The Best of Argosy #8 - Minions of the Shadow Read online

  If he could have seen the grim though slightly bewildered face in the following cab, he mightn’t have felt so chipper.

  THE man in the cab didn’t feel so chipper himself. His four hours of sleep, instead of the usual nine or ten, made him somewhat gloomy. He was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t on a wild goose chase.

  Not that his determination had faltered; not in the least. He was going to see this thing through. But up to the present he couldn’t see where he was doing much good. Maybe he should have called in some wiser heads on this quest. Maybe he didn’t have the brain for this kind of work.

  He tried to piece together some sense from the things he had learned. Somehow they didn’t seem to add up. He’d seen Nelson take his girl home. That didn’t mean anything. He’d seen him get some papers from Patelli, night club operator and former gambler. That meant something, all right, but he hadn’t the slightest idea what. If he only knew what those papers were...

  The car ahead finally stopped at a pretentious place, set back from the road, almost at the edge of town. The wind-burnt man left the cab and followed. He saw a chance to approach the house unobserved, by taking advantage of the copious shrubbery which surrounded it. He peeked in the windows from time to time, and was finally rewarded by the sight of Nelson entering the library, followed by a middle-aged, prosperous-looking man with a worried look on his dignified face.

  The man at the window jumped involuntarily. He knew that face; it belonged to Dan Danvers, party treasurer and a man who had been mentioned as possible mayor. Danvers looked decidedly worried as he slumped in an armchair. Nelson stood over him and banged his fist on a table as if he were threatening him.

  The man wished he could hear what was going on. It would have solved the mystery, he was sure.

  Nelson seemed to be talking volumes, and getting red in the face as he talked. Danvers slumped further in the chair as he listened. Finally he got up and crossed the room to a desk, which he opened.

  The angle was bad but the man at the window interpreted what he saw to mean that Danvers was writing something, and that Nelson was dictating it. He could only see Danvers’ back from this angle, but it was hunched over as when a man is writing.

  Finally Danvers straightened; Nelson leaned over and picked up a paper. He was smiling triumphantly as he did this, and the wind-burnt man thought it high time to get back to his cab.

  Harvey was still smiling when he returned to his car. He didn’t notice as he drove off towards Pembroke’s offices that a cab was doing its very best to keep up with him. Harvey was driving at quite a clip, and the cab had been built more for endurance than for speed.

  “I don’t blame Milly for saying you’ve changed,” remarked Omega. “You used to drive like a snail with arthritis.”

  “There’s work to be done,” chortled Harvey. “How did you like the way I handled Danvers?”

  “Couldn’t have done better myself,” Omega admitted. “You’re a changed man. A week ago he could have denied the whole thing — called it an optical illusion — and you’d have believed him.”

  “Hardly that bad,” said Harvey, pulling up in front of the Bugle building. “Though I’ll admit I was a little scared for a minute or two that he wouldn’t bluff.”

  There was a slight altercation behind Harvey as he started into the building. A cab had pulled up and let out a passenger who didn’t like the size of his bill and wasn’t hesitating about saying so. But Harvey had other things on his mind and didn’t turn. He continued toward the bank of elevators.

  “Mr. Nelson! Mr. Nelson!” came an urgent voice behind him.

  “Hello, O’Reilly,” said Harvey. “Where are you going?”

  “With you.” O’Reilly said it defiantly, as if challenging any possible denial of his right to do so.

  HARVEY looked puzzled, but nodded; headed for the building’s lunch room. He sat down on a stool and ordered coffee, black. He nodded again, absently, as O’Reilly lifted two fingers to the waiter behind the counter. But when the waiter delivered the two cups, he snapped out of his reverie and suddenly asked, “Why?”

  O’Reilly was confused for a second, as his face plainly revealed, but rallied determinedly.

  “I’m working on that Dolly Patterson murder, on my own,” he said. “And I’m staying with you till I find out something. I’m gonna get the jump on that guy Schwartz if I have to tie myself to you.”

