THE KILLER, page 9
Farrow couldn't trust himself to speak. Terese cuddled against him and after a moment she threw back her head and laughed loudly. “Oh-ho, can't you just see Clel as a farmer! That must've griped him. They used to call him Buck Bocock around town here—behind his back, naturally—because he always thought of himself as such a big bad gunman, even when he was a bellhop. I don't think that guy ever missed a cowboy picture.”
“Why did he leave you?” Farrow asked finally. She rubbed her cheek against his to pay for the supposed compliment and then said, “I don't know,” indifferently. “He got in with Vito. Duccone after he came back, breaking into warehouses and other things I didn't have much use for. Clel never liked to stay in one place and so he wandered off and now he's knocking over, banks.”
“You don't seem to care particularly, Terese.”
“Why should I? You got to keep your eye on number one.” Though she lounged in his lap, next to naked, an affectionate arm twined around his neck, she spoke brusquely. Her call-girl routine was forgotten. “Clel never supplied me with anything that any man couldn't Sure, I loved him, but right now I'd love him a lot better dead.” The grin coming over her face was slow and cold. “When Clel baby gets his, then I figure on getting mine. I'll bring this notary-public-marriage out in the open. Terese” Tyler Bocock—the great Clel Bocock's widow. Can't you see the splash that'll make? Personal appearances, and the night-club contracts will really pour in. Because I'll have a reputation then. Be somebody.”
“Why wait? You'd have a reputation now.”
“I'm scared of him,” she said simply. “He's got a mean streak and he might not like me bringing up this bigamy business. He might come back and—not kill me—just scar me up.” She mused, “He's like that. He always did like to slap me around.”
Farrow gently petted the curve of her leg. He said softly, “Then we can help each other, Terese. We both want him dead. Suppose—”
She straightened, suddenly coy. “Jake, I couldn't just up and tell you where he is. That wouldn't look right, Clel's still my husband.” She worked her mouth around on his for a sticky excited moment, then whispered, “But you saw I'm all packed. If that check is big enough I might let you follow me.”
“Exactly how large does big enough—” he began.
And a key grated in the hall door behind them. Farrow swung his head around and his hand darted for the gun beside him. But Terese moved faster. She slid off his lap and sat squarely on the pistol. The crimson jacket slipped up, a tardy answer to whether she wore anything beneath it. She didn't.
Farrow stared into another gun. Raymond Creme was pointing it at him. Behind Creme in the doorway was the familiar blond head of Sam Augustine.
Chapter Eleven. SATURDAY, MAY 5, 11:00 P.M.
WHILE AUGUSTINE LIMPED around the room turning the lights up full, Creme said in a flat tense voice, “Get over against the television there, Farrow. Don't make any funny moves, now.” And to Augustine, “Take his gun, Sam.”
Terese giggled. “Ray, I'm sitting on it.”; Raymond Creme grinned, feeling safer. “I knew that pretty tail of yours would be some good to us. Now put your clothes on. We're late already.”
Terese got up sulkily. “Everybody's in such a hell of a hurry. Another hour and I'd have got him to fork over some more dough.” Farrow stood in front of the console combination. As she swayed into the bedroom, she gave him a small sneer. “Smart like an ox,” she said.
Both the chunky private detective and the big Sam Augustine wore topcoats and hats. Creme held the only gun, a .45 automatic. Augustine went over to the divan, favoring his bad leg, and picked up Farrow's pistol.
Farrow said to Creme, “Then I presume you're Mr. Smith.”
“I signed a telegram that way, yes. I'm the fellow who sent Sam down to Georgia. He's one of my boys—my best. Now if you'd taken my advice, Farrow, and stuck around your hotel—”
“Didn't your doctor advise you to avoid excitement?”
Creme smiled. “Times when it can't be helped. You've got to admit I did my best to avoid this kind of thing but you wouldn't co-operate.” A thoughtful pause. “Or maybe it was Terese. She was supposed to gimmick your champagne.”
