SHE DIDN’T COME to the door at first. It was only by keeping his thumb on the buzzer, while the minutes ticked by, that Duffy got her to come at all. When she did come, she had the door on the chain. Duffy thought it was a hell of a time to start playing around with door-chains, but he let it drift with the current.
She started to close the door when she saw who it was, but Duffy got the toe of his shoe in first.
“Listen, bright girl,” he said, “open up, and be your age. You’ve got a corpse on your hands right outside.”
“I honestly believe you’re as mad as a coon,” she said breathlessly, “or very, very drunk.”
Duffy leant his weight against the door, his face pressed against the small opening. “Cattley’s on the roof of the elevator. First glance, I’d say it was in the basement when he hit it.”
He saw her eyes widen, and then she giggled. He’d have forgiven her if she had screamed, or even passed out, but the giggle made him mad. He took a step back.
“That suits me, if that’s the way you want it.”
She pushed the door to, slipped the chain, then opened the door and stepped into the corridor.
“Wait,” she said, putting her hand on his sleeve. Her hand looked white against his dark suit.
“Someone’ll want this elevator in a moment, and then things are going to happen.”
“Is he really I mean, you’re not just saying this to scare me?”
He got in the elevator, slid the grille and pressed the down button. He let the elevator sink half-way, then broke the current by opening the grille. He climbed out with a struggle, leaving the cage between floors.
“Does that look like a bedtime story?”
She peered at Cattley, not moving her body, but just craning her neck. One of her hands went to her mouth. “Is he dead?”
“Do you think he’s catching some sleep? Look at him, baby, look at his arms and legs. Could you sleep like that?”
She turned on him angrily. “Well, do something about it,” she said.
He pushed his hat to the back of his head. “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re as dumb as you seem to be. You couldn’t be dumber than a hophead, the way that brain of yours works. Do something about it? Well, what you want me to do? Send for the cops? Call an ambulance? What?”
She raised both hands and pushed her hair off her ears. She did it unconsciously. “But you must know what to do,” she said.
Duffy stood looking at Cattley with a faint grimace, then he went over and took hold of him. He gripped his arm and shoulder. It gave him quite a turn when the arm bent back at the elbow. There were a very few bones in one piece with this guy. He pulled and slid Cattley off the roof and let him as gently as he could on to the floor. Cattley’s legs folded up, but not at the knees, they folded up in the middle of his shins. Duffy felt himself sweating. Putting his hands under Cattley’s shoulders, he dragged him into the flat and laid him out in the hall.
“What are you bringing him in here for—?” Her voice was pitched half a note higher.
“Don’t talk now,” he said, looking with disgust at the blood on his hands. “This guy’s going to make a mess in your joint, but it’s better than making a mess of you.”
He walked back to the lift and inspected the roof. The woodwork was smeared with blood.
“Get me a wet towel,” he said.
She went into the apartment, carefully walking round Cattley. He stood by the lift watching her. She’d got a good nerve, he told himself. She came back again with a wet hand-towel. He took it from her and carefully mopped off the bloodstains. Then he wiped his hands on the towel and folded it neatly. He walked into her apartment and put the towel on Cattley’s chest. She followed him in, again skirting Cattley, drawing her green wrap close to her.
“Will you see if he’s got the money on him still?” she said.
Duffy looked at her hard.
“What makes you think the money ain’t there?”
“It’s the way I said it. I meant will you get the money from him.”
Duffy grimaced. “I hate handling this bird. He’s brittle.”
She came and stood close to him, looking down at Cattley. “Isn’t he going to get stiff soon?” she said. “Hadn’t you better straighten him out a little before he gets that way?”
Duffy said, “For God’s sake,” but he knelt down and cautiously pulled on Cattley’s legs. One of his shin-bones poked up through his trousers leg. Duffy got up and looked round the hall. He went over to the coat-rack and selected a walking-stick. Then he came back to Cattley and put the ferrel of the stick on the shin-bone and pressed. The leg straightened, and he did the same with the other one.
