Corpse on the Grill

Chapter Four The Skull Container

She didn’t scream. She put the back of one hand to her mouth and squinted as if the light hurt her eyes. “Killed him?”

“Dismembered him,” Pedley said. “Burned his arms and legs in the charcoal fire at the restaurant. You wouldn’t know anything about that?”

“No.” She turned her back so they couldn’t see her face, but the Marshal didn’t miss her glance toward the bedroom. “Not a thing.”

Pedley palmed his automatic and approached the bedroom, cautiously. Five feet away he paused; a roomful of men were stepping toward him in the darkness. They were all alike; they were all like Pedley himself. Suzie’s bedroom was walled with mirrors. He switched on the light; saw his own reflection from a dozen angles. But there was no place to hide in that room. He stepped into the bathroom, shoved back the shower curtain. Nothing. There were two closets, both empty. He swivelled quickly to find Suzie watching him with fascinated intentness.

“I give you my word there’s no one hiding in my apartment,” she said, unsteadily. “And unless you want to ask me some more questions about Greg...”

Pedley tried the kitchenette. No dice. But there was another door opening out of the kitchenette. There was no keyhole under the knob. A fire door. Opening onto a flame-proof stairwell; a door knobless on the outside, so no intruder could get into the apartment from the internal fire escape. He yanked it open.

There was a movement in the gloom outside. The Marshal reached out, grabbed a coat lapel and jerked into the room a thin, bony man with pinched and harassed features set in hairless skull.

“Yeah?” growled Pedley. “And who in the hell are you? What are you doing out there?”

Suzie spoke up, sharply. “He’s my brother.”

The bald-headed man snarled. “I’m Jimmy Yalb. This is my sister’s home; I gotta right to step out on the fire stairs if I wanna.”

Pedley slammed the fire door, pushed Yalb roughly into the living-room. As he shoved the eavesdropper past Biddonay, the cafe man yelled:

“Suzie’s brother! He’s a lying so-and-so, Mr. Pedley. He’s the bake-chef at my restaurant, that’s who he is.”

Yalb tugged away from Pedley’s grasp, rushed belligerently at Biddonay. “Yes and no thanks to you, either, you big tub of lard.”

“Jimmy!” Suzie screamed.

“If it hadn’t been for Mr. Krass,” Yalb spat out, “I’d have been bounced a dozen times.”

The Marshal watched Biddonay redden with rage. “You bet you would, Yalb; I’ve never trusted you. And now I know you’re Suzie’s brother, I’ll trust you even less.”

Yalb rumbled hoarsely, deep in his throat; he twisted swiftly out of his coat, eluded the Marshal’s grip, lunged fiercely at Biddonay. There was a short-bladed knife in his hand. He struck once at the cafe owner before Pedley could stop the blow. Biddonay screamed fearfully, reeled back. He struggled desperately to defend himself with his bare fists. The blade of the knife licked out like a snake’s forked tongue. Biddonay clutched at his side, stumbled, pitched sideways against a heavy center table, went down to his knees and stayed there, squealing like a stuck porker. Pedley closed in on Yalb.

The girl kept shrieking at the top of her lungs: “Don’t, Jimmy, don’t! You can’t fight the law.”

But Yalb tried. He butted the Marshal’s chin with his hard bald pate; he kicked, gouged, used a knee where it would maim a man most easily. He dropped the knife and clawed at the Marshal’s eyes with vicious talons. Pedley clipped him across the side of his face with the barrel of his automatic. He had to hit the chef five times before Yalb let go his teeth-grip on the Marshal’s wrist. He sagged to his knees, clutching at the detective’s coat to keep from falling to the floor.

The Marshal gave him one extra belt with the gun-barrel, to make sure the man wasn’t possuming. Mr. Yalb wasn’t.

“Now then,” Pedley gritted. “Get up on your feet and let’s level on this.”

Biddonay rolled over on his stomach and got his knees under him, but remained with his head down, his chin touching the carpet.

“He cut me!” the fat man moaned. “He stabbed me. Look!”

Pedley got his arms under the restaurateur’s shoulders, hoisted him onto one of those underslung chairs. He ripped open Biddonay’s vest, pulled up his shirt. There was a crimson line about an inch long but the blood was merely oozing from it.

“That’s a belly wound,” the plump man blubbered. “I’ll get blood poisoning—”

“Stop squawking. That’s a flesh wound. Couple of stitches and you’ll be good as new.” He motioned to the girl. “Ring the Ice-taurant.”

She nodded silently.

The Marshal turned to Yalb, who was crouched on his haunches leaning against the wall. “You didn’t hack your sister’s husband to pieces with this thing.” The Marshal picked up the knife at the spot where the blade entered the handle. “What’d you use?”

