The By-Pass Control Read online

  “The same place,” I told him. “It’s as good as any now.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The manager at the motel wouldn’t have been a bit happy about seeing me if a TWX from Martin Grady hadn’t arrived. It covered all his damages plus a substantial overpayment that could put a new wing on his establishment. Dave Elroy had been hard at it all night, smoothing things out even to the point of having another rental car waiting for me outside the office. It was from the same company who had supplied the first, so Grady had made his point with them too.

  A work crew had already cleared away most of the rubble and I walked over and watched them a minute. I stared at them idly, then strolled past them to the clump of bushes thirty feet away where I had thrown the hand. It was still there, still grasping upwards stiffly at nothing. I wondered how many people it had killed before becoming a thing lying there in the grass, and I walked on down to my room.

  The gun was still there, dusty now from the continuous stream of air blowing over it, so I pulled it down, disassembled the piece, cleaned it thoroughly, dropped it back together and put it on where it belonged. Then I lay back on the bed and picked up the phone.

  Claude Boster still hadn’t returned, though he had called his housekeeper and told her he would probably be back in the evening. Vincent Small’s phone went unanswered completely, so I quit trying and stayed there, waiting. An hour later Dave Elroy rang, told me to meet him at the Rose Bar in fifteen minutes, and hung up.

  It was a small unit built to accommodate the construction crews working at the space project, a combination bar and restaurant that had been added on to several times, primitive enough to keep down the overhead, but stocking enough liquor to account for heavy payroll tastes.

  Dave was at a table in the back where he could see everything going on, next to a window so he could watch outside too. I walked up, ordered another beer, and slid in opposite him.

  “Hello, jailbird,” he said.

  “Drop dead.”

  He grinned at me and sipped his beer. “Tell me something, Tiger, why didn’t you nail that guy who tried to disintegrate you beforehand?”

  “Because he might have been too damn smart to get caught. Once away he would have stayed away and somebody else would have been brought in. At least this way we scratched one assassin and got an ID besides.”

  Dave’s eyebrows went up questioningly.

  I said, “I found the hand and got prints from it. Nobody else got anything. I should be getting a report from Ernie sometime today.”

  “Clever, Tiger, clever. Excuse me for asking.”

  “What about you? I got the double-talk, all right, but how about the details?”

  Dave finished his beer and signaled for another. “There was some H flowing in here, all right. Not much, but enough to supply a couple dozen users. One guy handled it all from a jobber in Miami. Then he turned his trade over to somebody else ... a guy they called Fish. No other name. Just Fish. He laid it on heavier than his predecessor, so he either located some new customers or built up the old ones.

  “Now, here’s the part you’re waiting for. When the squeeze went on, Fish was supplying an addict that was identified as Louis Agrounsky. A couple of other users recognized his picture. They had seen him make the contact and one came through with the bit that he even sold some to him when he was told there was none available. My guess is that Agrounsky was deliberately cultivated by Fish. The stuff he was selling Agrounsky wasn’t the usual cut ... it was a hell of a lot hotter. Agrounsky was shooting with damn near pure stuff and with short cuts he couldn’t make the grade. He was hooked all the way on big loads and had to have the best he could get. Then, all of a sudden, Fish dropped out of sight and Agrounsky was stuck. He had gone through his bundle, his source was dried up, now he had to make do with whatever he could get, and he couldn’t get it around here.”

  I raised my beer and tasted it. There was something sickly sweet about it until I saw the lipstick on the rim and told the waiter to take the damn thing back and get me a new one in a clean glass. “They missed their timing,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Agrounsky couldn’t wait. He needed it worse than they thought he did ... or else he let somebody else have enough of his stuff to diminish his own supply so that he went short before they figured it.”

  “So that’s it,” Dave mused. “That’s why the kilo was picked up in New York. They thought he was heading for there. They were going to make it available for him.”

  “He wouldn’t have had any trouble getting it in the city,” I said.

  “No, not with the right contacts ... and those guys can always find them. But what would he use for money? That early cut stuff costs pretty big.”

  “That’s what I’m wondering.... You know anything about the Myrtle Beach area?”

  Dave took a pad out, flipped over a couple of pages, and looked up at me. “A dead spot. Nothing there at all. If he sold his car there it was to get transportation somewhere else. There’s no known narcotics traffic in that section at all. If he worked according to form he had enough H on him to keep him running on the edge. That car of his could have been giving him trouble and he didn’t want to take the chance of a breakdown that could cost him money.”

  “Could be.”

  “So where do I go from here?”

  “Look for Fish,” I told him. “He’s right in the middle, so start the word going.”

  “Hell, he’s been off the scene pretty long.”

  “Then put him back on again.”

  “Okay, you’re the boss.”

  “I’m going to register at the Sand Dunes Motel. It might start to get hot and I’ll need an alternate contact point. The name will be Gerrity, T. Gerrity out of Miami.”

  “Got it.”

  “If I’m not there leave word where you can be reached. Scramble the number the usual way.”

  “Expecting trouble?”

  “Plenty.”

  I got up, laid a buck on the table for the drinks, nodded to Dave and left. If Fish were still around he’d have him spotted before long, but it was still a good bet that Fish had pulled out.

