Brakes squealed as the car came to a rolling stop between me and the gunman. He ducked and dove inside, his form hidden by the bulk of the vehicle. The driver hit the gas and gears and hurled off, taking the first corner on two screeching wheels.
Escott sprawled facedown on the sidewalk. Very still.
Not fair. It's just not fair.
The thought rolled over and over in my mind, blocking out everything else. I could not see for a moment; gray mist enveloped me. When it cleared I was kneeling by him with no memory of how I'd gotten there. I just couldn't take it in, only feel an overwhelming black sickness washing over me like a wave of icy lake water.
I reached out, took his shoulders, and eased him over.
Not fair.
"Charles?" It was someone else's cracked and frightened voice, not mine.
He was still alive. Mouth open. Trying to breathe. Looking up at me.
"God, Charles, I'm sorry."
He struggled, his whole body shuddered from the effort. Struggled. And drew in a ragged, shallow breath.
Not enough. It rushed right out again. He labored for another gulp of air.
"I'll call for help."
But when I started to move, he flailed a hand, catching my arm. He shook his head, lips forming the word "no."
"But I've-"
"No," he coughed out. He mouthed the word once more, shaking his head.
"You've got to..."
No. His paper white face made a ghastly smile as he fought for air.
"-wait a second."
He feebly patted his chest, nodding.
And I suddenly understood him. "You... you goddamned son of a bitch."
He relaxed slightly and closed his eyes. The next breath he took was less shallow, and he held on to it longer.
"You goddamned bloody son of a bitch!"
Still wearing that rictus of a smile, he made a sound like a tiny laugh. I wanted to belt him, but he'd been hit hard already. Trembling head to toe, I stood and paced, unable to stay in one spot. I wanted to yell or punch holes in brick walls. Only by using up a ton of self-restraint did I manage not to do both.
"Thought you knew," he wheezed out a full five minutes later. He made motions that he wanted to stand.
"I forgot," I said through my teeth. I had to clench them tight to keep them from chattering in the aftermath of the adrenaline. It left a metallic taste in my mouth, and my guts churned with nausea. Helping him up, I felt the thickness of his bulletproof vest through his clothing.
"Could have. Noticed lack. Of blood."
Of all people in the world, I should have noticed. But the only thing that had stuck in my brain was the sight of my best friend falling, and the thought that it wasn't fair for him to die. I made a choking sound he took for a response.
"Understandable. Heat of. The moment. All that."
"You scared the shit out of me," I finally snarled. The two of us staggering like drunks, I got him over to the car.
"You going to be all right?"
"Just. A bit. Winded," he said, leaning heavily on the fender and puffing. "Knocked it. Out of me."
I looked him over and didn't care for what I saw. "Just how hurt are you?"
"Don't know. Chest heavy. Bruised."
"I'll find a hospital."
He shook his head. "Not that bad. Need rest. Not questions."
I thought of an alternative for him, a doctor who would not ask about the bullet holes. "Okay, inside the car. We're getting out of here."
He nodded, and I got him past the door and in so he could collapse onto the seat. I slammed things shut, went around, and slipped behind the wheel. The big motor was still idling smooth; I worked the clutch and gears and shot away without looking back.
"My pipe's on the walk," he said in a faded version of his normal tone.
"For Christ's sake, you'll get another." And live to break it in, thank God.
"I creased the files rather badly." He indicated where he'd rolled them up and stuffed them in his inside pocket.
"We'll send them to the cleaners for ironing."
He make an abortive sound in his throat suspiciously like a laugh, then subsided, holding his arms crossed over his chest. He wasn't completely recovered. When he breathed in too deeply it came back out as a cough.
"You break any ribs?"
"Don't think so." He was getting some color back, though there was a sheen of sweat on him. "Bruised. Never had the wind knocked so thoroughly from me before. Thought I'd pass out."
I thought I'd pass out, too. "Did you see who it was?"
