Joel Farmer brightened. “You really think so? If I could believe that, I’d cooperate like nobody you ever saw.”

  “Come on, let’s go see Avery King.”

  It was still too early in the morning for the Coordinator to be at his office desk, so I drove around town with Joel for a couple of hours, talking to him, increasing his desire to play ball with the authorities. He had information I desperately needed, if he talked, he would be a big help to me.

  I got the feeling I made an impression on him. “You hungry?” I asked suddenly.

  He grinned. “Funny thing about that. My appetites been lousy, the last couple of months. But all of a sudden, I feel I could eat a horse.”

  “I don’t know whether they serve horse-meat or not, but I know a real good place where the ham and eggs are something special, and the coffee is out of this world.”

  “Lead the way,” he chuckled.

  The ham and eggs were everything I boasted that they were, Joel even had two helpings. I didn’t eat all that much, but I was hungry too, after my night’s adventures.

  He gave me a bit of a rundown on his life as we ate and talked. He was an orphan, he had been raised by a distant cousin, had shown a trend to be artistic at an early age. His cousin had encouraged him, staked him to a couple of hundred bucks and sent him to the city.

  “I did commercial art for a time, to get enough money to eat, odd jobs, anything that offered. I worked on my statues at night. I got a break when the manager of a midtown art gallery took an interest in me and sold some of my works.

  “It was slow going. Too slow to suit me, maybe. Or maybe I just didn’t have the guts to do what every other artist has had to do until he hit the big money. Sweat. Starve. Live like a pig.”

  He shook his head, remembering. I was seeing a spark of the old Joel Farmer, the boy who had come to New York with high hopes and great talent. He was recalling all those early aspirations, maybe even feeling them at the moment, for he said:

  “I’m sorry I acted the way I did toward you, Cherry. You were giving me a way out and I was too much of a damn fool to be grateful. Not until you slammed me around did some sense seep into this dimwit brain of mine.”

  He smiled wryly, almost bashfully.

  “I know it sounds corny, but I’m ready to take my punishment, make a fresh start. I’m willing to spill my guts to this Avery King.”

  He hesitated. “Just one thing. Will you stand by, sort of lend moral support? I’d feel better if you did.”

  “You bet. Besides, if you don’t tell the truth, I’ll be there to clout you one in the chops.”

  He laughed.

  Avery King was more than helpful, he was very understanding, he made it as easy as he could for Joel.

  “I’m not after you, Farmer. I want the men who dealt with you, I want to know all about them and their set-up, how they operate. We know a little, thanks to Cherry, and we can make some educated guesses, but I’d rather have it down in black and white above your signature.”

  With a girl and her notebook there for the shorthand she was taking down, Joel Farmer talked.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was much the way I had reasoned it out in my own mind. Johnny Ebridi had a big import-export business, he dealt not only in stolen art but also in olive oil and salami, all sorts of food and drink that he brought in from Italy. Add to that the heroin that he brought in from Turkey along with his olive oils and salamis, and he had quite a flourishing business going for him.

  He had half a dozen warehouses. One of them, in downtown New York near the docks, held the stolen art masterpieces, or most of them. He sold these stolen art treasures both here and abroad, wherever he could find an unscrupulous collector who would ask no questions but pay cash for a genuine Titian or Van Gogh.

  “He had a good legitimate business going for him,” Avery King muttered. “He should have stuck to it. Now he’s in bad trouble—I hope.”

  I said, “He got greedy.”

  Avery King nodded, smiling faintly. “That’s what keeps us in business, that Mafia greed.”

  Joel Farmer signed the affidavit when it was finally typed up. The bossman told him he would be driven in a limousine to our Northport branch. In a day or two, N.Y.M.P.H.O. agents would deliver him enough materials to keep him busy.

  “But not just yet. The Family will notice you’ve moved out, they may put a man to watch your studio. They’re not dopes, far from it. I don’t want to tip anyone off as to where you are.”

