THE KILLER, page 2
He stood blinking in the 'light, white and blinding after the mellow lamps of the house above. Fluorescent tubes in the ceiling banished all shadow and reflected their brilliance off yellow plaster walls. The booming reverberation echoed everywhere in the long low room. The noise came from a punching bag. Farrow looked around at the wall exercisers and parallel bars and rowing machine and rubbing table in the cellar gymnasium. He grinned broadly.
For there was nothing strange about the man who battered the punching bag with practiced strokes. He was big, older than Farrow, and showing it far more than he had two years ago, although his crisp hair had been iron-gray then too. Still muscular, his body betrayed his sedentary life by a thickness of waist and thighs, and by an office pallor offset by the week-end tan on his arms and on his blunt face, drawing to a V shape below the creases of his throat. Tonight his shoulders had a weary curve that Farrow had never seen before.
He looked over at the sound of the door sliding shut and he stopped hitting the bag at once. His black eyebrows shot up and a grin as broad as Farrow's carved his face, making it younger. He said with obvious pleasure, “Jacob!”
“Hello, Walt,” said Farrow. “I didn't expect it'd be you. I didn't realize you might be a reference for yourself.”
Walter Stennis plodded over to him, stripping off his knuckle glove to shake hands. His shoulders seemed to straighten, an obscure bitterness fading from his eyes. They both put power into the handclasp and warmth too, a pair of big men, friends sizing each other up after a long absence. Farrow wondered if the two years showed on him as heavily as they showed on Stennis.
Stennis rumbled, still holding onto Farrow's hand, “Jacob, no use going into how delighted I am to see you. And how grateful that you've come so far.”
“If I'd known you were the client, I'd have come faster.” Farrow chuckled, shook his head. “No I'm afraid not. I couldn't have. That fellow of yours—”
“Osher?” Stennis laughed and pounded his shoulder affectionately. “Amazing specimen, isn't he? Only person I've ever trusted completely. I knew he'd bring you.”
“He can certainly keep his mouth shut.”
“Orders, Jacob—and Osher always follows orders. I couldn't chance any rumors getting started. Come on, let's go upstairs. There's plenty to talk about.”
He picked up his robe and draped it over his shoulders like a fighter. They went upstairs, Stennis leading. He said over his shoulder, “How's everything in the bush these days?”
“Nothing's changed since you were there, Walt.”
“God, how I envy you, knowing that everything'll be the same one day to the next. This country's a madhouse, Jacob, and I'm not fooling.” They crossed the central hall and started up the great mahogany staircase. Stennis lowered his voice. “I'd like to have you meet Mrs. Stennis too. I've told you about her. But right now—well, she's not meeting people.”
Farrow thought of the woman in black who had peered at him over the banister. He said, “How's that boy of yours?”
Stennis climbed two more steps before he answered. When he spoke his voice was metallic with the effort to control it. “He's dead.”
Farrow didn't say anything more. They went along the second-floor hall to a door that opened into a large bedroom. Stennis turned on the light and said, “Sit down and make yourself comfortable. You'll find liquor in the cabinet there. Be right with you.” He went Into the adjoining bathroom and the shower began to run.
Farrow poured himself a long gin and stretched out in a big chair before the corner fireplace. He tried to enjoy the goodness of relaxing, tried not to think about Steven Stennis, who had died in his thirties, and younger than himself. He decided it must have been heart trouble; he'd heard it was a common death in big business. “Too damn bad,” he muttered, “Damn shame for both of them, Walt and his boy.” He drank. The gin was good; Stennis always had the best there was. He rubbed his feet together. The unfamiliar oxfords cramped, his toes and he longed for his boots.
Stennis came out of the bathroom, his body nude and slightly pink from a rough toweling. For the first time Farrow noticed the purple welt, like a. burn, under his left arm. Stennis talked in spurts while he dressed in a black suit. Farrow guessed he was forcing out words to screen his feelings.
“Maybe you think it's odd to find me down in the gym at this tune of night,” said Stennis. He was tying his tie, badly. “But, honest to God, my time isn't even halfway my own any more. Business is down to the level of a dogfight, and what scraps are left over the government wants.”
