An Old Friend of the Family

FIFTEEN

You didn’t just find upper-crust society in the Chicago phone book, of course. But if you were in the police department you knew a number to dial to be told the address of someone with an unlisted phone.

Alone after dropping Judy and Clarissa off in Glenlake, driving on south toward the Loop’s sky-notching towers, Joe considered for the dozenth time why he shouldn’t just lay Craig Walworth’s name on Charley Snider. The main reason, he decided, was his feeling that the evil old man wanted him to do just that. Why else had the old man brought the name up out of nowhere when they were alone? Who is Craig Walworth? Damn the old man to hell, anyway, for asking that and then disappearing. So there was no real Walworth-connection to be pointed out to Charley. One question, from someone who was very clever and not to be trusted; and one sketch that might look a little like Craig Walworth but had evidently been discarded because it didn’t look too much like the bearded kidnapper.

When they had given Joe his days off to mourn for Kate, they hadn’t specifically warned him to keep from muddling up the Southerland investigations by doing any poking around on his own. The captain evidently hadn’t thought him dumb enough to need a warning of that kind. Well, he wasn’t dumb. And he wasn’t getting into the investigation, he told himself now. He was only trying to get it clear in his own mind whether there might be anything that could tie Craig Walworth into it.

While driving Judy home he had questioned her casually—as casually as he could manage—about that skiing weekend invitation. Judy had been very definite that Kate had never accepted any proposition like that from Craig Walworth. But Judy would say that now, anyway, just to spare Joe’s feelings.

When he reached the tall apartment building on Lake Shore Drive, Joe had a qualm about using his police ID to get in. He compromised by using it and then telling the doorman he wanted to see Walworth on personal business. The doorman, an old-timer whose badly fitting jacket suggested he might just have been called out of retirement, told him, sure lieutenant, that’s okay, I’ll watch your car, just leave it in the drive. I’ll just give him a buzz to let him know you’re coming. Oh, yes, the ID helped.

Joe went up alone in the small elevator, up to a small marbled foyer where someone’s old raincoat hung covering a mirror or picture. He touched a bell button beside a dark door of massive wood, that reminded him of yesterday’s broken-in front door. A lean old fellow like Corday, wiry-strong or not, could hardly have done that without a sledge . . .

Walworth himself came to answer the door. And Judy had been right about the sketch, it hadn’t been far off at all in depicting this man’s face. The dark hair and even the short beard were messed up now. Walworth was wearing a loose, short, very fancy robe of some kind, his hairy, muscular arms and legs protruding. He had the look of someone just out of bed, even to the puffiness around the eyes. He also looked a little jumpy. But a great many perfectly innocent people looked jumpy when you came on as the police.

“If you’re a cop,” said Walworth in a voice whose loudness sounded habitual, “come in and get it the hell over with, whatever it is.”

“Thanks.” Joe came in, let Walworth close the door behind him. The palatial apartment was a littered mess, evidently from last night’s party. “But like I said, it’s not police business. I just wondered if I could have a word with you about Kate. Sorry I got you up.”

“Kate?” The dumb look might be genuine.

“Kate Southerland.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Sure. Terrible. What can I tell you? I hardly knew her.” Walworth picked up a half-empty bottle, frowned at it, put it down. No doubt the maid, or a battalion of maids, would soon be along to see that it was disposed of.

Joe said: “You see, I had asked her to marry me.”

“Oh,” said Walworth, and his face went through several changes of expression, the first of which looked like genuine surprise. None of the expressions seemed likely to be helpful. “I’m very sorry,” he thought of saying finally.

“Yeah. Well, I just wondered if you could tell me about what happened the last night she was here.” Joe had designed this question, or statement, with great care, and had rehearsed it on the long drive down from Glenlake.

“Here?” For a moment, consternation. “But she was never here.”

Joe had also rehearsed his next step, to be taken after this anticipated denial; but before he could put his plans for further probing into effect, he heard a door opening and closing somewhere down a hallway.

“Craig?” The one tentative word in a softly feminine voice preceded the girl around a corner and into the room. She came wearing a cloud of red hair almost the color of fresh copper wire, and a large green towel wrapped around her body from armpits to hips. She had a green-eyed pixie face, with an upturned, freckle-sprinkled nose that made her look so young that statutory jailbait was the first thought—or anyway the second—that sprang into Joe’s police-trained mind. But she could have been six months or a year past eighteen.

