Murderers' Row (8 page)

I said, “You're throwing it at me fast. Is it supposed to make sense? What's a jib-headed schooner?”

“A schooner is a two-masted sailing vessel, fore-and-aft rigged, with the taller mast aft. If it has a Marconi mainsail, it's jib-headed. Because it comes to a point at the top like a jib, get it? Or do I have to tell you what a jib is, Jim?”

I hadn't reacted the first time she used my name, so this time she called attention to it with a little smile; she was treating me just like a human being. She wasn't scared a bit, even if I did go around killing people, her smile said. She found a cigarette on the dresser, lit it, and sat down on the bed facing me, smoking bravely.

“The jib's the little triangular sail up front. I know that much,” I said. “And Freya was the Norse goddess of love and beauty. And an eighty-footer is a lot of boat, for a private yacht. And who did you hire to do what, Teddy?”

“A private detective from a New York agency. I've been working in New York. When Papa disappeared—”

“Disappeared?”

“His letters stopped coming. I called his lab in Washington and they said he was taking a vacation, but he hadn't written me anything about it. They said he'd come down here. They sounded—well, funny. So I called
her
long distance—”

“Who?”

“You know. You met her. The horsy aristocratic lady with the sharp, sharp eye.”

“Mrs. Rosten?”

Teddy nodded. “And she said he was off cruising somewhere, like you just told me. She'd lent him the schooner, she said.”

“I see. Well, I wish I had a handsome lady friend who lent me eighty-foot yachts. So your daddy used to call you doll, but he doesn't any more, because he's off cruising the seven seas in a schooner that's tied up in a creek twenty miles from here with the name painted out. And you sent a New York private eye to investigate, and he came back with his tail between his legs. And just where the hell does this Rosten dame come into the act, anyway?”

Teddy hesitated. “Papa—well, Papa was crazy about her,” she said reluctantly.

“Tsk, tsk,” I said. “A married woman? How did she feel about it?”

“Feel?” There was sudden viciousness in the little girl's voice. “What makes you think she's got feelings, that female vampire? Don't flatter her, Jim!”

“In other words,” I said, “you don't like her very much.”

“She's a monster!” the girl said fiercely. “Who was that ancient character who turned men into swine?”

“Circe, I think,” I said. “She wasn't ancient at the time, as I recall.”

“Well, this one is,” Teddy said. “God, she must be almost forty, and she had Papa making a fool of himself like they were both kids in their teens!”

“Think of it,” I said, “an old hag like that. Almost forty!”

She glanced up quickly. I don't exactly qualify as a dewy juvenile myself. She had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I didn't mean—anyway, it's different with a man.”

“Sure. Men age better.”

“Well, they do. I—I just couldn't understand it. What he saw in her, I mean. It wasn't as if she were pretty or anything, or even very bright. I mean, all she can talk about is horses and dogs and boats, real sexy conversation. The only thing I can figure is, she must be good in bed, but she doesn't look it.”

I said, “And you don't like the idea of her being good in bed with your papa, anyway.”

“Well, should I?” she snapped. “I tried to tell him, to warn him. Somebody had to tell him he was making himself utterly ridiculous! We had a terrible fight about it, and I packed my things and moved to New York and said I wasn't going to set foot in the house again until he'd made a clean break with that woman.”

“That's known as polite blackmail,” I said. “Impolite blackmail is when you ask for money.”

She flushed. “I had to do something! I couldn't just stand by and let him ruin everything. I didn't even answer his letters. He made me so mad! He kept writing to me as if I were a child who just didn't understand. I understood, all right. I just thought it was disgusting!” She drew a long, ragged breath. “And now—and now he's gone.” She paused. “I think he's dead, Jim. Murdered!”

“Murdered?”

“Yes, and it's her fault. I know it is!”

“Mrs. Rosten? Why would she kill him?”

“I didn't say she killed him. I said it was her fault.” Teddy glanced at me, somewhat hesitantly, and went on, “I think—I think her husband killed him in a fit of jealousy. Don't laugh. That's the way it must have happened!” She drew on her cigarette defiantly.

