Blonde Bait for the Murder Master

“Am I?” I said. “How about those fake tickets to help with financing us, Brock. Hell, you’ve got the blank tickets up there in your closet behind that loose board. You said that we might as well chisel a little out of the syndicate before everything blows up. Remember, Brock?” I tried to look the part of outraged innocence.

Fletcher nodded at Jimmy, said, “Last room on the left at the end of the upstairs hall.”

Jimmy ran up the stairs. The cellar was very quiet. Brock’s face began to glisten in the overhead lights. “He’s lying,” he said. Oley, sitting back in the shadows near the canned goods, shifted restlessly. I hadn’t noticed him before.

Jimmy came back down, a wide grin on his face. He handed the green tickets to Fletcher. Fletcher looked at them curiously.

“I don’t know anything about those!” Brock said loudly. It sounded like the voice of guilt.

Fletcher, his voice odd and husky, said, “I’d give this kid another chance, Brock. You’ve been with us too long to get a second chance. Okay, Jimmy.”

Brock scrambled back, his chair tipping over, his hand flashing inside his coat. Jimmy’s gun had a massive silencer screwed on the end of the barrel. It’s report was halfway between a cough and a grunt. It was a big gun, with a lot of foot pounds of impact. It smashed Brock against the wall. He bounced off the wall in an odd and comic dance and fell awkwardly across the tipped-over chair. He lay with his forehead against the concrete floor.

Fletcher said softly, “You can see, Gage, that you have been on the wrong side.”

“That wasn’t smart,” Whitey said in his half whisper.

“What do you mean!” Fletcher snapped.

“Maybe he knew more than Gage, or the girl.”

For the first time, Fletcher looked uncertain. His eyes were puzzled. He turned to me. “Where is Anna Garron?”

“I wouldn’t know. Brock and Anna were running this show.” While I was talking I was trying desperately to think of a likely backer. Not John Naga. Somebody else.

Oley still sat over by the canned goods. I could hear his rapid breathing.

I said calmly, “Oley over there was to knock off you syndicate people when you arrived; that was the plan.”

Oley gasped as Jimmy whirled at him. He scuttled away toward the darker shadows. Whitey was watching him. “No!” Fletcher roared.

Whitey was half crouched. I took one quick step and kicked him in the face with all my strength, feeling the jaw bone give as he fell heavily. The fuse box was half under the stairs. I put an arm lock on Fletcher and kept him between me and Jimmy. I yanked him back toward the stairs, as Jimmy stood in helpless indecision.

I yanked the black handle down, shoved Fletcher away and broke for the stairs. The gun coughed again, slightly louder this time through the worn packing, but I didn’t hear the slug hit.

I slid on the kitchen linoleum, skidded into the stove, bruising my hip, and then found the back door handle. I vaulted the railing, stinging the soles of my feet on the asphalt of the driveway.

I slid into my car, found the ignition lock, turned the key and roared it up into second before I clicked the lights on. Once around the second corner I slowed down.

The plan was shot, but maybe we could save some of it. If I could find Anna.

Chapter Five

I drove aimlessly through the night streets of Murrisberg. On a hunch, I called my room at the hotel. Where would Anna Garron go?

Maybe she’d hide under the wing of the law. Legal talent. From a diner I phoned Wallace Rome’s apartment. After a long pause, he answered the phone. Charmingly.

“This is Brian Gage.”

“Oh.”

“Has Anna Garron contacted you?”

“Should she have?”

“Don’t fence with me, friend. The whole deal has blown up.”

“Indeed?” he said politely.

“Brock is dead, and the out-of-towners know about the raid, and if they can get Anna, they’ll cut her heart out to find out who’s backing a big doublecross.”

I heard his gasp distinctly.

“Now will you tell me if she’s contacted you?”

“Not yet, Gage. Keep in touch. Let me know if you find her.” He hung up.

A cool article, Wallace Rome. Very cool. He might turn out to be a friend in court. And then again... Well, they hadn’t taken my money. Over a thousand dollars on me; that might buy his services.

Trusting the speed of my car, I went back to the vicinity of Cramer Street, and began to hunt around that area. I parked in the shadows by a neighborhood theater and, on a hunch, paid my way in and made a careful search. No dice.

In a telephone book I found the home address of Homer Windo. I went there. I parked down the street, walked across the soft grass and peering in their windows. The two of them were in the living room. The old man had his eyes shut and Homer, Jr., was reading to him, out of a confession magazine. Anna wasn’t there.

I began to wonder about Billy. Maybe he had an idea. I drove out to the store where Billy had queered the Gulbie payoff, parked and went in. An old guy with a white stubble on his cheeks and chin was nearsightedly checking the cash register tape.