Pale Shadow (17 page)

Farrell paused and drew his gun. “It's unlocked. Let's go—but be careful. I've been shot at once today already.”

Fred gave Marcel a wide-eyed glance, then jerked his Colt from under his arm and followed Farrell into the shop.

The back of the shop was poorly lit, but they were able to pick their way past shelves of musical instruments and a myriad collection of items until they reached the front.

“Well, now we know why the place is closed,” Farrell said. “The owner's taken a permanent vacation.” He walked to Oswald's body, knelt down and shoved his fingers against the carotid artery. “Dead, and not all that long ago. Shot once by some heavy artillery.” He sniffed the air. “You can still smell the cordite. We just missed him.”

Fred bent to pick up a shell casing. “Looks like he used a .45, Mist' Farrell.”

“Let me guess, it's a Western brand .45 auto, right?”

“You called it, boss. How'd you know?”

“That's what the killer used on me earlier today.”

Marcel took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Why?”

“It's a complicated story. An old friend of mine, Luis Martinez, is mixed up with a counterfeiting gang. He had a falling out with the boss and stole the plates. Later he gave them to this fellow for safe keeping.”

“So why is he dead?”

“A little while ago, Martinez called Oswald from my office to arrange a pickup for the plates so we could give them to the man who has the girl. Oswald arranged the meet in an abandoned office building he owned. Martinez is shot up, so I went in his place. The killer was waiting but he wasn't good enough. My guess is the killer figured Oswald set him up for me, instead of setting Martinez up for him.”

“Jesus, what a tangle,” Marcel said. “You think the killer has the plates now?”

“I'm going to make a wild guess and say no. Oswald always played both ends against the middle. He and Martinez were friends, but Oswald's main concern was his own skin. I'm betting he didn't have the nerve to tell the killer that he had the plates. He had to figure the guy would think he was partnered up with Martinez and kill him for that.”

“Damn,” Fred said, shaking his head. “They had the poor bastard comin' and goin'.”

“Now he's just gone,” Marcel said. “And he can't tell us a damned thing.”

“That's tough,” Farrell said. “I wish I knew how to help you.”

Marcel rubbed his face, trying to stimulate his brain as he looked about the room. There had to be an answer somewhere. “The medicine bag. It's gone.” He strode to the counter where he'd seen it before. “It was right here.”

“If that's true, then the killer took the medicine,” Farrell said. “What kind of medicine was it?”

“I don't know. Just pills of some kind.”

“Let's not waste any more time,” Farrell said. “Fred, go upstairs and go through everything you can find. We're looking for some metal plates with the engraved fronts and backs of twenty and fifty dollar bills on them. Marcel and I'll look down here.”

Fred turned and walked toward the stairs while Marcel took the back of the building and began to work forward. Farrell began with the display cases, looking for false bottoms or secret compartments. Each man knew that time was slipping by at an alarming rate.

An hour passed and Fred returned to the ground floor with a shrug and a shake of his head. He went to help Marcel. Eventually the three men converged on the area Oswald obviously used as an office.

Fred sighed heavily. “We're runnin' outa places to look. Think he's got a trap under a loose floorboard?”

“Give it a try,” Farrell replied. “Oswald was a fence, so there's no telling what he may have used to hide things.”

Marcel found a locker with a large padlock on it, and while Fred prized at the floorboards with the blade of a huge clasp knife, Marcel went to get the ring of keys on Oswald's belt. The locker was filled with watches, rings, and other valuables, along with a couple of smaller strong boxes, but no plates emerged from the clutter.

Farrell had turned his attention to the desk, but quickly discovered it was locked. He took the keys from Marcel and found one that unlocked the drawers. He systematically pulled each one out and sifted the contents. It was only after pulling out three drawers that he noticed that one was almost a foot shorter than the others. He unclipped a pencil flashlight from his inside pocket and shined it in the opening. There, at the back, lay a parcel. He grinned at it. “Paydirt.”

“Man alive,” Fred exclaimed after Farrell unwrapped the package. “So this is what all the fuss is about.” He picked up one of the engravings and held it to the light.

Farrell carefully wrapped them back up. “They're going to send some people to jail, if I play this just right.”

