Lady, go die

CHAPTER FOUR

We stopped first at the telegraph office. On a blank form, addressed to Pat at his home, I wrote: CASE HISTORY CLOSED ON SUBJECT OF OUR DISCUSSION. That was in the event the Western Union clerk was another of Holden’s snoopers. I didn’t want His Honor to know I had already contacted the city police about this.

When I finished, I had to wait a while for Velda to come out of a pay booth outside the office. She was making call after call. What was she up to?

I asked her who she’d been phoning, and she said, “The papers.”

“The New York City papers?”

She nodded and said, “Sharron Wesley maintained a New York residence, too, and after that trial of hers, ought to still make good copy. Besides, letting the newsboys in on it right away will only put us in solid with them.”

I gave that the horse laugh. “Me in solid with those jackals? They’d pimp their Aunt Hattie for a headline. You know how they smear me whenever they can, and-”

She touched my sleeve. “Mike, let’s use them for a change.”

I thought about it, then shrugged. “What the hell, let them in on it. If nothing else, it’ll put a bug up the tail of the local PD.”

“And Mayor Holden. When are you going to get around to giving him a little attention?”

“That’ll come.”

I guided Velda out to my heap just as dusk was turning to dark. We got in and headed for the hotel.

“You stake out a stool in the bar and keep an eye out,” I told her. “It won’t take those reporters long to drive out from the city.”

“Roger.”

I checked my watch. “It’s ten after seven now. They’ll be here by ten.”

“Or sooner, if any of them charter a private plane. There’s an airport about fifteen miles from here.”

I nodded. “They’ll swarm over Beales and his boys, and when they come back with their stories, see if you can find out when that body was placed on the horse. From the dampness of the corpse, the stuff in her hair, I’d say she wasn’t there a full hour before we arrived.”

“That would be my guess, too.”

“Hey, maybe our friend the coroner could narrow it down for us. Call Doc Moody and see if you can wrangle a more approximate time of death out of him. It may be necessary to wait for an autopsy, but get what you can.”

“Okay.”

“It’s possible that there was somebody hanging around the park. If anybody’s been taken into custody, find out who. That’s something the reporters would pick up on.”

I pulled up in front of the hotel.

“So,” she said, “that’s what I’m doing. What about you, big boy? Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Out. That mysterious place where all men go off to. Go on-leave me in the dark. That’s where I do some of my best work.”

I wouldn’t mind getting some first-hand experience on that score.

“All right, baby, all right. First I’m going to the Wesley place, then out to see Poochie. He’s had some recovery time and might be ripe for further questioning. I may need you in a hurry, so be where I can reach you.”

“Okay, Mike, I’ll behave. If I’m not in the bar, I’m in my room. And listen… watch yourself out there.”

“Quit your worrying.”

“I can’t help it. You’re strictly a city boy and this is the wilderness. If this case was in the tenement district, I’d feel a lot better, but when it comes to trees and grass, you’re strictly the proverbial fish out of water.”

I leaned over and kissed her, quick but sweet.

“You’re cute,” I said. “Now do what I told you. It’s not like I’m out hunting Indians.”

She gave me a look, said, “Then try not to come back with an arrow between your ears,” and hipped it inside the hotel.

I drove down the highway to the cutoff that led to the Wesley house. I found it after passing by twice, then had to unlatch an iron gate to drive in. I didn’t go the full length of the driveway, but stopped with the house in sight and slid the jalopy up against some bushes to one side. I hadn’t had my lights on, and the motor was practically silent, so if there was anyone here, they hadn’t heard me coming.

I got an extra. 45 clip from the glove compartment for my left-hand suit coat pocket, and also a flashlight. When I hopped out, I checked my rod, then started up the path, staying on the grass to muffle my footsteps. The path curved out into a wide semi-circle that swept in front of an oversized veranda. For a long moment I just stood there. The moon came out and lit the place up in a pale greenish light, accentuating its lines with long shadowy fingers.

On my left was a newer section, obviously built on in recent years. I chose that first and clung to the shadows as I made my way toward it. The new part turned out to be a free-standing garage. But what a garage.

When I lifted the roll-type door, I guided the beam of the flash around inside like I was bringing in small aircraft. The place was big enough for a fleet of taxis. The concrete floor was well-splotched with oil and grease stains, with the skid marks of countless wheels in the dust.

