The Wrong Way Down (16 page)

Ashbury's face was hidden, his hands were trembling.

“They're getting the Spiker headlines,” said Harold, and bought himself a paper.

“By the look of them,” said Gamadge, “they've had a shock.”

“They didn't get in touch with Bowles, then.”

“What does it say?” Gamadge looked over Harold's shoulder. He read:
Woman Slain In Area. Police identify body as Mrs. Miriam Spiker, registered until last night at the Hambledon Hotel as from Cleveland, Ohio.
He asked: “Anything about me?”

“Not in this sheet. Can't you wait?”

“Morning papers will have it,” said Gamadge glumly. Ashbury had laid the paper down beside him, and was saying something to his sister without turning his head. She nodded, her eyes still on vacancy.

“They have control,” said Harold.

“Didn't I mention the fact?”

There was a sudden transformation; the Ashburys stood up, their faces wreathed in smiles, as a group of four came through from the street. Two men and two women; or rather a middle-aged couple, a girl, and a young man.

The Ashburys met the group, merged with it. There were snatches of talk:

“Mother, this is Jane. Father—”

“My dear child.”

“Here's Susie. Here's Jim Ashbury, Susie.”

“Young Jim too? This is a great pleasure.”

Kisses, handshakes, smiles, laughter.

The older man was distinguished-looking, the kind of man who has a long inheritance of brains, good living, authority. The lady who seemed to be his wife was as tall as he, handsome, pleasant of manner, beautifully dressed. The younger people did their elders justice.

“And if it isn't an engagement party, family party,” said Gamadge, “I never saw one.”

Harold muttered: “It's ghastly. Kind of ghastly.”

“Element of incongruity,” agreed Gamadge, staring for all he was worth.

“Plain ghastly. Nice topic of lunch conversation: ‘There's been a little trouble, folks.'”

“Won't be mentioned.”

“No. Wonder what the Ashbury girl would stick at to keep that feller and get into that family.”

“I couldn't begin to compute it.”

“They've brushed Vance off. She ought to be here on two counts, engaged to Ashbury and a cousin besides. They've brushed her off. She'd have been invited if these people knew about her—they'd never leave her out. Wait a minute, they're fixed for the afternoon; the man's showing them theatre tickets.”

“But only five.”

“Ashbury isn't going with them. He's keeping his hat and coat.”

The other men went off towards the coatroom. Ashbury was shaking hands with the women, patting his sister's shoulder. The older woman was speaking to the head waiter at the dining-room rope.

“Stick with them, have your lunch, take in the show,” said Gamadge hurriedly, as young Ashbury turned away, down a corridor that led past the spiral stairs. “He's going by the side entrance.”

“Have a good time with Limpeck.”

“Thank God the next street is westbound.”

Gamadge pushed through the revolving doors and ran down the white steps. The plain-clothes man was waiting patiently at the foot of them. Mr. Limpeck was still hugging himself across the way.

“What's the matter?” The plain-clothes man seized Gamadge's elbow.

“Ashbury's leaving by the other door. Your subject is lunching with a crowd and going to a matinée.”

“That's good.”

Mr. Limpeck, his attention suddenly focussed on the street below him and across the avenue, gave Gamadge a fleeting glance and threaded himself a path among the traffic to the east side of the way. Gamadge went and got into his car. He leaned out of the window, watching the corner, while his engine hummed.

M
R. LIMPECK SCUTTLED
back around the corner and up to Gamadge's car. He said: “Got a cab. Watch it, he might go West instead of up. There's nothing behind, you could back.”

He stood on the running board, looking over his shoulder; then he pulled the door of the car open and bundled in, clutching the long skirts of his brown overcoat. He slammed the door. “Coming up,” he said. “We have a lucky start.”

A cab passed, and went on up the avenue. Gamadge started the car.

“You used to this work?” asked the little man.

“Not at all used to it.”

“Thing is to try to make his lights. Takes years off a man's life, making the lights. Don't hang behind, the guy hasn't looked back. He won't now, he thinks he's made his getaway.”

“I suppose you people develop a sixth sense about these things,” said Gamadge modestly.

“No magic about it, just practice. This car works very sweet,” he added, as they stopped behind the cab when the next red light came on. “And down this way there ain't much traffic.”

They went along for blocks in safety, but at Madison Square Mr. Limpeck had anxious moments.

“These trucks,” he said, “act like they was paid to give aid and comfort to fugitives. And there's the green light. Can we—that's right, take a chance, you got the spirit.” He sank back relieved, exhaled a loud breath, and got out a pack of cigarettes.

“I felt a couple of years dropping off my life then,” said Gamadge, skimming past a bus.

“Didn't I say? I was worried when they told me they was sending a civilian down to help out,” confessed Limpeck. “Better than nothing, though. One man on a job like this—it's nothing but a gesture. Just a gesture. Then Kimball—the other guy on this Ashbury job—he told me about you being practically in the Department.” He grinned up at Gamadge through smoke. “Like the big spy books. Big shot in Intelligence,
you
know, nobody knows him but the man higher up.”

Gamadge laughed too.

“Six or seven people waiting to bump him off,” continued Mr. Limpeck merrily, “only they don't know what the guy really looks like or who he is.”

“Only in this case they all know what I look like and who I am.”

Mr. Limpeck had not expected to find himself in one of his favorite plots. He said after a moment: “I thought this was only a tailing job.”

“That's so.”