  Harvey looked at him wonderingly. “I don’t get it,” he said.

  O’Reilly dropped two lumps in his coffee before replying. “I figure you do,” he finally said. “I saw something in that room that maybe the others didn’t. There was a little crescent-shaped line of blood on the carpet, about a foot away from the puddle under the girl’s head. Then there was a very faint line, same shape and same size, about five feet nearer to where you were standing when we came in.

  “I figure that you accidentally touched the puddle with the tip of your toe. Your girl’s shoes were pointed, so it had to be yours. The first mark was made when you shifted your weight, and the second was made when you stepped away. A guy your size takes about two and a half feet to a step.”

  Harvey nodded and glanced briefly at the toes of his shoes. “The thick carpet wiped it off,” he said. “But what makes you think I know something about the murder? It’s perfectly natural that I would step over and make sure that the girl was dead and beyond any help.”

  “That’s what I thought at first,” O’Reilly confessed. “But then I happened to think that anybody could see a mile away that she had to be dead. With a gash like that, and a bucket of blood...”

  Harvey refused to comment, merely maintaining a noncommittal expression as he waited for the state trooper to continue.

  “... So I got to figuring that a man’s left foot would come pretty close to that puddle if he stooped down to search the body. The medical examiner’s did. It just struck me then, that if you had been telling a phoney story to Schwartz, maybe your real reason for going there was to get the same thing that the murderer had been searching for. And that maybe you looked for it on the body. That would mean that you knew what the guy was searching for, and therefore why she was killed. You get the idea?”

  Harvey nodded. “An awful lot of maybes,” he observed.

  “I though it was a good piece of deductive reasoning,” said O’Reilly, expanding slightly.

  “Well, I don’t know a thing about it,” said Harvey, flatly.

  “What! But you admitted.” O’Reilly was aghast. His face went pale, then flooded with color. Such surprises play havoc with a man’s blood pressure.

  “I ADMITTED nothing except that I may have stepped in the puddle of blood,” said Harvey. “If I was lying to Schwartz, and if I stooped over to search the body, then the rest is true. That only trouble is I wasn’t lying. I told Schwartz that an hour before the thing happened. I didn’t even know the lady’s name. I also told him that I was after Danvers, only going to her apartment because I had been told he was with her. And that’s the truth.”

  O’Reilly shoved his hat back on his head and scratched. He did it in a way which suggested that he really didn’t expect to find anything, or relieve any particular itch, but rather as a gesture intended to stimulate the gray matter which he assumed to be under his moving fingers.

  “I guess I don’t have the head for this work,” he admitted. “I could have sworn there was something... Oh, I remember. What were the papers you got from Patelli?”

  Harvey started in surprise. “You’ve been following me ever since then?” he asked. “Then you were the man who drove off in a cab after I went into my flat last night.”

  “Yeah,” O’Reilly grinned. “I went home to get a little sleep.”

  Harvey grinned, too. “Those papers were private business,” he said. “Something which can be explained, if necessary, as plausibly as the matter of my presence in that room.”

  That O’Reilly didn’t like his answer was immediately discernible. Harvey c
ould almost see his mind trying to figure out the next move and so Harvey chose that particular moment to make a quick dash for the elevators. One was opening as he started and he made it with plenty to spare.

  O’Reilly tried, but Harvey’s sprint had been too sudden for him. The elevator starter clicked his little cricket and the doors slammed shut before he got near them. He fumed and waited for the next car, meanwhile eyeing the arrow which showed the floor stops of the elevator he had missed. Then he turned morosely away and leaned against a wall. The darned thing had stopped three times while he had watched it.

  Chapter 19: Two Weeks to Death

  PEMBROKE, looking quite happy, greeted his visitor with a smile and an extended hand.

  “Nelson,” he said, before Harvey could open his mouth, “the time has about come for you and me to get together. You’ve been pretty smart in the past, and I think I can make you see things my way. In fact I was just going to send for you. We have some talking to do.”

