Richard Deming - Tweak the Devil’s Nose

“Why not have the inspector come here?”

I said, “In the first place I can’t reach him. In the second, he’d only swear at me and tell me to get home fast even if I did reach him. And in the third place, I forgot my pajamas and toothbrush, so I can kill two birds with one stone.”

“It is too hot to sleep in pajamas,” Fausta said. “And you may share my toothbrush.”

“Stop acting like a suspicious wife,” I told her. “You’d think we were on a honeymoon and I was trying to sneak out with the boys.”

Mouldy arrived at that moment. I told him he was Fausta’s bodyguard until I got back and I wanted him in the apartment with the door locked.

“How about my job?” he asked. “Nobody’s on the door.”

“The customers will just have to put up with a bow from the head waiter instead of a slap on the back from you,” I said. “You stay here and don’t unlock that door for anyone but me.”

As Mouldy’s single military efficiency had been guard duty, I felt no qualms about leaving Fausta in his custody. As a sentinel he followed orders implicitly, his sole drawback being lack of flexibility. Having been instructed not to unlock the door, he wouldn’t unlock it even if the place caught fire, nor would he permit Fausta to. So while there was a remote possibility I would return to find both Mouldy and Fausta roasted alive, I could be reasonably certain no killers would get to Fausta while I was gone.

I left my car in the “no parking” space in front of my apartment inasmuch as I was on police business, and I have noticed the police pay little attention to parking regulations when on official business. As I expected, I found my front door unlocked, but when I opened it, the front room was dark.

Assuming the inspector was in the kitchen investigating my refrigerator, I pushed the door shut behind me and felt for the wall switch in the dark. When light sprang into the room, I found myself looking into the familiar bore of a short-barreled revolver.

The flat-faced pseudocop who had dumped me in the center of Midland Park sat in my favorite easy chair and it was he who held the gun. His driver, Slim, reclined on the couch with his feet on my cocktail table.

Before I got over my surprise, I heard myself saying, “Get your oversized shoes off that table!”

Startled, Slim dropped his feet to the floor, then scowled at me and rose from the sofa.

“You should be more careful of other people’s property,” his flat-faced friend admonished him. Apologetically he explained to me, “Slim never had much bringing up.

And sitting here in the dark, I never noticed what he was doing.” His pistol bored unwaveringly at the center of my stomach.

I asked, “Which one of you is Lieutenant Hannegan?”

“Slim,” Flat-face said. “Slim can be real clever when he manages to stay awake.”

Slim growled something and his partner went on, “You wouldn’t believe it, but the whole idea was Slim’s. Phoning Warren Day to make sure he wasn’t home, in case you got suspicious and checked back. Imitating Lieutenant Hannegan to Miss Moreni. Ain’t he a little genius?”

“Shut up and let’s get going,” Slim said.

“Sure,” Flat-face said. His tone shed its mock politeness. “Turn around with your hands on top of your head, Buster.”

Since the order was accompanied by the snick of his revolver hammer being drawn back, I turned around and clasped my hands atop my head. An instant later his left hand snaked under my armpit from behind and removed my P-38. I heard it clank as it was laid on the mantel.

“Let’s go,” Flat-face said, prodding my spine with the cocked revolver.

Assuming he meant go outside, I opened the door and preceded both of them. I continued to lead down the half flight to the main entrance, out to the street, which, as was usual for that time of night in my neighborhood, was deserted, and across the street to the blue sedan parked there.

Following instructions, I got in the back, where I was joined by the man with the gun. Slim took the wheel.

I said, “It may be a shock to you, but I haven’t the vaguest idea who you guys are, or what you think you’re accomplishing by kidnaping me every few hours.”

“Not kidnaping, Buster,” my seatmate said quickly. “Abducting.”

Although the distinction seemed unnecessary hairsplitting, and his correction a bit too quick, I let it pass. “Do you fellows just get a kick out of dumping people off places so they have to walk home?”

“This time we ain’t dumping you.”

“Your plans a secret?”

“Just shut up, Buster. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Since he said this in a tone indicating the alternative to my shutting up might be a bump on the head, and accompanied the words with a hefting of his revolver, as though preparing to use it as a club, I shut up. At a moderate speed Slim drove along side streets in the direction of the river. At that time of night bridge traffic was slight, and we made the approach to the bridge without even having to shift gears.

In the center of the bridge, I chanced further conversation. “Kidnaping and crossing a state line,” I commented. “You boys are right brave, thumbing your noses at the FBI like this.”

“You don’t know your laws,” Flat-face growled. “Kidnaping is when you steal somebody and keep him. It’s only abduction if you just steal him temporary-like. And who the hell would want to keep a blabbermouth like you?”

So it was not a death ride, I thought. I found the thought cheering, but it did nothing to sate my curiosity.

I said, “Whoever hired you for this sold you a bill of goods. Abduction, as a legal term, applies only to women. You’ve just committed two federal offenses: kidnaping and crossing a state line during the commission of a felony. But you’ll have lots of time to explain you thought it was only abduction. About forty years.”

In the front seat Slim said thoughtfully, “If this guy is right, maybe we better bump him, huh?”

I said hastily, “Of course if I didn’t make a complaint, you wouldn’t be in any trouble. And if we turned around and went home, naturally I wouldn’t have anything to complain about.”

“Why don’t you shut up?” Flat-face inquired in a bored tone.

So I shut up for the rest of the ride. It wasn’t long, for our destination was Maddon, and a four-lane highway leads almost from the bridge ramp on the Illinois side straight into Maddon. Within ten minutes of the time we left the bridge we were pulling into the driveway of a neat white cottage on the outskirts of the little town.

At a prod from the revolver, I climbed out of the car and preceded my companions to a side door. Stepping ahead of me, Slim opened the door and led the way into a small hallway. When he gestured me on, I followed past an open doorway through which I caught a glimpse of a tastefully furnished living room, we turned left into a narrower hallway and marched toward the rear of the house. Just short of the kitchen Slim opened another door and led me down a flight of stairs to the basement. During the whole journey Flat-face stayed one step behind me with the barrel of his pistol almost touching my back.

The basement, or at least that part of it we found ourselves in, had been converted into a large playroom. The ceiling was white acoustic board, the walls unstained knotty pine and the floor alternate black and red squares of asphalt tile. In one corner was a bleached-oak bar before which stood a half-dozen red leather stools, and behind which was a back bar containing at least fifty bottles. Diagonally across from it in the corner was a round poker table with a green felt top. The other two corners respectively contained a regulation-size pool table and a jukebox. Two slot machines against the wall, a TV console, a couple of small round cocktail tables and a number of chrome-and-leather chairs completed the furnishings.