Whistle Past the Graveyard [= Give the Girl a Gun]

Chapter Fourteen

I think Bubbles planned on making the rounds when we left El Patio, but I took her straight home.

It was only a little after ten when we arrived at her apartment door. She seemed a trifle chagrined that we weren’t going to make a night of it, but not angry enough to stop crowding me.

“You’re not much fun,” she said, wrinkling her nose at me.

“Old men usually aren’t. What you need is some young hepoat with stamina.”

I gave her a paternal kiss on the forehead and left her in front of her apartment door.

It was around ten-thirty when I slipped my key into my own door. As I pushed the door shut behind me, I simultaneously reached out for the wall switch to my right. The result was that when light sprang into the room, I had one arm out at a right angle to my body and the other behind me with the palm pressed against the door.

“Just hold that position,” said the slim young man who had been waiting in the dark in my favorite easy chair.

He couldn’t have been older than twenty-two and he had a thin, sharp-nosed face whose length was emphasized by lank black hair worn full across the temples in the manner of actors. Lips, oddly full for that long face, curled in a condescending smile. His dress was razor sharp and in his right hand he held a light blue Homburg.

In his left, he held a .22-caliber Woodsman Colt automatic.

I held my awkward position while he came lazily to his feet, set the Homburg on his head at a rakish angle and moved forward to pat my pockets and feel underneath my arms. He held the muzzle of his pistol an inch from my nose while he made this investigation.

“Not heeled, huh?” he said, stepping back. “Okay, you can drop them.”

Letting my arms drop to my sides, I examined him carefully. I had never seen him before, but I had met his type many times, usually in police line-ups.

He let me look him over thoroughly, a mocking light in his eyes, then said in a deliberately quiet voice, “Turn around and open the door again.”

When I hesitated the barest fraction of a second, his trigger finger instantly began to whiten. The small bore was centered accurately between my eyes and the gun was steady as a rock.

I turned then, quickly but without abrupt movement. It wasn’t necessary for him to elaborate orally, because that warning convinced me that if he didn’t get instant obedience to his commands, he would put a bullet through my head without hesitation.

When he glanced past me and saw the hall was empty, he said, “Start moving.”

I went out into the hall. Behind me he switched off the light and closed the door. With my captor only a pace to the rear, I went down the half flight of steps and outdoors. Usually I prefer a quiet neighborhood, but tonight I mentally cursed the location of my apartment house. The only person in sight was a half block away and walking in the opposite direction.

“Across the street,” my abductor said.

Our destination was a dark blue Chrysler coupé parked directly across from the apartment building. He urged me around to the curb side of the car, which required passing behind it. For no particular reason except that I make a habit of mentally recording such information, I noted the license number was X-17-304-G.

At the gunman’s direction I slid under the wheel.

“It doesn’t need a key,” he said. “Just start it up.”

So much for my careful noting of the license number, I thought. No key being required meant a wire bridge across the ignition lock, which in turn meant a stolen car.

I examined the gun in his lap. It was pointing steadily at my right ear. “You sure you’ve got the right guy?”

“The description fits and the right name was on the apartment door. There couldn’t be two as ugly as you living in the same flat, could there? What’s your name?”

“Reginald Walsh. You should see my apartment mate, Manny Moon, if you think I’m ugly.”

He gave me an indulgent grin. “Just start the car, Mr. Moon.”

Then as he idly flicked on and off his gun’s safety, I pressed the starter. “Where to?”

“Head for the river road and turn north. I’ll direct you from there.”

We had been moving in the direction of the river road about five minutes before I ventured, “Any reason you can’t tell me what this is all about?”

“Nope,” he said. “Somebody who don’t like you wants you out of circulation.”

“Permanently?”

“I don’t think he’d care much. Not necessarily, if you behave. I got sort of free rein about that.”

I drove in silence for a few moments more, then asked, “Decided whether or not you’re going to make it permanent?”

He shook his head. “You decide that. By how you behave, like I said.”