  At the door I looked up at the sky. One of those freak Florida storms was moving in and the clouds were a blue gray, rolling along ahead of a stiff breeze and the smell of rain was in the air.

  Just like always, I thought, a kill smell—getting ready to wash away the blood before it had been spilled. I walked across to my car, pulled out of the drive and beaded toward Claude Boster’s house. A police car was there, the driver talking to a uniformed patrolman who had been assigned to watch the place, and the garage door was open showing both spaces empty inside.

  I didn’t stop. I went up the road, turned north, then angled over to Vincent Small’s. Nobody was there either, so I cut back to the motel as the rain started and got into my room just before it turned into an oblique, slashing downpour.

  The phone was ringing as I turned the knob and when I picked it up Ernie Bentley identified himself and said, “Are we clear?”

  “Go ahead, Ernie.”

  “I got the prints from that glass. Your person is one Henri Frank, age fifty-two, naturalized Austrian subject, five foot, eleven inches, brown hair, chest tattoo that ...”

  “Any photos?” I interrupted.

  “The usual ones taken when he was naturalized.”

  “Get them on the teleprinter to the local police office right away. Put it through as a missing persons report.”

  Ernie chuckled and said, “Boy, you’re getting official. Ready to wear a badge?”

  I ignored his sarcasm. “What else?”

  “Suspected Commie affiliations. This came from our own files. You want the entire sheet on this?”

  “No.” I was looking at myself in the mirror above the dresser. The name of Henri Frank had rung a bell someplace and I was trying hard to locate the source. I said, “Who did the footwork?”

  “Checking out the prints? No trouble ... Char
lie Corbinet put it through. What kind of hell are you raising down there?”

  “I wish I knew.” I paused, looked at myself again and said, “Special detail, Ernie. How many manufacturers of true sub-mini components are there?”

  “Five. All reputable.”

  “Would they be interested in Agrounsky’s work?”

  “Damn right.”

  “Contact them right away. See if he made a sale of anything to any of them. They might not want to talk about it if there are patent complications, but put any kind of heat on you can, assure them they’ll stay clean, but find out.”

  “Will do, Tiger. They’re easy to speak to.”

  “If necessary, let Martin Grady do the talking. He’s got the power to push it through if he has to.”

  “I think I can reach them,” he told me. “By the way, we had a signal from London ten minutes ago on Niger Hoppes. He goes for one brand of inhaler called Bezex. It’s made in West Germany and imported here. Sells for one ninety-eight and isn’t an item generally stocked. One national drug chain handles it in limited quantities, but the main sale is to independent stores in areas where sinus trouble is prevalent. Martin staked out people wherever he could to watch sales, working from the manufacturer’s sales guide he got, but you’re not on the chart. The nearest place to you that handles Bezex is Miami. I’ve sent you a carton of twelve to plant somewhere if you want to try to lay a trap for your boy. I would have sent the other twelve, but I needed two containers to work out a gimmick.”

  “Ernie, look ...”

  “You’ll get two in a separate box,” he told me. “Don’t try using them. They look alike and they’re packaged alike, but unscrew the cap and sniff once and all you’ll get is a nose full of cyanide gas. Life expectancy after that is about two seconds. Beware the innocent bystander. I’ll get the photo off right now.”

  “Hurry it up.”

  “Right. Watch yourself.”

  I hung the phone up, frowning. Henri Frank. It was a name I had seen before. I ran it through my mind several times before I placed it. Henri Frank had been one of those listed in the Unsatisfactory Reports Doug Hamilton had submitted to Washington. At some time he had applied for a job at Belt-Aire Electronics and Hamilton’s check had found him to be a security risk.

  I grabbed the phone, dialed the apartment in New York over Shigley’s to try to reach Rondine, listened to it ring a dozen times before I hung up, got a new connection and called Newark Control.

  Virgil took my identification and said, “Clear, Tiger.”

  “Try to make contact with Rondine at the apartment. Tell her to forget the others and concentrate on Henri Frank. She has Hamilton’s UR’s and will know what to do. If she comes up with anything, have her contact me at this number. If she can’t reach me, tell her to stay put at the apartment until I get a call through.”

  “Got it.”

  “Ernie’s got photos of Frank he’s sending down. Have him make copies and spread them around the city. He was pushing narcotics down here, but that was an assignment, not a trade. Check him out with those who might tie him into a Commie setup.”

  “What do we do with him?”

  “Nothing. He’s dead. I want to know his associates. He’s part of the machine working against us, but so far he’s the only one who can give us a direct contact if we can locate it. His prints were on file in Washington, only not through a police record, so there’s no angle there or Ernie would have notified me. This guy’s managed to stay clean in that department.”

  “Okay, Tiger, check back tomorrow. Time enough?”

  “No. I’m going to try a couple other ways too.”

  “Keep us informed.”

  “Roger.”

  I held the phone down to break the connection, lifted it and gave the operator the number of Belt-Aire Electronics. The girl at the switchboard answered, took my name and put me through to Camille Hunt’s secretary, and after a few seconds Camille said, “Well, hello, fly.”

  “Hi, kid.”

