the Hills Of Homicide (Ss) (1987) Page 11

  "You have a look," Farber said. "When I hit 'em, they stay hit."

  Joe's footsteps sounded, and the door opened. Joe stuck his head in, and that was all I needed. The blow landed just below and slightly behind his ear, and he started to fall. I grabbed him before he could hit the floor and threw a punch to the wind.

  "How's about it, babe?" Farber was saying. "Ben's a tough cookie, but why should you get knocked off? You give me all the right answers and maybe we can figure out something. An let me tell you, kid. I'm the only chance you've got."

  With Joe's necktie I bound his hands behind him and then tied his ankles with his belt. Milly was keeping Joe busy with conversation and hesitations. I stuffed a handkerchief into Joe's mouth, and started for the door with his gun.

  "Hey, Joe!" Farber yelled. "This dame's okay! Come on out!"

  Joe's gun was on my hip, but I wasn't thinking of using it yet. Milly was sitting on Pete's lap and was keeping his head turned away from the door.

  Something warned him, probably the extended silence. He turned his head and opened his mouth to yell. Milly was off his lap like a shot, as he lunged to his feet to meet a left hook to the teeth.

  Farber was in no shape to either take it or dish it out, but he tried. He didn't reach for a gun; he just came in throwing punches. I stabbed a left to the mouth and threw a bolo punch into his belly, and he went to his knees, but as he fell, his mouth open and gasping, I hooked again to his jaw. For an instant, I waited for him to get up, but his jaw was broken, and he was moaning. Taking the gun out of his pocket, I shucked the cartridges, and as we headed for the road, I threw the gun into the brush.

  There was no car. There was a road toward the highway, but we didn't take it. We ran into the woods at right angles to the highway, and I took the lead, running until Milly's face was white and she was gasping.

  We slowed to a walk and headed downhill in the right direction. Almost before we realized it, we reached a highway. We were lucky, the first car stopped, and one look at Milly seemed to satisfy him that we needed help. Once in town, I put Milly in a cab to headquarters. "Tell Mooney all about it."

  "Where are you going?"

  "To your place, after that diary. Do you have any idea where it might be?"

  . . . I honestly did not know she kept one, although she did sit up late writing sometimes." She paused a moment. "One thing that might help. Did you ever read Poe's 'The Purloined Letter'? It was one of her favorite stories. At least she spoke about it a good deal."

  First I checked the .38 Colt automatic I had taken from Joe. The clip was fully loaded. I jacked a cartridge into the chamber. After paying off the cab, I went into the apartment house. Having Milly's key, I went right in. Nobody was there; nobody seemed to have been there. Maybe "The Purloined Letter" was a clue; the chances were that it was not. Yet I had some ideas of my own.

  Corabelle Ryan had not gone to San Francisco by accident. She was hoping to get away from Altman. She did not get away, but the diary was not with her. Result: It must be where she had lived with Milly.

  Wherever it was, I had very little time. From then on, things were going to move fast. Miich would depend on how soon Ben found I was on the loose once again and that Milly was. Altman could not know what was in the diary, but he was afraid of what it might be. She might have threatened him with it for her own protection.

  It was a two-bedroom apartment, with a living room, kitchenette, and bath. I recognized Milly's room at once from some clothes I'd seen her wear and the fact that it was obviously in use. The other room did not appear to have been occupied for several days.

  The bureau offered nothing a quick search could reveal. The pockets of the clothes hanging in the closet took but a minute, boxes on the shelf, under the carpet, behind pictures, the bed itself. I checked her makeup kit, obviously a spare, and one of those small black cases that for a time every showgirl or model seemed to have. Nothing there.

  For thirty minutes, I worked, going over that apartment like a custom's agent over a smuggler, and then I heard the faintest click from the lock. When I looked around, a hand was coming inside the door, and then he stepped into the room, a tall man with broad shoulders.

  It was Horace, Candy Pants himself, and he held a knife low down in his right hand, cutting edge up. There was no love light in his eyes as he moved toward me.

  It was like a French poodle baring his teeth to reveal fangs four inches long. From some, I might have expected it, but not from him. He did not say a word, just started across the room toward me, intent and deadly. He was unlike anyone I had ever seen before, but suddenly I got it. He was all hopped up on weed.

