Recipe for Homicide, page 20
“Frankie,” he called softly.
There was no answer but the voice of the warehouse, a special murmuring sound, softer than the din of the kitchens, a lonely voice that was almost lost in the vastness of the hangarlike structure. The soup cartons were rumbling across the twilight under the roof of the warehouse, pitching from their conveyor belts into spiral cages, twisting and turning as they cascaded down out of the gloom, spinning the rollers that lined the spirals.
Somewhere at the foot of the spirals men were working, perhaps a hundred yards, perhaps only fifty yards away, stacking the cases, but Gilmore could not see them. He wondered how Frankie Froley had expected him to find her in this maze. He had not realized until now, when he was seeking someone, that it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction, once away from the main avenues between the great pyramids. It was a labyrinth of cardboard walls.…
He began threading the dim maze. Frankie must have had some plan in mind when she suggested No. 1 Warehouse as a meeting place. Probably she was in the vicinity of the plant when she had phoned to Barbara to relay the message that she could not keep her rendezvous at the Anchor. Obviously, she had discovered that she was being followed again—which would explain her choice of the warehouse. Knowing the topography of No. 1, she would see the possibility of losing her follower among the shadowy walls and towers of stacked cartons. And once free again, she could watch for Gilmore from some hidden point of vantage. That was probably it. Frankie was doubtless waiting in some corner that commanded the approaches to the main entrance.
Gilmore started his methodic exploration of the sinuous byways nearest the entrance. He walked slowly, peering into the murk, stopping occasionally. At the sixth stop, he did not start walking again immediately. A sudden numbing doubt seemed to paralyze his legs. Suppose Frankie was not waiting in some dark corner for him? Or if she was waiting, suppose she was not alone? Suppose he had sauntered blithely into a trap? Suppose Bayliss for reasons of his own was preparing to remedy the little matter of elimination which the dynamite had failed to accomplish, the day of Peggy’s funeral…?
Well, there was no turning back now. It would not be the first mistake Gilmore had made in his life; he could do no more than take every precaution that it should not be his last. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets, although he knew he would not feel the comforting touch of metal. He resumed his zigzagging between the beetling cliffs of cardboard.
At the next jog he stumbled, caught himself, took a long step to avoid falling on the soft, yielding object that had briefly anchored his instep. He turned—and looked down at the inert figure of Frances Froley.
Frankie was lying on her side, her silken legs parted scissor-wise, and her black voile mourning skirt billowed up about her white thighs. One high-heeled shoe lay two yards away, as though it had been kicked off. Her face was half obscured by the dark disorder of her hair. The top of her dress had been ripped down the front, exposing most of her bosom. Gilmore could guess where she had been carrying the letter—if there had been a letter.
“Frankie,” he said.
There was no response. He bent down to touch her bare shoulder. It was warm, but of course it should be if she had telephoned Barbara less than half an hour before. He brushed the hair from her face. There was a long, dark, ugly welt on her forehead. He slipped one arm under her shoulders. He could detect no sign of breathing.
“Frankie,” he repeated.
Her closed eyelids did not move. He leaned closer, touched her parted lips.
Suddenly he stiffened, straightened up. Something hard and round had been jabbed against the small of his back.
“Hello, Bayliss,” Gilmore did not turn his head. “Aren’t you going to thank me for being such a sap—for making things nice and easy for you?”
“Don’t move your hands,” ordered a voice behind him. It was a low-pitched, well-modulated voice, scarcely more than a whisper, but it spoke with the cold authority of command. “Sorry it has to end like this, Gilmore.”
XXV
When Barbara Wall hung up after relaying Frances Froley’s message to Gilmore, she made a face at the telephone. Then she glanced at her miniature wristwatch, noted that it was already past five o’clock, and began the ritual of powdering her nose and retouching her lips and cheeks. With curled fingers she verified the edges of her hair-do, took a final look into the mirror of her compact, and pronounced herself satisfactory.
As she emerged from her eighth-floor cubicle, her secretary said: “Mr. Quirk called, Miss Wall. He said the reporters are all ready waiting in the green conference room. And Mr. Remington just came by but—”
“I’m late, June,” Barbara said. “But you won’t have to wait for me. Go on home now.”