“Craig?” Her voice was still soft but Joe could tell now, watching her sober face, that there was intense anger driving it. “Where did you put my clothes?”

Walworth gave Joe a look that seemed to be meant as an appeal for man-to-man solidarity in this situation. Then, shaking his head, the host walked out of the room in the direction the girl had come from.

Now looking at Joe, the girl in the green towel announced, in a different though still distant voice: “My name is Carol.”

“I’m Joe.”

“Joe, could I ask you to give me a lift? It won’t be very far.”

“Sure. I’ve got a car.”

Carol continued to look at him, as if daring him to try to say something about the towel. He had nothing funny available, even if he had wanted to try. He walked over to one floor-to-ceiling window and looked out through the thick protective glass at the Drive twenty stories below, a strip of snowbound park beyond, and then the winter-blackened lake, a rim of white snow and broken ice extending outward from the shore a hundred yards or so. A very dull December day. What day was it, Wednesday?

He would try to pump the girl a bit before he decided whether to come back to Walworth, or to give Walworth’s name to Charley Snider, or just what to do.

In about one minute Walworth was back in the room, carrying an armful of assorted garments. Wordlessly Carol accepted these, meanwhile maintaining her towel’s position carefully. The she went out the way that she had come, silent pink feet sinking into carpet. Her legs were very nice.

Walworth paced the floor, showing no inclination to say anything more to Joe. Once he stopped to pick up a stray bottle, take a drink from it and grimace. All right, Joe told him silently, you’ve answered my question. You’ll find out about it if I decide your answer doesn’t stick.

Before Joe had begun to expect her, Carol was back in the living room with them, wearing boots and jeans and a carefully faded, expensive-looking shirt: what the wealthy wear when they want to look like they don’t care. She went straight to the guest closet, took out a hip-length ski jacket, went through its pockets, came up empty.

“My money?” she demanded then, of Walworth’s back.

He turned right around, not having to pause for an instant. “What d’you charge?”

That stung enough to show for just a moment in her face. “I mean the money that was in my pockets when I came in here last night.”

“I don’t know.” He glared at her brutally. “Look around for it, if you want. Or if you don’t want to miss your ride, come back later and maybe it’ll have turned up.”

“For eight dollars I’m not going to stay here long enough to look around.” She pulled her jacket on, turned to Joe. “Not for eight hundred. Can I have that ride now?”

Wishing he could think of comebacks that quickly, Joe just managed to have the door open as she reached it. A last glance back as they went out showed Walworth picking up a bottle again.

“Don’t like him, do you?” Joe remarked, when they had ridden the elevator halfway down.

“Not at a second look.” Carol’s manner had relaxed a little as soon as they got out of the apartment. “Met him last Friday for the first time. Oh, he can come on very strong and decent when he tries. Then last night—that was something else. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Sure.” The elevator delivered them. The gray-haired doorman smiled and nodded. Joe led her out to the Rabbit in the drive.

She said: “I don’t know what your business with him was, but I got definite vibrations that you don’t like him either. Which is why I took a chance on asking for a ride.”

“You’re right, I don’t like him. So, where shall the ride be to?”

“The Art Institute, if it’s not out of your way. I hear a girl can pick up a better class of man there than in the bars.”

“I suppose they might be better educated, anyway.” He pulled out of the drive and melded into traffic gently, heading south.

After two blocks Carol said: “No, I don’t want to pick up men. One stab at that was plenty. I’m going to have to think of something, though, being entirely out of money.”

“I’m not trying to be funny when I say, how about Travelers Aid? Really. You do have the look of someone who’s some distance from home, and they’ll help you wire someplace for money. Or I’ll advance you a loan myself. But it’ll have to be small.”

“I’m afraid—” Carol’s voice cracked suddenly in the middle, and she had to start it over. “I’m afraid sending out wires isn’t going to do me any good. Thanks for the offer of the small loan. I may just accept. Could we start out with a coffee someplace?”

“Joe’s Coffee Shop and Breakfast Bar is open. That’s my place, which is not terribly far. Or we can go public if you like.”

“Joe’s place sounds fine. It’s got to be a lot nicer than the one I just got out of.”

He turned west for two blocks, then back north. “I’m a little out of the high rent district, as they say.”

There was a legitimate parking spot open only half a block from his front door, so he didn’t have to drive through the alley to his rented garage. While they were climbing the stairs to the second floor of his building, he could hear the muffled sound of his phone ringing, and ran ahead to answer.

