The Golden Gizmo Page 13

  Alvarado shook his head. “This man, with more money than he can spend, would go to such lengths for a watch?…And that is two questions you have asked.”

  “All right, then,” Toddy persisted, “she’d found out something about him. She tried to work some blackmail and—”

  “She did not,” interrupted Alvarado. “Let me repeat, he did not want your wife dead. And now, stand up!”

  “All right.” Toddy got carefully to his feet. “What about giving the departing guest a drink?”

  “Of course.” Alvarado did not hesitate for so much as an instant. “The cellarette is there…and the carafe is heavy. It would be futile to attempt to throw it.”

  “I don’t intend to,” said Toddy, honestly.

  “And instead of the large drink, which you doubtless desire, take two very small ones. Not enough, to be explicit, to have any effect if thrown.”

  Toddy sidled along the lounge to the corner cellarette. His eyes watchful, apprehensive, he turned his back on the chinless man and picked up the carafe.

  Toddy tipped the carafe and slopped a fraction of an ounce of brandy into a highball glass. He raised it, holding his breath; but Chinless apparently was also holding his. Either that or he hadn’t moved: he was still standing by the desk.

  Toddy lowered the glass, his thumb pressing with restrained firmness toward the lip. It gave against the pressure; a little more and it would break. But would it break as it had to—and when it had to? There wouldn’t be time to turn. The blow would have to be on its way down. If it wasn’t, Alvarado would shoot. He’d have to, and he would.

  Toddy set the glass down again, rattling the carafe against it as he poured his second drink. He heard it, then: an almost imperceptible squeak of the floor, all but masked by the sound of the glassware.

  He lifted the glass, pressing steadily, harder. Suddenly there was no resistance to his thumb, and he heard the swift uprush of air; and he thrust the broken glass up and back, dropping into a crouch in the same split second.

  The glass exploded in his hand. His whole arm went numb. There was a wild curse of pain and the clatter of metal against wood. He whirled, awkward in his crouch, and threw himself at the gun. Alvarado kicked him solidly in the solar plexus. He sprawled, paralyzed, and Alvarado kicked him again. He lay fighting for breath, every nerve screaming with shock.

  Alvarado picked up the gun. Cursing frightfully as it slipped in his grasp, he shifted it to his left hand. He advanced on Toddy, his right hand scarlet, dripping with blood.

  “It is bad, eh, Mr. Kent? But do not worry about it. I will bind it up in a minute. A very few minutes.…Actually I am grateful for what you did. What was a painful duty now becomes a pleasure.”

  He grasped Toddy’s ankle with the lacerated hand, grimaced painfully, and dragged him toward the hall door. “Do not resist me, Mr. Kent. Make no overt move. If it should mean my instant death, I would not hesitate.…”

  Toddy didn’t try anything. He couldn’t. It was still a desperate struggle to get his breath.

  “Now…” Alvarado opened the door, tugged him through it, panting, and kicked it shut again. “Now—” Alvarado regrasped his ankle, backed and dragged him down the hallway. His eyes glinted insanely. He was incoherent with fury.

  “Now, you will see, Mr. Kent.…You will be one of the dogs. Pobre Perrito’s twin, yes. The one the obliging gentleman from the crematory did not see.…Dolores was to have served, but it will be all right. The added weight is excusable. It is the practice, the gentleman tells me, to enclose the pet’s belongings…the bed…the eating and drinking receptacles.…So many things and such big dogs.…”

  He opened a second door, tugged furiously, and slammed it shut. And Toddy knew at last the reason for the chinless man’s perfume.

  The air was heavy with the odor of chloroform. The room with its tightly closed windows swam with its sickening-sweet stench.

  Alvarado released his ankle, and Toddy tried to sit up. He fell back, groaning, and his head banged against the wall. He lay there, not quite prone, staring dully at the two long pine boxes on the floor. Alvarado chuckled.

  He had wiped his sweating face, and now it and his hand were both scarlet. He was smeared with blood; his face was a hideous, blood-smeared mask.

  The mask crinkled in a mirthless grin, and he picked up a hammer from one of the boxes. He hefted it in his hand, gazing steadily at Toddy, inching a little toward him. And then he burst into another laugh.