He shut his eyes, thinking, then shook his head. "When you shouted I was looking at the car. It was probably meant to be a distraction from the shootist. When he appeared all I saw were the muzzle flashes. Did you-"
"Same thing. Hat and muffler covered him up, but he was big, well built. I think it was McCallen. The car looked like his Ford, but-" All I could remember of it were the headlights dazzling my sight. And after the shooting started my memory blurred. Only the sharp image of Escott dropping remained.
"The car was not unlike his," he said. "The gun I'm not sure about. McCallen fired once in the office. I counted six shots in the street."
"You counted them?"
"Strange how the mind will fix on the most absurd things in a crisis. I was thinking if he would only just run out of bullets without hitting anything vital-and counted them. Six. Not just five. McCallen's revolver was a six-chamber model, and he'd already used a bullet."
"So he reloaded. Or had another gun."
"But a motive?"
"He's crazy."
"Even mad people have their reasons. Why kill me before finding out what he wants to know?"
"That's something we can answer tonight."
He didn't ask what I meant, not after he realized where I was driving. A short detour first, then I'd find him some medical help-if he'd accept it.
"This should be most interesting," he said sometime later when I parked the Nash in front of Jason McCallen's modest residence.
His car was on the street and lights showed behind the house's drawn shades. "Looks like he's home," I said, setting the brake.
"Which is a most foolish spot to hide himself if he's guilty."
"Not unless he's packing to leave. I'll change his mind."
"I'm coming as well."
I nearly argued with him, worried that he was too fragile yet, then thought of how I'd feel if it'd been me. I got out and went around to the passenger side to help him. He was moving as little as possible and slowly, for which I could not blame him, and briefly took my arm for balance until he was clear of the running board. Then he settled his clothes into place, pausing as he fingered the holes made by the bullets. They were larger than a .22 would have made. One was on the right, the other just left of center over his heart. Either of them would have been fatal.
He looked at me with a tight smile, a corpse's smile. "Could have been quite nasty, don't you think?"
I pushed a return of that icy-black sickness away. "I'm glad it wasn't worse. Come on, let's get this bastard."
He followed, waiting on the sidewalk as I ghosted up the steps to try peering through the windows. I returned a moment later.
"Can't tell if he's there or not. I'll go in first and unlock the door. Give it a few minutes, then you come in. I want to see his face when he finds out you're alive."
"As do I."
I disappeared fully and slipped between the cracks around the door, re-forming just inside. The living room looked the same as the last time, but with a few more newspapers added to the pile around the chair by the radio. A man's topcoat was flung on another chair. Listening hard, I heard an irregular clinking noise from the kitchen. McCallen must have worked up quite an appetite. After fixing the door for Escott, I went transparent and silently drifted down the hall.
As I guessed, McCallen was about to feed his face. He'd made a sandwich and was in the process of pulling a bottle of beer from the icebox. His cat meowed plaintively, circling his legs.
"All right, y'greedy little bugger, here's another bit, but that's the last one." He pulled some small item out for the cat, who devoured it with a purr I could hear even in my present state.
I made myself solid and stood framed in the doorway. McCallen was partially turned from me. An easy enough mark.
He straightened, saw me, and gave a satisfyingly startled jump, but recovered lightning fast. He set his feet, hunching his shoulders forward, and very deliberately set down the bottle of beer. There was murder glowing in his eyes as he glared at me.
"Now I've got you," he rumbled. "You'll be leaving here in a box by the time I'm done with you, laddie."
His reaction was all wrong. He was surprised, but it was not the surprise of a guilty man.
"Where's the gun?" I asked.
"I won't need a gun for the likes of you."
He bulled forward. I stayed put. He threw one very quick right. I went transparent for exactly how long it took his fist to travel through me, went solid, and caught him a smart punch in the gut. I pulled it, not wanting to damage him too much. He doubled over with an oof and staggered back, clutching his midsection. He crashed against the table, and went down. As he sat on the floor trying to get his lungs to work, Escott walked in.
Most of his color was back, concentrated in two spots high on his cheeks. His gray eyes had a hollow, haunted cast to them. He'd just looked his own death in the face; it would leave marks. "Mr. McCallen," he said after a few moments, sounding quite normal.
McCallen squinted up at him and sneered. "So the two of you have come to gang up on me? Brave of you."