“Joe? This’s Charley Snider.”

“What’s up, Charley?”

“Just wanted to bring you up to date. Nothing new on the mystery at the morgue. But, we finally did get a make on the thumbprint on the mirror in Kate’s car. Now don’t get your hopes up. You said you wanted to know anything that happens, and so I’m calling to tell you.”

Joe didn’t feel in any danger of getting too much hope up about anything. “What about the print?”

“Well, the name the FBI files come up with is Leroy Poach. Pee-oh-ay-cee-aitch, as in egg. And now, get this man, I’m not makin’ this up. Murder, armed robbery, kidnapping.” Charley paused, as before a climax.

“Yeah?”

“The thing is, this Poach was hanged in Oklahoma in 1934.”

“Oh, Jesus. Are they crazy in Washington?” By now Carol had come into the apartment, and was standing by in the next room, politely not listening. Joe caught her eye and made gestures toward the kitchen alcove. She brightened a little, and moved in that direction.

“Well,” said Charley’s phone-voice, “there obviously some mistake. If it turned out somehow that he wasn’t hanged, he’d still be about eighty-five by now.”

“Well. I did ask you to tell me everything.”

“Hey, now, don’t quit on us. We’re tryin’.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Sounds from outside the bedroom indicated Carol was filling the coffeepot. “Charley? What does running water mean?”

“Huh?”

“Why was that fellow out at the house running down there into the woods along the creek?”

“I dunno. Oh, by the way, we got his name now. Max Gruner. Has a minor record, sex offenses, larceny. We don’t know what he’s been up to the last six months or so, but it looks like it wasn’t anything good. And the house, you know, where the kid was being held? It belongs to some people who moved away last fall. They’re down south now, and they’ve been paying a couple to come round and look at the place every day. Only the caretakers have just up and disappeared. Sweet setup for a kidnapping hideout.”

Joe asked: “Anything on Corday yet?”

“Seems to have left his things in the motel room and just departed. His bill was paid in advance. We’ve checked with London, and they don’t know him. Hasn’t been practicing medicine in London, not under that name anyway, not legitimately. Might have been living there, of course. His name was listed on a BOAC flight into O’Hare from London a few days back.”

“I bet you don’t find him, Charley.”

“Any ideas where he might be, Joe?”

“I don’t have any sane ideas about any of this right now. If any come to me I’ll pass them along.”

They said goodbye and he hung up and went out into the dining alcove. Carol had set out a couple of paper plates and was scrambling some eggs.

She looked at him. “I couldn’t help hearing. The name Corday and all, that’s been in the news. I think I just had a lot of the air let out of my own troubles, because it just hit me, who this girl is, that you told Walworth you were going to marry. God. Craig knew her too?”

He went to pour boiling water in to the two cups where she had spooned in instant coffee. “Slightly, anyway. Tell me about last Friday night up there at Walworth’s.”

“Oh. That’s when I met him. I was there most of the evening, but I don’t recall any girl who fits my picture of Kate Southerland. Describe her to me?”

When he had done so, Carol shook her head. “No. Unless she could have been there earlier, six o’clock or so.”

“She was still home then.”

The eggs and some toast were ready, and they were just sitting down when the phone sounded again. He went to the bedroom, sat down heavily on the bed, picked it up. “Joe Keogh.”

“Joe?” It was Granny Clare’s voice, sounding tremulous. “Are you—is everything all right?”

“Yeah. Why not? No new disasters, anyway. Why? Is everything all right there?”

There was a small delay before Clarissa answered, but when she did she sounded definite. “Yes. I . . . oh, I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’m sorry. Goodbye.” And she hung up.

Some of the modest portion of food on Carol’s plate was gone when he came back. She had already set down her fork. “I think what I mainly am is tired. I’ve just been through a night you wouldn’t believe.”

“I might.” Joe sat down opposite, took a bite of toast, discovered he was mildly hungry. “I’ve recently been through an unreal thing or two myself.”

She sat with arms folded, looking over his shoulder. “I’m sorry if you don’t want to hear this, but I don’t think I can keep from talking about it after all.”

“Go ahead.” He tried to sound no more than willing.

“I was up there at Walworth’s for a long time Friday night. There was some sex going on, okay? Too kinky to interest me. Somehow Craig gave me the impression then that it wasn’t really his thing either. Then, last night, I went up with him, thinking we were going to be alone. All right, I was planning to spend the night. But what he had in mind was . . . well, nothing I’d consider ordinary, and I don’t think my life has been especially sheltered.”

