My LaSalle’s horn blast echoed to me from the enormous home in the distance beyond the gated entry. An older man appeared on the other side of the closed entrance. “Can I help you?” he called. He carried a sidearm on his hip.
Cutting my crate’s motor and climbing out, I walked to him, keeping my hands where he could see them. “The name’s Tanner. Gilbert Tanner. I’m here to see Mrs. Babington.” He looked skeptical. I handed him a business card through the thick metal bars of the imposing barrier. “She sent for me. Said it was urgent.” He nodded without saying a word and disappeared into a small gatehouse, sitting to one side. Through the structure’s open door, I could hear him talking, though I couldn’t make out the words.
I admired the gated opening in the tall stone wall which ran along a fair distance of Babington Road, named for the family I was visiting. The barricade was worthy of the little I knew of my hostess. Old man Hugh Babington, dead around a dozen years now, had been related to a peerage in merry old England. For whatever reason, he’d immigrated to America and settled on a huge parcel of land in the outskirts of our city a number of years earlier.
Old man Hugh Babington, dead around a dozen years now, had been related to a peerage in merry old England.
He’d done well here, investing in real estate rather than the stock market. The family owned the city’s two largest broadsheets, a radio station, and a good chunk of downtown, including a grand hotel and the edifice in which my office was located. On that note, it occurred to me to complain about my building’s elevator, a death trap if ever there was one. I let the idea drift.
Violet Babington was now the matriarch of the clan, or what remained of it. Her son, an only child, had been killed in a hunting accident three years earlier. He’d left a wife and a young daughter. Violet ruled her holdings with a firm hand, as they say. The source of my information referred to Mrs. Babington as “The Iron Maid.” That was all I knew of these people. Okay, that and one of their number wanted to hire a private investigator, hopefully me.
While I waited, I grabbed one of the gateway’s bars and tried to shake it. The thing didn’t give an inch. It would certainly keep any villagers with pitchforks and torches at bay. The caretaker was returning. He arched his brows in disapproval. The man had seen me testing the fortification. He opened a postern next to the larger barrier for me. Returning my card, he instructed me, “Leave your car here. Go directly to the manor house. Someone will meet you at the door.”
As I walked up the drive toward the mansion, I studied it. “Mansion” seemed an understatement for the edifice. Although the massive stone residence had fewer stories than the Chrysler Building, it appeared to hold nearly as many windows. The Babington place was much more than your average home. It was an estate in the grand tradition of what I’d read of Hugh Babington’s native country. The substantial homes in Hammond Hills, our city’s most exclusive enclave, could only aspire to the Babington’s status, but fell well short.
* * *
After the quarter-of-a-mile-or-so walk in the gathering heat, my tie was choking me and my suit coat was superfluous. Finally, I moved past a low, carved-stone fence which separated the pea-graveled parking area from the grass stretching back to the gate. At the front door, I jerked the bellpull and stepped back to admire the place again. Looking up toward the top floor made my neck ache.
By this time, my most recent cigarette was only a dead butt. I tossed it. A starched fella, decked out in morning dress, opened the door. I recognized the getup from a moving picture I’d seen and from a butler I’d dealt with in a case two years earlier. He glanced over my shoulder. My eyes crawled around to see the gatekeeper waving in our direction and nodding. The butler’s gaze returned to me with a practiced smile. He greeted me stiffly and bid me enter. Inside, I essayed the entry hall. It was quite a two-story layout.
I recognized the getup from a moving picture I’d seen…
“Nice mansion,” I whispered to the man, chuckling.
The somewhat rigid fellow gave a serious gaze. “Technically, sir, one refers to this residence as a manor or manor house, which is a landed estate. A mansion is merely a large, imposing residence.”
“Do tell?” I hoped my voice reflected how unimpressed I was either way. Live and learn, I thought.
After taking my fedora and placing it on a side table, the man advised me Mrs. Babington would receive me in the library. He led me to a room where an elderly lady sat behind a large walnut desk. Bowing his way backward through the door, he disappeared. The room was much larger than I’d expected when the man had used the term “library.” A large, stained-glass window behind the desk depicted what appeared to be a family crest. Crossed halberds adorned one wall. The only thing missing from the joint was a suit of armor.
The lady greeted me, “Mr. Tanner?” I smiled and nodded. Usually I asked people to call me Gil. But until I knew more concerning this caper, I’d leave that aspect of our relationship, whatever it might be, alone. “Thank you very much for coming on such short notice.” She stayed seated and extended her arm toward a chair. “Please be seated and make yourself comfortable.” I eased into a deep, overstuffed chair beside the desk. She cleared her throat in what seemed an irritated manner and continued. “If truth be told, Mr. Tanner, I find dealing with a private investigator a sordid and most distasteful matter. I didn’t know people such as yourself actually existed outside motion picture melodramas. Candidly, I expected to meet someone with dirty fingernails.”
. . .I find dealing with a private investigator a sordid and most distasteful matter.
This lady and I might never be bosom buddies. But I needed the money. Especially the Babington kind of money. Nonetheless, I waggled my head and responded, “Well, luckily, you caught me on my bath day. I clean up nice occasionally.”
“Don’t be insolent, Mr. Tanner! I won’t have it!” She paused and took in a deep breath. “And, frankly, your rates I’ve been quoted seem somewhat exorbitant.”
One thing that gets under my skin damned quick is an extremely wealthy person whining over paying a relatively small amount for services rendered. Even after counting to ten, I decided not to be treated like one of her out-of-favor servants. I don’t lay down for anybody. We were going to get a few things straight from the outset. Job or no job. Period.
When she opened her mouth to follow up her tirade, I interrupted, throwing up a hand and stating evenly, “Look, with due respect, Mrs. Babington, you called me. And, yes, I could use the work, but there are certain things you must understand about me and my profession. First, you get what you pay for. As my old man used to say, ‘You pay peanuts, you get monkeys.’ I may not look like much, but I’m pretty good at what I do. My references will tell you so. Also, I’m a licensed private investigator, which means I’m bonded.
“Now that may not sound important to you, but it’s everything to me. It’s my livelihood. Some others you could hire are licensed and bonded. Some aren’t. Those who aren’t operate too far over the edge of the law for my taste. Sure, you can find somebody cheaper than me to do your bidding. But better at it? Not in this city, if I may say so. In your eyes, I may seem a man of little refinement. That’s jake with me. But are you looking for sophistication or someone who can get your job done? It’s your call.”
We were sitting in sudden silence. I waited. She stared at me and cleared her throat, using that annoyed sound again. She might have been weighing her options. I waited a while longer.
The lady acted as if I’d said nothing to raise her ire. She spoke softly. “When I told you on the telephone, Mr. Tanner, time was of the essence in the matter with which I must ask you to assist me, I was gravely serious.” I nodded my understanding, such as it was at that point. “First things first, however. It’s merely a formality, but do you have your references? May I see them?”
I pulled two documents from my inside coat pocket and handed them to her. One was a hastily prepared letter of recommendation from Detective Rob Waddell, a pal in the city police department. Luca Carelli, a prominent insurance executive for whom I’d done a couple of jobs, had written the other. Mrs. Babington raised the pince-nez attached to a ribbon looped around her neck. She put the thing to her eyes and skimmed the pages carefully, nodding as she read. Laying the documents aside, she made notes on a piece of paper, before returning the documents to me.
She removed her glasses and folded her hands on the desk. “Very well, Mr. Tanner. Your references coincide with what I’d been told of you by a dear friend. In this matter, I demand someone who can and will keep my affairs confidential. In pursuing my wishes, you may learn more than I truly care for you to know regarding this household and its history. Any breach of this requirement will cost you dearly, I promise you.”
I couldn’t help smiling at the old lady. “Threats notwithstanding, Mrs. Babington, I don’t talk about my jobs or my clients. When a private investigator runs his mouth, customers don’t come to his door. Because time is of the essence in your situation, as you say, do you care to decide about hiring me and get down to brass tacks?”
When a private investigator runs his mouth, customers don’t come to his door.