A nifty ’45 convertible Caddy stood light-blue and lonely in a far corner. I stepped over oil puddles to the big beautiful buggy and worked the flash over her chassis. On the driver’s door were the cursive initials, “S.W.”

Sharron’s personal ride.

Well, she wouldn’t be using it now.

I looked inside. The interior was showroom clean, and the glove compartment was filled with the usual road maps, plus one item of interest-a set of car keys. Wasn’t that an invitation to dine. Too bad Velda’s boss was an honest sort, or she might have been driven back to Manhattan in style…

Only the trunk key didn’t work. I tried the ignition to see if these keys were to another vehicle, but the motor purred to life. I shut it quickly off and returned to the trunk. Its lock yielded to the fourth pair of picks I tried. That trick came in handy-the technique and the picks were given to me by a little shrimp of a second-story man for whom I had gotten a real job and set straight.

A spare tire lay under the sheet of flooring with the handle of a bumper jack sticking out alongside it. Above it was a tool kit and a cardboard box about the size of a portable record player. With a screwdriver from the kit, I pried through the corrugated top and pulled the newspaper wrapping off.

Chips.

A whole damn box swimming with poker chips, white, blue, red. Was this the precious cargo that made changing that lock worth doing?

I slapped the cover back on, wiped any prints off it, and closed the trunk. Let the local cops open it themselves. They’d probably use a fire ax, knowing their finesse.

Back out in the cool, breezy evening, with the rush of tide as a soundtrack, I took the long way around the garage and found a rear door up three cement steps.

This time I didn’t need the picks. It was unlocked, but I pushed it open an inch and felt for wires. There were alarm devices that depended on a door being opened six or eight inches before they went off, a neat trap for doors that could be easily forced, and I didn’t feel like getting caught with my pants down. Beales and Dekkert would just love to have an actual charge to slap against me.

Nothing.

I let it open another inch and ran my fingers inside between the hinges. No wires here, either. Just as I was about to throw the door open all the way, I stopped and felt under the lower hinge. A spring attachment caught under my fingernail.

Using my left hand to shield the beam of the flash, I let a stream of light shoot through the crack of the door and pried the spring away with the largest of the picks. Needed to use a pick after all, but it only took a second. The thing jumped out of place and I killed the flash and shoved the door open.

I stood still as death but heard no sound from anywhere-even the night noises had stayed outside. I quieted my own breathing and felt in front of me. A few minutes more and my eyes became accustomed to the darkness and I could see the outline of things pretty well. The moonlight, coming in the windows, helped.

I was in the kitchen, a big one, white and clean with enough cabinets and counters and stove tops to feed a small army. I played statue for a good, long minute. A house this size could easily have some live-in servants and I didn’t want them breaking up my party.

There was nothing of interest in the kitchen, as far as I could see. Nothing I was looking for, but what was I looking for? I didn’t know. Sharron Wesley was dead, and she had left behind a corpse on a stone horse, and this mansion. But she was murdered and that hadn’t been without purpose. Whatever the reason, there might possibly be a tie-in with something within these walls. Something, anything at all. Just one thing out of the ordinary.

The room off the kitchen was a pantry. I didn’t waste time there either, but stepped through the open door to what should have been a dining room. It probably had been, at one time, but not now.

Now? Now the room was a giant gambling den-taking up more space than just the dining room had once, with walls clearly torn out to make it more expansive. I’ve seen plenty such layouts in my time, but this one took the cake. I let my flash try for the walls, but it had to cover sixty feet before it did. That was the width. The room ran along the whole waterfront section of the house, a full hundred and fifty feet.

Overall, it had any gambling joint in the city shaded. I took my hand off the light and let the unshielded beam play over the tables. Sharron Wesley had sunk a fortune into this operation. The tables had Chicago trademarks, the best money could buy. Craps tables stood along the west wall, flanked by numerous roulette wheels and cages.

There were six faro layouts and assorted poker tables with automatic card-shuffling machines built in. I threaded my way through to where six rows of slot machines were huddled in the corner, all two-bit jobs, the jackpots still full.