“How old are you, Carol?” he asked her, almost without meaning to.

“Old enough, in the legal sense.” But he had brought her story-telling to a halt.

“All right, go on, sorry I interrupted.”

“Well. He turned out to be kinkier than I had thought, that’s all. And if wasn’t until after my clothes were off and had been misplaced somewhere that this was fully explained to me. Hell, why am I telling you all this?”

“Because it bothers you.”

“That’s for sure. Then there were arguments. There were some other people around, by that time . . . not Kate, no one as nice as Kate, I’m sure. Oh, I’m dead. I don’t know if I’m going to fall asleep first or start to cry.”

“You can do either one. Or both. But eventually I think you ought to tell me where you live, really live, so I can see that you get home.”

“I don’t think so. Oh, damn. Every time I shut my eyes some tears come squeezing out.”

“I do think so. Really. Is home that bad?”

“No,” she said, surprising him a bit. “My parents live right in Chicago, actually. All right, let me give them a call.”

“Help yourself to the phone.”

She went into the bedroom, and he could hear her dialing. Now soon she would be gone. He didn’t quite know exactly what he thought of that. He drank some coffee. He thought he heard her once say Daddy on the phone—he couldn’t make out what else she might be saying, but at least it didn’t sound like a fight.

In a couple of minutes she hung up and came out again, looking more relaxed than he had seen her yet. “Joe, can you give me one more ride? It’s only about ten minutes away.”

“Okay. Were your parents glad to hear from you?”

“Oh, you know how it is. But that’s a silly thing to say, isn’t it? Maybe you don’t know how it is at all.”

He smiled at her. “No, I guess I don’t.”

Back in the car, she directed him toward the Near North Side. It was actually the same general area as the half-abandoned building where Kate had been found dead, an area in which a few blocks one way or the other made a big difference in what the city was like.

ENCHANTRESS COSMETICS, said the sign, discreet but expensive bronze. It was on a modern gray concrete building, two stories high, that occupied almost half a square block.

“You live here?”

“It’s the family business, or the office and laboratory ends of it anyway, with living quarters attached. My folks think it’s a lot neater than commuting, or living in one of those high-rise apartments.”

He had heard of a few other wealthy people in the area, advertising agency owners and such, who had made similar arrangements. “It sounds neat.”

A private automobile entrance was blocked by a great openwork gate of what looked like blackened steel and ebony. This rose up out of the way when Carol worked some kind of miniaturized electronic device she brought out of a pocket. Good thing, Joe remarked to himself, she hadn’t lost that in her recent adventurings.

Inside, below street level, were private parking spaces, one or two out of a dozen of them occupied. From the sunken garage a large but fancy elevator very silently raised them to the floor above.

At the far end of a small, carpeted hall, another doorway was fitted with a wood-and-metal gate. This one stood open, and beyond it a luxurious though badly lighted apartment was visible. Silhouetted in the doorway was a man, very large, well-dressed, smiling at them both.

“Goodbye,” Joe said to Carol, taking her hand just briefly.

“Don’t say goodbye.” Her smile was warm.

“So long for a while, then. How about that?”

“Not even that,” she said. “You must come in for a visit.” She turned to flash the well-dressed man a merry wink.

Joe looked from one of them to the other. He wanted to smile at them but couldn’t quite. “Your father?” he asked, then realized that the man who was strolling toward them looked too young for that.

“Oh, goodness, not at all.” Carol’s green eyes danced, as if with some joke soon to be revealed. “Does the name Enoch Winter mean anything to you, Joe?”

“Enoch Winter. No.” The huge man was looming beside him now. A joke was coming. Or something was—

“Then how about—Leroy Poach?” And she giggled brightly, watching the slow progress of his reaction.

* * *

On the threshold of the luxurious apartment Carol and the giant man had laughed at him. Still laughing, the giant had reached for Joe in a leisurely, careless way. There had been nothing at all funny in the power of the grip that closed on Joe’s right arm. He had let go at once with a left hook that landed square on the other’s jaw. The only effect was a shock of pain through Joe’s fist, as if he had hit a wall. With that Carol stepped in and caught Joe by the left arm. She was still amused. Between them the two of them carried his kicking figure into the apartment as if he were an obstreperous two-year-old.