His face was a little yellow, and sweat glistened on his top lip. Cattley was making him feel a little sick. He hooked the handle of the stick round Cattley’s arm and put his toot against Cattley’s body, then he pulled gently. The arm came out from under Cattley like a limp draught-preventer.
Cattley’s head lay on his right shoulder. The skin round the neck had split a little. Duffy straightened the head too with the stick.
“Want me to cross his hands?” he said, for something to say. All the time he was fixing Cattley, she stood at his elbow and watched. Then she said, “Get the money!”
Duffy looked at her, his eyes narrowed. “Leave the money where it is,” he said shortly, “get me a drink.”
She went into the sitting-room and he followed her. He suddenly found that he was still holding the walking-stick. It had blood-smears on it. He went and put it beside Cattley. Then he walked back into the sitting-room again.
She stood by the table, fixing a Scotch. He took the glass from her before she could add a Seltzer and tossed the liquor down his throat. It was good Scotch. Silky and full of body, with no raw bite in it. He felt it in his belly, a round little knot of warmth. He took the bottle from the table and poured himself another glass.
“Did you kill him?” he said, looking at her over the top of the glass.
She spread her hands across her breasts, standing very quiet for a moment, then she said, “Was he killed?”
Duffy took another pull at his glass. “Use your head,” he said shortly, “how could he have fallen down the shaft? He wasn’t drunk, was he? Think a moment. He goes out of your apartment. The elevator is standing on the ground floor. He opens the grille to look at it, then he feels giddy and falls down. They wouldn’t pass it in a nut factory.”
She was going white again and she sat on the edge of the table. Her wrap fell open, showing her knees, but neither of them bothered with that.
“This is the way it went. Cattley goes out to the elevator and is smacked on the dome, then he is tossed down the shaft. That makes sense.” Duffy put the glass down on the table and lit a cigarette. “You ain’t answered my question Did you kill him?”
“No,” she said.
“There’s only one person who’s going to believe that,” Duffy said, “and that’s you.”
She raised her head. Her big eyes were frightened now. “You don’t think I killed him?” she said; her words ran into each other.
“Can’t you see what a spot you’re in?” he asked patiently. “Look, let me wise you up. Cattley calls on you to sell you something. You say it’s material for a book; okay, it’s material for a book. You show him the door and then, there he is on the elevator roof smashed to bits.”
“That doesn’t prove that I killed him,” she said breathlessly.
Duffy shrugged. “It helps,” he said; “let me have a look at that material he sold you.”
She slid off the table and walked into her bedroom. Duffy sat down in an arm-chair. He gave her a few minutes, then he called, “I guess the killer pinched it.”
She came out of the bedroom, her face white. She stood in the doorway, one hand at her throat, the other gripping the door-handle.
“I… I can’t find it,” she whispered.
Duffy pursed his lips. “I bet you can’t,” he said. Then he got to his feet. He walked over to her and took both her elbows in his hands, he drew her towards him. “You’re a goddam silly little loon,” he said evenly, “you think you can play this out on your own. Well, you can’t. You’ve put on the thinnest act I’ve ever struck. That writing a book on the underworld went out with the Ark. Get wise to yourself, redhead.”
She drew away from him. “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice a little flat and toneless.
Duffy scratched his head. “This is a hell of a night,” he said, then he stood very still, his fingers spread through his hair. “I wonder…” he broke off, looking at Annabel. “It looks to me that Morgan wants you to take the rap for Cattley’s murder,” he said, speaking rapidly, “it fits, by God!” He was getting quite excited. “Listen, baby, how’s this for a theory? Morgan gets me to photograph you and Cattley. Cattley gets smacked down by one of Morgan’s mob just outside your door and tossed down the shaft. I get my camera pinched containing the photos. All Morgan has to do is to threaten to turn the pictures over to the cops for you to dive into your deposit account and fork out plenty.”
Annabel was scarcely breathing. “Will you help me?”
Duffy said, “I can’t help myself, can I?”
“You’re being nice, aren’t you?”
