No Pockets in a Shroud [Short Story]

Chapter Two Three-Parts Murder

Our, city, like Los Angeles, claims half the countryside in all directions. So although El Patio lies ten miles beyond the edge of the populated area, it still is within the city limits.

Twenty minutes after leaving my apartment we swung between squat stone pillars marking the driveway entrance to El Patio’s grounds. To our left the car lights splashed against a ten-foot wrought-iron fence which followed the curve of the driveway clear from the highway to the near edge of the fortress-like building called El Patio.

“Lot of iron in that fence,” Hannegan remarked.

At the far end of the building the fence started again, ran about fifteen yards and made a ninety degree turn to the left. The drive also continued past the building and turned with the fence toward a parking lot at the rear. Our policeman chauffeur dropped us in front of broad steps descending from the massive bronze-doored entrance and then continued on to the lot.

A uniformed cop had replaced the dinner-jacketed ex-pug who usually guarded the portals of El Patio. He saluted Hannegan and stepped aside to let us in.

Like Gaul, El Patio is divided into three parts. The entrance leads directly into the gaming room and bar. Wide doors either side of the casino open respectively into a table-crowded ballroom and an even more table-crowded dining-room. Most of the patrons from these two rooms had collected in the center one and were wearing their coats and hats, ready to leave. Though the room was packed, no one was playing. The crowd had divided into individual groups, most of which quietly waited for something to happen. In place of the conversational drone you would expect from a crowd of two hundred jammed into one room, you could hear only occasional low toned sentences.

In the hallway outside Louis Bagnell’s private office three chairs from the dining room lined the wall. Vance Caramand occupied the first, and Fausta Moreni, the house’s best blackjack dealer, sat next to Vance.

Probably Fausta’s ability rested less on her skill with cards than on the demoralizing effect of her golden brown beauty on the players, but nevertheless she was one of the highest paid dealers in the country. Before the war, when Fausta was a naive Italian immigrant freshly escaped from Fascist Italy, her delightful accent fascinated me into thinking of her in connection with a future fireplace, slippers and a pipe. Long since we tacitly agreed to forget our plans, but I still felt sudden lightness when we met. Tilted against the wall in the third chair sat Mouldy Greene, who derived his nickname from a persistent case of acne. Mouldy had been in my outfit overseas, but since discharge assisted Caramand in guarding Louis Bagnell’s body. Apparently neither of them had done a very good job.

As we approached, Mouldy said, “Hi, Sarge,” in the pleased voice of an ex-soldier greeting an old comrade.

Fausta rose. I stopped and she touched my hands lightly with her fingertips.

“Manny,” she said. “Is it only murder can bring you to see me?”

I said, “Hello, Fausta,” and could think of nothing else because my eyes were full of the sleekness of her blonde hair and the way it emphasized the Latin darkness of her skin and eyes.

Hannegan said to Wade: “You and your punk wait here. The inspector will want Moon first.”

As Hannegan reached for the knob of Bagnell’s door, I noticed the lock had been shattered by a bullet. Before he could turn the handle, the door opened inward. Hannegan stepped back as two men carried out a sheet-covered figure on a stretcher. A police doctor followed behind them. The procession over, we went through the door in time to catch a flash bulb square in the eyes. For a few moments I saw nothing but floating red and green lights, then as they began to dim I made out three people in the room. Apparently we arrived just in time for the photographer’s last picture, for he was packing equipment.

Inspector Warren Day’s gaunt figure drooped in front of a woman seated on a sofa near the window. The woman was dressed for the street, complete to a startlingly small black hat and matching leather gloves. Her fingers played nervously along the zipper of an oversized bag in her lap as Day talked to her. She had the type of face painters set on canvas: precisely regular, and its whiteness framed by ebony hair, shoulder length and waveless. Her skin was translucent and glowed as though a hidden light burned somewhere within her. Except for the bright red of her sensual lips, she wore no coloring or makeup. She had been crying.

Warren Day turned, bent his skinny bald head until he could see over his glasses and rolled a dead cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.

