Which Way to Die? (6 page)

Frank Grant tittered. “You're way out, man. The original occupant of this penthouse built the building. He thought of that when he had the plans drawn up. The windows of the top five floors are solid plate glass with ventilator louvers only a mouse could get through. They don't open; with air-conditioning they don't have to.”

Corrigan suddenly remembered why the building had bothered him. He had never been in it before, but it had been pointed out to him years ago.

“This used to be Marty Martello's penthouse!”

“Right,” Frank said with a twisted grin. “Back in the days of gang wars, when a fortress was a must for the top bananas. But since the Cosa Nostra has outlawed that sort of thing, the big boys don't need such protection anymore. Marty sold the building about three years ago and bought that big estate of his on the Hudson. I read about it in a feature article at the time he made the move.”

Corrigan stared at him. “So this place was your idea?”

“Sure. When old Narwald and Fellows were discussing where to hide us out for a couple of weeks, I remembered the article and suggested they find out if the penthouse was vacant. It was, and they rented it through an intermediary.” He looked delighted with himself. “What a joke on Martello!”

“Didn't it occur to you that since he planned the place, he knows the layout of the building thoroughly? Maybe he's got a trick or two up his sleeve you know nothing about” He squinted at Gerry Alstrom. “You're both supposed to be geniuses. Why didn't you think of that when Frank didn't?”

Young Alstorm's lip curled. “We conferred on it, fuzz. Anybody with an ounce of the gray stuff would figure Marty planned it to be impregnable. Anyway, we've got the psychological advantage. Would he even dream that we're holing up in the very place he built?”

“You're wasting your breath on him, Gerry,” Frank said. He snickered again.

I'll have to get out of here, Corrigan thought, before I bang their pinheads together. At the same time he had to admit—to himself—that for a would-be assassin to get to the roof apartment in this setup would be very difficult, if not impossible. And Martello had seen to it that no one could draw a bead on him from a nearby rooftop. He had made a careful note of the buildings in the neighborhood, and there was not a roof within rifle range that, with normal precautions, could be used as a vantage point for a shot. The tallest building in the area was a nine-story apartment house directly across the street from the side that he had mentally tagged as the “back yard.” The flower bed running all around the place served as a psychological deterrent from stepping close to the wall. And only from close to the wall would anyone be visible to a sniper stationed on the roof of the nine-story building.

A phone rang in the apartment, and Norma went to answer it. She was just hanging up when they joined her in the living room.

“Dad and Mrs. Grant and the two lawyers,” she said. “They're down on eleven.”

Chuck Baer closed the toggle switch in the foyer which allowed the elevator to be hauled down to eleven. A few moments later he trailed John Alstrom, Elizabeth Grant, and Narwald and Fellows into the living room.

Corrigan waited. When they had traded clichés with Norma, he said curtly, “Did you people drive here directly from Ossining?”

They looked at him, surprised by his tone. Narwald said, “Why, yes, certainly.”

“Even after I told you that Martello and a carful of his hoods were waiting outside the prison?”

The lawyers seemed startled. Fellows pushed manicured fingers through his gray mane. “You said you had run them off, Captain Corrigan. Naturally we thought …”

He could not keep the disgust out of his voice. “And I was starting to think you'd worked out a pretty good security setup. Don't you realize what you've just done? You've blown the whole thing. You bank on it—Martello, and probably Harry Barber, too, know exactly where the boys are.”

“Harry Barber?” Mrs. Grant said shrilly.

“He tailed your limousine to Ossining, Mrs. Grant.”

“You didn't mention that,” the elder Alstrom said nervously.

“What good would it have done? I didn't want to worry you and Mrs. Grant. And I'll remind you that neither Mr. Baer nor I was let in on the arrangements. But even if I'd known them, I doubt if I'd have thought any of you so stupid as to make up an elaborate plan to get the boys here without surveillance, and then to come here yourselves with everything but a brass band, right on our heels. An eighth-grade dropout would have known better.”