On each end, and in the middle, were the banks. They were built like movie cashier booths, with one exception: the glass partitions were an inch thick. Behind the opening where the money and chips changed hands, a piece of heavy steel was inlaid into the counter. Any dough that went out had to be passed around it. The thing was practically foolproof. The Wesley dame had taken no chances on being stuck up. The cashier could stay behind there without a worry-no bullet would get through that glass, and neither could the door be opened. A time lock arrangement took care of that.

The dial of the lock registered “open.” I pulled on the steel door and it swung out. Inside was a telephone, a stool, a huge money drawer, a container for chips and, on the floor, a handkerchief. The drawer was empty. I picked up the tiny frilly hanky and took a close look at it. In one corner was the initial “G,” and the thing still held the faint, musky aroma of expensive perfume.

With the handkerchief, I picked up the phone to see if it was alive. A buzz came from the receiver so I cradled it. I backed out of the booth and stuck the handkerchief in my side pocket. I couldn’t see what good the thing would do me, but you never can tell.

A dusty smell was in the air, not the smell of disuse, but that of a place not recently cleaned. The protective covers of the tables were covered with a fine coating of dust and sand particles. Not much, but just about as much as would settle in a week.

This place was certainly no amateur joint, nor was it the indulgence of a rich man’s whim, or rich woman, either. This nifty little casino had every hallmark of the real thing. Those wild parties in Sidon I had heard rumors about were juicy orgies of gambling.

This house was run for one reason-to make money. But why, I couldn’t figure. Sharron Wesley had supposedly inherited a cool million or more from her late husband.

A hard-living dame like that ex-chorine could go through money fast enough, that was a cinch, but a million is a lot to spend and she hadn’t had that much time yet. Still, I guessed there was no reason why she shouldn’t go into business for herself, to keep afloat among the money set.

Oh, hell, that idea was out the window-that bimbo didn’t have enough brains in her yellow-haired head to put together a sophisticated gambling operation like this one on her own steam.

Somebody had been backing her.

The darkened opening of a foyer led from the casino area. I looked in, then-through the archway on one side-spying the bar, a big horseshoe-shaped affair. Damn! This lodge-type area alone could accommodate a few hundred at a sitting. Sharron Wesley had been no piker when she built this indoor amusement park.

Stools were arranged in orderly fashion around the bar with tables-for-two set against the wall. The whole place had been swept and put in order after the last party, which hadn’t been so long ago, either. You’d think a place like this would be put in for the summer crowd, but that didn’t seem to be the case. This was a year-round operation that must have catered strictly to the city slicks who came out to throw their dough around, and away.

Under the bar, I found a bottle of Scotch, removed the cork and took a short pull. Good stuff. I put the cork and the bottle back. The walls in this place had been finished in knotty pine, giving the room a healthy outdoor odor. I made my way completely around the bar, then took the foyer to the side door.

A cloakroom was built into the wall with enough hangers for the Stork Club and then some. Next to the cloakroom was a second-floor staircase. I shone the light on the steps-they, too, were dust-covered. So much for servants. If anyone was up there, they must be hibernating. No one had used the staircase in a week, at least.

Nevertheless, I took no chances. I judged the approximate number of steps to the top and went up, walking as close to the bannister as I could, to avoid letting any telltale squeaks announce my presence.

The top landing was covered by a Chinese rug thick enough to muffle any sound. The corridor led to one main room that occupied half the entire upper floor-a ballroom. A stage that could have accommodated Glenn Miller’s band took up the far end, and a fully functioning bar ran along one wall, while a sea of little round tables with chairs surrounded a waxed and polished beach of hardwood, a dance floor larger than the usual night club variety.

The other rooms were bedrooms. No one lived in them-they seemed to be designed to provide couples with a comfy trysting option; or maybe high-end prostitution was part of the party fare Sharron Wesley offered. At one end of the hall was a three-room apartment. This was the first place that looked well used. A glamorous, silver-framed portrait of Sharron was displayed on a baby grand. Around it were a dozen smaller framed photos, all of men.

These had been Sharron’s quarters, all right.

It was beginning to dawn on me how she operated. She lived here, but she lived alone. And while this apartment was nice enough, it was bizarre to think that the wealthy widow of E.J. Wesley existed in only three fairly small rooms in her own lavish mansion. This was how the help lived, at least they did if their rich boss wasn’t a bastard.

