The By-Pass Control Read online

  She stood there, one foot up on a hassock, smoothing a stocking over her thigh, then clasping it in the hook of a garter belt to match the other. When she was satisfied she stepped into a half slip, adjusted it, then went to the full-length mirror on the opposite wall to be sure of the fit.

  Then she saw me silently laughing at her, spun around grabbing for her blouse, then realizing how silly it was, gave me an impatient stamp of her foot and said, “How long have you been there!”

  “Long enough.”

  “Well, it isn’t polite....”

  “It isn’t polite to undress a guy and put him to bed, either,” I reminded her.

  “That was different.”

  “I hope so,” I said. I walked across the room and held out the drink. “You look better all the time, kid.”

  She took the drink, shook her head in feigned annoyance, and reached for her bra. “You keep it up and there won’t be anything left for when we’re married.”

  I gave her a long, long appreciative stare and grinned. “With you, honey,” I told her, “there’s always going to be plenty left over.” Then before she could throw something at me I went back outside.

  When she finished dressing I heard her call the embassy and arrange for a short leave of absence, then she came out carrying a leather suitcase and white trenchcoat slung over her arm. She let me take it from her, checked the windows and the lights and checked the door lock behind her when we went out. Downstairs she remembered another call she had forgotten to make, stopped at the wall booth while I waited near the door and dialed her number.

  That was when the doorman came in. He started toward the desk, saw me and waved me over. “He went by again. Same car. I was just gonna call you.”

  “Get the number?”

  “Damn right.” He handed me a slip of paper with the license number scrawled across it. “Last year’s Chevy, dark blue sedan and there’s a dent in the left rear fender.”

  “Thanks, buddy. Can I use this phone?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  I caught Charlie Corbinet at his apartment, read the number off and hung up while I waited for him to check it through. His contacts were damn thorough. In ten minutes he was back to me with the information that it was a rental car operating out of Surfleet Corporation on Fifty-first Street and a check there said it had been taken out two days ago by a John Clark identified by his driver’s license. The same license had been reported stolen a month ago and reissued to John Clark with a Buffalo, New York, address.

  Charlie let me note it all down, then said, “What’s it mean, Tiger?”

  “I may have to move faster. Anything from Interpol on the .22?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “You were right. Same gun used in those other kills. Hal Randolph is jumping all over the place. There isn’t an agency left who hasn’t been alerted. They’re going all out now.”

  “And the by-pass control?”

  “Nothing.” He paused, then: “Tiger ...”

  “What?”

  “We can’t afford to miss.”

  “I know it, buddy.”

  “We can’t afford to let this thing leak, either,” he said. “One word and there will be a panic like we never saw before.”

  “Hell, the papers will cooperate. Washington is big enough to demand that if somebody tries to break the story.”

  “That isn’t the angle I mean. Supposing the Soviets let the story out themselves. There are enough left-wing and liberal-type publications that drool the Moscow line to get it started. All it takes is one—one lousy do-gooder, one-worlder garbage-eater to get the nitheads screaming in the streets.”

  “Yeah, I know. All we have left is the element of time. If they’re sure Agrounsky pulled the trick off with the by-pass control they might try it, but they have to be sure or it will backfire on them and at this stage of the game they can’t afford adverse criticism.”

  “And how much time have we got?” Charlie asked softly.

  “Hardly any,” I said and hung up.

  Rondine was watching over the doorman’s shoulder, keeping him out of earshot. I shoved the phone back, walked over and picked up her bag. “Where does that rear exit lead to?”

  “Goes into the courtyard,” the doorman said.

  “There’s a service alley that runs along the west side of the building behind this one?”

  “You got to jump the fence.” He thought about it a second and added, “The garbage cans are back there. You could stand on them. That fence is about eight feet high.”

  I took Rondine’s arm. “Show me,” I said.

  With the doorman leading the way we turned left at the rear of the lobby, went through a fire door into a bare concrete corridor that had service rooms opening off it to the door at the back. At the far end was another metal plated fire door with a red exit bulb over it and a three foot horizontal latch handle stretched across its middle. Like all emergency doors, it opened out, but had an added safety lock of a length of two inch angle iron resting in arms attached to the door with the ends butted against the door jambs to keep it from being opened from the outside.

  He pried out the bar easily, stood it on end, and pushed against the handle. The door swung out easily and he turned to me with a grin, half stepping outside to let us go past, and just as I reached for the bag the angle iron in his hand jerked back as if somebody had pulled a string and caught him flat across the forehead and he went down like a poleaxed steer, the door swinging shut until it hit his legs.

  I gave Rondine a shove to one side, hit the floor and pulled the angle iron away from his face and checked the massive bruise that was beginning to show over one eye. His cap had saved him from cracking his skull on the floor but aside from the welt he was going to have when he woke up, he’d be all right.

  Rondine stood there unmoving, then said softly, “What was it, Tiger?”

  I pointed to the head high spot on the surface rust of the angle iron, a dimpled indentation the size of a nickel barely reflecting the dull gray color of freshly spattered lead. “We almost were suckered, kid. They pulled that cruising game out front to force us into a back exit. Somebody’s been planted across the way waiting for us to show. They couldn’t make a hit on the street without taking too many chances. We damn near fell for the bit.”

