The Death Dealers Page 6

  At two-fifteen a messenger service delivered a manila envelope to my hotel. I tipped the boy and went back to look at the photos Virgil Adams sent over. They were eight-by-ten blow-ups of Malcolm Turos but had been taken out of focus with an apparently cheap camera at least ten years ago. In one he was standing outside the stage-door entrance of a theater shaking hands with some admirers, a bouquet of flowers in his hands, an unimposing man in topcoat and homburg with a heavy mustache and a thin smile. The other was a summertime shot taken when he was about to enter a car with a woman. He had no mustache here and wore a light-colored suit. Neither picture could be used for positive identification and unless Virgil came up with something from Brazil I had to rely on the hazy glimpse of the guy going down in front of my gun during the shoot-out there. And all I could recall was an ill-fitting white suit, a floppy panama hat and a nondescript face going down in a heap with the blood spurting from his neck.

  I stuck the photos in the bottom of my suitcase, snapped it shut and got into the shower to soak off the stain I had bathed in. By the time I had toweled myself back to normal the phone rang and when I picked it up Charlie Corbinet said, “Smart move, Tiger.”

  I grinned, but he couldn’t see it. “I like to see the face of the enemy.”

  “You have more than you think. Some of them are domestic.”

  “Great,” I said. “Thanks for the warning, but why?”

  “Because some of them are on their way up right now. If you have a rod get it out of sight. They’ll pull you in with any excuse right now. Why the hell you register in your own name I’ll never know. I thought I taught you better.”

  “You did, that’s why I did it this way. Thanks.”

  “Get some good lies ready.”

  “I’m an expert.” I hung up quickly, took off the rig with the .45 and looked around for a place to ditch it. I didn’t want to lose the piece, not that it couldn’t be replaced, but it was fitted to my own hand and sighted in for accuracy, too much a part of me to lose. In this state I wasn’t licensed to carry it and they could hit me with a Sullivan charge without even listening to an explanation.

  You don’t hide guns inside TV sets or air conditioners. These boys would check out every inch of the place, every ledge outside the window, every spot in the bathroom and closet, and unless I figured something out in a hurry I had it.

  I opened the window and looked out Two floors down a spiked iron grillwork divided the terraces between apartments, the grill running up the side of the building, jutting out two feet to discourage access from one side to the other. I took off my belt, strung it through the trigger guard, buckled it and held it out in a wide loop. As the buzzer sounded I dropped it, and for a second, thought I had missed, but the belt caught a spike of the grill and stayed there. I grinned again, lowered the window and went to the door.

  Hal Randolph stood there with another big guy, behind them a pair of young, gray-suited guys who could have just come from Madison Avenue. I said, “Come on in, gentlemen.”

  He put the warrant in my hand first, his mouth forcing a smile of pleasure. “Shakedown, Mann. Hope it doesn’t inconvenience you.”

  “Not a bit. Mind if I finish dressing?”

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I unfolded the warrant, read it and glanced at him. “Not unless you find what you’re looking for.”

  He didn’t have to tell the others what to do. They were pros too, working quickly and smoothly, never missing a bet, hitting the obvious places then moving on to other spots. They laid a box of .45 shells on the bed alongside the leather holster and kept on looking. Hal picked up the box and flipped the top open. “Where’s the gun, Tiger?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “We’re not.”

  I finished putting on my shirt and tie, buttoning up in front of the mirror. Behind me one of the young guys had the window open and was checking the ledges, feeling for any cords that might be attached to the frame. “No law against carrying cartridges, is there?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  They took another ten minutes before they were finished. Everything was back in place, but nobody was satisfied at all. Hal stood there trying to hold his composure, his face dark with suppressed anger. Idly, he picked up the envelope, looked at it and said, “Mind?”

  “Be my guest.”

  When he saw the pictures he knew what he had. He took them over under the light, studied them carefully, and passed them to the big guy who had come in with him. When he put them back he threw the folder down on the bed. “Want to talk about this, Tiger?”

  I shrugged. “Why not?”

  “What’s your connection with him?”

  “I shot him once in Brazil. The slug caught his throat and ruined his lovely baritone and now he’d like to get back at me.”

  “Go on.”

  I hooked a chair leg with my toe, pulled it over and sat down. “He’s here in the U.S.”

  “We know. There’s no record of his entry.”

  “Malcolm Turos isn’t one to do things the easy way,” I smiled.

  Hal Randolph and the others exchanged glances, then came back to me, every eye focused on my face. Each one took a position strategically and held it, not knowing what to expect. “Does the warrant include an interrogation?”

  “It can be arranged,” Hal said casually.

  “Don’t bother yourself.”

  “Then let’s get back to Turos. I don’t think he’d make a specific trip here to nail you.”

  “What’s the answer then?”

  “Quit stalling and get to the point. Let’s update the talk and put Teish El Abin in the picture. Let’s discuss four persons in native dress who got on and off a ship unhampered by police or customs officials.”

  “How about that?” I said with fake surprise. “Where am I there?”

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  “Sorry, buddy.”