Escott frowned mightily, glancing once at me. "Jack, we have the wrong man."
"I think you're right." McCallen was pissed as hell but not shocked.
"Well, if he didn't shoot you, who did?"
"I'm not averse to discussing that subject, but elsewhere, if you please."
McCallen looked back and forth between us. "What are you two gits on about? I never shot you-only your damned wall."
"Indeed, and were I not distracted by a greater problem, I'd have you arrested for it."
"Why, you-" He started to gather himself, but I made a swipe with one foot, knocking his legs from under him.
He sat down again with a thud.
"Hey! What the hell is this?" Paterno appeared behind us, shoved his way past, and went to McCallen. "You all right?"
"Where the hell were you?" McCallen shrugged off Paterno's offered help.
"Taking a leak. What's going on here?"
"It's two against two now, that's what." He started to get up.
But Paterno grabbed him and told him to wait a minute, then looked at my partner. "You-you're Escott, aren't you? The agency?"
"That is correct, sir."
"Hey, I'm sorry about the stuff earlier, but I think you should leave. Jason's got a grudge on, and you don't need to be here."
"I quite agree, but not before my curiosity is satisfied about the contents of that envelope."
"The envelope?"
"The one my friend retrieved for Miss Sommerfeld. I know you're familiar with it."
"Some other time-"
"Now," Escott said firmly.
I took a half step closer and tried to look intimidating. McCallen took it as a challenge and made another move to stand. This time I caught his eye and told him to sit still and be quiet. His jaw sagged as though he was mildly startled, and he abruptly sank back to the floor.
Paterno stared down in puzzlement at his amazingly cooperative friend, then at me. I switched and gave him a brightly encouraging smile.
"The envelope?" Escott prompted.
"Uh-yeah."
"It would seem to be the source of all conflict."
Paterno snorted. "You can say that again. Listen, haven't you got some kind of confidentiality pledge in your line, like a doctor?"
"Not precisely, but I can keep a secret."
"We just don't want any of this getting back to Mary's family." He waited for some kind of promise, but Escott only raised an eyebrow. Paterno wearily gave in with a short sigh. "It's nothing illegal, but they could throw another monkey wrench into the works."
"What works?"
"What Mary and Jason have-or had-when they were working together. Since they hit the last scene in the third act it's been nothing but fight, fight, fight."
It was Escott's turn to do puzzlement. "Third act? As in a play?"
"That's it. A play."
"A play?" Escott looked like he just found half a worm wriggling in an apple he'd bitten.
"A play," Paterno confirmed. "They've been working on it for the last year."
"Miss Sommerfeld and Mr. McCallen are writing a play?"
"Were writing it."
"Until her family stepped in?"
"Nah, before that. The third act, like I said." He looked doubtfully at McCallen, who was sitting still just as he'd been told. "See, they were working on it just fine, and she's got connections in the theater and managed to get a copy of the first draft to Helen Hayes, who went nuts over it, so then this producer gets really hot to see it, 'cause with her in on it, he figures they've got the greatest thing to hit the boards since Hamlet."
Escott nodded slowly. "Hamlet! Indeed?"
"The trouble is Jason and Mary got this problem with the third act. He wants a happy ending, she don't. They both got good reasons for either one, but neither of 'em gives an inch to the other, then it was fight, fight, fight all the time.
Her family didn't know about any of this until Mary starts going to the plant to talk with Jason a little too often, then meeting him at the bar to work some more. The folks don't know about the play, but they figure their little precious is getting too friendly with the wrong kind of guy, so they send her to Europe, which really delays things."
"And when she returned... ?"
"She finds Jason's been tinkering with the play without her being there to argue with him about the changes. She gets mad and sneaks it away from him, then he sneaks it from her, then she hires you to get it back."
Escott looked at me. You could almost see the other half of that worm dangling from his open mouth. I shrugged and said consolingly, "At least it's not a divorce case."
He looked back at Paterno. "And just where do you fit in the plot of this little vignette?"
