The Death of Lorenzo Jones (17 page)

“Wham! Wham! Wham!” went the little hammer.

Early threw his hat on the floor as the judge rose: Lockwood had slipped through his fingers again.

A padded cell in Bellevue? At least Early and some of these other cops wouldn’t be able to kick Lockwood around there.

Hook was getting very annoyed with Gray. Surely if Gray had been here, he would have called the president of Transatlantic
who could call some big shots and explain how it was all a horrible mistake. The big shots would call the mayor, and soon
the word would come down to give Lockwood a bouquet of roses and spring him. Sure.

At Bellevue the doctors looked into his eyes with little flashlights. They thumped his head with little rubber hammers the
size of the judge’s. That hurt. Everyone seemed to want to hit Lockwood in the head. They took his blood pressure. They consulted
intensely with each other.

“I’m not crazy,” Lockwood insisted.

“You all say that,” said one of the doctors, a skinny guy, just out of med school with pimples still on his face.

“I suppose we do. But I didn’t kill anyone. I’m an insurance investigator. Hey, call this number for me, okay?”

The doctors didn’t, but a young nurse who took a liking to the investigator at last slipped out and dialed the number.

They had Lockwood in a straitjacket when Gray walked up to his bed.

“Lockwood, you fool! Have you completely lost your marbles?”

Molly was with him. She looked white as a ghost. “Ooooh, Mr. Lockwood, you look awful!” she said.

Good old Molly.

“I know I look awful. I feel awful. In fact, I feel more awful than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.”

“Listen, Lockwood. I’m trying to get you out. I’ve arranged with Mr. Gordon Junior to call a certain high-placed official.”

Boy, those doctors hated to let me go, Lockwood thought to himself, as he drove toward Westchester in his Cord.

This was the first time in thirty-six hours that he wasn’t restrained in some manner. Under his second-best snap-brim his
head was bandaged. His best hat was waterlogged, ruined forever in the shower he had been given in jail.

There were still charges against him; and there would probably be an indictment against him for breaking and entering Wade’s
apartment.

But now he was just taking a ride. He never felt more relaxed than when he was just tooling around in his Cord listening to
her twelve cylinders purr away.

He wanted to see Robin. He was afraid to call her at the Happy Arms Hotel. Her picture had appeared in the
Daily Mirror
this morning with the caption “Have You Seen This Woman?” No, better she stay in the cottage and not come to the office phone.

Besides, there were things he could only say in person. He wanted to hold her, comfort her. Jesus, she must be going crazy
by now, wondering what the hell had happened.

Lockwood made sure no one was tailing him by taking a few turns, then zoomed up to the little motor hotel.

Robin flew into his arms the second he opened the door. She was dressed only in a blue bathrobe.

She pulled him inside. He kicked the door shut behind him.

“Oh Bill! Bill!” It was all she could say, over and over, clutching him as if he were life itself.

He dried her tears and filled her in on the events of the last two days.

“Who hit you on the head? I can’t imagine that Half-Pint or one of the other hoods was invited to stay in Wade’s other room,
while he—”

“I don’t know who bashed me, but I bet he’s the same one who helped Wade torture Doc. Robin, I hate to say it, but I think
you’d be better off in police custody. You could give them your side of the story.”

“No! I had enough of the police—before. Back there,” she said. She looked as if she might cry.

“By turning yourself in, it’ll show your innocence. I’ll go with you.”

Robin said, “I can’t live like this, afraid of my shadow, hiding indoors in this cabin. But—oh, I don’t know.”

He kissed her. “Get dressed. We’ll make it as painless as possible, Robin. I’m going to clear you. I swear, everything will
be all right.”

Robin looked wistfully into his eyes. “Can’t we spend some time together before we go?”

Lockwood saw that the belt on her robe had loosened and that the robe had fallen partly open.

She was naked. The blonde V of curls where her legs met her taut midsection, clearly visible, tempted him. What difference
would it make if they spent a blissful hour together before rushing off to be incarcerated?

She cooed, and her lips traced a soft path on his chin and down to his tie, which she loosened.

“Please, Bill. Let’s make love. Now.”

Her breath was hot against his ear. What man could refuse?

“It would be bad if they caught us here before we gave you up on our terms.”

She was lost in sensuality. “Bill, just a ‘quickie,’ as they say. I’m experienced now, right?”