“And if I behave?”

“We just hole up for a couple of weeks. I hope you brought some money along. I like to play gin rummy.”

“Who is it that wants me out of circulation?”

“The chamber of commerce. They think you’re an eyesore to the city. Now just shut up and drive.”

So I shut up and drove. When we reached the river road, I turned north as instructed and continued to drive.

We rode in silence for another five miles, then my guide abruptly ordered me to turn right onto a secondary gravel road. After a mile of this we turned into a dirt lane which ran about two hundred yards before it ended at an isolated cabin on stilts not fifty feet from the river bank.

“Park right under the cottage,” my abductor said.

As were most summer cabins along the river, this one was on stilts because of the annual spring floods. Beneath it was a carport just large enough to receive the Chrysler.

A Wooden stairway led from the carport up into the cottage. Still under my captor’s gun, I climbed the stairs. Just before we started up, he flicked a switch at the bottom of the steps which illuminated a small bulb at the top.

When I stopped before the closed door at the top, he said, “See if it’s open.”

Trying the knob, I shook my head. He handed me a slim key. “This is a skeleton key,” I said. “It’ll work. Just open the door.”

The door had an old-fashioned lock and the skeleton key opened it easily. Apparently my captor was not only covering his identity by using a stolen car, he was even using a stolen cabin. He seemed to be familiar with it, but the skeleton key made me suspect the place’s owner had no idea his cabin was being used as a kidnaper’s hideout.

The cabin’s interior contained a large kitchen, two small bedrooms and a bathroom. The furnishings were about average for a summer place, mostly discards from some home. The stove was an old coal burner, as the place had no gas, but there was an electric refrigerator. It was ancient, but it ran when my companion turned on its switch.

Glancing through the open bedroom doors, I saw that each was furnished with an old-fashioned brass bed, a double one in one room and a single in the other.

“Not much to look at,” my companion said, “but at least it’s got electricity and running water. That’s your room.” He pointed his gun toward the bedroom containing the single bed.

“You might have let me bring along a toothbrush,” I said. “And am I supposed to wear this dinner jacket for two weeks?”

He snapped the fingers of his free hand. “I forgot to have you bring up the luggage. I packed you a suitcase and stowed it in the Chrysler before you came home. Guess we’ll have to go back downstairs again.”

He motioned with his gun, and I went back down to the car with him following. In the car trunk I found two suitcases, one of which I recognized as my own. Staggering upstairs with them, I dumped his on the kitchen floor and took my own into the bedroom he had indicated. He watched while I opened it on the bed and checked the contents.

He had done a good job of packing, even remembering pajamas. In addition to toilet equipment, socks, shirts and underwear, he had included an old pair of slacks, a couple of sweat shirts and a light jacket, more suitable attire for a summer camp than the dinner jacket I was wearing.

Then in the bottom of the suitcase I found two pairs of handcuffs. All four links were open and there were no keys in evidence. Apparently my abductor had the keys in his pocket.

“What are these for?” I asked.

“I found them in one of your dresser drawers,” he told me. “Thought they might come in handy. Just throw them on the bed.”

Tossing the twin pairs of cuffs on the bed, I said, “I can’t just call you Hey You for two weeks. What’s your name?”

“Just call me Al, pal.”

I looked at my watch and saw it was now nearly midnight. “Mind if I go to bed?”

“Suit yourself,” he said indifferently.

I sat on the far side of the bed with my back to him while I undressed and slid into pajamas. In that position AI was unable to see that I had a false right leg. I didn’t conceal it deliberately, because I am not sensitive about my missing limb. I just happened to sit that way. But as I slipped on the pajama bottoms, it again occurred to me that quite possibly whoever had hired Al either did not know, or had not informed Al, my right leg is detachable below the knee. Thoughtfully eying the two pairs of handcuffs lying on the bed next to me, I decided there might be some advantage in keeping my infirmity a secret.

I kept my socks on, which effectively concealed the fact that my right foot is aluminum.