"I'm their agent. And I've got a producer and these big-money investors all lined up. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get one of these birds interested in an original work by two unknowns? It's next to impossible! This may be their only chance. The investors option the play, whatever the ending, and produce it with Helen Hayes starring in it, but they won't wait forever. All we gotta do is get Mary to sign the contract, only she's not where we can find her, thanks to you two. And Jason."
"Maybe..." I said, clearing my throat. They both looked at me; Jason was still playing zombie. "Maybe you could have both endings. Play each one on alternating nights. People would pay to see it twice over, then."
Paterno put on a beatific expression. "My God, but that's one we never thought of. It could make theatrical history!
You hear that, Jason? Now, that's something that could work. Jason?"
Escott shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's late, and I suddenly feel very tired."
The beleaguered agent swung his attention back to his last hope of success. "So, would you please tell us where she is? A phone number, a post-office box-anything?"
"Is she aware of this pending contract?"
"Yeah."
"Then why is she not interested in signing if the ending doesn't matter to the producer? That dispute could surely be worked out afterward."
"Because this big lug on the floor got her mad the way he handled things, so off she went. Besides, she's a rich kid.
She has no idea what it's like to be hungry, so she's got no need to be in a hurry about anything. But me and Jason do, so I'm begging you, give us a hand here. She don't even have to see Jason; I can do all the go-between stuff like I'm supposed to do."
"Very well. I shall contact her tomorrow and see what I can arrange. Have you a number where you may be reached?"
"Here's my card, and thanks! Thanks a million! You hear that, Jason? We got some light at the end of the tunnel.
Jason... Jason?" Paterno gave his friend a shake, jarring McCallen out of his trance.
"I heard," he muttered sluggishly. "I want to talk with her."
"Only after the contract's signed. You let me do my job and we'll all be rich and famous."
Escott cleared his throat. "Miss Sommerfeld's recent experience with Mr. McCallen has been such as to give her the strong impression that she was in fear for her life. His behavior toward her-"
"He was only giving as good as he got. But he won't do any more of it, I promise. Right, Jason?"
McCallen growled.
Escott regarded them one at a time, his gaze finally resting on Paterno, the negotiator. "My contacting Miss Sommerfeld is on condition that Mr. McCallen give his word of honor that he cease and desist all harassment of her."
"Say yes, Jason, and sound like you mean it," pleaded Paterno.
A louder growl from McCallen that trailed off into muttering. "Very well. I'll leave the proud baggage alone if that's what she wants. She can have her toad of a prince for all I care." His cat, which had been hiding under the icebox, emerged and delicately walked over to butt its head against his leg. He petted it roughly, which it seemed to like. "As God is my witness, the more I deal with women, the more I like my cat."
"Communists," I grumbled, hauling the steering wheel around.
Escott hugged his chest and braced with his feet as I took a corner too sharply. He hissed in pain, but it wasn't my driving that hurt him, it was his own laughter. He'd started to dissolve into it as soon as we left McCallen's, and he couldn't seem to stop.
Paterno had let us know the odd-looking crew that hung out in the back room at Moe's was little more than a bunch of would-be writers. The "speeches" the waiter had overheard were passages from whatever novel, story, or play was being read aloud so the other members could critique it. The critiques often got vocal enough to be mistaken for arguing.
McCallen, because he was the oldest, had the most forceful personality, and had even published a few short stories, was their unofficial leader. He also held a steady job and could often stand them a round of beer. The rest were either students at the university or still living with their parents while they worked to make their fortune as writers.
"Perhaps they're exactly what you've been needing to stimulate your own literary efforts," Escott suggested.
"I don't think McCallen would stand for it."
"You've the means to get around him. The only foreseeable problem would be your not partaking of a beer with them, but you could get around that as well." Then he must have thought of the communist angle and again began chuckling and groaning at the same time.
I let him wheeze on without comment. He needed the laughs. Whether he'd ever admit it or not, the near miss of his own murder had shaken him, and this was a release from the tension.
After a few miles he eased up on the hysterical humor when he saw the direction I took would not bring us home.
"Why here?" he asked as I made a decisive turning into the Bronze Belt.