“You going to give them to Casey?” Marcel asked.

“Not yet. Not until I see if they'll buy Margaret Wilde back from Compasso. Let's get out of here. You two follow me back to my place.”

Marcel said nothing. He tried not to think that Marta might already be beyond the reach of anything he and Farrell could do to rescue her.

Chapter 15

Farrell arrived at his apartment to find Martinez awake and drinking coffee in the kitchen. Martinez raised his eyebrows as Marcel and Fred entered behind the bronze-skinned man.

“It's okay, Luis. They're with me. Marcel Aristide's my business partner and Fred Gonzalvo works for him.”

“
Buenos tardes, amigos
. Coffee for anyone?”

“Nothing for me,” Marcel said, “but you can answer a question. Do you know a Dr. Abraham Rodrigue?”

Martinez shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“How about a man named Wilbur Lee Payne. Or maybe he called himself ‘Keys.'”

“Sorry, no. Who is he?”

“A con artist passing himself off as a doctor. I think he's kidnapped a girl.”

“Why would you think I know this man?” Martinez asked warily.

“Because he made a delivery to Oswald's shop,” Farrell replied. “And there's bad news, Louie. Oswald's dead.”

Martinez's tired face drooped a bit lower. “By who?”

“Louie, I think he tried to set you up for Compasso's killer. When I got to the meeting place, a man was waiting—with a gun. I traded shots with him, but he got away. Later I met up at the pawnshop with these two and we discovered Oswald dead. The killer used the same kind of gun and ammunition he fired at me.”

Martinez had aged ten years in the past few days. Large patches of bruised-looking flesh lay under each of his eyes, and his skin was grainy with fatigue. His mouth worked until something resembling a faint smile lay across his lips. “Poor Ozzy. It's my fault. I knew the guy was a
cobarde
—a coward. I put him in a place where all he could do was turn on me.” He looked up at Farrell. “I know you hated him, but he couldn't help what he was. When he knew he was going to die, he suffered twice over for every sin he ever committed, I tell you truly.”

Farrell held up the parcel. “He did one good thing. He kept the plates safe and sound. I don't know why he didn't try to use them to save his life, and I guess it doesn't matter. We have them, and Compasso wants them.”

Martinez held out his hand and took it from Farrell. Clumsily he removed the chrome-plated nickel engravings, unwrapped them, and lined them up on the table. “These were going to make me a
haciendado
.” He bowed his head and shook it. “They ended up costing me everything that matters.”

“And they might cost more yet,” Marcel said. “We're no closer to finding Marta Walker than we were this morning.”

“If this phony doctor of yours is mixed up with the gang in some way, maybe he can tell us where to find Margaret,” Farrell said. “What do you know about him?”

“Other than the fact that he's as phony as one of those counterfeit bills, not much. I was able to track down his office, but he hasn't been in all day. His receptionist doesn't seem to know very much, and it's a cinch she won't give out the doctor's private address.”

“Then we'll have to convince her. Fred, you stay here with Luis and keep him out of sight. I'm going to tell Harry no one's to come up here, but just to be sure, keep your eyes open, okay?”

“I hear you,” Fred replied solemnly.

“Luis, get as much rest as you can. I may need you and when I say ‘move,' you've gotta move,
entiende
?”

The Mexican offered a tired smile. “I hear you, too,
Patron
.
Buena suerta
, okay?”

***

Marta Walker lay on a cotton matelassé bedspread with feather pillows under her head. It was a better bed than the one in her hotel room but she was prevented from experiencing full satisfaction by the handcuffs on her wrists, the rope around her ankles and the gag in her mouth. Albert, or rather Wilbur, had left nothing to chance. She looked about the room and saw that it was furnished with an oak bureau, a couple of night stands, and a small bookcase full of books. There were no pictures on the wall, or any personal items on the bureau, suggesting that she might be in some kind of furnished rented house or apartment.

She attempted to wriggle off the bed, but found that her bound legs were further secured to the bedposts. As she lay there, panting from her exertion, she felt defeat nibbling at the edges of her spirit. How would Marcel find her when she herself didn't know where she was?