  “Are you ... ?”

  I shook my head. “Uh-uh, baby, I’m not going to do a thing. Whoever fired that shot expected to get me. He isn’t the kind who misses, either. In this light all he saw was a body fall and the feet are still there to prove it. This guy and me are both about the same size and for now he’ll think I was the one coming through the door. When our friend here comes around he’ll go back on duty with a little larger hat to cover his bump and a pocket full of dough to salve his pain and we’ll get out of here as nice as you please. If someone’s spotted around to watch the action we’ll make it nice and authentic for him.”

  She got the picture fast enough. A simple sketch was all she needed and she grinned from her position against the wall and said something soundlessly that would not have gone with the common concept of a cultured British broad and I grinned back because I knew what she said and that she meant it.

  It was fifteen minutes before the doorman let out his first feeble groan and reached for his head and massaged it gently, his eyes flicking open a moment before he squeezed them shut again.

  “Can you read me, buddy?”

  “Yeah, but not too loud. What the hell happened?”

  “Don’t sweat it. I’ll explain later. Stay right like you are and you’ll get paid for the trouble.”

  “Somebody’s gonna get his head in his hands for that one.”

  “That’s not what you’re getting paid for. You ready?”

  “Okay, okay, just not too loud. Damn, who busted me?”

  “Just figure yourself lucky. You could’ve been killed.”

  “So I’m lucky. Somebody else is going to be miserable. Wait.”

  “Concentrate
on a grand in your pocket. You’ll feel a lot better.”

  He opened his eyes all the way and peered at me in the near dark. “I feel better already. Tell me more.”

  “Later.” I looked up at Rondine. “Can you handle it?”

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  From the lobby phone I reached Wally Gibbons. He was still in his office at the paper and didn’t bother going through the futility of asking questions. He arranged for the private ambulance to get to the address and forwarded my call to Charlie Corbinet so the timing would be right and the cover set through I.A.T.S. They weren’t going to like it, but then, they didn’t have to. All they could do was go along and let it ride like that.

  There wasn’t much time, but we worked it out. The ambulance got there first and before it was parked we had the doorman snaked out of his position. From outside all anybody could see was feet moving back through the door and that would have satisfied them. The doorman was back moving traffic along outside the apartment, keeping the curious away while they wheeled me out, face covered with a sheet on a stretcher, loaded me into the ambulance with a supposedly bereaved woman going along for the final ride at my side. We were making the turn at the corner when the first of the squad cars came screaming up the street and I sat up in the ambulance to look into the face of a completely cynical, white coated attendant who said, “What’s the gag, friend?”

  All I did was reach in my pocket, lay two big bills in his hand and answer, “What difference does it make?”

  He took the cash, held out a clipboard with a printed form on it that I could sign, and when I did said, “None at all, friend. The bill is paid. What’ll I do with the change?” he asked cautiously.

  “Split it with the driver,” I told him.

  “Call on us any time. Here’s our card. Now where to? We charge by the mile.”

  I gave him the corner two blocks away from my new quarters and he relayed the information through the window to the driver. The guy at the wheel said nothing. He turned off the overhead light, fired up a cigarette and relaxed back against the seat to enjoy the ride. I had thought the cabbies in New York were blase, but they never came near these guys at all.

  Rondine and I got out without attracting any attention at all, stopped at a deli to pick up some sandwiches long enough to make sure we weren’t being tailed, then walked down to the sign that said Shigley’s and went up to the apartment Martin Grady had so thoughtfully supplied.

  In another couple of hours the evening papers would be carrying the story of the dead man shot in the classy residential district, identified by papers he carried as one T. Mann, an employee of the Martin Grady organization, the reason for his death unknown, but suspected of being caused by a prowler attempting to force an entrance into the building. I.A.T.S. had no choice but to go along, but the stuff was going to hit the fan when Hal Randolph and I got face to face.

  The rain had started again. It slashed against the windows like fingers of an animal trying to get in, driving and clawing momentarily before taking a respite to make another attack, then under cover of the sudden glow of lightning and the rumbling of thunder from across the Hudson River it would charge in to beat and hammer in a furious onslaught of nature against man. There was a childish fury in the storm, an ineffectual pounding that was insistent and annoying, but lacking the cold skill of the adult beasts that were piling up in the Caribbean, massing themselves for a concerted attack in a month or so, disguised by innocuous female names they give to hurricanes in this age of suffrage.

  A half hour ago the late news had mentioned the supposed killing at Rondine’s address and somewhere out there in the city Niger Hoppes was sitting back smugly thinking his primary mission was accomplished and counting his reward when the report was in. Somewhere he was satisfied that he had won and the rest of the mission was a fait accompli because the biggest obstacle was already disposed of.

  Somewhere out there was a guy who was going to get the biggest surprise of his life.

  The phone rang, a jarring note in the stillness. I picked it up and waited, then heard Martin Grady code his identification. When I gave mine he said, “Newark Control just gave me the information, Tiger. Anything to add to it?”

