My Gun Is Quick

Chapter Fifteen

Whoever drove that car was stark mad with terror, a crazy madness that sent him rocketing down the avenue without the slightest regard for life. Maybe he heard my wild laugh as I closed the distance between us. It could be that his mind pictured my face, eyes bright with the kill, my teeth clamped together and lips drawn back, making me lose all resemblance to a human being.

I was just one tight knot of muscle, bunched together by a rage that wanted to rip and tear. I couldn't breathe; I could only take a breath, hold it as long as I could, and let it out with a flat hissing sound. A police, car picked up our trail, tried to follow and was lost in the side streets.

Every second saw the distance shorten, every second heaped more coal on the fire that was eating at my guts and blurring my vision until all that was left was a narrow tunnel of sight with that car in front on the other end. We were almost bumper to bumper as we turned across town, and I felt my car start to go over, fighting the speed of the swerve. It was fear that led me out of it and back on four wheels again, fear that I would lose him. The tires slammed back to the pavement, pulled to the side, and when I was straight again, the car in front of me had a half-block lead.

The sharp jolts of trolley tracks almost snatched the wheel from my hands, then it was gone and we were going west towards the river and the distance between us closed to yards, then feet. I knew where he was heading... knew he wanted to make the West Side Highway where he could make a run for it without traffic hazard, thinking he might lose me with speed.

He couldn't lose me now or ever. I was the guy with the cowl and the scythe. I had a hundred and forty black horses under me and an hourglass in my hand, laughing like crazy until the tears rolled down my cheeks. The highway was ahead all of a sudden and he tried to run into it, brakes slamming the car into a skid.

If the steep pillar hadn't been there he would have done it. I was on my own brakes as I heard the crash of metal against metal and saw glass fly in all directions. The car rolled over once and came to a stop on its wheels. I had to pull out and around it, brakes and tires adding a new note to that unearthly symphony of destruction.

I saw the door of the other car get kicked open. I saw Feeney Last jump out, stagger, then turn his gun at me. I was diving for the ground when the shot blasted over my head, rolling back of the pillar, clawing for my gun when Feeney made his break for it.

Run, Feeney, run. Run until your heart is ready to split open and you fall in a heap unable to move but able to see how you are going to die. Run and run and run. Hear the feet behind you running just a little bit faster. Stop for one second and you'll be as dead as hell.

He turned and fired a wild one and I didn't bother to answer him. There was panic in his stride, wild, unreasoning panic as he ran head down to the shadows of the pier, heading for the black throat of the shed there. The darkness was a solid wall that shut him out, then enveloped me because I was right behind him, pitch-black darkness that threw a velvet cloth over your eyes so that you might as well be blind.

I hit a packing case with my hands, stopped, and heard a body trip and fall, curse once and crawl. I wanted to keep my eyes closed because they felt so bright he couldn't miss them in the dark. Things took shape slowly, towering squares of boxes heaped to the ceiling with black corridors between them. I bent down and untied my shoes, kicked them off and eased into a walk without sound.

From the other side of the room came the rasp of hoarse breathing being restrained, Feeney Last, waiting for me to close the interval, step between himself and the gaping doorway where I would be outlined against the blue night of the city.

Hurry, I thought, before he gets wise. He'll know in a minute. He'll understand that rage lasts only so long before giving way to reason. Then he'll figure it. I stepped around the boxes, getting behind him, trusting to luck to bring myself through that maze to the end. I found an alley that led straight to the door, but Feeney wasn't standing there where he should have been. My foot sent a board clattering across the concrete and automatically I pulled back into the protection of the crates.

And I was lucky because Feeney was stretched out on the floor under an overhang of the boxes and the shot he threw back over his shoulder missed me by inches.

But I had him spotted. I fired a snap shot around the corner and heard him scramble farther under the crate. Maybe he thought he was safe because neither one of us could take the chance of making the first break.

My fingers searched for handholds, found them, and I pulled myself up, climbing slowly and silently over the rough frames of the crates. Splinters worked into my flesh and nails tugged at my clothes until I disengaged them. A cat couldn't have been more quiet.

