Drawn to Evil Page 5

  We got to the rear door. I told him to shove it open. When he did, I slammed my shoes against the backs of his knees and drove the heel of my hand against the back of his head. The girls roared with laughter at that.

  Ricales went sprawling through the door. He landed in the dirty puddles of the alley on his hands and knees. He skidded far enough to rip his trousers and tear the flesh of his palms and legs.

  He stood up. Now he was crying but holding himself erect. His knees were bloody and he held his ripped hands out at his sides. But I don’t think he minded the torn clothes and the blood as much as he did the laughter that had chased him through that door.

  “For this I never forgive you,” he whispered.

  “All right, hate me, Ricales. And see where it gets you. There’s the boy you promised to deliver to me. Let’s see you make him talk to me.”

  Ricales turned his head and stared between the garbage cans. The gasp was torn from Ricales’ insides. For a long time, he stood taut, staring at the dead body of Greek Alonzo.

  At last, he turned and looked at me. “The last time I saw the Greek he was alive. What good to tell you that? How can I make you believe it?”

  I shook my head. “It just so happens you can’t make me believe it, Ricales. The syndicate was willing to deliver the Greek to me, wasn’t it? But the syndicate wasn’t going to let him talk. So you deliver me a stiff, Ricales. You crossed me.”

  His voice trembled. “I swear! I am not the syndicate, Capitan! I’m no part of it. I’m nothing. I’m as lost as you are to explain who killed Greek Alonzo.”

  “Sure you are. Just as you were unable to stop Gregor trying to kill me this afternoon.”

  “Believe what you will, Capitan. The syndicate wanted no notoriety. That’s why they ordered the Greek to take his medicine. When they knew you were going to pick him up, killing him would be the last thing they would do.”

  “No,” I said. “Not quite the last. Whatever it was that the Greek knew, somebody didn’t want him to tell the police. So now you and I are going on a little manhunt, Ricales.”

  “Like this? Tattered as I am, to appear in the places where people know and respect me — ”

  “Just like that.”

  “But don’t you see? It will cost me the respect of the very people you want me to deal with. When they no longer respect me, I am no good to you.”

  I nodded. “All right, Ricales. Get to your place. Get dressed up in your best. We’re stepping out tonight. I’ll call in and report this killing. I’ll wait till the squad gets here. Then I’ll come out and pick you up. You got two choices, Ricales. You can run. You can get out of the country, or you can help me find the boy that killed the Greek. I advise you to run.”

  Ricales’ eyes were cold. “I’ll stay. There is still the matter between us. Before, Capitan, I had one feeling for you. Now I have another. A new feeling, Capitan. An ugly new feeling.”

  About twenty minutes later, the Homicide boys arrived, followed by the meat wagon. The alley behind the Dutch Slipper was lighted up like a pre-Christmas sale by the time Hilligan arrived. “What in hell does this add up to, Carter?” Hilligan wanted to know.

  “Somebody didn’t want the Greek to talk to me. They killed him while he was hiding out in this alley waiting to see me.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Not yet. But I’m going to dig up a few punks in a little while and while they can still talk, I think they will.”

  “Look Marty. I’ve gone along on this thing with you. But manpower is my problem, and you’re part of the squad assigned to me. While you’re chasing things like this around — ”

  “What should I be doing? The Greek is dead. Don’t that show he was mixed up in Flynn’s death?”

  “Not at all. There are plenty of reasons why a lot of people might not want Greek Alonzo to fall into your hands.”

  “I’m a Homicide cop. They knew if I was talking to Alonzo, it would be about murder.”

  “The trouble with you, Carter, is that you’ve made up your mind. I’m telling you that Flynn murder was a messy, amateur job. And I’m ready to prove it.”

  “Yeah?” Why was I shivering suddenly? It wasn’t cold in the alley.

  “We now have proof that neither Jerry Marlowe nor Liza Flynn were home before two A.M. Either one of them could have killed George Flynn.”

  “Did they come home together?”