  “Do not worry, Mr. Kent. There is nothing to worry about yet. I would first have you observe something.…”

  He inserted the claw of the hammer between one of the boxes and its lid. He pried downward, moved the hammer, reinserted the claw and pried again.

  “You do not understand, eh?” he panted. “So much effort—so much more, thanks to you. Why not, simply, since I am leaving, leave the bodies here? It is this way”—he wiped, smeared, his face again—“there is always the chance of some flaw in planning; the possibility of apprehension. And murder is regarded much more seriously than smuggling. But even without that, without error or misfortune, there would be great unpleasantness. Your squeamish countrymen would be outraged, your newspapers vocal. In the end, my government might be faced with demands for my person.…”

  He laid down the hammer and tugged at the lid with his hand. Wincing, he looked carefully at Toddy. He nodded, satisfied with what he saw, and dropped the gun into his pocket. He grasped the lid with both hands, pulled and swung it open on its hinges.

  “Now,” he said, and started to stoop. “No,” he shook his head. “She must lie on the bottom. Otherwise…”

  Picking up the hammer, he turned to the other box and began unsealing its lid. The gun remained in his pocket, but the fact meant nothing to Toddy. He was breathing more easily, but he still felt paralyzed.

  “Evidence…” Alvarado was murmuring. “But there will be none, not a particle; only ashes scattered to the winds.…Strong suspicions, yes, but no evidence. Nothing to act upon.…”

  The lid swung free. Alvarado lifted out the girl, held her for a moment, then shrugged and tossed her to the bed. “Still alive, like the dog doubtless. It does not matter. I will prepare another sponge, and it has several hours to work.”

  He started to turn. Then, catching Toddy’s eye, he nodded solemnly.

  “You are right, of course. They weigh little, but the weight already is overmuch. They will have to come off.”

  He jerked off her shoes, and dropped them to the floor. Then the stockings. He grasped the dress at its throat, and ripped it off with one furious tug…The brassière, then. And then.…

  He glanced down critically at the nude, undulant figure, and grinned spitefully at Toddy. “Tempting,” he said. “You are incapacitated, unfortunately, but there is no reason why I…You could enjoy that, Mr. Kent? You would derive pleasure from mine?”

  “Y-you,”—Toddy rasped—“bastard…”

  “I shall kick you some more,” Alvarado promised. “As for Dolores, she shall lie with the dog, poor Perrito. He deserved it, eh, Mr. Kent? It is small recompense for the death which expedience forces me to inflict.…If he were smaller, if he could not talk, I might have…”

  Going down on his knees, he looked regretfully at the dog. He got an arm under it, stroked the head absently with his bleeding hand.

  “Pobre Perrito,” he murmured. “I am sorry.”

  A shudder ran through the dog’s body. His tongue lolled out, touched Alvarado’s hand. It moved against the hand, licking.

  “Cruel,” murmured Alvarado. “You are nearly dead, and I let you revive. I let in the air. I kill you twice.…”

  He got up abruptly, brushing at his eyes, and turned to the bed. He lifted the girl and lowered her roughly into the box from which he had taken her.

  “Now,” he said, bending over the dog again, “it will soon be over.”

  This time he put both arms under the great black body, and grunting stood erect with it. The animal’s eyes slitted open. The huge jaws gaped lazily. Alvarado bent his head—his scarlet face.

  The dog’s jaws snapped shut on it.

  The blood scent…Like a dream, a nightmare, a scene at the Los Angeles house came back to Toddy.…Shake and Donald, their faces spouting blood. And Alvarado holding the lunging dog…

  Alvarado was bent over, staggering. His fists flailed against the dog and his muffled, smothered shrieks emerged as a horrible humming…“Hmmmm? Mmmmmm! MMMMMM!…”

  Toddy yelled. He got to his hands and knees and lurched forward, tried to grasp the dog by a leg. How this had come about didn’t matter now. He only knew that it had to be stopped.

