“No, and don’t you tell him. I haven’t even told my wife yet.”
“You can’t keep it a secret, Arne,” Coretti said. “Some of the boys are beginning to notice these spasms you get. Captain’s bound to find out. It’d be a lot easier if you told him yourself.”
“You know as well as I do what it means if I tell him — disability. I can barely live on what I make now, Bob. How can I live on disability pay?”
“Just the same, you can’t keep on this way. You look worn out. If you won’t go in for the operation, why not take some time off at least? You’ve got sick leave coming.”
“Maybe you’re right. I could use a rest.”
“Sure I’m right,” Coretti said. “And if I were you, I’d do some serious thinking about that operation. Talk it over with Gerry, too.”
“Some R&R is all I need for now. I’ll tell Gerry when the time comes.”
“When you can’t put the operation off any longer, you mean.”
“Let’s just drop the subject, okay? I don’t feel like talking anymore right now.”
It had begun to rain in earnest now. Coretti put the wipers on high. The bitter cold wind blowing in across the Bay whipped sheets of water across the windshield, and you could hear it howling at the windows of the sedan. I sat with my legs straight out in front of me to ease the gnawing in my stomach. I wished I were home in bed with Gerry’s warm little body against my back.
Coretti made a left-hand turn, drove two blocks, made another turn. The hotel stood between a storage warehouse for an interstate truck line and an iron foundry, midway on the block. It was a three-story wooden affair, well over half a century old — a shambling reminder of another era. A narrow alley separated it from the iron foundry on the right.
We left the sedan’s semi-warmth and hurried inside. The rain was like ice on the back of my neck. The lobby stank of age-must and disinfectant, the smell of death wrapped in formaldehyde. It was small, dark, sparsely furnished; no elevator, just a staircase leading to the upper floors. A desk paralleled the wall on the right. No one was behind it.
“Nice place,” Coretti said, glancing around. “Homey, you know?”
From behind a closed door next to the desk came the sounds of a TV, the volume turned up high. We went over there and I knocked and pretty soon a rheumy-looking old character in a T-shirt and baggy trousers held up by three-inch-wide suspenders peered out at us.
“You the night clerk?” I asked him.
“Yep. Night clerk, night manager, handyman.” He peered harder. “You fellas looking for a room? If you are, I got to tell you we—”
“Police,” I said. We showed him our shields. “Inspectors Kelstrom and Coretti. We’re here about one of your tenants.”
“That so? Which one?”
“The man’s name is Feldstein, but I doubt he’d be using it.”
“Feldstein?” The old man shook his head. “Nope, no one here by that name. Only a few of the rooms occupied now. We’re closing up month after next. Building’s being torn down.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep. Don’t know what I’m gonna do then. Retire, maybe, if I can find a place to live on my lousy pension.” Noise erupted from the TV behind him. He cocked an ear, listened until the noise subsided. “I been watching the fights,” he said. “Heavyweight match tonight. Not much of a scrap, though. They don’t put on a show like they used to. You fellas fight fans?”
“No,” I said. I wished I had some coffee, and to hell with what the doctor had said. It was damn cold in this rat trap. “These few tenants of yours. Any of them new, here just a couple of days?”
“Matter of fact, there is one fella. Day clerk didn’t want to rent to him, on account of us closing up pretty soon, but he paid extra. Wish it’d been me on duty got that little bonus.” He sighed. “Name’s Collins. I only seen him once. Stays in his room, mostly.”
“What does he look like?”
“Little guy, kind of skinny. Has a mole or something on his left cheek.”
Coretti and I exchanged a glance. The description matched Feldstein’s.
“He in his room now?” Coretti asked.
“Far as I know.”
“What’s his room number?”
“Three-o-six.” The old man did some more peering. “There ain’t going to be any trouble, is there?”
“Let’s hope not,” I said. “You just stay in your room and watch the rest of the fights.”
“Sure. Sure thing, Inspector.”
We left him and took the stairs up to the third floor. The hallway was lit only by a pale bulb on the wall at the far end. No sounds came from behind any of the closed doors we passed. When we reached 306, I stood against the wall on one side of the door and Coretti did the same on the other. Then I reached out and rapped sharply on the panel.
Inside, there was a faint creaking of bedsprings, then nothing but silence. I knocked again. Nothing. I felt the tiny hairs on my neck lift and my stomach started to ache. The cold, stale air seemed suddenly charged with tension.
We had our service revolvers drawn when a wary voice said from inside, “Who is it?”
“Night clerk,” I said.
I thought it was a passable imitation of the old man’s voice, but it wasn’t. The slugs came fast, three of them, ripping jagged splinters from the wood and gouging plaster from the opposite wall. The reports seemed to echo for a couple of seconds. Then it was quiet again.
Coretti and I hugged the wall, waiting. After a little time I heard a faint scraping sound, another that I had no trouble identifying. Feldstein was trying to get out the window.
I stepped back to get leverage, moved over in front of the door and slammed my foot against the wood just above the knob. The lock ripped loose and the door banged against the inner wall. I went in low and to the left, Coretti right behind me. Feldstein was at the window, one leg over the sill, a pasteboard suitcase in one hand and a snubnosed revolver in the other. I threw myself to the floor as he fired, spoiling the shot I had at him. The bullet missed both of us. Coretti squeezed off in return, dodging, but he missed, too. In the next second Feldstein was out through the window and on the fire escape, a dim shadow in the rain.
I pulled up onto my knees, snapped a quick shot that shattered the window glass. Another miss. I heard the fugitive’s heavy shoes pounding down the fire escape as I gained my feet. Coretti had gotten tangled up in a chair, I saw then. I yelled at him, “Downstairs, Bob! Cut him off in the alley!”
I ran to the window and got my head out. Not a smart move because Feldstein was directly below, with a clear upward slant. His first slug tore a hole in the window frame a few inches above my head, the second screamed off the railing in front of me and sprayed my face with iron filings.
Feldstein didn’t wait to try a third shot. I could hear him running again. Cursing myself for a fool, the pain like a hot iron in my gut, I heaved myself through the window and crouched on the slats. He was at the second floor level now, scrambling down the rain-slick steps. I steadied my weapon and fired low, trying for his legs. That shot missed wide, but the next took him in the hip or thigh. I saw him buckle. He lost his grip on the suitcase and his arms flailed as he staggered sideways. He banged hard into the railing. The bar caught him just below the waist and pitched him over. I heard him scream once, just once, then the thud of his body slamming the alley floor below.
I straightened slowly, wiping sweat and rain off my face. Coretti was coming up the alley, running. I looked to see if anyone was behind him, roused by the gunfire, but there was no one.
The fire escape was one of the old-fashioned types that ended flush with the pavement. That made it easy for me to get down there in a hurry. Coretti was bent over Feldstein by then. I started toward him, and all of a sudden I couldn’t seem to get any air into my lungs. A tongue of fire licked down from my stomach to my groin. I dropped to one knee, my head hanging down, fighting to breathe.