  “No. Liza got in about two-thirty. But it was almost four before Marlowe got in.”

  “Liza couldn’t have battered George Flynn up the way he was when we found him.”

  “She could have helped.”

  “Boy! You sure want a big thing out of this murder, don’t you?”

  “I just want the murderer, Carter. Is that so unusual? If it was done close to home the way I now believe it was, that’s where I want to look for the murderer, not in the back alleys.”

  “What about this dead guy?”

  “I’ll investigate. It’s not the first gang killing in the history of this town. Meantime, I tell you that you’re barking up the wrong tree, Carter. Like I told you earlier, I want a thorough check made on Liza Flynn and George’s nephew, Marlowe. That’s why I’m assigning it to you. Now. That’s simple enough, isn’t it? You’re to find out where Jerry Marlowe was until four A.M. last night. You’re to find out who saw Liza Flynn — and more important — who she saw before she got home from the Lyons’ party. If you want to clear Liza of that charge, and do it quietly, you better get with it.”

  I looked at the body of Greek Alonzo. They were carting him off to the meat wagon. There were no traces of assault or flight in the alley behind the night spot. I shivered. Greek Alonzo had been full of sinister secrets all his life. Now he was going off to the morgue carrying with him what I was sure was the answer to the jackpot question.

  Hilligan’s voice was quieter. “We can get back to Greek Alonzo, Marty. In the meantime, we got to wash out some society linen first.”

  I shrugged. “Okay, Hilligan. Who places the time when Liza Flynn and Marlowe got home?”

  “The maid. Tina. She had been ordered to stay up.”

  “Okay for Liza. But how about the four o’clock deal? Why would Tina be awake at four o’clock?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, she wasn’t. She heard a taxi out in the drive and she got up to see what it was.”

  “A real light sleeper, huh?”

  “I’m just telling you what she told Dill.”

  “Oh. So Dill has found all this out?”

  “That’s right. He works pretty closely with me. He follows my orders.” He frowned. “Anyhow, we found the taxi driver. He was asleep. His name was Harris. He woke up long enough to tell us that he picked up Marlowe downtown at the Spanish-America Club.”

  “The gambling joint?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “I know. Your business is homicide.”

  “Anyhow, this driver says he picked up Marlowe, and that Marlowe was so high he could hardly walk. Marlowe wept all the way home about the money he had dropped on the wheels. They saw nobody on the drive out to the Flynn place. By the time Harris dropped Marlowe, he was singing loud enough to wake everybody up.”

  “So. There you are. Marlowe is a bad boy. Loves to gamble. That’s clear enough.”

  “There’s a lot of time between midnight and four, Marty. I want that time investigated. Close.”

  I nodded. “All right. I’ll find out as soon as I can.”

  I went into a phone booth and called Ricales’ home. He was waiting up for me. But he didn’t pretend to be glad to hear from me. “It’s off for tonight, Tony,” I said. “I got some other pigs to stick first. But we’ll get together again.”

  “Of that you may be sure, Capitan.”

  Now, I was free to start delving into the lives of Liza and young Marlowe. But what I did was go home and go back to bed. Gale was sleeping soundly.

  She had kept my place warm for me.

 
Chapter 8

  THE CLAYTON LYONS mansion was really an ultramodern castle of chrome and stone. When people get more money than they can possibly use, one of two things happen. They sit so tight on it that they exist worse than paupers. Or they go wild and have every luxury ever conceived. That’s what Clayton Lyons had done. His place was equipped with everything except radar. And it may have had that.

  After about ten minutes of signaling, telephoning and chatting, the butler was able to locate Mr. and Mrs. Lyons. They were about five yards away. They were having breakfast on the terrace just beyond the French doors of the library where I waited.

  Lyons introduced himself and his wife and asked me to sit down at the metal table. A maid poured coffee from an urn that kept the liquid just this side of scalding. The coffee was really good.

  Lyons was a heavy-set man with gray hair and dark eyes. His wife was a thin little woman who looked as tired as she did wealthy.

