Killer with a Key

CHAPTER 13

In the rainswept, deserted street Johnny scowlingly squished along back toward the hotel; not a cab in sight, naturally. A little more water might be just what you need, Killain… reduce a little of the steam coming out of your thick ears after that fiasco upstairs. Damn that Lorraine woman, anyway… Damn all women eating their cake and trying to have it, too He came to a dead stop in the middle of the block.

Women…

There's a woman on the fringe of this deal at whom you haven't taken a very close look, friend. Quite a considerable woman-name of Mavis Delaroche. You think maybe she was out in the rain tonight, too? You think you could get her to tell you why, if she were? Mavis. You've never gotten the answer yet on those one-copy carbons of hers, either.

He hunched his shoulders under the sodden raincoat and propelled himself forward again. He grunted impatiently as he stepped down off the curb into a puddle of water; across the street he turned right and headed for the lights of the all-night drugstore two blocks over. At its entrance he wrung a little of the surplus water from himself and marched inside to the phone booth. He dialed the hotel and removed his handkerchief from his pocket and placed it lightly before his lips. “Front desk,” he said muffledly.

He waited for the click of Sally's cut-off key before answering Marty Seiden's “Front desk, Seiden.”

“Don't let on, Marty; this is Johnny. Call me 'sir'.”

“Right you are, sir.”

“That big blonde up on the balcony… what's her address? An' don't mention her name.”

“Address?” He could hear the surprise in the red-haired night clerk's voice. “Uh-332 East 63rd.”

“You payin' the rent up there?”

“In that neighborhood? I couldn't pay her maid service. You're outta your mind. Sir.” Marty's tone was injured.

“Okay. Tell Paul I'll be hung up a little while yet.”

He left the booth and ran an appraising eye up and down the half-dozen assorted coffee drinkers at the counter. “Any of you guys hackin'?”

A cup clattered into its saucer, and a gray-haired man in horn-rimmed spectacles stood up immediately. “That's me, boss. Where to?”

“Let's go,” Johnny said noncommittally and led the way outside. Never tell your business to a roomful of listening ears… well, okay, but are you ever going to relax a little bit from the ingrained caution of the old days? he asked himself impatiently. Who do you think gives a damn about you, or what you're up to now?

In the cab he gave the uptown address and settled back for the ride. You've still got a problem, Killain… in that neighborhood you're nine-to-five not to even get inside the front door. If there isn't a doorman there'll be a night switchboard operator, plus probably an elevator operator, all of them likely to be a little crusty over a tenant being disturbed at four a.m.

He paid off the cab in front of the towering apartment building and stood on the curb until it pulled away. Automatically he fumbled up the collar of the raincoat, though there wasn't a dry quarter of an inch on it, and crossed the street to reconnoiter a little less conspicuously. He stood on the opposite sidewalk in the blowing rain and looked up at the acres of windows with only an occasional light behind them.

No doorman visible-fine. Unless the old boy was inside sneaking a smoke, or dodging the rain. Through the front entrance he could see the closed elevator doors, and even as he looked they opened and a uniformed figure emerged and turned left. Johnny hastily skipped a damp fifteen feet to his right to keep the uniform in sight and watched it settle down lackadaisically behind a small counter that could only be a lobby switchboard.

You must be getting lucky, Killain… no doorman, and the switchboard operator is also the elevator operator. He can't be in two places at once. Remind yourself to send that economy-minded building superintendent a carton of cigarettes tomorrow.

He waited twenty increasingly wet minutes for the elevator doors to close again, and when the uniformed figure disappeared behind them, Johnny crossed the street at a shambling trot. In the foyer he quickly picked out Delaroche on the mailboxes-3-C-and entered the lobby. The only sign of life was the wavering trail of smoke from the unattended cigarette in the ashtray by the switchboard, and he headed quickly for the stairs.

From the third floor landing he padded silently down the lushly carpeted hallway and stopped in front of 3-C. He listened an instant, and then pushed the ivory bell button. Inside he could hear a faint chime; he waited fifteen seconds and pressed it again. He thought he could hear faint movement from behind the door; he counted to ten and rang again.

“Who is it?”

He could barely hear the voice; he raised his own. “The iceman.”

“The ice-” The door opened three inches on a chain latch, and Mavis' sleep-filled features under the tousled blonde hair peered out suspiciously. “You! What the hell do you want?”

“That's an easy one, dimples. I want in.”

She sniffed loudly. “On your way, buster. On your-”

“Look, kid,” he interrupted her softly. “It just so happens I don't care what kind of noise I make out here getting in. How about you?”

She stared out at him malevolently. “Did Sam bring you up here without calling me?”

“Sam has yet to see me. If there's a beef, Sam's likely to accuse you of aiding and abetting.”

She hesitated another instant, and then with a soft rattle of the chain the door opened and Johnny slipped inside. He took a quick look around the comfortably furnished bed-sitting room, softly illuminated by the bedside lamp, and turned to include Mavis' king-sized pajama-clad figure in his approving inspection. “You fit those pajamas good, kid. Real good.”

