Time had marched on. It marched on and trampled me underfoot into the mud and slime of its passing. But I could get up and follow it. I could catch up with that lost hour and a half and make it give back what it had stolen, by God!
People were screaming at me from the windows when I jumped in my car. From down the block came the low wailing of a siren and a red eye that winked on and off. The screaming came from both directions then, so I cut down a side street and got out of their path. Somebody was sure to have grabbed my license number. Somebody was sure to relay it to the police and when they found out it was me the D.A. would eat his hat while his fat head was still in it. Suicide, he had said. He gave his own, personal opinion that Chester Wheeler had been a suicide.
Smart man, our D.A., smart as a raisin on a bun.
The sky agreed with a nod and let loose more tiny flakes of snow that felt the city out and called for reinforcements. There was still a mile to go and the snow was coming down harder than ever. My fate snickered.
Chapter Twelve
I checked the address on the mail receipt against the one on the apartment. They both read the same. The building was a yellow brick affair that towered out of sight into the snow, giving only glimpses of the floors above.
A heavy blue canvas canopy sheltered the walk that led into the lobby, guarded by a doorman in an admirals uniform. I sat in the car and watched him pace up and down, flapping his arms to keep him warm. He took the admirals hat off and pressed his hands against his cauliflowered ears to warm them and I decided not to go in the front way after all. Guys like him were too eager to earn a ready buck being tough.
When I crossed the street I walked to the next building until the snow shielded me, then cut back to the walk that took me around the rear. A flight of steps led down to a door that was half open and I knocked on it. A voice with a Swedish accent called back and an old duck with lip whiskers that reached to his ears opened the door and said Ya?
I grinned. The guy waited. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a tenspot. He looked at it without saying anything. I had to nudge him aside to get in and saw that the place was part of the boiler room in the basement. There was a table under the solitary bulb in the place and a box drawn up to it. I walked over to the table and turned around.
The old boy shut the door and picked up a poker about four feet long.
I said, Come here, pop. I laid the ten on the table.
He hefted the poker and came over. He wasnt looking at the tenspot. Clyde Williams. Whats his apartment number?
Whatever I said made his fingers tighten around the poker. He didnt answer. There wasnt time to be persuasive. I yanked out the Luger and set it next to the ten. Which one, pop?
His fingers got tighter and he was getting ready to take me. First he wanted to ask a question. Why you want him?
Im going to break him in little pieces, pop. Anybody else that stops me might get it too.
Poot back your gun, he said. I shoved it in the holster. Now poot back your money. I stuck the ten in my pocket. He dropped the poker to the floor. He is the penthouse in. There is elevator in the back. You use that, ya? Go break him, ya?
I threw the ten back on the table. Whats the matter, pop?
I have daughter. She was good girl. Not now. That man . . .
Okay, pop. He wont bother you again. Got an extra key for that place?
No penthouse key. The ends of his whiskers twitched and his eyes turned a bright blue. I knew exactly how he felt.
The elevator was a small service job for the tradesmen delivering packages. I stepped in and closed the gate, then pressed the button on top marked UP. The cable tightened and the elevator started up, a slow, tedious process that made me bite my lip to keep from yelling for it to hurry. I tried counting the bricks as they went by, then the floors. It dragged and dragged, a mechanical object with no feeling for haste. I wanted to urge it, lift it myself, do anything to hurry it, but I was trapped in that tiny cubicle while my watch ticked off the precious seconds.
It had to stop sometime. It slowed, halted and the gate rattled open so I could get at the door. My feet wanted to run and I had to force them to stand still when I turned the handle and peered out into the corridor.
There was a stillness about the place you would expect in a tomb, a dead quiet that magnified every sound. One side of the hall was lined with plate-glass windows from ceiling to floor, overlooking a city asleep. Only the safety light over the elevator showed me the hall that stretched along this enclosed terrace to the main hall farther down. I let the door close softly and began walking. My gun was in my hand and cocked, ready to blast the first person I saw into a private hell of their own. The devil didnt get any assistants because the hall was empty. There, around the bend, was a lobby that would have overshadowed the best room in the executive mansion, and all it was used for was a waiting room for the elevator.
On the walls were huge framed pictures, magnificent etchings, all the gimmicks of wealth. The chairs were of real leather, enough of them to seat twenty people. On the end tables beside the chairs were huge vases of fresh-cut roses that sent their fragrance through the entire room. The ash trays were sterling silver and clean. Beside each ash tray was a sterling silver lighter. The only incongruous thing was the cigar butt that lay right in the middle of the thick Oriental rug.
I stood there a moment taking it all in, seeing the blank door of the elevator that faced the lobby, seeing the ornate door of the apartment and the silver bell that adorned the opposite wall. When I stepped on the rug there was no sound of my feet except a whisper that seemed to hurry me forward until I stood in front of the door wondering whether to shoot the lock off or ring the bell.
Neither was necessary. Right on the floor close to the sill was a small gold-plated key and I said thanks to the fate that was standing behind me and picked it up. My mouth was dry as a bone, so dry that my lips couldnt pull over my teeth when I grinned.
Velda had played it smart. I never thought shed be so smart. She had opened the door and left the key there in case I came.
Im here, Velda. I came too late, but Im here now and maybe somehow I can make it all up to you. It didnt have to be this way at all, but Ill never tell you that. Ill let you go on thinking that you did what was right; what you had to do. Youll always think you sacrificed something I wanted more than anything else in the world, and I wont get mad. I wont get mad when I want to slap the hell out of the first person that mentions it to me, even if its you. Ill make myself smile and try to forget about it. But theres only one way I can forget about it and thats to feel Clydes throat in my hand, or to have him on the end of a gun that keeps going off and off until the hammer clicks on an empty chamber. That way Ill be able to smile and forget.
None
I turned the key in the lock and walked in. The door clicked shut behind me.
The music stole into the foyer. It was soft music, deep music with a haunting rhythm. The lights were low, deliberately so to create the proper effect. I didnt see what the room was like; I didnt make any attempt to be quiet: I followed the music through the rooms unaware of the splendor of the surroundings, until I saw the huge phonograph that was the source of the music and I saw Clyde bending over Velda on the couch. He was a dark shadow in a satin robe. They both were shadows there in the corner, shadows that made hoarse noises, one demanding and the other protesting. I saw the white of Veldas leg, the white of her hand she had thrown over her face, and heard her whimper. Clyde threw out his arm to toss off the robe and I said, Stand up, you stinking bastard!