“See here, Captain,” Alstrom said, flushing. “I don't care for your tone.”

Corrigan fixed Gerard's father with his hard and glittering eye. “And I don't care for your arrangements, Mr. Alstrom. Or the so-called headwork that went into them. You insisted on keeping us out of them. Well, it's your plan. You live with it—if you can.”

Alstrom was speechless. Even Norma seemed impressed. It was Narwald the Bald who finally broke the ice.

“I'll admit, Captain, that was pretty dull-witted of us. But it seems to me we're still perfectly safe. Even if we were followed, this
is
a fortress. Nobody can get up or in here except by admittance.”

“And what about when you're ready to ship the boys off?” Corrigan asked. “How do you expect to get them out of here? A sniper could be waiting in any of hundreds of windows within rifle range.”

Baer was beginning to look worried. No one said anything. The redhead was just starting to open his mouth when Frank Grant piped suddenly, “A helicopter. There's enough room on the roof to land one.”

Corrigan doubted it. He shrugged. “Well, gentlemen, it's your problem. Work it out any way you please. At this late date I have no suggestions.” He glanced at Baer. “Except one, Chuck. Keep them away from that parapet, especially on the bedroom side of the roof.”

“I've already made a note of that,” Baer said. “Those flower beds are off-limits, you two. Step up to that wall and your heads will be clear for a shot from that nine-story roof.”

Corrigan looked at John Alstrom. He was still red. “No hard feelings, Mr. Alstrom. I'm sorry if I sounded teed off. I guess I suffer from the old pro disease, dislike of amateurs.”

Alstrom sounded mollified. “I can understand your resentment, Captain. I see now that it was a mistake not to let you people do the planning.”

“Well, it's too late to worry about it now, sir. At least the boys couldn't be in better hands than Chuck Baer's, so long as they follow his orders. The big problem is going to be to get them out of here. When the time comes, maybe we can help.” He turned to Baer. “I'm going to run along, Chuck. Better bring that elevator car up again after I get off at eleven.”

He made for the foyer. Norma touched Baer's elbow.

“Let me talk to him for just a minute, Mr. Baer.”

Baer nodded. “Just give a yell when he's ready to go down, Miss Alstrom.”

Norma caught Corrigan at the elevator.

“Temper,” she said. “No one's ever talked to my father in that tone before.”

“I apologized, didn't I?” Corrigan said gruffly.

“That surprised me, too. You're not the apologizing type.”

“I suddenly remembered he was your father. It's hard to make time with a girl when you're insulting her old man.”

Her eyes widened. “You're trying to make time with
me?
”

He took both her hands. “What do you think?”

“I didn't think. Oh, I suppose I've flirted my tail in your direction once or twice, but that's only doing what comes naturally. Tim, you're not serious?”

“Why are you so surprised? You're a damn attractive chick. How available are you?”

“To you, any time.”

She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

Corrigan wondered if this might not be a good time to go into action. But the social raillery in her voice stopped him. It was the expected give-and-take, the voice said. For some reason that was not enough for Corrigan this time; he had had plenty of practice playing that game, with usually pleasant results—but not now. He wondered why.

“I didn't get a chance to talk to you alone, Norma. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am your marriage broke up.”

“What's there to be sorry about?” she asked, hard as a diamond. “Charles simply couldn't take the sensational publicity that enveloped us when that psycho brother of mine and his pal Frank Grant put us into the headlines. His choker-collared New England people cut us dead, of course. Charles was faced with the choice of sticking with the psycho's sister and all the attendant hooraw or crawling back into the womb of his blueblood family. Considering what a weak sister the guy is, I suppose I can't blame him.”

Corrigan blamed him. He saw now the basis of Norma's brittleness. It was a defensive coverup for what the Martello case had done to her life. He wanted very much to put his arms around her and hold her tight.

But, being Corrigan, he merely said, “I'm sorry, kid,” and turned to the elevator.

She pulled him back. “Don't waste your sympathy, Tim. I've made the adjustment, I really have.” The hell you have, Corrigan said silently. “And it does have one advantage, as I was saying when you made that sneak change of subject. I'm available.”