"Because after McCallen, Gil Dalhauser is my next choice for a suspect. If it was him, he'll have connections all over the city-except here."
"Dalhauser?"
"You know how he was staring at the party. He was throwing hot needles at you. And he's tall enough to fill the bill."
"True, but to be that angry after all this time, and then to do the shooting himself seems a bit of a stretch. Even were he so murderously minded, I should think he'd be more likely to employ muscle in his stead."
"Not if he wanted to keep it quiet. There's also the personal touch to think about. After all the grief you gave him-
are still giving him since the tax guys aren't letting up-he'd find it a lot more satisfying than fobbing it off onto another."
"A most logical argument-but to wake Shoe up at such a late hour..."
"I don't think he'll mind. You need a place to lie low."
"I'll be safe enough at home-"
"Like hell."
"-because Dalhauser will think I'm dead. He saw me fall."
"But there won't be anything in the papers on it, the cops won't have a report, and no hospital will have heard of you. He'll be watching for those. When he doesn't see 'em, he'll figure he missed or only just wounded you and we got away."
"Very well, I'll concede those points. If he is the one, and if I am the target." He touched the holes in his clothing lightly. "These could very well have been meant for you. People have mistaken us one for the other before."
"Not this time. The shooter had plenty of chances to see me coming and going when I took that walk, and in my shirtsleeves he'd be able to tell me from you easy enough." Knowing that, I still had to suppress a shudder. He'd been standing dark and unmoving in the deep shadow of that doorway watching the whole time, patient, patient, patiently waiting. "Besides, I don't have anyone mad at me, except maybe Archy Grant, only I took care of him, so he's no threat. Ike LaCelle had a beef but slipping me a Mickey was his payback. He wouldn't expect me to be up and around to be shot. Unless you can think of anyone else you might have mortally offended at the club, it must have been Dalhauser coming after you."
"At the club? Oh, yes, of course, whoever it was would have followed us from there. But why kill me and leave you alive to spread tales?"
"Gordy warned him off."
"But both of us are under his protection."
"Me more than you because of the business with Bobbi. Dalhauser must had thought if he let me go, Gordy might allow him to get away with bumping you off. The score he tried to settle tonight dates from long before Gordy's order."
Escott frowned over that one. "It's not impossible, but I don't see it as very likely. He would surely expect you to avenge me or for you to demand that Gordy do so."
"Maybe. By doing that, then all bets are off. If I went after him he'd be able to kill me, claiming self-defense."
"It does make for a neat package. But still..."
"What?"
"If he'd shot both of us at the same time, then no one would be left to accuse him in the first place. We'd have simply been the targets of some other person's revenge."
He had a good one there. "Meaning maybe it wasn't Dalhauser, but someone who would know I'd suspect him?"
"Then either you or Dalhauser or both of you would eventually be removed. I'm sure he has plenty of enemies who would like him out of the way, and one of them could be clever enough to use you to do it."
"That's just too complicated and open-ended. But if a mug in mob business is going to be killed, always look at his friends first for a motive, not his enemies. It's a little something I learned from Gordy."
"Wise man. I shall have to speak to him tomorrow about it."
I pulled the wheel left, then right, and eased off the gas. The Shoe Box Nightclub was just half a block away. It was dark, but there would be people on watch to notice our arrival and let us in. "You know, it could be someone completely outside of all this, the club, and the rest. Who else would want to kill you?"
"Not many, actually."
"I thought in your work you'd have hundreds lined up."
"The advantage of being a private agent rather than a conventional investigator is that most of my cases have nothing to do with life-and-death matters. Certainly I have enemies, but they're more likely to do me a minor ill turn such as LaCelle tried with you, not risk hanging to kill me."
"You can't think of anyone?" I found a space by a fireplug and parked.
"Not at the moment. Give me a bit of time." Escott shifted on the seat. "Damn. It feels like a bowling ball's been smashed into me. I hope Shoe has an aspirin on the premises."
Since he owned a bar, Coldfield had something better than aspirin available; it was just too bad for me I was unable to have any. I could have used a nice, numbing drink.