  Harvey smiled amiably. “We certainly have,” he said, taking Danvers’ confession and placing it on Pembroke’s desk. “Look this over before we talk.”

  Pembroke’s poker face revealed nothing as he read the paper carefully and then looked at the ceiling for a long minute. Finally he finished his inspection and evidently concluded that the thing was in no immediate danger of falling, for he lowered his eyes and appraised Harvey carefully.

  “You’re a smart lad,” he observed. “Those lists you got from Dolly Patterson wouldn’t have been of much use, except as a means of getting this confession. And the other stuff wouldn’t have been of any use at all if Danvers hadn’t confessed that he turned all money from such sources over to me. Very clever. However, it was all very unnecessary.”

  Harvey’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s the same every time,” Pembroke said, reflectively. “Someone thinks he can outsmart the old master, and then gets mad when he finds it can’t be done. Take a seat, Nelson. I’m waiting for a phone call.” He glanced at a clock on the opposite side of the room. “It should have come a couple of minutes ago.”

  It came. A muted jangling arose from a point beneath the desk. Pembroke reached for the phone. “Wonderful timing,” he observed, lifting it from the cradle. After his barked, “Pembroke!” he listened for a moment and remarked. “Okay, I’m putting Nelson on,” and handed the instrument to Harvey.

  At Millicent’s “Hello,” Harvey almost dropped the phone. He looked at Pembroke, who was smiling sardonically. Harvey realized that he was licked, thoroughly. Pembroke had talked to Bonzetti after all, but he had arranged to kidnap Milly, not him.

  Harvey swallowed, to regain control of paralyzed vocal chords.

  “Where are you?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Don’t know,” said Millicent, her voice shaking in spite of an effort to control it. “Bonzetti blindfolded me.”

  “Listen carefully,” Harvey said, after a pause. “They’re going to demand that I support Danvers in return for your continued health. And I’m going to do it — just so long as I hear your voice over the phone whenever I demand it. Now put Bonzetti on and I’ll straighten things out.”

  Harvey turned to Pembroke, who had been listening interestedly. “You’re going to give Bonzetti orders to keep his hands off her,” he said. “I’ll support Danvers as long as she’s treated right. The instant she’s molested I’m going to blow the works. I’m holding these papers until I get her back.”

  Pembroke hesitated, thoughtfully. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and picked up the telephone. Briefly and forcefully he told Bonzetti what Harvey demanded. Then he hung up and smiled.

  “It’s a good arrangement,” he said. “I get what I want and that’s all that matters. Bonzetti holds your girl until the election is over. As soon as Danvers gets the nomination you and I make our trade. Millicent Forbes in return for those lists, and Danvers’ confession. Agreed?”

  HARVEY left, his mind seething. Pembroke, the master strategist; knew when he had gained his immediate objective. But there was one weak link in the arrangement; and if Pembroke hadn’t thought of it yet, he certainly would later. For as long as Millicent was alive and free, she was a danger to Bonzetti; and he in turn was a danger to Pembroke.

  The obvious answer was that neither Bonzetti nor Pembroke could afford to turn her loose. And, also obviously, Harvey was bound by his agreement to exactly the extent to which Pembroke was bound. Which was not at all.

  Temporarily at least, Millicent was safe. Election day was two weeks away and Millicent would be treated all right as long as his efforts were necessary to nominate Danvers. But after that — what then? Harvey growled audibly as the elevator door slammed shut. There was only one answer and that was to start work immediately to find her. By election day Millicent must be free; or the day after she would be dead.

  “DID you read Pembroke’s mind?” Mark demanded. “Where’s Milly?”

  “Couldn’t. I’m too weak yet. Even thought impulses don’t register unless they’re sent with an effort, as yours are. I can’t seem — I think maybe I’d better send you back to the present. Then I’d be able to recuperate my strength. I’m getting worried.”

  “No! I have no way of knowing what’s happened while I’m gone. Hold on to me.”

  “Don’t be silly! This all happened six thousand years ago.”

  “But you’re changing it. It’s happening differently now.”

  “I wonder.”