There was another minute of silence. Mrs. Babington looked apprehensive. Then she leaned across the desk toward me. “Very well, Mr. Tanner, I am retaining you. I will pay you five hundred dollars to handle this one-time matter.” I nodded. Her voice grew taunt, “Someone abducted my six-year-old granddaughter this morning. The kidnapper contacted me by telephone a short time before I called you. He demanded a one hundred thousand dollars’ ransom in cash if I ever wanted to see my granddaughter alive again.”
Her statement took me by surprise for a couple of reasons. One thing was the casual way she spoke of the amount of money demanded. Second, many had thought the Lindbergh laws would stop these high-profile kidnapping-for-ransom schemes. But the Urschel abduction in Oklahoma a couple of years earlier served notice the laws weren’t the deterrent hoped for. When I started to speak, she stopped me and continued, “He said I had seventy-two hours to get the money together. He will contact me later with delivery instructions. I want you to deliver the money and get my granddaughter back to us safely.”
“Have you called the police?”
“The man was most adamant I was not to get the police involved in any way whatsoever. Otherwise, Lucy–my granddaughter–will …,” she choked and sobbed into a lace hankie, “will disappear forever.” After a moment, Violet composed herself. “The man said he would know whether I contacted the police. He didn’t say how. But I believe him. So there will be no police involvement.” Shaking her head, she continued, “I’m not certain I trust their competency in all matters, in any case. Besides, from what I understand of your vocation, the limitations, which burden law enforcement, do not hinder you.”
That warning concerning police involvement was a standard ploy by kidnappers. But I said nothing to Mrs. Babington. As long as he had Lucy and she believed his threats, it was a done deal. Something struck me as ironic. While the lady didn’t trust the coppers’ proficiency, she put her faith in a referral letter from one of their numbers.
“Do you have ready access to that amount of cash?”
“That aspect is not a problem, Mr. Tanner. My husband was many unhappy things, but he invested wisely. Fortunately, I have been able to expand on those investments. The economic downturn of the last several years has had little impact on my holdings.”
Babington’s statement impressed me, but I moved on. “So tell me when, where, and how it happened this man could take your granddaughter.”
“My daughter-in-law and granddaughter reside here with me. Our chauffeur, Bates, was returning with Lucy and her mother, Cora, from an early morning doctor’s appointment when someone accosted them on Babington Road three miles from here. According to Bates, the man forced them off the road. When he exited our automobile to confront the villain, he was knocked down, stunned. The man, wearing a makeshift hood or mask, then pulled Lucy from the car.
“In doing so, the kidnapper rendered Cora unconscious during her struggles with him. Our driver said he got up to stop the man but was badly beaten for his effort. Our man said he saw the abductor drive in the city’s direction. Cora and our chauffeur returned here as quickly as possible to report the incident to me. They had not even finished giving their accounts of the events when the man called with his demands. Mr. Tanner, I will pay you to make the ransom payment and return my granddaughter to me.” The woman paused and sobbed into the handkerchief, “Lucy is the sweetest child.”
Our man said he saw the abductor drive in the city’s direction.
“I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Mrs. Babington,” I offered, softly. “But I will do whatever I can to help in this matter. Just out of curiosity, who knew of the doctor’s appointment in advance?”
“No one outside this household. And it included only Cora, Lucy, Talbot, our butler, and the chauffer. And me, of course.”
“Well, I’ll rule you out from under suspicion for now,” I chuckled.
Old lady Babington didn’t see the humor in my remark. “See here, young man! Don’t be obtuse!”
I swallowed hard and glanced at the tops of my shoes, trying to appear contrite. “I apologize, Mrs. Babington. Sometimes I’m most stupid when I try to be funny.” Enough feigned contrition. Looking back up to the matriarch, I asked, “Can I speak with your daughter-in-law?”
She calmed herself. “As you might imagine, Cora was hysterical when she returned. I called for our family physician, Dr. Nolan, who examined her. He said her injuries were minor. She had a slight bump on her head suffered during the scuffle with the kidnapper. Doctor Nolan gave her an opiate to sedate her. She is not available at the moment. I’m uncertain what you might gain by speaking with her, anyway. Why do you need to speak to anyone simply to exchange the ransom for Lucy?”
I smiled. “Part of what I do in my racket is ask all sorts of questions of all kinds of people. Cora may be able to give me more information regarding the man who took Lucy, maybe a good description of his car. There may be some things she recalls now she was too upset to tell you earlier. It could help a great deal later. The more I might learn about the circumstances and the kidnapper, the better the chance of the exchange going smoothly.”
“Part of what I do in my racket is ask all sorts of questions of all kinds of people.”
“Of course. I see. You may speak with her when she’s feeling better. Understand, however, I don’t want her distressed further.”
“Understood, Mrs. Babington. Who else in the household knows of the current situation?”
“Alfred, my gatekeeper is aware, as is Talbot. I was concerned for our safety, so I informed them. Both men have been with us a long time and are completely trustworthy. Nonetheless, I swore them to secrecy. Alfred was a sheriff’s deputy at one time, I believe.”
That explained the hoops I jumped through when I’d arrived. “What about Bates? How long has he worked for you?”
“He came to us a year ago. His uncle had been a driver for my husband just before he died. But then the uncle died unexpectedly several months after my husband.”
“And Dr. Nolan?”
“I did not take him into my confidence. Unfortunately, he has dealt with many delicate circumstances, shall we say, in this family over the years. He asks no questions, though heaven only knows what he must think after this morning.”
“Fine. Let’s keep it confined to those few.” Violet’s brows furrowed, but she nodded her agreement. My guess was the old lady was not accustomed to being dictated to. “If I’m to deliver the ransom, I want to be here when the man calls again. Is it possible for me to stay here for the next couple of days?”
“Certainly, Mr. Tanner. I’ll have Talbot arrange a room for you.”
“Could you provide me a recent photograph of Lucy?”
“I’ll have it for you in the next ten minutes.”
“Swell. Does Bates …?”
“Bates. Yes, Carson Bates.”
“Is Bates available for me to speak with?”
“I’m certain he is. He has an apartment over the garage. Before my husband died, male members of the household staff–the chauffeurs, an under butler, the few hall boys we had at the time–lived above the garage. When Hugh died, I saw no need to keep such an elaborate household. It seemed pretentious and beyond our needs. Only Bates lives there now. You should locate him somewhere around there.”
I excused myself and followed Talbot, who returned my hat, along several corridors and through French doors to a terrace and the rear grounds of the mansion, uh, manor house. A detached, four-car garage stood to one side a short distance from the primary residence. The thing was as big as most homes in Hammond Hills. A tall, slender young man in a chauffeur uniform was shining the chromium of a long, sleek Packard cabriolet parked in front of an opened bay door. As I sauntered toward the boy, studying him, he moved to the chrome on a Packard 12 sedan next to the cabriolet. He stopped polishing and squared up to me as I approached.
“Carson Bates?”
“Yeah? That’s me. Who’s asking?” he responded in a tough-guy sort of way. It rang hollow. James Cagney, he wasn’t. The crooked bowtie bouncing on his throat with every syllable didn’t help his intended effect any.
The first thing I noticed was his boyish, freckled face, which had a few minor abrasions. Nothing more. No bruises, no severe cuts. If this was his idea of being “badly beaten,” I had a few cronies he should meet. My puss took a worse thrashing when I tried to shave during a hangover. A notion struck me. My rough idea could be wrong, but I decide to play it out, anyway. I smiled. “I have a few questions for you. Tell me–”
If this was his idea of being “badly beaten,” I had a few cronies he should meet.
“I asked who you are, mister. You’re not a copper, are you?” His tone was losing its coarseness.
I leaned in menacingly close and kept my voice low. “Just answer my questions, sparky, and we’ll get along fine.”
He fidgeted with his polishing rag. His hard-bark facade was already fading faster than Hoover’s political support back in ’32. “Are you the police? He said no cops.” His faced reddened. “Does Mrs. Babington know you’re here?”
I ignored his questions and pressed on, “Mrs. Babington tells me the kidnapper ran you off the road three miles from here.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” he answered, gesturing to minor damage on the front fender of the Packard sedan. “It was where the power lines cross to this side of Babington Road.”
“What’d the man who took Lucy look like? Was he taller or shorter than you?”
“I dunno. Around … around the same height, I guess.” He was now showing signs of being shaken by my appearance and my questions.