He spoke pleasantly enough but, through the open bedroom door, Terese heard the underlying menace. She said quickly and defensively, “Now look, he just wouldn't drink any, honest to God. I took care of his gun, didn't I?” She was pawing through a suitcase for other clothes, nude except for high heels. None of the men paid any attention.
Augustine spoke for the first time. He stood before Farrow, hefting the .38 in his hand. A smile began gradually to lift his silken line of mustache. “That's my boy,” he murmured.
Creme said, “Don't play around, Sam.”
Augustine didn't turn. He studied Farrow. “Nice gun,” he remarked. “Fair trade for mine that you wrecked in the swamp.” He drew back his hand and slapped the barrel above Farrow's ear, at the same spot he had hit him with the blackjack.
Lightning flashed inside Farrow's head and he staggered back with his elbows on the console cabinet, but he didn't fall. He saw a gleam of gold teeth as Augustine laughed. “This is a habit I could get to like.”
Then Creme's voice was telling the blond man to stop it and there were no more blows. When Farrow's vision cleared, Augustine was-leaning against the hall door and Creme was sitting on the divan, his hat beside him, his cropped head bare. Both guns were held steadily at Farrow's middle. Creme said, “Better my way, Sam. We don't want to carry a big load like him down ten flights. I'm not supposed to exert myself.”
“He might fall out of a window. Ever think of that?”
“Sam, grow up,” said Creme disgustedly.
Terese flounced into the room. She had donned garter belt and stockings and panties. “None of that noise, Sam!” she snapped. “Plenty of people saw him come up here with me. I had one close call with Clel and I'm not letting myself in for another.”
Creme said, “You'll let yourself in for a fat lip if you don't get those clothes on.” She retreated, muttering. 'He told Augustine, “But it's better my way, Sam.”
The blond man shrugged. Then he bowed low to Farrow. “Put your jolly old coat, on, what-ho?”
Creme thought that was funny. He went to. the bedroom door and said, “Terese, we're going for a little jaunt with your friend. Say, fifteen minutes each way—which means we'll be back in half an hour. I want you and your luggage in the lobby waiting for us. Understand?”
“All right, all right,” she said sullenly. “I speak English.” Then an anguished yelp. “Goddamn that strap! Why'd it have to break now of all the . . .”
The two men got in back of Farrow and guided him out into the deserted hall. Creme said, “Don't try anything with us. It'll only make the same outcome sooner.” They both carried their hats with their guns inside. Farrow glanced back at Terese Tyler, but she was angrily threading a needle and didn't even look up to see him go. Farrow walked obediently along the hall. He was still dazed, both from the blow and from the abrupt change of circumstances. But at the sight of the elevators his brain began to function again: Plainly he was going to his death and at the moment he was helpless. But he remembered Terese saying, “Plenty of people saw him come up here . . .” Among them was Marget.
Was she still waiting in the lobby below? It was over three hours since he had come upstairs. Had she seen Sam Augustine arrive? Obviously, Augustine had not seen her. If she was still stubbornly waiting and if she put two and two together, Farrow thought she might be of some help to him in his desperate predicament.
Then he thought, Would she want to help me? They rode down silently to the main floor. The questions burning in Farrow's mind didn't get answered. Instead of turning out across the lobby, Creme and Augustine nudged him into a narrow hallway leading to the rear of the hotel. Farrow's heart sank and for a blind moment he held back. Augustine dug in deep with his masked gun and growled, “Just keep walking, Tarzan.” They went out into the night and down some steps into a parking area where a blue Buick sedan waited. The wind had increased in velocity, scudding pieces of newspaper across the asphalt and probing icily through Farrow's clothing. Augustine shivered and put on his hat. There was no one around to see the guns. “Going to snow again, Ray, bet you. Damned if I won't be glad to head out of here. Maybe we'll get a little sunshine out west.”
They got into the sedan, Creme and Farrow in back, Augustine driving with Farrow's pistol in his lap. The blond man wheeled from behind the Pendragon Arms onto Lakeshore Drive, pointing south toward the center of town.
Farrow had no desire to talk. He sat in his corner of the back seat, his eyes roving about, searching for an opening. Creme sat opposite, his .45 low and aimed across his knee, difficult to snatch. But he was keyed up, anxious to keep conversing.
