Pale Shadow (16 page)

“You and that stomach. Let's go.”

It took them five minutes to reach the café. Fred took a seat at the counter and engaged the brownskin waitress in conversation while Marcel went to the phone booth. He quickly had Mickey Rawls on the line.

“Most of the boys done called in awready, boss, but so far nothin' doin'. You know we lookin' for a needle in a haystack.”

“Yeah,” Marcel said. “I know. Keep trying and I'll be back with you later.” He hung up, dropped in another nickel, and asked the operator for Police Headquarters. When the desk sergeant answered, he asked to speak to Officer Eddie Park in the Negro Squad.

“Negro Squad, Officer Park speaking.”

“This is Marcel Aristide. Have you had any luck with that favor I asked you about yesterday, Eddie?”

Park's voice dropped an octave, but his tone was friendly. “How ya doin', Marcel? Yeah, I got something for you, but I don't know what good it is.”

“Were there many new office listings for doctors in the past two months?”

“Well, hardly any. Three. And two of 'em are obviously white doctors, 'cause they're Uptown exchanges.”

Marcel felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. “And the other one—is his name Abraham T. Rodrigue?”

There was a silence at the other end of the line, then, in an awed voice, Park said, “Man, have you taken up mind reading or what? That is the name, but how'd you know?”

“Call it a lucky guess.”

“Well, his office is located at 7923 North Villere. Phone number there is Claiborne 3375. I checked to see if there was a home number, but no soap. What's the story on this guy, Marcel? He owe you a gambling debt or somethin'?”

“Eddie, if he turns out to be the guy I think he is, I'm gonna call you up and give you a chance to be a hero. I'll be talking to you, hear?”

“Okay, brutha. Play it close to your vest. One day you'll want to play with my catnip mouse.”

Marcel laughed and hung up the telephone. On an impulse, he dropped in another nickel and asked the operator for Claiborne 3375. It buzzed three times before a woman picked up.

“Dr. Abraham Rodrigue's office. How may I help you?”

“Say, miss,” Marcel said in a cracked old-timer's voice. “I got me a turrible pain in my sacroiliac. Could Dr. Rodrigue see me this aft'noon?” He coughed wetly for effect.

“Well, I don't think so today, sir. Dr. Rodrigue's out on a housecall just now, and I don't know when to expect him. I could give you an appointment first thing tomorrow morning. Would that do?”

“Don't think so, missy. I'm in turrible pain. Reckon I better try somewheres else. Thankee now, hear?” Marcel hung up the telephone before the young woman could reply. He left the booth with a thoughtful expression on his face and joined Fred at the counter. His friend was chewing an enormous bite out of a hamburger.

Fred cast a glance at his friend as he climbed up on the adjoining stool. “What's the verdict, li'l brutha?”

“Something's goin' on, Fred. But what, I don't know.”

Fred bit into the hamburger again. “What now?”

“I want you to watch the pawnshop. Use the hotel lobby, because I want you to call into Mickey every hour at a quarter past. There's a booth in the lobby where you can still see the pawnshop.”

“Okay. What're you gonna do?”

“Talk to a couple of people, then go see a doctor.”

Fred frowned as he chewed. “You feelin' okay?”

“I'll let you know after I've seen the doctor.”

***

It was nearly 11:30 AM when Farrell eased his convertible to a stop behind the Café Tristesse. Martinez had again fallen asleep in spite of his worry. Farrell had to shake him gently by the shoulder to arouse him.

“C'mon, pardner. I've got a nice soft bed you can snooze on after you make that telephone call.”

Martinez grunted, and allowed Farrell to help him out of the car and up to the apartment. Inside, they went to Farrell's office, where Martinez sat down at the desk.

“You could've told me where they were and we'd have them by now,” Farrell said.

“It's not that simple,” Martinez said. “I left them with a guy, and he's got to hear from me. The way things are, I couldn't go there in broad daylight, either. It could be bad for him, bad for me, too.”

Farrell took off his hat and hung it on the tree beside the office door. “So where are they?”