The green conference room was crowded with newspapermen. Not only were the Northbank reporters out in force, but there were trained seals from all the wire services and from a number of Chicago, New York, and Cleveland papers. It was an imposing press conference, and Barbara handled it imposingly. She made a smiling entrance and took her seat at the head of the long table with complete self-assurance.
“Let me say right at the start, boys,” she said, “that there are absolutely no developments since yesterday. But if you have any questions, I’ll try to answer them for you.”
“What’s Max Ritter doing in New York?” asked the Journal.
“Lieutenant Ritter works for the police department, not Barzac. I suggest you ask the police department that question.”
“Where’s Bob Gilmore?”
“On vacation.”
“Does he get the bounce when he gets back, or has he already got the bad news?” asked the Tribune reporter.
“I don’t know what plans the Barzac management has for Mr. Gilmore,” Barbara said. “I’ll be glad to inquire and fill you in tomorrow.”
“Why did you tip off the papers about Gilmore being married to that dancer—so he’d get the bounce and you’d fall into his job?” The Tribune man laughed knowingly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Barbara coldly.
“Sure you do,” the Tribune man persisted. “You’re the one who called up the Trib the other night and spilled the beans about Gilmore and the Moroccan dancer and that French book.”
“I,” said Barbara categorically, “did nothing of the kind. You’re completely mistaken. Completely.”
“Look, sister, I’m the one you were talking to. I’d know your voice in a million—the way you pronounce ‘Gilmore,’ for instance. You have a very distinctive R.”
“You say I called the Tribune, personally, Friday night?”
“Sure,” said the Tribune reporter. “That is, some man called the city desk, and said he had a woman with a very interesting angle on the Barzac story. The city desk passed the call to me, and you came on with the story of Gilmore and Zina or whatever her name was. You never did give me the spelling on that name, and we had to get it from New York. Why didn’t you answer my questions, anyhow? Why did you hang up so suddenly?”
“I wasn’t on the phone, I tell you.”
“Tut, tut, sister,” said the Tribune. “You began by saying, ‘Didn’t you know about Bob Gilmore’s mysterious wife? I thought everybody knew he was married to a belly-dancer named Zina Chergui.’ And when I asked you to spell it, you went right on talking. You said, ‘Zina was a refugee from Spanish Morocco, and the romance developed out of a book he brought her from France—a copy of Rousseau’s Émile—so some of his friends kidded him about marrying an underground network. They weren’t really serious then, but—
“Are there any more questions?” Barbara interrupted. She had paled abruptly, and she clasped her slender fingers tightly together on the table in front of her so they would not tremble. She even managed a smile, although it was a taut, grim smile. Before anyone could answer, she was on her feet. She nodded graciously. “Then that’s all today, boys.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” said a reporter at the end of the table. “What about—?”
“I think,” Barbara broke in, “that I can promise you an important break in your story within the next hour. You may stay here if you want. In any event, I suggest you keep in touch with Mr. Evans.”
Barbara stalked out with all the dignity she could muster. She continued stalking all the way across the eighth floor, and stalked right past Mr. Evans’s secretary.
“Just a moment, Miss Wall,” the secretary said. “Mr. Evans is in conference. If you’ll just wait—”
But Barbara didn’t wait. She burst into the holy of holies to interrupt the general manager in the midst of a sentence he was addressing to Mr. Quirk.
“Mr. Evans,” she announced. “I’m quitting.”
“Sit down, please, Miss Wall. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I’m resigning. I’m leaving Barzac. I’m through.”
“Please sit down, Miss Wall. You’re upset about something.…”
“Upset?” Barbara laughed hysterically. “That’s the master understatement of all time.”
“I was just telling Mr. Quirk,” said Mr. Evans, trying desperately to establish an atmosphere of calm and reason, “that you were acquitting yourself extremely well in the position of responsibility which was suddenly thrust upon you. You surely can’t think of leaving us in the midst of a major crisis?”
“Can’t I?” Barbara shouted. “Well, I’m doing it. In fact, I’ve done it. I’m washed up.”