Lockwood caved in. He carried Robin to the creaky bed in the back room. In a short time, the springs were violently squeaking.

Their bodies moved in rhythm, slow at first, only gradually picking up tempo. The chirping of the bed became a full orchestra
of sounds. Their bodies thrust together for even tighter union. Perspiration dampened the sheets.

He was ready to let loose, when she slowed down. He stopped, broke his lips away from hers, and held himself a bit aloft.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

She smiled sadly, which made the dimple in her chin deepen. “Why the hurry?”

“No hurry.”

“Yes, you are.” Her hands played with his chin, then glided down the ridge of his back. She shifted under him, which gave
him a quick wave of pleasure. “Let’s take our time. I can see why folks go on about sex.”

He laughed and kissed her. “You’re certainly learning fast.”

“Learning what?”

“To take it slow and easy.”

“It feels too good to rush.”

“Yeah, but people get in a hurry.”

“I didn’t think it’d be like this, Bill. Let’s not go back to the city.”

He sighed and mock-grimaced. “Do we have to argue about it at a time like this?”

She gave him a mock-pout back, “Maybe I won’t want to go on if you’re just going to insist on taking me to jail.”

“I’m not taking you to jail,” he answered, “I’m going to get you off the hook—see if I can get you out of this mess, and out
of danger.”

He half rolled off, but she pulled him back into her.

“No, don’t go,” she said.

“I thought you wanted to stop.”

“Don’t take everything so seriously.”

Women! He grinned at her. They clasped each other tightly and went back at it. Lockwood took his time, rising to the crest
of orgasm and then dropping back six times until he knew he wouldn’t have much fun holding back any more.

“Now,” he said.

“Hmmmmm, now,” she answered.

He let his pleasure build up slowly again, slowly enough so that she could easily follow him, and then thrust his way through,
yet still not hurrying. She followed and her lithe body met him at every turn. He marveled at the way their bodies knew how
to fit together so naturally.

A giant hand seemed to pick him up and gently throw him against her over and over again. He allowed it to happen, reveling
in the waves of pleasure, and then it was over.

Cool sheets. Her damp skin. Shouts from the courtyard. The buzz of a fly.

“Unearthly,” she said and hugged him.

They lay together another ten minutes and then slowly, between kisses, dressed.

Several times Robin seemed to be on the verge of asking Lockwood something, but stopped herself. He knew what it was—not to
go back to the city—and he dreaded going back through the necessity of it with her. Fortunately, she didn’t ask.

Lockwood telephoned Brannigan from the crank phone in the hotel office, then he called Gray. He wanted the same smart lawyer,
Bob Bleiberg, who had sprung him.

“And why should the company foot the bill for Miss Mobley’s legal defense?” Gray asked incredulously.

“Because if Robin Mobley
did
kill Lorenzo, Doc, and Sykes,” suggested Lockwood, “you’ll have to pay off on policies. I still think Wade did it. Him and
the widow Jones. But if your fancy lawyer ties up the case against Robin in knots, then the police might be interested in
nailing someone else. Like our chummy beneficiaries, Cyrus Wade and Cynthia Jones.”

Gray countered, “We probably stopped Wade and Mrs. Jones by threatening to expose their adultery.”

“You’re a bit old-fashioned, Mr. Gray, if you don’t mind my pointing out. Adultery is not the onus it once was. The gentlemen
at Wade’s club probably all have mistresses.”

Lockwood listened to a long silence on the line. Come on, Lockwood said to himself, spend the money.

“I’ll send Bleiberg down to Criminal Court for Robin Mobley’s arraignment.”

“You’re a great man, Mr. Gray.”

“Merely practical, Lockwood. You no doubt have some personal reason to defend Miss Mobley by now. My interest is purely financial.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply that you had an emotional motive for making a decision.”

“Good day, Lockwood.” Gray hung up.

Lockwood parked a block from the Midtown Precinct. He and Robin walked slowly up the stone stairs of the building and into
the main hall. Jimbo sent Early down to bring the pair upstairs.

Early hated the job. Usher! He glared at Lockwood and escorted them without a word. He opened the door to Brannigan’s spartan
office.

“That will be all, Early,” Brannigan said.

“Thanks, pal.” Lockwood smiled. Robin looked at the big Irish cop apprehensively.