The tops formed a platform and I crept across it, inch by inch, my brain measuring distances. When I looked over the edge I saw Feeney's arm protruding from the shadow, a gun in his hand, slowly sweeping up and down the narrow lane, his finger tensed on the trigger ready to squeeze off a shot.

I leaned over and put a bullet right through his goddamn hand and jumped just as he made a convulsive jerk of pain and writhed out from under the box. My feet hit him in the shoulders and cut off his scream and we were one kicking, gouging mass rolling in the dust.

I didn't want my gun... just my hands. My fists were slashing into the pale oval of his face, reaching for his throat. He brought his knees up and I turned just in time and took it on my leg. He only had one hand he could use, and he chopped with it, trying to bring the side of his palm against my neck. He kicked me away, pushed with the warm bloody mess that used to be fingers, and swung again, getting me in the ear.

Feeney tried to say "No!" but my hands had his throat, squeezing... slamming his head to the concrete floor until he went completely limp. I rolled on top of him and took that head like a sodden rag and smashed and smashed and smashed and there was no satisfying, solid thump, but a sickening squashing sound that splashed all over me.

Only then did I let go and look at Feeney, or what was left of him, before I got sick to my stomach.

I heard the police whistles, the sirens and the shouting around the wreck of the car outside. Dimly I heard voices calling that we were in the shed. I sat on the floor, trying to catch my breath, reaching in Feeney's pockets until my fingers closed about an oblong of cardboard with a rough edge where the stub had been torn off and I knew I had the ticket that had cost Lola's life.

They took me outside into the glare of the spotlights and listened to what I said. The radio car made contact with headquarters, who called Pat, and after that I wasn't a gun-mad killer any more, but a licensed private cop on a legitimate mission. A double check led to Lola, and the clincher was in Feeney's hip pocket, a bloodstained knife.

Oh, they were very nice about it. In fact, I was some sort of hero. They didn't even bother to take me in for questioning. They had my statement and Pat did the rest. I rode home in a patrol wagon while a cop followed in my car. Tomorrow, they said, would be time enough. Tonight I would rest. In a few hours the dawn would come and the light would chase the insanity of the night away. My phone was ringing as I reached the apartment. I answered it absently, hearing Pat tell me to stay put, he'd be right over. I hung up without saying a word, my eyes searching for a bottle and not finding it.

Pat was forgotten, everything was forgotten. I stumbled out again and down the stairs, over a block to the back of Mast's joint where he had his own private party bar and banged on the door to be let in.

After a minute a light went on and Joe Mast opened the door in his pajamas. Men can see things in other men and know enough to keep quiet. Joe waited until I was in, closed the door and pulled down the shades. Without a word he went behind the tiny bar and pulled a bottle down from the shelf, pouring me a double hooker while I forced myself onto a stool.

I didn't taste it; I didn't feel it go down.

I had another and didn't taste that one either.

Joe said, "Slow, Mike. Have all you want, but do it slow."

A voice started speaking, and I knew it was mine. It came of its own accord, a harsh, foreign voice that had no tone to it. "I loved her, Joe. She was wonderful and she loved me, too. She died tonight and the last thing she told me was that she loved me. It would have been nice. She loved me most, and I had just started to love her. I knew that it wouldn't be long before I loved her just as much. He killed her, the bastard. He killed her and I made a mess of his head. Even the devil won't recognize him now."

I reached in my pocket for a butt and felt the pawn ticket. I laid it on the bar next to the glass and the cigarettes. The name said Nancy Sanford and the address was the Seaside Hotel in Coney Island. "He deserved to die. He had a murder planned for my redhead and it didn't come off, but it worked out just as well. He was a big guy in the vice racket with sharp ideas and he killed to keep them sharp. He killed a blonde and he killed Lola. He wanted to kill me once but he got talked out of it. It was too soon to kill me then. Murder unplanned is too easily traced."

My mind went back to the parking lot, then before it, when I had walked into Murray Candid's office and seen the door closing and heard the cough. That was Feeney. He had spotted me in the club and put Murray wise. No wonder they wanted to warn me. Feeney was the smart one, he wanted me dead. He knew I wasn't going to be scared out of it. Too bad for him he got talked out of it. He was there that night. Did he have the ring? Damn it, why did that ring present a problem. Where the hell did it tie in? The whole thing started because of it... would it end without it?