“Ozzy's got 'em. I sent them to him by Railway Express messenger day before yesterday.”

Farrell's jaw tightened. “You picked a nice guy to play footsies with.”

“He's all right. We been friends for years,” Martinez replied. “At the time, he was the only person I knew I could trust.”

Farrell bit back the words that rose in his throat. “Call him. Let's get them before any more time goes by.”

Martinez picked up the receiver and gave the operator the number for the pawnshop. After a brief wait, Martinez was speaking.

“Oz? Can you talk? It's Louie.” There was a pause as Martinez listened, then he said, “Look, I need to get my hands on the plates. Yeah, it's important. I need them this afternoon. What? What do you mean they ain't there? Where did you put 'em? For the love of Christ, Ozzy. When can you meet me there?” Martinez paused to look at his wristwatch. “Okay, okay. Yeah. I'll be there.” Martinez put the receiver back into the cradle.

“What's the story?” Farrell asked.

Martinez looked up at him, trying to keep the chagrin from his face. “I thought he was gonna stash them somewhere in the pawnshop, but he says he's moved them.”

“Where's the hiding place?” Farrell was feeling his temper start to fray. Knowing that Oswald had lied to him made it that much harder to keep his anger under control.

“He said for me to meet him in a commercial building off Tulane Avenue. It's a place he owns and it hasn't got any tenants in it now. Second floor.” Martinez gripped the arms of the chair and tried to stand, but his face went immediately pale and sweat broke out on his forehead.

“You're in no shape to go anywhere,” Farrell said. “I'll have to go for you.”

Martinez sagged in the chair. “He ain't expecting you, Wes. He'll get spooked.”

Farrell bared his teeth. “Let him. I'm gonna have a word with that lying rat after I get the plates from him.”

Martinez smiled, shook his head. “
Chivato
, the trouble with you is you got no sense of humor. Sure, Ozzy's a rat and a coward, but at least he's straight about it. How many honest, lying, yellow rats do you meet in this life?”

Farrell was in a bad mood, but he couldn't be mad at Martinez. They had been through too much together. “What time will he be at the meeting place?”

“He said he'll close the pawnshop at 12:00 noon and be there at 12:45. The building's north of Tulane on Cortez. You can't miss it. There's nothing else in that block.”

Farrell looked at his watch. He had better than a half-hour to get there and it wasn't very far away. “You need anything? Food, drink, coffee?”

“Nothin', man. It's good to just take it easy.”

“Glad to see you, Louie. Why didn't you come around when you'd hit town? It would've been like old times.”

Martinez looked up at Farrell, who had eased a hip over the edge of the desk. “The truth is, you got too respectable. I figured you wouldn't appreciate having a crook knocking on the door while you were doing all this honest toil. Maybe I was wrong about that.”

Farrell nodded. “Dead wrong, you knucklehead.”

The two men chatted amiably for a while, exchanging stories and exaggerating them the way men will to evoke a laugh. Finally Farrell looked at his watch. “Time to go, Louie. I should be back soon.”

“Think I'll take you up on the offer of that bed, Wes. I ain't slept much lately.”

Farrell smiled. “Same here. Funny thing, isn't it?”

It took Farrell less than ten minutes to reach Tulane Avenue, and another three to arrive at South Cortez Street. He made the turn and found himself in a block with a few empty houses and a vacant commercial building that was in a state of disrepair. Some of the windows were boarded up and others had broken panes of glass. It had clearly not been occupied for some time.

Farrell left the car and walked across the street to the building. Something about it bothered him, and without thinking he unbuttoned his jacket, letting his fingers brush the butt of his gun. The door was unlocked and slightly ajar. He stood looking at it for at least a minute before slowly mounting the stairs to the entry way and walking through the door.

Inside the empty vestibule, he listened, straining for the slightest sound that might betray where Theron Oswald might be waiting. He didn't like the quiet. If Oswald was expecting someone, why didn't he make his presence known?