I moved to a rapid-fire questioning to help his uneasiness. “Was he heavy or thin like you? Could you make out any hair color? Did he say anything? Did you detect any accent? What kind of car did he drive?”
He hesitated, eyes anxious. I waited, grinning. “Jeez, mister, I dunno. I don’t–. Are you–?”
“C’mon, Bates! You were face to face with the kidnapper! You had to have noticed these things!” I shot him a hard glare. “What kind of machine did he drive?”
“I didn’t take notice. You see, I don’t know very much about car makes and models. I–”
I pushed my lid back on my head and smirked at the young man. “Oh, yeah. I see.” I’d gotten what I wanted for the time being. Turning back toward the mansion, I shot over my shoulder, “I’ll be seeing you again soon, Bates.”
He was still standing, frozen in time, when I reentered the residence and asked to see Mrs. Babington again. Talbot appeared and led me back through the maze. As we walked, I stirred things around in my head and asked the butler a few questions. I knew Mrs. Babington had hired me only to deliver the ransom money and nothing else. But the circumstances had aroused my curiosity. Something screwy was spinning in the back of my mind. Things weren’t adding up. But what I knew of the case so far wouldn’t cover a gnat’s ass. My digging a little deeper couldn’t hurt, could it? In the library, I returned to my previous chair and dropped my hat on the one beside it.
“Did you locate the chauffeur?” she asked, as she slid a picture of a pretty little blonde girl across the desk to me. I glanced at the snap and put in a pocket.
“Yes, I did. Thank you. Did Dr. Nolan look Bates over while he was here this morning?”
“Yes. Yes, he did. He reported the boy’s injuries were superficial.”
That had been my impression, too. “Tell me, Mrs. Babington, did you share the content of your conversation with the kidnapper with anyone else in the household?”
“No, I did not,” she responded, haughtily. “I didn’t feel it was necessary or appropriate. Why do you ask?”
“No particular reason, ma’am. I’m trying to gather all the information I can. Say, that garage is fairly large. By chance, does it have more than one apartment above it?”
“It does. Before my husband died, we had two drivers, one for him for business and one for me for shopping and social events. Each chauffeur had an apartment. The other male members of the staff, as I mentioned, lived in a dormitory-style room there.”
“Is it possible for me to use the vacant one while I’m staying here?”
“But you’re welcome to stay here in the main residence, Mr. Tanner. You’d be far more comfortable.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but the apartment would be more convenient should I need to leave in a hurry. That way there will be no need to disturb the household or the staff. And my car will be right there if I needed it on short notice. Talbot told me the staff take their meals in a dining room in the kitchen area of the servants’ hall. If it’s all right with you, I’ll eat with them there.” I wanted to keep a close eye on the chauffeur.
The lady gave me an odd glance, but I said nothing. I didn’t want her to know what my suspicions about the matter were. “Suit yourself, Mr. Tanner. Talbot shall arrange it.”
“Is your daughter-in-law available yet?”
“No, she’s still asleep under the heavy sedation.”
“Is there anyone in the household you might suspect would be involved in this stunt?”
My question took her aback. “Why, no! Of course not! The very idea of such is preposterous!”
“How is your relationship with Cora?”
“Why do you ask?” She shot me a hard-eyed look. “I’m not at all pleased with the implication of your question, Mr. Tanner!”
“Again, I’m just trying to get the lay of the land, Mrs. Babington. It wouldn’t be the first time a family member pulled something such as this to bleed money from a wealthy relative. Money they somehow felt someone owed them.”
“See here, Mr. Tanner, Cora loves Lucy beyond anything you can imagine. Not for one instance could I ever imagine her putting the child in harm’s way. Besides, Cora wants for nothing. They live here and come and go as they please. My daughter-in-law is as fine a woman as I’ve ever known. If the truth is known, and it pains me to admit it, she was too good for my son.” Violet gasped, as if in pain, then went on, “She made an unfortunate marriage when she accepted our Henry’s proposal. I’m indebted to Cora for trying to settle his reckless lifestyle. And then for staying with him when her efforts failed. She might have walked away at any time with a considerable sum. So it wasn’t money which kept her here.”
“My daughter-in-law is as fine a woman as I’ve ever known. If the truth is known, and it pains me to admit it, she was too good for my son.”
Mrs. Babington paused. Her eyes searched my face, as if weighing what and how much to tell me. Finally, she broke the silence. “Recall your vow of confidentiality, Mr. Tanner.” I waggled my head, acknowledging the promise. “My son met Cora in England shortly after the Great War. Henry had served in a staff job, protected by the influence of his father who spoiled him. Cora had volunteered as a nurse at a field hospital of some sort in France. She was there during the Battle of the Somme. The things the girl must have seen.” The old lady’s voice trailed off as her eyes wandered and teared up. After a moment, she returned to me. “I assure you, sir, she is a fiercely strong woman.” She pushed back from the desk where she sat. “May I share something with you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You must never mention knowing of what I’m going to show you.” She went to a nearby shelf. From behind a row of volumes, Violet withdrew a tattered old book. Gingerly turning the pages to find something, she explained, “I found Cora’s diary in an old trunk when I was searching for my son’s medals to prepare for his funeral. I’m showing it to you so you may better understand her.” She stopped and handed me the thing. “Read the entry for July second.”
The page was faded and blotchy, but the writing was a graceful script. It read: “It has been a long, blood-soaked day-and-a-half in the operating room. Finished for a little while. I’m not hungry. Just exhausted. I may never be hungry again. But I’ll be forever tired.” The words hit me like a brick. I handed the diary to Mrs. Babington.
Violet closed the book and held it to her breast. “So you see why I’m so protective of Cora. She’s an exceptional woman who would never be involved in something such as this.” As the lady returned the book to its hiding place, she whispered, “I read this when I find myself at a low ebb.” She sat back at the desk. “My mother always told me powerful women are hard to live with. Maybe such was the problem with Cora and Henry. He acted the fool, but it wasn’t enough to break her. She stayed by Lucy and protected her despite my son.
“Much as his father, Henry was rather a heel. Cads, the pair of them. Both men were heavy drinkers and womanizers. Drink finally put an end to my husband. Suffice it to say Hugh’s lifestyle, not to mention his place in the line of succession, brought an end to his hopes for a title. As cold as it may sound, my son found a fitting end as well.”
“But I read–”
She stopped me with a raised hand. “Yes. I know the newspapers reported Henry’s death being the result of a tragic hunting accident. But what’s the advantage of owning gazettes if you can’t control what they print?” She sighed audibly, “In truth, an enraged, jealous husband shot my son on the grounds here. He then turned the gun on himself. The entire repugnant affair was shocking, to say the least. And I hushed it up to save further shame from coming to Cora and Lucy.”
So the scion of the Babington clan was a cad. I thanked the lady. “I imagine sharing these last five minutes wasn’t easy for you, Mrs. Babington. But it has helped me in my understanding.” I stood to leave. “Oh, one last question occurs to me just now. From what Carson and Cora told you about the kidnapping and their return trip here, could you estimate the time between the incident and the kidnapper’s telephone call?” It was a blind leap, but I had to make it.
“Well, Cora and Bates said they left the location immediately and drove quickly to get back here. They were still explaining the incident when the phone rang.” She paused in thought. “My guess would be no less than five nor more than ten minutes, Mr. Tanner. Is it important?”
“It might be, Mrs. Babington. Time will tell. As I figure it, the kidnapper is not likely to call you with ransom delivery instructions much before the seventy-two-hour deadline. First, not knowing how easy or difficult it might be for you to get the cash, he’ll want to give you time to get the ransom together before he calls. Second, he’ll not want to telephone with instructions too much before the drop-off time. Less notice to you means less time to set a trap for him, in the event you have called the law.”
Her eyes reflected understanding of my logic. “In the meantime, I’m going to hustle back into the city. I need to check on things at my office and then pack a bag for my stay here over the next several days. If it’s all the same to you, will you let Alfred know I’ll be staying here and may need to come and go through the gate?”
“I’ve already done so. And the staff will prepare a room for you.”
“Thanks.” She nodded. “See you later, Mrs. Babington.”