Vacantly, I stared at the back bar, lost in thought. The ring with the battered fleur-de-lis design. Nancy's ring. Where was it now? Why was it there? The beating of my heart picked up until it was a hammer slamming my ribs. My eyes were centered on the bottles arranged so nicely in a long row.

Yeah! YEAH! I knew where the ring was!

How could I have been so incredibly stupid as to have missed it!

And Lola, who sent me after Feeney, had tried to tell me something else too... and I didn't get it until now!

Joe tried to stop me, but I was out the door before he could yell. I found my car and crawled in, fumbling for the ignition switch. I didn't have to hurry because I knew I had time. Not much, but enough time to get to the Seaside Hotel in Coney Island and do what I had to do.

I knew what I'd find. Nancy had left it there with her baggage. She was broke, she had to hock her camera. And being broke she had to get out of the Seaside Hotel without her baggage. But she knew it would be safe. Impounded but safe, redeemable when she had the money.

I found the Seaside Hotel tucked away on a street flanked by empty concession stands. Maybe from the roof it had a view of the sea. There wasn't any from where I stood. I parked a block away and walked up to it, seeing the peeling walls, the shuttered windows, the sign that read CLOSED FOR THE SEASON. Beneath it was another sign that told the public the building was protected by some obscure detective agency.

I took another drag on the cigarette and flipped it into the sand that had piled up in the gutter.

One look at the heavy timbers across the door and the steel bars on the ground-floor windows told me it was no use trying to get in that way. I scaled a fence beside the concession booth and walked around to the back. While I stood there looking at the white sand underneath the darker layer of wet stuff my feet had kicked up, the rain, began again, and I smiled to myself. Nice rain. Wonderful, beautiful rain. In five minutes the tracks would be wet, too, and blend in with the other.

The roof of the shack slanted down towards the back. I had to jump to reach it, preferring to chin myself up rather than use any of the empty soda boxes piled there. I left part of my coat on a nail and took the time to unsnag it. The slightest trace would be too much to leave behind.

I was able to reach a window, then tried it and found it locked. A recession in the wall farther down had stairsteps of bricks making an interlocking joint and I ran my hand over it. I saw I had about ten feet to go to the roof, a vertical climb with scarcely a thing to hang on to.

I didn't wait.

My toes gripped the edges of the brick, holding while I reached up for another grasp, then my hands performed the same duty. It was a tortuous climb, and twice I slipped, scrambling back into position to climb again. When I reached the top I lay there breathing hard a minute before going on.

In the center of the roof was a reinforced glass skylight, next to it the raised outlines of a trapdoor. The skylight didn't give, but the trapdoor did. I yanked at it with my hands and felt screws pull out of weather-rotted wood, and I was looking down a black hole that led into the Seaside Hotel.

I hung down in the darkness, swinging my feet to find something to stand on, and finding none, dropped into a welter of rubbish that clattered to the floor around me. I had a pencil flash in my pocket and threw the beam around. I was in a closet of some sort. On the side, shelves were piled with used paint cans and hard, cracked cakes of soap. Brooms lay scattered on the floor where I had knocked them. There was a door on one side, crisscrossed with spider webs, heavy with dust. I picked them off with the flash and turned the knob.

Under any other conditions the Seaside Hotel would have been a flophouse. Because it had sand around the foundations and sometimes you could smell the ocean over the hotdogs and body odors, they called it a summer hotel. The corridors were cramped and warped, the carpet on the floor worn through in spots. Doors to the rooms hung from tired hinges, eager for the final siege of dry rot, when they could fall and lie there. I went down the hallway, keeping against the wall, the flash spotting the way. To one side a flight of stairs snaked down, the dust tracked with the imprints of countless rat feet.

The front of the building was one story higher, and a sign pointed to the stairs at the other end. As I passed each room I threw the light into it, seeing only the empty bed and springs, the lone dresser and chair.