Nowhere in the well-appointed but relatively small apartment could I find evidence of male occupation, which wasn’t like her at all. None of those guys with their pictures on the baby grand had toothbrush and pajama privileges. Nor could I find any servant’s quarters. Whenever Mrs. Wesley gave a shindig, she must have imported a full staff of servants from the city to do the arranging and the cleaning up.

The guest list must have been a carefully selected bunch. If they weren’t, news of this joint most certainly would have found its way to county or state officials and there would have been hell to pay. Admittance then, would be by invitation only, a swell way to attract the suckers and snobs. Very hush hush or you were kicked out on your well-off fanny, maybe worse. If they did squawk, they’d only leave themselves open for a gambling charge.

Neat.

I opened a few drawers and poked around a bit, but there was nothing of unusual interest. After completing a tour of the rooms, I walked downstairs and around to the new kitchen to complete the circuit. I had my eyes open all the way and I know where to look, but I never found what I wanted.

In that whole damn house there wasn’t one sign of a safe.

I had looked in all the usual places and unusual, as well, behind pictures, under desks, checking for loose carpet. No safe.

If Sharron Wesley didn’t have one in the house, she must have buried it somewhere on the property. One thing was certain, money wasn’t being banked or stored where a check could be kept and income tax dragged out of it. An illegal den like this didn’t dare operate that way. There was the likelihood that she had a partner in the venture, and he hauled the dough back to the city. But the parties were probably Friday/Saturday affairs. And I doubted a bank run would happen daily, eighty miles out on Long Island like this. A Nassau County bank, perhaps, but that was still a drive. Any operation like this needed a safe for overnight purposes, at least, and I could not find one.

It was past eight-thirty and I still had to see Poochie-a guy like him could be in the rack already. Living as close to the Wesley mansion as he did, it was highly probable that he had witnessed plenty of the goings-on out here that the townspeople didn’t know about… and I wanted to see him before the cops tried to question him again, in the wake of Sharron Wesley’s Godiva act.

Now that they had something besides a disappearance to go on, the Sidon PD had a legitimate reason to drag Poochie in to answer a few questions, and knowing their interrogation techniques, I wanted the little guy left strictly alone.

I went out a side door. The same flagstone path that I had seen from the shore took me past the gazebo to the beach and I hit the sand for the walk to the shack.

In the moonlight, the little structure was just a dark blot on the beach. No light was on. The water lapped softly on the sand, and at regular intervals the hooting of some night bird broke the oppressive stillness. Overhead the moon skidded behind a cloud, but a few stars winked off and on like a street sign.

When I was still fifty feet away, an ominous snarling came from Poochie’s hut, then a higher-pitched growl, almost trying for harmony. His cats. They lived outside the shack, huddled like feline watchdogs. They spit repeatedly at the night, then a lantern flared up within the hovel and there was a banging as the occupant shut his door. Then the metal clank of a bolt shot into place.

“It’s me, Poochie,” I called out as I approached. “It’s Mike!”

No answer. I went up to the door and knocked.

“Who… who is it?” His voice was high and frightened. He lacked the confidence of his cats.

I was about to respond when a furry body flung itself at my legs and nails ripped through my pant leg into the flesh. I let out a curse and detached the cat from my leg and yelled, “ Ow! ”

The bolt went back and the handmade door opened. “Mike! Gee, I thought it was you, but I wasn’t sure. Here, let me take the naughty kitty cats off your hands.”

“They’re not on my hands, pal, they’re on my legs!”

Poochie bent down and took one animal from around my feet and called for the other. When he spoke to the creatures, telling them I was a guest and to be nice, their tails went down and they treated me like an old friend, rubbing against my legs and purring. That was well and good, but my trousers were still ripped.

Poochie had the remnants of a bathrobe flung over his shoulders and one hand held his pants up. The table was still littered with shell carvings and the remains of a fish supper. He brought the lamp over and set it on the table.

He bit his lower lip, and looked at me like a scared child. “The cops, Mike? Will they come back?”

“They might.”

“Oh, Mike. Why do they wanna hit me all the time for? Don’t let ’em drag me down that alley again, please…”

“They won’t. Don’t worry.” I tried to be reassuring, even if I knew he really did still have those bastards to contend with. I would do my best to protect him, and intimidate them into leaving him alone, but he remained at risk.

