No Pockets in a Shroud [Short Story]

Chapter Six In the Line of Fire

Eleanor’s car — she was “Eleanor” instead of “Mrs. Wade” since our momentary love scene — was a Zephyr convertible. She drove as though she were part of the car, and kept her eyes on the road.

As we turned on to the main highway she said: “I’m a fool. Why should I drive you to a date with another woman?”

“Why not?”

She frowned without moving her eyes from the concrete strip. “Do you think I throw myself in the arms of every man I meet?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly.

Her face flushed and her eyes angrily flicked sidewise, then returned to the road. “I happen to be slightly in love with you, you ugly ox!” Her chin set and she pressed down on the gas pedal. Neither of us spoke again until the car had swept up the broad drive of El Patio and come to a smooth stop below the bronze doors.

Then she said: “Old ladies, children and dogs. How does this blonde Italian qualify? As a child or a dog?”

“Don’t nag,” I said.

“Are you in love with her?”

“I’ve known her for years.”

“I didn’t ask that!”

I examined her set face curiously. “I’m not in love with her.”

Immediately she smiled. “I’m not jealous really. But I do like you. I have since the minute you walked in Louis’ office. We’d make a good team.”

“You’re on a team already.”

“Byron? I’ll leave him tomorrow, if you want.”

She looked “up at me seriously and I doled her out a wary grin.

I said, “I’ll think it over,” stepped out of the car and let the door swing shut. “Thanks for the ride.”

A small crease appeared in her forehead and her lower lip thrust out. “You’re laughing at me again. I really mean it.”

“I really mean I’ll think it over.”

She made a face, shoved the car in reverse and backed down the drive toward the highway at forty miles an hour.

It was eight minutes to nine when Greene let me through the great double doors.

“Fausta ain’t down yet,” he said.

“Then I’ll look around Louie’s office again while I’m waiting,” I told him.

Wandering around the office, I noticed that whoever had cleaned up the mess Bagnell’s blood made had done a thorough job. No trace remained, not even a discolored spot on the carpet. I moved on into the bathroom and pulled the light chain. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular; I was just looking. Getting down on my knees, I lit a match and peered under the tub. Nothing was there except a little lint. I glanced into the tub, into the commode and then into the washbowl. The oil beads I had” previously noticed still ringed the drain. I touched the brass strainer ring and it moved slightly, for it was the type that lifts out for cleaning.

I don’t know whether instinct, a shadow or a slight sound warned me, but suddenly I had the impulse to duck and I obeyed it. As I threw myself backward and down, sound bellowed in the small room and the mirror over the washstand shattered, showering me with pulverized glass. Acrid smoke misted the air as I crammed myself in a tight ball between the tub and the commode. The gun thrusting between the window bars went off again. The second slug whirred around inside the bathtub like a bee in a tin can, then plunked upward into the ceiling.

With my left hand I edged the muzzle of my P .38 over the tub’s rim and pumped three shots at the window. Before the concussions stopped echoing in the tiny room, I had dived at an angle through the door. I slid along the baseboard on my stomach, jerked my knees toward my chest until I got my feet solidly planted against the wail and jackknifed my body out of the line of fire. Before my assailant could move from the bath window around the corner and pump more shots through the office window, I was out into the hall.

Mouldy Greene, an automatic in his hand, blundered into the hallway from the dining room and stopped dead when he saw me. Spinning him out of the way, I raced toward the front door. The chain lock binding together the two bronze doors delayed me, but I got it solved in fair time, took the steep entrance steps in four leaps and loped down the drive toward the highway.

When both my legs were flesh, I was a fair runner, but aluminum had cut my speed. By the time I reached the stone pillars at the drive entrance, twin tail lights fifty yards away were beginning to move. And by the time I dropped to one knee and steadied my gun elbow on the other for an accurate tire shot, the car was seventy-five yards away. Maybe there are pistol shots who can hit a receding target at seventy-five yards in the dark, but I’m not one of them. I wasted two shots and quit.