“Miss Wall, if there’s anything wrong—”
“Wrong? Don’t make me laugh. I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do about it now, but there’s plenty I can do, and I’m doing it. I’m not going to be played for a sucker. I won’t be used to do somebody else’s dirty work. And if you don’t know what I mean, you’re stupider than I think. Maybe you are just stupid—as stupid as I’ve been—but I doubt it. Anyhow, that’s your problem. My own problem is to guard whatever integrity I’ve got left—to try to get back what I’ve lost.”
Calvin Quirk put in his two cents’ worth. “Think it over for a fortnight, Miss Wall,” he said. “You can give us your two weeks’ notice now if you like, and at the end of that time if you decide—”
“I’ve decided now!” shouted Barbara. “Don’t you understand? Now. As of today. The day before yesterday. Last week. I’ve quit.”
Barbara stormed out, her cheeks flushed. Mr. Evans and Mr. Quirk looked at each other. Neither had ever heard Barbara raise her voice before. And neither, obviously, could understand why an attractive and ambitious young girl would want to throw a plush-lined job in their faces with only a cryptic explanation.
Barbara was still pink with anger when she reached Bart Remington’s office, four doors away.
“Mr. Remington’s not here,” his secretary said. “Didn’t you see him? He left for your office fifteen minutes ago. I thought he’d still be with you.”
“I must have missed him,” Barbara said. “I—” She stopped short, remembering something her own secretary had said. The angry flush disappeared from her cheeks. Her expression changed. Her eyes were frightened.
She hurried to her own cubicle. Her secretary had gone. She picked up the phone and called Captain Kavlik of the Guard Force.
“This is Barbara Wall, Captain,” she said confidently, just as though she had not just severed her connection with Barzac forever. “Will you take enough men to No. 1 Warehouse to watch every exit, right away? Tell them to let nobody in or out till I get there. Nobody. I’ll explain when I see you, Captain. I’ll be at the main entrance in five minutes.”
She next called the police station, but was informed that Lieutenant Ritter was still out of town. He was due back this evening. Any minute, in fact …
Barbara dialed Pasteur Hospital and asked for Dr. Coffee.
The pathology laboratory of Pasteur Hospital was a bustling, studious and jubilant place late that same afternoon. The bustle involved the entire staff; the study was largely the province of Dr. Coffee, checking the results of numerous tests performed by his Hindu resident, Dr. Motilal Mookerji; the jubilation was, for the moment, an exclusive manifestation on the part of Dr. Mookerji.
Dr. Mookerji was busily waddling back and forth between his workbench and Dr. Coffee’s desk, carrying such objects as green-stained blotting paper, test tubes, and glass slides to be slipped under the pathologist’s microscope.
“Am now ultra-positive,” the Hindu declared, “that suspicious substance recovered from edge of tire-tool is fatal residue from blood of unfortunate ex-member of human race. Please observe.”
Dr. Coffee glanced at the greenish stains on the blotting paper. “You know, of course, Doctor,” he said, “that the benzidine test is not conclusive. Fresh fruit will give you the same reaction as fresh blood.”
“Precisely,” Dr. Mookerji agreed. “Therefore, to avoid confusion caused by homicidal murderer smacking tire-tool against ripe cantaloupe instead of head of deceased Froley have doublecross-checked with Teichmann test.” He slid an oblong of thin glass under the nose of Dr. Coffee’s microscope and switched on the light beam. “Kindly observe brownish hemin crystals,” he said. “Medium power, please.”
“You’ve got the crystals, all right,” said Dr. Coffee, squinting into the binocular lenses. “Are you sure, Doctor, that no fabric has come into contact with your stains? Because indigo dyes will also give you similar rhombic crystals.”
“Quite,” said the Hindu, changing the slide. “Consequently have triple-cross-checked by means of suspension in saline solution, which allows perception of red cells, via microscope. Do you confirm findings, Doctor Sahib?”
