I'D OVERLOOKED THE driver simply because he was the driver.
He'd thumbed the hammer back as a subtle warning to me. I wouldn't get another. All it needed now was a minimum amount of pressure on the trigger to go off. While I was very busy not moving, Kyler walked around just enough to check on Rimik.
"Lucky man," he said. Rimik was still breathing. "Chaven, take the kid over there." He nodded at another stack of crates that were too big to be thrown.
The driver, Chaven, bumped my temple again with the muzzle of his gun. I let go of the knife and straightened cautiously. He gestured in the direction he wanted me to go. I stepped away from Rimik's body and walked toward the crates. Two steps and I had to stop because the river below our feet was holding me back. Chaven put a hand in the middle of my back and pushed. It helped and got me past the point of no return.
"Turn around." Chaven had a voice like the edge of Rimik's knife.
I turned and was looking down the short barrel of his gun, noting that he favored a revolver over an automatic. Revolvers are simple tools, particularly the double-action type; there's no need to remember about the safety or chambering a bullet or clearing a last-second jam. All you have to do is pull the trigger and it goes boom... In this case, it could go boom right through my skull. The shot wouldn't kill me, but it was an experience that I altogether preferred to avoid.
Now I knew how far Kyler was willing to go with things. He and his men were ready to kill, and kill casually for whatever they wanted. I was dealing with human garbage.
Chaven had a narrow, hatchet-hard face with no more emotion in it than the gun he held, so I watched his eyes. If he decided to do anything, I'd see it show up in them first.
"He's cold," Chaven commented to his boss.
Kyler hardly glanced up. "Only because he thinks I need him alive." He came over to stand next to Chaven and to look at me more closely. "Well, I don't."
The cut on my arm stopped burning and began to sting. I let my breath out slowly and drew another.
"Your last chance," he said, carefully spacing the words. "Where is the woman?"
I waited a moment before answering, just so that Kyler knew I'd understood him.
"On the level... I don't know."
"Why do you have her suitcase?"
"For safekeeping."
"Then you expect to see her again?"
"Maybe. I don't know for certain."
"I will guarantee her safety. I will even pay her. She, at least, might appreciate some compensation for her time. She'll know me. She'll know I'll be fair."
"But I don't know you."
"I've already noticed and allowed for that, or you'd be dead by now. You're not stupid. Start asking around. You'll find out all you need about me and how I work."
I'd already gotten a pretty clear idea. Chaven still held his gun three inches away from my nose and his hand was very steady.
"I expect you to find her. When you do, tell her that if she leaves town before settling her business with me, she will regret it."
"I'll let her know."
"Do that, Fleming." Kyler's eyes froze onto mine. It was like standing in front of the cobra exhibit at a zoo. but without any protective glass in between. "Do it as though your life depended upon it."
Kyler returned Doreen's pistol-without the bullets-and had Chaven drive me to Bobbi's hotel, where the Nash was parked. It was another silent ride. I hugged my sore arm and bit my tongue to keep from asking him anything. They could learn a lot about me from the kind of questions I might have, and I didn't want any of them getting too curious. My best course was to keep a low profile; I was to be a messenger boy and nothing more.
Chaven pulled up next to the Nash, braking only long enough for me to get out.
The Caddy glided away out of sight. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, made sure the street was empty, and vanished.
It was swift and certain release from my pain. Through trial and a lot of error, I'd learned that going incorporeal speeded up the healing process. I floated around for a time and eventually sieved into Escott's car to rematerialize and take stock.
The bloodstains were alarming, but a little soap and water would clear them away. The seven-inch gash was already closed and had reduced itself to a nasty-looking red scar. It would fade soon enough. Too bad I couldn't say the same for my memory. He was out of commission for now, but one of these nights I planned to pay Rimik back in full, and take my time about it.
I considered going in to see Bobbi for a little cleanup and sympathy, but quickly decided against it. Kyler had made me paranoid. If his men were able to trail me from the studio to the Stockyards without getting spotted, they could still be on the watch. Walking back to the hotel might lead them to Bobbi, and I wasn't about to involve her in this mess.
