Call Me Killer (Prologue Crime) Page 10

  He nodded. He didn’t even bother to look inside the small clothes press. He got down on his knees and looked under the bed. He crossed the room and looked in the bathroom.

  He nodded toward the window.

  “Fire escape, Marion?”

  “Yes.” A faint smile played on her lips.

  He grinned at her. “It won’t work, honey. I’ll pick him up.”

  “You mean you didn’t bring about fifteen other goons to surround the place?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t work that way, baby. I’ll pick him up if he’s out there. He’s a scared little nobody with nowhere to go. How long do you think he’ll last out there?”

  She smiled. She seemed to be listening for something. “About forty years?” she asked evenly.

  He grinned. “I’ll give you odds he doesn’t last four hours. Or say it’s four days. I’m not in that big a hurry, baby. You look pretty good to me. I may not even take you in to headquarters until tomorrow sometime. No use to let the boys go over you — not first, anyway. That’s Barney Manton, baby — I always look out for the cute little things.”

  She said nothing. He came close to her. “What’s the matter? Where’s that smile now? Did you really think I was going to let you get away with anything? You know where your boy friend has run to. But by this time tomorrow night, I’ll know.” He caught her face in his right hand, pressing hard.

  “I won’t be gentle with you, baby. When I’m through with you, you’ll wish to God you’d never heard of a guy named Sam Gowan. I’ll know where he is, and I’ll know just what you can take.”

  Her eyes blazing, she tried to wrench away from him, tried to speak, but contemptuously, he tightened his fingers; pressed so that she seemed to dangle from the end of his arm.

  Involuntary tears welled in her black eyes. Tears of agony that she was unable to suppress.

  “What’s the matter, baby? Does that hurt? Christ, you might as well get used to that, because I haven’t hurt you at all, yet.”

  There was movement behind Marion, and a sob escaped her tortured lips.

  “Let her go,” Sam said. “Here I am. Let her go.”

  Manton looked at Sam for a moment, and then regarded his fingers closing like a vise on Marion’s jaws. Negligently he released her, giving her a shove that sent her hard against Sam.

  “Okay, Gowan. You got sense. Let’s go.”

  Sam looked down at his hands. Manton laughed. “I don’t need cuffs for you. I’m not afraid of you, sonny.” His fist held out before them, clenched. “I might look soft to you, Gowan. But don’t be fooled. Lambart was like limp blubber. But you won’t find me like that.”

  “I didn’t kill Lambart,” Sam said.

  “I never saw a murderer yet that wasn’t innocent as a suckling babe, Gowan. Until I got through with ‘em. Maybe, you havin’ sense enough to come back in that window, you’ll save yourself what’s ahead of you. Do you know, Gowan, that a man can lose control of his kidneys and his bowels, if he’s hit right?

  “You don’t stand up and talk like a man when you’re be-havin’ like an animal. You got teeth now, Gowan. I hope you still got ‘em when you write that confession. Your insides work pretty good now, but they purge with a scalding water enema, and then they aren’t the same.”

  “I know what you can do,” Sam said evenly. “But I didn’t kill Lambart.”

  Manton smiled pityingly. “Well, you’ll wish to God you had before I’m through with you.”

  “Oh, God,” Marion whispered. “Oh, please, God.”

  Manton looked at her now. “I’ve heard a lot of people begging just like that in my time, sister. But I ain’t ever seen Him do anything for ‘em. So don’t count on anything, will you?

  He jerked his head toward the door. “Come on, Gowan. Tell your girl goodbye. Maybe you’ll meet some other lifetime. It’s such a pretty thought.”

  Sam stood tensely. “Don’t you care anything about proof, Manton?”

  Their eyes met for a moment, as they had that other day in the police station. Manton’s insolent assurance clashing against the helpless hatred in Gowan’s gray eyes. The hunted had no way to appeal to the hunter, nor would the hunter listen, anyhow.