It surprised me to find my LaSalle sitting at the front door as I left. At the gate, I thanked Alfred for his help, passed through, and turned right toward the city.
At the three-mile point, where the power lines crossed Babington Road, I eased to the side. The fact the kidnapper had telephoned so quickly meant he hadn’t driven too far before making the call. It set me thinking. Either he was holed up nearby somewhere with a telephone or he’d stopped to use one close by. My location was well enough out of the city to be only open farmland. Using a slightly above-average speed, I timed my drive. Along the way I passed three dirt driveways which led to homesteads. One of those appeared abandoned. Only one of the three had power and telephone lines running from the highway to the house. No other roads intersected the one I traveled.
The fact the kidnapper had telephoned so quickly meant he hadn’t driven too far before making the call.
* * *
On the ten-minute mark, I stopped. The spot was within view of the intersection where Babington Road crossed State Highway 129. On one corner stood an old country store with a gas pump in front. It was the only building within sight. As I pulled in to the pump, an older man in bib overalls came out of the store and down the steps.
“Fill her up, friend.” I leaned against my car and waited until he had the operation going. “Say, I’m looking for a fella who might have stopped by here sometime this morning. Maybe used the telephone, if you have one. You recall anybody?”
“Yep, I got a telephone. It’s inside on the wall. Lots of folks hereabouts use the thing. But they mostly walk or travel by a rickety old truck or wagon. And I do recall a feller in a car. Friend of yours?”
“Yeah. Why do you ask?”
“Well, he was in an all-fired hurry for some reason. Agitated, too. He stopped at the pump. Same as you. By the time I hit the door, he was askin’ if I had a telephone. Not neighborly in his askin’ either. Yelled at me to fill his tank and be quick about it. I topped him off. He come flyin’ out, slapped a five-dollar bill in my hand, and drove off as if the devil himself was achasin’ him. Never even waited for his change.”
Now I was getting somewhere. “That sounds like him. Did you see whether he had a little boy or girl with him?”
“Nah. I never seen no kids with him.”
“Did you notice what kind of car he was driving?”
“Say, I thought you said this feller was a friend of yours.”
“Yeah, yeah, he is, but I think he’s driving a different crate since I saw him last. We were stationed together in the army. Haven’t seen him in a while. When we talked last week, Bill–that’s his name–said he wanted to stop for a visit on his way through the city. He said he’d meet me down the road, but I haven’t seen him. We must’ve missed each other. Thought I’d come this way to see whether he got this far.”
“Sounds like ya missed t’one another right enough. He was drivin’ a dark-green Buick. A big, four-door job. Had damage on the front passenger fender. New damage.” I gave him a questioning look. “No rust,” he smiled. “I notice them things.”
It occurred to me the damage could have been caused by him running Babington car off the road. I paid the man for the gas.
“Funny thing, though,” he added as an afterthought.
“Yeah?”
“There was a queer sorta smell to him. The car had it, too, only stronger.”
“Can you describe the odor?”
“Nah. Just peculiar. When you’re around gasoline fumes ever’day, the way I am, it kinda messes with your sense of smell, ya know? Did remind me of a hospital, though. I figured he might be some kinda traveling chemical salesman. Your friend in that line of work?”
“Yep, he is. You nailed it!” I laughed. “See you, friend.” I climbed in my heap and headed for the city.
So, whoever the goon was, he’d probably used something on Lucy to knock her out and keep her quiet. I only hoped he knew how to use it without killing the kid. He’d likely put the unconscious girl in the back seat and threw a blanket or something over her to keep her hidden from prying eyes. The kidnapper might have been taking a chance calling the Babington place with Lucy in his car, but two things made it worth the risk. One, he had to make the call in time to keep Violet from telephoning the coppers. Second, he had, in my line of thought, an inside person who could delay things until he made a clean getaway.
. . . he’d probably used something on Lucy to knock her out and keep her quiet.
* * *
Nothing new was shaking at my office. I telephoned Harry’s Paradise Tavern to tell the proprietor I’d be away for a few days. If I missed more than two days in a row drinking at the watering hole, Harry started calling around to the local hospitals, funeral homes and the city morgue. I made another quick phone call to my brother’s house to give them the same information. Just in case.
At my apartment, I threw three days’ change of clothes into a suitcase. I also tossed in my sap and a bottle of Jack Daniels, for medicinal purposes, of course. In short order, I was back in the LaSalle and motoring toward the Babington estate.
* * *
It was late by the time I pulled up to the front gate. Alfred let me through. I stopped and spoke with him long enough to learn he lived in the little gatehouse. So, he assured me, he was close at hand at all times. He slapped the holster on his hip as he spoke. The way he talked about the Babington family, he seemed devoted to them. I told him I’d be staying in one of the apartments over the garage in case he needed me. He advised the matron of the manor had already passed along the information.
I asked whether young Bates ever left the property. The question was put casually, as if the answer didn’t matter much. He told me of a love interest named Thelma the boy had in the city. Albert said he understood the woman was a cigarette girl at a nightclub on the south side of town. The gatekeeper let slip he had no idea where she lived. But it was in town somewhere. He laughed and said he’d warned Carson this Thelma sounded like too much woman for him to handle. We shared a laugh.
I parked to one side of the garage and hauled my luggage up the stairs to the front hallway. The chauffeur stepped from an apartment into the passageway as I reached the top of the steps. His face showed a mild shock at seeing me. “What’re you doing here?”
“Didn’t you hear?” I chuckled. “I’m going to be your neighbor for the next several days. At least until this mess blows over.” I tossed him a meaningful look. “We’re going to get to know each other really well, Bates.” I thought I heard him gulp as he walked back into his quarters.
The apartment was as nice as my bedsit back in the city. I tossed the suitcase onto the soft bed. As I unpacked, I thought about the investigation and the leads I’d developed so far. News of the goon and his dark-green Buick was huge. I was convinced Bates was up to his neck in the kidnapping, too. The thing smelled like a setup. Based on everything Mrs. Babington had said, I was willing to give Cora Babington the benefit of the doubt for the time being. I figured to follow the chauffeur, when he left the property, to see whether he’d meet with the hooligan in the big four-door boiler. I didn’t have long to wait. That was jake with me, because the clock was ticking.
* * *
Early the next morning, I showered and shaved, before making my way to the servants’ area in what Talbot referred as the “downstairs” of the manor. Uncertain faces greeted me around the room. The butler introduced me as someone Mrs. Babington had hired for a short-time assignment. A brief time later, I overheard Carson speaking in low tones with the butler. They were standing in a hallway just outside a kitchen door. While helping myself to the breakfast offering on the sideboard, I eased closer to the door. The chauffeur asked Talbot whether, because there were no plans by the family to use the cars that day, he could take the day off. He wanted to go see his girlfriend in the city. The older man agreed, saying, after the chauffeur’s trying ordeal the day before, he probably could use time away.
As the conversation broke off, I took a seat at the table. Carson sat across from me at a slight angle. As we ate scrambled eggs and ham, I watched the young driver. He appeared to be nervous and preoccupied.
Suddenly, the “library” bell on the servants’ call board sounded. “Madam is at her desk. And so it begins,” Talbot intoned evenly. Those few still on the household staff at the Babington manor sprang to life after last-second gulps of food or coffee. I left the chauffeur dawdling in the kitchen, flirting with one of the housemaids.
Quickly moving to my LaSalle, I cranked it and eased along the drive. My plan was to follow Carson to see where it might lead. But, because I knew the route he’d have to take into town, I decided to wait for him at the old country store. A short time later found me parked under a tree beside the store, awaiting my prey. We were in the midst of a lingering heat wave, and the temperature was climbing. I was glad to be driving a breezer.
My plan was to follow Carson to see where it might lead.
* * *
In due course, Bates flashed by in the Babington family’s Packard sedan. Apparently, the matriarch allowed him personal use of it occasionally. After an appropriate time, I pulled out and followed. I tailed the young man into the city limits, then downtown to Sheffield Street, a few blocks south of Broad Street. When he slowed to find a parking spot, I pulled to the curb and watched. Carson parked the bucket, scrambled out, and hustled into the Sheffield Court apartment building.