Inside, a vista of elegant though poorly lighted rooms seemed to stretch away for half a block. Carol closed a solid wood-and-metal door behind them, while the man held Joe by both arms. The man stood in front of him, grinning, daring him silently. When the girl left them, walking unhurriedly into another room, Joe tried again. Wrenching free was hopeless, clumsy though the other’s grip appeared to be. When Joe tried for a kick, the man with overwhelming power simply forced him lower. Joe’s knees buckled.

“Yeah, I know you’re a cop, sonny,” the man said, in answer to a choked-out, embarrassingly feeble protest. “I like the idea of you being one. I really do.”

He then let go of Joe’s arms so suddenly that his victim was left off balance and did a pratfall on the thick carpet. “All right, pull out the gun.” The huge man’s voice was perilously soft. “Go on.”

In eight years he’d never drawn it, except on the firing range. He was ready to use it now, except the big guy was just too willing. Some fighter’s instinct warned Joe to choose another tactic. There was a small end-table within arm’s reach, and as Joe crouched to get up he seized it by one leg. Whipping it ahead of him as he rose, he jabbed it into the giant’s face as hard as he could. He got the surprise he wanted, and felt the table connect with what ought to have been a knockout impact.

But his opponent came at him right through the blow. Again Joe scrambled backward; the table was knocked from his grasp. Now he tried in earnest to draw his gun, but the quickness of his enemy was as incredible as his strength, and again Joe’s arm was caught before his fingers could reach the holster.

This time, it seemed, the arm might in fact be twisted off—

“Stop!” the sharp command in the woman’s voice brought the torture to a halt. Joe was dropped to the floor, where he rolled helplessly for a moment, trying to verify that nothing in his arm was broken or seriously torn.

Somewhere above him, Carol lectured. “The object is to learn something from him, remember?”

“Whatta you want to learn? He’ll tell us.”

“I want him to speak to us freely, Poach. Giving little details that will be clues, though he may not realize it. And I want to waste none of his sweet blood, if we can help it.” Her voice, that had begun normally, ended in a ghastly whisper, and long before she had finished speaking, Poach had moved away. Joe, getting shakily to his feet, could see the other man’s forehead marked with an almost straight horizontal line, oozing red. Poach dabbed at his hurt with a finger, looked back at Joe with the eyes of a wounded predator.

But Carol was standing between them now, a hypodermic in her hand. “I have a little something here for you, Joe. It will only make you sleepy. Are you going to be a sensible young man and let me do it? Or are you going to try again to—”

He tried again. Ten seconds later he had a few more minor bruises, had discovered that a heavy metal ashtray made no more impression on either of his foes than knuckles did, and was being held down like an infant atop a great wooden table, a drafting or designing table of some kind, one place in the room where lights were bright. He could feel his shirt and jacket being peeled back partially from one shoulder. About all he could see from under an elbow that held his head immobilized, face down, was part of the nearest wall. What appeared to be a pair of harpoons were mounted there, crossed diagonally like fencing foils. Crude, early harpoons perhaps; even their heads were wood, or looked like wood, with pointy wooden barbs. . . .

The needle stung him in the shoulder and almost at once the world dissolved into a fog, a haze through which two pale faces hovered over Joe. One was haloed by red hair, the other blued with gun-metal stubble and blooded with a forehead crease. Both of them were made gigantic by his own helpless terror.

“Where is the old man, Joe? You know who I mean.”

He knew who she meant, all right, but nothing more. If he had, he would have told her. He had been relieved of all choice in what he said.

Carol was gentle and understanding. “If you don’t know where he is now, Joe, tell us where you saw him last.”

“That house . . . out in the country . . . the night we. . . .”

“The night Gruner was killed. Yes. And where before that?”

His mouth worked by itself. All he had to do was lie there on the table and observe the process. He mentioned the Southerland house, the parking lot of the Shores Motel, the Loop, the mausoleum in Lockwood Cemetery. . . .

“Enough,” said Carol when he started to repeat himself, and his mouth shut up at once. She turned to Poach. “That mausoleum ought to be worth a try. First, do you know where Lockwood Cemetery is? And, second, can you check it out before sunset? Do not try to meet him alone at night.”

“You tell me that about twice a day.”

“Because I don’t think you believe me, Poach. Look up the cemetery on the city map.”

“Okay, okay. Then what about the house? We got to try to get in there sometime.”

“Yes, the house too, today. If—”

“Before sunset. I know. I’m on my way.”