  “Proof?” Manton’s eyes narrowed. “Do you admit you were there, Gowan? Or do you want the word of August Reamly that he spoke to you? Do you want the word of Alvis Brown that he hacked you out to Wilkins Road? Do you want the word of Bill Foster that he was not on the 8th or 9th floors the morning of April 26th? Do you want the word then of a poor old scrubwoman that if it was not Foster, then it must have been you she saw that morning coming down the stairs?

  “Do you need to look at the .32 automatic that was used? Or will you take my word that I have it, along with a coat of yours that you tried to stuff down an already stoppered culvert outlet?

  “Do you need the word of your wife that you arrived home at about seven o’clock, April 26th, without your coat, shivering from wet and cold, with the highly likely story that you didn’t even know where you had been?

  “Will that do it, Gowan?

  “Or do you need a reason? How do you like these? Your wife has been Ross Lambart’s mistress since early last winter. She never loved you and married you in the first place because she and her mother felt that you were a jerk, with a steady job as a bookkeeper and would be a good boy and never get into any trouble.

  “But what they didn’t know when they both married you in such a sweet ceremony of flowers and friends, was that you had already been a bad boy and gotten yourself locked up. You were a small time crook, third rater who luckily for you, managed your car theft unarmed. Because, brother, if you’d been armed the night you were caught, you’d be rotting in jail right now, instead of standing here telling me that I have no proof that you killed a man you weren’t good enough to breathe in the same room with.

  “Proof! Why damn you, I’d be justified in killing you right now, and saving the City and the State the expense of, getting rid of you. And don’t rile me, brother, because that’s just what I’ll do! Do you want to come along quietly now, Gowan, or do you want to make it tough for yourself?”

  Sam looked helplessly at Marion. She was standing straight, in the brown suit she’d donned so hastily and in such high hope. The marks of Manton’s bruising fingers were still livid on her face. Tears were welling up in her eyes, and spilling unnoticed down her cheeks.

  “Oh, David,” she whispered. “We could have been — so happy.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You were wonderful, Marion. You did everything you could.”

  Manton looked about the room. “Quite a cozy little nest you had here. Flowers in a vase, a bottle of wine still sweating with the chill of it. How pretty.” His eyes went to Marion’s face. “I’ll be back, sister. No use letting all this go to waste, is there?”

  Before Sam realized what he was doing, he had leaped at Manton. But the detective was ready for him, snagging him by the right arm and pulling him around with a brutal shove toward the door.

  Sam tried to wrench free, but in that moment, he realized the paralyzing strength in Manton’s hand. He thought, flashingly, of the agony Marion must have felt in her cheeks.

  He heard movement, tried to turn. He heard the crash as Marion brought the wine bottle down across Manton’s skull, felt the detective’s fingers go lax on his arm as the big man crumpled to the floor.

  14

  “RUN!” MARION whispered tensely.

  She motioned Sam to the window. He ran across to it and scrambled through to the fire escape. For a second he hesitated there, looking back at Marion. She was gathering up her purse, oblivious of Manton and the broken bottle on the floor.

  She hurled a motion at Sam, a gesture that meant, “run! hurry!”

  She took the key from the lock and locked the room door after her. She hurried across the corridor to the stairs, feeling certain inside that if anyone spoke to her, she would scream.

  She went rapidly down t
he steps. At the exit to the hotel lobby, she forced herself to stand perfectly still until she had counted to ten. She held her breath. She could feel her heart pounding, and it seemed her throat would burst if she went on forcing herself to breathe through her nose,

  “Miss Dyana?”

  “Yes, Don?”

  She stopped in the very center of the small lobby and twisting her face into a smile, turned to look at the nightclerk.

  “There was a man went up to see you. Did he find your room?”

  She went on smiling frozenly. “Yes. He must have gone. It was nothing important. Didn’t you see him leave?”

  “Naw. That’s funny. I sure didn’t.”

  She made a noise that she devoutly hoped sounded like a lilting laugh, but which she was terribly afraid, sounded like the squawk of a frightened crow.

  “You better stop sleeping on the job, Don,” she said. She started away, then stopped. “When Mr. Mye comes down, will you tell him I’ve already gone on to the restaurant?”

