Dead of Night

Chapter twenty-four: Blackjack deluxe

The buzzing began before I hit the floor; I remember thinking someone must be punching that button downstairs.

I’d have gotten up right away except someone was holding my wrists. The buzzing kept right on. I tried to get a little leverage into my twisting, to break the guy’s grip, but he held me easily. The light became brighter; it hurt my eyes to focus on the face above me. A dark face, black eyes behind pince-nez, a spiky black beard. And a soft, soothing voice. Like Peter Lorre. “Don’t try to get up, just keep quiet.”

Furniture in the room began to lose its blurred shape, and I closed my eyes to steady myself. I knew I hadn’t been unconscious even for half a second, but the room I was in wasn’t the foyer of the Moore girl’s apartment. This was blue or blue-gray, with dozens of lights.

I opened my eyes just a slit to see if I could catch Pointed Beard relaxing his grip. A second face bent over me, Ruth Moore.

“Don’t try to move.” She put a hand on my chest. The lights became only two, one on a table beside the bed I lay on, one in the ceiling. The rest were reflections from mirrors in the modern bureau, and an ash-blond vanity against the blue-gray wallpaper. On the table beside the lamp was a black bag.

“That’s better.” The Peter Lorre voice sounded relieved. White teeth smiled above the Van Dyke. “You’ll be all right. But you must be still.”

The secretary patted my shoulder. “You had a concussion. Doctor Elm thought we’d have to take you to the hospital.”

I said, “Sure,” but it sounded like “Sewer” because I didn’t seem to have much co-ordination. Beside a huge cabinet photograph of Dow Lanerd wearing an open-necked wool shirt, a tiny gilt clock ticked away beneath the buzzing; its hands pointed to quarter to five. I compared it with my wrist watch. The clock was two minutes slow. I’d been out more’n an hour!

The doctor stirred stuff in a glass. “This’ll take some of that fuzziness off your tongue.”

I drank it. Poor substitute for lager.

“What was it?” I put my hand up to my head, found it turbaned with a rubber bandage. The back of my neck was cool and damp where the compress had leaked down.

Ruth held up a beautifully grained piece of wood about eighteen inches tall, a carved statue, all sinuous thighs and pointed breasts, tapering down to a sort of fishtail base. Kind of thing you see in a jeweler’s window on a black velvet background. Very arty. “This was on the floor beside you, Mister Vine, when I came back from the delicatessen.”

The doctor replaced paraphernalia in his bag. “Your Panama saved you. The statuette apparently hit you squarely in the back of the head, where the sweatband cushioned the blow sufficiently to prevent a skull fracture.”

I told him the hat had been repaying a just debt; I’d ransomed it often enough at checkrooms. I began to feel halfway human. The buzzing died away some. “Who crowned me?”

Ruth exclaimed, “We were waiting for you to tell us!”

“Never saw him. Was stooping over. He was behind the door.”

“I don’t know, either!” She hunched her shoulders up, made an O of her mouth. “Maybe he was still here in the apartment when I came back and found you. Maybe—” she glanced fearfully at the closet.

The doctor opened the closet door. A light came on inside, automatically. There were a half-dozen neckties on a rack on the inside of the door, but no intruder. “As I suggested before, my dear young lady, it would be wiser if you called the police. I will be required to report the assault, in any event.”

Ruth said in a very small voice, “I’d rather not. Not right now. Mister Vine?”

“I’ll take care of it.” I sat up. “How much I owe you, Doc?”

They both rushed at me, pushed me back on the bed.

“You must not try to get up,” she scolded.

The doctor nodded vigorously. “She’s right. You have a good nurse. Mind her. I’ll be back later to—”

“Hey! Wait!” He’d turned, headed for the door. “I’ve got too many things to do—”

“You’ll sleep,” he said. “Nothing else is as important to you as sleep. Good morning, Miss Moore.”

I got one foot off the bed. “Sleep, hell.” My head was clear as a bell. No girl was going to keep me in bed. But I’d better take it easy at first. Rest a bit. Yair. Just half a minute.

When I woke, hot sunlight latticed through the Venetians. My wrist watch said 12:45. There was singing out in another room; it wasn’t good enough to be the radio. She was singing O Sole Mio. New style.

I got out of bed. My mouth tasted like burned insulation smells. But my eyes were all right. My legs weren’t shaky. And my voice sounded normal when I said, “Good morning.”

She was determined I should pile right back in bed. She wanted to call the doctor immediately. It wasn’t safe. I might collapse any minute.

I told her very likely I would unless I got something to eat. Did she have any suggestions?

When she saw I wasn’t going to nose-dive on the kitchenette linoleum, she thought she could make me a bacon omelette with broiled mushrooms and hot biscuits. Did I prefer tomato juice or orange juice? Coffee or milk? Would raspberry jam be all right or would I rather have wild honey?

I told her all of it sounded good, went back to the living-room, called the Brulard, asked for 416.

“That party does not an-swer,” the gal at the switchboard said presently. “Would you care to leave a message?”

I said I’d like to be connected with Mister Ashmore.

Pat came on. “Security. Ashmore speaking.”

“Gil Vine, Pat.”

“Your chickadees have flew, Gilbert. They tried t’get room service, but you know we ain’t had room service on Sundays here since FDR was a freshman.”

“Ouww! They went out for scup scoff?”

“Well, yeah. But not together. Little Goldilocks, the looker with the glamorous gams — say, I just remembered who she looks like — that Millett babe—”

“Set a day.”

“She does, though. Well, she comes kitin’ down th’ stairs an’ out, an’ grabs a cab. About th’ time her taxi is pullin’ away, the other one bounces out of the elevator and chases after her. What kind of ring-around-a-rosie goes on, huh, Gil? You wouldn’t get th’ Brulard messed up in no scandal, nothin’ like that, would you?”

“Everything sweet and clean, Pat. But I’ll make you a small side bet.”

“What about?”

“Ten bucks says you can’t locate the hackie who took Little Goldilocks away — and find out where he took her.”

“That ain’t a bet. That’s a new pair of kicks. Sure. Where you want me to call you?”

I gave him Ruth’s number, went in the john, and scrubbed up. I felt a little woozy, first time since getting up. I couldn’t tell whether it was the aftereffects of that crack with the symbol of passion, or whether I was just punchy from so many bad breaks.

Calling the office didn’t make me perk up any. Tim was groggy from having been up past his bedtime, unstrung by the news a warrant was out for me and I was subject to instant arrest and detention if I showed up at the Plaza Royale.

“Hacklin swore out the warrant, Gil. Right after you took off. The blues are in on the case now, and Harry Weissman’s burned to a cinder about your not callin’ him in, yourself.”

“Oh! What a bee-yutiful morn-ing.” I gave him the Moore number. “I’m a trifle indisposed at the moment so I won’t rush over to try on my new bracelets. Was there anything else? Gowriss picked up, yet?”

“Nah. They wrote him off, skipper. Accordin’ to Schneider this’s strickly a cream passion hell.”

“What culture the man has! What insight! Did you hear from Ada?”

“Oh, yuh, yuh. I nearly forgot. Something about wax on a bedspread. From room two-o-one-o.”

“Yaker!”

“I couldn’t know what you was after, Chief, but that guest checked out last night around ten-thirty.”