Starting the car, I prowled around the streets. At this time of the morning, anyone following me would easily stand out. After half an hour of searching the mirror and seeing nothing, I felt reasonably safe and drove to Escott's office near the Stockyards. I parked the car, locked it, and walked away, going around the block to the next street over. Being reasonably safe isn't the same as being certain about it. I stood in a shadow-filled alley until the cold started to penetrate even my supernatural hide. Only one car came by, an old cab driven by a middle-aged man who looked both sleepy and bored. Not Kyler's style at all.
Vanishing again, I left the alley and felt my way two doors down the block, slipping inside the third one with heartfelt relief. The first thing I sensed after going solid was the rich, earthy aroma of tobacco. It was a small shop, jammed with all the usual paraphernalia needed for a good smoke. Escott owned a half interest in the place and used it for more than just keeping his favorite blend on hand.
I went around the small counter and up the narrow stairs. Woodson, the other owner, used the front section of the second floor for storage and never bothered with the back. The dust on the floor was undisturbed and I left it that way, choosing to float over it to get to the rear wall, where Escott had installed a hidden door. I didn't bother messing with the catch and just seeped through, re-forming in the washroom of Escott's office.
My eyes automatically skipped past the mirror as I walked into the back room, which was furnished with a few bare necessities. Once in a while his work kept him late and he wasn't above camping out here. His neatly made-up army cot was short on comfort, but adequate for an overnight stay. He also had a suitcase and a change of clothes on hand for occasional out-of-town trips. I opened the door to the front room.
Except for the blotter, phone, and ashtray, the top of his desk was clean. He was an extremely neat man, insisting on order and precision in every detail of his life, right down to the exact way his chair was centered into its well under the desk. I avoided moving it and sat in the other office chair.
I used the phone and tried reaching him at the house but got nothing. I dialed police headquarters and asked for Lieutenant Blair. He'd gone home hours ago.
When I asked for Escott, they'd never heard of him.
He'd left no messages for me with his answering service. I wasn't sure if I should be worried about him or not. I decided not, and gave them a message for him to check his safe deposit box when he came in. It was what he called the hidden compartment he'd installed behind the medicine cabinet in his washroom. Now all I had to do was put something in it for him to find.
He had a Corona and a ream of paper on the top of his file cabinet. I brought them down and started typing.
It was a few minutes shy of dawn when I finally finished and put everything away.
I tugged at the frame of the medicine cabinet and jammed the pages of my report into the narrow space there. Escott may have liked things tidy, but I was tired and in a hurry. I shut the cabinet fast before it could all fall out again and quickly walked through the wall to the tobacco shop storeroom.
Screened by a load of old crates and other junk was an especially long box that Escott had constructed for me as an emergency bolt hole. This was the first time I'd ever felt jumpy enough to want to use it. I slipped through and materialized inside its cramped confines. Like my cot at home, the bottom was lined with a quantity of my home earth in a flat oilcloth hag. It was secure, but far too much like a coffin for much mental comfort. Fortunately, the sun came up before claustrophobia overcame common sense, and I was asleep for the day.
There was no sense of waking for me, no coming up through the layers of sleep into full consciousness. When in contact with my earth, I'm either awake or not awake. It all depends on the position of the sun. I called my daytime oblivion sleep because it was a familiar word, not because it was accurate. Precisely at sunset the next night, my eyes opened, I remembered where I was, and wasted no time getting out. The box was useful enough, hut I preferred being crammed into one of my steamer trunks.
In the tobacco shop downstairs a door opened and shut-either a late customer or Woodson himself closing things up for the night. He knew about the hidden door, but not about my long box or its supply of Cincinnati soil. Escott and I had figured that, like a lot of people, he'd be much happier not knowing.
No further sound came from below. I walked through to the rear of the office. On the radio that served as a nightstand was my typed report. In one corner stood Doreen Grey's cheap suitcase. Escott was lying on his army cot, a pile of newspapers within easy reach on the floor and a crumpled afternoon edition folded over his face.
The deep regularity of his breathing told me he was in dreamland.
I really hated to wake him up. "Charles?"
The paper rattled. He was a light sleeper. He dragged the paper away and sat up.
