Sidney Sheldon - The Naked Face

When he finally spoke, his voice was almost under control. “Drop me a card from Rome.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “Please take care of yourself, Judd.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

And she was gone.

The phone rang three times before Judd heard it. He picked it up.

“That you, Doc?” It was Moody. His voice practically leaped out of the telephone, crackling with excitement. “You alone?”

“Yes.”

There was an odd quality in Moody’s excitement that Judd could not quite identify. Caution? Fear?

“Doc—remember I told you I had a hunch who might be behind this?”

“Yes…”

“I was right.”

Judd felt a quick chill go through him. “You know who killed Hanson and Carol?”

“Yeah. I know who. And I know why. You’re next, Doctor.”

“Tell me—“

“Not over the phone,” said Moody. “We’d better meet somewhere and talk about it. Come alone.”

Judd stared at the phone in his hand.

COME ALONE!

“Are you listening?” asked Moody’s voice.

“Yes,” said Judd quickly. What had Angeli said? Whatever you do, Doctor, don’t meet him alone. “Why can’t we meet here?” he asked, stalling for time.

“I think I’m being followed. I managed to shake them off. I’m calling from the Five Star Meat Packing Company. It’s on Twenty-third Street, west of Tenth Avenue, near the docks.”

Judd still found it impossible to believe that Moody was setting a trap for him. He decided to test him. “I’ll bring Angeli.”

Moody’s voice was sharp. “Don’t bring anyone. Come by yourself.”

And there it was.

Judd thought of the fat little Buddha at the other end of the phone. His guileless friend who was charging him fifty dollars a day and expenses to set him up for his own murder.

Judd kept his voice controlled. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll be right over.” He tried one parting shot. “Are you sure you really know who’s behind this, Moody?”

“Dead sure, Doc. Have you ever heard of Don Vinton?” And Moody hung up.

Judd stood there, trying to sort out the storm of emotions that raced through him. He looked up Angeli’s home number and dialed it. It rang five times, and Judd was filled with a sudden panicky fear that Angeli might not be at home. Dare he go meet Moody alone?

Then he heard Angeli’s nasal voice. “Hello?”

“Judd Stevens. Moody just called.”

There was a quickening in Angeli’s voice. “What did he say?”

Judd hesitated, feeling a last vestige of unreasonable loy alty and—yes, affection—toward the bumbling little fat man who was plotting to cold-bloodedly murder him. “He asked me to meet him at the Five Star Meat Packing Company. It’s on Twenty-third Street near Tenth Avenue. He told me to come alone.”

Angeli laughed mirthlessly. “I’ll bet he did. Don’t budge out of that office, Doctor. I’m going to call Lieutenant McGreavy. We’ll both pick you up.”

“Right,” said Judd. He hung up slowly. Norman Z. Moody. The jolly Buddha from the yellow pages. Judd felt a sudden, inexplicable sadness. He had liked Moody. And trusted him.

And Moody was waiting to kill him.

Chapter Thirteen

TWENTY MINUTES LATER Judd unlocked his office door to admit Angeli and Lieutenant McGreavy. Angeli’s eyes were red and teary. His voice was hoarse. Judd had a momentary pang at having dragged him out of a sickbed. McGreavy’s greeting was a curt, unfriendly nod.

“I told Lieutenant McGreavy about the phone call from Norman Moody,” Angeli said.

“Yeah. Let’s find out what the hell this is all about,” McGreavy said sourly.

Five minutes later they were in an unmarked police car speeding downtown on the West Side. Angeli was at the wheel. The light snowfall had stopped and the gruel-thin rays of the late afternoon sun had surrendered to the oppres sive cover of storm clouds sweeping across the Manhattan sky. There was a loud clap of thunder in the distance and then a bright, jagged sword of lightning. Drops of rain began to spatter the windshield. As the car continued downtown, tall, soaring skyscrapers gave way to small, grimy tenements huddled together as if for comfort against the biting cold.

The car turned into Twenty-third Street, going west toward the Hudson River. They moved into a land of junk yards and fix-it shops and dingy bars, then past that to blocks of garages, trucking yards and freight companies. As the car neared the corner of Tenth Avenue, McGreavy directed An geli to pull over to the curb.

“We’ll get out here.” McGreavy turned to Judd. “Did Moody say whether anyone would be with him?”

“No.”

McGreavy unbuttoned his overcoat and transferred his service revolver from his holster to his overcoat pocket. An geli followed suit. “Stay in back of us,” McGreavy ordered Judd.

The three men started walking, ducking their heads against the wind-lashed rain. Halfway down the block, they came to a dilapidated-looking building with a faded sign above the door that read:

FIVE STAR MEAT PACKING COMPANY

There were no cars or trucks or lights, no sign of life.

The two detectives walked up to the door, one on either side. McGreavy tested the door. It was locked. He looked around, but could see no bell. They listened. Silence, except for the sound of the rain.

“It looks closed,” Angeli said.

“It probably is,” McGreavy replied. “The Friday before Christmas—most companies are knocking off at noon.”

“There must be a loading entrance.”

Judd followed the two detectives as they moved cautiously toward the end of the building, trying to avoid the puddles in their path. They came to a service alley, and looking down it, they could discern a loading platform with deserted trucks pulled up in front of it. There was no activity. They moved forward until they reached the platform.

“OK,” McGreavy said to Judd. “Sing out.”

Judd hesitated, feeling unreasonably sad that he was betraying Moody. Then he lifted his voice. “Moody! “ The only response was the yowling of an angry tomcat disturbed in his search for dry shelter. “Mr. Moody!”

There was a large wooden sliding door on top of the plat form, used to move the deliveries from inside the warehouse to the area where the trucks were loaded. There were no steps leading onto the platform. McGreavy hoisted himself up, moving with surprising agility for such a large man. An geli followed, then Judd. Angeli walked over to the sliding door and pushed against it. It was unlocked. The great door rolled open with a loud, high-pitched scream of protest. The tomcat answered hopefully, forgetting about shelter. Inside the warehouse it was pitch black.

“Did you bring a flashlight?” McGreavy asked Angeli.

“No.”

“Shit!”

Cautiously they inched their way into the gloom. Judd called out again. “Mr. Moody! It’s Judd Stevens.”

There was no sound except for the creaking of the boards as the men moved across the room. McGreavy rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a book of matches. He lit one and held it up. Its feeble, sputtering light cast a wavering yellow glow in what seemed to be an enormous empty cavern. The match guttered out. “Find the goddam light switch,” McGreavy said. “That was my last match.”

Judd could hear Angeli groping along the walls looking for the light switch. Judd kept moving forward. He could not see the other two men. “Moody!” he called.

He heard Angeli’s voice from across the room. “Here’s a switch.” There was a click. Nothing happened.

“The master switch must be off,” McGreavy said.

Judd bumped against a wall. As he put his hands out to brace himself, his fingers closed over a doorlatch. He shoved the latch up and pulled. A massive door swung open and a blast of frigid air hit him. “I’ve found a door,” he called out. He stepped over a sill and cautiously moved forward. He heard the door close behind him and his heart began to ham mer. Impossibly, it was darker here than in the other room, as though he had stepped into a deeper blackness.