“Gee, Mike, that’s swell to hear. You’re good to me. You’re the only guy around here that is. Just one other guy that ever does nice things for me, you know who?”

“No, who?”

“Big Steve. He gives me meat for my cats. Plenty of meat.”

“Big Steve is all right.”

“Oh, you know Big Steve!” Poochie grinned. “He says they’re leftovers, but they ain’t, and he gives me so much food, the cats won’t eat it all and I end up eating most of it. I like Big Steve, too… but not as much as I like you, Mike.”

The over-age kid was so damn frank he made me sweat.

“How long you lived around here, Poochie?”

“Gosh, Mike, a long time.”

“Yeah, but how long?”

He looked pained and squirmed in his seat. Twice he squinted at me, but said nothing.

“Can’t you remember?” I asked him.

He shook his head sadly. “I can’t hardly remember nothing sometimes. Only when my head hurts do I remember things. Mike, what’s the matter with my head? I heard a man say once I was crazy. Am I crazy? The guy that sells bait on the barge is crazy, but I ain’t like him. He spits on himself and don’t even know where he lives sometimes, but I ain’t that bad. I just can’t remember things hardly. Only when my head hurts.”

“When your head hurts, what do you remember?”

He shrugged and gave me a tight grin as though he thought the idea of it was pretty funny himself. “I dunno. I just remember stuff… when my head hurts.”

“You remember your name? Not ‘Poochie,’ but your real name?”

“Uh-huh. Stanley Cootz. Stanley Cootz. Stanley Cootz. I say it over and over, ’cause I can’t always remember it. You asked me fast-like, and I told you. I ain’t crazy, am I, Mike?”

“Naw, any guy that tells you that is nuts himself. Lots of people can’t remember things. Hell, sometimes I have nights where the next day I can’t remember a goddamn thing.”

“You shouldn’t say bad words, Mike.”

“I know I shouldn’t, Pooch. I’m sorry. Tell me something. You don’t need your head to hurt to remember that lady with the yellow hair, do you?”

“Oh, no! I remember her all right. That wasn’t long enough ago not to remember. I didn’t like her. She was not a nice lady and-”

“She’s dead, Poochie,” I cut in.

He stopped short and his head jerked around. “Dead?” It was like the word had no meaning to him.

I nodded. “Somebody killed her. Murdered her.”

“Murder…”

“Choked her, then threw her in the ocean.”

Poochie frowned and his chin crinkled, his eyes growing damp. “Ooooh. That’s too bad. She wasn’t a nice lady, but nobody should have done that to her. Who done it, Mike?”

“I don’t know, Poochie. But maybe you can tell me.”

His eyes widened, terror replacing sorrow. “But I didn’t do it, Mike! I don’t kill people.” Tears flowed down his stubbly cheeks and his mouth quivered.

“I know you didn’t. Now stop that.”

He nodded, swallowed, rubbing his eyes with the tattered sleeve of his robe and sniffling.

“It’s just that you may have seen something important. Something that could lead me to the yellow-haired lady’s killer. Now think back, Poochie. Think back about a week ago. Did you see the lady then?”

“A week ago?”

“A week ago.”

“I… I think I saw her.”

“Think you saw her?”

“I saw her… but I didn’t do nothing!”

“Who was she with?”

“Her dog.”

“Nobody else?”

“Nope. Just her dog. It’s a big boxer dog. Bothers my cats sometimes.”

“Okay. What was she doing?”

“Just walking with the dog. Then she saw me and said some bad words. Worse words than you said, Mike. Then she was throwing clam shells and sticks at me, so I ran away and ran inside my house and shut the door so she couldn’t come in. I took my cats in so that mean dog wouldn’t bother them, either. She was right outside there.” He pointed past me to his door. “She said some more bad words, and went away.”

“And that was the last time you saw her?”

His head bobbed on his skinny neck, assenting.

“Poochie, did you ever see the parties at the house?”

“Oh, sure. They threw away lots of good stuff that I found. Look.” He pulled a cardboard box of chipped crockery from under the table. “I’m saving them for when I have company. Ain’t they nice, Mike?”