"Good evening," he said almost cheerfully. He did a beautiful double take. "Perhaps I should say good heavens. You look as though you've been busy."
"No need to be nice about it. We both know I look like something the cat dragged in. Can I borrow your razor?"
"Please do. Whatever happened to your arm?"
I'd omitted a few details about last night's activities from the report. "Kyler's boys play rough. Think your tailor can fix it?"
"Your arm?" he deadpanned.
"The clothes. My arm's fine." I peeled off my overcoat and suit coat. The blood had dried and all but glued everything to the skin. It looked terrible, but the damage beneath was almost healed by now. As I scrubbed off in the sink, I could see that last night's angry red line was now a long, white welt. Eventually, even that would disappear, leaving no scar. "Did you get things straightened out with Lieutenant Blair?"
He added his paper to the stack on the floor and stretched a little. "Yes, after I'd gotten hold of our employer and informed him of the murder. It gave him quite a serious turn but he came down to headquarters himself to see to things. Mr. Pierce is a formidable fighter. I was very glad that he was on my side. He managed to keep me free from any legal difficulties."
That was a relief; I'd been afraid that Blair would have his license yanked for wanting to protect his client for a couple of hours. "I tried calling you. They have you down there all night?"
"No, it was Mr. Pierce who kept me so occupied. He insisted on buying me a late dinner to compensate a bit for the trouble I'd been to on his behalf, and then we got to talking."
"What was he doing while McAlister was getting murdered?"
His sharp gray eyes glinted with approval. "He maintains he was at the Stumble Inn for several hours, conversing with Des the bartender and cleaning out his stock of sarsaparilla. Pierce was terribly shocked at the news about McAlister, doubly so that the murder had taken place at Kitty Donovan's flat."
"The cops find her yet?"
He shook his head.
"What's Pierce think of her as a suspect?"
"He was partly incoherent, partly obscene, but wholly against the idea."
"What about Marian Pierce?"
"She was in the company of Harry Summers, who was trying to patch up a quarrel they'd had over you."
"Oh, brother."
"It seems you made quite an impression on both of them."
"That goes double for me."
"Which reminds me... Pierce went ahead and let his daughter know what is going on."
"I'll bet she was thrilled that I wasn't really following her like she thought."
"One wonders what activities she engages in to inspire such secretiveness."
"Smoking, drinking, and necking-those are the ones I witnessed, at least. I think she's just shy about having her daddy hear about them. He could take away her car keys. Have you heard from Doreen?"
"Not a word." Shit."
"But after such a harrowing evening, one can hardly blame her for wishing to keep out of sight."
"From Lead foot Sam, you mean. She doesn't even know about Vaughn Kyler. If she leaves town before I can talk to her..."
"Indeed," he agreed. "I've made calls to one or two contacts I have. Since last night it has become common knowledge in Miss Grey's... ah... social set that he's looking for her. I daresay she'll discover that for herself soon enough. The police are also trying to locate her."
"Wonderful, just what she needs. How'd they get on to her?"
" I learned that they made another visit to the Boswell House and noticed the hole in the wall between the rooms."
After removing the mirror, I hadn't replaced it. They must have practically tripped over the mess. "What about her studio?"
"They searched it but discovered nothing of value, nor any clue to her whereabouts."
"But I left a note there with the office phone number on it."
He tapped the typed sheets on the radio. "So you said, but the police either ignored it, which is quite unlikely, or she got there before them and took it away."
"Or Kyler's men found it. They probably have the place staked out."
"And this one as well, if they troubled to trace the number down. You said they got my name from the car registration; I'm sure Kyler knows all about me and my little business by now."
I started to apologize or say something like an apology, but he cut it off.
"It's part of the job," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. I'd forgotten that he enjoyed this kind of work. "I applaud your caution, but by now it may be superfluous."
"What do you know about Kyler?" I took it for granted that Escott would have some knowledge of the man, and I wasn't disappointed.
"Vaughn Kyler, as you correctly deduced in your report, has taken control of the gang formerly headed by Frank Paco. Kyler is not his real name and I've not been able to find it out. He is well educated, thought to be intelligent, and in less than six months has doubled the earnings off the rackets previously directed by Paco. We may reasonably conclude from this that he is ambitious and perhaps not a little greedy."
