Killer Mine Page 18

  I dropped the receiver back slowly, my teeth grinding against each other. “He got wise,” I said. “He’s on the run.”

  “Where can he go?”

  “Not where I can’t find him.”

  “The trial’s in an hour.”

  “Screw the trial. Get it postponed.”

  “Maybe you’d better spell it out slowly for me, Pat.”

  “Marcus took the Syndicate for a bundle. He proved his worth by getting Al Argenio to search my place for my documents and plant that money there.”

  “Argenio was being paid off by him?”

  “For a long time, apparently. Who knows what favors he did. He was in a position to do plenty here and there. One of them was spotting the potential of the Sentol and the FS-7 when he was on the warehouse detail. He delivered some of it to the Syndicate through Marcus. Trouble was, he blew his wad on bad investments and always needed more. Once he was hooked by those guys he was in all the way.”

  “Go on.”

  “While I was under house arrest, Marcus used the Syndicate money to refinance the operation along the east coast. Or at least part of it. A big chunk went to his own use. He thought he could cover it later, I guess, but they don’t take chances when that much is involved and double checked his accounts. When he came up short he was put on their dead list and a contract to eliminate was given to a couple of out-of-state hoods.

  “Marcus got wind of it someplace… he probably had his own informers inside the organization, and had to cut out so both the law and the Syndicate would be off his back. He lined himself up a pigeon that looked just like himself physically. Remember… he had no outstanding physical characteristics. He was big and fat, bald and toothless, but no scars, tattoos or bone breaks.”

  “That would take time, Regan.”

  “Money would buy out enough time. Anyway, he found his pigeon. He promised him something, got him in his house, waited for his plan for me to go into operation because I was big mouthing about getting back at him for putting me on the hook, knowing I’d make the perfect patsy… and there I was.

  “Hell, I wasn’t hard to follow. I made no bones about what I was doing while I was on suspension. Maybe it was Argenio who tailed me, maybe somebody else. I’d like to think it was Argenio, the bastard. Marcus had been cozy with Mildred Swiss and primed her for the job. He had her standing by to feed me that Sentol. Most likely he promised her the moon and she fell for it…a trip to Europe with him and all the trimmings. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, but goes along with it, anyway.

  “At that party Popeye Lewis and Edna Rells threw I was ready, the timing was perfect and I was suckered. I had one thing on my mind… to get Leo Marcus before the department trial came up. Once I had gotten dosed the idea really took hold and I ran off at the mouth but good. The only lucky break I had was taking six aspirins earlier. It offset one of the effects of the Sentol. Maybe I would have killed the guy who was made up to look like Marcus, I don’t know. I do know I was supposed to have been found there still conscious but appearing drunk with a gun in my hand.

  “Anyway, I got up those steps and was admitted inside. This part I don’t remember. All I know is what did happen. I could have been carried in. When I couldn’t do the job somebody… either Marcus or Argenio… took my gun and pumped six bullets into the decoy’s face destroying everything he had. My gun was put back in my hand reloaded, then fired so a paraffin test would show a positive. A burned log and a dumped slug would never be found. They threw the body face down in the fireplace so the flames would burn the prints off his hands, smashed up an extra set of Marcus’ dental plates and scattered the bits around and let it lie.”

  “What about the finger?” George asked me.

  I got up and paced between the desk and the window. “That was Marcus’ unfortunate accident. When the guy saw what was happening he put his hand up to protect himself and a slug took the pinky off his hand. That part was going to show when they examined the remains. A finger was missing, because Argenio found it and kept it They had to leave a finger there for the police to find.”

  George looked sick again.

  I said, “There are doctors around who have lost their licenses who would do the job for a price. Marcus would know them. One came up, amputated his finger, a shot was fired at the end to make it look like a bullet had done the job and the finger was wedged under the mantle. In fact, it even made the case for Marcus’ death better. One of his own fingers was there for the nearly irrefutable proof of his death.”

  “But the finger was in Argenio’s place.”

  “Insurance, George. Al played it smart. He kept the decoy’s finger and Marcus would have to keep him alive. They were both eyewitnesses to a murder they had planned and executed. Marcus had plenty on Al, now Al had the key to keeping Marcus in line and feeding him with the money he needed from the new enterprise Marcus had arranged for.”

  George nodded. “Then we find the doctor who did the job and…”

  “The hell with the doctor,” I said. “I want the other two, Argenio first.”

  “He can’t get far.”

  It was done. Tied up. I grinned, picked up the phone and dialed Madaline’s office number. She was going to be glad to hear the news. While I waited for the call to go through I told George, “Get on the other phone and start calling. There isn’t time for that damn trial.”

  He nodded and left for the outside office as the voice on the other end said, “Sturvesent Agency, Miss Stumper’s office.”

  “Pat Regan calling. Madaline there?”

  The voice hesitated, then said, “Why… no. Isn’t she with you?”

  I had to force out the words. “Is she supposed to be?”

  “But… an hour ago… there was a call from downstairs. They said it was a policeman friend of hers who wanted to see her. She said it was you and she probably wouldn’t be back.”