  “Fair enough,” Joel nodded. “I guess I could stand a few days off, to reassess my life and where I’m headed.”

  He went out with a couple of bodyguards. I sat down again and looked at the Coordinator.

  Avery King read over the affidavit before speaking. He had a cold, grim look on his face, the ‘killer look’, I always called it. He got that look just about the time his agents were closing in on somebody for the wrap-up.

  “This Masterpiece Import-Export Company he mentions. You know where it is, its warehouse?”

  “It’s in the telephone book.”

  “I don’t want to order a raid until I know for certain that it contains the art originals Joel Farmer says it does.”

  “He wasn’t lying. I think he wants to make a clean breast of everything.”

  “So do I. But I have to be sure, Cherry. I need proof I can take into a law court so as to get a conviction.”

  I knew what that meant. I was going to the import-export company warehouse, and very soon. I was to break into the place without being seen, and check on what art masterpieces might be inside its walls.

  Never mind the danger.

  I arched my eyebrows. Almost as though he could see into my mind, Avery King nodded. “It has to be done, you know. We must have proof the stolen art is there before we can legally act.”

  “What about Johnny Ebridi’s place? I’ve been doing some thinking, I can guess that he keeps some of the art—maybe the most precious stuff out there in his Cove Neck mansion.”

  The Coordinator nodded. “Do what you want, you’re on your own. But I do need a report on the dockside warehouse.”

  “You’ll get it.” I rose to my feet and—to my horror and embarrassment—yawned right in the bossman’s face.

  He chuckled. “You’ve been up all night, you need sleep. Go home and get it.”

  I didn’t need anything more than that. I was just about out on my feet. I stumbled from his office, took the elevator downstairs and slid the bod behind my car wheel. I drove very carefully through the city traffic.

  My bed was waiting for me. I tossed clothes any old which way and tumbled into it stark naked. The hell with pyjamas or a nightie. I drew the covers up around my chin and drifted off into unconsciousness.

  When I woke, it was late afternoon. I stretched under the covers and closed my eyelids and dozed some more. I fell asleep again, for about an hour.

  It was my stomach that woke me to long shadows in my bedroom. I had a long night ahead of me, a thick steak would set me up for the night’s entertainment. I thought about a juicy sirloin with a baked potato laden down with sour cream and a salad. The more I took thought about it, the hungrier I got.

  Ignoring my scattered clothes, I went to my closet and selected a clean black body sweater and a pair of equally black hiphuggers. I put on black socks and pushed my feet into black sneakers. I got a black scarf and wound it about my head, hiding my red hair. Outside my face, I had no more color on me than a shadow.

  Tossing the Gucci bag over my shoulder, I went downstairs and across the street to a little restaurant I frequent. I ordered a martini and the steak and salad I’d daydreamed about. I nursed the martini and made my plans while the steak was getting charcoal grilled.

  I fed like a famished female.

  It was night by the time I walked out on the street again, and to the Mercedes-Benz. It took maybe half an hour to get downtown. I parked two blocks away from the warehouse.

  This corner of the city is pretty much deserted at night. The workers have all gone home, there aren’t any people with money walking about so as to attract the muggers. My sneakers made no sound on the sidewalk, which made it all the more lonely.

  I walked past the warehouse, eyeing the big door that fronted the sidewalk. There was too much light on that doorway from a nearby streetlamp to suit me. There had to be a better way inside that place, I couldn’t risk discovery by a chance passerby.

  I found a small wall and a gate, to one side of the building, that gave onto a narrow alleyway. It didn’t take me long to find out that the gate was locked.

  So I stood back and eyed the gate as a high jumper will eye the bar before he makes his leap. I could hurdle that gate, it didn’t take an Olympic athlete to do that. I gave a long, slow glance about me, seeing the empty sidewalk stretching away on all sides.