"The guy's a snake," I grumbled over the running water.
"He also knows how to efficiently deal with any rivals. His chief competitors for his position, Willy Domax and Doolie Sanderson, have been missing since last August, along with half a dozen of their lieutenants. No one seems to be too anxious to speculate on their whereabouts, either."
"What about Frank Paco?"
"He's still in the sanitarium. Apparently he is not considered to be much of a threat."
I could believe that. The last time I'd seen my murderer, he'd been drooling like a baby.
"Despite this, Kyler has a high reputation in the criminal community. People may not like to deal with him, but by their standards he is fair. If he has promised safety and monetary compensation to Miss Grey, I have no doubt that she will get it."
"Yeah, that and what else?"
Escott shrugged. "Now as for why Kyler wants to speak with her..."
"I figure it's either some photos she took or has to do with that damned bracelet."
"Probably the latter. It's the only obvious thing of value in- I take it that she didn't have it?"
"Not that I know of." I concentrated very hard on scraping away soap and bristles.
"Not that you-did you not ask her?"
"She mostly talked about McAlister."
"And you never thought to ask about the bracelet?"
"I had other things on my mind."
He looked at me as though I'd dropped out of the sky from another planet. He almost said something, stopped himself, and was silent during the rest of the time it took to finish my shave.
Inside me, memory twisted like a sword in my gut. Part of me wanted to talk, badly needed to talk, but a much larger part wouldn't allow it. I rinsed and toweled off. Only inches away from me, the mirror reflected an empty washroom. The sword twisted a little deeper.
"What is it?" He could sense that something was wrong.
"Nothing," I lied, staring straight ahead.
Escott loaned me one of his spare shirts from the tiny closet and a suit coat that didn't quite match my pants, but was free of slashes and bloodstains. There wasn't much I could do about my damaged overcoat; going without one in the middle of a Chicago winter was more conspicuous than wearing it as is. I'd just have to bluff through any questions.
Not that I was planning on leaving the office. I wanted to stick close to the phone in case Doreen should try calling. She might have had to hole up for the day herself, and I was hoping she'd feel safer now that it was dark.
Escott left to get something to eat; I filled in the time by reading what his paper had to say about McAlister's murder. The reporter had done a fair job; most of the facts were straight, and the names spelled correctly. Mine had been excluded, which was u relief. It was an odd feeling, too, considering my days on the paper in New York, when I'd once fought tooth and nail for a byline.
Blair had issued a standard statement that his men were looking for a suspect, but he remained cagey concerning that person's identity. Miss Kitty Donovan, the tenant of the flat in which McAlister's body was found, was unavailable for comment.
folded that section of the paper and tossed it onto the rest of the pile. They were full of the usual insanity. Some big brain was recommending that people start using the word syphilis in guessing games and spelling bees as a way of breaking down the taboos concerning venereal diseases. He had an idea that if people started putting it into crossword puzzles it would cease to be so shocking. In theory, it sounded like a good idea, but I had at least two maiden aunts who would have swooned in their high-button shoes at the idea. Once recovered, I was sure they'd have hunted the guy down and shot him on sight.
The other papers I left unread; I wasn't in the mood to bone up on the screwy workings of the rest of the world. My own little corner of it was more than enough to keep me unpleasantly occupied.
The blank white walls of the office offered no distractions. Escott liked them plain and for just that reason: so he could think. I stared at them and purposely cleared my mind of everything but white paint.
It worked for nearly a whole minute and then I was lost in the problem of whether or not to talk to Bobbi. I rarely mentioned my feedings at the Stockyards, no more than anyone would normally talk about how they brush their teeth. How I had used Doreen was on the same level-that's what I was trying to tell myself, anyway. I was desperate for some grain of comfort, for any excuse that would let me off the hook.
Nothing worked, though. I'd lost control and that was it.
No excuses.
So I put off thinking about Bobbi. I wouldn't be able to decide what to do until after I saw Doreen again, which could be never. The phone wasn't...