  There was a roar in the room and Toddy dropped to his stomach. Alvarado had got out his gun, but he couldn’t aim it. He was pivoting in a slow, pain-crazed waltz; doubled over, the automatic sweeping the walls. And the dog waltzed with him, eyes closed, jaws clamped, its hind claws rattling and scratching against the floor.

  Suddenly, Alvarado’s right arm shot straight out from his body. The dog moved—they moved together—and the gun swerved. It steadied, pointing at the girl.

  Toddy could never say how he did it; he could never recall doing it. But somehow he was on his feet, his hands gripping a bony scarlet wrist. He threw his weight forward, and there was a long staccato roar—that and the shattering of glass as the windowpane behind a drawn curtain was blown into bits.

  Then, somewhere, in the not too distant distance, a motor raced and an automobile horn tooted angrily.

  Toddy staggered backward and sat down on the bed.

  Alvarado and the dog lay on the floor, motionless. One paw rested against Alvarado’s shoulder, and Alvarado’s left hand lay on the dog’s black hide. The dog had released his hold at
last. What the jaws had clung to was no longer there.

  Toddy bent forward suddenly and retched. His dizziness disappeared and he could think again.

  He’d have to get out of here—he gripped the edge of the bedstead and pulled himself upright. Those shots had made a hell of a racket; it sounded like they might have grazed a car. It might take the cops a little while to discover their source, but when they did…Well, they wouldn’t find him here. Alvarado had dough on him. Plenty of it. And the keys to the convertible were in the switch. By the time the cops got a line on him, he’d be through Tijuana, heading for one of the fishing villages below Rosarita Beach. From there, for a price, he could get passage to Central America.

  Of course, he’d be on the run for the rest of his life. He’d always have Elaine’s murder hanging over him. That couldn’t be helped. When you couldn’t fight you had to run.

  He got up. Eyes averted, he was bending over Alvarado’s body, starting to search for the money that must be there, when something made him pause. He straightened, shrugged irritatedly, and stooped again. He stood up again, cursing.

  He picked up the girl and laid her on the bed. His tanned face flushed, he pulled one side of the spread over her.

  That was all he could do. He wasn’t any doctor. Anyway, she’d be all right. She…

  He pressed his thumb and forefinger against her wrist.

  At first there seemed to be no pulse. Then he felt it, faint, stuttering, strengthening for a few beats, then fading again.

  His voice trailed off into silence. Angry, desperate. Someone might not be there. Not soon enough. They might—but they might not. She was right on the edge. A little longer and she might be over it.

  He dropped her hand—almost flung it from him—and raced into the front room. His shoes grated against the broken glass, as he snatched up the brandy carafe. He let it slide from his fingers, fall gurgling to the floor.

  He knew better than that, after all the talks he’d had with Elaine’s doctors. Alcohol wasn’t a stimulant but a depressant. An anesthetic. Taken on top of the chloroform it would mean certain death.

  Running to the kitchen, he yanked open the cupboard doors. No ammonia. Nothing that would act as a restorative.

  He glanced at the stove. A coffee pot stood on the back burner. It was half full.

  As soon as the coffee began to simmer, he grabbed the pot and a cup and hurried back to the bedroom. He got down on his knees at the bedside, filled a cup and set the pot on the floor, and raised the girl’s head.

  Her head wobbled and coffee ran from her lips, down over her chin and neck.

  He put an arm around her, under her left arm, and rested her head on his shoulder. He poured more coffee in the cup.

  This time she swallowed some of the liquid, but a shuddering, strangled gasp made him suddenly jerk the cup away. Too fast—he’d given it to her too fast. She’d smother, drown actually, if he wasn’t careful.

  He waited a minute—an hour it seemed like—and again placed the cup to her lips. Mentally, he measured out a spoonful, and waited until her throat moved, swallowed. He gave her another spoonful, then waited, and another swallow.

  Slowly, a little color was returning to her face. Maybe it would be all right now if he…He felt her pulse. Sighing, he refilled the cup.

  He had almost finished doling it out to her, a spoonful at a time, when her heart began to pound. He could feel it against his hand, skipping a little, still a little irregular, but going stronger with every beat.

  He started to remove his hand, but her arm had tightened against her side. Her eyelids fluttered drowsily, and opened.

  “You’re all—” he began.