  With his eyes fixed on mine, he closed in. It was like me that I did not think of the gun I carried. The weed made him dangerous. Hopped up as he was, he could still handle a shiv, and I moved around, very cautious, studying how I'd better handle him. It was not in me to kill a man if I didn't have to, and quite often there are other ways. His eyes were on my stomach, and that was his target. If you're afraid of getting cut, you shouldn't try to handle a man with a knife, just as you should lay off a fist fighter if you can't take a punch.

  Feinting, I tried to get that right hand out away from his body, but he held it close, offering me nothing. He took a step nearer, and the blade came like a striking snake; I felt the point touch my thigh. Jerking back, I swung a left that caught him alongside the head, and he almost went down.

  He was catlike in his movements, and he turned to face me. His eyes had noted the blood on my leg, and he liked the sight of it. He moved closer. During a conversation, one time, a cop told me that the best place to hit a weed head was in the stomach. Make 'em sick. Whether it was true or not, I didn't know.

  He was coming for me now, and grabbing a pillow, I snapped it at his face. He ducked and lunged, and it was the chance I wanted.

  Slapping his knife wrist out of line with my body, I dropped my right hand on his wrist and jerked him forward, throwing my left leg across in front of him. He spilled over it to the floor, and he hit hard. The knife slithered from his hand and slid under the bed. He struggled to get up, one of his arms hanging awkwardly broken, I was sure.

  He came up, staggering, and I threw a left into his belly. He fell near the bed, the knife almost under his hand. As I jumped to grab it, my shoulder hit Corabelle's makeup kit. It crashed to the floor, scattering powder, lipstick and My eyes fastened on the mirror, and on a hunch, drawn by the apparent looseness of it, I ripped the mirror from its place, and there, behind it, were several sheets of paper covered with writing, possibly torn from a diary. I grabbed them and backed off.

  "All right, I'll take thatl"

  "You will like !" It dawned on me that it was not Candy Pants speaking but Ben Altman, and he had a gun. The makeup kit was in my left hand, and I threw it, underhanded, at Ben; then I went for him.

  The gun barked, and it would have had me for sure if I had not tripped over Candy Pants, who was trying to get up. Ben kicked at my head, but I threw myself against his anchoring leg, and he went down. We came up together and he swung the gun toward me as I came up, jamming the papers into my pocket.

  By that time, I was mad. I went into him fast, the gun blasted again, and something seared the side of my neck like a red-hot iron. My left hooked for his wind, and my right hacked down at his wrist. The gun fell, and I clobbered him good with a right.

  Suddenly, the apartment, the knifes, guns, and Horace on the floor were forgotten. It was as if we were back in the ring again. He slipped a jab, and the right he smashed into my ribs showed me he could still hit. I belted him in the wind, hooked for the chin, and landed a right uppercut while taking a left and right. I threw a right as he ducked to come in and filled his mouth full of teeth and blood. I finished what teeth he had with a wild left hook that had everything- and a prayer on it.

  Crook he might be, but he was game, and he could still punch. He came at me swinging with both hands, and I nailed him with a left, hearing the dista
nt sounds of sirens. I was hoping I could whip him before the cops got there. As for Benny, I doubt if he even heard the siren. We walked into each other punching like crazy men, and I dropped him with a right and started for a neutral corner before I realized there weren't any corners and this was no ring.

  His left found my face again and again. Then I caught his left hook with my right forearm and chopped down to his cheek and laid open a cut you could have laid your finger in.

  He tried another left, and I hit him with a right cross, and his knees buckled. He went down hard and got up too quickly, and I nailed him with a left hook. When Mooney and the cops came in you could have counted a hundred and fifty over him. He was cold enough to keep for years. Mooney looked at me, awed. "What buzz saw ran into you?"

  I glanced in the mirror, then looked away quickly. Altman always had a wicked left.

  Handing Mooney the pages from the diary, I said, "That should help. Unless my wires are crossed, it was Candy Pants here who put the knife into Garzo."

  Milly came through the open door as I was touching my face with a wet towel, trying to make myself look human. "Come," she said, "we'll go to my place. There's something to work with there, and I'll make coffee."