Wrong. The phone just did. Twice, as I stared at it.
"Hello?"
"Hi, lover."
That damned sword twisted in me again. This was the first time I'd ever felt uneasy talking to Bobbi. "Hi, yourself." I sounded artificially cheerful in my own ears.
"You weren't at home, so I thought I'd try my luck at Charles's office."
"Yeah, I'm holding the fort while he puts on the feed bag."
"When you didn't come back last night I got a ride home with Gloria."
"Yeah, sorry. Things got busy."
"Did you catch up with that guy?" Bobbi hadn't seen the papers yet.
I ran a nervous hand over the dark wood of Escott's desk. "Yeah, Charles and I found him."
"What happened?" Her tone turned serious. She'd picked up something from my own.
"Someone got to him first. Killed him."
"Oh, Jack..."
She listened and eventually some of the story came out. I needed to talk, but even then it was only a sketchy account, especially the business with Doreen Grey. Mostly I spoke of McAlister's death, which had bothered me more than I'd realized.
He was a nobody, a vain and disgusting little blackmailer, but his death was hardly a good ending for even his sort. Any pity I felt stemmed from the fact that I, too, had been murdered. It gave me a unique, if personally horrifying, insight into things.
"What about Charles?" she asked. "Is he square with the cups?"
"He seems to think so. He knows how to take care of himself and he's got a sharp lawyer. He only wanted to wait until he could talk with Pierce first, to let him know the investigation's changed from theft to murder."
"And you don't think the girl did it?"
I shrugged, which she couldn't see. "She didn't do herself any favors running out like that."
"On the other hand, she doesn't know you or Charles. She must have been too scared to think."
"She handled herself pretty well at the hotel." 'Yeah, but seeing her boyfriend like that..." Bobbi got quiet, retreating into her own memories. I knew they weren't pleasant ones. I instantly forgot my troubles.
"God. I wish I could be there to hold you," I said.
"I know."
We didn't say anything, but then talk would have been superfluous. I waited her out, eyes shut, listening.
After a long time, she heaved a sigh as though to clear her mind of the dust.
"Maybe you can make it up to me later. Will you be coming by tonight?"
"If I can, baby. But if I'm not at the club by a quarter till closing, then you'd better hitch another ride."
"In other words, I'll expect you when I see you."
"Fraid so."
"Okay. If you can put up with my hours, I can handle yours."
"Fair enough."
I'd almost sounded normal toward the end, but after the last good-bye, the restless worry flowed back like a cold tide against my heart.
When Escott returned I was hunched over his radio trying to find something worth listening to-a futile effort in my present mood. I wound the dial back to his favorite station and shut the thing off.
Since the phone call, I'd managed to make one decision, and that was to go looking for Doreen. If I hung around the place much longer, I'd be climbing his blank white walls and talking to myself in three different voices. I was about to tell Escott, but he interrupted before I had the chance to draw breath to speak.
"Get your coat and hat," he said. "They've found Miss Grey. She's in hospital."
He dropped an evening edition onto the cot. It was folded open to a story on the front page. The headline read, "Shooting Victim in Critical Condition." The facts were slim. A woman had been found lying in a drainage ditch of a city park with three bullet wounds. The police were still trying to identify her.
"This could be anybody," I said faintly.
"I called someone I know there and got a description of her. It matches the one in your report."
"Oh, Christ." I stopped wasting time and grabbed my stuff and followed him down to his car. He couldn't drive fast enough for me. When we eventually got to the hospital, I hung in the background, letting him ask the questions at the front desk, then followed again as he headed off down a corridor.
We were used to working like that by now; he dealt directly with the public while I stayed out of the way and went unnoticed. It worked until we reached the surgical ward. We had another desk to pass and no one was allowed through except family.
Escott started to make explanations to the nurse in charge, but I interrupted.
"Look, I need to see the woman who was shot. I think she might be my cousin."
The woman asked questions. Other people had been calling the hospital and making inquiries about her patient. She wouldn't say who. I gave her a song and dance about Doreen not turning up for work today and her general description. The latter seemed to make a difference. Her expression was grave as she went off to confer with her supervisor. Both returned with a doctor, who took us off to one side to hear things all over again. I'd always been a lousy liar; tonight it seemed to come naturally.