He said, meaning the traffic, “Saturday night's always busy like this.”
Farrow grunted. Creme said, “Frankly, Farrow, I didn't foresee any trouble like this when Stennis first phoned me about you. I thought all this mighty-hunter business was crackpot stuff, a bunch of crap. This morning, even, I couldn't see you as anybody I had to worry about.”
“Yeah?” muttered Augustine from up front. “After I'd told you different? Look at what the bastard did to my leg.”
“But then you tracked down Terese in such an unbelievably short time. So I had to revise my thinking about you. I just can't afford to have you interfere.”
They rolled onto Michigan Avenue, the buildings rising higher on every side. Presently they stopped behind a dam of other cars that waited for the slow-descending drawbridge across the Chicago River. Augustine revved the engine impatiently while they sat on the brink of time. Farrow wanted to try for the door but the other automobiles were packed so close that he was afraid he couldn't open the door far enough to squeeze his body through.
The herd of machines began to move forward again. Creme asked, “What are you thinking about?”
Farrow had watched a police motorcycle hurry by like a false hope. He said, “Some four million people in Chicago, and Walt Stennis had to hire a detective who's working for Bocock.
Creme said, “Oh, I'm not working for Bocock. I'm working for myself. I told you mostly the truth this morning, actually. I want those bonds, Farrow. That's part of my business—securities, lukewarm to hot. And then Vito Duccone is an old friend of mine.”
Across the river, south of Randolph Street, the vista changed. On Creme's side rose the sheer cliff of skyscrapers. But through Farrow's window, the lake side, he could see the formal grass and trees of Grant Park. There were monuments and geometric avenues and lifeless museum buildings too, but it was the sweep of darkened parkland that gave him a thrill of hope. It was open country, his kind of country. He tensed his legs and inched forward on the seat. Creme peered sharply, not certain whether his captive had moved or not-, and Farrow said easily, “Where is Clel Bocock, then?”
Augustine snorted. Creme said, “Well, he isn't in Chicago, that's certain. On the other hand, I wouldn't let it worry you, Farrow. As far as you're concerned, Clel Bocock is ancient history.”
The stream of automobiles was now spaced out on the boulevard and Augustine made the sedan pick up speed. They passed the stone lions of the Art Institute and behind it Farrow could hear the puffing of a switch engine; the Illinois Central right of way ran along a twenty-foot ditch through the park.
Augustine said, “Yes, Farrow another ten minutes and you'll be—” and a taxi popped out of Eleventh Street into their path. Augustine jammed on the brakes. The Buick swerved heavily, throwing Farrow off balance. But then Creme turned his head to shout at the taxi driver and Farrow scrambled for the door handle and leaped.
He rolled on the pavement and bounded up, hearing the Buick's second scream of brakes. He vaulted over the traffic island in the center of the boulevard and raced among horn blasts for the shelter of the park. Behind him, he heard Augustine yelling. But there was no shot. In the shadow of a wind-whipped tree, he paused to take his bearings, fear panting in him. Now he knew what it was like to be hunted. He heard men's feet rasping on the sidewalk. They were coming after him and he had no weapon to match their guns. He crept to another tree, then another, but the few poplars offered little concealment. He had taken cover in a small rectangle of park, three sides bounded by street light. Behind him, toward the lake, was the dark sink of the railroad right of way. He heard Augustine's voice: ”. . . still got him. Move in. . . . “
Farrow broke for the deeper darkness, zigzagging. There was a yell in back of him. He reached the embankment over the tracks. A shot cracked by his right hand. Farrow leaped into space. Ten feet down his feet connected with the dirt slope and he slid the rest of the way, slamming to a halt against the side of an empty cattle car. He crawled under it, looking around for a good hiding place.
He was in the vast pit of the marshaling yards, laced with the steely gleam of tracks. To the south was the grim old-fashioned bulk of the main station but that way led across a dangerously barren prairie. Above him on the embankment he heard whispers, then the sound of men letting themselves down the slope.