Following at a safe distance, I waited behind a large, potted fern at the entrance as he slipped into the elevator. As soon as the door to the lift closed, I moved to it. The floor indicator above the machine stopped at the fifth floor. Before following young Carson, I checked the mailboxes in the lobby. The name Thelma Baxter was on the mailbox for apartment five-oh-four. I returned to the elevator, pressed the call button, and waited. The car came back down immediately.
In the fifth-floor hall, I located the skirt’s apartment and put my ear to the door. From the other side came the not-so-subtle sounds of a couple getting heatedly amorous. Suddenly, a matronly woman turned the corner and walked in my direction, giving me the evil eye. I nonchalantly pulled a piece of paper from a pocket and pretended to study it. Chuckling softly, I said to no one in particular, “Wrong floor.” The woman passed me with a contemptuous snort. I followed her to the elevator. She pushed the down button. When the apparatus arrived, she moved onto it and turned in my direction, eying me suspiciously. “I’m going up,” I said meekly. The door closed, and I returned to the outside of Thelma’s apartment.
Suddenly, a matronly woman turned the corner and walked in my direction, giving me the evil eye.
By the time I made it back to the door, the soft murmurs from inside had turned into angry recriminations. The couple was not happy and didn’t care who heard about it. During the exchange, I heard the names Lucy and Carl mentioned a time or two. Unexpectedly, someone inside stamped toward the door. A woman’s shouts followed the heavy footsteps. I ducked around the corner in time to see Carson enter the hallway. His face was flushed. Whether it was from unresolved passion or a consuming rage, I couldn’t tell. Nothing riles a mug as much as getting worked up for a dose of sugar, then not getting it. Bates reached back into the apartment and slammed the door. He stomped off to the elevator. When he’d disappeared into it, I stepped back to Thelma’s door.
Gently, I tried the knob. The careless dame had left it unlocked. I eased through the door into a one-room apartment holding uninteresting furniture and a wall bed resting on a green carpet. Thelma was lying on the bed, wearing only a smile. Even that faded when she saw me. She abruptly sat up. Carson’s blonde girlfriend was a few years older than him but was a real looker in a trashy sort of way. Amiable curves. Perky in all the right places. Great gams. I noticed immediately blonde was not her natural hair color. She made no effort to cover up as she crawled to the edge of the bed. “Who the hell are you?” she shouted. “And what the hell are you doing in here?”
I frisked the bathroom as I passed. It was empty. Likewise, out of habit, as I rounded the bed, I glanced through the open windows which looked down on Sheffield Street. “You look as if you were expecting somebody else, Thelma. Sorry to disappoint.”
As if a thought had occurred to her out of the blue, Thelma jumped from the bed, moved to a window, and lowered a shade against the heat. Perhaps she’d developed an unexpected case of modesty. Strange thing was, the shade on the other window stayed up.
She turned to me, naked as a mermaid, and bowed up. Hands on bare hips, she demanded, “Did you knock, buster?”
“I could’ve, but I didn’t. Guess why I’m here, Thelma. I’m a private investigator. And I’m looking into a kidnapping. A kidnapping I know your boyfriend was involved in up to bushy eyebrows.”
She blanched but shot back, “So, a PI, huh? You’re nothing but a greasy little man who creeps around hotels and peeps through keyholes and transoms!”
“Gee,” I answered sarcastically, “nobody’s ever accused me of that before.” I dropped my hat on the bed. I could always have it fumigated later. “Like I said, I figured Carson for a part in the kidnapping.” I jerked my chin back toward the apartment’s entrance. “And now what I just heard from outside your door tells me it’s a pipe you’re involved up to …,” I said in a low voice, giving her the once-over, briefly holding my gaze at her breasts before returning to her face, “up to your pretty little nipples in the thing.”
She stepped back and turned away as I continued, “There’s a third mug involved, too. I just haven’t figured out who yet. But it won’t be long before I glam onto him. Carson’s a bit lily-livered, you know. He’s certainly no criminal mastermind. Whichever way you slice it, doll face, it means a ride on Old Sparky for you.”
“Is that how you got it figured, shamus?”
“Oh, yeah. But I’ll come up with another theory if that one doesn’t pan out. I always do.”
Thelma turned back, shot me a sugary smile, and pressed her body against me. Her tone softened. “Say, you’re kinda cute, in a rough sorta way. I could go for you. Care for a romp, big boy?”
She could’ve put an eye out with one of those breasts she pressed into my coat. The problem was nobody, but nobody goes gooey over a mug such as me without an angle. The frail was only playing me. Trying to throw me off the track? Maybe scream rape in a moment of passion? It didn’t matter. I wasn’t in the market. But just for laughs I chuckled, “I’m sure I brought enough cash with me. Can you make change for a five?” Her mouth twisted as she went hard. Her anger was white hot. Thelma’s soft, yielding flesh was nice while it lasted, but I pushed her away. She drew back to slap me. I grabbed her wrist and twisted it hard. “Huh-uh, sister. I don’t slap so easy this time of day. Besides, you’re throwing it away. I’m here strictly on business,” I hissed.
The frail was only playing me.
“Oh, a dick with scruples, huh?”
“Hardly. But I’ll pretend for now, if it suits you.” I picked up my hat and stormed out. She screamed something after me as the door slammed, but I didn’t catch it.
* * *
From the lobby, I walked out into the warm air. Setting fire to a gasper, I scanned the street. A thug sat in a big boiler at the corner, watching me intently. Not casual like at all. He pulled his hat low over his face, but not so fast I didn’t see it belonged to Karl McLaglen. Karl-with-a-K McLaglen. Now, that was interesting. Even more fascinating was the fact he sat in a dark-green, four-door Buick, one which had damage to its front passenger-side fender.
I turned and looked up to windows of the apartment I’d just left. A robed Thelma had replaced the drawn shade. She hastily moved away when she saw me looking at her. My guess was the shade positioning had been a signal to somebody named Karl. I’d seen that sort of gambit before. So the attractive twist had been using Carson Bates, much as she’d tried to play me. The Buick’s motor coughed, then purred smoothly as Karl guided the car away from the curb. As I watched it hum past, I recalled my knowledge of McLaglen.
* * *
Karl McLaglen was a prominent member of our city’s south side mob, commonly known as The League. After starting out as a small-time grifter, he’d climbed their ranks to become one of their top earners. Most of his cash flow came from owning and operating the Heidelberg Inn, a clip joint located south of town. Aside from being a decent restaurant with a small dancefloor, the place boasted a bar in the basement called the Rathskeller. The bar had served as a speakeasy during the Prohibition years. The thing had been one of the worst-kept secrets in the county.
Despite the anti-German sentiment which evolved during the Great War, Karl had steadfastly refused to change its name. Rumor had it his mother had been of German descent. Regardless, the Heidelberg kept its moniker and business never suffered. McLaglen was a ruthless son of a bitch who didn’t care who he ran over to get what he wanted.
The goon’s picture had made the front page of the dailies a few years back when he’d been charged with murdering a shopkeeper in a fit of rage. Just before trial, they dropped the charges when the district attorney’s only witness “left town” and wasn’t heard from again. There’d been no other direct evidence to tie the gangster to the crime. Much like the shopkeeper, the case died a quick death. Nonetheless, the story was told The League was unhappy with the way McLaglen conducted business. His brashness and temper landed him in the pages of the local broadsheets too often to keep the publicity-shy south side mob bosses happy.
. . . he’d been charged with murdering a shopkeeper in a fit of rage.
* * *
Now I’ve never considered myself a sap. But it pissed me off I hadn’t connected the dots before now. Thelma was Carson’s squeeze, she worked as a cigarette girl at a roadhouse, and the Heidelberg Inn was owned by Karl McLaglen. There was no time for reproaches just then, though. I needed answers and quick. Where was Lucy Babington? Bates didn’t have her. Thelma, holed up alone in her apartment, with the door locked by now, didn’t have the kid.
It wasn’t likely Karl would drive around town with a six-year-old kidnap victim in his car. Regardless, he had too much head start in this metropolitan traffic to follow him. He sure as hell wouldn’t stash the kid at Heidelberg. So where was she? Possibly there was a fourth party in on the caper. Carson Bates was the weak link I needed to work on. I hoped he could lead me to Lucy somehow.