The small mouth pursed sulkily. “Why I ever let you in… You're nothing but trouble-”

He paid no attention to her. “That a closet?” He gestured at a closed door.

“That's the bathroom. What-”

“This must be the closet, then,” he deduced, stepped forward and opened the door. He ran his hand sweepingly down the racks of clothing and backed out thoughtfully. Dry- all dry. He didn't know if he were disappointed or not.

Mavis emerged from her open-mouthed surprise, advanced and pushed him solidly. She did a double take when nothing happened at the push, but her voice came more strongly. “What the hell's going on here, you big moose?”

Johnny looked at her admiringly-no violet, Mavis. “What's the matter, small fry?” he asked her. “Am I supposed to bank into the side pocket like your boy friends when you lean on 'em?” He swung himself out of the dripping raincoat. “I need a shower.”

“Sh-shower?” The big girl's voice was a strangled squeak as Johnny rapidly skinned himself out of his saturated uniform, tie, shirt and underwear.

“Get me something dry I can get into,” he told her and bent to remove shoes and socks before walking into the bathroom.

She followed him to the door, eyes popping. “You crazy?” she hissed at him. “You one of those damn narcis… narciss-” She gave it up. “You get the hell out! You trying to get me thrown out of here? This is a respectable place!”

“You want me to catch cold?” he asked reasonably, then turned on the shower and ducked inside. Above the rushing sound of the steaming hot water he could hear Mavis fuming, but when he emerged and groped for a towel a pair of tan slacks and a rose-colored sweater lay on the toilet seat. He dried himself roughly and slipped on the slacks; the two top buttons refused to meet over his lean middle. He picked up the sweater, looked at it and shook his head disgustedly. Barefooted he carried it out and waved it at Mavis where she sat in an armchair with a half-consumed cigarette in her hand. She looked up at his entrance, looked away and then back again as though fascinated. He noticed that she had combed her hair. “You dressin' Singer's midgets? I couldn't get one arm in this thing, an' I got about a leg an' a half in these pants. What else 've you got I can get decent in?”

“Nothing else!” she said spiritedly. “You must think this is a department store for elephants. You gone loco completely, bustin' in on me like this?”

“I like you, kid. I don't give my business to just anyone.” He slung the discarded sweater into an empty chair and casually approached the big girl. Before she realized his intention he loomed up over her chair, took her by the arms and lifted her out effortlessly, then carried her over to the bed where he sat down with her in his lap. Instinctively she fought against the pinioning arms, and for a moment he concentrated upon the exact amount of strength necessary to hold her immobile without hurting her. When she stopped struggling he relaxed his hold on her. “I told you, little one. I like you.”

“One of us-is crazy!” she gasped. “You let me… up out of here!”

“I kind of like this arrangement. By the way, you never did get to tell me-that carbons bit your own idea?”

She twisted sharply until she could see his face. “Why do you want to know?”

He shrugged elaborately. “Maybe I could use a bright little girl in my business.”

“You haven't any business,” she said tartly, and then her tone softened. “You know you're the first soul in this world to call me 'little girl' since I was a kid? 'Course compared to you… You're the biggest damn thing I ever-” Her voice trailed off.

“The carbons,” Johnny repeated and pinched her.

She yipped and bucked in his lap. “Cut that out!”

He pinched her again, solidly.

“Oww! That hurt, damn you! I'll-” She flinched at the movement of his arm. “All right, all right, I'll tell you!” she said hastily. He waited, and she continued poutingly. “So it was my own idea. A girl's got to eat.”

“A girl's got to keep her fantail outta the grease, too. You think Russo would front for you if someone caught you like I did?”

“I can handle Ed,” she said confidently.

So she doesn't know about Ed, he thought. And she hasn't been out in the rain. Which about winds up the charade here. He looked at the big girl in his lap. Almost…

She was looking at him curiously. “Why? What's it to you?”

“Ask me tomorrow, kid.” He upended her suddenly and dumped her sprawling across the rumpled bed; in an instant he was full-length beside her. “Funny thing,” he said casually and fingered her pajamas. “These things nylon?” She nodded. “Thought so. I'm allergic to it. Just makes me want to pinch-” She kicked quickly at the advancing hand; he trapped the slim ankle in his left hand and rolled her onto her stomach. The big right hand dropped on the waistband of the pajamas. “'Course it's only nylon makes me feel that way,” he said thoughtfully and unhurriedly disposed of it. “Say now… that's nothing but fine. Real sugar-cured.”

The big girl flipflopped like a grassed fish. “Put out that damn light!” she husked breathlessly.

“You think I'm an owl? Now you take this useful-lookin' appliance… you tested the horsepower lately?”

“Stop-it!”

Beside them he could see on the wall the magnified shadows blend suddenly as he bent over her purposefully. “You remind me, kid. Later.”