Fausta, Gloria Horne, Mouldy Greene and Romulus all stood in the wide open doorway when I returned. Mouldy still had his gun in his fist.

“Stack it away,” I said. “The shooting’s over.”

“What happen?” asked Fausta.

“Someone shot at me from the same spot they shot Bagnell. I shot back and missed.”

Gloria asked: “Was it Amos?”

“I didn’t see him,” I snapped. Then I added: “Your husband didn’t kill Bagnell.”

I moved in toward the bar and they all trooped after me. Going behind the counter, I poured myself a straight rye and pushed the bottle toward Fausta. I got glasses from the back bar, set them next to the bottle along with mixings and said: “Mix your own.”

Fausta and Gloria ignored the bottle, but Greene poured himself a double shot.

“You mean me too, mister?” asked Romulus.

Mouldy said, “Why not?” and slid the bottle toward him.

“Where’s Caramand?” I asked.

Mouldy said: “Went to town.”

Gloria said: “How do you know Amos is innocent?”

“He just is,” I told Gloria. “It all evolves about some tire tracks and they let your husband out. You can go home. He says he won’t beat you much.”

Gloria looked dumbly from me to Fausta and Fausta said: “If Manny say Amos not hurt you, then Amos not hurt you. You go home.”

“I’m scared.”

Being shot at put me in no mood to, argue with a female dunce, and I didn’t really care if she ever went home. I turned my attention to Fausta. She was immaculate in a dark green evening gown and ermine jacket.

“We must be going somewhere expensive,” I said.

“We go where you like.”

“How about North Shore? Tonight’s the opening.”

Fausta’s eyes narrowed. “That Byron Wade’s place. You desire go there for business!”

“No,” I protested innocently. “I’d like to see the place.”

Gloria said: “Are you sure Amos is all right?”

I looked at her steadily. “Look. Your husband won’t hurt you. Go on home.”

“I haven’t any way to get home.”

“We’ll drop you off.”

I picked up the bar phone and ordered a cab. While we waited, Gloria argued with her courage, alternately deciding to go with us and changing her mind. Being indifferent, I refused further advice and after an interval of waiting for the cab to arrive, she consulted the rye bottle. Apparently its persuasive powers were greater than mine, because when the taxi arrived she climbed in as though she had not a care in the world.

Halfway to town Gloria said: “Amos will be at work. Drop me at Eighth and Market.”

When she got out in front of the green glass windows of the bingo hall, Gloria peered back in at us indecisively.

“Want us to wait?” I asked.

“No. I’ll be all right. Thanks.”

She turned resolutely and we watched until the curtained door of the hall closed behind her.

“North Shore Club,” I told the driver.

At North Shore Club we checked our coats in the lobby and moved over to the brocaded entrance to the casino. Here we were stopped. A lone man ahead of us raised his arms while my juvenile acquaintance, Danny, patted his chest and hips before letting him enter.

I said: “Don’t bother. I’ve got one and I’m keeping it.”

Danny’s yellow eyes narrowed, and I noticed the pupils were normal size. “I got orders to frisk everybody.”

“I don’t take, orders. Tell Wade I want to see him.”

He neither moved from his flat-footed position in the center of the doorway, nor bothered to say anything. I suppose he thought it was a stalemate.

I said: “Let’s see if you can do it without coke,” put a palm under his chin and pushed.

His arms flailed to regain balance, suddenly yielded to the laws of physics, and he sat solidly on the floor. Taking Fausta’s arm, I guided her around his recumbent body. Across the room Byron Wade stood near a poker table watching the play. As we angled back and forth through the crowd toward him, I kept shooting over-the-shoulder glances back at Danny. I saw him scramble to his feet and scurry after us.

All three of us reached Wade simultaneously. Danny skidded to a stop between Wade and me, facing me with his back to Wade. His hands were thrust stiffly into his coat pockets and his face was green with rage.

Over his shoulder I said: “Evening, Wade.”

Byron Wade said sharply: “Danny!”

Danny stepped back until he could see both of us, his hands still tautly in his pockets. “This guy’s got a gun,” he said.