“Nice, hell! I took the photos, didn’t I? I’ve got to do something to square that.”
She dropped into the arm-chair, and held her hand over her eyes. Duffy looked at her and then fetched another glass from the wagon. He poured in three fingers of Scotch and then filled his own glass. He came over to her. “Can you drink this stuff?” he said.
She took the glass from him. “I don’t want it,” she said.
“You’d better get a little drunk,” he said, “you’ve got a nasty job on your hands.”
She looked at him and he jerked his head at the door. “J guess we’ve got to get rid of Cattley.”
She said, “Can’t you do it?”
He grinned mirthlessly. “You’re in on this, too, sister,” he said. “I’m helping you, but I ain’t taking any rap.”
She drank the whisky neat and he gave her a cigarette.
“In a couple of hours that bird’s going to get as stiff as a board. I guess he won’t be too nice to handle like that. Now, we could pack him in a bag without much fuss.”
She shuddered.
“It beats me where the hell we’re going to plant him.” Duffy began to pace the floor. “He’s got to remain planted and he ain’t going to be found. As soon as they turn him up, then those photos will come into the market. It’s the only way we can beat their game ”
He looked at her. “Go and get dressed,” he said.
She got out of the chair and moved over to the bedroom. “Give me a trunk, if you’ve got one,” he said.
She paused. “There’s one in here,” she said.
He followed her into the bedroom. She pointed to a large wall cupboard and he opened the door. In the corner was a small black cabin trunk. It was covered with labels. There seemed to be every hotel under the sun advertised on its black shiny sides. He looked at it and then he said, “You’ve got about.” She didn’t say anything. He hauled the trunk out and dragged it into the sitting-room.
“You got a sheet of mackintosh that I could wrap him in?” he called.
She came to the door. “Mackintosh?”
“He’s going to mess this trunk without it.”
She went across to another door and disappeared. He could hear her rummaging about, then she came out with a large luggage wrap. “Will this do?”
“Yeah.” He took it from her.
“Don’t say ‘yeah’,” she said.
He stood holding the mackintosh. “What’s it to you?”
“It’s tough.”
He stood staring at her. “Suppose it is tough,” he said, “isn’t this a hell of a time to start a crack like that?”
“Do you think so?”
He let the luggage wrap slide out of his hands on to the floor. He could see her eyes were completely blank. She was hissing a little through her teeth. She fumbled with the girdle round her waist until she had it undone. The green wrap fell open and he saw she was naked. She stood a little on her toes, her hands clenched at her sides.
“Take me,” she said, her voice just above a whisper, “take me, take me, take me.”
Duffy smacked her face. He could see the marks of his fingers on her white skin. Then he smacked her face again. She blinked twice. Her eyes became human again, and she stood looking at him, a surprised and frightened look on her face.
“Get dressed,” Duffy said thickly. He could only think of Cattley.
She turned away from him and walked limply into the bedroom, then she shut the door.
Duffy blotted his face with his handkerchief. He picked up the mackintosh sheet and walked into the hall. All the time he was telling himself what a sweet spot he had got himself into. It was bad enough to have to handle Cattley in the state he was in, but a dame as screwy as Annabel flattened him. He looked at Cattley in disgust. “If you weren’t going to stiffen on me, I’d be having fun right now,” he said viciously.
He spread the sheet flat by Cattley’s side, then he picked up the walking-stick and hooked hold of Cattley’s armpit. He couldn’t quite bring himself to touch him with his hands. With a little maneuvering he rolled him on to the sheet. Then he knelt down and made a neat parcel of the body.
By the time he had done that he felt so low that he went back into the sitting-room and gave himself another shot of Scotch. His legs were feeling light, and he guessed he was getting pretty high. His head was clear, and he felt just reckless enough to go on with it.
He poured out a stiff dose in Annabel’s glass and went into the bedroom. When he got in the room, he nearly dropped the whisky. She was lying on her side on the bed. She was in her birthday suit, and it was a pretty good birthday suit at that.