Dr. Coffee gave a noncommittal grant. He was still twisting the focusing knobs when Max Ritter entered the laboratory, dropped his traveling bag on the floor, and delivered a friendly but enthusiastic slap to that portion of Doris Hudson which protruded beyond the edge of the stool on which she sat while labeling paraffin blocks. An outraged squeal from Doris made the pathologist look up.
“Maxi” he said. “I didn’t expect you before tonight.”
“I made an earlier plane,” the detective said. “Get my wire?”
“I didn’t quite understand your code,” said Dr. Coffee, “but I gathered you were quite pleased with yourself.”
“You have no doubt been enjoying successful manhunting, Leftenant,” said Dr. Mookerji.
“On my side, it’s buttoned up tight,” Ritter said. “The guy’s got seven different brokerage accounts, and he’s been buying Barzac shares like mad with all of ’em since yesterday noon—on margin, naturally. The brokers all had different instructions so they wouldn’t all be buying at once and send the stock back up too fast. What gives in this precinct?”
“We’ve been rolling up votes for your candidate while you were away, Max,” Dr. Coffee said. “In fact, I think Dr. Mookerji’s got enough evidence to elect your man to the chair.”
“Nice going,” Ritter said. “Where’d you get it, Swami? From the man’s pants?”
Dr. Mookerji’s pink turban described negative arcs. “Excepting for trousers of late deceased Mr. Froley,” he said, “search of clothing proved most unfruitful.”
“Checking the automobiles did it,” Dr. Coffee said. “Dustings from one trunk compartment gave us not only pollen and fragments from the Matilija poppy, which pretty well establishes the car as having carried Froley’s body to the cannery, but it also gave us a blood-stained tire-tool. I don’t know yet if we’ll be able to get enough cells from the stain to type the blood, but—”
“Telephone, Doctor,” Doris Hudson interrupted. “A Miss Wall from the Barzac cannery on two. She says it’s urgent.”
Dr. Coffee said “Yes!” into the phone a few times, then: “He just came back. Certainly. I’ll bring him along.” Turning to Ritter, he said gravely: “Better call your shop and get a few prowl cars headed for the Barzac plant, Max. The soup is boiling over.”
XXVI
A man about to die, according to legend, reviews his entire life in his last remaining seconds. Gilmore was aware of the imminence of death, but his thoughts went back no further than ten seconds—or was it ten weeks or ten years?—when he had felt the muzzle of a gun jammed against his spine. Even the shock of surprised recognition when the man with the gun had spoken dissolved instantly into the greater immediacy. His entire consciousness seemed concentrated on the small circle of pressure against his back, a circle that could explode at the slightest contraction of a murderer’s finger, to blow him into eternity.
When the explosion did not come immediately, Gilmore’s awareness expanded to include a great lump of cold in the pit of his stomach, a great and humiliating weakness in all his joints, and a great dryness of his throat and mouth. The dryness touched off an overweening desire for a tall, stiff drink, which in turn made him think incongruously of the six cans of beer he had put into his refrigerator that morning. Then, all in the space of seconds, he felt terribly ashamed of having been on the point of surrender without even putting up a fight. He leaned back a trifle against the gun at his back.
“Listen, Stupid,” he said, when he could liberate his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “If you pull that trigger, you’re sunk. They’ll find you with a gun in your hand and two more corpses to explain.”
He leaned back a little more, trying to remember the judo tricks a tough sergeant had once taught him in North Africa.
“Who’ll find me?” asked the man with the gun.
Gilmore doubled up abruptly, so that the muzzle of the gun was suddenly pushing against nothing. The man with the gun, thrown off balance, pitched forward. Gilmore sprang, half turned to grab the gun. The muzzle spewed flame and thunder into the half light of the warehouse. Hot metal burned Gilmore’s hand, and his muscles relaxed involuntarily. The gun barrel tore through his fingers and immediately crashed down across the top of his skull.
Gilmore was on his knees once more. He raised his hands automatically to protect his head. The steel club smashed through his fingers, struck again and again. Gilmore folded quietly, his ears ringing with a queer, irrational cacophony. He seemed to hear Barbara’s voice, the thwack-thwack of a woodchopper, the faint howl of sirens, and the eternal rumble of conveyor belts.… The ensuing silence was very dark indeed.