  THE elevator stopped at the lobby floor. Harvey growled again. O’Reilly grinned like a playful puppy and fell into step.

  “What were you doing upstairs?” he asked, as if he really expected an answer.

  “I don’t like the men’s washrooms on the ground floor,” answered Harvey, increasing the length of his stride until O’Reilly fell slightly to the rear.

  This wasn’t because the state cop was short, for he was fully as tall as Harvey, but rather because his legs weren’t quite as long. Harvey opened the door of his car and sat down. O’Reilly sprinted to the other side, intent upon stealing a free ride. But he met an outstretched arm as he attempted to open the door.

  On the end of this arm was an open hand, something really phenomenal in hands, one which had stopped many a skillful tackler. It stopped O’Reilly, snapped his head back so suddenly that the bones of his neck crunched together in an alarming manner. By the time he had straightened the neck and determined that it would still support his head with some degree of stability, Harvey’s car had roared out from beneath his outraged nose.

  Officer O’Reilly really suffered as he saw the pleased expression on the face of the cab driver when he demanded that he follow the speeding sedan. It seemed that the fellow actually knew that he was getting a chance to get even with constabulary in general.

  Harvey drove furiously, while his mind did its best to keep, pace. This was a bad combination of activities, for he was thinking of other things besides driving. The result was a series of close ones; but finally he arrived at his destination in one piece. Physically at least. Patelli’s club was the destination.

  A hostile-eyed bartender took his order for a double scotch, straight. Harvey had never seen the man before, no doubt because his working hours didn’t extend into the evening.

  “Where’s Patelli?” asked Harvey.

  “Home in bed, I guess,” said the man. “What d’ya want?”

  “Where’s he live?”

  The bartender gestured.

  “He’s in the phone book, if you really want to know. You don’t catch me sending a salesman around to wake him up.”

  Harvey slugged down the drink, muttered under his breath, and found a directory. Sure enough, Patelli was listed. Harvey wasted no time in calling him. He watched the door to the club as he listened to the buzz of the bell ringer. He half expected to see O’Reilly pop in, wild-eyed.

  Something else popped, however.

  A sudden roar sounded in his ear. He moved the r
eceiver an inch or so away, and gradually the sound became articulate, though sulphurous. He understood why the bartender wanted no part in the waking of Patelli. It was a job for a lion tamer.

  “Take it easy, Joe,” he soothed. “This is Harvey Nelson. Something’s come up that’s more important than anybody’s sleep. I’ve got to talk to you, right away. Shall I come up, or will you see me at the club?”

  There was a short pause. Then: “Come up here. It’ll be quicker.”

  Harvey noted the address, at the northern end of town, and sprinted for the curb. His car roared down the one-way street and made a forbidden left turn at Broad, a through street north and south. Several whistles blew before he reached Patelli’s address, but Harvey didn’t slow down in the least. He’d collect a flock of summonses, of course, but he’d take care of them later.

  Right now he had to get the machinery started, and the machinery he was thinking of might turn out to be almost as ponderous as that of the law which he couldn’t enlist. Two weeks could, upon occasion, go past with startling speed.

  By election day Milly must be free; or the day after she’d be dead.

  Chapter 20: O’Reilly Eats Free

  PATELLI’S place was in a restricted neighborhood in the best section of the city. The architecture was a bit lurid, but then Mr. Patelli was slightly lurid himself. His tastes were tended to run to the picturesque, more often than not. Harvey was greeted by a butler who would have looked about right either at the door of a club or at the bridge of a naval flagship.

  “Come right in, sir,” he said. “The master is waiting for you. I’ll take care of your skimmer.”

  Harvey handed the man his hat and followed him into a library. He strode back and forth, too agitated to take the indicated chair, and that was probably the reason for the butler’s puzzled head-shake as he left the room. Harvey guessed that this particular butler had obtained his experience from a book, and was consequently annoyed when people didn’t act according to the rules. He’d probably been a bouncer in Patelli’s gambling joint before his boss had gone legitimate.