I studied her for a moment. I was realizing, rather belatedly, that I was dealing with a screwball. It changed the situation somewhat.

“I'm not laughing,” I said. “I'm just panting, trying to catch up. You're leaving me way behind.”

She said, “Well, it's logical, isn't it? She's beat on that poor man for years. He's definitely unstable, anyway. Anybody can see that. She's flaunted her lovers in his face, time and again. Everybody knows it around here. I think it finally just got too much for him and he went off his trolley.”

“Have you got any evidence for all this?” I asked. “Or are you making it up as you go along? Half freshman psychology and half TV?”

She said, “Well, if Papa isn't dead, where is he? I think there was a dreadful scene of some kind, and Louis Rosten went haywire and killed him. Then she helped her husband cover up to avoid the scandal of a murder trial that would have crucified her. Why is the
Freya
hidden in that creek? Why is Louis absolutely terrified of his wife? Why did that private detective drop the case after coming down here? She either bought him off or threatened him with political influence; her family's been big stuff in this state since Lord Calvert founded Baltimore.”

“Lord who?” I asked.

“Calvert,” she said. “They pronounce it Caulvert around here.”

“So you came down to get the goods on her?”

“What else could I do?” Teddy shrugged her small shoulders under the silk pajama coat. “1 hoped they'd invite me to stay at the house out on Long Point, but I guess they knew I meant trouble. They gave me some story about remodeling the guest wing and got me a room here. Then they had me to dinner with this creepy Thunderbird character. One of them was watching me every minute I was in the house, either Louis or her, and I wasn't too sure about Thunderbird. He's some kind of relative. And then we came back here to go swimming— swimming, with the temperature nudging absolute zero! They just had to dream up some excuse to get me out of there and back to the motel.”

“And you saw me,” I said, “and after you'd learned who I was, it came to you in a flash that I was just what you needed, even if you had to lie like a trooper to get me.”

“Yes,” she said. “Of course. There wasn't any point in trying another private detective; she'd have got to him, too.”

“So what can Lash Petroni do for you that a private dick can't?”

“The police said you were a hoodlum, a gangster. You don't talk like a hoodlum. Not all the time, anyway.”

I chided myself for being careless, and put on a grin. “What's the matter, small stuff? Just because I happen to know that Freya was the goddess of love and Circe turned men into swine—ain't it allowed for us criminal classes to read a book between hits?”

She flushed. “I didn't mean—what's a hit?”

“A hit,” I said, “is like when you're sent to take care of somebody who's bothering somebody, and that's enough stalling around, pint-size. You pried me loose from the fuzz; you got me here. Now tell me what the hell you want and what's in it for me, or I'll be on my way.”

She hesitated, still watching me closely. Then she crushed out her cigarette, got to her feet and came forward, taking my lapels between her thumbs and forefingers. She looked up. Her eyes were very blue and bright in her small face. When she spoke, her voice sounded kind of shaky and breathless.

“I want—” She paused, then went on, “How much would you charge to make a hit for me, Jim Petroni?”

I paused outside the door and fingered the bills in my pocket and wondered if I was giving the little girl a great big bargain or overcharging her outrageously. I wasn't up on current prices; Mac had neglected to tell me what Lash Petroni was supposed to charge for his services. I guess it hadn't occurred to him that employment might actually be offered me under this name.

I shook my head, squared my snappy, narrow-brimmed dark hat on my head, settled my sharp, narrowshouldered dark coat, and headed for the car. When I got where I could see it plainly, I stopped. A man was sitting in the front seat, waiting for me.

I stood there for quite a while, feeling hurt and disappointed. I mean, I'd made myself perfectly clear. I'd said,
If I bump into one of the boys, I'll go for him without asking questions.

It was too bad all around. It may have been a silly thing to say, but in the business we don't send messages like that without intending to back them up, regardless of consequences. Mac should have known I wouldn't try to bluff him. I reached slowly for Alan's revolver, for the second time that night. I moved to a corner of the building that would give me a rest for my gun hand. You can generally get by with one shot at that hour of the night, even a loud one from a short-barreled .38 Special. People will stir in their beds, they may even sit up and listen, but if they hear nothing more, it's a good bet they won't bother to rise and investigate.