“You!” he said.

Settling myself in a chair, I started fire to a cigar. Day approached until his spare body arched over mine and his face was nearly horizontal with the floor from his attempt to keep me in focus over his spectacles.

I said: “Why don’t you sit down before you fall in my lap?”

“Start talking, Moon!”

I blew cigar smoke up at him. “Look, Inspector. I’m tired of this routine. You snarl at me a while and I tell you to go to the devil, and finally you stop being nasty and tell me what old pals we are, and won’t I please tell you what I know, and then I tell you what I know. Why don’t you save time by cutting out the preliminaries and acting human from the start?”

His long nose began to whiten at the tip, an anger register which never fails to fascinate me, but before the whole nose whitened, which was the indicator of his boiling point, he underwent one of the astonishing changes in temper he was abruptly capable of. His right hand suddenly patted my shoulder.

“You’re a good boy, Manny. You’re right. No point in us arguing. Life’s too short.”

He draped himself across a chair facing mine and smiled as though he had just gargled alum.

“What about this visit of Bagnell’s to you?” he asked, in what for him was a pleasant tone.

I shrugged. “Nothing much to it. He dropped in for a few minutes, then left. It was around three.”

“What’d he want?”

“To hire me as a bodyguard.”

Day looked startled. “Bodyguard!” Behind their thick lenses his eyes crinkled derisively. “You did a devil of a job.”

“I didn’t take it.”

His expression turned interested. “Why not?”

“Didn’t want it.”

The inspector studied my face a long time. “Bagnell say why he wanted you?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Why’d you say no?”

“Didn’t want the job.”

“Any particular reason?”

“No.”

“You’ve hired out as a bodyguard before.”

“That’s what Bagnell said. I still said no.”

Hannegan broke in. “Byron Wade and one of his punks were at Moon’s when I got there.”

Day looked at me curiously, a cynical smile quirking his lips. “I see. That’s why you turned down Bagnell.”

“Wrong again. I never saw Wade or his juvenile delinquent “before. They came uninvited.”

“What’d they want?”

“Wade offered the same proposition Bagnell had, and got the same turndown.”

The inspector made no attempt to cover the suspicion in his eyes. “Kind of coincidental, both calling the same day.”

“That’s what I thought, until I heard Bagnell was dead. A little figuring considerably reduces the coincidence.”

“How?”

“Suppose Wade knew about Bagnell’s visit? It’s common knowledge that a clash was brewing, and probably both Wade and Bagnell were keeping track of each other. The probability is Wade did know Bagnell came to see me. Suppose he also knew something was due to happen to Bagnell tonight? Visiting me just when he did was the smartest move he could make.”

Day thought this over and said: “I don’t follow.”

“I can’t explain it and be modest.”

Day grunted. “You never were.”

I said: “I’ve got a reputation of being a bad guy to have on the opposing team. For a supposedly tough character, Wade acts kind of timid. Maybe he wanted to know where I stood in time to call off the killing in case I was lined up with Bagnell.”

The inspector let out a derisive snort. “You sure think you’re tough anyway.”

I shrugged. “I said I couldn’t explain it and be modest.”

Frank amusement glinted through his glasses. “You really think you’re so tough Wade would just walk off and leave Bagnell with a clear field if he found you on the other side?”

“Not exactly. But I think he’d postpone Bagnell’s funeral until he could arrange one for me.”

The inspector’s amused expression was replaced by a thoughtful one. “He might do that,” he conceded. “I’ll admit you’re a little tough. About soft-boiled.” His eyes turned dreamy and he went on as though thinking aloud. “Suppose Wade was keeping track of Bagnell? The contact would only report in periodically. Bagnell left your place at three, but Wade might not hear about his visit till several hours later. You figure when he did hear, he rushed right over to find out where you stood?”

“Something like that. And he found out I was neutral.”

Day removed the cigar from his mouth, examined it carefully and replaced it in the opposite corner. “When he found out, why didn’t he get to a night spot for an alibi?”

