Oliver Bleeck - Brass Go-Between

“How’d you get them?” I said.

Ulado was bending behind the man, making sure that the knots were tight, I suppose. When he was satisfied, he checked the girl’s ropes and then stood behind them, his arms folded over his chest.

“You seldom look behind you, do you, Mr. St. Ives?” Mbwato said.

“No, I suppose I don’t.”

“We’ve kept you under constant surveillance for the past several days — up until today, in fact. One of my associates followed you into the Nickerson Building where the man Spellacy was murdered.”

“He didn’t go up the elevator with me.”

“No, he didn’t. He watched you as you read the building directory. Then he watched what floors the elevator stopped at. You were reading the M’s and the elevator stopped on the sixth and eleventh floors. The only listing for a firm beginning with M on the sixth and eleventh floors was Mesa Verde Estates. When you came down, another of my associates picked you up and the other man rode up to the eleventh floor, popped his head into Mesa Verde Estates, and saw that Mr. Spellacy was quite dead.”

“Just how many associates do you have?” I said.

Mbwato turned on his glow-in-the-dark smile. “Oh, a dozen, I think, here and in New York. Most of them are students.”

“What about them?” I said, indicating the man and the girl.

“Quite by accident, I’m afraid. We were on the train that you took down from New York, in a coach, regrettably. Most uncomfortable. We followed you to the Madison and were waiting in the lobby. At least, Mr. Ulado was. He recognized the New York detective when he came in because he had already called on you at your New York hotel twice. So naturally Mr. Ulado kept his eyes on him. Our young couple here suddenly materialized in the lobby — I suppose we all took the train down from New York — and proceeded to stab Mr. Ogden, I believe his name was. So Mr. Ulado, displaying sound judgment, I should add, followed our young couple, still hoping that they would lead us to the shield. We kept them under observation all day, and followed them this evening. When they parked their car tonight at the far edge of the driving range we simply waited. When they came back, rather hurriedly, carrying the suitcase, we decided it was time to take matters in hand. And here we are.”

“And they’ve said nothing?”

“Not yet,” Mbwato said. “But our methods have been most gentle.” He sighed. “I’m really disturbed that we may be forced to turn to more persuasive means.”

“Such as?”

“Torture, Mr. St. Ives,” he said. “The West African variety, which is, I should add for the benefit of our young friends here, most excruciating. Mr. Ulado is an expert, aren’t you, Mr. Ulado?”

Mr. Ulado smiled faintly and managed to look a little embarrassed.

“Why don’t you just turn them over to the police?” I said.

“The shield, Mr. St. Ives, you forget the shield. We intend to obtain it from wherever it now is.”

I moved over to the man. “Your name’s Jack, right?”

He said nothing, but only stared at me with his hazel eyes that seemed curiously empty, containing no fear or alarm or even regret.

“I think you’d better tell the man where the shield is, Jack.”

He looked at me some more and then, quite conversationally, said, “Fuck you.”

I nodded and moved over to the girl. “The man is really serious,” I said. “About the torture, I mean. You’d better tell him.”

Her blue eyes were empty of thought and probably of emotion, except the lustier ones like rage and hate. She smiled a little, repeated what her friend had said, and then giggled. I had heard that giggle before.

I turned to Mbwato. “They’re all yours. What do you have in mind?”

Mbwato sighed. “It’s really not my field, you know. I suppose we should ask Mr. Ulado. Would you care to describe your methods to our guests, Mr. Ulado?”

“Certainly,” he said, walked over to the window ledge, and picked up a package about twelve inches long. He then walked back and stood before the pair. “Unfortunately, we do not have all the equipment that is normally used in such instances, so we have been forced to improvise. The American drugstore is full of items that are most satisfactory substitutes. This one for instance,” he said, and indicated the box. “It contains what is called a curling iron. Operating on electricity, it becomes extremely hot. And when inserted into a man’s rectum or a woman’s vagina, it should produce considerable pain as I will shortly demonstrate.”

He took the curling iron from its box which he dropped to the floor. The girl stared at him and then, quite suddenly, giggled. The man just looked. Ulado reached up and plugged the curling iron into the double socket that held the light. Holding the iron in his right hand, he turned to Mbwato.

“Which do you think we should begin with, sir?”

Mbwato seemed to give the question serious consideration. “I’m not sure, Mr. Ulado. What do you think, Mr. St. Ives, the gentleman or the lady?”

I shrugged. “The girl, I think.”

“Very well, Mr. Ulado, the young lady.”

Mr. Ulado nodded, spat on his finger, and touched it to the curling iron. The spit sizzled. “If you will just hold this for me, sir, while I prepare the woman.” He handed the curling iron to Mbwato and turned to the girl.

“You’re not going to stick that in me!” she screamed.

“Not if you tell us the whereabouts of the shield,” Mbwato said in a genial voice. “Otherwise,” and he made a slight gesture with the iron.

The girl turned her head toward the man. “I’m going to tell him.”

“Shut up,” the man said. “They’re not going to do anything. They’re just bluffing.” I noticed that there was a sheen of moisture on his forehead.

“Continue, Mr. Ulado,” Mbwato said.

“I will have to remove her slacks first,” he said.

“Get on with it then.”

“It would be better if we had a table.”

“Improvise, man, improvise,” Mbwato said.

“First the slacks,” Ulado said, and approached the girl.

“Get away from me, you black bastard!” she yelled. “Get him away.” She started to sob, deep, harsh sobs that seemed almost like coughs. “We don’t have it,” she screamed, “we don’t have the goddamned shield.”

Mbwato reached up to the light fixture, unplugged the curling iron, glanced at it distastefully, and then looked around for someplace to put it. He decided on the floor.

“Where is the shield?” Mbwato said to the girl, spacing his words carefully.

“We don’t know,” she said, her voice almost a moan, “we haven’t got it.”

“But you stole it from the museum?” Mbwato said.

“Yes, the nigger guard got it out for us. But we haven’t got it. We only had it for a few minutes anyway.”

Mbwato turned to the man. The thin coating of moisture that I’d seen on his forehead had turned into drops of sweat that ran down into his eyes. He tried to blink them dry.

“From the first, Jack,” Mbwato said softly. “From the very first.”

“Fuck you,” Jack said again.

Mbwato’s open palm landed against the man’s cheek with a loud, wet smack. The man’s stiff features seemed to crumple, and I realized that he was crying. “All right,” he said, “all right.” He snuffled some more and turned to look at the girl. “Dumb ones,” he said bitterly. “I always get dumb ones.”

“From the very first,” Mbwato said.

“Spellacy,” the man who claimed that his name was Jack said. “He got me onto it. He knew a guy in Washington who had a real sweet one. Just walk up to a back door and somebody would hand us something worth ten thousand bucks.”

“Ten thousand?” I said.