Bonded dead, p.6
Bonded Dead, page 6
I had to admit that I was shocked. I’d had a lot of people shoot at me, and some had even hit me, but no one had ever tried to blow me up before. I suppose it was a sort of honor, but at the moment I didn’t appreciate it.
Well, that was one more thing I’d have to keep in mind. It was bad enough looking for a guy who wanted to shoot me, but how did you spot somebody who wants to lay a bomb in your lap? I did have to admit one thing. I was certainly getting results from my pushing.
Finally I put out my cigarette and went to sleep. Sometime later I think I heard a knock on my door, but I ignored it and continued sleeping. It was early when I woke up. Six o’clock. I was used to that. When there started to be action on a case, I always tensed up and could never sleep many hours at a stretch.
I phoned room service and ordered breakfast, telling them to send a bucket of ice along with it. I walked over and unlocked the door, then went back to bed. I took the gun with me, holding it under the covers. It was maybe twenty minutes before there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I called.
It was the waiter. He rolled a table in and pushed it over to the bed. “Would you like your coffee poured?” he asked.
“Not just yet, thank you.”
He gave me the check and I signed it. As soon as he was out of the room, I went across and locked the door again. I went back and sat on the bed, putting the gun on the night stand. Then I made myself a drink. I needed it then. I had just realized that if I had stopped in the bar the night before, as I usually did, I would probably have entered the room just about the time the bomb went off. That was some thought to wake up with.
I ate my breakfast and had two cups of coffee and began to feel like a new man. I dressed and went downstairs. It was too early to do the things I’d planned, so I bought a paper at the newsstand and went into the bar. It was also too early for Buck. He was not yet on duty. I sat down and ordered VO on the rocks from the other bartender. I opened the newspaper and began to look through it.
There was a brief story on page three. It merely said that someone had thrown or planted a bomb in the rear of the Hapsburg Hotel. It had been a fairly powerful bomb but had gone off too far from the hotel. No damage had been done. No motive had been established and, at the moment the paper had gone to press, there were no suspects.
Buck came in and went to work. As soon as he made sure that everything was in place on the back bar, he came over. “I hear there was a little excitement around here last night.”
“I just read about it. Not much to read though. The story says they have no suspects and no idea of the motive or who might be the intended victim.”
“I could make a pretty good guess about the intended victim,” he said darkly.
I pretended not to know what he meant. “I didn’t know you had any bombers, except possibly Castro agents.”
He gave me a scornful look. “Are you kidding? The Syndicate could probably come up with an atomic bomb if they wanted to. Of course, that would be a little expensive just to get one guy.” He was still pushing his idea. But I was saved from doing any more acting by being paged for a phone call.
I went over and picked up the house phone. “This is Milo March,” I said. “I’ll take that call in here.”
“Milo?” he asked a moment later. It was the lieutenant.
“Good morning, Wayne. You’re up and around early this morning.”
“I’m always up and around early. You know what happened?”
“You mean here? I just read about it in the morning paper.”
“I’ll bet. Where were you last night?”
“I went out and did a little pub-crawling, then had dinner in one of your more expensive restaurants and came home.”
“What time did you get home?”
“Well, I left the restaurant about five or ten minutes before midnight, so I must have gotten here at twelve, give or take a couple of minutes.”
“Did you hear the noise?”
“I was pretty tired so I went to sleep as soon as I got here. I thought I heard something once, but that was all, so I went back to sleep.”
“Were you alone last night?”
“Yes. Except for the guy who’s following me. What’s this all about? You don’t mean you suspect me of setting off bombs?”
“No, but I suspect that it was meant for you.” “Nonsense. Nobody would try that on me.”
“You seem to forget,” he said, “your old friends, the Cosa Nostra. They’re very versatile when it comes to disposing of people they don’t like. Would you like to hear my theory of what happened?”
“Of course,” I said politely.
“I think that bomb was meant for you. It went off on the beach directly in a line with your room. It was undoubtedly a time bomb. Somebody knew approximately what time you would reach the hotel and set it to go off at twelve-thirty.”
I remembered the blond guy making a phone call while I was waiting for my car, but I didn’t mention it. “That’s silly,” I said. “Even if the bomb had been closer to the hotel it wouldn’t have done any damage on the fifth floor.”
“You haven’t heard all of my theory yet,” he said drily. “The rest of it goes like this. I think that bomb was in a box, probably cardboard, then wrapped in gift paper. Somebody received word of what time you’d probably be there, set the time and resealed the gift wrapping, then managed to have the gift placed in your room. I think you reached your room, saw the package and decided not to take any chances. You went to your balcony and threw it as far as you could toward the ocean.” “Wayne, you ought to take up writing. You have great imagination.”
“Maybe,” he grunted. “Do you remember me telling you that Angelo Bacci had two gunmen with him?” “Yes.”
“I forgot to tell you that one of them is not only a gunman. I thought it wasn’t important at the time, but he is also an expert at bombs. That’s what he did in World War Two, and he came out to use it for the Syndicate. The police know of several murders he committed that way in Chicago. They know it but could never prove it.”
