Dan Marlowe - Doorway to Death

Johnny looked down at his own clenched hands; he walked back out into the bedroom and directly across to Jimmy Rogers at the telephone. He had to walk around him to get at him with his right hand.

“Switchboard?” the detective demanded and looked up inquiringly at Johnny. “Get me-” He had a hundredth of a second's warning, but it was not nearly enough. All the sick, bitter frustration that had welled up within Johnny at the sight of Erika Muller's body exploded in the right hand smash he unloaded on the completely unsuspecting detective's jaw. The slender man arced over sideways from the force of the blow, and when he landed he slid.

Johnny caught the falling phone in mid-air. “Sorry. Changed my mind.” He stepped over the unconscious man and returned to the bathroom. Lieutenant Dameron was just rising to his feet, brushing at his knees. Johnny pushed past him, pulled down the toilet seat cover, and sat down, almost face to face with Ronald Frederick, who sat balanced precariously on the edge of the tub.

Johnny looked at him closely. The slender features were flushed, the fingers digging into the side of the tub contracted and relaxed spasmodically, and a knee jerked slightly. The little man swallowed hard, and spoke with an effort. “Saccharin-”

“Sure, Freddie. Yours. Not hers. This the way you woulda picked to go?”

“What… you mean-?”

“Because this is the way you're going. And at that its too good for you.” He brushed past the watching lieutenant and leaned casually in the doorway before he spoke again. “Sweet dreams, Freddie.”

Lieutenant Dameron looked at him sharply. “You have to needle a man in his condition?”

“Who's needlin' him? I'm tellin' him. I want him to know.”

“Know? Know what?”

“Know that he's kickin' off with a gutful of poison, courtesy of Killain.”

“What the hell are you talking about? We'll have him pumped-” the harsh voice died; Lieutenant Dameron strode up to Johnny in the doorway. “What are you up to now? Get out of that door. Jimmy-”

“I took care of Jimmy. You're not gonna pump this guy out, Joe. This is my pigeon.”

The big man's hands closed and opened. “Don't be a bigger fool than nature made you, Johnny. He'll burn, anyway.”

“He might get life. I've seen it happen. This way we don't need to guess.”

Lieutenant Dameron glanced behind him. Ronald Frederick's glazing eyes stared unseeingly at the far wall. The slender body did a slow forward bend, doubled convulsively and pitched forward onto the floor on its knees, then writhed over on its back. A grayish pallor invaded the pinched features, and the lieutenant jerked around to Johnny. “Get the hell out of that doorway-!”

“Don't try it, Joe. I'm telling you.”

The ruddyfaced man backed off two steps, came up on his toes, looked at Johnny beside the splintered door, and hesitated. “For the last time, Johnny-”

“I knew you had more sense than to give me that free shot, Joe. You can have him in ten minutes.” Johnny's head came around sharply at a brisk series of knocks at the corridor door. He looked back at the lieutenant. “Did you have a rear guard?”

“You know damn well they'd have been in here before this if I did have,” Lieutenant Dameron growled.

The sudden knock on the door made them both jump. Somehow, Johnny knew who it was; he started for the door and then looked back. “Don't make the mistake of going for the phone.” He listened at the door. “'Who is it?”

“Open up, Johnny. It's Willie.”

“Yeah, Willie,” Johnny thought; he half-turned to look at the ruddyfaced man standing by the shattered door; after a long moment he reached out and took the knob gingerly and opened the door. Willie Martin strolled in, dapper in a dark brown lightweight gabardine complete with boutonniere in the lapel. He looked around critically as Johnny closed the door again, and his glance halted at the body of the blond man. “I just missed him in London,” he said conversationally.

“Shut up!” Johnny said under his breath.

Willie looked over at Jimmy Rogers sitting up on the floor, a hand to the side of his face and a lack of expression in his eyes. “And this one? Was he for, or against?”

Lieutenant Dameron spoke roughly; “That's my man, Willie. What the hell is this, a guided tour?”

“If you'll do the honors, Joe. You don't mind my checking up on things in my own place?” He moved over to the lieutenant in a saunter. “May I look over your shoulder, Joe?”

The ruddyfaced man hesitated, and then stepped aside from the doorway, and Willie Martin stood on its thresh-hold and quickly surveyed the interior of the brightly lighted room. With no visible change of expression he turned back into the bedroom; the lean mouth quirked humorously at the corners as he looked at Johnny. “I must say that tears it rather thoroughly.” He walked around the card table and seated himself on the edge of the bed; his tone was absentminded as he continued. “Had the very devil of a time getting off that plane you put me on, Johnny, without your seeing me.”

Lieutenant Dameron stared at him; Johnny stood frozen, every internal muscle strained with the repression of the sound welling up within him. He wanted to scream until his throat was raw: Willie… Willie… don't… don't… don't…!

Willie smiled at him, the cheerful, devil-may-care smile. “I gave it all I had, Johnny. As usual. It was leaning on broken reeds that destroyed me. First Dumas… and now Frederick-”

Lieutenant Dameron's stare was frozen incredulity. On the floor Detective Rogers was looking up intently with eyes that had come back into focus. Willie Martin looked amusedly from one to the other.

“The long arm of the law,” he said softly and stood up and moved away from the bed, his manner deliberate and unhurried; under the expensive gabardine jacket his shoulders moved slightly in the fashion of a man testing unused muscles.

The lieutenant's apple cheeks were faded. He took a short step forward; his voice was tentative. “Willie-”

The slender man turned casually to the nearer window; he looked back over his shoulder, the easy smile a mockery.

“Yes, Joe?” he asked quietly, and his eyes passed on to Johnny.

“Next incarnation, boy,” Willie Martin said casually and turned back to the window.

“Willie-!” This time it was the imperative flavored Lieutenant Dameron's official voice. Then his bull-like rush ended up in a sliding skid as he encountered Johnny's out-thrust leg. From hands and knees on the floor Johnny winced at the earsplitting crash as the doubled up figure took sashing and pane on its flight through the window.

The tinkling sound of glass falling could be heard for a long time in the quiet room.

Johnny awoke lying on his back in the instant before the awakening hand touched his shoulder; he blinked up at the blue uniform. “He's ready for you now, Killain.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Mac.” He lay quietly an instant, his eyes tracing the barred pattern of the lights and shadows on the ceiling above him before he sat up on the iron cot in the precinct cell block.

His left arm throbbed like an infected wisdom tooth; he stood up, balancing cautiously. After treatment last night, the police surgeon had strapped it tightly to his chest, and he felt curiously one-sided.

The cell door was ajar, and he stepped outside and walked across to the little desk fronting the row of cells. He looked down into the shrewd pale eyes of the uniformed patrolman. “Cigarette me, Mac.”

He caught the pack of cigarettes tossed to him, shook one out, and bowed his head the distance necessary to accept the proffered light. He nodded his thanks and strode out through the big iron gate, off the cement floors of the cell block to the familiar oil-darkened wooden floors of the old building. He could hear the sound of his heels echoing in the early morning quiet.