  Damn it all to hell! The scene had come bright and clear in his mind and now he was pushing the destruct button. “Check that call back and get a description of the person who met her. Don’t let anybody leave there until I get there. Got that?”

  The urgency in my voice froze her, then she said, “Yes, sir.”

  At my belt the weight of the .45 was like a living thing talking to me and I ran out of the room. George was talking on the phone and I stopped him. “He has Madaline.”

  “Who?” George looked startled.

  “Argenio. Call my office and have Jerry Nolan get an APB out and a squad working. Give him the details I gave you and hold onto that finger when Walter gets here.”

  “Pat… where are you going? Damn it, Pat, you can’t…”

  But I was out the door by then.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE call had been made in the lobby of the building, relayed through the receptionist. There was no doubt about it. The description the woman at the desk gave me fitted Al Argenio, except for his pleasant manner, but he’d have to put that on to make the act effective.

  He had come up behind her when she came out of the elevator and neither the woman nor the starter heard what he said, but the uniformed starter saw him take her by the arm and go outside to where a cab was waiting at the curb with the occupied flag down.

  I had the receptionist put me through to headquarters and got Jerry on the line. For the sake of listening ears I turned away and kept my voice down, but it took a lot of effort. All Jerry could say was, “What the hell’s going on, Regan?”

  “Just listen, Jerry. I’m at the Sturvesent Agency building on Madison Avenue. Argenio got wise and beat me here. He grabbed Madaline, hustled her into a cab and took off. Alert all the cab companies and have their drivers check their trip sheets.”

  “How can they pull them in? They haven’t got radios. Most don’t break for the garages until four.”

  “Then put out a call to all prowl cars to look out for them. Get word to the subway guards and the tunnel and bridge attendants, but tell them to be damn careful. H
e’ll do anything now. He’s killed before and he won’t stop at anything. She’s his shield and a warning to me.”

  Jerry tried to make it sound easy, but there was an edge in his voice. “He wants back at you, Regan. He’s not planning to keep her alive.”

  “I know,” I said. “Get with it.”

  “We’ll do all we can.”

  I looked at my watch. He had an hour’s start. And an hour can get you pretty far from the city. One way or another, I had to locate the cab that waited for him. On the street pedestrian traffic was going by in a thin stream, hugging the walls of the buildings, leaning into the rain. The braver ones stood at the curb waving fruitlessly at cabs already filled. None were cruising. When any stopped to discharge passengers others were right there to fill it up again.

  Madison Avenue. The center of the advertising world. The middle of everything, I thought, and I was trapped in the center of it like a helpless old lady trying to get across an intersection during the rush hour. Thousands of people were in the buildings all around me, preparing to talk commerce to the world via the medium of TV and radio and I couldn’t locate a single cab for another hour yet. At four they’d break and start a new shift and I’ve had to wait until then.

  Think, Regan. Think or she’d be dead.

  I waited for the light, crossed over and half ran two blocks down to the modern concrete structure that housed a major network studio. The head guard was a retired sergeant from the 4th Precinct I knew and when I briefed him, he led me upstairs to the right man.

  Steve McDell handled special news bulletins for the radio network of the company, got my story down in thirty seconds, checked with headquarters and put the item on the air himself. Any cabbie who had picked up a fare from Madaline’s building was requested to report in immediately. When he finished the broadcast he said, “It’ll go out every two minutes. Let me contact the other networks in case the guy’s tuned into another station.”

  “If he’s got a radio on,” I said.

  “Most of them have those small transistors up on the dash these days when there isn’t one installed in the car,” he reminded me.

  McDell flipped a switch and popular music swept into the room over a wall speaker, the continuity broken every so often by a taped rebroadcast of the announcement. Right after the third one the phones started and he answered them. “Reporters calling in,” he said. “What do I tell them?”

  “Nothing. They’ll get a statement from the police.”

  He passed the message on, hanging up when they became insistent. Then one phone to his right obviously reserved for special calls blinked on, the red light on its base flicking furiously. He picked it up, talked a moment and turned back to me. “The other network. They have your cabbie on the line.”

  I grabbed the phone out of his hand. “This is Pat Regan, Police Department. Put him on.”

  There were a series of clicks as the connection was made, then a guttural voice said, “You the guy I should talk to about that call?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I just now caught it. I picked up a fare there today.”

  “How many?”

  “Two… big guy and a good looking woman. He flagged me down on Forty-first, had me drive there and wait, then we went out to Long Island City. I let him off right by the B.M.T. station.”

  “They take the train?”

  “Nope.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I turned around at the next block and they was still there trying to find another cab, that’s why. I can tell you this… they ain’t gonna get none there. It’s raining like hell and all the cabs is filled. The taxi stands are empty and traffic’s pretty heavy. Plenty of people waiting. You know how it is.”

  “Okay, thanks. We’ll pick it up from there.”

  Steve McDell was looking at me anxiously. “Any help?”

  “They’re in Long Island City. I have to get there.”

  “Need a staff car? One’s standing by downstairs.”