Farrell found the stairs to the second floor and he mounted them slowly, keeping to the edge to minimize the number of creaks and groans the dried-out risers made. At the head of the stairs he was faced with a hall leading off to the left and right. Oswald had said nothing about that, nor in which direction he might be found. Farrell flipped a mental coin and went to the right. There were a series of doors on his left, and he paused at each one to push the door open. Each yawned into a dim, empty room.

He had reached the last door on the hall when he heard a sound behind him, a scuff of leather on wood that was so faint that another man might not have heard it at all. He threw himself through the last door on his left, hearing the explosion of a heavy gun as he did so. He rolled on his shoulder into the room, losing his hat as he came upright. He flattened against the near wall, his Colt cocked in his right hand.

He eased along the wall to the open door, forcing his quickened breathing back under control. His assailant was as quiet as cat. One harshly drawn breath could mask his slightest footfall. Farrell knew a good man when he met one, and this was one of the best.

He dropped to one knee and crept to the opening. He darted his head around for a quick look, and was rewarded with another explosion. The bullet took a chunk out of the doorframe, scattering splinters everywhere. Farrell shook his head, shoved his .38 around the frame and fired blindly, twice. The gunman returned fire twice more, each time chewing up a piece of the doorframe. This is getting me nowhere, he thought impatiently.

He cast a quick glance around the room, and saw a door in the wall behind him. He grabbed his hat and put it on, then gripped the knob of the door. He tried it, and it opened soundlessly into the next room. Farrell crept across the room where another door awaited him in the opposite wall. He opened that one. It was one more empty room with another door opposite. Each time he crossed a room, his risk increased. The gunman had to be in the next room or in the hall waiting for Farrell to show his head.

“Come on out, Martinez,” a voice said. “I'm tired of huntin' all over creation for you, boy. Reckon you're gettin' tired, too, particularly if that useless fuckin' cop put a slug in you the other night. Gimme the plates and you can go on your way.”

Farrell understood now. For some reason, Oswald had set Martinez up to be killed. He must be planning to make some deal with the plates, himself. He felt his skin grow hot as anger quickened his blood and caution dropped away from him like an unneeded garment. He crossed the room in a single bound and kicked the connecting door open. As it slammed back against the wall, he stepped through, saw a half-concealed figure just outside the room. He fired three shots from the hip as fast as he could squeeze the trigger.

The man was not only good but lucky, too. Even as the sound of the shots thundered against the walls and ceiling, the man was moving backward through the blizzard of wood splinters and burst plaster. He fired at Farrell as he ran, each shot missing by no more than a hair's breadth.

Farrell moved through the noise and destruction like a hot wind, his rage and blood lust blotting out all but the faceless shadow that retreated down toward the opposite end of the building. His gun jumped in his hand until the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Farrell ejected the spent magazine on the run, slamming the fresh one in with the heel of his left hand. A door slammed ahead, and as he grew near, chunks of wood exploded outward as the other man fired through the door to slow Farrell up.

He flattened against the wall beside the door, grabbed the handle and twisted it. It was locked. Sparks jumped from his pale eyes as he pointed his gun at the knob and fired twice. As the hardware flew from the wood, he kicked the door open and went in behind it. It took a moment for him to realize the room was empty. He crossed it, saw an adjoining room and passed into it.

A breeze fluttered a rotting curtain over an open window. A fire escape lay beyond, and below he saw an empty back lot that opened onto a neighborhood of shotgun cottages. Nothing moved on the quiet street but a pair of mongrel dogs scrounging through an overturned garbage pail.

He lowered the hammer on his gun and retraced his steps back into the hall. He saw spent cartridge cases and he stooped to retrieve one. It was a Western brand .45 auto. He felt a nerve pulse in his jaw as he remembered how close those shots had come. Farrell dropped the cartridge case into his jacket pocket and left the building. His next stop would be the pawnshop, and he grinned savagely as he anticipated the look on Theron Oswald's face when he walked through that door.

Chapter 14

It was early afternoon when Frank Casey and Treasury Agent Paul Ewell were ushered into the office of A. J. McCandless. The hard-faced old man sat behind his desk, his cigarette holder jutting up from his mouth like a naval gun. He greeted the two lawmen with a grunt and a nod.