I found what I was looking for on the next floor. It was a room marked STORAGE, with an oversized padlock slung through the hasps. I held the flashlight in my teeth and reached for the set of picks I always carried in the car. The lock was big, but it was old. The third pick I inserted sent it clicking open in my hand. I laid it on the floor and opened the door.

It had been a bedroom once, but now it was a morgue of boxed sheets, mattresses, glassware and dirty utensils. A few broken chairs were still in clamps where an attempt had, been made to repair them. Against the wall in the back an assortment of luggage had been stacked; overnight bags, footlockers, an expensive Gladstone, cheap paper carriers. Each one had a tag tied to the handle with a big price marked in red.

The runner of carpet that ran the length of the room had been laid down without tacks and I turned it over to keep from putting tracks in the dust. I found what I was looking for. It was a small trunk that had Nancy Sanford stencilled on it and it opened on the first try.

With near reverence I spread the folders apart and saw what was in them. I wasn't ashamed of Nancy now, I was ashamed of myself for thinking she was after blackmail. There in the trunk was her reason for living, a complete expose of the whole racket, substantiated with pictures, documents, notes that had no meaning at the moment but would when they were studied. There were names and familiar faces. More than just aldermen. More than just manufacturers. Lots more. The lid was coming off City Hall. Park Avenue would feel the impact. But what was more important was the mechanics of the thing, neatly placed in a separate folder, enlarged pictures of books the police and the revenue men would want, definite proof of to whom those books belonged. The entire pretty set-up.

My ears picked up the sound, a faint metallic snapping. I closed the lid, locked it, then walked back my original path, taking time to fold the carpet over and study it, and satisfied that I had left no trace, closed the door and snapped the padlock in place. From the baseboard around the wall I scooped a handful of dust and blew it at the lock, restoring to it the age my hands had wiped off.

A yellow flood of light wandered up the hall, centered on the stairs and held. I stepped back into a bedroom, stuffing my watch in my pocket so the luminous face would be out of sight.

The light was poking into the rooms just as I had done. Feet sounded on the stairs, trying to be careful. Whoever stood behind that light was taking no chances, for it went down on the carpet, scanning it for tracks.

Back there in the room I grinned to myself.

The light came up the stairs, throwing the whole corridor into flickering shadows, giving off a hissing noise that meant he carried a naphtha lantern. It came onto the door of the storage room. There was a sigh. He sat the lantern on the floor, directing the beam towards the lock, and I heard him working over it with a pick.

He took longer than I did. But he got it open.

When I heard him enter the room I reached for my rod and stood with it in my hand. The racket he made dragging the trunk into the light covered the sound of my feet carrying me to the door. He was too excited to use a pick in the lock; instead he smashed it open and a low chuckle came out of his throat as he pawed through the contents.

I said, "Hullo, Mr. Berin-Grotin."

I should have shot the bastard in the back and kept quiet. He whipped around with unbelievable speed, smashing at the light and shooting at the same time. Before I could pull the trigger a slug hit my chest and spun me out of the doorway. Then another tore into my leg.

"Damn you anyway!" he screamed.

I rolled to one side, the shock of the bullet's impact numbing me all over. I lay on my face and pulled the trigger again and again, firing into the darkness.

A shot licked back at me and hit the wall over my head, but that brief spurt of flame had death in it. The lantern had overturned, spilling the naphtha over the floor, and it rose in a fierce blaze right in Berin's face. I saw his eyes, mad eyes, crazy eyes. He was on his hands and knees, shoving himself back, momentarily blinded by the light.

I had to fight to get a grip on the gun, bring it back in line. When I pulled the trigger it bucked in my hand and skittered across the floor. But it was enough. The .45 caught him in the hip and knocked him over backwards.

Everything was ablaze now, the flames licking to the bedding, running up the walls to the ceilings. A paint can and something in a bottle went up with a dull roar. It was getting hard to feel anything, even the heat. Over in the corner Berin groaned and pushed himself erect. He saw me then, lying helpless on the floor, and his hand reached out for his gun.

He was going to kill me if it was the last thing he did. He would have if the wall hadn't blossomed out into a shower of sparks and given way. One of the timbers that had lost the support of rusted nails wavered, and like a falling giant pine tree, crashed into the room and nailed the goddamn killer to the floor under it.