We were semi-familiar figures to some of his people, but two white guys turning up in the dead of night still inspired a lot of caution. We were in the process of being given a slap-down search when their boss arrived and called them off.
"What the hell's wrong?" he demanded, hurriedly descending the stairs from his rooms on the second floor. He wore a bathrobe and his feet were bare, but he looked alert and ready to take on anything.
"We've only a minor favor to ask-" Escott began.
"Don't try that crap with me, Charles. There has to be something mighty wrong for you to come this late looking like you do."
"It was my idea to come here," I said. "Check his shirtfront."
He checked and his eyes widened. "Shit, Charles."
Escott gave him that corpse's smile. "Fortunately my extra insulation against the cold came in quite handy."
"Are you all right?"
"A little sore..."
"He's a lot sore and needs a safe place for the night," I put in.
"He's got it, but I want to know what happened."
"I'll give you the goods if you can get him off his feet."
Coldfield took over from there, dismissing everyone but Isham, who was still dressed and accompanied us upstairs.
He took a chair by the door and watched and listened as I related the evening's main event to his boss and what had led up to it. Coldfield wanted to send for Dr. Clarson to give Escott a once-over, but the patient turned him down.
"This can wait until morning, Shoe," Escott insisted, then swallowed four aspirins with a big glass of water.
"You could have a broken sternum."
"If I did, then I'd be in considerably more discomfort than I am and would readily agree to an examination. Right now all I want is a place to lie down and no one shooting at me for a few hours."
"It's yours, but first thing tomorrow you see the doctor."
To that Escott gave in. He actually looked like he might get some sleep for once. Isham escorted him out to settle him in a spare room.
Coldfield turned to me. "What about you? You going or staying?"
"Going. I should keep an eye on the old homestead. I'll be safe in my hideaway."
He had reservations about that, and also wanted to talk more. I spent an hour discussing all the stuff with him that Escott and I had covered. Coldfield knew Dalhauser, having had some dealings with him through the unions.
"He's dangerous," said Coldfield, "but he's nothing near to stupid. Standing around waiting to shoot Charles like that is plain stupid, and crossing a man like Gordy is just as dumb. You sure he's the gunman?"
"Neither of us got any kind of a real look, but Dalhauser's the most likely. Tomorrow Charles will call Gordy and let him know somebody's not listening to orders. The two of 'em might come up with a better choice for idiot of the year, and when they find him I'm gonna wring his neck."
"Shouldn't that be Charles's job?"
"Not if I get there first. I honest to God thought he'd been killed, Shoe. And the only thing I could think of was that it wasn't fair for him to die. Like he'd been playing a game and was counted out too soon by a crooked umpire. It sounds childish."
"It's called grief," he said.
"But Charles didn't die."
"Don't matter. The grief is for what might have happened. It don't hurt the same, but it still hurts. Say you're standing on the edge of a cliff and a gust of wind pushes you over, but at the last second someone grabs you back to safety. You're alive, but you're going to be shook up for a while about it. About what might have been. Charles is going to be feeling that stronger than you are."
"And doing his best not to show it."
He heaved a great sigh. "Oh, yeah. But there's gonna be a reckoning before this is done. I just hope he doesn't tear himself apart over it."
"What do you mean?"
"He's had some shit thrown at him in the past. He didn't handle it too good."
"What was it?"
Coldfield shook his head. "Not my story to tell."
I'd hit that wall before, and knew better than to try to get more out of him. Isham returned, and Coldfield told him to drive me home in Escott's Nash, then bring the car back.
"Keep him here until I'm awake?" I asked Coldfield.
He snorted. "Do my best. But you know what he's like."
Isham hung around long enough for me to ascertain that no ambush lurked in the house, then drove off in the predawn light. I wondered if he ever slept, but not for long. The pale graying in the east was already starting to hurt my eyes. Funny how artificial things like candles and lightbulbs didn't affect me as powerfully as the sun. I hurried inside, dumped my tux coat and topcoat carelessly on the couch, then vanished to enter my basement chamber while I still could. If I waited too long, I lost the ability to vanish and would have to use the trick trapdoor, which was a pain to bother with when I was rushed.