“Thanks for seeing us, Mr. McCandless,” Casey said. “We realize you've got a lot on your mind just now.”

“We're terribly sorry about the death of Mr. Leake,” Ewell added. “That must've been quite a blow.”

“What do you know about it so far?” McCandless asked, ignoring their sympathy.

“Well,” Casey began. “There are things we know for a fact, and then there are the things we surmise.”

“Don't talk to me in riddles, Captain. I'm not in the humor for it. Marston Leake worked with me for twenty-five years, and he helped make this bank what it is today. I want his murderer on the gallows, and sooner, not later.”

Casey had suffered the bluster of rich men more than once in his career. He had learned to ignore it. “Let's take what we know for starts. Two men leave here in the late afternoon yesterday to go to dinner. A Negro gunman jumps out, threatens them, and according to the only witness, shoots Leake. He then turns and shoots the second victim before he runs off.”

McCandless made a dismissive gesture. “What of it? The fellow was either frightened or under the influence of some narcotic. His erratic behavior certainly suggests it.”

“Or maybe we're meant to think that,” Ewell said.

“What the devil do you mean by that?”

“We've got evidence that the gunman lay in wait in that alley. That's not the work of a drug addict, Mr. McCandless. That's the work of a seasoned hunter, calmly waiting for his prey to walk past his stand. You're enough of a hunter to know that.” Ewell gestured toward a wall decorated with antlers and trophy heads.

McCandless ignored the observation. “What should he have done, struck a pose against the side of a building and then pulled his gun? Of course he lay in wait.”

“Mr. McCandless, you're a banker, and we wouldn't dream of trying to tell you the complexities of banking,” Casey replied. “What we understand is criminal behavior, so let us tell you what we know from experience.

“For a Negro gunman to have been in that part of the city,” Casey continued, “in broad daylight, under the influence of drugs or stone cold sober, is not only completely out of our experience, but it's pretty unbelievable. To make it even more unlikely, the gunman executes one man, then only manages to wound the other before fleeing the scene.”

“So what are you saying? That the Negro meant to kill Marston Leake? That it wasn't an armed robbery?” McCandless pounded his desk, his face red with fury.

Casey almost smiled at the fit of temper. “Mr. McCandless, if I were you, I'd calm down. We're investigating a murder, and we'll ask any question we think pertinent, and advance any theory we think plausible. Right now, I'm inclined to see this as murder, and not a robbery.”

“And if I can put in the U. S. Government's two cents,” Ewell added, “I think Casey's right. We're in the middle of a counterfeit currency investigation, a case that's covering a six-state region so far. And in the middle of it, an important banking executive suddenly gets killed. My boss would have my head examined if I didn't look into that.”

“Which leaves us with two possible theories,” Casey interjected. “One, either Leake was involved with the counterfeit ring and suddenly became a liability—”

“I've never heard such rot,” McCandless exclaimed.

“—or he knew or found out something that made him dangerous to the operation.” Casey leaned forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on McCandless's. “Did you know that Leake had been carrying a pistol?”

“What?”

“That's right. When he was shot, he was reaching for a pistol he'd bought a couple of weeks before. If he'd been faster on the draw, he might still be here. Why should a bank executive start going around armed unless he had become unsure of his world?”

Before McCandless could reply, Ewell broke in. “It struck me the other day that Leake was considerably more concerned about this counterfeit situation than the rest of you. Had he said anything to you that was out of the ordinary?”

McCandless, still scowling, eased back in his chair, his eyes shifting nervously between the two policemen. “Leake was a worrier. It made him a valuable man because he left no T uncrossed, no I undotted. On the other hand, he was given to fits of worry, even flights of fancy at times.”

Ewell reached into his inside pocket and removed a letter. “I've got something here that Mr. Leake must've written just before he was gunned down. It's on First National stationery and it's dated yesterday afternoon. It was delivered to my office in the morning mail.”