I laughed like a fiend, laughed and laughed, even though I knew I was going to die anyway.

"You lost, Berin, you lost! You could have gotten away, but you lost!"

He fought the heavy timber, throwing his hands against the flame of the wood to push it away and I smelt the acrid odor of burning flesh. "Get it off me, Mike! Get it off... please. You can have anything you want! Get it off me!"

"I can't... I can't even move. Maybe I would if I could, but I can't even move!"

"Mike!..."

"No good, you filthy louse. I'll die with you. I don't give a damn any more. I'll die, but you'll go, too. You never thought it would happen, did you? You had the ring and you thought you'd have time. You didn't, know I killed Feeney and got the ticket from him.

"There was Lola waiting for me. You heard me tell her that on the phone. While you got the drinks you called Feeney and covered up by playing the phonograph for me. He must have walked right in on her. She was expecting me and she got a killer. Sure, you stalled me while Feeney went to my office and broke in. He did a good job of it, too. But he had to go back and kill Lola because she knew the address on the ticket, and the camera could have been traced.

"Feeney called you right after he sank his knife in her, but she wasn't dead and saw him do it. You told Feeney to get out of there and wait for you somewhere. Sure, you wouldn't want Feeney to get his hands on that stuff. He got out... just as I came in and Lola put the finger on him. She put the finger on you, too, when she pointed to the phone. Feeney got out, but I was coming in and he stepped back to let me pass and I didn't see him. I caught him, though. Yeah, you played it cautious right to the end. You took your time about getting here, careful not to attract attention in any way. Did you sneak out of your hotel or just pretend you were up early as usual?"

"Mike, I'm burning!"

His hair smoked, puffed up in a ball of flame and he screamed again. He looked like a killer, being bald like that. The other wall was a sheet of fire now.

"I didn't get the connection until tonight. It was the ring after all. The ring was very important. I sat there looking at a bottle of whisky. The label had three feathers spread across the front just like the fancy plaque on your private morgue. I happened to think that the spread of feathers looked just like a fleur-de-lis pattern, then I got it. The design on the ring was three feathers, battered out enough to make it hard to recognize."

He fought the timber now, his face contorted in agony. I watched him a second and laughed again.

"The three feathers were part of your family crest, weren't they? An imitation of royalty. You and your damn pride, you bastard! Nancy Sanford was your own granddaughter. She was going to have a baby and you kicked her out. What did you think of her pride? So she turned from one job to another, working under an assumed name. She became a prostitute on the side. She got to know guys like Russ Bowen and his connection with Feeney. Then one day she saw you two together.

"I can imagine what she thought when she realized you were one of them, living your vain life of wealth on money that came from the bodies of the girls, hiding behind the front of respectability. You had it set up nice until she came along. She only had one thing in mind and that was to break the whole racket to pieces.

"Only she had to leave her baggage behind her until she had money to redeem it. Then you got the breaks. Feeney ran across her, looking for a piece on the side, and saw something. What was it, more pictures? Enough to make you get wise? Did he see the ring and know what it meant?"

Berin rolled from side to side. The timber, out of the flame, wasn't burning. It lay across his chest smoking. His eyes were on the ceiling watching the plaster crack and fall. The fire had spread, eating at everything it touched. Only on the floor was there an escape from the intense heat. But not for long. Soon the flames would come up from the floor, and that would be it. I tried to move, drag myself, but the effort was too great, and all I could do was stare at the man under the timber and be glad to know that I wouldn't die alone.

I laughed and Berin turned his head. A hot spark lit on his cheek and he didn't feel it. "Nancy was murdered, wasn't she?" I said. "It wasn't planned to work out so nice, but who could tell that a girl who had been clubbed so hard by an expert that her neck was broken, would get up from where she was thrown out of a car and stagger down the street and out into the path of another car.

"You were Feeney's alibi the night she was killed. You tailed her, forced her into the car, went into your act and heaved her out--and it all very nicely worked into your normal routine!

"Feeney didn't usually miss those shots, but he missed on Nancy and he missed on me. I should have known that sooner, too, when Lola told me Nancy had no vices. No, she didn't drink, but people swore she staggered and assumed she was drunk. I bet you had a big laugh over that.