The door opened without warning, and Wilbur Payne stood there in his shirtsleeves. He stared down at her without affection. “Well, the pretty little gal's decided to wake up. What am I gonna do with you, sugar?” He came to the bed and dragged the gag from her mouth.

Marta licked her dry lips, her eyes wide with fear. “Let me go, Albert. Whatever you're up to, I don't know anything about it. I just came looking for you because I thought something had happened. I—I thought—”

“Aw, you thought I'd been forced to give up our love because of some deep, dark secret.” He snickered nastily. “Baby, you're sure a dumb li'l small town gal, aren't you?”

His contempt angered her. “Sure, I'm small town and stupid. That's no excuse for you being a rotten, lying creep. I suppose it made you feel big to trick me.”

He looked down at the nails on his hand as he buffed them on his shirtfront. “Baby, you were just something to help me pass the time. I was hiding out down in Brownsville, breaking my ass for peanuts in that drugstore where you worked. You gave me something more interesting to think about. I am sorry about one thing, though. That I had to leave before I got you on your back once or twice.”

She growled at him in frustration and thrashed against her bonds while he laughed at her.

“Better be good, sweetheart. I'm gonna be drifting away from here pretty soon, and I don't have to kill you, unless you make me, you hear?”

The words chilled her and she sank back on the pillows, gnawing her lower lip to keep the fear from bursting out of her. “Please let me go. I can't do a thing to hurt you.”

He nodded. “Maybe not, but I still got business around here, and until it's finished, you stay put. I'll feed you in a little while. Until then, be still and keep your mouth shut.” He bent down, stuffed the gag back in her mouth, tugging at it experimentally until he was satisfied. He turned on his heel and left the room, shutting the door behind him. She heard the key turn in the lock, but her anger at Payne had awakened something in her. She began working her legs inside the rope, telling herself that if she could just get her feet free, there was some chance she could escape the fix she was in. It was better than considering the alternative.

***

Farrell drove with reckless abandon through the late afternoon traffic. Marcel rode beside him in silence. Each was weighed down with worries that neither wanted to confront.

Farrell turned off Elysian Fields to Villere and coasted to a stop a half-block down from Rodrigue's office. From the street, they could see the receptionist on her way out. She paused on the porch to check her hair and makeup in a small compact mirror before continuing to the street.

“You want to get out and talk to her?” Marcel asked.

“She's a very pretty girl,” Farrell said thoughtfully. “And she knows it.”

Marcel scratched his neck as he cocked an eyebrow at his cousin. “Yeah—so?”

“Let's follow her and see where she goes.”

The young woman crossed the yard and walked through the gate to a well-preserved '32 Ford Tudor, got in, and started the engine. As she pulled away from the curb, Farrell put his car into gear and fell in behind her.

“Why are you following her?” Marcel asked. “Why not break into the office and see if we can find Rodrigue's address?”

“Call it a hunch,” Farrell replied. “Aside from his knowledge of medicine, what else do we know about this character?”

Marcel shrugged. “He's a crook.”

“Besides that. He was living in a small town, working in a drugstore, and he just happens to latch onto a pretty girl who works in the same drugstore. I'm guessing that Payne made it a point to hire a pretty, impressionable girl to play secretary to his doctor. I'm also guessing he didn't waste any time cuddling up to her. I'll lay you five bucks to three that she's on her way to Payne's crib for a little afternoon rendezvous.”

“I'll take that bet.”

The girl led them across town to North Broad, Farrell keeping a discreet distance behind. The young woman gave no sign that she was aware of the tail. Twenty minutes after the tail had begun, the girl eased her car to a stop in front of a two-story frame house with a fresh coat of white paint and gray slate roofing tiles. The yard was elaborately fenced with wrought iron at the front and a high board fence at the back. Farrell turned at the corner, continued down the block and cut his engine in front of a tree-shaded bungalow.

“We don't know if he's armed, but it makes sense to assume he is,” Farrell said. “The best thing would be to go in from both the front and back. You take the front. Find some way to keep him busy. I'll go in from the back. I'll get between him and the girl if he gets past you.”

“Okay. Let's go.”

They got out of the car and advanced on the house. Farrell split off into a service alley while Marcel continued to the front. He walked slowly, giving his cousin plenty of time to find a way into the back yard.