“My, my, Hook, are you turning over a new leaf? Bringing in a fugitive? I suppose you never knew where she was, right?”

“Right. She asked me to arrange for her to surrender. She’s totally innocent of all charges.”

Brannigan leaned forward and cracked his knuckles. “Oh? Then just why would this lovely run away?”

“Because her life was in danger from the real killers.”

“And who’re they?”

“Wade and Cynthia Jones.”

“Oh come on, Hook.” Brannigan looked annoyed. “No more of that.”

The phone on the desk suddenly rang. It was Early downstairs, speaking so loudly that all three heard him.

“Some high-powered shyster, name of Bleiberg, is here with some writs. He wants to see his client, Robin Mobley.”

“Send Mr. Fancy-Pants up.” Jimbo sighed. “Hook, you’re a pain.”

Bleiberg, in a crisp, tailored, three-piece suit, didn’t waste any time. His client would say nothing. The whole group went
before the judge in half an hour.

“What’s this man doing here?” asked the same old judge that Lockwood had appeared in front of before. “I thought a young lady
was the defendant.”

Holding his hat, Lockwood said, “Fiancée, your honor.”

It was news to Robin—and news to Lockwood, too. He just had to say
something
.

She hugged him. Now I’ve done it, he thought.

“Well, I guess you can stay while we deal with the case.”

“Your honor,” Bleiberg intoned solemnly, “my client is innocent. She is not a fugitive from justice, but rather from injustice…
.”

Bleiberg droned on eloquently for twenty minutes. Impressive. He seemed to Lockwood a bit like the Statue of Liberty, “a shining
pristine lady surrounded by a sea of swill.”

The judge granted Robin’s release on $3,000 bail, and Bleiberg guaranteed the court that Transatlantic would meet it.

Lockwood took Robin to her aunt’s, who was out of town. She had thrown in the towel on Robin after all the scandal of the
past week. Good riddance, Lockwood decided.

Later, he took Robin to the Stork Club; they had reason to celebrate. Both were no longer hunted criminals.

Sherm came over and pinned a cream-colored orchid on Robin’s blue dress.

“A beautiful flower for a beautiful young lady.” Hook smiled; it was the same line Sherm used with all the girls.

Sherm welcomed Lockwood back from “the pits of this hellish judicial system.” He ordered a huge cake for the couple. Several
other people drifted over to the party.

One was Groucho Marx, whom Lockwood had met once before through Sherm.

Robin was surprised to see that Marx did indeed walk
that
way. He looked smaller in real life than on the screen.

Groucho said, “So you’re Hook’s fiancee, huh? That reminds me of the last time I was married. She was so ugly the mudpacks
fainted when they went on her face. But you’re beautiful,” he said, staring at Robin. “Where did Meat hook you? I mean where
did Hook meet you?”

They all laughed.

It was like a dream. Robin and Lockwood danced to “Autumn Leaves” and drank champagne. Robin was giddy with the evening. She
was flying. Lockwood’s pleasure was only tempered by knowing that he was always bad luck to women who fell for him. Very bad
luck. Jesus, he didn’t want anything to happen to Robin.

Suddenly, Walter Winchell was by his side. He put his arm on Hook’s shoulder.

“Got to talk with you, boy.”

They walked behind a large potted tree.

“Hook, Cyrus Wade and Charles Waters are one and the same. I’m sure now.”

“Thanks, Walter.” Though that wasn’t anything Lockwood didn’t already know.

“Listen, Walter, what I really need is a big play in your column about how anyone who can clear Robin should come forward.”

Lockwood told Winchell about the problems Robin had.

“Hook, I’ll do everything in my power to get down to the truth in this mess. But it’s my exclusive on the next few cases you’re
on, okay?”

“Sure,” Hook agreed. “With pictures, of the bodies and everything.” He smiled at Winchell.

“I’m effective, Hook,” Winchell went on. “Never underestimate the power of public opinion—or my column. When Winchell talks,
people listen.”

“You’re a good friend, Walter.”

“One hand washes the other.”

The party was great. The huge cake, in the shape of a big hook, arrived after everyone had stuffed themselves. Vanilla icing,
six layers, with little inner partitions of chocolate. From baloney sandwiches in jail to cake fit for a king, Lockwood thought.
The world was a strange place indeed.