He put the glass on the small table by the bed, and then he backed out of the room. There was only one driving thought in his mind. He had to plant Cattley before his muscles went like a board. Once he got that way, Duffy knew he’d be sunk.
He went into the kitchen and flicked on the light. The kitchen was large, with white tiles half-way up the walls, and yellow varnished paint on the other half. The floor was covered with large black and white checks. He thought it was a swell kitchen. He hunted about until he found a length of cord, then he went back to Cattley, lying snug in his parcel. He knelt, down and made the parcel secure with the cord. Then he walked back to the sitting-room and dragged the trunk into the hall and wedged Cattley into it.
Half-way through he had to stop and sit on a chair. There was no resistance in the parcel at all. Cattley was just pulp. He sat there staring at the trunk and at the bulge of the mackintosh, that overlapped the sides of the trunk. Then he got up and wedged the overlapping parts in with the stick. The lid wouldn’t quite close, so he stood on it. That made him feel bad, but he got the locks fastened somehow.
He took out his handkerchief and wiped off his palms and patted his face.
While he was standing there Annabel came out of the bedroom. She was wearing a black skirt, a white silk blouse, and a black three-quarter coat. She held a pair of magpie gauntlets in her hand. She moved slowly, with just a little sway on. He could see that the whisky was hitting her.
She peered at him.
“He’s packed up,” he said harshly.
She said nothing, but he was surprised to see how her eyes hated him. He thought about it for a moment, then agreed that she had reason to be sore.
“I never was good with a corpse lying around,” he said.
She ignored that and stood, her head turned away from him, by the table.. “What now?” she said.
“Can you get your car?”
“The garage is in the basement.”
Duffy went outside and pressed the buzzer for the elevator. It came up steadily and he found himself looking for more corpses. There weren’t any. He slid the grille, then walked into the apartment. She made no move to help him drag the trunk into the cage. It was heavy, but he did it all right.
She followed him into the elevator and they both stood beside the trunk. Neither of them looked at it. He put his thumb on the basement button and the cage sank. He counted the floors as they went by. By the time they got to the basement, he counted twelve. He thought Cattley was lucky to have any skin left at all.
The attendant came up with a run. He was a little runt, with wire-like black hair. When he saw Annabel he nearly fell over himself. He looked just like an excited puppy.
“You takin’ the bus out tonight?” he asked, wiping his oily hands on a bit of waste.
She managed to look fairly bright, and to say, “Yes, please,” nicely, but it cost her a lot.
Duffy stood just inside the elevator, watching. The little runt bounced off into the darkness, and they heard him start up an engine. Duffy told himself that the engine was powerful all right. A minute later, the attendant brought round a big Cadillac, just with the parkers on. He brought the car round in a sweep, nailing it just where Annabel was standing. Duffy thought it was a nice piece of driving. It was.
The attendant dusted off the seat and held the door open for Annabel. Duffy might not have been there. He polished the wind-screen.
Annabel got in and slammed the door to. Duffy took hold of the trunk and looked at the attendant.
“Lend me some of your muscle,” he said.
The little runt was willing enough, but he was not much help. Duffy was sweating by the time they had fixed the trunk to the grid.
“She goin’ away?” the attendant asked.
“Naw,” Duffy returned, testing the straps. “Just getting rid of some books.”
“It’s mighty late.”
Duffy looked at him sharply. Perhaps he wasn’t so dumb as he looked. “You mind?” he asked curtly.
The attendant blinked. He hastily said, “I didn’t mean anythin’.”
Duffy gave him a couple of bucks, then he went round the car and got in beside Annabel. She engaged the gear and the Cadillac rolled up the slipway.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Duffy had already thought that one out. “There’s a little burial ground on the East side, beyond Greenwich Village,” he said, “we’re going there.”
She shot a quick glance at him. “That’s cute,” she said.
Duffy leant back against the leather. “You’re a swell kid,” he said quietly, “this is my unlucky day.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I’ll never bring this up again,” he said, “but I can’t leave it like that. I want you to know that I appreciate what you offered me, but that guy would have stiffened up by the time we were through, so I had to pass it up. You got plenty of reason to be sore at me.”