Marcel heard the muffled chime of the doorbell as he pushed the button, and a moment later came the thump of footfalls on a wooden floor. The door opened, and the object of his search stood in the opening. “Yeah?” His shirt was unbuttoned and his hair was a bit disarranged. He didn't look happy at being disturbed.

Marcel nodded. “Wilbur Lee Payne?”

Payne's demeanor changed almost immediately. His body stiffened slightly. “You said which?”

“Payne. Wilbur Lee. That's you. Ernie Le Doux said I should look you up. He was in the joint with you.”

Payne raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “You got me confused with someone else, cousin. My name's Rodrigue. Says so there on the mailbox, see?” He pointed.

“Hey, man,” Marcel said, offering a dismissive wave of his hand. “I ain't here to crowd you or nothin'. You can call yourself Marcus Garvey for all I care. Le Doux said you were a good guy to know. Said you might be able to fix me up. See, I been down on my luck for a while and—”

A crash sounded from the back of the house, and Payne jerked in reflex. Understanding bloomed in his eyes, and he flung the door forward in an attempt to slam it shut. Marcel, expecting that, shoved his right foot into the opening. The heavy door bounced off his shoe and Marcel went in behind it, throwing a hard right at Payne's chin.

The blow connected, knocking the taller man back into the foyer, but he recovered quickly. He feinted with his right then threw a left jab that struck Marcel's jaw and knocked him to the floor. Marcel, his blood racing, rolled to his feet and launched himself at the fake doctor's legs. The two men went down in a tangle, kicking, punching and grabbing at each other. Marcel fought his right hand free and clouted Payne on the right ear, and as he flinched from it, Marcel smacked him on the hinge of the jaw. Payne collapsed, his eyes rolling up in his head.

Marcel struggled to his knees, pushed Payne over on his stomach, and got his arm in a hammerlock. Behind him a woman shrieked, and he jerked his head around to see the secretary standing at the open door to the parlor, dressed only in her slip, her hands up over her mouth.

Farrell stood just behind, smiling at her. “Better get dressed, miss. We're about to close up shop.”

“Who are you? Why are you hurting the doctor? Get out, before I call the police.”

Farrell nodded amiably. “That's okay. You see, this guy is a con man and a kidnapper, and that's just what we can prove. He might be some worse things, too.”

Her eyes grew large, and she crossed her arms protectively over her bodice. “You're lying. Stop saying those dreadful things about Dr. Rodrigue.”

Farrell sighed. “Sweetheart, you're lucky we got here when we did. You were about to give something away you couldn't get back.” Farrell grinned down at Marcel. “Nice work. Sorry about the noise. I had to come in through a kitchen window and I tipped over a pitcher he had on the table.”

Marcel grabbed Payne by the collar and dragged him to his feet. The con man's legs were like stalks of rubber.

Farrell slapped him lightly until Payne was alert. “Where's the girl?”

“Wha—what girl?”

“Wrong answer.” Farrell slapped him again, harder. “One more time. Where is she?”

“Man, fuck you—”

Farrell's swift hand cracked like a pistol shot against Payne's face. The con man's eyes crossed and he sagged in Marcel's grip.

“Upstairs,” Payne gasped. “She ain't hurt, I swear it.”

“You better hope not,” Marcel said through bared teeth.

Marcel pushed Payne up the stairs with Farrell right behind. The secretary, still vainly trying to hide her state of undress, gave ground before them, watching as Farrell opened one door after another until he found one that was locked. He stepped back and planted a hard kick next to the doorknob. As the bedroom door flew open, they found Marta lying on the bed, muffled cries coming from behind her gag. Farrell went to her and removed the gag from her mouth.

“Marcel!” she gasped. “I thought you'd never find me.” She looked bedraggled, but relieved.

Marcel held out a hand to Payne. “Key—now.”

Payne withdrew some keys from his pocket, selected the handcuff key, and handed them to Marcel. It was the work of seconds to unlock the handcuffs and cut the ropes from Marta's ankles with a penknife. As Marcel helped the girl from the bed, Farrell twisted Payne's wrists behind his back and snapped the handcuffs on them. He grabbed Payne's shoulders and twirled him around violently.