Nelson Algren - The New Black Mask Quarterly (№ 1)

An hour later I was unlocking my office door in Studio City. I moved to the empty water cooler next to my desk and lifted the dusty belltop. Reached inside. Took out my Browning .380, checked the clip, then stuffed the automatic into my belt. One of these days I’d buy a holster. Or borrow one from Bart. Maybe he’d leave me his when he retired.

Then I walked back to the Honda, which was like me — battered but still operational — and drove out to the psycho’s pad.

I’d gotten Dear John’s address from a cop I knew. He ran the plate number for me. The Chevy was registered to one Franklin Elster Edwards. And he was clean. No wants, no warrants. Lived on Sunset Crest, up in the twisty hills above Mulholland Drive.

Edwards was obviously John D. Carroll’s real name. Or else he’d stolen the car, which was unlikely since it wasn’t listed on the hot sheet.

Mr. Edwards was not home when I got there. Driveway empty. No lights on inside. Everything churchyard quiet. I popped a rear lock and walked in, the .380 ready in my hand. Just in case.

The house was deserted. Nice little one-story’ joint, with dark Spanish furniture and lots of rugs. I poked around, opening drawers, checking things out. Didn’t know what I was looking for, exactly. Until I found it.

A poem. On top of his desk in the den. And in the same handwriting as the letter he’d sent Spillane.

I phoned Spillane at the number he’d given me. Wasn’t his Malibu place; it was the Marmont Hotel near the airport.

He answered on the first ring: Yeah?

“It’s me. Challis. I’ve got a poem I want you to hear.”

“Poem? You gone nuts?”

“This one is special. The wacko wrote it.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“In a phone booth at a drugstore below Mulholland. I just left the guy’s house. Wasn’t home, so I had some time to look around.”

“You got a name to give me?”

“Franklin Elster Edwards. Ring any bells?”

“Nope. What’s been happening? How did you manage to find—”

I cut in. “Look, Mickey, I’ll fill in all the details when I see you. But right now I think you’d better hear what this poem has to say.”

“Okay, okay, so read the damn thing to me.”

I did that. “What do you make of it?”

“Jeez.” There was relief in his voice. “Takes a helluva load off my mind.”

“How so?”

“Well, the ‘thief’ is me, natch. When he says I’ll die near the woods’ he means at my cabin in Big Sur. I live close to a wooded area. And the part about the ‘Eye is watching’ means you.”

“Why me?”

“He figures I’ll be taking you with me as my bodyguard when I leave L.A. He plans to snuff me at the cabin, with you, the private eye, ‘watching.’ Simple.”

“Meaning he won’t try to make another hit in this area.”

“That’s it. He’s gonna wait until I go back to Big Sur.”

“Which you won’t do.”

“Damn right, I won’t. Not till we drop a net over this guy. But I’m telling you, Nick, it’s a load off my mind. I’ve been sleeping with a gun under my pillow.”

“Our friend has no way of knowing we’ve scanned his little poem,” I said. “Probably wrote it to amuse himself. I left it right where I found it, on his desk. So now it’s just a matter of rounding him up.”

“Can you do that, or do you want the cops in on it?”

“At this point, I think we need some law. I hope to keep you out of it. At least for now. I can charge him with attempted murder. He tried to gun me tonight.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t home?”

“It was earlier. You’ll hear the whole scam when we get together. Right now, I’d better get the cops onto this guy.”

“Will you do one more thing for me first?” asked Spillane. “I’m a little worried about Charlie.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Maybe nothing. But I’ve been phoning her out at Malibu. No answer. I figure that maybe she—”

“Christ!” I yelled. “That’s where he went after our little road encounter!”

And before Mickey could say anything more I slammed down the phone, jumped into the Honda and headed hell-bent for Malibu.

When I drove slowly past the house along Pacific Coast Highway I couldn’t see any lights inside. But I was getting only a partial view from the road. Still it was enough to concern me.

I parked on the dirt shoulder, avoiding the half-circle of crushed gravel that angled from the highway down to the front of the house. If the creep was there I didn’t want to announce my arrival.

The tan Chevy wasn’t anywhere in sight, but that could mean he was playing it as cautiously as I was. I came in from the patio, gripping the .380 so tightly my fingers were cramping. Nerves. You never get used to being shot at, and it had already happened to me once that night. A Winchester pump is a mean piece of iron; blows a hole in you wide enough to see the stars through.

I could smell the ocean, like a big wet animal nuzzling the beach. The night breeze off the water had a sharp edge to it.

There was no light or movement downstairs. The pull drapes were open and I had a clear view of the rooms. No sign of any kind of struggle. And as quiet as the dark side of the moon. Maybe Charlene was asleep upstairs. Maybe I was wrong to be worried. My nerves eased down.

I came in from the porch through the sliding glass door, which was unlatched. The first bad sign. It should have been latched.

I got nervous again.

The stairs were next on the agenda, and I sweated a lot going up. Topside, I heard a muffled whimpering. Like a child having a nightmare.

The door to the main bedroom was ajar when I eased in, crouching, the automatic poised in my hand. I hoped to God I wouldn’t find the psycho waiting for me in the dark.

I didn’t.

Charlene was inside, alone. Tied and gagged on the bed. Wearing a torn pink nightrobe. Behind the gag, she whimpered, her eyes wide and desperate.

I put away my .380 and switched on a bed lamp. Then I moved to free her. “Take it easy, you’re okay now,” I said. Poor kid. I could see she had the shakes.

I stripped the gag from her mouth, cut loose her wrists and ankles. She fell forward across the bed into my arms, sobbing deeply, her whole body shaking.

“He... he was here!” She gasped out the words. “For almost an hour. It was horrible!”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, but he forced me to... to...”

“Have sex with him? Did the bastard rape you?”

“Not that. He forced me to listen — while he read to me.”

“He what?”

“Read to me.” She was chafing her wrists to restore circulation. “He told me he needed a witness, someone who would testify that his claim was legitimate. About being stolen from.” She drew in a long shuddering breath. “So he read to me, from his stories, to prove his claim.”

“What kind of stories?”

“They were all private eye things. From old pulp magazines. About a crude detective named Race Williams who carried two big .45s and was always shooting someone in the head with them. And beating up people. The guy showed me his byline on each one. He was very proud of his byline being on them.”

“John D. Carroll?”

The lamplight haloed her blond hair as she shook her head. “No, they were all by Carroll John Daly. He said he used John D. Carroll only once — for one story — but that it was a good name to hide behind. He didn’t want the public to know who he was until after Mickey was dead.”

“What, exactly, did he say Mickey had stolen from him?”