She said nothing for a few moments. “I’m not sore at you,” she said at last. “I think you’re cute to throw me back at myself.”
Just like that. Duffy sighed and groped for a cigarette. “Let’s not fight,” he said, “we’ve got enough on our hands.”
“I’m not fighting,” was all she said.
They rode the next three blocks in silence, then Duffy said, “You turn right here.”
She swung the wheel. Duffy thought she handled the big Cadillac as if she were part of it. She judged distance to the closeness of the paint on her fender and the car threaded its way through the traffic without losing speed at any time. By uncanny anticipation she beat the lights most times. The Cadillac had plenty under the hood, and a touch on the pedal was enough to make it sweep forward like an arrow.
They came upon the burial ground as the clocks were striking two. Duffy leant forward. “Take it easy,” he said, “this is a lonely burg, but someone may be here.”
She stopped the car by the iron gates. Duffy opened the off door and got out. There were no lights to be seen in the burial ground; it was a pretty dark night.
Duffy was glad he wasn’t Irish. The place was creepy. He turned to the car. “You wait here,” he said. “I’m just going to take a look round.”
She opened the door and stepped into the road. “I’m not staying here alone,” she said.
Duffy wasn’t surprised. He walked to the iron gates and pushed, they yielded, and swung open.
“Suppose you back the bus in,” he suggested, “then we’ll be off the road.”
She got in the Cadillac again and started the engine. Duffy let her run the car well down the centre lane of the graveyard and then signalled her to stop. He closed the iron gates again.
When she got out of the car, she was holding a small flashlight. The night air was close, and Duffy hooked a finger in his collar and jerked at it. He looked round the dim place. He didn’t like it at all. She stood quite close to him, and he felt her shivering when he touched her.
Up above, the moon hung like a dead face, just visible through the mist. Duffy thought it was likely to rain any time.
“I want to find an old mausoleum,” he said. “If we can park Cattley in one of them, he ain’t likely to be turned up for some time, if ever.”
He began to walk slowly down the lane. Annabel kept close beside him. The white stones on each side of them looked ghostly. “What a spot to be in,” Duffy thought.
As they penetrated further into the burial ground it got darker. The trees overhead began to get more dense.
“Nice spot this, ain’t it?” Duffy said.
The heavy scent of graveyard flowers hung in the air. Underfoot, the cinders crunched and sounded to Duffy like firecrackers.
“I wish we could get away from here,” Annabel said nervously, “this scares me.”
“Me, I’m quaking,” Duffy said. “I guess we’re far enough off the road to chance having a little light.”
He swung the beam of the flash-light. It lit up the tombstones, making them look startlingly white in the darkness.
“I think this looks like it.” Duffy paused and pointed the beam.
Over on the left stood a mausoleum in black marble. It was almost invisible until the beam showed it up. They went over and examined it carefully. The marble door was locked.
“This is Cattley’s new home,” Duffy said, running his hand down the smooth cold door. “But how the hell do we get him in?”
He put his shoulder against the door and heaved. He made his shoulder sore, but the door remained solid.
“What’s that number there?” Annabel asked. She was holding the flash so that he could push against the door.
Duffy followed her eye. There was a small plate let in on the side of the door with a number 7 printed on it. Duffy said he didn’t know.
“Do you think they keep the keys of these places at the porter’s place?” she asked.
Duffy grinned at her. “That’s a grand idea,” he said. “Let’s go an’ see.”
The porter’s lodge, by the gates, was locked and deserted but Duffy got a window open without much difficulty and looked round. He found a rack of keys by the front door, each key had a wooden tab hanging from it, with a number burned into the wood. He looked for number 7 and found it.
“I believe you’ve got something,” he said. “Suppose you drive the car up to the crypt while I go on and test the key.”
She got into the Cadillac and began to back it down the lane. He had to come back and help her with the flash, as she ran off the lane once or twice. They got back to the mausoleum at last and Duffy tried the key. The lock turned all right with some heavy pressure from Duffy, and he forced the door back. The air was bad down there, and he stepped away from the open door.