He crawled over three pairs of rails and got behind a string of idle tank cars. The puff-puff-puff of the switch engine to the north reverberated in the empty drums of the tankers. And he heard Creme, by luck or logic, tramping nearer. Despite his bad heart, the detective was moving faster than the limping Augustine, and he was growling at the blond man to hurry.
The rear spotlight of the switch engine limned Farrow for an instant and he scrambled out of the glow. It was difficult to move silently over the gravel. He rolled into a culvert just as Creme fired again.
“. . . saw him! Over here!”
Running feet. The chug of the switch engine became louder. It was backing leisurely into the yards. It began to pick up speed. Farrow began groping out of the shallow ditch before a turn in the locomotive's route brought the light glow on him again.
And his hand closed over a rusty iron bar. It was a yard length or one-inch pipe, ax-handle size. Before its discard, it had served as a brake stick to supply extra leverage in turning the outmoded brake wheels atop freight cars.
The stalking crunch of Creme's feet was almost upon him now. He peered out of the culvert and saw the searching figures of his pursuers. Neither saw him. Farrow ducked down and collected a handful of gravel.
He bobbed up again to throw it. His target was the half-open door of a boxcar standing alone two tracks away. He heard the gravel rattle inside the car and then Augustine's tense shout, “Ray! Down here!”
Both men angled south past Farrow, running for the boxcar. Farrow crawled rapidly north toward the advancing switch engine. He was the hunter again now.
Behind him Creme hollered, “Get around to the other side of the car! Cut him off!” Then the switch engine was backing abreast of Farrow and he stood up and ran for it. He reached its side, caught a hand grip, and jerked himself up onto the broad fender. The engineer was watching his rearward path and failed to see his new passenger. Farrow worked himself hurriedly along the hot metal side of the engine until he was perched on its front ledge under the huge glaring headlight. He readied the brake stick, gripping it one-handed like a tennis racket. Holding on with the other hand, he leaned out from the other side of the locomotive.
The switch engine returned him to the boxcar he had used as a decoy. Creme was out of sight, guarding the other side. Augustine stood facing the car's half-open door, waiting for the switch engine to pass behind him before attempting to flush their quarry. He didn't even have his gun out.
As the switch engine rolled by, Farrow jumped and swung. The brake stick glanced off the back of Augustine's head. He toppled forward, bending at the knees. Farrow stood over him, the iron pipe ready again. But the blond man lay like a sack, breathing heavily, blood glistening down the back of his neck.
One to go. Farrow crouched down and discovered Raymond Creme's stocky legs on the other side of the boxcar. He was still guarding the opposite door. The switch engine had slowed to a halt a hundred yards south of them, the beam of its headlamp barely missing the duel on the tracks.
Creme called, “Sam! What the hell you waiting for? Go in and shoot him out of there!” When he got no answer, he called again, his voice rising with nervousness, “Sam! Damn it, you hear me?”
Farrow crept silently around the end of the boxcar, trying to reach the detective before he realized the truth. He was too late. Creme looked under the car for Augustine's legs at the same moment Farrow came into view. Creme whirled, his hand flung out, and a shot splintered the planking a foot from Farrow's ear.
Farrow howled and charged like a rhino, swinging the heavy brake stick above his head. The onslaught was too much for Creme. He forgot he had a gun and began to run. He vanished around the far end of the boxcar and when Farrow sighted him again he was racing along the next track. His overcoat flapped about his short legs but the energy of panic gave him surprising speed for his build. Farrow broke into a loping sprint, the ungainly brake stick slowing him only a little. He began to close the distance between them.
Behind them hooted the whistle of the switch engine. It was heading forward now, returning north across the marshaling yards. Suddenly its spotlight glow fell around the two running men, grew in glaring intensity.
Creme's hat flopped off as he turned his head. His mouth was strained open with exertion and his face was chalk-white in the brightening spotlight. He didn't see the ground falling away on either side of the rail bed. He was headed out onto a low trestle over a drainage ditch. He took two more strides before his foot plunged between the ties. He sank to the knee, sprawling forward cruelly. He floundered about, trying to get his leg free. His scream was lost in another wail from the locomotive.