"If she is your cousin, you'll have to talk to the police," he told me.
"Fine," I agreed. Escott's eyes flickered, but he kept his comments to himself.
Under the eye of the supervisor and with the help of a large orderly, I was enveloped in a hospital gown that looked like u sheet with sleeves and given a cloth mask to cover my nose und mouth. This time, Escott had to stay outside and wait, but he was turning it into an opportunity. I glanced back before walking through the doors to the ward and saw him turning on the charm for the nurse at the desk. She didn't seem too cooperative, but he could work miracles with that accent of his.
The mask did not shut out the smell. It was always the same: a kind of death-sweet stink that I always associated with hospitals. The people who worked with it and the suffering that engendered it deserved Medals of Honor.
I was taken past a couple of beds loaded with silent human wreckage and shown a frail figure all but smothered under her bandages. A nurse stood close by, watching her breathe.
Until this moment, I'd held on to a vague hope that it would not be Doreen. As it was, I barely recognized her in this sterile setting. Her face was slack and colorless, the skin spread thinly over the sharp bones beneath. Only her carrot red hair stood out, a bright incongruity against the harsh steel and enamel fixtures. I put out a hand to stroke its limp strands.
"Is she your cousin?" asked the doctor.
If I said no I'd have protection from the dangerous curiosity of officialdom. It was also an easy escape from a responsibility I didn't want and could ill afford.
On her neck were the faint marks I'd left. Engulfed as she was with all the tubes and bandages, they were nothing, barely noticeable.
The doctor repeated his question.
"Yes," I said, hardly aware that I'd spoken.
He expressed sympathy and told me he needed information.
anticipated the first question. "Her name is Doreen."
"Last name?"
"Grey."
The nurse wrote it on the chart at the foot of the bed without any reaction.
Maybe she'd never heard of the Oscar Wilde book. I gave Escott's office address and phone number for a place of residence and made a guess at Doreen's age. If I didn't know an answer I said so. She took down the meager scraps of fact and then the doctor led me back out to the hall.
Escott looked up. He was leaning comfortably against the desk facing the nurse and she had a smile on her face. Both sobered and straightened when I emerged from the ward.
"It's Doreen," I told him.
He also said something sympathetic. I didn't really listen. For the next half hour, as I ran the gauntlet of answering questions for a lot of people in uniforms, I didn't listen to much of anything.
The doctor in charge of her case was named Rosinski. He seemed to know his business and was reluctant to make any optimistic promises. From the way his eyes shifted and how he answered my own questions, I knew he wasn't holding out much hope of Doreen pulling through.
"Her lungs were punctured, and one of them collapsed," he said. "I take it as a good sign that she survived long enough for us to get her into surgery, but that's it as far as it goes. She was very lucky that the bullets didn't bounce around her ribs and cause more damage than they did."
"What kind of bullets?" I asked.
"Very small; twenty-twos. The holes aren't much, but they're enough to do the job. The main problem now is to keep her breathing and hope that pneumonia doesn't set in."
"Was there much blood loss?"
"Her pressure and volume were low when she was brought in-"
"But she's not harmed from it, is she?"
"No more than one would expect in such a case."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that her blood loss is something we took care of early on. Right now, she's got other things to worry about."
"When will you know anything?"
Rosinski would only shake his head. "We'll both have to wait and see on that one."
Earlier, I'd let Escott know I was willing to run my end of things for the time being, so he'd gone off to tend some business of his own, giving me room to work. He must have kept tabs on me, though, since he turned up not long after the questioning ended.
"This is hardly the place I'd expect to find someone with your particular condition." he said in a subdued voice, taking a seat nearby.
"It's quiet," I mumbled, staring at the floor.
I'd found refuge in the hospital chapel. The silence of the small room helped soothe my inner turmoil, and I won't lie and say that I didn't use the place for its intended purpose. Doreen needed all the help she could get; I just hoped that God hadn't minded hearing a prayer from the guy who may have helped to put her life in jeopardy in the first place.