"Pride! Pride did it to you. In the beginning you were a playboy and spent all your dough, but your pride wouldn't let you become a pauper. The smart operators got hold of you and then you fronted for them until you squeezed them out and had the racket all to yourself. You could work the filthiest racket in the world, but your pride wouldn't let you take back your granddaughter after she made a mistake. Then your pride kept you from letting her interfere with your affairs."

I could hardly talk over the roar of the flames now. Outside the engines were clanging up the streets and far-away voices mingled with crashing walls. Only because the fire had to eat its way down had we stayed alive as long as this.

"But it's all there in that box, mister. You'll die and your fancy hyphenated name will be lost in the mud and slime that'll come out of it."

"It won't, goddamn you! It won't!" Even in pain his eyes grew crafty. "The box will burn and even if it doesn't they'll think I was here with you, Mike. Yes, you're my alibi, and my name won't be lost. Nobody will trace that girl now and the world will never know!"

He was right, too. He was so right that the anger welling up in me drove the numbness out of my leg and the pain from my chest and I pulled myself across the room. I reached the trunk, shoved it, shoved it again, my hands brushing aside the hot embers that fell from the ceiling. Berin saw what I was doing and screamed for me to stop. I grinned at him. He was bald and ugly. He was a killer in hell before he died.

Somehow I got the box on edge and heaved, the effort throwing me back to the floor. But it smashed the window out and fell to the ground and I heard an excited shout and a voice yell. "Somebody is in the room up there!"

The sudden opening of the window created a draft that sucked the flames right out of the wall, sent them blasting into my face. I smelled hair burning and saw the legs of Berin's pants smoulder. His gun was lying under my hand.

He should never have spoken to me that way, but he did and it gave me strength to go it all the way. I reached for the gun, a .38, and fitted the butt into my hand.

"Look at your employee, Berin. See what I'm going to do? Now, listen carefully to what I tell you and think about it hard, because you only have a few minutes left. That tomb of yours won't be empty. No, the redhead will live there. The girl your pride kicked out. She'll be in that tomb. And do you know where you'll be? In potter's field next to Feeney Last, or what's left of you. I'll tell the police what happened. It won't be the truth, but it'll fit. I'll tell them the body up here is that of one of your boys you sent to get me. They'll never find you even though they'll never give up looking, and whenever your name is mentioned it will be with a sneer and a dirty memory. The only clean thing will be the redhead. You'll die the kind of death you feared most... lost, completely lost. Animals walking over your grave. Not even a marker."

The horror of it struck him and his mouth worked.

"But I won't deprive myself of the pleasure of killing you, mister rat. It will make up for the blonde and Lola. I'll kill you so I can live with myself again. I'll tell them we fought it out and I killed you. But you'll know the truth. It hurts, doesn't it?"

The pain in his eyes wasn't physical any longer.

"They'll be up here in a minute. I'll be waiting for them. I'll let them take me down and tell them there's no use going back in again. I'll let you burn until there isn't a thing left to identify you."

A stream of water hit the side of the wall, centered on the window and turned the room into a steaming inferno.

"A ladder will be pushed up here in just a minute now. When it comes I'll pull the trigger. Think about it, think hard."

A truck was being run into position. The shouts below grew louder. I crouched in the protection of the same timber that had him pinned down. The ceiling over the corridor outside fell in with a crash, dragging the front wall with it. I heard the crackling and looked up. Directly overhead the ceiling began to buckle, sagging in the middle with flame lancing through the cracks.

I looked at Berin and laughed. He turned his head and stared right into the muzzle of his own gun. Minutes-seconds-fractions of time. The ceiling was swaying now. The killer's face was a vile mask of hatred, praying for the ceiling to get us both. He was going to go first if it happened that way.

Something banged against the side of the window and slid over the sill: two prongs with a crossbar between them. A ladder bobbed as someone came up it, covered by the stream of water.

Berin had his mouth open, screaming with all the furies of the gods dethroned, but my laugh was even louder.

He was still screaming when I pulled the trigger.