  “Sure.” Don was still frowning. “Sure. Okay, Miss Dyana.”

  Her heart was thudding so loudly that she was sure Don must hear it. Marion walked out of the Monterey, still forcing herself to move deliberately. She stood for a moment under the lighted name sign. The wind was rising, and she shrugged her jacket up on her shoulders as she turned toward the alley where David was awaiting her.

  She could see the sleek, two-door, late-model Buick pulled in against the curb where Tom Dugan had promised her he would have it for her. It was a beautiful car, low and rakish. Dark blue body with blue top and trim. She shivered. Helen had loved that car so much…. She’d had so few nice things that Tom had tried to give his daughter everything he could, now at last when he could afford it. Poor Helen, with everything to live for….

  She fully expected David to be awaiting her at the corner of the alley. And yet when he stepped out beside her, taking her arm urgently, she gasped aloud, feeling herself tremble as she sank weakly against him.

  It was Sam who now said, “Hurry, Marion.”

  “Are we going to run away?”

  “God knows we’ve got to now.”

  She pressed his arm in a gesture meant to be reassuring. But she was no longer sure. With David — with Sam when she had thought him her own David — she had been sure at least that David would fight to make things right for them. Win or fail, the man she had loved as David would at least make a fight. But with this new person, this stranger named Sam Gowan, she was no longer sure at all….

  She ran around the rear of the car to get in under the wheel. She would have to drive first. If they were stopped in town, she could use Helen’s driver’s license. The description was only general, and she could get away with it. Anyway, Marion knew there was no choice. At least in this car they would escape this place. But as she lifted her foot to step into the car, her eyes went up. The light in her room was burning brightly.

  Tom Dugan stepped out of the shadows and hurried across the walk. “Everything is there,” he said. “And God be with you both.”

  She was watching her window. “We’ve got to get away before he sees this car, Tom!” she whispered frantically.

  She saw Manton clamber through the fire escape window. Standing there, she was sure he recognized her. For he hesitated a moment and made a gesture toward her, maybe a farewell salute, maybe a sign of derision.

  She half fell into the car. David was already in his seat. From the corner of her eye, she saw that he was watching the man who had climbed out of their hotel room window.

  She fumbled at the ignition switch.

  “The keys!” she wailed helplessly at Tom Dugan.

  “Oh! May the good lord forgive me! It was habit made me take them out!” He tossed them at her. Marion was trembling so hard she could scarcely hold them.

  Sam half lifted her across him, and slid under the wheel. “Let me drive,” he said. “Manton saw you getting in. They’ll be looking for a woman driving!”

  • • •

  Lieut. Milligan looked up angrily when the door to his office was abruptly thrust open. If he had told them outside once, he had told them a thousand and sixty-seven times, he wanted them to knock before they entered. And by heaven, he meant to have that order enforced.

  He lumbered up to his feet, his mouth opened, prepared to give somebody hell.

  But he said nothing. His mouth shut slowly, and then opened again, in awe.

  First, there was amazement. Then after shock, there was something distinctly like pleasure in his face at what the Chief of Homicide saw.

  At first glance, it looked as if Barney Manton’s tight skulled head had been laid open with a meat axe. But then, Milligan saw that it was neither that deep nor that serious.

  But the gap in Manton’s skull must have fountained blood. It was caked down the hair of his neck, in his right ear, and across the collar of his coat.

  There was a glassy look about Manton’s hard eyes, and the detective-sergeant seemed none too steady on his feet.

  Milligan restrained a laugh.

  “What hit you?” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Mister,” Manton snarled, “if you’d have been hit this hard, you’d be layin’ there dead.”

  “I’m glad then, it was you,” Milligan told him. He pressed a button on his desk. When a man stood in the doorway, he ordered curtly, “Get a nurse with antiseptics and bandages in here. On the double.”

  While they waited, they eyed each other. Milligan came around and sat on the corner of his desk before Manton. There was not a trace of compassion in his eyes, nor did Manton look for any.

