Bill paused to take a long drink at his Scotch. ‘So I went along to the cop house and had a talk to Joe Beigler. He wanted to know what my interest was in Gerando. I said I was just asking for information and did he know anything about the guy. He said he knew of him, but he was clean so far as the cops were concerned. All the same, the cops were keeping an eye on him. His father worked for the Mafia. He must have crossed his lines because he was blown away when Lu was 15 years old. He took care of his mother by doing casual labour on the waterfront until she died. They are Sicilians, and Beigler is suspicious of Gerando, but has nothing to pin onto him. I went back to the waterfront and contacted a couple of guys I know down there, but they could tell me nothing. They don’t know what Gerando does for a living.’ Bill finished his drink. ‘That’s it, Dirk.’
‘Good progress, Bill,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to Al Barney. He could come up with something.’
The intercom buzzed. I pressed the switch.
‘Dirk?’ Glenda snapped. ‘Bring the Thorsen file, please,’ and she switched off.
Bill and I exchanged glances, then I got the file.
‘So what’s eating her?’ I said as I made for the door.
I entered Glenda’s office and put the file on her desk.
‘Right up to date,’ I said.
‘Colonel Parnell will be back tomorrow morning,’ Glenda said. ‘He will want to see this.’ She tapped the file. ‘The investigation is finished. I had a telephone call from Mrs Thorsen. She said she was not paying us anymore fees, and she was no longer interested. So, Dirk, you can forget the Thorsen case.’
I stared at her.
‘You mean all this is so much waste of time?’
I slammed my fist down on the file.
Glenda smiled.
‘We’ve done very nicely out of Mrs Thorsen. I wouldn’t call it a waste of time.’
‘Just when it began to look interesting.’ I shrugged. ‘So, OK. What’s the next assignment?’
‘That’s for the colonel to decide. You’ll be seeing him tomorrow.’
I returned to my office and broke the news to Bill.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he exclaimed in disgust.
‘That makes two of us,’ I said. ‘Well, there it is. The colonel will find us something else to work on.’ I looked at my watch. The time was 19.20. ‘Let’s go and eat. How about Lucino again?’
Bill’s face brightened.
‘Great! Let’s go!’
Then the telephone bell on my desk came alive. Impatiently, I snatched up the receiver. I was hungry and depressed, but I wasn’t to know this telephone call would alter my whole way of life.
‘Dirk Wallace,’ I snapped. ‘Who is this?’
‘Oh, Dirk!’ A woman’s quavering voice. ‘This is Betty Stowell.’
Betty Stowell was the third receptionist at the Bellevue Hotel. She and Suzy were close friends. I had met Betty from time to time, a nice, cuddly girl with no complexes, a steady boyfriend and hopes of raising a big family.
‘Hi, Betty,’ I said, then stiffened as I could hear she was crying. ‘For God’s sake, Betty, what’s the trouble?’
‘Oh, Dirk. God forgive me for having to tell you, but someone must tell you. Oh, Dirk...’
Cold sweat began to run down my back.
‘Is it Suzy?’
‘Yes, dear Dirk. Suzy is dead.’
‘What are you telling me?’ I shouted. ‘Suzy dead?’
‘Yes.’
I sat motionless, listening to the sounds of her sobbing, and knowing from these sounds there could be no mistake. Suzy was dead! Suzy whom I loved, planned to marry, who did so much for me — dead!
‘What happened?’ I shouted.
‘Please — the police know. I can’t talk anymore,’ and still sobbing, she hung up.
I closed my eyes.
Suzy dead!
Vaguely, I heard Bill say, ‘Jesus! I’m sorry, Dirk,’ and then he got up and left me alone.
I was grateful for that. I sat, staring into space, thinking of Suzy, what she had meant to me, and realising, perhaps for the first time, how much I loved her.
I sat there for maybe ten minutes, then I got hold of myself.
How did it happen?
I pulled the telephone to me and dialled the police headquarters. I asked to speak to Joe Beigler. He and I had a good association. If anyone knew, he would.
He came on the line.
‘Joe, this is Dirk Wallace,’ I said.
‘Look, Dirk, I’m just signing off. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
‘Suzy Long,’ I said. ‘What happened?’
‘What’s she to you?’ Beigler demanded.
‘She was my girlfriend, Joe. We were planning to get married. That’s what she meant to me.’
‘Oh Christ, I’m sorry to hear that!’
‘What happened?’
‘The facts are these,’ Beigler said. ‘This morning as Miss Long was leaving for the hotel, a car pulled up and a man asked her if she could direct him to Westbury Drive. There were two old women passing and they heard this. Miss Long went up to the car and began to give directions. She got a face full of acid, and the car took off. These two old women say that Miss Long, covering her face and screaming, ran into the road and was crushed to death by a passing truck.’
I felt bile rise in my mouth and had a struggle not to vomit.
Beigler, understanding my feelings, gave me a long moment, then he said, ‘The boys are working on this, but so far, they’ve turned up nothing. The two witnesses were old and useless. Neither of them could give a description of the car. One of them thought the driver was black, but her friend said she imagined that. The boys are questioning everyone living in the various blocks. They could come up with something.’
The driver was black.
I took a long, deep breath.
‘Where is she?’
‘The city’s morgue.’ A pause, then he went on, ‘Look, Dirk, leave it. Miss Stowell has been most helpful. The staff manager of the hotel has identified Miss Long. We have informed her father who is flying here to take care of the funeral. Take my tip, Dirk, don’t go look at her. The acid did a job, and so did the truck. Keep out of it.’
‘Thanks, Joe,’ I said and hung up.
He was right. I wanted to keep in my memory Suzy’s bright, lovely face, not a face disfigured by acid. I told myself I wouldn’t even go to the funeral. The dead are dead.
I sat back and lit a cigarette. This awful empty feeling of loss gradually turned into a burning feeling for revenge. I sat there for maybe twenty minutes before making any decision. Having made it, I locked my desk drawers, turned off the lights and walked down the corridor to the elevators.
I drove back to my apartment. As I paused outside my front door, fumbling for my keys, I saw a scrap of paper pasted on the door.
On it, scrawled in small lettering was the message:
YOU WERE WARNED, SUCKER.
A full moon was climbing lazily into a cloudless sky as I found parking on the waterfront.
I had showered and changed into a sports shirt and linen slacks. I had checked my last bank statement. I was worth $12,000. This was money I had been saving for when Suzy and I setup home. No more Suzy — no more home.