and passport.

His stomach empty and sick, Kurt Eberhardt started up the street. On the corner, he stopped and looked back, seeing the sign. The Shadow Club…it was early yet. It might not be open. He stood there, trying to think, looking for an out.

He had never killed a man. He had bragged about it, but he never had. When Phyllis told him she had, he was scared, but he dared not show it. The fear had made him beat Sixte.

That had been foolish. With that beat-up face…still, the guy was scared now, bound to be. They could say he had been in an accident. Sixte wouldn’t talk out of turn. He could draw out the money…not a bad deal. He could even take it and the tickets and scram. No, they would stop him…unless he killed Sixte.

It was better to play it straight with the guy.

Phyl…she made the trouble. She got him into this. Too rattlebrained. Lola now, she never made a wrong move. Killing that guy, Lola wouldn’t have done it. Lola…no use thinking about that. It was over.

He would get Rubio. He would wait at his place until he came.

M
IKE
F
ROST SAT
at his desk. It was 4:00
P.M
. The plane for Bolivia left at 9:45. The banks were closed now, but there were a few places around town where a check might be cashed…they were covered.

No more chance on the liquor stores. The men checking up on those were pulled off. They were still worrying over the bone of Kurt Eberhardt and that of Phyllis Edsall. No luck on either of them. Nobody seemed to know either of them beyond what they had learned.

At 4:17
P.M
., a call came in. Rubio Turchi’s green sedan had been spotted coming out of the hills at Arroyo and the Coast Road. It would be picked up by an unmarked police car.

At 4:23
P.M
. another call. A dark sedan with a dark-haired young man had been parked in front of Rubio’s apartment for more than an hour. The fellow seemed to have fallen asleep in the car, apparently waiting. It was the first time the man covering Rubio’s apartment had been able to get to a phone. He gave them the car’s number.

The license had been issued to one Phyllis Hart, but she had moved from the old address, left no forwarding address.

Mike Frost rubbed the stubble on his face and swore softly. He walked to the door of an adjoining office and stuck his head in. “Joe? You got that electric razor here? I feel like hell.”

He carried the razor back, loosened his tie, and took off his coat. He plugged in the razor and started to shave. Rubio would meet Eberhardt, if that was him in the car, and seven to ten it was. Then they would what…go back to the place where Sixte was held…had been held? Or would it simply be a delivery of the tickets? If they split, they would be followed separately, if they went together, so much the better. He stopped shaving and called for another undercover car to be sent out to Rubio’s place.

Mike Frost rubbed his smooth cheek and started on his upper lip.

T
OM
S
IXTE FELT
the first strand of the clothesline part, but nothing else came loose. He tugged, it was tight and strong. He waited, resting. It was getting late.

For some time now, there had been restless movements upstairs. Suddenly, the footsteps turned and started toward the cellar steps. Instantly, Sixte rolled over and over, then sat up, his face toward the steps.

Phyllis came down until she could see him, then stopped and stared. Her face was strained and white, her eyes seemed very bright.

She stared at him, and said nothing, so he took a chance. “Did he run out on you?”

Her lip curled and she came down onto the floor. For a minute, he thought she would hit him. Then she said, “He won’t run out on me. He wouldn’t dare.”

Sixte shook his head a little. “Man, have I got a headache! My head got hit on the steps.” She made no reply, chewing on her lip. “Look,” he said, “can’t we make a deal? You an’ me?”

Her eyes were cold, but beyond it, he could see she was scared. “What kind of deal?”

“Get me on that plane and I’ll give
you
the five thousand.”

It got to her, all right. He could see it hit home. “You’re in this deeper than he is. Why should he collect? Seems to me he’s been gone a long time.”

“The banks are closed now.”

“You’d know somebody. My identification is good. We could tell them I got in a scrap with your boyfriend, and want to get out of town, that I have my tickets, but need cash.”

She was thinking it over. No question about that. She had it in mind. “I know a guy who might have it.”

“Then it’s a deal?”

“I’ll give him ten minutes more,” she said. “It’s almost five.”

She went back up the stairs, and Sixte returned to his sawing at the ropes that bound him.

A
T
5:10
P.M
., his cheeks smooth, his hair freshly combed, Mike Frost got a call. Rubio and Eberhardt had made contact. They had gone into the house and there was a man with them. He was a short, powerfully built man in a gray suit.

An unmarked police car slid into place alongside the curb under some low-hung branches. Nobody got out. A man sauntered up the street and struck a match, lighting a cigarette. It was a cloudy afternoon and there was a faint smell of rain in the air.

Mike Frost was sweating. He was guessing and guessing wild. The man in the gray suit could be Tony Shapiro. He hesitated, then picked up the telephone and dialed the FBI.

When he hung up, his phone rang. Rubio, Eberhardt, and the other man had come out. They all got into Rubio’s car and started away. They were being checked and followed.

A
T
5:22
P.M
., the cellar door suddenly opened and Phyllis came down the steps sideways. She went over to Sixte and she had a gun in her hand. “You try anything, and I’ll kill you,” she said, and he believed her.

He had his hands loose and he brought them around in front of him. “See?” he said. “I’m playing fair. I could have let you come closer and jumped you.” He began to untie the ropes on his ankles.

When he got up, he staggered. Barely able to walk, he got up the stairs. Then he brushed himself off, splashed water on his face, and combed his hair. As they reached the door, a taxi rolled up.

“Don’t try anything.”

The cabdriver looked around, his eyes hesitating on Sixte’s bruised face.

“The Shadow Club,” Phyllis said, and sat back in the seat. Her features were drawn and fine, her eyes wide open. She sat on Sixte’s right and had her right hand in her pocket. “We’ll get out by the alley.”

They went up a set of stairs and stopped before a blank door. Phyllis knocked and after a minute a man answered. At her name, he opened the door, then wider. They walked in. When the man saw Sixte’s face, his eyes changed a little. They seemed to mask, to film. The man turned, went through another door, and walked to his desk.

He was a stocky man in a striped shirt. His neck was thick. “Whatya want, Phyl?” He dropped into his chair.

“Look,” she said quickly, “this guy is a friend. He’s got dough in the bank and he’s got to get out of town. He wants to cash a check for five G’s.”

“That’s a lot of cash.” The man looked from one to the other. “What’s it worth?”

“A hundred dollars.”

The man chuckled. “You tell that to Vince Montesori? It’s worth more.”

Sixte produced his identification, and indicated the balance in his checking account. “The check’s good,” he said quietly, “and I’ll boost the ante to five hundred extra if you cash it right away.”

Montesori got to his feet. “I gotta check. There’s a guy works for the bank. If he says you’re okay, I’ll cash it, okay?” He indicated a door. “You wait in there.”

It was a small private sitting room, comfortably fixed up. There was a bar with glasses and several bottles of wine, one of bourbon. Tom Sixte stepped to the bar. “I could use a drink. How about you?”

Phyllis was watching him carefully. “All right.”

He picked up the bourbon and then through the thin wall over the bar, he heard a faint voice, audible only by straining his ears.