“I had an idea you're working too hard, Walt.”
“There's no choice. Oh, I admit I've overextended myself the last couple of years, but who hasn't? You have to gamble to win. I took a bad fall on that rear-engine auto deal—don't worry, Jacob, I won't numb you with the sad details—but I didn't know what worrying was until I got up to my neck in Stennisfab.”
“What kind of a thing is that?” '
“Well, you wouldn't know it, you lucky foreigner, but there's a housing shortage in this country. Credit and materials are down, expenses are sky-high. But everybody wants a home and anybody who figures a way to deliver the goods—mass production, I mean—and still make a small profit per unit will be sitting pretty. I think I've got the answer. Standardization down to the last nail and a new kind of prefabrication. That's Stennisfab. Come on, let's go.”
Farrow had been on the verge of removing his shoes. Now he got up, surprised. “Certainly. Where?”
“Downtown. To the office.” Stennis picked up the thread of his conversation as they headed down the. staircase. “Well, to make it brief, I've tied up everything in this mass-home proposition, trying to get government backing. I think I'm about over the hump. But that's what's been eating at me, Jacob. That—and the other.”
“What other?”
When Stennis didn't answer, Farrow remembered he was in a house of mourning and growled at his own. clumsiness. They crossed the central hall and he got a look into the game room as they passed the door. He saw a buffalo head and an elk head in the quick glimpse. The buff he had tracked himself and the elk must have come from Canada, where Stennis hunted in alternate years. Then they were going out the front door, and under the lamps Stennis' damp gray hair shone like a tiara in contrast to his somber clothes.
The Lincoln Continental stood where Osher had left it. Stennis had his own keys. He grunted in satisfaction when he-saw Farrow's gun case on the back seat. He started the. car and then, remembering, fished a pair of horn-rimmed glasses out of his pocket and put them on. He gave Farrow a sidelong glance, slightly shamefaced. “I just need them for driving and reading. Getting old, Jacob.”
“It happens.”
“Not to you. You haven't changed a bit, damn you.. You'll never know how I wish I'd lived your life.”
Farrow snorted amusement. “Walt, you enjoy hunting money fully as much as any other kind of game. Why not? You're more all-around and complicated than I am. Perhaps you're living twice as much, two lives actually.”
“Shouldn't one be enough for anybody?”
“It's a good thing for us lazy hunters that fellows like you can't be satisfied. I'd just let the world stand still.” Stennis let out the clutch and the Lincoln began to roll down the driveway. “Yes,” he said soberly. “That's what I insist. That's why I need you now. Jacob. I haven't been satisfied for the last two weeks.”
They drove down the slope again, toward downtown and the river port. Farrow was content to let the older man choose the proper time for a full explanation. He gazed back up at the crest of the hill where the huge. French chateau that was the state capitol loomed over the city. And beside it was a whole tower of state offices, windows going up and up. “Always reminds me of the high places in the Bible,” said Stennis. They cruised by the larch groves of Washington Park, and a fleeting memory of African nights reminded Farrow that he was a stranger in a strange land.
The commercial streets of Albany were nearly deserted now. Only the street lamps and the occasional glow of a bar or restaurant front hadn't succumbed to the approaching midnight. They parked at a corner where the street names read State and Pearl. Across the way was a mammoth brick spire of offices and stores. The building Stennis approached was smaller, however, only seven stories. Farrow looked up and saw the name carved in granite for all time. Stennis Building.
The street floor on the Pearl Street side belonged exclusively to the Sunhill Building & Loan Corporation. Farrow decided there had been an accident not too long ago, because the gleaming frontage of plate glass still had manufacturer's labels on it. Stennis punched impatiently at a call button by the main entrance, grilled for the night. Presently, by the security lights inside, they saw a man in a gray uniform approach cautiously, his hand on his pistol butt. When he made out Stennis' face he opened the doors and the grille quickly.
“Sorry, Mr. Stennis, I didn't know—”
“That's all right, Ben. We'll be in the building a while.”
