Dan Marlowe - Killer with a Key

On the stairs he paused; one of the reasons you'd just about scratched this woman from the derby, Killain, was because you thought she couldn't have the strength to kill Ellen. Now she's a phys-ed grad.

So where are the marks?

He shrugged and ran lightly down the stairs to the street.

Johnny sat slumped in the deeply cushioned armchair in his room and frowned down at his shoes propped up on a hassock. His shift had just gone off and it was time for bed, but an underlying restlessness clawed at his nerves. His physical batteries felt overcharged.

He removed his feet from the hassock, kicking it to one side, and bent down and untied his shoelaces. He toed his shoes off, unfastened the two top buttons of the uniform jacket, jerked loose the tie and undid the constricting collar button on the white shirt. He recognized wryly as he did so that the gesture was superficial; the tension was within, not without.

He tried to relax in the depths of the chair, but the muscles in chest and stomach and thighs crawled and jumped in cramped mute protest at the enforced inactivity. With no conscious volition he found himself on his feet, and he impatiently finished unbuttoning the jacket and slid out of it. He stripped off tie, shirt, trousers and underwear, and in his socks padded over to the bed. Ridged muscles leaped in back and shoulders as he leaned forward to turn down the coverlet and top sheet; he stared down at the bed for a moment and then walked to the window. He raised the shade and looked out; in the early morning light the street below was still deep in shadow, but across the way the upper stories of the taller buildings gave off a golden approximation of the sunrise as reflected from hundreds of windows.

Johnny grunted, half aloud. Live in the concrete canyons anywhere below the twenty-fifth floor and get your sunrises secondhand. He turned away from the window. On the other hand, Killain, he reminded himself, in your time you've seen a few sunrises you'd trade even up for the artificial gold-on-glass brilliance across the street. The wheel does come full circle, but high or low on the arc a man gets restless.

He wandered uneasily around the room in a stocking-footed shuffle; in the corner by the bathroom door he looked down at Sassy, curled up in a tight white ball in the sleeping basket he had gotten for her. He broke off his aimless prowling to walk into the bathroom and splash water upon face and upper body; toweled off, he returned to the bed and sat upon its edge. He reached absent-mindedly for a cigarette from the pack on the night table and then decided against it.

And with no absent-mindedness at all he reached for the phone. “Sally? Afraid you might have left already. Come on up.”

“Mmmmmm? Business meeting?”

He could hear her initial surprise, followed by the impish humor he had come to expect of her. “Yeah.”

“Shall I bring my notebook?”

“I don't need to hear the minutes of the last meeting to know where we left off.” He could hear the smothered whisper of her laughter in the phone. “Hustle it up.”

“Yes, Galahad.”

He replaced the phone, lifted his legs and swung around as he stretched out on his back. For a man who lived by life's tactile sensations there weren't many superior to the feel of clean linen on flesh. He closed his eyes.

When he heard her footsteps in the corridor outside he slid from the bed and had the door open with himself behind it almost before the faint sound of her knock had died away. Sally slipped quietly inside, and he closed the door again. “Mornin', Ma.”

She turned. “Well!” Her palm cracked smartly on his bare flesh. “Business meeting! Didn't your haberdasher tell you those socks don't match the rest of your outfit?” The big arms encircled her, and she squealed as her breath abruptly departed. She flinched as his lips descended upon an ear lobe, and in his arms he could feel her knees lifting instinctively. “H-hey! That tickles!”

He released her, and she smoothed down the rumpled front of her dress; as always, her clothes looked too large for the doll-like body. She looked at him speculatively. “This means you're not coming by the apartment this afternoon?”

“Few errands to run, Ma.” He returned to the bed, and in seconds she slithered in beside him, the boyish slimness cool to his hands. She stretched lazily along his length, and the little hammers started to pound behind his eyes. Over her shoulder he could see the added light in the room as the golden reflection moved farther down the windows across the street.

He counterbalanced Sally's leaning figure with his arm as she stretched for cigarettes and lighter on the night table. She leaned over him as she flipped on the lighter for the cigarette she popped between his lips. “You know, man-”

“Mmmm?” He blew cigarette smoke up at her.

“You're something better than a vacuum.” She grinned down at him. “To accentuate the positive, sir, you're adequate.” She punched him in the ribs with a sharp-knuckled little fist and slid from the bed before he could grab her.

“I've got to make like a lady again and get out of here.”

He could hear the rustle of her clothing as she dressed. He ducked as ash from his cigarette dropped on his bare chest; he brushed at it hastily, rolled sideways and stubbed out the butt. On his back again he locked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “Sally?”

“Yes?”

“You know the big blonde down on the mezzanine works for Ed Russo?”

She appeared beside the bed to look down at him, her hands busy with the belt of her dress. “Mavis? A bleached iceberg. She's no more a blonde than I am. A hard ticket. A twenty-minute egg.” She smiled wryly. “So I'd like to have her figure. All I know about her is that if you follow the panting tongues there's Mavis. What's on your mind, besides lechery?”

“Information.”

“I'd guess that if you didn't run out of money too fast you might get a little.”

“From the sound, she better not ask you to hold her coat.

She footie-footie with anyone around here?”

“I hear Marty Seiden makes a pass every once in a while.” Johnny's head came off the pillow. “Marty? The kid's over-matchin' himself puttin' on the gloves with that trumpet.”

Sally laughed. “Is that my cue to ask you how you know? Maybe he's just apprenticing; a boy has to start somewhere, doesn't he? If you're serious about wanting information why don't you talk to Mike Larsen? He knows everyone. Everyone's business, too.”

“Mike?” Johnny nodded slowly. “I should have thought of Mike. Score one for your side, Ma; remind me to put you on the pay roll. That might be-” He trailed off, lost in thought.

“Let me get out of here,” Sally said firmly. She bent swiftly and brushed his cheek with her lips. “Don't get up. I'll scout the corridor.” She blew him a kiss from the door as she closed it softly behind her.

After staring at the closed door a moment Johnny considered the ceiling again. This Russo, now; he was beginning to have a rather strong smell. There were a few things he'd like to know about Russo. Russo had a distinction: he tied in to both Ellen Saxon and Robert Sanders. No one else with his nose above water did. Except Lorraine Barnes, Johnny reminded himself wearily. He wished he could make up his mind about Lorraine Barnes. She certainly had plenty to cover up cross-town if she'd just come off a date with Sanders before he caught the four in the head. And why else would she have been there? Unless to pour a little lead herself? Maybe Sanders had given her the checkered flag, and she wasn't the type to take it without a rebuttal?

He half rolled over to reach for a cigarette. This Lorraine He winced as the phone on the table went off practically in his ear. He grabbed at it before it could ring again. “Yeah?”