  “I only came to check on the investigation made by one of the men in our squad,” I told them. “Are you both still sure that you saw neither Mrs. Flynn nor the Senator after midnight?”

  Mrs. Lyons bit her lip. It was easy to see she was on edge about this murder. There were two people she devoutly wished she had forgotten to invite to her party.

  “I’m quite sure,” she said. “You see, Mr. Carter, Mrs. Flynn got a telephone call just before midnight. I know because Anderson, our butler, told me since he was unable to find Mrs. Flynn at once and the caller said it was urgent.”

  “Did the caller give his name?”

  Mrs. Lyons shook her head. But when I frowned, Lyons pressed a button at his side. Like the magic geni, Anderson appeared from the library.

  “Did the caller for Mrs. Flynn give his name at the party night before last, Anderson?”

  “No, Mr. Lyons. He only said that it was urgent that he speak to Mrs. Flynn and that he would wait.”

  Lyons dismissed Anderson.

  Mrs. Lyons sighed. “And it was the call that caused an argument between Mrs. Flynn and George. She took the call and then went to find Mr. Flynn. They went out on the terrace. I knew they were arguing out there. Their voices were very low. But they kept their heads close together, and seemed very tense.”

  “I see. And what happened then?”

  “As I’ve already told your Mr. Dill, Mr. Flynn left the party immediately. He said good night to me and Mr. Lyons. Mrs. Flynn remained on the terrace.”

  “But she came in before she left the party?”

  They looked at each other. At last, Mrs. Lyons said, “She may. She may not. All I know is that she left without speaking to me again that night. A breach. A decided breach.”

  Her voice was impatient. It was clear that she was miffed at the social error Liza Flynn had committed.

  “Perhaps she was upset,” I suggested. “Maybe that’s why she didn’t speak to you. If there were cabs outside, she might have gone to one. Maybe she was crying, didn’t want to face any of you.”

  “There were cabs outside, of course,” Lyons said. “She could have done that.”

  “Remember, this woman’s life is at stake,” I told them. “If there is any reason to believe she might have been somewhere in this house, or on the grounds and not been seen by either of you, please say so.”

  Mrs. Lyons caught her breath. “They’re not accusing Liza of — of murder? I never suggested such a possibility.”

  “You didn’t suggest it, you stated it. If she left here, she could be guilty.”

  “Preposterous! I’ve known Liza most of her life. I know better.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “That’s why if any of your friends, or any of your servants saw Mrs. Flynn again after Mr. Flynn left here, you’d be doing your friend a great service in getting them to come forward.”

  “I will. I’ll talk to the servants.”

  “Good.” I took a deep breath. “Now, Mrs. Lyons, one last question. The man who called Mrs. Flynn. Might it have been — someone of whom her husband might be jealous?”

  Mrs. Lyons’ eyes glazed over. If you’ve ever had an ultra-rich woman look down her nose at you, you know what happened to me. Her voice was frigid.

  “I’m sure,” she said, “I wouldn’t know.”

  • • •

  I noticed the car as soon as I got on the boulevard headed back to town. But I was thinking hard on the things I had heard at the Lyons home, and didn’t pay too much attention.

  The car behind me started to pass me but when I slowed, pulling over, it dropped back. Suddenly, I was alerted. I felt the hairs standing up across the back of my neck. I forgot all about Clayton Lyons and his wife. I began to think about the car speeding along beside me.

  The joker was swiping at my rear wheel with his front bumper! I stepped down hard on the gas. He was an expert driver and stayed right on my tail.

  I started pulling hard on the wheel, dragging my gray coupe steadily to the left, out to the center of the narrow brick road.

  He fell back a little then.

  I stayed there and pushed the gas to the floor. I watched the black car in my rear-view mirror. I saw him pulling up on my right. He was going to pass on the inside. I saw that my maneuver pleased him more. To the right was the sea wall. But to the left was the soft dirt of the parkway. He was figuring to edge me off into that soft dirt and let the high speed do the rest.

  I pulled hard to the right.