  Hal took a deep breath and looked like he was about to explode. Then he let the air out of his lungs and strode to the window, looked out and down for a moment before turning back to me again. “Three were genuine countrymen of Teish’s, all right. The other was out of character. He was a mute and big. He wore dark glasses. He had a physical description that could have been you.”

  “A lot of guys fit into my suits, mister.”

  “But there’s something that stinks. Of Teish’s countrymen, only nine are known to be in the States. They were all checked out and all were too far away to have been on the ship.”

  “So?”

  “That puts somebody else into the picture. We know about Tedesco being in Selachin and what happened there. You’re involved up to your ears so quit playing games.”

  I stopped smiling at him and leaned forward in the chair. “Okay, Hal, then I’ll lay it on the line for you. Maybe you don’t like our operation and I don’t give a damn, but we’ve come up with the answers when you couldn’t. The last time out I let myself be a target at your suggestion and we all got what we went after. Maybe the routine wasn’t what you would have liked, but it worked. I’ll go along with any of you any time and have most of the time. Outside the country we’re all even, but here you have the edge and you throw the heat at me. Okay, you can make it rough, but I can make it easy.”

  “Spell it out, Tiger.”

  “Get me a clearance on that gun again.”

  “It can’t be done.”

  I leaned back in the chair again and sat there a few seconds. “No?”

  One of the young guys said, “It can be worked through Army Intelligence.”

  Hal glared at him, his teeth tight. Finally he walked to the phone, dialed a number, and spoke softly a few minutes before hanging up. “They want your old ASN, the serial numbers on the gun and your 201 file.”

  “At Church Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ll get it in the morning.” I got up and handed Hal Randolph a pen and sheet of paper. “Certify the de
al in writing.”

  “It won’t mean a thing.”

  “Then don’t fight it. Just do it.”

  He wrote a few paragraphs, signed it and handed it to me. I gave the pen and paper to each one in turn, had them witness it, took it back and folded it into my pocket. The last guy said pleasantly, “One thing, Mann ...”

  “I know,” I cut in, “where’s the gun?”

  “A matter of professional interest.”

  I showed them and they stored the gimmick away in their minds before they left. At the door Hal said, “I’ll be in touch with you.”

  “Do that,” I told him.

  Then I made arrangements with Central to get my papers to Army Intelligence and went down and got my rod back. I felt better with it back at my waist again.

  Rondine took her lunch break from one to two, so I gave her the extra hour so I’d catch her at the U.N. and got the call through at three sharp. I knew Lennie Byrnes would be monitoring her calls for her and he gave me the clear sign and put her on. So far neither of them had seen anyone out of the ordinary nor was any overt move made against them. Lennie was staying in tight, ready for any emergency, acting the role of a magazine writer doing a piece on U.N. translators. Everyone had been very cooperative.

  I told them I’d pick them up outside the building at six and if I wasn’t there to get right back to the apartment and stay there. I hung up and was about to dial Charlie to tell him what went on with Hal Randolph when the phone went off.

  I said, “Yes?”

  “Virgil Adams, Tiger. Identify.”

  Two words made the contact definite and he said, “Telephoto just arrived from Brazil. Your tip about the hospitals having photos paid off. We have a set of three, but two are of the wound, only one gives a good, clear close-up of his face. I’ll send it over by messenger right away.”

  “Okay, but get it to Ernie Bentley. I’ll want some dupes and I don’t want anything put in my box downstairs.”

  “Roger. Be about an hour.”

  “How about the informants?”

  “Nothing. We’ve covering the usual spots, but I don’t have any feeling that we’ll luck out there. Turos knows the ropes too well. If this is a solo operation on his part he won’t make any contacts at all.”

  “He already made one,” I reminded him.

  “That may be all you’ll need.”

  “I hope not. Reach me through Ernie later if anything develops.”

  “Roger.”

  I hung up, tried Charlie Corbinet but got no answer. Now I had to start playing it right down the line again.

  chapter 5

  You take all your Federal agencies, your highly trained but obscure intelligence units, your college degrees and your high IQ, hand-selected personnel working under bureau orders, sure, you take them. When you want a job done, give me New York’s finest in or out of uniform. Give me the beat cop, the plainclothesmen, the dedicated people so imbued with the city and its environs that they can do a character study of anybody in a half second.

  They came out of the womb of the city and although they’re tied to her apron strings by a paycheck, they’re the big independents who love her enough to keep her clean. They sweat in the sun at street crossings, they prowl the festered parts of her body because she nursed them in the beginning, they take the abuse of the other sons and never quit. Even when you find a bad one or one on the take, he’s still a guy ready to lay his life on the line if he has to and will go in a dark alley after a killer with no concern about his own safety. But most are the best. They have to be or they wouldn’t be there.

  These are the ones who can analyze the population at a glance. They can spot a stranger, single out the wrong characters, sense the mood of the city and prepare in advance for what will happen. These are the crime surgeons, the crime deterrents, the ones who answer when you yell for a cop.

  I called Dick Gallagher at his precinct number hoping to get a lead on the way the department was going to handle Teish El Abin’s visit to the city and for the first time I ran into luck. Over coffee at the hash house opposite the station Dick told me his vacation had just been stepped up a week and he was burning about it. He had to cancel his reservations at Atlantic City and nothing was vacant when he got his leave.