“The blond guy?”
“No. The other one. He’s short and muscular with black hair. His name is Meyer Devlin.”
“How’d he manage that combination?”
“His mother was German Jewish and his father Irish Catholic.”
“Well,” I said, “if Bacci is after me, I’ll admit that this Devlin will probably be in on it. But I don’t think they’d try to bomb me that way. A bomb under the hood of my car, maybe.”
“Now,” he said, his voice sounding harder, “I’ll tell you a part that isn’t theory. Shortly before you reached the hotel last night a man entered the hotel and said you were a friend of his. When told that you weren’t there, he asked if they would put a package in your room. He said it was a present for you, and he gave a bellhop ten dollars to take it up and leave it in your room. The package was gift wrapped. Small pieces of colored wrapping paper were found on the beach in the vicinity of the spot where the bomb exploded.”
“An interesting story,” I said. “Someone did leave a present in my room for me last night. It was from someone I met on the plane when I came down. I don’t think she would send a bomb. But if I find I need any protection from you, I’ll let you know.”
“Milo, you’re a damn fool,” he said harshly. He hung up.
I went back into the bar and sat down. Buck looked over at me. “You were gone a long time. It must’ve been a broad.”
“Wrong, Buck. It was Lieutenant Dillman of Miami Beach’s Finest. Like you, he seems to have the mistaken idea that I am connected with the bomb of last night.” “I hate to find myself in agreement with a cop, but I know what I think.”
“And I know what I think. It’s that you should serve me another drink.”
He made a sound of disgust in his throat but poured the drink.
“Presently,” I said, “I am going out to pursue the activities of my profession. If Miss Carlson should show up while I’m gone, tell her I will see her this evening.”
“If you’re able to get back,” he murmured.
“I think there’s a law against trying to bury someone before he’s dead.”
He grunted to himself and moved away, polishing the bar. I finished my drink and walked through the lobby to where I could look out the front door. The car was parked across the street with Carl Ketcher lounging behind the wheel and watching the front door. I got a bellhop to go outside and have one of the car-boys come into the lobby.
A moment later one of the boys came in. I told him to bring my Cadillac around and park in front of the lobby entrance, with the motor running, for five minutes, then take it back and park it. I could see he was a little curious about it, but five dollars took care of that.
I went back through the lobby, stopping to buy another newspaper at the newsstand, then went down to the side exit. A glance told me that Ketcher’s attention was on my car and the front entrance. I lifted the newspaper so that it partly covered my face but looked as if I were reading it and walked out to a taxi parked on the side street. The driver opened the door and I climbed in. I took another look, but the blond was paying no attention to the cab. I told the driver to take me to the boat dock.
As we turned into Collins Avenue, I was still busy reading the newspaper. I didn’t look back until we were half a block away. He was still waiting for me to come out of the hotel.
It was a short drive to the dock. I had the driver go slowly along the dock until I spotted the boat. We stopped there and I told the driver to wait for me. I walked down to the edge of the narrow pier. It was a trim-looking boat, probably large enough to sleep two.
“Ahoy, Aristotle,” I called. “Anybody home?”
“Just a minute, mate,” a voice answered.
I waited a moment and then he appeared from below. He was a stocky, muscular man with a pleasant, relaxed face and curly, gray-black hair. He looked to be about fifty, maybe a couple of years older.
“You selling something, mate?” he asked. His voice was friendly.
“Only myself,” I said. “Are you Aristotle Murphy?”
“The same.”
“Buck, the bartender at the Hapsburg Hotel, told me where to find you. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Come aboard, lad.”
I stepped onto the deck of the boat as he disappeared below. I followed him. The interior was as neat as the outside. There was a single bed which folded up against the wall. There was also a small but adequate galley, a table and a couple of chairs, some book shelves filled with books. Soft music came from the radio on the table.
“What can I do for you, lad?”
“My name is Milo March. I work for an insurance company, and Buck is a friend of mine. I mentioned I wanted to find someone with a boat and he suggested I see you.”
“Buck is a fine lad. We’ve had many a glass together. Where do you want to go?”
“No more than a few hundred yards,” I said with a smile.
“Would you join me in a glass of grog now?” he asked. “I think better with a glass in my hand. Or is it too early for you?”
“I’ll join you.”
He brought two glasses and a big brown bottle. When he started pouring, I saw that it was rum. “You’ll be wanting something with it?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I never try to improve on perfection.”
“Aye, a good thought.”
He finished pouring and shoved one glass across to me. I picked mine up and tasted it. It was good rum. I noticed that he was watching me without touching his own drink, but when I took a generous swallow after tasting it, he smiled and lifted his own glass.
“You can always tell a man,” he said when he put his glass down, “by his liking for good liquor. What is your feeling about computers?”
“I’m opposed to them. I never saw a machine that I could have a drink with or with whom I’d want to climb in the sack, and I don’t like being known as one-one-three—one-two—seven-six-seven-one.”