I acted as though Danny were invisible. “This is Byron Wade, Fausta.” Then to Wade: “Fausta Moreni.”

“We met in the hall at El Patio,” said Wade. He turned his head at Danny and made his eyes frost over. “Get back to the door.”

Resentment and fury mixed in the expression Danny poured at me. He turned abruptly and marched back to his post.

“Have a drink?” asked Wade.

“Sure,” I accepted for both of us.

He guided us to a sort of low balustrade ringing the room. The platform it edged was raised only about two feet from the main floor and the railing was punctured at intervals with gates you entered by climbing three low steps. Tables were arranged along the railing so that guests could drink and at the same time, from their slightly elevated position, obtain a good view of the gamers. We chose a table and a white-coated waiter took our order.

Fausta looked out over the crowded game room and said: “You have very good crowd for opening night.”

Wade’s piggy eyes swept the customers complacently. “Not bad. Of course it helps, having El Patio closed.”

When our drinks arrived the waiter dangled the check uncertainly between his thumb and forefinger until Wade shook his head at him. He stuck it in his pocket and moved off.

“I should make you buy the drinks,” Wade said, “after the way you threw me to Hannegan and Day.”

I grinned at him. “Next time use a night club for your alibi. Know a corpse named Margaret O’Conner?”

He merely looked blank.

I said: “Never mind. Want your thousand dollars back?”

He shook his head. “That was on the level. If you thought I was trying to buy an alibi, you’re way off base.”

I handed him a cigar and bit off the end of another for myself. Wade fired a lighter and held the flame to my cigar first. We were being very polite to each other.

When he had tobacco burning adequately, he asked: “This a business or a pleasure call?”

“Some of both,” I admitted, and drew a smoldering look from Fausta.

“It is for pleasure alone,” she said. She slitted brown eyes at me. “If you come for business, we leave now.”

“Be nice,” I said. “This business will only take a minute.” I turned back to Wade. “I have a client who wants the Bagnell ease solved. Mind answering questions?”

“Depends on the questions.”

Without warning he leaned forward and perspiration popped out on his brow. He overturned his chair backward and doubled across the table with one hand gripping the table edge and the other clasped to his pot belly.

“Dyspepsia,” I explained to the startled Fausta. “You’ll get used to it.”

The attack passed almost as quickly as it started. He pulled his chair back to its former position, apologized fluently to Fausta and thrust aside his drink with an air of finality.

“The attacks are getting worse,” he said. “It’s to the point where I can hardly eat a thing. Just in the last couple of days, too. But I got a new patent medicine lined up...”

“I know,” I interrupted. “You told me about it the other night. Let’s get back to questions. How do you account for your wife being with Bagnell when he was shot?”

His small eyes held mine a long time before he answered. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“It isn’t,” I agreed. “But I’d still like an answer.”

He examined the growing ash on the end of his cigar, seemed to come to a decision and met my eyes with a sudden confiding air.

“My wife’s relations with me are her business and mine. But I don’t want talk going around about her and Bagnell, so I’ll set you straight on a few things. Eleanor and I are very happily married. But I keep her out of my business. She had no idea that Bagnell and I were rubbing against each other until she got drawn into this murder investigation. She likes to play roulette and I knew she was going to El Patio, because she tells me everywhere she goes. I saw no point in objecting to her fun just because I intended to open this place in competition to El Patio. And get this... She went there only for roulette. She just happened to be cashing a check in Bagnell’s office when he got it. There was nothing between them.”

While he spoke I saw Eleanor come from a door to the left of the bar, glance up and down the tabled balcony until she saw our party and move toward us. She had changed the sport suit of the afternoon for a black evening gown that split down the front, exposing a half-inch strip of flesh from the dog collar effect at her throat nearly to her waist. She was nearly to our table before Wade finished his confidential speech, and I could tell she caught the last two sentences.

As she touched Wade’s shoulder from behind, I rose and Wade looked up nervously. A peculiar embarrassed expression crossed his face. He followed my example by getting to his feet.

“Evening, hon,” he said faintly. “You know these people?”