“Because he had one right where he was. He got to my place at seven-thirty and wasn’t out of my sight till Hannegan arrived.”

Day considered this. “It will be interesting to talk to Mr. Wade.” He jerked his head in the direction of the brunette across the room, whose strained expression betrayed hex concern over our conversation. “Incidentally, that’s Mrs. Wade.”

The woman rose and moved toward us. She was taller than I had thought, about five feet six, and her movements were smooth as a ballet dancer’s. Seated, her figure had been indeterminate. Now I noted her breasts and hips were overfull, but slim legs and a flat stomach indicated natural fullness rather than fat. She wore a light green, immaculately clean dress that fitted as though it were wax that had been melted, poured over her body and allowed to form.

“Did you call me?” she asked. Her voice had the deep tone of a cello.

Hannegan was already standing. I rose, but Day remained seated, making no effort at either answer or introduction.

“The inspector just mentioned your name,” I said. “Excuse his manners. He goes to movies and has Hollywood ideas of how policemen should act. I’m Manville Moon. This is Lieutenant Hannegan.”

After acknowledging the introductions with a poker-faced nod, she stood silent, her large zippered bag pressed nervously against her flat stomach. Day ran his sardonic eyes over the three of us, and the awkward pause lasted until the door opened and a placid looking policewoman entered.

Day growled: “About time you got here.” He bobbed his nose at Mrs. Wade. “Search her.”

Mrs. Wade’s shoulders stiffened. The policewoman said: “Don’t get excited, dearie.” Curving her thumb at an open door in the far corner, she asked Day, “That a bathroom?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, dearie,” she said, and took Mrs. Wade’s arm.

Mrs. Wade allowed herself to be led toward the open door. As it closed behind them, I turned to the inspector.

“O.K. I told you everything. What goes on? Or do I have to read it in the papers?”

Day rose from his slouched position, tossed his cigar on the floor and began to pace up and down with his hands behind him, a human imitation of Felix the cat, if you could call Day human. He started to talk in a rasping, singsong voice, more as though he were reviewing facts to organize his own thoughts, rather than impart information to me. “Bagnell was shot through the head a little after eight. He was at his desk at the time and the bullet ended up over there.” He gestured at a ragged hole in the wall directly opposite the bathroom door. “When they heard the shot, Vance Caramand and Mouldy Greene came running and found the office door locked. They pounded, got no answer, so Greene shot through the lock. Bagnell sat in his chair with the top of his head missing and Mrs. Wade lay in a faint this side of the desk. Nothing could be done for Bagnell, so Greene tried to revive Mrs. Wade while Caramand went out after Fausta Moreni. Seems both dopes realized they hadn’t sense enough to handle things themselves. Fausta took one look, ordered the boys to touch nothing and let no one in the room. She also told them not to let Mrs. Wade out. Then she phoned us.”

I said: “Fausta’s a smart girl.”

“Yeah. By the time we got here, Mrs. Wade was conscious again. Her story is that she came back here to cash a small check. Lost all her cash at roulette and wanted taxi fare home. I guess she did cash a check for twenty. At least Bagnell had one in his pocket and it’s dated today. But it looks like the main reason for her visit was social. The bar waiter says he delivered a pint of Scotch back here at seven, and Mrs. Wade was here then. You can see what’s left of the bottle.” He pointed to the desk, where a bottle with merely an inch of liquor left in it stood next to a siphon and two glasses. “Also Bagnell had lipstick all over what was left of his face. The bar waiter says she’s always back here Monday and Wednesday nights.”

“That’s nice, considering her husband’s relations with Bagnell.”

“Yeah. Anyway, she says she was just getting ready to leave when a gun went off, the top of Bagnell’s head disappeared and blood started spattering around. She fainted.”

“Where’d the shot come from?” I asked.

Day felt through his pockets and produced another tattered cigar before answering. He stuck it in his mouth, flicked a match alight with a thumbnail, then he shook it out again before lighting the cigar.