There was an interested look on his face. “And who, in your opinion, is the greatest writer to have ever graced the English language?”
“Christopher Marlowe,” I said promptly.
“And your favorite French poet?”
“Villon.”
By this time his face was beaming. “A true rascal. I’ll be glad to take you where you want to go. Where did you say it was?”
“I didn’t say yet. You know where one Angelo BaCci lives?”
“Aye. He’s part of the modern Sodom and Gomorrah. A friend of yours?”
“Hardly,” I said. “I want to go up there twice. At night. Around at the back. The first time I merely want to take a good look. The second time I will want you to leave me there. I will pay you one hundred dollars for the two trips.”
“It is too much money.”
“Nevertheless, that’s what I’ll pay you. It’s not my money. It’s from the insurance company.”
“The insurance company, eh? In that case, I’ll take it. When do you want to go?”
“The first trip in the next day or two. I’m not sure about the second trip. I’ll have to let you know.”
“Til be here.”
I remembered what Buck had told me, and I took fifty dollars from my pocket and put it on the table. “Half in advance and half after the second trip.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Will you have another glass of grog?”
“Not today. I have too many things to do.” I finished what was left in my glass.
“I was hoping,” he said wistfully, “you could stop long enough for us to talk awhile. It isn’t often I meet anyone who even heard of Marlowe or Villon.”
“If I possibly can,” I said, “I’ll spend an evening with you before I leave Miami Beach.” I started for the exit.
“Do that, lad,” he called after me. “I’ll look forward to it.”
I went back to the taxi and gave the address of the mission home in Miami. I checked as we drove away, but there was no one following. We drove over the viaduct and a few minutes later were at the mission. Again I told the driver to wait and I went into the mission. I approached someone who looked like he belonged behind a desk.
“Pardon me,” I said. “Could you tell me where I might find Speed Harris?”
He looked me over slowly before deciding on his answer. “He might be in the recreation room,” he said pointing to an open doorway.
I entered the room. There were a couple of battered ping-pong tables, an equally battered television set and a table covered with magazines and pamphlets. There were seven or eight men in the room. All of them were listlessly watching television. There was only one man who looked small enough to have once been a jockey. I walked over to him.
“Speed Harris?” I asked.
He looked at me for a minute without answering. Then he nodded his head. “Fuzz?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Buck, the bartender at the Hapsburg, suggested that I see you. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes. Where can we go?”
“We can talk in here. Nobody will pay any attention. They’re too busy with the idiot box. There ain’t anything else to do.”
“I’d rather find a more private place. I’ll buy coffee or a drink.”
He licked his lips nervously. “A drink?” he asked.
“Sure. Where can we go?”
He was on his feet. “There’s a bar a block down the street. I’ll show you.”
I followed him out to the street, stopping long enough to tell the cab driver to hold on and I’d be with him in a few minutes. Then we went on to the bar. It looked like hundreds of skid row bars all over the country. There were four helpless looking men nursing glasses of wine at the far end of the bar. Speed Harris and I took stools near the door. The bartender waddled up and looked at me.
“Give him a double shot of whatever he wants,” I said, “and I’ll have a shot of bourbon with a water chaser.”
He went off and brought the drinks. I put out some money and waited until he’d given me the change and went back to his stool.
“My name is Milo March,” I said then. “I work for an insurance company. Buck told me that you know a lot of the local hoods and fast-money boys.”
“What if I do?” he asked. He looked at the pack of cigarettes I’d just taken from my pocket. “Got an extra butt?”
“Sure.” I put the pack on the bar. “I’m looking for some information and I’ll pay for it. Do you know Angelo Bacci?”
“Is this information for the cops?”
“No. It’s for me.”
He finished his drink and stared hungrily at the empty glass. I motioned to the bartender to refill it. I paid for it and waited for the bartender to leave. Then I waited some more.
“I used to know Bacci,” he said finally, “when I was still riding. He used to be there every day. Whenever I rode a winner and he had money on it, he’d slip me a hundred or so. But I don’t get out to the track much and he don’t go to any of the bookie joints. But I do know some of the guys working for him.”
“Do you think you could pick up any information for me?”
He’d had enough to drink to give him some courage, and he was thinking about the fact I’d said I would pay him. “Maybe I could. What kind of information? Most of them know me for so long that they talk in front of me as if I wasn’t there.”
“There are a few special things I want. Find out if an out-of-town hood came here to see Bacci about five or six weeks ago and where he came from. If possible find out his name. If you’ve heard any talk about bonds, or do hear any, I’d like to know that, too. Then just any general information you can pick up.”
“You said you’d pay me? And you won’t pass everything along to the local cops?”
“I’ll pay you and I won’t tell the local cops.”
“How much?”
“I’ll give you twenty dollars now.” I took twenty from my pocket and gave it to him below the top of the bar. “If you dig up anything worthwhile, I’ll give you another eighty dollars.”