  Rocky Gam could rest better now, and so could his brother. I could almost hear the Rock saying, as he had said to me after so many fights, "I knew you could do it, kid. You fought a nice fight."

  "Thanks, pal," I said aloud. "Thanks for everything." "What are you talking about?" Milly asked. "Are you punchy or something?"

  "Just remembering Garzo. He was a good boy."

  "I know." Milly was suddenly serious. "You know what he used to say to me? He'd say 'You just wait until Kip gets back, things will be all right!' "

  Well, I was back.

  *

  Author's Note:

  THE STREET OF LOST CORPSES

  In a story like THE STREET OF LOST CORPSES Kip Morgan shows that even though he can handle the knives and guns preferred by his criminal adversaries he is most comfortable defending himself with his fists.

  This makes perfect sense for Morgan. A fighter has to be very fast on his feet; Kip could' move like a big cat . In his day the fighters were very quick, most were also very athletic. Boxing in those days was much more skillful than it is now. Boxing was a matter of making someone miss punches by a fraction of an inch and landing your punches by just about that margin, too.

  Kip Morgan, at about 175 pounds would have been classified as a light heavyweight. His fight career was successful up to a point, but like many fighters of his time he decided to go on to other pursuits. He may have given up the canvas but he did not give up his professional edge.

  *

  THE STREET OF LOST CORPSES

  In a shabby room in a dingy hotel on a street of pawnshops, cheap nightclubs, and sour-smelling bars, a man sat on a hard chair and stared at a collection of odds and ends scattered on the bed before him. There was no sound in the room but the low mutter of a small electric fan throwing an impotent stream of air against his chest and shoulders. He was a big man, powerfully built, yet lean in the hips and waist. His shoes were off, and his shirt hung over the foot of the bed. It was hot in the room despite the open windows, and from time to time, he mopped his face with a towel.

  The bed was ancient, the washbasin rust-stained, the bedspread ragged. Here and there, the wallpaper had begun to peel, and the door fit badly. For the forty-ninth time, the man ran his fingers through a shock of dark, unruly hair.

  Kip Morgan swore softly. Before him lay the puzzle of the odd pieces. Four news clippings, a torn bit of paper on which was written all or part of a number, and a crumpled pawn ticket. He stared gloomily at the assortment and muttered at the heat. It was hot hotter than it had a right to be in Los Angeles.

  Occupied though he was, he did not fail to hear the click of heels in the hall outside or the soft tap on his door. He slid from his chair, swift and soundless as a big cat, and in his hand there was a flat, ugly .38 automatic.

  Again, the tap sounded. Turning the key in the lock to open the door, he stepped hack and said, "Who is it?" "It's me.- The voice was low, husky, feminine. "May I come in?"

  He drew back, shoving the gun into his waistband. "Sure, sure. Come on in."

  She was neat, neat as a new dime, and nothing about the way she was dressed left anything to the imagination. Her blouse was cheap and the skirt cheaper. She wore too much mascara, too much rouge, and too much lipstick. Her hose were very sheer, her heels too high.

  He waved her into a chair. There was irritation in his eyes. "At least you had sense enough to look the part. Didn't I tell you to stay away from me?" His voice was purposely low, for the walls were thin. "I had to come!" Marilyn Marcy stepped closer, and despite the heat and the cheapness of her makeup he felt the shock of her nearness and drew back. "I've been worried and frightened! You must know how worried I am! Have you learned anything?"

  "Shut up!" His tone was ugly. Her coming into that part of town worried him, and dressed like that? She was asking for it. "Now you listen to me! I took the job of finding your brother, and if he's alive, Ill find him. If he's dead, Ill find out how and why. In the meantime, stay away from me and leave me alone! Remember what happened to that other dick."

  "But you've no reason to believe they killed him because of this investigation!" she protested. "Why should they? You told me yourself he had enemies."

  "Sure Richards had enemies. He was a fast operator and a shrewd one. Nevertheless, Richards had been around a long time and had stayed alive.

  "As to why they should kill him for looking into this case, I have no idea. All I know is that anything can happen down here, and everything has happened at one time or another. I don't know what happened to your brother or why a detective should get a knife stuck into him for trying to find out. Until I do know I am being careful."