"All the same..." But he didn't finish whatever he might have said about the oddity of a vampire being in a kind of church, and shrugged the rest away. He could see I wasn't in the mood for it. "I had to call Lieutenant Blair."
"What'd he have to say?" I wasn't all that interested, but wanted distraction from the stuff inside my head.
"Little that may be repeated in these surroundings. He dispatched a man to be here in case Miss Grey should wake up."
"Yeah, I remember talking to that guy. He may have a long wait."
"What did you tell him?"
"Just that we were doing private work for Pierce and that we'd also wanted to question Doreen about McAlister's death. He took it all down and left it at that."
"Was he not curious that you are listed as her next of kin?"
"Yeah, but I told him she really didn't have anyone else to look after her. When we talked last night I got the feeling that she really was all alone."
"Alone," he repeated thoughtfully. "Obviously not."
"What're you thinking?"
"I was only speculating about who might have shot her."
"Kyler or one of his stooges."
"Are you so certain?" Something's telling you different?"
"The circumstances of her assault." What about them?"
"Can you recall what caliber weapons Kyler's men possessed?"
"Chaven was using a thirty-eight, Hodge had a forty-five."
"I learned that the bullets taken from Miss Grey were from a twenty-two... an experienced criminal might prefer a larger caliber."
"There're always exceptions. Kyler or Rimik could have been carrying the right size."
"True." He started to dig for his pipe, remembered where he was, and changed his mind. "But if one is planning to kill a person, a small bullet is a poor choice for the job."
"Unless you want to be quiet about it. Back in New York I filed more than one murder story on the subject. Put a twenty-two right up next to a person and it makes less noise than a popping balloon."
"It was with that in mind that I managed to arrange and make an examination of the clothes she was wearing."
I shook my head. Escott could talk a tree out of its sap. "She was shot from a distance, right?"
"Correct. It's very possible that the person who shot her was an amateur."
"Just because it was a small bullet?"
"Because she was not killed outright. Did Kyler strike you as the type who would plan a murder and then botch the job?"
He had a point there. "Unless he wanted to make it look like the work of an amateur."
"The major objection I see against that is the fact that she did not simply disappear as did others before her. That's his usual pattern."
"Like Domax and Sanderson?"
"Hmm. A disappearance simply raises questions that may never have answers.
Leaving a body to be found may result in the same situation, but one is at least certain of the violence involved and may work outward from that point."
"Okay, if we take Kyler out of things, who's left?"
"The same person who killed McAlister."
"I can figure that, Charles, but who?"
He shrugged. "We shan't discover that sitting around here."
"And Doreen?"
"We can always call the nurse on duty for any news concerning changes in her condition."
"What're you planning to do?"
"To get out and ask some questions. I suggest we start with Vaughn Kyler."
I nearly choked. "Great. Might as well start at the bottom and work our way up.
How do we find him?"
"We won't have to. My researches today were most rewarding..."
"You found out where he hangs his hat?"
"Not quite, but I've an idea on where to start. Care to come along?"
"Lead on, Macduff." Escott winced. "That's 'lay on.' "
"Sorry."
"The misquote doesn't bother me so much as your choice of play to misquote from."
Escott was not even remotely a superstitious man-except when it came to the theater. His particular quirk had to do with Macbeth, and he never would say why. I apologized again, respecting the quirk, even if I didn't understand it.
He shook his shoulders straight and drew in a deep breath. "Ah, well, perhaps our surroundings will cancel out any malign influences. We can hope so, at least."
"Amen to that," I said, and followed him out.
Not that I was taking his stuff too seriously, but I did insist on a quick stop back at the office to pick up his bulletproof vest and the Webley-Fosbery. Just in case. If we got close enough to interview Kyler, he'd probably be frisked and not allowed to keep it. On the other hand, if Kyler didn't want to see us, we would very definitely need some protection. I still had Doreen's automatic, but without bullets it wasn't much more than a weight dragging in my pocket.
Escott stowed his gun into his shoulder holster. With his suit coat and overcoat on top, it was invisible, even to experienced eyes. Now I realized why he favored single-breasted styling; they look okay unbuttoned and he'd left things that way to be able to get at his gun more easily.
