A Gambling Man

Chapter 65

The sun was breaking through the remnants of the passing storm. Both men stared out the windscreen of the Delahaye as they drove to Alfred Drake’s home.

“What’s your angle on him?”

“He has a backer, all right. But it’s not the Vegas mob. It’s Sawyer Armstrong.”

Archer jerked the wheel of the car. “Armstrong?”

“We’ve been played for dopes, Archer. Like everybody else in this business.”

“You’re going to have to explain that to me.”

“Drake is a grown-up version of the kid I saw hanging in that room. Armstrong knows it, and I’m betting he has hard proof and he’s blackmailing Drake with it. He’ll have to approve whatever the man wants in connection with that casino. And remember what Drake said when we were leaving his house? You asked him if he really believed he had no chance against Kemper? And he said something like ‘I have no chance. But we’ll have to see.’ ”

Archer added, “And then he said, ‘Stranger things have happened.’ ”

“Right. But the point is, Drake was being literal. He doesn’t have a chance against Kemper.”

“But if Kemper isn’t running against him?”

“Then he’s going to win.”

“But Drake doesn’t strike me as a guy to just meekly take it on the chin, Willie. Like you pointed out before, the guy fights back.”

Dash suddenly got a disturbed look on his face. “You’re right, Archer, so step on it!”

They roared up to the front of the residence, and Dash had his door open before Archer even stopped the car. He ran up and pounded on the front door. It took a while but the same woman as before answered. She was cinching her robe around her waist, and her hair was disheveled from sleep.

“Do you know what time it is?” she began angrily.

“We need to see Drake now,” said Dash. “It’s an emergency.”

“He’s asleep. And so was I.”

“Then we’ll wake him up.” He pushed past her. “Which way?”

“You can’t just—”

He grabbed her arm. “Which way, lady? This is life and death.”

The woman quickly led them down a long hall to a set of double doors situated at the end of the corridor.

Dash tried the door but it was locked.

“Drake, it’s Willie Dash. Alfred, open up.” He pounded the wood again. There was no reply from within.

“Do you have a key to open it?” he asked the woman. She shook her head.

“Archer!” Dash motioned to the door.

Archer took a few steps and exploded forward, his shoulder smashing into the wood. It buckled but did not give. Archer retreated and then charged forward once more; this time the door flew open, and he was in the room. Dash and the woman followed him.

She screamed, and Archer just stared.

Drake was in a chair. The gun he’d used to kill himself was still in his right hand, his index finger wedged in the trigger guard. He was dressed in a dark blue silk robe with white pajamas underneath. There was a single hole in his right temple. It was blackened and burned in the center and crimsoned with blood on the rim. It looked angry and foul and wrong.

Dash walked over, felt his wrist, and leaned in close to check the wound. Finally, he felt the gun muzzle. He glanced up at Archer. “Doesn’t seem like he’s been dead long.” He looked at the woman, who had finally stopped screaming and was swaying like a pine tree in a windstorm.

“When did you see him last?” he asked.

“I... I...”

He guided her to a chair as far away from Drake as possible and pointed away from the man’s corpse. “Just take a deep breath and collect yourself. I know this must be a shock. Archer, your flask?”

Archer drew it from his pocket and passed it over. Dash unscrewed the cap and encouraged the woman to take a sip, which she did. She handed it back and looked up at him.

“What’s your name, hon?” asked Dash.

“Ruthie.”

“Okay Ruthie, just take your time and tell us what you can about last night.”

She took another replenishing breath and began. “Mr. Drake had an early dinner and then sat up reading in the library. Around nine or so I saw him go to his room. That’s the last time I saw him.”

“He seem okay?”

“He seemed... normal. He’s never one for small talk, but he... he didn’t seem like a man ready to shoot himself, either.”

“Did you hear any noises? Like a gunshot?”

She shook her head. “Me and the cook sleep at the other end of the house. This is Mr. Drake’s private wing. I didn’t hear anything. Not until you knocked on the door.”

“Okay. Did he have any visitors last night? Phone calls? Get any messages delivered?”

“No, nothing like that. It... it was a typical evening.” She glanced at Drake’s body and shuddered.

Dash eyed the phone on the nightstand. He picked it up and dialed.

“Yeah, I want to talk to Ernie Prettyman, tell him it’s Willie Dash.” He paused and then stiffened. “When? Shit. Okay.”

He slammed down the phone and looked at Archer. “Ern’s in the hospital unconscious. Some goons jumped him and the two guys guarding Kemper.”

“And Kemper?”

“Looks like they took him. Son of a bitch!”

He picked up the phone again and stared at it like he’d never seen one before. Turning to Ruthie he said, “But you wouldn’t know if Drake called someone, would you?”

“No sir. I would have no way of knowing that.”

“Willie!” exclaimed Archer.

Archer was kneeling and looking down at the carpet near a set of French doors opening to the outside.

Dash hurried over to him.

“It was raining up until about an hour ago,” said Archer.

Dash examined the wet footprints on the carpet. “Those weren’t made by Drake; they’re too short.”

Archer opened one of the French doors. “Not locked.”

Dash walked over to the woman. “Ruthie, that young fellow we saw planting a bush when we were here before? Who is he?”

“You mean, Bobby?”

“Yeah, Bobby.”

“He’s the gardener. Takes care of everything outside.”

“He live here?”

Ruthie nodded. “In a room over the garage.”

“Thanks.”