* * *
After violating a half-dozen traffic laws, I pulled up to the Babington estate entrance. When asked, Albert told me Bates had arrived an hour earlier. I thanked him and drove to the garage.
When I looked in his room, the young man was nursing a bottle of scotch. “You old enough to drink that stuff, Carson?”
“Screw you, Tanner!”
“I’m man enough if you’re woman enough, Bates,” I laughed.
The chauffeur didn’t see the humor in my response. He jumped up, kicking the chair away. Grabbing the scotch bottle by its neck, he screamed, “I’ll kill you, you bastard!”
“Think over what you’re getting yourself into, Carson,” I warned.
“It’s okay, copper, I’m tough!”
“Tough? You’re soft as a peach compared to Thelma.”
“You’ll pay for that wisecrack!”
“Who’s going to collect? You?”
The kid was boozed up. He started toward me, raising the bottle over his head. I lunged for him, catching the bottle on a downward sweep. Bates fought back with the courage of despair. For a brief time, it was touch and go. He was tougher than I’d given his slender body credit for, but I was stronger. I pummeled his face with two sharp jabs. They seemed to sober him up to an extent as blood rushed from his nostrils. He dropped back into his chair, a defeated young man.
He was tougher than I’d given his slender body credit for.
“Whattya want, copper?” he asked with a scotch-soaked sigh.
“I just came from your girl’s place, Carson. She–”
“You’re full of shit!”
“Maybe so, but I’m on the square right now. You need to know your pal, Karl McLaglen, was sitting outside of Thelma’s apartment building in his Buick when I left. I figure they had a ‘date’ planned when your happy ass showed up unexpectedly.”
“You’re slipping your clutch, bub!” He dabbed his nose with a bandana. “Just a coincidence. I asked Karl one time if he had any feelings for Thelma. He told me she was his employee only. Period.”
“McLaglen’s a con artist, Carson! Bullshit is his currency! Hell, Thelma even came on to me while I was there.”
He was avoiding eye contact. “Thelma loves me! And only me! We’re gonna–”
“You need to work on that poker face. She’s as exclusive as a doorknob, Bates! Get wise to yourself!” I paused and took a deep breath. “I had you pegged for this lay as soon as I saw you. Those ‘injuries’ from the kidnapper beating were crap, chum. And the bit of not knowing anything about the makes or models of cars was bushwah. Nobody knows more about models of heaps than chauffeurs and hack drivers.” He threw his face down on his arms on the table and started bawling. I walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Where’s Lucy Babington, Carson? We need to find her quick, before anything happens to her.”
“I dunno,” he sobbed. “That’s not my end of the deal. I told McLaglen when and where I’d be alone with Lucy and her mother. I was just supposed to drive the Babington’s, pull off the road when Karl drove up beside me, and pretend to fight him. That’s it. I swear.”
“How d’you get involved in this mess, Carson?”
After a minute, he spilled his guts. “One night when I was at the Heidelberg to see Thelma, Karl told me he had an idea of how I could make some easy dough. He said it could be enough to set me and Thelma up for life.” The chauffeur shook his head. “He knew I had the hots for Thelma. I was always going to his club to see her when she had to work and we couldn’t go out. He invited me to his office there. We had a few drinks and started talking about Thelma and our future together. That’s when I asked him and he told me Thelma meant nothing to him.” The young man stopped talking. His eyes watered.
“Go on. Was Thelma aware of his plan?”
“She had an idea I was getting into something with Karl. A scheme that meant money for us. I don’t think she knew for sure what it was, but she urged me to do it.” It was obvious Bates had no idea his girl was playing him for a sucker. “Anyway, as I said, all I had to do was drive, pull off the road, and scuffle with Karl at the right time. That was it. He said the law wouldn’t be involved. We’d collect the money and return the kid. Piece of cake, he said. Nobody gets hurt, and we get rich. He told me he wanted to help Thelma and me.”
It was obvious Bates had no idea his girl was playing him for a sucker.
The kid looked up at me with a pitiful expression. “I didn’t know he was going to knock Miss Cora out. Honest. He slugged me a few times to make it look good.” Bates exhaled sharply and went on, “It felt like he hit me harder than he needed to.”
This was one naïve sap. “And your cut of the ransom?”
“I was to get a quarter of the take. Karl said I should wait a few months before I quit work here. Then I could come to him, collect my share, and leave town with my girl.” There wasn’t much conviction in his voice now.
“Where’s Lucy?”
“I tell you, I don’t know! If I did, I’d say!” He started crying again.
Somehow, I believed he didn’t know where the little girl was. Getting rough with him wouldn’t accomplish anything. I went to my room to figure a next step. Most of the pieces seemed to have fallen into place. But I had to find the Babington girl. I poured a drink from the bottle in my suitcase and eased onto the bed.
Suddenly a car’s motor cranked as I lay on the bed smoking and sipping. I yelled Carson Bates’ name through the wall but got no response. I rushed out to a hall window in time to see the chauffeur speed off in the Babington sedan. Instinctively, I felt for my .45 under my arm as I moved around my room. I grabbed my coat, hat, and sap and ran to the stairs, taking them three at a time to get to my convertible. Albert had not closed the gate completely by the time I got there. I burned the road toward town. My bet was the chauffeur was headed to Thelma’s to confront her over what I’d told him. The move could be a big mistake.
I rushed out to a hall window in time to see the chauffeur speed off in the Babington sedan.
* * *
Dusk was settling over the city when I pulled to the curb down the block from the Sheffield Court building. The Babington heap was nowhere in sight. Hustling along the sidewalk, I glanced up to the windows in Thelma’s fifth-floor apartment. Lights were on inside.
As I approached the entrance, there was a sudden, loud thud behind me. A sound like a melon being hit by a baseball bat accompanied it. I turned to the broken body of a man askew on the sidewalk. His limbs were jumbled, as if he was double-jointed or something. As I ran–I’m uncertain why I hurried–to him, I saw the pulverized mass which was once his head. He hadn’t bounced. His face wasn’t recognizable, but I knew from the clothes it was Carson Bates. Gauging from the body’s proximity to the building, I was pretty damned sure he hadn’t pulled a Brodie. Someone had dumped him out a window. I looked up to the windows again. Light still shone through them. I ran inside to the open elevator.
On the fifth floor, I loped to Thelma’s apartment. Noise from a party across the hall flooded the passageway. The blonde’s door was locked this time. No light came from under the sill. Unholstering my gat and stepping back, I hit it with my leg out straight. The jamb splintered, and the door flung open hard. It struck a piece of furniture or something behind it and bounced back toward me. Only the faint light coming through windows lit the apartment. I walked in carefully, checking behind the door as I moved. The joint was empty. The faint scent of chloroform came to me. Though I hadn’t seen his Buick on the street, Karl McLaglen had been there.
I found a switch on the wall beside me and turned the overhead light on. One of the windows was open. The wall bed was up off the floor. I checked the bathroom and closet. They, too, were empty. When I turned back into the main room, I noticed grooves in the rug as if someone had dragged a body across it. The marks led to the window. Carson might have been too manly for Thelma to handle and topple out the window alone. But it wouldn’t have been much of a stunt for a big bruiser like Karl to do it. Where was Thelma? I wondered. I dropped the bed to the floor just to be sure McLaglen hadn’t victimized her, too. The bed was unmade, but empty.
I returned the .45 to my shoulder holster and plopped down on the edge of the mattress. The sound of sirens approached my location as I considered the situation. Now the weak link I thought I had in Carson was gone. Thelma was nowhere around. She might have hauled ass with Karl after his work here. Aside from that possibility, I had no idea where to look for her. At this point, she appeared to be my best bet to break this inquiry wide open, if I could find her. Maybe the Heidelberg held the answer after all. I’d be walking into a lion’s den there. But before I played that card, I had a few things to do. Depending on what waited for me at the roadhouse, whether I could find Thelma, I was formulating a couple of loose plans in my noggin.
My first stop was the Medical Arts Building to see a doctor friend. Dr. Lusk was something of a shady character with a police record for treating gunshot wounds and not reporting them. He continued to do so occasionally, if he knew you. Somehow, he still held a license to practice medicine but was barely scraping by because of his past. He knew me and my racket, so he asked no questions. Among other “favors,” doc had sold me a stethoscope and various items I used from time to time. Now, I figured I needed something which wasn’t in my “tool bag.”