The guard nodded and stared curiously at Farrow as Stennis led him across the marble floor of the main banking room, lined with tellers' cages on one side and, on the other, a low counter enclosing a herd of important-looking desks. Stennis stopped and pointed. Below one of the tellers' cages there was a white gouge in the black tile wall, like a bloodless wound. The raw scar exposed some new electrical conduit.
“In line of duty,” said Stennis with no humor.
The new front window, the gouged tile wall . . . Farrow began to understand. “You've had a robbery here, is that it?”
“More like a raid.” Stennis' voice, though low, boomed through the lofty room. “Come on in here.” He ushered Farrow back to a wide marble corridor that ended in a steel fence; through the bars could be seen the massive door of the main vault. On both sides of the corridor were executive offices, four of them, with glass doors and gleaming glass windows to the floor. It was something like an aquarium. But the office nearest the steel fence no longer had a window, only lengths of scrap lumber nailed in place. The gold-lettered name on the door was Steven W. Stennis, President.
Slowly, his lips together in a thin hard line, Walter Stennis reached out and opened the door. He stepped into the office but made no move toward the light switch. A little illumination filtered down the vault corridor and between the boards covering the shattered window. Tiny stripes of the dim glow fell across the massive desk and leather conference chairs, touched the big portrait of the elder Stennis that hung on the wall. The father had aged again, in minutes. Farrow stood beside him, waiting silently.
Stennis murmured, “I founded all this. This was his office.” He was mute again for a while. ''Sometimes he disappointed me. Sometimes he went beyond my expectations. I guess he was about like any son—something of me in him, something of himself.”
“I'm sorry, Walt.”
“Sit down, Jacob. I wanted you to see it, to hear the story here.” Stennis seemed short of breath suddenly. “Here is where I saw him killed.”
Farrow sat down in the gloom. The leather chair sighed under his weight. He said quietly, “I'm ready to listen when you're ready to speak. But I can wait.”
Stennis shook his head. He walked around behind the desk and slumped in his son's chair. “It'll be two weeks ago tomorrow—Monday, April sixteenth.” He paused as if the date had caught in his throat. Then he spoke steadily and softly. “Three o'clock in the afternoon; a little before, because they hadn't closed the doors yet. Business was heavy at closing time, particularly on a Monday, people crowding in at the last minute to deposit the weekend take. The vault was open to put the day's receipts away. Two cars double-parked out front; that isn't anything unusual either. There were three men in one, two men in the other. Understand, Jacob, I didn't see all this myself. A lot of it I found out afterward, from the witnesses and the police.
“This Vault corridor was nearly deserted. The other officials were out front. Only Steven was in his office here. And myself. I'd come downstairs—my own offices are up top—to argue some investments with Steven. That's how I used up his last minutes on earth, God forgive me—arguing. We were going at it hot and heavy and the first thing we knew was the shotgun going off out in the main room. That was to put the alarm system out of commission. You saw the hole in the tile. They knew just where to hit it, one of the few signs of planning they showed.
“Three men had come into the bank. Two of them had pistols and the third one carried the shotgun. The other two stayed with the oars. They're known as the Bocock gang. The three who came in were Clel Bocock himself, his right-hand man, Vito Duccone, and a crazy hophead called Mouse Egan. Egan was the one with the shotgun. Oh, yes, Bocock and Duccone also carried traveling bags. The whole gang was already wanted for another raid, the same pattern, over in Pennsylvania last month. They're throwbacks, Jacob, atavisms. Like Dillinger, except they don't seem to plan as well as Dillinger. Maybe more like Jesse James, although I don't know much about him. Bocock's bunch doesn't give a damn about concealment. They just strike and hit hard and throw such a scare into everybody that nobody moves—and then they get away in the confusion afterward. Brute force, not precision.
“Well, I just sat here when they shot out the alarm system, not understanding what was going on. Steven caught on right away, though. Maybe, being here all the time, he'd thought about robbery more than I had. He grabbed his pistol out of his desk drawer and ran to the door. Clel Bocock was coming along the corridor, heading for the open vault, casual as you please. He had the traveling bag in his left hand, but his right was empty. He hadn't even drawn his gun. He wore it in a holster on his hip just like an old-time badman.