  “Why?” I asked him.

  “Visiting dignitaries. You read about our new friends from Selachin?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “So we’re covering His Highness. What with the World’s Fair, the race riots and the usual summer trouble we’re the only section they can draw from for special duty and I get tapped.”

  “Maybe there’ll be some excitement.”

  “How? By playing doorman at a reception?”

  “Who are you alerted for?”

  “The usual fanatics,” he shrugged. “These Middle East characters can raise some powerful hatreds. Look what happens with the S.A. bunch. Double it and you get this outfit. It’s like having Nasser around ... you never know what side is going to start shooting first and we’re always caught in the middle.”

  “What is it, invitation only?”

  “Damn right.”

  “Sounds interesting. Maybe I can wangle a card?”

  “Why?”

  I grinned at him and finished my coffee. “I know a few editors who would print the story. I hear he’s got a nice chick with him.”

  “Nice trouble. I haven’t seen one yet who couldn’t make it.

  “How can I get in, Dick?”

  “You can’t, old buddy. Every invitation is numbered and will be checked off against a master list.”

  “Who holds that?”

  “Now do you think the Washington boys would trust us with a thing like that? Hell, one of their men will handle it. Besides, where do you fit in? I didn’t think you went the social route.”

  “Politics intrigue me,” I said.

  “Yeah, sure. Me too. You go for cocktails, pink sandwiches, limp handshakes and double talk. Baloney. Besides, you know the big deal at the reception?”

  I shook my head.

  Dick said, “Teish El Abin gets to see himself on TV for the first time. They’re broadcasting his five-minute speech to the welcoming committee on the news program then slamming in a closed-circuit segment for twenty minutes covering his whole arrival. Nobody gets to see it but the bunch at the reception. A phoney deal, but it’s got him happy. The networks wouldn’t touch the idea so they’re doing it this way.”

  “Fast thinking. Whose idea was it?”

  “Sergeant Anderson’s, down at the 4th Precinct. You can’t imagine the State Department dreaming that one up, could you?”

  “Their dreams aren’t so realistic. Look, I’m going to try to wangle an invitation.”

  “Don’t waste your time.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “By the way, you ever heard of Malcolm Turos?”

  He gave me a funny little smile that could mean anything. Finally he said, “You’re not paying off to receive official information, are you?”

  “I don’t have to.”

  “Yeah, I heard of him.”

  “Just lately,” I grinned.

  He didn’t have to be on guard with me and knew it. “Very lately. His description has been flashed to all departments.”

  “It won’t fit any more,” I told him.

  He waited for the rest, never losing his grin. “No?”

  “Like a nice clear picture of the guy, a late photo you can use?”

  “When?”

  “Maybe I’ll deliver it tonight.”

  “No games, Tiger,” he said.

  “Authenticated. Positive description. If you like I can get you three witnesses to prove the point.”

  Dick leaned forward staring at me, his face serious. “I’ll take that, Tiger buddy. I’ll assume you know the details of what you’re intimating so I won’t have to spell it out for you.”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, then we can get it circulated and throw out a net
. This guy is top priority on the wanted sheet and if you come across with a bit like that maybe we can nail him. They suspect he’s in this area and are putting out directives on the hour. Washington’s got their best men in to work with us but we haven’t got a decent thing to go on.”

  “You will have.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  We finished another coffee before we left and I let Dick drive me down a couple of blocks from Ernie Bentley’s place, then walked the rest of the way. Virgil Adams had delivered the photo of Turos from Brazil and Ernie had a dozen duplicates ready for me in a manila folder.

  Fifteen minutes after I called him, little Harry was there getting a chemical treatment from Ernie that toned up his swarthy skin complexion, and in a dark suit, his hair reshaped and a thin mustache added, he was far from the turbaned and robed native that was on the Queen with me. Just to make sure he wouldn’t be tempted into exposing hidden animosities against a king who killed off some of his family, I patted him down, took a slim knife out of his sleeve and left it with Ernie. Harry grinned sheepishly, but said nothing, then went over with me to the hotel where I got dressed for the occasion.

  The Stacy was one of the newer hotels, towering and massive, like a new tombstone in an old graveyard. It nestled in the center of Manhattan defiantly, a new big kid who pushed out the older residents and dared them to do anything about it. Limousines were nose to bumper in the no parking zones, all sporting DPL tags that meant diplomatic immunity to police citations and cabs were disgorging the pompous and the famous like sick cats. Each side of the street was lined with uniformed patrolmen and a dozen mounted sergeants walked their horses along the curb to keep things moving, with a few motorcycle cops standing by for anything that might develop. The gawking crowd attracted by the display was probably loaded with plainclothesmen, but I only spotted a couple I knew by sight.

  Anybody entering the lobby was directed either to one side or another, those attending the reception to the left, the rest shunted the opposite way. A red velvet rope with matching carpet led the way to the first door where a pair of smiling young men in tuxedos inspected the invitations, tore a comer off the card to see if they were genuine, with a colored thin inner layer, then passed you inside to go through another screening.