“We figure it came from the bathroom window. With the bathroom door open, you can look right through from outside and get a full side view of Bagnell’s desk. Mrs. Wade didn’t see a thing before the shot, but she got the impression it came from the bathroom — that is, was fired by someone actually in the bathroom. But that’s impossible. All the windows here, including the bathroom’s, have three-quarter inch steel bars imbedded in concrete. The only way in or out is by the door and that was in sight of either

Greene or Caramand all evening. But both the bathroom window and door were open and the killer could easily have stuck a gun through the bars, blasted Bagnell and run. That way the shot would sound like it came from the bathroom, rather than from outside.”

“What did you get from the bathroom window?”

“Nothing. A few prints on the sill, but they’re all old and made from inside. The lawn beneath the window is close cut grass and wouldn’t show footprints. The parking lot is only about twenty yards from the window, but the attendant didn’t see anything or hear the shot.”

The bathroom door opened and the two women came out. The police matron handed the inspector a .45 caliber Army automatic.

“In her purse,” she said laconically.

Mrs. Wade’s normally pale face had become chalky, but her chin was high and her eyes steady as she returned our combined stares. Her lips trembled imperceptibly.

Day said: “Heavy artillery for a lady.”

“I have a permit.” She offered a bit of paper.

Day glanced at it briefly. “Illinois. No good in this state.”

Releasing the clip into his left hand, he tossed it to Hannegan. “Count ’em,” he said. Then he slammed back the slide until it locked open. “Chamber empty.” Inserting a thumbnail into the ejection slot as a reflector, he peered down the tube. “Clean. Hasn’t been fired.”

Hannegan, stuffing cartridges back into the clip, announced: “Seven. Full clip.”

“O.K., lady,” said Day. “Start explaining why you carry a loaded .45.”

“I didn’t realize you needed a different permit for each state. I thought a permit was good anywhere.”

“I don’t care about your blamed permit. Why do you need a gun at all?”

She said: “I play quite a bit. Roulette. Sometimes I win a lot — enough to invite robbery. I always carry a gun when I play, in case I win.”

Day’s expression was scornful. “That’s the weakest I’ve heard yet, lady. Any house will send you home with an armed guard on request. Try again.”

“It’s the truth. Honest. Why else would I want a gun?”

“That’s my question.” He moved his pointed nose up and down, examining her from the elliptical curve of her low cut bangs to frail, open-toed pumps. Then he gave her gun to Hannegan. “Come in and register this tomorrow, lady. We’ll keep it till then. Go on home. And be available when we want you.” To Hannegan he said: “Let them all go, except Wade and his stooge. Get names and addresses.”

As Hannegan and Mrs. Wade departed, I drifted over to one of the two windows on either side of Bagnell’s desk. It was locked, and from where I stood I could see the other was also. Turning the catch, I raised the window and tested the steel bars that ran the window’s vertical length about six inches apart.

“We tried them all,” Day said behind me.

My window looked out from the back of the building. About twenty yards away the interminable ten-foot iron fence ran parallel to the building’s rear. Beyond the fence lay the parking area, and two brilliant arc lamps suspended over it bathed the massed automobiles in bright glare, casting diffused light this side of the fence clear to my window. Pressing my face between the two center bars, I could see the iron fence continued on beyond the far edge of the building, separating the parking lot from the grassed area behind El Patio, to a point where both the lot and the lawn met heavily underbrushed woods. The fence disappeared in the woods, and from my window I was unable to guess which way it ran from there. But beyond the strip of woods, perhaps fifty yards from the lawned area, I knew the main highway ran.

I moved into the bathroom and switched on the light. Here the window was open, but the same type of bars made it impassable. Peering out, I saw the fence on this side was only about fifteen yards away and had a door-sized gate in it almost directly opposite the bathroom window.