  “You…all right…Toddy…?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, somehow shamed. “Now, look, I’ve got to beat it. Alvarado’s dead. The cops’ll be here any minute. I—”

  “They do not know about…”

  “They’ll find out!” Toddy didn’t know why he was arguing. He didn’t know why the hell he didn’t just beat it. “Anyway, there’s plenty without that. I’m wanted in half a dozen—half a dozen—”

  Her arm had gone around his neck. Her other arm held his hand against her breast. The beat of her heart was very firm now. Firm and fast.

  “I tell you, I’ve got to—”

  Her lips shut off the words. She sank back against the pillows, drawing him with her.

  …Faintly, then louder and louder, a police siren moaned and whined. Toddy didn’t hear it.

  22

  In the early afternoon of his third day in jail, he sat in semi-isolation in a corner of the bullpen, mulling over his situation.

  He knew he was being held at the instance of the federal authorities. Which meant that, since a murder charge would take precedence over others, Elaine’s death hadn’t been discovered. That seemed impossible; Alvarado himself had seen detectives in his and Elaine’s hotel room. But the fact remained. He wasn’t—couldn’t be—wanted for murder. Yet.

  He also knew that Milt Vonderheim was the smuggling ring’s gold-supplier, and, more than likely, the man who had had Elaine killed. Why the last, he didn’t know; but the first was indisputable. It was no wonder that Milt had wanted him disposed of quickly. Since Toddy’s original visit to the house of the talking dog, he had held most of the clues to the little jeweler’s real identity.

  He had presented Milt’s card that day and mentioned being sent by a friend. And Alvarado, not knowing what might be in the air, had admitted him. He had discovered almost immediately, of course, that Toddy knew nothing of Milt’s illegal activities—that he had simply stumbled onto the house. But Alvarado had been prepared for that eventuality.…His eyes were “bad.” He hadn’t been able to read the card. In other words, Toddy’s entry had not been obtained through Milt.

  It was a shrewd subterfuge, but it had one great weakness. It could only be explained, if explanation became necessary, on one basis. Milt was the ring’s key man: the gold-supplier. Since he was operating in the open and was confined to his shop, he could handle no other end of the racket.

  Toddy’s fingers strayed absently to the shirt pocket of his jail khakis, and came away empty. No cigarettes. No dough. And he’d hardly been able to touch the jail chow except for the coffee. The lack of comforts, however, troubled him much less than the reason for the lack. He’d never been able to do time. He couldn’t now. And he was going to have to do a lot unless—

  They’d have his record by now. They’d know where he was wanted and for how much. Sixty days. Ninety. A hundred and ten. Six months. A year and a…And Elaine. Why think about those other raps when they were certain to pin a murder on him?

  He tried to accept that fact and salvage what he could from it. He’d killed her, say, but not with premeditation. She’d slugged him with a bottle, and he’d blanked out and killed her. Not intentionally. In a fit of temper. That was manslaughter; second degree manslaughter, if he had the right lawyer. If he was lucky, he’d get off with five years.

  He thought about that, those five years. He thought about Dolores, then thrust her firmly out of his mind. Jail was hard enough to take without thinking about her, knowing that she’d come into his life too late, that never again…never again…

  All day long an oval of men circled the bullpen, moving around and around in silent restlessness. When one man dropped out, another took his place in the oval. Its composition changed a hundred times, and yet it itself never changed.

  “Kent!”

  The oval stopped moving. Every eye was on the door.

  “Toddy Kent! Front and center!”

  Toddy got up, dusted off the seat of his trousers, and pushed his way through the other prisoners.

  Clint McKinley, bureau chief of investigation for the Treasury Department, was a stocky mild-looking man with thin red hair and a soft, amiable voice. He wasn’t a great deal older than Toddy, and, in his first brief sizing up, Toddy decided that he wasn’t too sharp a character. He wasn’t long in revising that opinion.

  McKinley seated him in a chair in front of his desk, tossed him a package of cigarettes, and even held a match for him. Then he folded his hands, leaned his elbows on the desk, stared straight at Toddy and began to talk. About Dolores, or, as he called her, Miss Chavez.