After seeing Lusk, I visited a recently vacated structure I was aware of in the west side warehouse district over by the river. It required me to pick a few locks before quickly setting up my little vignette, as the eggheads might label it.
* * *
Several hours later, with my preparations completed, I strolled through the Heidelberg Inn and ordered a drink at the bar downstairs in the Rathskeller. Thelma was not in the place as far as I could tell. Another doll was passing among the crowd, flashing great gams and big smiles and hawking cigarettes and cigars. As I searched the joint, I spied Karl McLaglen making the rounds with the customers. He didn’t see me. I retreated to the parking area.
As I searched the joint, I spied Karl McLaglen making the rounds with the customers.
Back in the dimly lighted parking lot, I found Karl’s car and staked the thing out. A little before midnight, the hoodlum teetered his way down the front steps and in my direction. I waited.
When the gangster stopped at the driver’s door of his bucket, I quietly stepped behind him. Suddenly, Karl appeared to realize he was no longer alone. He slipped his hand into his lapel. I grabbed his right arm and blasted his head into the side of his car. My effort had little effect. McLaglen used his bulk to push off the Buick, forcing me to the ground. He came around, pulling a revolver from his coat. I launched myself for the gun. Getting one hand on the roscoe, I desperately squeezed the other around his throat. His free hand, at the end of an arm shorter than mine, flailed around, trying to reach my face.
The struggle between us seemed to last an eternity. Our feet scraped the ground as we each frantically tried to get a purchase and leverage on the other. Finally, I released my grip on his neck and, just as quickly, pounded the fist to his throat. When I hit McLaglen in the gullet, wild surprise showed on his face. I still had a firm grip on his gun as he fell. A quick jerk got it away from him. Karl dropped back into a sitting position against his car, struggling to get a breath. I sapped him but good and dropped his rod into my coat pocket.
Hastily, I looked around. No one else was in that area of the parking lot. I tapped the goon with my sap again, just to be certain he slept for a while. Awkwardly lifting McLaglen, I heaved him over my shoulder and staggered toward my ride. I’m no Nancy, but the lummox weighed a ton. About three cars along the aisle from the LaSalle, a couple ankled from between two parked cars. The woman gasped. Her male companion stepped between me and her, pushing the lady back slightly. Both stared at me in mild disbelief.
About three cars along the aisle from the LaSalle, a couple ankled from between two parked cars. The woman gasped.
I chuckled heartily. “My pal. He’s getting married tomorrow. And he’s had too much eel juice on his last night as a free man. I gotta get him home and sobered up or my sister, the bride, is gonna kill me.”
The couple released relieved laughs, nodded, and moved on. I finally reached my car. After struggling to get the passenger door open, I dropped my captive into the seat and tied his hands behind his back. I bent him forward and put a hood over his head. Then I hustled around the crate and climbed in under the wheel. After teasing the motor to life, I slammed the car into gear and sped off. Karl never moved during the drive.
* * *
Half an hour later, I eased the LaSalle through the gate in the tall steel-mesh fence surrounding my destination and confining it to the riverfront. Earlier, through a contact, I’d learned of the structure which hadn’t been abandoned too long and still had electricity running to some of its spaces. Soon, I had McLaglen in the small office sitting in a corner of the warehouse. The bare light bulb swinging from the wire in the middle of the room gave the place an eerie atmosphere. After tying the unconscious man securely to a chair I’d previously bolted to a wall, I returned to my LaSalle and got the doctor’s bag of goodies Lusk had provided.
Back in the office, I put the bag on a table located close to McLaglen. I jerked the hood off his head and found him trying to come out of his stupor. A dose of smelling salts from the satchel brought him around the rest of the way. He blinked himself to full consciousness, looked around, then glared at me. “What the hell is this? Whattya think your doin’, gumshoe?”
“Oh, so you know who I am, Karl?”
“Yeah, you’re the PI who’s been nosing around in somethin’ that doesn’t concern him!”
“Sure it does. This is just a little party to bring my ‘nosing around,’ as you put it, to a happy conclusion. You’re the guest of honor. And you, my friend, are going to help me find a kidnapped little girl and get her home safely to her family.”
“Kidnapped? What kidnapped girl? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”
“The Babington kid, Karl. You know damned well what I’m talking about!”
“Oh, yeah, that. Yeah, I read the story in the papers.” He tried an innocent smile. It failed.
“Well, that’s pretty interesting since it hasn’t made the rags yet. But you just keep shoveling your bullshit, Karl, and see how far it gets you.”
Suddenly he lurched and jerked at his bindings, trying to get loose. It didn’t work for him. The ropes and the chair attached to the wall held firm. His eyes bulged with rage. “You’re not gonna queer this deal for me, shamus! I’ll kill ya first!” he spat at me.
“I’d say you’re in no position to make threats, McLaglen. But if you wanna play that game, it’s jake with me.” I strolled back to the table and pulled a loaded syringe from the bag. Making elaborate moves the hooligan couldn’t ignore, I held it up to the light bulb. “You’re familiar with where it goes from here, Karl. Blood, snot and tears.”
The man tied to the chair became even more wide-eyed. “What the hell is that?”
Pressing the plunger until a small amount of liquid squirted from the needle, I said evenly, “Oh, it’s something for you, my friend.”
“You gonna poison me? You can’t do that! It’s murder, I tell ya!” He started rocking back and forth again, frantically trying to loosen his bindings.
“Yeah, and I’m so sure murder is repulsive to you. Nah, I’m not going to poison you, Karl. That’d be too easy on you. Besides, I need you to tell me where the Babington kid is. And you have to answer for Carson Bates’ murder.”
McLaglen ignored my last comment. His eyes were glued to the needle. “What’s in the thing then?”
“Let’s get back to the Babington girl.”
My captive swallowed hard and looked away. “I ain’t gonna spill.” He heard me move closer and looked back to me. “What … what is that stuff?”
“I’ve got a doctor friend, you see, who knows the racket I’m in. From time to time, he sells me things to help me get results. He asks no questions.” I lowered the syringe and approach the man. “This is what he calls a saline solution. You know, salt water. They use it to clean wounds or dilute other medicines. And they give it to patients who have lost a lot of liquids. But it’s always given in the veins. And it’s always in an exact, prepared formula.”
I smiled wickedly. “They tell me it hurts like hell if it’s injected directly into a muscle … such as your thigh. I’ll start with this one,” I said, dropping the needle point onto the man’s leg. He flinched hard. “Now allow me to apologize, because I’m not sure of the correct ratio of salt to water. I had to make this up at home. May be too much salt. I don’t know. And this syringe? I borrowed this from a junkie pal of mine. He’s the careless sort, reusing dirty needles over and over again. So there’s no telling what’s in the thing. Anyway, this is going to hurt you a lot more than it will me. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, McLaglen, I’ll deny you death until you beg me for it.”
“They tell me it hurts like hell if it’s injected directly into a muscle … such as your thigh.”
I shoved the needle through Karl’s pants into his upper leg, not giving a damn whether he got an infection. He yelped at the sting of the long needle. Placing my thumb back on the plunger, I smiled menacingly again.
Though Karl twisted violently in the chair, the syringe held steady. When he realized his struggles couldn’t help, the thug screamed, “Wait! Wait! I’ll tell ya!”
I didn’t release my thumb from the plunger. “Well, I’m waiting.”
He frantically scanned the room as if looking for any possible way out available to him other than spilling his guts to me. I pressed the syringe harder against his thigh. He got the message. “Okay! Okay! She’s in an old, abandoned farmhouse on Babington Road, not far from the old lady’s estate.”
“The farmhouse between the country store and the estate?” He hesitated. I made like I was going to press the plunger.
“No! No! Wait! It’s one that’s around two miles this side of the country store. On the left, as you’re headed to town. It’s a distance from the road. We set up a little room for her in the house. She’s got a cot, water and food. Oh, and a pail for … for, well….”