“But if they know you I'd better do the close-ups. I understand this Ashbury is going to try to contact a killer named Bowles?”

“That's the general idea.”

“I never heard of any crook named Bowles.”

“He's supposed to be a Westerner, and Bowles may be a false name.”

“If he's a Westerner he probably don't know me, anyway. You met him?”

“Last night.”

“Don't say. Look out, here we go.”

They were now in the lower Forties. The cab turned West, drove past Sixth Avenue, and stopped in the middle of the next block on the south side.

“Stop right here across the way,” said Limpeck in a high voice, “and let me off.”

Gamadge obeyed. Limpeck scrambled out, and watched the cab drive away and Ashbury enter a dingy vestibule one flight up from the street. Then he came out from behind the car and followed.

Gamadge watched him leaping up the iron stair and jostling Ashbury in the vestibule. There were apologies from Limpeck, ignored by Ashbury. There was a wait. Then the door clicked open and they both went in.

Gamadge leaned out to look at the building. An Italian restaurant and bar in the basement, a theatrical costumer on the first floor, a manufacturer of theatrical properties above, and on the top floor curtained windows.

Limpeck came back and stood on the curb to talk to him: “The name's Smiley. Top floor. Only three residential flats, far as I make out, third and top back and top front.”

“Gritty neighborhood,” said Gamadge.

“I never cared for it myself, but it's convenient in a way. Eating places everywhere and the show business all over the neighborhood.”

“I used to come over here or hereabouts to get myself costumes and wigs when I had to go to masquerade balls or be in private theatricals.”

“Them was the days?”

“Them was the days. Thank Fortune they're over.”

Ashbury came out and went into a bar on the left of the Italian restaurant. Limpeck said: “I'll go over and take a peek.”

There was another bar not far from where they waited. Gamadge said: “That's a grill. I might get coffee and a sandwich.”

“Why not? Stay near the door, though, in case he's getting a quick one.”

Gamadge went into the bar and ordered his coffee and a cheese sandwich on toast. Presently Limpeck came across the street and joined him.

“Subject's having his lunch in there, and I think he's going to take his time about it. He's had a double Scotch and ordered another.”

“Have something yourself on me?” Gamadge put down money and was about to call the bartender. Limpeck shook his head.

“Can't risk it.”

“I'm going to risk a call on Smiley.”

“You are?”

“Have to, yes. If Ashbury comes out before I get back, take the car and hang on to him if you can.”

“He's good for ten minutes, I should think.”

“I don't suppose I'll be long.”

Limpeck said: “You relying on that big gun you got in your pocket? They'll see it right away.”

“Don't care if they do.”

Limpeck stood on the curb beside the car and watched Gamadge across the street and up the iron stairs, a look of doubt in his eye.

Gamadge pressed the Smiley bell. Presently the old door clicked, and he entered a hall that smelled of wet over-shoes and mice. He climbed many stairs, found a door in the rear with
Smiley
on it, and rang. The door was flung open by a short, middle-aged woman who had once been a pretty woman. Beyond her Gamadge had a glimpse of an aquarium in a window, a birdcage above it, and afternoon papers on the floor.

The woman patted mahogany-colored hair, curled tight. She looked at Gamadge vaguely.

“I've just missed Ashbury,” said Gamadge. “Awfully sorry to bother you, Mrs. Smiley.”

Mrs. Smiley's prominent mahogany-colored eyes considered him without trust or acceptance.

“I want to get into touch with Mr. Bowles myself.”

“Never heard the name.”

“It's the name he's going under just now, isn't it? Wouldn't he prefer me to use it? I want to see him about Mrs. Spiker.”

She stepped back, a deathly kind of emptiness on her face, and her eyes turned to the newspapers and back. He saw an unmade studio couch against a wall, an open suitcase on the floor, another smaller one beside it. “Smiley,” said the woman, in a voice as empty as her face.

A fat man appeared in a doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves; his features were small, his expression one of meaningless good humor. Some people might have thought he looked silly; Gamadge thought him formidable.

“Did you ever hear of anybody named Bowles, Gus?” asked the woman, who had moved a little aside and was now watching Gamadge's right hand. It was in his pocket, or half in; but Gamadge thought that Mr. Smiley wasn't perturbed by that fact. His long arms hung as if ineptly at his sides, and his silly smile did not change.

“Not that I remember,” he said, in a low, gentle voice.

“Or anybody named Ashbury?”

“Not that I remember.”

“There's some mistake,” said the woman.

“I'm sorry.” Gamadge backed politely away.

“That's all right.” The fat man came forward a step or two. “You got us mixed up with some other parties.”

“I must have. Nice cozy place you have here.”

“Try to change apartments these days!” said the woman.

“In your place I shouldn't dream of trying.” Gamadge had reached the hall. “Well, thanks,” he said, “and let me apologize again.”

He was still speaking when the door shut in his face.

Running down the stairs, he did not look unduly disappointed. He found that Mr. Limpeck had driven to the end of the block and around it, come back, and parked on the other side of Sixth Avenue, pointing North. Limpeck stood on the curb waiting for him.

“How you make out?”

“Not so bad.”

Ashbury came out of the bar and walked towards Sixth; his face was lowering and his step lagged. Gamadge got into the car and sat well back, Limpeck stood on the far side of it. Ashbury did not even glance in their direction; he paused as if uncertainly, looking up the street. Then he crossed to the north corner, waited for the red light, and walked slowly to the other side of the Avenue. He hailed a northbound taxi and got in.