McCandless lurched in his chair, and his eyes got suddenly large. “What this?”

Ewell removed the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. “It's not a long letter, but in it, Leake offers a theory as to how the counterfeit money has been released into the currency stream, and suggests why we haven't found any of it in local banks.”

“I've probably heard it before,” McCandless said. “He was bothering me with it a couple of days ago. I thought it was ridiculous.”

“Well,” Ewell said, tapping the letter with a finger, “Mr. Leake isn't such a neurotic knucklehead as you might think. For example, he suggests a reason why none of the counterfeit money has been found locally—that the counterfeiters are using New Orleans as a base. We found evidence out near the airport yesterday that bears that contention out. We've even got a lead on who some of the gang members are.”

McCandless bit down hard on his cigarette holder and puffed smoke from it. “Incredible,” he muttered.

“The fact that he was so completely correct about the location of the gang makes me take the rest of his theory seriously,” Ewell went on. “It may be too much to believe that employees of the Federal Reserve are directly implicated in funneling the phony money into the currency stream, but I can think of a few scenarios in which other people with temporary access to the money could, for example, switch genuine currency with fake while the money is in transit from the Federal Reserve to member banks.”

Casey tugged thoughtfully at his earlobe and smiled at McCandless. “Mr. McCandless, Mr. Leake also said in his letter that you had taken to going to Atlanta by private plane several times a month on private business. That's interesting in light of these revelations.”

“How many people do you think Leake may have spoken to about his theory?” Ewell asked.

McCandless was stiff and pale, his fingers tapping restlessly on the desk. “I—I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

Casey leaned back comfortably in his chair and crossed his legs as he held McCandless's eyes. “Because those people are all prime suspects in Mr. Leake's murder. We'll need to investigate everyone here with whom he had regular contact. Beginning with you, sir. Now, would you care to begin by explaining those trips to Atlanta?”

***

Theron Oswald felt that with each passing moment he was aging several years. He had done business with a couple hundred criminals in his day, but none of them frightened him as completely as Dixie Ray Chavez. Oswald could still taste the oily hardness of that .45 in his mouth. He remembered how he had sucked on it, praying it wouldn't go off, hoping he wouldn't vomit on Chavez's shoes. He'd soiled himself like a child, and the memory sickened him.

He'd had to betray a friend to keep on living. The recognition of that was like a lump of lead in the pit of his stomach. He knew in his heart that Luis was no match for Dixie Ray Chavez, and that he had gone to his grave defiant. His hatred for Compasso was such that he'd never have given Chavez the satisfaction of giving him the plates.

Now Luis was dead, and Oswald was the only person who even knew where the plates were. He refused to look at the desk, but they called to him, like the heart of a dead man buried beneath the floor. He wanted them out of his store, out of his life, but where would he find the courage to bring them into the light, even to dispose of them?

Oswald felt an overwhelming urge to pray to God, to ask for His mercy, but he had forgotten how long ago. Somehow, he doubted it would do any good. He had heard that Catholics could confess their sins to a priest and receive absolution. He wondered if it was possible for a man raised Southern Baptist to work himself a deal like that.

He sat behind the display case, waiting. He almost welcomed the customers who came in to pawn or redeem some item. He served them in an impersonal, unemotional way, glad for the distraction, fearing the moment when Chavez would return. Whether he had the plates or not, what use would Chavez have for him now?

It was edging toward the middle of the afternoon when he heard the bell over the door sound. He turned and watched Chavez lock the door and pull down the shades. Oswald's mouth and throat were like the tail end of a dust storm. He couldn't even work up enough spit to speak.

The killer turned, his eyes gleaming in the shadows of the shop. “You're real cute, Oz. I figured you for just another two-bit sticky-fingered fence, but you got some balls, even some brains.”

“M-man, I don't know what you talkin' about.”

Chavez's mouth opened and that peculiar giggle escaped. “There you was, settin' up your buddy, and there I was, thinkin' it was gonna be like shootin' fish in a barrel.”

“You d-done killed Luis, I guess.”