  “Not yet. Did any of our people cut it at Rondine’s apartment?”

  “We had two spotted there. Between the police and I.A.T.S., they did a good job, but some big explanations are going to be forthcoming. Your old Colonel put a tight squeeze on them. Incidentally, he passed on the information that the slug was a high-velocity .22, so the picture is coming together.”

  “But no sign of Niger Hoppes though?” I asked him.

  “Not yet. We’re trying some left-field tactics to get an ID on the guy. Somebody on his side will have to know him by sight and if we can run down just one we’ll get a description. You’ll get it the minute it comes through.”

  “Good enough. Any repercussions in Washington yet?”

  Grady let out a chuckle. “Talk of reorganization in certain departments. That means they’ll be promoting the eggheads up out of sight instead of dumping them. If the State Department would get on the ball they’d take an ax to some of their bunch. When this is over we’re going to concentrate on certain key personnel up there and get their activities out in the open.”

  “It’s about time.”

  “Okay then, Tiger, stay in touch. Don’t hesitate to ask for anything you need.”

  “Roger, Martin. As far as anybody’s concerned, I’m dead, so get some light publicity in that department.”

  “Already done.”

  “Europe too?”

  “The word was over there before it made the papers here. I don’t doubt but that there is rejoicing in Red Square.”

  “Great,” I said sourly. “Let’s hope it gives us a little extra time.”

  I hung up and sat in the sofa, propping my feet on the window sill so I could look out at the rain. Someplace out there was the answer, the cause and the effect. Someplace out there Louis Agrounsky was still trying to make up his mind.

  I felt Rondine sit beside me, her fingers slide up my shoulder and massage my neck. “Can it wait?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Her lips brushed my cheek and she turned my head around gently. While I was watching the night she had changed into a cobwebby thing that was almost transparent. “But it’ll have to,” I said.

  CHAPTER 6

  Virgil Adams awoke me at six A.M. with his call, a brief message to make contact with Dave Elroy at a roominghouse so far downtown the river was in the back yard. He coded it urgent and didn’t give me any more details, so I knew Dave had buzzed him from an open phone somewhere and didn’t want to lay any explanations on the line at that point.

  Rondine’s eyes came open, still hazy with sleep, saw me perched on the edge of the bed and smiled in that pleased way women have after a perfect night and she squirmed under the covers so that the sheet outlined the full sweep of her hips and the lazy curve of her legs. “Who was it, darling?”

  “Business, kid.”

  The hazy look faded and her eyes became bright with sudden anxiety. “Something wrong?”

  “I don’t know.” I climbed into my clothes as quickly as I could, looked at myself in the mirror before deciding I could do without a shave for a while, then dropped the .45 into the speed rig on my belt and pulled on my coat.

  “Will you be long?”

  I bent over and kissed her lightly. Anything else and it would be too hard to tear myself away from her. “I’ll make it quickly as I can. You just stay put, baby. Don’t answer the door unless you get a ‘V’ rap. If I call I’ll let it ring once, hang up, then ring again. Anything else, ignore. Got it?”

  She half sat up in the bed, the covers clutched at her throat. “Be careful, Tiger.”

  “You know me.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  Downstairs, the city was beginning to come back to life again. The early morning smells from the restaurant
s had seeped out into the canyons between the buildings to lure in the sidewalk marchers going to work. Two city trucks had already disgorged a dozen men near the corner where they were ready to finish a huge excavation in the street. New York, I thought, a self-perpetuating machine that never stopped. No matter where you looked, skeletal steel towered into the sky and gigantic troughs were gouged into the bedrock below. No place to build but up, and up they were going. I wondered what they’d do if they thought it could all come tumbling down in a single second.

  Rather than take a cab, I let myself be fed into the maw of a subway entrance and boarded a downtown local. When I got off I spotted the house numbers, turned east and walked two blocks to the last remaining brownstones that had once lined the street and went up the steps to the vestibule and pushed the door open.

  The greasy smell of cooking cut through the musty odor that was part of the building, coming from the apartment on the far end of the hall. Underfoot were a half dozen empty whiskey bottles, and the stairway to one side was packed with empty cartons and accumulated debris that would make a fire inspector turn green.

  When my eyes were adjusted to the semi-gloom I snaked the gun out and went down the hall, staying close to the wall so the floorboards wouldn’t creak under my weight. The signal I tapped on the door had been prearranged, but I still didn’t take any chances. I stayed to one side ready to cut loose if anything was wrong at all.

  Dave didn’t forget his manners either. He tapped back the right answer to get me at ease, opened the door on a chain, made sure of the identification, then swung it open all the way.

  “Greetings, Tiger.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Come on in. We have a little party going.”

  I stepped in with the .45 still ready, cut to one side as I swept the room with my eyes, then stuck the rod back in my belt when I got the picture. There was only one other in the room aside from Dave, a scrawny little guy with a scared face who kept gulping rapidly even though he was dry as a bone.

  “Couldn’t you pick a better hotel?”