“We’ve met.” She took a chair between her husband and me and studied the crowd in the game room. “I’d estimate three hundred,” she said to Wade. “What are receipts so far?”

“I haven’t checked.”

Her brows raised. “It’s nearly eleven. Better find out.”

He rose immediately. “Sure, hon.” To Fausta he said: “Excuse me, please.”

As Wade departed the two women examined each other with that flat coldness which makes men’s skin crawl. To break up the frigid silence I blurted the first remark I could think of.

“Must have taken some cash to put this old building back in shape.”

Eleanor said: “Seventeen thousand, including the wheels.”

My brain tingled with a sudden idea. “What did the whole setup cost, if you don’t mind telling?”

Her eyes flicked over Fausta and settled on my face. “I don’t mind telling you anything. Twenty-eight thousand for the property and seventeen thousand for repairs and improvements. Forty-five thousand altogether.”

“That’s quite an investment, if it doesn’t pay off.”

She shrugged. “We estimated six months to get back our capital. If El Patio stays closed, we may make it in three.”

Fausta said: “El Patio will no more have the casino. Only dancing, food and drinks.”

Eleanor looked past my shoulder and I turned to see Byron Wade approaching from across the gaming room. I turned back to Eleanor.

“You seem to know a lot about your husband’s business.”

With eyes still on her husband her lips curled in mild contempt. “Someone has to.”

As Wade rejoined our table, I excused Fausta and myself. She held my arm with unnecessary tightness as we descended the three steps to the game room.

“That woman, she make eyes at you,” she said in my ear.

I said: “What do you want’ to play?”

“Do not change the subject.”

“What do you want to play?” I repeated.

She cocked her head up at me and pouted. “Nothing. I watch you.”

I am strictly a penny ante gambler. I dropped four dollars in two bets at a dice table, bought four two-bit chips and lost them at roulette, then moved on to the slot machines. Two nickels and two dimes in one-armed bandits, with no results except lemons, discouraged me.

We had started back toward our table when a voice behind us said: “Hey!”

Fausta and I turned together, and there was Gloria Horne.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Looking for you.”

I piloted both women back to the table. Byron Wade and Eleanor had disappeared. I looked out over the crowd, failed to locate them and told the waiter to bring only three drinks.

“How’d you get out here?” I asked Gloria.

“Drove.”

“How’d you make out with Amos?”

She looked at me as though surprised at the question. “All right,” she said casually. “I have his car outside.”

Fausta asked: “Amos know you come here?”

Gloria’s bovine eyes were wandering over the crowd, lingering now and then on the apparently unaccompanied men. Without ceasing her deliberate examination, she said: “What he don’t know won’t hurt him. He doesn’t get home till two.”

The previous afternoon Amos Horne had said: “Look, Moon, my wife is a moron.” I began to sympathize with him.

I looked at my watch, saw it was eleven-thirty and said to Fausta: “Let’s get out of here.”

“I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” Gloria offered.

The night air had grown still and heavy, presaging rain. Halfway to town it began to drizzle and in a few minutes turned to a steady, light rain. Gloria switched on her windshield wipers.

“Seems funny not to hear that singing sound on a wet road,” she remarked.

Fausta had fallen asleep on my shoulder and I was concentrating on the way tree shadows flittered across her still face. Gloria’s statement failed to register immediately, then its peculiarity gradually sank in.

“What singing sound?” I asked.

“The tires. We used to have skid-proofs and they made a singing sound in the rain. Amos swapped them yesterday.”

I let a full minute go by while adjusting my mind to a flood of new ideas. Finally, forcing my voice to be uninterested, I asked: “Why’d he do that?”

“I don’t know. I thought they were still good, but I guess he got a chance for a deal. I didn’t know he’d traded till I asked for the car keys. He told me then.”

I said suddenly: “Take Fausta home.”

Gloria flashed me a sidewise, interested glance, but made no reply. When we reached El Patio, I gently shook Fausta awake. She yawned like a sleepy kitten, then burrowed her face in my shoulder again. “Hey!” I said. “This is home. You get off here.”