  There was the scream of brakes, the sickening thud as his bumper caught against my right rear fender. I turned right again and then jerked the wheel around to stay off the sidewalk.

  I heard a roar behind me that sounded like a busy Monday at Los Alamos. I jabbed down on the brake, watching the black car hurtle into the sea wall behind me.

  It takes a long time to stop a car going eighty, even when the brakes are good. I held on to the wheel, gritted my teeth as the tread caught and the brakes held. I turned around as quickly as I could. I pulled into the parkway and backed out on the one-way drive, speeding back the wrong way.

  I saw one man leap from the battered car and streak across the parkway. I grabbed at my shoulder holster but before I even got into pistol range I was too late. Another dark car going the opposite direction halted over there as if on signal. The hood jumped in and the car streaked west around the first corner.

  Before I could have gotten to a turn and back to that corner, even if there had been no traffic backing up against me on the one-way street, they’d have been in West Tampa. I hauled up beside the black Chevvy.

  There was already a crowd of onlookers. I pushed my way through them and elbowed my way to the car. I looked at the boy slumped over the wheel. It had been driven back almost through his thin chest. He was a hood I knew. His name was Gonzales. Once he had been a dirt-track driver. I didn’t have to look at him twice to know this was his last job on earth.

  I went back to my coupe and called headquarters. I gave them the story and got word from Hilligan himself. Stick there. So I sat there until Hilligan and the uniformed boys arrived.

  “What do you think now?” I told Hilligan. “Here’s one hood, dead. Another one got away. Do you think some society swell is investing money with hoods to get me killed?”

  “Who’d Gonzales work for last, as far as you know?” Hilligan said.

  “Ricales.” I said the name automatically. I knew that Gonzales was a hanger-on around El Toro Manero. I shivered. That could explain why they’d tried to get me. Ricales repaying me for his lost dignity.

  Hilligan said, “I’ll have Ricales picked up and questioned. Meanwhile, what have you got on the alibis for Mrs. Flynn and young Marlowe?”

  “Nothing important yet.”

  “Well, get with it. The County Solicitor is breathing down my neck. I’ve got to have something for him to chew on to keep him off my tail.”

  I stared at Hilligan. Talk about your guys with one-track minds. I wanted to get back to Ricales. And all he could think was fixing a mur
der charge against Liza Flynn. He was going to take her to court, even if he got me killed doing it.

  Chapter 9

  I PARKED on the narrow street that ran along the rear of George Flynn’s acre of home ground. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to me. I leaped over the hedge and started walking through the garden to the servants’ quarters.

  A chauffeur was sitting in the sun just inside the garage door. He dropped his knife and whittling stick when he saw me. He jumped up, bristling. A stocky dark man with thick brows. “What are you doing around here?”

  I had to show him my shield to quiet him down. But that did the trick. I stepped inside the garage with him.

  “Call the front house,” I told him. “Tell the maid Tina that I want to talk to her out here. Don’t tell her it is a cop. But tell her it is important.”

  He had a little trouble convincing Tina that she should drop her duties, whatever they were at the moment, and get out to the garage. But at last he succeeded. I knew she had agreed by the way the chauffeur sighed.

  “Is there any place I can talk to her, alone?”

  The chauffeur nodded and led me into a small sitting room. He went away. I stood at the window and smoked while I waited for the maid to show.

  I heard a noise behind me and when I turned, Tina was there. I saw her hand go to her throat. She recognized me. Cop. She smelled trouble. “Come on in, Tina,” I said. “Sit down.”

  “I — I can’t stay long.”

  “I’m afraid you can. I’m afraid you can stay as long as I need you.”

  “How will I explain at the house?”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  She came hesitantly into the servants’ quarters sitting room and sat primly on the edge of a straight chair.

  “Just relax, Tina,” I said. “Nothing I’m going to say to you need to worry you at all, as long as you tell the truth.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long have you been working here, Tina?”

  She dampened her lips. “Three years.”

  “You like it here? Everybody treat you all right?”

  She frowned. “If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t stay. Nobody owns me.”