I wondered if the gate were looked, and it occurred to me that ten feet of iron was lots of fence for a murderer to climb in an area partially lighted by arc lamps. Straightening away from the window, I tried to visualize in my mind just how the fence encircled the place. As you faced the front door of El Patio, Bagnell’s office was set in the right rear corner of the building. The iron fence started at the highway about a hundred yards to your left, followed the drive which passed in front of the building until it met the building’s left front corner, started again at the right front corner, and turned at right angles with the drive about fifteen yards farther on. Here it separated the drive from the right flank of the building, again turned sharply left at the parking lot behind El Patio and continued on behind the building until lost in the woods.

I became conscious of Inspector Day peering over his glasses at me from the bathroom door. I glanced casually around the white room, had an idea and lifted the porcelain top of the commode.

Day said: “We looked there.”

I replaced the top, glanced at the washbowl, and then looked closer. The bowl’s inside was wet and several minute, knobby bubbles ringed the outlet drain. I squeezed one flat with a forefinger and rolled the finger against the ball of my thumb.

“Oil,” I said.

Day peered into the bowl, his brow creased, then cleared again. He pointed to a bottle of brilliantine on a shelf over the stand. “Bagnell’s hair slick. There’s nothing in here. We went over every inch of both rooms. What you looking for?”

“Nothing. Just being nosey.”

I returned to the office and looked around. The area near Bagnell’s desk was a mess. Congealed blood matted his desktop, his chair and the rug behind the desk. Even in front of the desk, dark spots polka dotted the floor.

Day said: “He spilled all over everything.”

“Yeah,” I said, then abruptly: “You through with me?”

“Sure. Send in Wade on your way out.”

Fausta, Caramand and Greene still sat in the hall.

Danny leaned casually against the door jamb, a cigarette drooping from his mouth, and the Wade family talked privately a few yards away.

I said: “The inspector wants you, Wade.”

Wade turned toward me as I spoke and his face was flushed and sullen. Mrs. Wade patted his arm and shot a smile at me, her bright lips framing small, flashing teeth.

As Wade entered the office, I asked Fausta why she and the others continued sitting there.

“Inspector Day desires we stay where he can call us,” she said.

“Well, you don’t have to sit in the hall. Come out to the bar and I’ll buy a drink.”

My invitation was confined to Fausta, but everyone except Danny chose to accept. Mrs. Wade linked her right arm through my left, which brought Fausta out of her chair as though it were upholstered with tacks. She grasped my other arm so tightly, I halted and frowned down at her. With her eye corners on Mrs. Wade, she flicked her tongue at me, then relaxed her grip. We went into the bar three abreast, with Vance Caramand and Mouldy Greene trailing behind.

A rapidly diminishing crowd filed out singly as a cop at the door recorded names and addresses. No one at all sat at the bar. I slid onto a bar stool, Mrs. Wade took the one to my left and Fausta moved naturally in between us, smiling up at me vindictively.

I grinned down at her, crooked my finger at the man behind the bar and ordered five drinks. None of us said anything while the bartender put together our order. When it was served, Mrs. Wade raised her glass to me.

“To new acquaintances.”

We all raised our glasses and Fausta said: “To old acquaintance.”

We drank to both.

Mrs. Wade asked: “Could I talk to you privately sometime, Mr. Moon?”

“On purely business?” Fausta wanted to know, and she smiled her sweetest sulphuric smile.

“On purely business,” Mrs. Wade assured her. Her eyes lingered innocently on Fausta, then returned to me. “You’re a private detective, aren’t you, Mr. Moon?”

“My license says so.”

“When could I see you — on purely business?”

“Tomorrow.” I passed her a card. “My fiat is my office and I’m usually awake by noon.”

“I’ll be there at one.” She slipped the card into her purse and smiled sidewise at Fausta.

Fausta moved around to my right, dug her elbow into Mouldy Greene’s side and climbed onto the stool he suddenly vacated.

“Me, you never invite to your flat,” she hissed in my ear.

“You’re too young,” I hissed back.

Her dark eyes snapped, but a demure smile curved her lips as she quietly gouged a spike heel into my instep. I grinned down at her, undisturbed. She had chosen my aluminum foot.