  “You’ve kept me waiting.”

  “Not you, baby. You don’t wait for anybody.”

  Her laugh was a low, pleasant thing. “For some unaccountable reason I’ve been waiting for you. It’s an admission I don’t like to make.”

  “Flies make a lousy meal,” I said.

  “Ah, but you said you were the mud dauber type. They’re tastier.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  She laughed again. “Now ... are we on business or pleasure?”

  “Business.”

  “Damn.”

  I grinned at her through the phone. “Favor, honey. Take a quick check through your records and see what you have on Henri Frank. He made an application there and Hamilton’s check rejected him.”

  “Frank, Frank,” she mused. “Wait a second. I don’t think I have to.” I heard a drawer open and shut, pages being ruffled, then she said, “Remember I told you I took notes on certain people?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, he was one. I have it here ... wait a second.” She paused and I could hear her whispering to herself, trying to decipher what she had written. Then: “Strange little man. My impression was negative. He applied for common labor and gave half a dozen former places he had worked in the Florida area.”

  “What are they?”

  “I ... don’t know offhand. I seem to remember something he said ... oh, damn ... I didn’t write it down. These were personality notes. Lack of sincerity, hesitancy in offering information, no apparent ambition.”

  “How about the files?”

  “If he were a UR only Washington would have them.”

  “Then think about what he told you.”

  “Tiger ... that was some time ago. Perhaps I can recall, but ...”

  “All right, do this then ... hop a plane down here. I’m at Eau Gallie, Florida, right next to the Cape Kennedy project. I’ll check the schedules myself and meet the flight you’ll be on. Don’t bother packing ... just get on the first one out. Think about it on the way down and we’ll pick it up when you get here. And forget the job ... this is a Martin Grady authorization.” I laughed and added, “Besides, you can use a vacation.”

  “Sure, without clothes?”

  “What better kind?” I said.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she told me, a lilt in her voice, “but you’re making it sound awfully interesting. I’ll see you shortly, mud dauber.”

  Captain Hardecker was rolled back in his desk chair when I opened the door. His feet were propped on the window sill, the stub of a cigar clamped in his teeth while he looked at the telephoto in his hands. The look he gave me was hard, but not too unfriendly. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said.

  “Henri Frank?”

  “A missing person. Do I get an explanation?”

  I took the picture he held out to me, a front and profile view of a guy who would always be missing. “You got it,” I said. “He’s disappeared.”

  “Can I make a guess?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Like blown to bits?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”

  “How distinct?”

  “Very.”

  “I’m glad you admitted it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because some kid at the motel found a gun that had been blown fifty yards away and his old man turned it in to us. We checked the ballistics and the slugs matched those used out at Boster’s place.”

  “It figures,” I said.

  “Then why the picture?” he asked.

  “To find out what’s known about him. I want some b.g. on the guy.”

  “Nobody here knew him.”

  “I didn’t think they would.”

  “Since it came in on the printer as an m.p. I took the liberty of running off a few copies. Two of my men are asking around. Know where they might hit pay dirt?”

  “Not the faintest.”

  “And if we hit it anyway ... ?”

  “An
y cooperation would be appreciated.”

  “You scare me,” he said bluntly. “You and that goddamn attitude, that look in your eyes. It’s not like I haven’t seen it before. I’ve been in this business a long time and I can classify types automatically. Like in the movies, there are good guys and bad guys and if I had to put you anywhere it would be the bad guy department, only bad guys don’t have your connections and that’s what scares me. This whole damn situation is unreal, and that’s what makes it too real for me. This town is a hotspot to start with and someplace the Soviets have an ICBM lined up to pop right down our throats like they have all their other primary targets. I don’t enjoy sitting on my thumbs having nothing to do while something is ready to claw me up.” He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and tossed it into the metal wastebasket where it hit with a wet plop. “How bad is it?”

  “Bad,” I said simply.

  “Then why are you alone on this?”

  “I’m not. You just haven’t seen the others.”

  “Publicity could blow something then?”

  “All the way.”

  “Okay, I’ll go along. I’ll be damned if I don’t dig something up on this guy.” He caught the look on my face and said, “Don’t worry. We know how to ask questions too. We have our own ways and our own people. I’ll give you a call if something turns up.”

  “Thanks.” I flicked my finger against Henri Frank’s picture. “Mind if I keep this?”

  “It’s yours.” I looked at it again, saw the face of the one who wasn’t any more, a partially bald-headed guy with a sallow face and eyes too close together. He had a mouth like he had just tasted something sour and the expression of those who had nothing but dislike for the rest of the world. Perhaps before he would have seemed ordinary, another guy out of step with himself, fighting everything because he was inadequate for survival unless he was handed it on a platter, but now, knowing what he was really like inside, the picture fitted him perfectly. I stuck it in my pocket, nodded to Hardecker and left.

  Outside the rain had lost its original fury, settling into a monotonous drumbeat that raised the salt out of the sand and laid the smell of the sea on the air. The quiet of a small town at rest was almost a strange noise in itself. Like someone waiting, I thought. It was sitting there marking time, knowing something was going to happen and almost anxious to be an unseen spectator.