My limbs stiffened up even as I sank onto the earth-padded cot. When my head hit the pillow I was gone for the day.
The next night I woke to the sound of the kitchen phone ringing, and knew it must be for me. Someone had been waiting for sunset, probably Coldfield; Bobbi always gave me a few minutes to stretch out the kinks. I shot up through the cracks and materialized, snagging the receiver and cutting off the annoying bell.
"Yeah?"
"It's Shoe."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing that I know of, but I thought you should know that Charles took off around noon, so be on the watch for him."
"He took off? I thought you were going to-"
"You ever try to stop him when he really wants to do something?"
"Yeah, like trying to catch air in your hands. Did he say anything to you? Any idea where he went?"
"We had a late breakfast and he said he was going to do some poking around. I thought I'd talked him into waiting for Clarson to see him, but I had to think again. The son of a bitch."
"How was he feeling?"
"Good enough to slip away without me noticing-and I'd been expecting him to try something like that."
Great, Escott was on the hunt with no forwarding address, running on the edge of the cliff again. I hoped he'd not get so focused on his prey that he'd lose his footing. "The man's got a lucky star, he'll be all right."
"You saying that to convince me or yourself?"
"A bit of both, my friend. If he drags in home I'll call you at the Shoe Box."
"And I'll call you if he shows here," he said, and hung up.
I took a look at myself and decided I was a mess that needed to be swept under a rug. Just as I started for the stairs the phone rang again. This time it was Bobbi.
"Hi! I just wanted to thank you," she said, sounding fresh and bright, everything I wasn't.
"Uh..."
"You awake yet?"
"Yeah, sweetheart. But what'd I do again?"
"You fixed things with Archy, remember? And have you seen the papers yet? The reviews for both shows are fantastic."
"That's good. I'm glad something's going right."
"What's happening there? You sound off. You can't be having a hangover."
"Some stuff came up for a case Charles is working on, and it's got me distracted. Just as well you called, I might be busy tonight. If I'm not there by the end of the last show, can you get a ride home?"
"No problem. What case? That blackmailer?"
"A new one. Tell you later. What's the deal about Archy? You saw him today?"
"Adelle invited me to come to the Variety Hour rehearsal so we could have lunch and shop afterward, and Archy was a perfect gentleman to me. No double meanings under the jokes, no trying to impress me with extra attention. I mean he was friendly, but that's where it ended. You're a miracle worker, Jack."
"I'm glad to be doing something right."
"It was great, even Adelle noticed what a good mood he was in."
"Is she still solid with Gordy?"
"She's coming to the club for dinner with him tonight."
It was good to know where he'd be later if I had to find him. Escott would have talked to him, and he might have a line on where my partner had taken himself.
Bobbi had to leave to get ready for her first show, so I was soon dropping the receiver back on its hook, free to finish the trip up to my room. I stripped and bathed and was just doing the last button on a fresh shirt when I heard a noise downstairs.
I went to the landing and saw a man's shadow moving against the frosted panes of the glass inset of the front door.
His hat obscured details, but he had height. Maybe the gunman had decided to come check on me, the one he'd ignored. I vanished and reappeared in the lower hall, tucking my shirttails into my pants, listening with interest as he fumbled noisily with the lock. He apparently wasn't worried about alarming anyone. The knob turned, and he pushed the door open. It swung back hard and banged against the wall, rattling the glass. The man swayed on the threshold, then lurched a few unsteady steps inside.
It was Escott.
"Charles?"
He didn't seem to hear me, and plowed toward the stairs, hand out to grab at the banister. He missed it by a mile and overbalanced, stumbling forward to sprawl gracelessly onto the treads. I went to him, got him turned over. For an awful moment I thought he'd been shot again, this time for real-until I caught a whiff of the booze. He reeked like a bum on Saturday night.
He looked at me earnestly, but didn't see me at all. He was drunk out of his mind, and his eyes were wild. In a pleading tone I'd never heard from him before, he slurred out, "Din' do it, Shoe. I swear I din' do it."