“Swell. Tell me about the parties. Can you remember those pretty well?”

He was nodding, smiling. This was a memory he liked. “Yeah, I remember them because I got so much to eat. Lots of cars come in there, and when you stand up close to the house, you can hear the music. Sometimes when the door opens, the music gets real loud.”

From that I took it that the house must be partially soundproofed.

I asked, “Were there many lights on?”

“Naw, not so many. It was hard to see on account of them shutters that was closed all the time. Guys used to give me dimes for helping ’em push out cars what was stuck in the sand. Sometimes I was too weak and they would let me sit behind the wheel and they would push.” His eyes brightened. “One give a dollar once!”

Big shots. Spend a fortune gambling and throw peanuts to the little moron. But Poochie didn’t care. He thought they were doing him a favor.

“Did you ever see any fights on the grounds? Maybe down on the beach?”

“No, not really. I saw a lady slap a guy once, though. They were in the bushes by the little house. They was wrestling, I think.”

That was a new name for it. I had to stop and think what to ask him next. Getting information out of this character was like trying to hold onto a wet eel.

“How often did the yellow-haired lady have parties, Poochie?”

“Oh, lots of times. Always on the same days.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, that was the days when the red bus goes past. I can tell that way.”

The red bus he mentioned was the area transit company’s weekend morning runs to Wilcox, the nearest town of any large size. It went by every Friday and Saturday morning about nine o’clock. I’d made the trip once myself, the last time I’d visited Sidon.

“Now think real hard, Poochie. Did you ever see anyone around there that really sticks in your memory? Somebody you might have seen before?”

A quick flash of fear passed over his face and he shrank back a little.

I pressed him. “Tell me, Poochie-did you?”

His head shook nervously. “No, Mike, don’t make me tell you things like that. I don’t want to get hit again.”

Again.

“Was it Dekkert you saw?”

He chewed on his lip and fell silent. He shrugged. Maybe he had forgotten the guy’s name.

“You know,” I insisted, “Dekkert-the deputy chief?”

“Yes, yes, Mike, I did see him there… but you won’t tell on me, will you? He’ll hit me again. I know he will.”

“Don’t you worry,” I assured him. “If Dekkert tries anything, I’ll knock his block off. Whatever you tell me is just between us pals, Poochie.”

The beachcomber was really jumpy now. He only knew that someone was dead, and that nobody around here liked him, and that he was liable to get throttled if he said too much.

Gently I said, “Now, just tell me when you saw him.”

The little guy was shaking his head, almost frantically. “He’s there all the time, Mike. At that place. When lots of people come, he always comes too. He caught me at the garbage cans one time, when I was looking for meat for my cats. He hit me, a bunch of times, and he woulda hit me more, only some lady yelled at him from a car and he just told me to get the heh… to get out of there.”

“At the yellow-haired lady’s place, Pooch… was he always outside?”

I figured Dekkert for doing security and helping cars get parked.

“ Not just outside. I watched out for him, ’cause I didn’t wanna get hit, but I guess he was inside most of the time. I stayed in the bushes so he wouldn’t see me, but I always saw him, coming out the door where the garbage cans are. He came out sometimes and went down to the little place with some men.”

“Little place?”

“By the trees. That little house.”

The gazebo.

I asked, “Did you follow him? Did you ever hear what they spoke about?”

Poochie shook his head slowly. “No sir, not me. I never went near ’em.”

Well, that was that. The gist of it seemed to be that Dekkert was there strictly as a strong-arm. He’d be good at that. I wondered if those little sojourns to the gazebo were to put the squeeze on a welcher. Nice out-of-the-way place for it.

And it was no wonder that the cops had started beating the bushes for Sharron Wesley a week after her vanishing act-without her around, there’d be no regular weekend “party” out at that ocean-side casino. Maybe Dekkert was interested in Sharron’s sudden departure because, as his employer, she owed him some cash.

It was later than I thought. I slapped my hat back on and was about to say good night to Poochie, but I never got that far. His mouth was open and his tongue fell loosely over his bottom lip. But his eyes were as glassy as beads and focusing over my shoulder.

“ Mike! ” he blurted.

Poochie’s skinny frame hit me before I could move.

There was a smashing roar in the room and the acrid fumes of cordite blasted at me.