  I ran forward, put hands to the top of the gate, and vaulted over. I landed without sound, both sneakers flat on the paved alleyway. I sped back into the shadows.

  The windows at street level were barred and covered with a thick mesh screen. No way in here, not in the time I had. My heart picked up speed as it beat against my body sweater. There had to be a way in here! I couldn’t go back to Avery King and confess failure.

  That was when I saw the fire escape. The ladder was a good distance above my head, but when I turned my head, I saw the wall behind me. If I got on top of that wall and jumped…

  I climbed onto the wall. The lowest rung of the ladder was about a yard above my head and some distance away. I had to make the try. I bent my legs, tensed, and jumped.

  My hands went up, fingers open to clasp.

  I was a female Tarzan, I thought, just as my hands closed on the rung. The ladder came sliding slowly groundward, with me holding onto it for dear life. My sneakers touched the pavement.

  In seconds, I was mounting that metal ladder like a trained monkey up a rope. I reached the first landing and checked the window. No bars here, nor any mesh grating. The only trouble was, the window was locked.

  I went up another flight. This time I was luckier. Somebody hadn’t bothered to lock the window. I raised it, slipped inside, and then lowered the window.

  I stood in utter darkness. Well, I had a flashlight in the Gucci bag, so the darkness didn’t exactly bother me. But did I dare risk showing a light? There might be a night watchman or two in here, though I heard no sounds and saw no lights.

  Oh, well. Nothing ventured and all that.

  The flashlight beam showed me bales and crates, all manner of things packaged here and ready for shipment. I read the words Olive Oil on most of the crates. Jeez! If I had to search this whole damn warehouse, I was going to be here all night.

  I told myself Johnny Ebridi would never leave stolen art treasures out in plain sight. He might camouflage them by putting them inside crates and bales, but I couldn’t go around opening all these that I saw.

  No, no. There had to be a better way.

  I used the flashlight sparingly as I ran down long aisles and searched in closets and small offices, sprinkled here and there in the warehouse. I wasn’t getting anywhere. I decided I was going to have to think this out.

  Certainly Ebridi wouldn’t put his stolen Rembrandts where any ordinary passerby—say, a worker or a salesman—might stumble over them. He’d keep them in a place where nobody went, usually.

  Upstairs, maybe? On the top floor?

  There would be a lot of business done down on the three lower floors. Muscular men would come to get the olive oil and salamis, day after day. The art stuff had to be somewhere where they wouldn’t normally be.

  The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. I went up the stairs to the top floor. Or almost to the top floor. Because when I got to the top of the last flight of steps, there was a locked door in front of me. It was made of solid steel.

  It had a lock, of course.

  But I had my set of burglar tools.

  It took me ten full minutes to open that door. But it was worth it. Because as the door swung inward to my pushing palm and I sent my flashlight beam into the big room, I gasped in utter delight.

  The world’s art masterpieces were hidden in here. Or it seemed so, anyhow. My eyes went over big gilt frames, over oil paintings and statues that crowded the floor space, there were so many.

  Now I’m no art expert, but I can recognize a Van Gogh or a Seurat when I see their work. I saw both of those, and the paintings of Thomas Eakins, Jackson Pollock, Andrew Wyeth, and Winslow Homer. My mind reeled at the thought of Johnny Ebridi stealing all this stuff. He must have worked in conjunction with a number of other Mafia bosses, all across the face of Uncle Sam land.

  There were artists from Japan represented here, too, some by Masanobu, others by Hokusai. Paul Klee was represented, as were Paul Cezanne, Georges Braque and Paul Gauguin. The place was a regular art museum.

  I figured there was about five million dollars here, at the very least. Maybe even more. As I say, I’m no art critic, I couldn’t have told you what the works of Pablo Picasso were fetching on the open market.

  Even as I was taxing my brain with this, I heard voices from down below.