  "It's been over a week. I just had to know something! Tell me what you've found out, and I'll go."

  "You'll stay right here," he said, "until I tell you to go. You came of your own accord, now you'll leave when I tell you. You'll stay for at least an hour; long enough to make anybody believe you're my girl. You look the part. Now act it!"

  "Just what do you expect?" she demanded icily. "Listen, I'm just talking about the looks of the thing. I'm working, not playing. You've put me on the spot by coming here, as I'm not supposed to know anybody in town. Now sit down, and if you hear any movement in the hall, make with the soft talk. Get me?"

  She shrugged. "All right." She shook out a cigarette, offering him one. He shook his head impatiently, and she glared at him. "I wonder if you're as tough as you act?" "You better hope I am," Kip replied, "or you'll have another stiff on your hands."

  He stared grimly at the collection on the bed, and Marilyn Marcy stared at him. Some, she reflected, would call him handsome, and men would turn to look because of his shoulders and a certain toughness that made him seem as if he carried a permanent chip on his shoulder. Women would look, then turn to look again. She had seen them do it.

  "Let's look at the facts," he said. "Your brother was an alcoholic. He was on the skids and on them bad. Even if we find him, he may not be alive."

  "I realize that, but I must know. I loved my brother despite his faults, and he took care of me when I was on my way up, and I will not forget him now. Aside from George, he was all I had in the world.

  "We loved each other and we understood each other. Either of us would do anything to help the other. He was always weak, and both of us knew it, yet when he went into the army, he was a fairly normal human being. He simply wasn't up to it, and when he received word his wife had left him, it broke him up.

  "However, there is this I know. If my brother is dead, it was not suicide. It would have to be accident or murder. If it was the former, I want to know how and why; if the latter, I want the murderer brought to trial."

  Kip's eyes searched her face as he listened. Having seen her without makeup, he
knew she was a beautiful girl, and even before she hired him, he had seen her on the stage a dozen times. "You seem ready to accept the idea of murder. Why would anybody want to kill him?"

  "I've heard they kill for very little down here."

  "That they do. In a flophouse up the street, there was a man killed for thirty-five cents not long ago. Value, you know, is a matter of comparison. A dollar may seem little, but if you don't have one and want it badly, it can mean as much as a million."

  "I've seen the time." Drawing her purse nearer, she counted out ten fives and then ten tens. "You will need expense money. If you need more, let me know."

  His attention was on the collection on the bed. "Did Tom ever say anything about quitting the bottle? Or show any desire to?"

  "Not that I know of. I've told you how he was fixed. Each month he received a certain sum of money from me. We always met in a cheap restaurant on a street where neither of us was known. Tom wanted to keep everyone from knowing I had a brother who was a drunk. He believed he'd disgrace me. I sent him enough to live as he wished. He could have had more but refused it."

  Morgan nodded, then glanced at her. "What would you say if I told you that for three weeks prior to his disappearance he hadn't touched a drop?"

  Marilyn shook her head. "How could you be sure? That doesn't sound like Tom. Whatever would make hith change?"

  "If I knew the answer to that I'd have the answer to a lot of things, and finding him would be much easier. Tom Marcy changed suddenly, almost overnight. He cleaned up, had his clothes pressed and his shoes shined. He took out his laundry and then began doing a lot of unexpected running around."

  Obviously, she was puzzled, but a sudden glance at her watch and she was on her feet. "I must go. I've a date with George and that means I must go home and change. If he ever guessed I had come down here looking like this, he would "

  Kip stood up. "Sure, you can go." Before she could protest he caught her wrist, spun her into his arms, and kissed her soundly and thoroughly. Pulling away, she tried to slap him, but he blocked it with an elbow. "Don't be silly!" he said. "I'm not playing games, but this hotel is a joint. When you leave here, you're going to look like you should, and your lipstick will be smeared, but good!" He caught her again and kissed her long and thoroughly. She began to struggle, but he held her, and she quieted down. After a moment he let go of her and stepped back. She stared at him, her eyes clouded and her breast heaving. "Did you have to be so thorough about it?"