Dan Marlowe - Doom Service

“My uncle, of course,” she replied, surprise plain in her voice. She stopped in the middle of the stairs. “You didn't know? Rick said-” She looked doubtful an instant, then shrugged. “Never mind. Come along.”

He followed her up the circular, marbled stairs. In the upper hall white-faced sisters in whispering dark robes passed them on silent feet, and the fragmented murmurs of conversation that came to Johnny's ear from the partly opened doorways were all in Spanish.

The room that the girl turned into at the end of the corridor was like all the other rooms Johnny had glimpsed-boxlike, white-walled and dimly lighted. A plump sister rose from the single chair beside the high bed. “He is no worse,” she said gently in Spanish in answer to Consuelo's inquiring look. The calm, authoritative voice was not hushed, but it made no real impact upon the hospital quiet. The sister's glance took in Johnny at the foot of the bed, then returned to Consuelo. “If he should awaken, do not tire him.”

“ 'If he should awaken, do not tire him',” the girl repeated woodenly in English when the nun had left the room. “Three days in a coma, but I am not to tire him. He is no worse, which means he is no better.” She drew off her gloves, and her hands grasped each other with an intensity that whitened the knuckles.

She sank down after a moment into the chair the sister had vacated, and, from the end of the bed where he stood, Johnny looked down upon a shock of white hair upon the pillow and a hawk's nose above bloodless lips-and suddenly he understood a number of things. The man in the bed was Terry Chavez, who had been Charlie Roketenetz's trainer. And, by her own admission, Terry Chavez was also the uncle of Consuelo Ybarra.

He looked at the girl, who was trying to repress tears. “The way I heard it, this wasn't supposed to be serious.”

“He was improving, at first.” Her voice was only a murmur, and her lips drew back suddenly from even white teeth. “It was supposed to be a beating, a warning, but one blow too many or too heavy-” She gestured at the bed. “It's my fault.” He could see the flare of her nostrils as her voice strengthened. “I will swear an oath-if he dies, I will kill a man, and the man will not enjoy it.”

“Who's on your list?”

“Never mind.”

Johnny considered the firm lips and the small, stubborn chin. “Chavez knew the kid was going to dump the fight?”

She nodded. “It worried the boy, but of course it was one thing with which my uncle could not help. My uncle told Manuel. I overhead them discussing it as a matter of professional interest.” Her lips curled in self-scorn. “It took me to suggest that we get Rick Manfredi to capitalize upon it for us. It seemed so easy, since Rick would do as I asked, but from that point on everything that possibly could went wrong.” Her voice sank wearily. “The fight was supposed to end in the fourth. Nobody knows what happened, but they think now that the fighter was out to prove to himself that he could have won if they'd let him. He would go in the fourth, all right, but for three rounds he would fight. At the very end of the third round he very nearly knocked the other man out, and all through the next round had to almost literally carry him, with no chance to lose as he had been supposed to do. It was the sixth before he could find a way, and then very clumsily. It was too late for Rick's money, and the money which had fixed the fight. The fixers suspected Rick's knowledge and, I assume, backtracked from him to me and then to my uncle, who was beaten as a warning- Oh, I've made a fine mess of things!”

“They could come lookin' for you,” Johnny observed.

“God help the man who tries it,” she said soberly.

“All that remark proves is that you haven't wised up very much as to the kind of the people in this operation,” he told her impatiently.

“And all that remark proves is that you haven't wised up very much, as you say, to the kind of people I am.” She rose abruptly to her feet. “See if you can find the sister and bring her back. I can't do him any good here. It tears me inside to see him lying there, knowing it's my fault.”

From the doorway he could see the frozen intensity upon the beautiful face as she hovered over the bed. Maybe you've been underestimating the dynamite in that package, Killain, he thought to himself as he walked down the corridor in search of the nun. It might pay you to add a dimension or two to your thinking about Consuelo Ybarra.

On the way through the hotel lobby to the foyer, Johnny was buttonholed by Marty Seiden, the nattily bow-tied, red-haired, middle-shift front desk man. “Telephone, John,” he called from behind the registration desk, and Johnny grunted acknowledgment and swerved to the bank of house phones.

“Yeah?”

“Johnny? Can you come over to the apartment?” Sally's voice pumped adrenalin through his system momentarily until he realized that she sounded more puzzled than alarmed. “I wish you'd talk to this ridiculous man. He seems to think-”

“What ridiculous man?” Johnny interrupted her. “How'd he get in?”

“Why, I let him in, naturally. He's from the Treasury Department.”

“He's from what?” Actuality was so far removed from his fear that he felt winded. “You gone an' set up a printin' press in the bathroom?”

“Silly, he's from Internal Revenue. He's-”

“Oh, oh,” Johnny said softly. “I'll be right over.” He whistled a tuneless little air as he replaced the phone and resumed his interrupted progress to the street. Internal Revenue. Sure didn't let any grass grow under their feet…

“This is Mr. Quince, Johnny,” Sally said. “Mr. Killain, Mr. Quince.”

Johnny shook hands with a balding man in a conservative blue suit. “You heard correctly, Mr. Killain,” the man said drily. “The name is Quince. Malcolm. And it's not an alias. A name for the job, wouldn't you say?”

“I'd say,” Johnny agreed. He didn't even try to repress his smile, and Mr. Quince gave him a small, neat smile in return. Mr. Quince was small and neat in all departments, including his paunch. “You must be an authority on wisecracks on the name an' the job.”

“It has one advantage,” Mr. Quince remarked philosophically. “People don't forget me.” His examination of Johnny was quick and thorough. “You represent this young lady legally?”

“God forbid!” Johnny protested. “You wouldn't wish that on your worst enemy. I-advise her, let's say.”

“Then let's bring you up to date upon a matter concerning which she could use some advice,” Mr. Quince said briskly. He opened the briefcase at his feet and took out some papers, then removed his glasses from the case in his breast pocket and slipped them on. “I refer to the legacy which in the probate court's due process will be turned over to Miss Fontaine.” He straightened his glasses with one hand, his tone apologetic. “You understand that much of what I have to say is at the moment tentative, due to the lack of time for a more complete investigation on our part, but my superiors thought it best that I have this little talk with you before your hopes-or plans-crystallized.”

He had looked directly at Sally during this little speech, and she shifted restlessly. “You mean I'm not going to get it?” she asked.

“It's impossible in any event that you will receive it in its present form, of course,” Mr. Quince said carefully. “If there were no other considerations at all, the fact of an inheritance tax-double, in this case, since both the Gidlow and Roketenetz estates in turn would be affected-would materially reduce the amount of the legacy.”

“By how much?” Johnny broke in.

“In an estate inheritance situation there is an automatic exemption of sixty thousand dollars. The tax rate upon the passing of the property solely to Roketenetz would be in the neighborhood of twenty per cent. Upon its repassing to Miss Fontaine, the same exemption and tax rate would apply, but as an offset there would be a carry-back credit due to the successive deaths falling within a two-year period.”