Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

“These people,” Maurow interrupted. “Grew and Meadows?”

“Yes,” David said.

“What about them?”

“That’s all I know. Except that a rough character named Harry Williston is throwing his weight around. He runs a pool parlor someplace.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. There’s somebody named George in this, too, but he’s dead. Williston is after something, I don’t know what it is, but he wants it badly enough to pay for it — or possibly to kill for it.”

“George who?”

“I don’t know. I saw his name in a typewriter.” Maurow went to his desk and opened a drawer. He took out a sheet of paper that had once been crumpled, but which had been pressed smooth. He handed the sheet to David.

“What do you make of this?” he asked.

“What am I supposed to make of it? It’s shorthand, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But it’s not Gregg and it’s not Pitman, and it’s not Speedwriting. Our experts don’t know what the hell it is.”

David stared at the jumble of letters on the sheet. There was something familiar about the handwriting, and it took him several seconds to realize it was Wanda’s. He said nothing.

“We figure it’s some kind of personal shorthand,” Maurow said.

“Where’d you find it?”

“In the trash basket aboard your boat. We also got a sheet of paper from the typewriter, probably transcribed from some other notes. We tried cracking this with what we had in English, but it doesn’t match up. Is that where you got the George stuff?”

“Yes,” David said.

“Where did Grew and Meadows want you to take them?”

“They didn’t care.”

“Why’d they contact you?”

“Sam recommended me.”

“How’d they know him?”

“I don’t know. He was a newspaperman. I guess he got to meet a lot of people.”

“And he suggested they try you, huh?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s your stake in this, that right? That’s why you’ve been sticking your neck out right from when this started, huh? You know something, Coe? I think you’re full of shit.”

“I’ve told you all I know,” David said.

“You haven’t told me where Leslie Grew is.”

David blinked.

“What?”

“You heard me. For all I know, you’re in this, too. Until you prove otherwise to me, you’re in it. Right up to your navel. What were you doing with a .45, Coe?”

“It’s an Army souvenir.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Do you own a Luger, too?”

“No,” David mumbled.

“Does Grew?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know because the teletype we got said Grew was carrying a Luger. Now how about that?”

“If you say so.”

“Where’s Grew now?”

“Where do you think? Who the hell are you trying to kid?”

“You’d better get out of here before I do something we’ll both regret, Coe. I’m still itching to tie you in to this. I’m itching so much, I can’t stand still. So you’d better get out. Now! While you can still walk.”

David got out.

He did not go back to the boat. He did not go back for one reason alone, and that reason was a simple one. He did not believe Maurow knew there was a dead man in the cabin. It sounded crazy as hell, he knew, especially since Maurow had reeled off every other object in the cabin, down to Wanda’s panties and the page of shorthand that had been in the trash basket. But from the line of Maurow’s questioning, David assumed the Sun City Police did not know about Grew’s murder.

Now he stood in the grass where the sidewalk ended at the beach’s edge. There was no moon, and no stars, and the rain swept the gutter and the sidewalk and the tall grass. On his left, a gray weather-beaten beach house faced the Gulf. On his right, the white-studded walls of a small hotel peered bleakly through the rain. He could hear the sullen rush of the surf, could feel the rain’s sharp silvery needles on his face. The beach was usually moon-drenched, the water placid. Tonight, there was only the rain and an angry surf. He pulled his collar high and cut through the grass, walking on the narrow path.

He heard the grass swishing, and he dropped to his knees in the sand. The footsteps were light. She came onto the beach, and looked quickly right and left.

“Wanda,” he whispered.

“David?”

She ran across the beach, and he held out his arms to her, surprising himself when he did, and somehow not surprised when she came into them. She put her head against his shoulder, dropping the heavy valise to the sand.

“I’m so damned tired,” she said.

He held her close. Her clothes were soaked through. He pulled off his windbreaker and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“What happened?” he asked.

“When you left the boat... to go to the police, remember? You told us to stay out of sight in the cabin, so we did. Then — it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes after you left — we heard footsteps above us. I guess we panicked.”

“Who was it?”

“We didn’t know at first. We stopped working, and I slammed the suitcase shut, and then I went to stand near the steps coming down into the cabin, out of sight. I had the Luger in my hand. I still have the gun. It’s in the valise.”

“Go ahead.”

“A man came down into the cabin. He didn’t see me. He saw... only...”

She could not continue for a moment and then her eyes flooded with the memory of the thin, bespectacled man with whom she had worked.

“He was very brave. He stood there and said, ‘What do you want? Who are you?’ The man didn’t say anything. He just brought up his gun and fired.”

“Was it a Luger?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. I don’t remember. Everything happened so quickly, David, it was difficult to...”

“What happened then?”

“I stood there frozen. I had a gun in my hand. The man turned to me, and I... I just fired. I hit him in the right shoulder, and ran for the steps. He was an ugly man, David, with a scar on his face. He reached for me, and he caught my ankle, and I gripped the railings on both sides and kicked back at him. I know I kicked him in the face but I didn’t turn to look. That’s when my shoe came off — when I kicked him. I didn’t look back. I just ran off the boat.” She shook her head. “So much trouble,” she said. “So much trouble, David.”

“Maybe you ought to tell me about this trouble,” he said. “What are they after?”

“They want the notes in this valise,” Wanda said. “All in shorthand — my own personal shorthand.”

“I don’t understand,” David said. “What kind of notes? Why would anyone want to kill—”

“It’s a book manuscript,” Wanda said. “It’s set for magazine serialization, too.”

“Fiction?”

Wanda gave a short laugh. “Hell, no!”

“And Leslie Grew wrote this book?”

“Yes,” she said. “Leslie Grew wrote it. David, there’s something you—”

“Shh!” he said.

She stopped talking, and they listened together. From the sidewalk came the sound of heavy footsteps.

“They’ve seen us,” David said. “Run!”

She was off instantly, one hand tight around the handle of the valise.

“Through the grass,” he yelled. “Go on!”

She didn’t look back at him. She slithered into the grass and then broke into a fast run as the men came onto the beach.

There were three of them.

Williston and two others.

“Hold it!” Williston shouted, and then a gun was in his hand. One of the men with him was wearing his right arm in a sling. A gun was in his left hand, and he was pointing it at David.

“The broad shot Freddie this afternoon,” Williston said. “Be careful, his temper ain’t exactly even.”