  I shut off my flashlight, and froze.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  This was a hell of a place to be caught. Oh, sure. I could fight my way out as I had always done in the past, but I didn’t want to put any bullet-holes in these art treasures. Nor did I want the Mafia boys to fire slugs through them.

  They were too valuable to the world.

  So I tiptoed across the room and stuck my head out the doorway. I could hear voices, all right, though I couldn’t distinguish what words were being said. There were a number of men below me, and if I heard correctly, they were coming up the stairs.

  To the top floor?

  Probably. I just wasn’t lucky enough for them to be after a length of salami or even a jar of olive oil. No, they were coming up here, probably to get a painting or two for a client as crooked as they were.

  My hand stole into the Gucci, and I wrapped fingers about the butt of my Colt automatic.

  All right, you bastards! Come and get it. Mamma is in a fighting mood.

  I lowered myself onto the landing, half my body inside the doorway, half outside. I could see the top step of the staircase where I lay with the Gold Cup stretched out in front of me. They couldn’t see a damn thing.

  I took time out to untie my black scarf and bind it around my head so that all that was showing of my face were my eyes, like an Oulaid Nail, one of those North African dancing girls who show you everything but their faces.

  crunch crunch crunch

  Those stairs ought to be fixed, I thought. They’re as good as a town crier telling anyone who wanted to listen-like me that the boys were on their way upstairs and weren’t all that far away.

  Ahead rose up above the top step. I blew the head away with a shot.

  The sound of that shot was like an atomic blast in the closed confines of the warehouse. Echoes rang in my ears as they bounced from wall to wall. In between those echoes, I could hear Mafia voices screeching.

  “Jeez! What was that?”

  “They got Tommy! Christ, he’s bleeding like a goddamn fountain.

  “Get back, get back!”

  “Who the hell is it?”

  “Who the hell cares! Get out of here!”

  They must have thought that was great advice, which it was, because they all turned tail and ran like mad down the staircase. Me, I sprang to my feet and stepped to the edge of the stairs and fired down at a broad back.

  I must have killed him instantly, my bullet must have gone right into his heart. His body fell forward on top of the others and knocked them down like bowling pins before a ball. I could hear their bodies hitting and bouncing as the dead man took them out of any play like a Miami Dolphins blocking back.

  My finger tightened on the trigger, again and again, I fired down into that mass of heaving, struggling flesh.

  Yells and screams told me I was hitting something.

  One of them fired blindly up at the red flashes the Gold Cup was making. The bullet breezed through the black scarf, close to my ear.

  This is stupid, Cherry!

  Duck for cover!

  I flopped belly-down and hugged the floor. I could still listen, I heard them unscrambling themselves far below. They must be on the next floor by this time, I told myself. I inched myself closer to the stairs, peering over and down them. I didn’t see anything but a big dark blob at the bottom of the stairs. I inched forward some more and slid down the stairs on my belly.

  My tits hurt when they encountered each stair tread, but I didn’t mind a little pain as long as I stayed alive. Foolishly, I’d left off wearing a bra, though what help an Olga would have been against those stair treads was beyond me.

  When I got to the bottom, and felt the dead body of the button I’d shot, plus the body of the man without a face, I paused to take thought.

  There were other Family boys somewhere around here, in the dark. They were just waiting for me to betray my location. Nuts to that! I played dead myself, using the two dead bodies as cover.

  Still! I couldn’t wait here all night.

  I began edging my way over the bodies, like a snake. My black scarf was still wrapped about my head, I was all over a solid black, nobody could possibly see me in this darkness.

  From moment to moment I paused in my forward progress, not breathing but holding my breath and listening. I heard nothing except the faint hum of what little traffic there was on the city streets.

  Then out of the darkness it came.

  The squeak of a floorboard in this old warehouse.

  The buttons were down below, on the next floor, waiting for me! It was only a faint sound I’d heard, ordinarily I’d have paid no attention to it, but my every sense was attuned to danger, to the death waiting for me in the blackness.

 

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