“I guess that's what threw Steven, his not even having his gun out. The unexpected. Bocock operates on nerve, not brains. So Steven just stood there for an instant and Bocock crouched and drew and shot him in the face. And I still sat here, Jacob, just where you are. All I thought about was my boy, not Bocock. He didn't see me, didn't even look, simply walked on into the vault. I think he was whistling.
“Steven died quickly. That's one small blessing; he didn't suffer, he didn't know. I tried to pick him up for some reason—I wasn't thinking. Then the pistol fell out of his hand and I saw it and I grabbed it up and went out into the corridor. Clel Bocock was coming out of the vault again by that time. He'd loaded the traveling bag. He saw me and we both fired. That was when the window got smashed.” Stennis paused again. “This is the part I hate to think about, Jacob. All my years with guns and hunting, and when the big thing happened, I didn't make the kill. I think I winged him. I'm sure of it; he was limping when he ran out, according to the witnesses. But his shot was as good as mine. Better. I guess you saw the mark on my left side. Just a graze, off one rib, but it knocked me down. When I could get up again he had run past me and it was too late.
“There was more. Vito Duccone and Mouse Egan heard the shots and Egan let fly with his shotgun. Wounded the floor guard and killed a woman depositor. The usual innocent bystanders. That's the score—two killed, two wounded. Most of the other loss was covered by insurance, of course. About a hundred arid twenty thousand dollars. A little of it was currency that Duccone and Egan collected in the main room. The greatest part of it was negotiable bonds that Bocock was lucky enough to run onto in the vault. Plus a little vault currency and some checks and bonds that wouldn't be any use to them.
“And they got away, Jacob! They killed and wounded and stole and got away clean. Bocock in one car, the rest of his gang in the other. That was two weeks ago.” His voice dropped to a tired whisper. “They're still free.”
Stennis had finished. For a time the shadowy office was silent as a mausoleum. Then Farrow stirred slightly. He said tentatively, a big man embarrassed before a friend's grief, “No need my saying how I feel about it, Walt. You know how I feel about it.”
“Everybody is sorry,” muttered Stennis. He pushed to his feet and suddenly brought his fist down on the desk with a crash. “It isn't enough, Jacob! I want more than sorrow, something stronger than sympathy. My son is dead, but the bastard who killed him isn't.”
“The law will track him. It's certain.”
“Is it? And what then? Suppose the law finally does manage to corner Clel Bocock—what then? Maybe he'll die or maybe he'll only fatten up in some prison. But Steven is dead.” Stennis shook his head savagely. “No, I've seen too many of those sure things fall flat. I swear to God it won't happen this time. That's why I sent for you.”
Farrow was expecting it. He said nothing.
“I sent for you because you're one man in this damned world who never fails at his trade. Resase Modia—I've heard the natives call you that. One Cartridge,” Stennis leaned across his son's desk. “Don't tell me you haven't guessed what I want, Jacob.”
“No, Walt. I've guessed.”
Stennis said it anyway. “I want you to hunt down Clel Bocock. Hunt him down and kill him.”
Chapter Three. SUNDAY, APRIL 29, 12:00 MIDNIGHT
THE SILENCE AFTER that stretched tighter. Stennis broke it by saying softly, “I know it's big to think about. Let's go up. I've got some material you'll want to see.”
Farrow grunted dubiously. The night guard let them out of the banking department of the building through a side door into the State Street foyer, where they rode an elevator up to the top floor. Farrow's forehead was ridged deep in thought and his eyes were distant.
Sunhill Investment Corporation appeared to occupy all of the seventh floor of the Stennis Building. Farrow followed' the older man through a lavish series of connecting offices, reception areas, and conference rooms, all done in blond mahogany and hunting-print wallpaper. But behind Stennis' own executive quarters was a smaller room, almost undecorated and with a single window facing the Hudson River. The only furnishings were a couch, a straight chair, and an old filing cabinet. “My cave,” Stennis explained. “Sort of a hiding place. I come in here to do my private thinking.” It was more to Farrow's taste than anything he'd seen in three days.