I checked the line of fire carefully. There was nothing to deflect the bullet on my side of the target. Beyond, there was no risk of disabling my car if I got total penetration— not likely with a head shot at that range, anyway—and what happened to other cars down the row wasn't any worry. I drew back the hammer to full cock, and settled the rectangular blade of the front sight into the square notch of the rear sight. As I did so, the man in the car turned his head impatiently and looked back towards the building, obviously wondering what the hell was keeping me so long.

I let my pent-up breath go out slowly, and eased the pressure on the trigger. I was looking over the sights of a loaded and cocked revolver at the plump, cheerful features of Mr. William Orcutt, of the Annapolis Orcutts, known variously as Billy and Thunderbird.

I was shaking a little as I put the gun away. I walked quickly over there. He opened the car door as I came up.

“Mr. Petroni—”

I grabbed him by the coat and hauled him out. “What the hell are you doing in my car?”

“I wanted to talk with you, Mr. Petroni.” He freed himself and smoothed his rumpled coat. “I wanted to tell you—”

He stopped, obviously embarrassed about something, trying to find the right words. I studied him bleakly. He wasn't bad-looking, just a little softer and heavier than he should have been—a crew-cut baby-face. Swimming was the only sport he'd be really good at, with that figure, but it wasn't the figure I was worrying about. I kept seeing his head the way it would have looked with a bullet-hole in it.

“What did you want to tell me, punk?” My harsh voice didn't sound quite right, even for hard-boiled Petroni.

“I wanted, well, to tell you to stay way from Miss Michaelis.” He hesitated, but I didn't say anything, and he went on quickly, “She's—well, a little mixed up. She told me, well, never mind. She's got some weird ideas. But I don't want you taking advantage of—I mean, she's a lovely person, but she needs someone to look after her.”

“And you've elected yourself to the job?”

He cleared his throat, a little self-consciously. “Well, yes. After the way she insisted on waiting to speak with you outside the police station, it was obvious she had something crazy in mind. I—” He stopped and squared his shoulders. “I don't intend to let her ruin her life by becoming involved with a racketeer and strong-arm man, Mr. Petroni. She's just a crazy kid; she doesn't mean everything she says. I think she likes to pretend. Stay away from her, Petroni.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Stay away from her. Sure.”

I hit him. I gave it to him hard and low, without warning, and he went to the ground, hugging himself where it hurt; and somebody was coming at me from behind. I whirled, ready, but it was only Teddy Michaelis in her blue pajamas. She made her way up to us cautiously, still barefooted, and looked down. Orcutt pushed himself to hands and knees, retching painfully.

“What did you do that for?” Teddy asked me. There was no reproach in her voice, only curiosity.

“I felt like it,” I said. I didn't say I'd hit him because I'd come damn close to killing him. She wouldn't have understood. I wasn't sure I understood myself.

She giggled. “He looks awfully silly, doesn't he? Poor boy. I heard what he said. I think it's kind of cute, his wanting to protect me, don't you?”

“Yeah, cute,” I said. “When he catches his breath, clean him up and send him home. I'll call you tomorrow. Good night.”

As I drove away, I kept hearing Mac's voice in my head:
I have seen it happen before in men whose occupation allows them to kill and get away with it.
I'd laughed at the time, but now I had to face the fact that twice in one night I'd almost killed a man, quite casually, without even making sure of his identity first.
After a while,
Mac had said,
their judgment becomes impaired, since human life has ceased to have much value for them.

I'd almost killed two men, and I had killed a woman. At least Jean had died, and I was no longer so sure that my hand hadn't slipped, a little. Maybe I'd even wanted it to slip, as Mac had said, subconsciously...

I found a hotel, got a room, and sent the bellboy away with a tip. I opened the suitcase he'd placed on the stand at the foot of the bed and grimaced at the gaudy Petroni apparel inside. I found a silver flask and started towards the bathroom for a glass and said to hell with it. Drinking when I felt lousy had never made me feel any better. I screwed the cap back onto the flask and dropped the flask back into the suitcase. The telephone rang. I picked it up.