Yalb snarled: “I never touched the lousy ape. I had plenty of reason to, but I never touched him.”

Suzie held out the phone receiver. “Here,” she said dully, and when Pedley took the phone, she knelt down on the floor beside her brother, caressed his face with her hands.

The man on the phone was Jewett. He said the homicide boys had taken all their pictures and powdered everything for prints and removed the remains. They had left a patrolman on guard, and the fireman was awaiting Pedley’s instructions.

“You run my car over here.” The Marshal gave him the address. “And then you can take a guy to the hospital.”

Biddonay snuffled, “Jeez, I’ll bleed to death before then.”

Pedley racked the receiver, went over to the girl and pushed her away from Yalb. “Nothing wrong with your brother; he’ll have a jaw ache for a while and his face’ll be black and blue, but—”

“Sure.” The chef bared his teeth. “Beatings don’t bother me. I’m used to ’em. That big Gorilla used to beat me, way he beat Sis.”

She said: “Hush, Jimmy — don’t!”

The Marshal got hold of Yalb’s collar, yanked him to his feet. “Stand against the wall; fold your arms on your chest... that’s the idea. Now, what time did you leave the Ice-taurant?”

“Twelve o’clock. I ain’t s’posed to work after twelve. Ask him,” Yalb sneered at the restaurant owner.

“Where’d you go after twelve?” Pedley wanted to know.

“I come over here.”

“Jimmy has a key,” Suzie corroborated.

“You been here ever since?”

“Yair. Maybe you think you can prove different?”

Biddonay twisted his face up in a lopsided grimace. “Ask him where he hid down cellar.”

Pedley turned on the stout man. “I’ll manage to figure out my own questions, Biddonay. While I’m at it, how come you got such a grudge against your star’s brother?”

Biddonay told him, sitting there hunched over with his hands pressed tightly to his midriff like a Buddha with a bellyache. He didn’t like Yalb because he made lousy pastry; also, he was dirty looking and insolent. Sure, Biddonay’d tried to fire him, but he didn’t hold any grudge against him, or hadn’t until he’d learned Yalb was Suzie’s brother. He didn’t mind Suzie; she was a swell kid and a good draw at the cashier’s desk. The snowball gag was a good moneymaker. He didn’t even mind Suzie’s playing around with anybody she wanted to, including Herb Krass. Sure, his partner was probably footing the bills for this apartment they were in right now.

The girl didn’t try to interrupt; she merely watched Biddonay with fear and disgust in her eyes. But Yalb unfolded his arms and, with his hands hooked in that curious, talonlike attitude, started for the restaurant man. Pedley lifted the muzzle of his gun, said:

“Do I have to put you out of commission, fella, or will you be nice?”

Yalb retreated to the wall again. Biddonay went on, eyeing Jimmy Yalb.

“What Herb does is his business; what Suzie does is strictly up to her. But when I find out that Herb has hired one of Suzie’s relatives to work in my kitchen, to spy on me behind my back, I don’t like it. So I wouldn’t trust Yalb and I aim to have a showdown with Krass, believe you me.”

There wasn’t any need for Pedley to check the story with the girl. She didn’t attempt to deny it, but she didn’t seem ashamed or embarrassed, either.

There was a buzz at the front door. Pedley answered it. Jewett stood there, gawking in at the tableau: Biddonay hunched over, idolwise, the girl slouching on the arm of a divan, and Yalb rigid against the wall. Pedley pointed with his gun:

“Take this gent down to City Hospital; tell ’em to post a cop over his room. I’m holding him as a material witness.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then run this lug down to my office in the Municipal Building. Tell Barney to keep him in the cooler till I get there.”

“Right.”

Pedley said: “Take a cab. I’m going to need my car to hunt Krass.”

“Sure, Mr. Pedley. Say—” Jewett spoke in an undertone, held the door open while Biddonay walked with short, toed-in steps to the elevator. “They didn’t find that skull, but they found the thing it was carried out in.”

“Yeah?”

“ ’Member those leather cases for carrying bowling balls? It was one of them. They opened it up, found a lot of blood and stuff inside.”

“But no head?”

“Un-hunh. The butcher must’ve delivered that somewhere else.”

The door closed behind Yalb and Jewett; the elevator hummed down. Pedley turned to the girl. He said, “Biddonay doesn’t look like he’d be much good on a bowling alley. How about your friend, Krass?”

“Yes,” she said, harshly. “Herb is a kegler. He’s nuts about it. That don’t make him a murderer, does it?”

“It might,” Pedley said. “You get some duds on; we’ll go find out.”