Dan Marlowe - Doorway to Death

“I know he got his feet wet. After the fracas in the kitchen the other night, I followed him upstairs and listened in on him. He was shook, but good. He called someone and resigned from the human race, most especially from the information furnishin' branch of it.”

“Maybe we're getting somewhere,” Lieutenant Dameron said thoughtfully. “Any chance he made you listening in?”

“No way he could.”

“Who'd he call?”

“Didn't mention names,” Johnny said. “I had the switchboard alerted, but the gal missed it somehow.”

“Why did you call me that night asking if I'd checked on him?”

“Because after he'd listened to you buildin' me up in his office that afternoon, he popped up to my room on the late shift and bummed me for a drink. He sat in my place and apologized almost on his knees for taking me strictly for an oversized rigidity before on the strength of what he'd heard around the hotel. He asked about four dozen questions, gave every sign of a man about to hurdle the gap with some kind of proposition, and then said goodnight and tiptoed down the hall.”

Johnny looked around for the chair he had ignored originally and sat down in it. He looked from one to the other of his silent audience. “There's one more thing. When he backed off that night on the proposition-if he ever actually was goin' to make one-it figured that if he was in the chain of command he'd turn in a bad report card on me, in which case I was due to hear a noise.” He smiled and leveled a finger at the lieutenant. “I came out of the phone booth after callin' you, Joe, which wasn't ten minutes after that happened, and I was spread all over the sidewalk. So did he have a goon squad in his pocket waitin' for me? Or didn't he have anything to do with it at all? I haven't been able to make up my mind.”

The lieutenant nodded slowly. “I heard about that sidewalk caper, second or third hand. Fact is, I had a little talk with the party who thought two or three whacks with a gun butt would stop your clock, even temporarily.”

“It damn near did, mister. I thought his friends got him away.”

“They did, but the doc they took him to got palpitations. He didn't report it officially, you understand, but he reported it.”

“You got 'em everywhere, haven't you, Joe?”

“You were spread all over the sidewalk.”

“Yeah. I almost quit on Freddie then, because my first reaction was that it happened too quick for him to have had much of anything to do with it. I'll admit, Joe, for a while I thought he might be your original walkie-talkie.”

“My original walkie-talkie seems to have dismaterialized.”

“Permanently?”

“No body. Yet.”

“Cement takes care of that.”

“It does. I think, though, that someone, scared him.”

“Seems to be a well organized crowd, Joe.”

“Too damn well organized. That's why I can't see Frederick. He doesn't look like he could organize the ladies' aid society.”

Johnny shrugged. “Getting back to the story, Joe, there was a little sequel this afternoon to the sidewalk caper the other night.” His glance fixed itself on the red-faced man behind the desk. “The partner of the guy you talked to showed up at the apartment of Sally Fontaine, the night telephone operator at the hotel. Somebody had sent him to scare her into tellin' me to lay off. I happened to be there, which was a big surprise to him. When I busted in on the conversation, he started to go for a gun and changed his mind. I missed him from across the room with a chair, and he took off.”

Lieutenant Dameron was sitting up straight in his chair. “I know that I predicted it, but you surely are getting a lot of attention from these people. They seem to have you taped pretty damn well, which of course brings us back to Frederick.” His fingers drummed impatiently on the desk top. “I still can't-” He shook his head.

“If it isn't classified, Joe, what'd you find out about the one Dutch got with the cleaver?”

Jimmy Rogers spoke up after glancing at the lieutenant. “A hired gun from the west coast. Frenchie Dumas.”

“Usin' his own name, too; they're not bashful. Any tie-in?”

“Not on the surface.”

Lieutenant Dameron cleared his throat heavily. “This Frederick character. Where'd he work last before this job, Jimmy?”

The sandyhaired man blew out his breath sharply. “'Frisco.” The silence lengthened, and he rose briskly. “I'll get the wheels turning on that picture of Frederick.”

“It'll put him in or out,” the lieutenant agreed. “I'd like to know.” He looked over at Johnny as the door closed behind Rogers. “Maybe you've got something. Maybe.”

Johnny looked down at his hands. “I want you to do me a favor, Joe. Charge it off to that due-bill Jimmy mentioned.”

The gray eyes studied him. “I'm listening.”

“Stake out a man on that apartment, Joe. I can't be there all the time.”

It was the lieutenant's turn to look down at his hands. “I won't say you haven't got a point.” He frowned, picked up the bottle, and poured a half inch into his glass. “Write out the address for me before you leave. It's only the taxpayers' money.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

“That leaves me with the due-bill. I'll be presenting it. You going back to the hotel?”

“Yeah. How long'll it take Jimmy to get that picture?”

“Twenty-four hours, if he's lucky. Write your own ticket, if he's not.”

“Yeah.” Johnny stood up. “Throw the dice, the losers say. Come on over to our happy home when you run out of things to do, Joe.”

Outside it had started to rain; he turned up his collar and walked down the white stone steps. All the cabs that approached him were full; he shrugged and lengthened his stride as he set off for the hotel.

The dim lights in the single open section of the long bar in the Villa Nueva struggled ineffectually with the pale rays of the late afternoon daylight slanting through the port hole window as Johnny entered. On the deserted looking bandstand the instruments lay sheathed in their canvas covers, and the persistently stale aroma of last night's cigarette smoke hung in the air. Johnny sat down on a middle stool and contemplated the bartender's back and the double reflection of artificial and natural light from the oddly shaped bottles on the back bar.

“I'll have the usual, Dave.”

Dave Warren looked up from his preoccupied glass-washing, a smile breaking out on his sallow face. “Johnny! Am I ever glad to see you.” He advanced purposefully to the center of the bar, drying his hands on his apron. “C'mon and take a little walk with me.”

“Walk? I came in to sit, boy. And drink.”

“C'mon and take a look at someone who had the same idea first.”

“I don't give a damn about any drunks you might have tucked away in a back booth, Dave.”

“You might give a damn about this one.”

“Shirley?”

“In the flesh. In the very, very sloppy flesh.”

Johnny silently slid off his stool and followed the white-shirted Dave to the booth in the farthest corner of the empty club. The tiny booth light shone faintly on the dark girl who was sprawled over the booth table with her head down on her arms. She was dressed in a rainbow hued harlequin shirt and gold toreador pants, both of which trimly enhanced the superlative figure. She had scuffed, dirty sneakers on her feet and filigreed bronzed hoops in her ears, and the nearer hand on the table top was so tightly clenched the knuckles glistened.

Johnny turned to Dave. “She get loaded here?”

“Some,” the bartender admitted. His voice rose plaintively. “What the hell could I do? She had a skillful when she got here, but I didn't wise up in time. Then when I tried to shut her off, she got nasty. Threatened to yell the walls down. Started in to do it a couple of times, too, when I was a little slow refilling her glass. Can you get her out of here, Johnny? I hate to ask you, but if the boss should ever see her like this-”