  I grinned at him. “Then let’s roll.” My ex-sergeant friend was caught up in the excitement like an old fire horse smelling smoke. I told him, “Call it in for me, will you?”

  “Glad to, Pat.”

  “Get a cruiser to pick us up to clear the way. There won’t be time for red lights. And tell the other networks to wipe out that broadcast. If he hears it he might jump the gun.”

  He caught my meaning and reached for the phone as Steve McDell and I ran out to the bank of elevators, grabbed one before the doors closed and rode it down.

  The rain had turned late afternoon into near-dusk, spiked by headlights of cars picking their way through the traffic. Store fronts and office windows put on a garish display of opulence as if all were well with the world. The police cruiser met us two blocks away, cut in front and angled east, threading the way through the flow of cars with its siren.

  When we reached the subway station twenty minutes later another police car was already there, parked behind a cab whose driver was talking excitedly to one of the patrolmen. I introduced myself and the cop pointed to the cabbie. “We got the call to ask around and he said he picked up a couple who answered the description of the pair.”

  I went over to the driver who waited anxiously. “Describe them.”

  He did. It was Argenio and Madaline, all right. “Dropped a fare off right at the station here,” he told me. “They got in and I took ’em down to the Marco Bottling Works. That woman, she was scared, that’s what I told myself. Figured like he was her husband caught her roaming. Neither one of them said nothin’ while they was driving.”

  “They go inside?”

  “How could they? The place is locked up. I was wondering about it because I thought they got out at the wrong place and would need another hop somewhere else, but when I stopped at the red light at the next block I saw them in the mirror crossing the street.”

  “This isn’t a residential section,” I said.

  “Yeah, I know. So where could they go? Hardly no cabs take fares from down there unless there’s a direct call. Guys in the factories, they use the subway or got their own car pools.”

  Another prowl car pulled up and the cop beside the driver hopped out and came over. “The dispatcher’s standing by for instructions.”

  “Blanket the area,” I said. “We might have to do it building by building. Keep it quiet… if he knows we’re this close he’ll kill the woman.”

  “I’ll call it in,” he said and went back to the cruiser. The other cops got in their cars and swung out into traffic.

  McDell was waiting for me, leaning out the window. “Anything you want me to do?”

  “You’ve done enough. Stay out of it for now. If there’s a story I get it to you.”

  “Watch yourself, Regan. Glad I could help.”

  “Thanks,” I said. The cabbie was still standing by and I got in his hack. “Take me there,” I instructed him. “Cut down the street they took. I want to look it over.”

  His nod was eager and he didn’t bother putting the flag down. This ride was on the house, one of the things he had wanted to do all his life. If he had known all the details he might not have been so eager. The place they had left the cab was only seven minutes away. He pointed out the building, then turned left up the street he had seen them entering. Both sides of the block were flanked by structures housing small industries and businesses that couldn’t stand high overhead.

  Three times I had him stop when I got out and asked a few loiterers grabbing a smoke in the rain if they had seen the two of them. All I got was a negative. We kept on going, crossed the next intersection and I tried a newsstand that was behind dirty, fly-specked windows. The fat little guy behind the counter said no; until five o’clock when the factories let out nobody ever came by the place after the one o’clock lunch hour, specially on a day like that.

  I was going to leave until the sallow-faced kid leafing through the comic books near the entrance muttered, “One
guy came in,” he muttered. “Bought cigars.”

  “That was this morning,” the counterman said, annoyed. “Put them damn books down if you ain’t gonna buy none.”

  Absently, I said, “Who?”

  He tossed the books back and shrugged. “That guy with the bum hand. Got it bandaged. He got cigars.”

  I should have remembered. It was one of the things I hadn’t had time to check before the stuff was stolen from me. Leo Marcus had used a building somewhere in this neighborhood for a drop when he was running the protection racket. “Big fat guy?” I asked him.

  “Something like that. He was a baldie.”

  “What was with the hand?”

  The kid looked up at me curiously. “He had it all wrapped up like it was broke or something.”

  “Ah, don’t pay any attention to him,” the counterman said. “He talks off the top of his head.”

  I took out a buck and passed it to the kid. “Buy those comic books. You earned them.”

  Outside, night had closed in all around us. The rain was a driving thing with clawing fingers that bit right through you, but I didn’t mind a bit. The cabbie was reluctant to go until I told him to find a phone and call in my location, then he took off down the street and turned right at the corner. I walked north, looking at each building as I passed, knowing that when I saw the number it would register. The pattern was clear now. Argenio was in and he was going to use all the forces at his command to get out. He couldn’t do it alone any more, knowing damn well how the department would work. Every known avenue would be cut off if he tried it alone and he wasn’t up to dying slowly on the long walk to the hot seat. He had another organization with their resources to use now. Marcus could provide a way out, knowing Al had the finger that would hang a murder charge on him. One thing Al didn’t know. The finger wasn’t where he had left it. Later he’d try to pick it up. He might even have made it if a little professional crook like Walter hadn’t known the right places to look.