Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

So close behind the first shot that it seemed a continuation of the sound, his own .38 automatic roared. With a pained grunt the figure in the areaway slammed backward, careened from one of the brick walls and tumbled to the ground.

The gambler was up as instantly as he had dropped, his gun pointed at the downed man and ready to fire again at the slightest movement. The man lay on his back, but the areaway was too dark to make out his face. The gleam of metal on the ground several feet away told Ross he had dropped his gun.

The downed man emitted a single low moan, then began to make a bubbling noise which brought a grimace to the gambler’s face. Stepping back from the areaway, Ross glanced both ways along the alley.

At that time of night the two office buildings were deserted, and no one on the streets seemed to have noticed the shots. After listening for a moment Ross returned to the area-way. The man hadn’t moved his position and the bubbling noise had stopped.

Sheathing his gun, Ross flicked on his lighter and held it to the dead face. It was the thin pale bodyguard he had seen with Big John Quinnel, the man registered at the hotel as Earl Windt, but more familiarly known as Bugsy.

Leaving him there, Ross crossed to the club’s rear door and let himself into the kitchen. He found Sam Black in the downstairs club.

“Got a job for you,” he told the assistant manager. “Quinnel’s boy, Bugsy, just took a shot at me as I walked up the alley.”

Black frowned. “I told you so, Clancy. What’d you expect, pushing around an employee of a guy like Quinnel. He missed this time, but…” He paused to give Ross closer examination. “He did miss, didn’t he?”

“He missed. He’s lying in the area-way between the two office buildings out back.”

“Dead?”

Ross nodded.

“Self-defense,” Black said. “Want me to phone the cops?”

“No. I want you to go over to the warehouse, get a panel truck, some kind of big bucket or tub and some cement. Plant his feet in the cement, drive down to the old quarry pool at the south edge of town and dump him in a hundred feet of water.”

Black looked at him in astonishment. “We’re playing like 1920 gangsters now? What the hell for? You wouldn’t have any trouble making self-defense stick if he shot at you first.”

“I want to give Quinnel something to worry about.” Ross said.

Black thought this over, started to frown and grinned instead. “I guess it might disturb Big John’s sleep a little,” he said.

He started off in the direction of the alley door. Ross went up to his apartment, changed into a dinner jacket and went down to the casino to take over his role of host.

At one a.m. the gambler was called away from a poker game to answer the phone. It was Helene Stoneman calling.

“I decided to look through some of Benny’s papers tonight after you left,” she said. “I think I found it.”

“His mistress’s name?”

“Well, her address. It’s a letter from a woman, addressed to him at the club. The letter’s only signed ‘M’ but there’s a return address on the envelope. Nineteen twenty-two Park. The postmark is two weeks old.”

“What’s it say?”

“It’s kind of funny. It’s sort of…well, affectionate, but it doesn’t sound much like a love letter. It mentions enjoying some evening they had together and asks if he could come to dinner the following Tuesday. That’s about all. It’s signed, ‘Affectionately, M.’”

“I see. There’s only one letter?”

“All I found. Want me to show it to Lieutenant Redfern?”

“Let him find it himself about noon.” Ross said. “That will give me a chance to get in my pitch first. Thanks for calling.”

“Don’t mention it. Miss me?”

“Already? We haven’t been parted two hours.”

“You could still miss me a little,” she pouted.

“All right,” he said. “I miss you a little. Good-night, Helene.”

“Wait a minute, Clancy. When am I going to see you again?”

“I’ll call you. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” she said reluctantly.

Though the downstairs club closed at one thirty in conformance with local liquor laws, the gambling rooms stayed open until four. At three a.m. Ross was called to the phone again.

“Hello,” Helene’s voice said. “I’m still not asleep.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just can’t seem to sleep. I keep thinking about tonight.”

“Take a pill,” Ross suggested.

“You’re not very romantic,” she complained. “I knew you’d still be up, because Benny told me the upstairs stays open till four. What are you doing?”

“Playing poker.”

“You winning?”

Ross fingered the scar on his cheek a trifle irritably. “It’s a seesaw game. Is that all you wanted; to know if I’m winning?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice. Will I see you any more before the funeral? That’s day after tomorrow.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll call you. Good-night.”

After he hung up, he stood staring at the phone puzzled a few moments before returning to the game.

He got one more call before the club closed for the night. Sam Black phoned to report that his mission was accomplished.

The phone next to his bed awakened Ross at eight a.m., and when he answered it a female voice he didn’t recognize asked, “Mr. Ross there?”

“Speaking,” the gambler said.

“Mr. Clancy Ross?”

“Right.”

The woman hung up.

At first the incident puzzled him, but then light dawned. Big John Quinnel, having heard nothing from his gunman Bugsy, had taken this method to learn if Ross were still among the living.

Ross grinned to himself.

At nine, just as he was getting ready to leave the apartment, the phone rang again. This time it was Helene Stoneman.

“Did I get you up?” she asked.

“No. I’ve been up an hour.”

“Would you like to come over here for a home-cooked dinner?”

“Tonight?” Ross said. “I really ought to stay at the club, Helene. I missed most of last night, and this place doesn’t exactly run itself.”

“Oh.” She was silent for a few moments. “You mean you won’t be able to get away any evenings any more?”

“I take nights off,” Ross said patiently. “Just not two in a row.”

She said, “Oh,” again, then, “The funeral’s tomorrow, you know. Logan’s Funeral Home. Are you going?”

“I planned to. What time?”

“Two p.m. There won’t be any relatives, so you can sit with me. You being Benny’s employer, it will be quite proper, won’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,” she said in a soft voice.

She made it sound like a rendezvous. Ross thought as he hung up, torn between irritation and amusement at the idea of a lovers’ tryst taking place at the funeral of the husband of one of the lovers—

Nineteen twenty-two Park Street was the right half of a two-story duplex house in a neighborhood of about the same economic level as Helene Stoneman’s, but much older. There was no name plate on the letterbox.

A plump, plain-faced woman of about thirty answered Ross’s ring. She was an ash blonde with a round Dutch-girl face which looked as though it would normally be cheerful. At the moment it was woebegone and the eyes were reddened from weeping.

Ross said, “Hi. I don’t know your name, but does your initial happen to be ‘M’?”

The woman looked at him blankly. “I don’t think I understand.”

“I’m Clancy Ross. Benny Stoneman worked for me. That mean anything to you?”

Now the woman looked startled. She examined the slim gambler from his prematurely gray hair to his brightly polished shoes.