  “Never thought I’d live to see it, Barney,” the old man said. “I’ve seen you tackle some bruisers the size of Joe Louis in my time. I’ve thought I’d see you whipped black and blue. But I never saw it. What sort of guy was it?”

  “It was a dame,” Barney gritted. “You know damned good and well, I never turn my back on any guy.”

  “A dame?” Now Milligan did laugh. “I thought you were out grandstanding on this Lambart thing. Why, I was ready to call off my boys. Here you been out fightin’ skirts — ”

  A nurse came in. She nodded without pleasure at Manton, since in this place everybody seemed to hate the guts of everybody else. She bathed off the blood with peroxide water, and then drew a swath of pure iodine along the cut.

  They waited for Manton to wince or curse with the burning agony. Tears burned in his eyes. A hard line formed along his lax-appearing jaw. But he uttered no sound of pain.

  “Get on with it,” he told the nurse. “I ain’t got all night, bag.”

  “I think my boys have broken the Lambart case,” Milligan said. “At least, we know now that it could have been done with the greatest of ease. The fire escape is at the end of the wing near 918, you know?”

  Barney looked at Milligan pityingly, nodded.

  “We figure a murderer could have waited in one of the rest rooms until the building was closed. Someone who knew Lambart was in the habit of returning to his offices at night. In they go, shoot him. Out into the hall, and down the fire escape. In fact, the window at that end of the corridor was unlocked. The fire escape comes down into an alley. Out the alley and gone.”

  “So it might have been anybody on God’s green earth?” Manton inquired sarcastically.

  “It’ll narrow down,” Milligan said.

  “It already has,” Manton told him. “It has narrowed down to a guy named Sam Gowan, alias David Mye. And I’m ready to wrap it up, Milligan.” Manton glowered up at the nurse. “Do you have to tie a turban around my head?”

  “You’ll rest better if I do,” she answered calmly.

  Milligan was feeling very old. He knew what was coming now. The involuntary retirement. The pension. He was going to be let out. He felt it as surely as he knew that his heart was beating.

  And in his place? A man named Barney Manton. A man who believed in hitting and hitting hard, because if you hit hard enough, y
ou always got something, if only a corpse.

  He shook his head. That would end all he’d tried to make of his department — he’d had the counsel of expert criminologists, men who knew what modern crime detection was all about. Maybe, sometimes, he felt that the old hit or miss, trial and error, back-room strong arm stuff was quicker. Every time you messed with criminal psychology, you ran into that one factor: time. Time was something you didn’t have when the wolves were howling at your heels. Action. Action. Action.

  Well, maybe beat-'em-blue Barney Manton would give the wolves the kind of action they wanted.

  “And have you arrested this Gowan?” Milligan said softly.

  “For the moment, no,” Manton replied. “I went for him. Trailed him to a hotel down off lower Fifth. He got away. But I’ll get him-”

  “Why you grand-standing show-off, you blasted money playin’ phony! No matter how high you’ve gone to get chummy, Manton, this much remains. As long as I’m head of this detail, you’re working for me!

  “I wouldn’t have tried to steal any of your glory if you’d asked me for two men to go with you. You could have had hardheads from the uniforms — anything. You wanted glory, and by jeepers, you came near to gettin’ it.”

  “All right. All right,” Manton snapped. “Here’s your chance to make your play, Milligan. Put out a dragnet. Make it State wide. We’re looking for a two-tone blue last year’s Buick two-door. License number T-268. There’s a man and a woman. The woman is wanted for aiding and harboring a known criminal, and the man is wanted for murder. She’s a brunette, about five feet two or three, dark skinned, dark eyed. He’s about as tall as I am, but about twenty pounds lighter. Stringy hair, straight nose and a jutting chin. Well, that’s about all. Bring ‘em in, Milligan, and you can wrap up the Lambart case!”

  Milligan relayed all this in detail to the radio men. The newspaper reporters came in for their stories. The place was wild when Commissioner Mitchell bustled in, beaming.

  “A matter of time,” the Commissioner said enthusiastically when he heard the news. “Only a matter of time now. And for God’s sake, Milligan, publish it. Publish it all.”