We were all set to go when the low rumble of a motor drew my attention to the outside. From either end of the front window, we peered through the slats of the blinds to the street below. A flashy new Packard had parked just in front of Escott's Nash.
"It's Pierce's car," I said. "Wonder what he wants?"
He shook his head and watched with interest as Griffin lurched from the Packard and crossed the sidewalk to our stairwell. For a big man he didn't make much noise, even on those creaking boards. The door shook a bit as he knocked.
Escott let him in and offered a greeting.
"Mr. Pierce extends an urgent request that you come to his house immediately,"
said Griffin. There was a hint of humor in his eyes. He was very aware of the artificially formal tone of the invitation.
"Did Mr. Pierce state the reason behind his urgency?"
"I am not at liberty to say, sir, but you may rely on the importance of it."
Escott looked ready to toss the ball back again. It was entertaining, but I didn't feel like standing around all night just to watch. "C'mon, Charles. We'll follow in your car and take care of the other business afterward."
He'd been all wound up to tackle Kyler, so it was tough going for him to have to switch his intentions so abruptly. His curiosity was up, though, and that helped. A minute later and we were on the road in the wake of the Packard.
I expected Pierce to have a big place and wasn't disappointed. The grounds were well kept but informal enough so that the keeping wasn't too obvious. His house was a big brick monster that must have been stacked together by a piecework crew. It had a couple of turrets with flags, gables, and extensions out of the main building that looked like additions made by the architect after he'd sobered up. Ugly as it was, it looked friendly, and there were warm lights showing in the windows.
Sebastian Pierce emerged from the front door before Escott could set the brake and signed for me to roll down my window.
"I don't want the servants to know what's up," he said. "We'll talk in the guest house around back." Without waiting for a reply he trotted forward on his long legs and hastily slipped into the passenger side of the Packard. It was a very cold night and all he wore over his clothes was a bulky sweater.
Though much smaller than the main house and built of humble wood, the guest house was enough to do an average family proud. Its two stories were painted a fresh-looking white with dark trim. The porch light was on and a window shade upstairs twitched, indicating someone was waiting for us.
Pierce was out and striding up the walk as soon as his car stopped. Escott and I had caught some of his nervous energy und quickly crowded onto the porch. Griffin wasn't moving as fast but managed to arrive just as Pierce unlocked the door and ushered us into a tiny parlor. An arched opening on our left led to a large living room, where he settled us In the fireplace. There was a good blaze going and Escott peeled off his gloves, gratefully extending his hands toward it.
"Now where have they got to?" Pierce muttered, glaring at the empty room.
Somewhere upstairs, a toilet flushed. He looked at the ceiling as though he could see through it and nodded with satisfaction. "Good. Excuse me and I'll bring them down.
They're probably having a last-minute attack of nerves."
He darted from the room, leaving us to look at each other. Griffin's face was bland and not giving anything away. He removed his chauffeur's hat and asked if he could take our coats. Escott shrugged out of his and I did the same. Griffin had just hung them in a closet when Pierce returned with company.
Marian came into the room, looking troubled and sulky, the picture of a kid who had been caught red-handed at the cookie jar. She wore a dark collegiate sweater over wide trousers and sturdy walking shoes that had seen some use. Her sable hair was pulled back and sported a demure black ribbon; all she needed to complete the effect was a pair of Harold Lloyd glasses. It was quite a contrast to the sleek, sophisticated girl who'd tried to suck my tonsils out last night.
"Is she his daughter?" murmured Escott.
"Uh-huh. Guard my back, would you?"
He made a small sound that might have been a laugh.
A second person reluctantly walked in, urged on by Pierce.
"Holy cats," I whispered. "He's been holding out on us."
"Well, well," said Escott, his tone conveying agreement and delight. "Miss Donovan, how nice to see you again."
Kitty Donovan looked up from the section of carpet she'd been staring at. Her huge eyes went first to Escott, then to me. Her face crumpled, then seemed to swell from the pressure of all the emotion she was trying to keep in check. Then she broke down and burst into tears.
Escott quietly and eloquently sighed.
It was shaping into another long night.