He grinned at her. “I've made a mental note of it,” he said. “I didn't follow up because I won't be sure of my schedule till I get back to my office. I plan to drop by tomorrow some time. Maybe we can work something out then.”

“Why don't you come for lunch?” she suggested. “I'm doing the cooking during this campout, and in all modesty I'm pretty good.”

“What time?”

“Twelve-thirty?”

He glanced through the arch with a frown. “What's holding up Chuck?”

“I told him I'd signal when I was through with you,” Norma giggled. She raised her voice, “Mr. Baer?”

7.

Corrigan studied the street in both directions, scanned the windows of the opposite building. He could detect nothing suspicious. But the innocent appearance of things failed to comfort him.

There was no taxi in sight, so he walked the block to the nearest subway entrance and stood all the way downtown. At the entrance to headquarters he glanced at his watch and saw that it was a few minutes to one. He got his car out of the police parking lot and drove to a haunt of his for lunch.

On Friday morning Corrigan decided to do a good deed. He was sidetracked by two new cases until after eleven, so it was eleven-thirty before he got to the apartment building where Harry Barber lived. He was not sure he would find the football star in; the Cougars' spring training windup was about due, but exactly when Corrigan did not know.

The apartment was on the second floor of an old five-story on Fifth Avenue. Somebody was home; he could hear footsteps after he rang the bell.

The door was opened by a perky little blonde in a white sweater, skintight silver lamé slacks, and silver halfboots with oriental toes. She had big blue eyes, a sprinkle of freckles across a cute little nose, and a naturally cheerful expression. She was just on the attractive side of plumpness.

His immediate impression was early twentyish, but he had once been taught by an artist how to judge age. The barely visible tiny lines at the corners of her eyes told him that she was a good ten years older.

“Is this Harry Barber's place?”

“That's right.” She examined his black eye-patch frankly. “You must be Captain Corrigan.”

“I didn't realize the fame of my pirate patch'd reached your age group.”

“Isn't that sweet.” She exposed perfect teeth. “Harry's mentioned you, Captain. He kind of thought you'd be around. Come in.”

He stepped past her into a small, crowded, rather lush room. She took his hat and dropped it on an end table.

“Harry'll be back any minute. They were having skull practice this morning; he doesn't have to go back this afternoon, so he'll be home for lunch.”

“I didn't know Harry was married.”

She laughed. “He's not. I'm a friend. Pat Chase.”

“Hi, Pat,” Corrigan said. “With a friend like you, who needs friends?”

“I didn't know the police department bred diplomats, Captain. Or was that a left-handed compliment? Anyway, sit down.”

“Could you make it Tim? I'm an old friend of Harry's, and this isn't an official visit.”

“I'm glad to hear
that
.” She twitched her plump shoulders in a mock shiver. “Harry says you're a regular bloodhound when you go after somebody.” She sat down on the sofa opposite, and cocked her blonde head nicely. “Now, really, Captain—Tim, I mean—aren't you wondering about me?”

“If you say so,” Corrigan said amiably.

“I'm the next-door neighbor. Also Harry's part-time cook when I don't have an assignment, like now.”

“Assignment?”

“I'm a photographer's model. I'm the cornfed gal straddling the horse, with the wind blowing my hair across my face. Or the one vaulting the net waving a tennis racket. You must have seen me dozens of times.”

Corrigan had neither the time nor the inclination for browsing through ads, but he thought now that she looked familiar. Chalk one up for the subliminal effects of the advertising art.

She giggled. “I'll tell you a trade secret, Tim. They practically have to tie me onto the horse, and I never played a set of tennis in my life.”

“I'll guard it with my life, Pat.”

He found himself liking the girl.

He glanced around the room. There were certain feminine touches in the decor totally out of keeping with a pro football player's image, and a bachelor at that. Pat Chase's next-door neighborliness obviously was not restricted to an occasional romp in the kitchen.