“That guy’s going to have good company,” was all he said.
He went to the back of the car and wrestled with the straps that held the trunk. Annabel stood, holding the flash steady. He got the straps off and then levered the trunk to the ground. It was heavy, but he managed to get it down without making any noise. Then he stood up and wiped off his palms with his handkerchief.
“I guess I could do with a drink,” he said heavily.
“There’s a pint flask in the driving-pocket.”
Duffy slipped round to the door pretty quick. He belted that pint hard. He thought it would be safer not to give Annabel any of it. Whisky seemed to take her in the wrong way. He didn’t like to think of turning her down again.
“I guess I can tackle anything now,” he said, putting the flask in his hip pocket.
He took off his coat and undid his collar, pulling his tie loose. Then he walked over to the trunk and dragged it into the mausoleum. Annabel stood just outside the door, shining the flash. The beam jerked about. Her hand was shaking like a barman at work.
Duffy got the trunk inside and then paused.
“For God’s sake gimme that light,” he said.
She seemed glad to do so. “I’m going to be sick,” she said.
“No you ain’t,” he said sharply. “Go and sit in the car quick.”
When she had gone he opened the trunk and turned it on its side. The mackintosh parcel was jammed tight and he had to pull at it. The sheet suddenly tore in his hand and he went over backwards. He landed against a shelf, and his hand touched a cold metal strip. He fingered it, then he snatched his hand away. It was a handle of a coffin. His face oozed water as if it had been squeezed.
He went to the door and took a deep breath of the dank air, then he went back to the trunk. Savagely he pulled Cattley out, pulled away the cord, and jerked off the mackintosh sheet. Cattley sprawled at his feet. He didn’t look at him. Dumping the sheet into the trunk, he pulled the trunk out of the crypt.
The whisky was hitting him all ends up now, and he lurched as he walked. He went back to get the flash, but he still didn’t look at Cattley. Then he pulled the door of the mausoleum shut and shot the lock.
His shirt was sticking to his chest, and his legs were a little wobbly. Annabel called from the car, “Are you all right?”
Duffy said he was fine, but that was because he was drunk. He didn’t feel so good. He’d have liked to get so drunk right now that the whole of the evening could be washed out in sleep. He had had enough of it for one night.
She came out of the car and stood near him.
“What about the trunk?” she asked.
“Back at the lodge, there’s a tap and hose for filling cans. I noticed it when I went in. I’ll take these things over and wash ’em up, then we can go home.”
She sat on the running-board of the car and smoked a cigarette. She sat there the whole time with her eyes tight shut. She was so scared of being alone, that if it hadn’t been for the cigarette between her lips she would have screamed and screamed.
On his way back, Duffy called to her when he was some distance away. He didn’t want to come on her suddenly.
“It’s okay,” he said, hoisting the trunk on to the grid again. “There ain’t no mess now. Cattley’s planted good, so I guess that lets you out.”
She got into the Cadillac and drove slowly down to the gates. He walked beside the car.. Opening the gates, he looked cautiously up and down the road, but it was dark and deserted. He shut the gates when she had driven into the road and climbed in beside her.
She drove at a furious pace without a word. Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead, and Duffy leant back, breathing heavily, his eyes heavy with sleep.
When they began to run into traffic again he raised his head. “You can drop me off here,” he said. “I’m going home.”
“I’ll drive you there,” she said.
“No.”
She stopped the car.
“I’m sorry I…”she began.
“I’m going home,” Duffy said firmly. He had had a bellyful. “Tomorrow, perhaps. Tonight, no.”
He opened the door and lurched on to the street. He stood there, holding the door in his hand. “I’ve got to get those pictures back,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”
He slammed the door hard. He had a swift vision of her great eyes, wide with hate, her white teeth gleaming in the dark, then the Cadillac shot away from him.
He looked up and down the street for a taxi.
“I guess that honey hates my guts,” he said sadly, as a yellow taxi slid up to him.