“You guess? You
guess
?” Chavez laughed like a hyena. “You li'l beauty you. You set
me
up. You waited until I was gone and then you sicced Farrell on me.”

Oswald was shaking his head dumbly. “Naw. Naw, man, I never—Why would I do that? You think I'd double-cross you? Naw, man. I ain't crazy. Only somebody wantin' to commit suicide would do that.” Somehow he modulated his voice so that it didn't tremble with the overwhelming fear assailing him. Chavez had taken out his gun now, and was shaking it the way a teacher shakes a finger at the class cut-up.

“Naw, Ozzy. You act scared and you act dumb, but you ain't. You sent Farrell, and the sonofabitch nearly got me. He's good. He's every bit as good as they say he is. I am one lucky bastard today.” He reached down with his left hand and jacked a cartridge into the breech of his .45. The metallic clash was like the crack of doom in the dim room.

Ozzy sank to his knees, and without thinking his hands came together in that same prayerful attitude as before. He couldn't pray to God, but praying to Dixie Ray Chavez was easy. “P-please, man. I—I swear, I didn't sell you out. I don't know why Farrell showed up. Maybe—maybe Luis was hurt. Maybe he couldn't make the trip and sent Farrell. They's friends from way back. Yeah, yeah. That's it. That's gotta be how it happened. I—I wouldn't—man, please—listen, I'll give you—”

“Shut up, Ozzy.” Like a snake striking, the .45 leveled and a lance of fire leaped across the room. A slug struck Oswald in the middle of his chest and slammed him against the display case. He slid slowly down then keeled over on his right shoulder. His eyes were open, and they seemed to be staring at his bent knee.

“Lyin', shit-faced punk. You won't sell nobody else out.” Chavez walked to the body and kicked it until it slid over on its side. He let down the hammer on his gun and slipped it into the holster under his arm. He half turned, then saw the white paper sack on the counter. He walked over, looked inside, then closed the bag and shoved it into his coat pocket. He passed between the display cases to the back of the shop, unlocked the alley entrance. He checked to make sure the alley was empty, then left the store.

***

After leaving Fred at the Metro, Marcel called a Negro doctor named Livaudais and asked him if he knew anything about Dr. Abraham Rodrigue. He quickly learned that no one had ever heard of him. There was no record of his having contacted the state or local Negro medical associations, he was unknown at Flint-Goodrich Hospital, nor could Dr. Livaudais find such a doctor registered anywhere in the state of Louisiana.

Marcel called Rodrigue's office again, but the story was the same. He hadn't returned and might not for the rest of the day.

Having tried every line of inquiry he could think of, Marcel drove Downtown to check with Fred and try once more to talk to the pawnshop owner.

A short time later he parked a half block down from the Metro and hiked toward the shop. He was surprised to see Farrell approach from the opposite direction. Even from a distance, Marcel saw the expression on Farrell's face that meant trouble. He hurried to meet him.

“What brings you down this way?” Marcel asked.

“I'm about to have a talk with a pawnbroker,” Farrell said. His face was dark with suffused blood, and his eyes glowed with malice.

“Me, too. What's your beef with him?”

The question brought Farrell up short. “You're talking about Theron Oswald?”

“Yep. I'm looking for a missing girl. I think she's in the hands of a con man posing as a doctor. I believe Oswald's got a connection to this con artist.”

Farrell almost smiled. “Ozzy's a busy boy. He's also holding some counterfeit plates that a murderer wants in exchange for another missing girl.”

“Wes, I learned from you that there's no such thing as a coincidence. There's gotta be a connection here.”

Before Farrell could answer, Fred stepped up behind them. “Afternoon, Mist' Farrell. Marcel, I been watchin', but nobody's come or gone from that place in a while, and so far none of Mickey's boys has found a damn thing.”

Marcel glanced across the street. “It's still closed.”

“Ozzy lives upstairs, and there's a service entrance in the alley,” Farrell said. “Let's go calling.” He turned and walked to the end of the block with the other two men behind him. It took only a few minutes to reach the alley.