“You son of a bitch! That’s no way to treat a six-year-old kid!” I wanted to cut his throat right there and then. But I needed to make sure the girl was actually where he’d said. Instead, I drew back and pounded his face with my fist. Blood spewed from his nose and dribbled from a corner of his mouth. I pulled the syringe out of his thigh. I returned to the table and started repacking the bag. “Who’s the ‘we’”?
“Thelma, Bates, and me.”
“Why d’you kill the Bates boy?”
“He was falling apart on me. The punk said he couldn’t take the heat you were giving him. I figured, with him out of the picture, you might quit snooping.”
“Nope, after getting a load of Thelma and seeing you outside her place, I put two and two together.”
He slumped and nodded. “Yeah, I was hoping you didn’t see me or at least didn’t put things together.”
“By the way, where is Thelma?”
He let loose a derisive laugh. “She’s with the kid.”
“Karl, I’ve got to say, for a supposedly tough monkey, you sure caved in easy. You’re a great disappointment.” Snapping the bag closed, I continued, “I’m going to leave you now and go collect the Babington child. If she’s not where you said, I’m coming back here for you. And you’ll wish saline solution was the only thing I had in this bag. I might try my hand at dentistry with you as my patient. Get me?” He nodded wearily. “Sorry, brother. Nothing personal.” I reached over and sapped him again, but good.
* * *
I located the farmhouse McLaglen had described. Dawn was sliding its coral streamers across the sky just below the lowering gray as I turned onto the rutted road leading to the place. You could smell rain in the air. Maybe a downpour might relieve the heat.
Parking my car a distance from the house, I walked along the dirt track, ducking in and out from behind the large elms lining the way. If Thelma heard or saw me coming, she might take a notion to involve some gunplay. Possibly hurt Lucy. I didn’t know that part of her temperament. But getting older had made me cautious. That and getting shot and the hell beaten out of me several times. As I approached, I could see even the trees near the house seemed to have died from the neglect of abandonment. Nobody stirred around the old wood-framed house, which was built up off the ground. No noises came to me from inside either. A quiet skulk around the perimeter revealed two windows boarded up.
Grabbing the rod from the holster under my arm, I stepped up onto the front porch as quietly as possible. Nonetheless, the old planks creaked under my feet. I flattened myself against the wall next to a door. Still, there was not a sound of movement from inside. I got a quick glance through a window in the door. In the dim light, the house looked deserted. I reached and tried the doorknob. It was locked. I stepped back and gave the door a hard kick. It cracked but held. A second kick threw the door open. No sounds from inside came to me. No movement.
Gun at the ready, I stirred around the edge of the door and looked in. The front room was empty except for a pile of rusted pipes to one side. A sickening smell filled the air. There were two opened doors and one closed going off from this room. I prowled the place, checking the side rooms as I moved. Thelma wasn’t in sight. As I made my way around the pipes, the skirt came into view. She laid crumpled on her side, trussed up like a turkey, looking lonely. Her eyes held the stale glitter of death. Someone had ripped a large bullet hole in the center of her blouse between those perky breasts. The wound had dried blood around the edge. Flesh flies buzzed in the air. More of McLaglen’s handiwork, no doubt. Maybe I’d expected to find what had been waiting for me. I didn’t know.
Gun at the ready, I stirred around the edge of the door and looked in.
I tried the closed door to the side room. It was locked. If Lucy was inside, I didn’t want to scare the wits out of her by kicking the thing in. I put my ear to the door. “Lucy!” I called out. “Lucy, can you hear me?”
Someone stirred beyond the wall. “Yes? Who is it?” came a muffled, hesitant response.
“Lucy, sweetheart, my name is Gil Tanner. I’m here to take you back to your mother. She sent me to get you.” The girl started crying. “Lucy.” The only answer was mournful sobbing. “Lucy! I need you to listen to me if I’m going to get you out of there. Okay?” Based on the dimensions I’d seen of the one next to it and the footprint of the house, I figured the room holding the kid was around eight feet by ten feet.
Through her tears, she replied, “Okay.”
“Lucy, you need to get against the wall farthest from the door and cover your face. Okay? This thing’s locked, and I don’t have a key. I need to kick it in but don’t want you to get hurt. Do you understand, Lucy?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“So tell me when you’re against the wall.”
After a second, the girl called out she was ready. A hard kick made quick work of the door. The closed-in room was stifling hot. Lucy, dressed in lavender, was beet-red from the heat. She ran to my arms. I picked her up and held her as she started crying again. “We’re going home now, Lucy.” She nodded her head vigorously for a couple of seconds.
I grabbed the blanket from the cot and covered her head. I wasn’t sure what the child had seen or heard in the last two days, but wasn’t going to add Thelma’s dead body to the list. In the front room, I removed McLaglen’s revolver from my pocket, wiped my prints from it, using the blanket, and dropped it carelessly to the floor. Then I hustled a still-covered Lucy out through the doorway. We made our way to the LaSalle. Soon we were rolling toward Lucy’s mother, grandmother, and home.
* * *
It was around seven a.m. by the time we reached the Babington estate. Rain had drifted in from the west. A clear sky hovered in the distance. Albert appeared, unlocked the gate, and trotted to my car. He opened the passenger door and happily hugged the mistress of the mansion. Then the man ran to the small house as we traveled up the drive. I was sure he would announce our arrival.
Talbot met us at the door with a broad smile. Lucy’s mother, wearing a dressing gown, was coming down the staircase as the girl’s grandmother emerged from the library. Both women ran to the girl as tears trickled down their cheeks. I stood quietly by and watched, pleased, if I may say so, with the results of my efforts. Then I realized I hadn’t seen Cora Babington until that moment. She was a statuesque, graceful woman with a handsome face. Cora’s dark eyes looked cried out.
While the weepy reunion went on, I decided it was time for some law. I asked Talbot the location of a telephone I could use. He walked me to a blower on a nearby hall table. I dialed the number for police headquarters and asked for the detective division. Talbot’s brows knit in disapproval before he moved away. Detective Gus Donovan came on the wire. He seemed preoccupied as I tried to explain the job I’d been working. He stopped me. A short, muffled conversation took place at his end before Detective Rob Waddell, a pal of mine, took over the call. He told me they were in a hurry, heading out the door to the waterfront district. A night watchman had found an unconscious guy tied to a chair in an empty warehouse.
I dialed the number for police headquarters and asked for the detective division.
Chuckling, I told Rob the mug was part of the investigation I was calling about. That got his attention. I briefly described the events of the last two days and answered the few questions Waddell interjected here and there. I also explained Carson Bates, whose supposed suicide at the Sheffield Court apartment building, was tied to the case and his death not what it first appeared. It was murder. In my discourse, I included the location of Thelma’s body, that the gun he’d find near the corpse belonged to the man in the warehouse, Karl McLaglen, and how the place fit in to the story. The conversation ended with telling him McLaglen was responsible for both murders. I promised to make myself available for any follow-up questions. Returning the receiver to its cradle, I moved back to beside the butler as he watched the joyful reunion, which was concluding.
After a few seconds, Violet turned to me. Her demeanor became serious. “Please follow me, Mr. Tanner,” she said sternly as she turned and walked to the library.
She found her usual seat behind the desk. I remained standing while she summoned Dr. Nolan by telephone. I did not intend to linger long. To collect my money and go was all I wanted.
Violet disconnected from the call and turned her attention to me. “I must say, Mr. Tanner, I am bitterly disappointed in you!” The old lady’s words stunned me. Before I could speak, she went on, “You disappeared yesterday and didn’t contact me in any manner. And now Bates has vanished with one of our automobiles.” Before I could explain Bates’s fate, she steamed forward in her tirade. “I wasn’t certain what game you were playing at, but it was most disconcerting. For all I knew, you were somewhere getting intoxicated. Frankly, it is one of your shortcomings about which I was warned. I–”
“Hold it right there, lady! I worked my ass off, at some risk, I might add,” I interjected, “to bring your granddaughter home safely!”
“And at what risk to Lucy I might ask? I would have gladly paid the ransom to keep her from harm. But no! You go out and jeopardize her safety playing the cowboy!” She gave me an imperious look.
“Is that your picture of me, Mrs. Babington? Well, it’s damned unfair!” I blurted. I was bone tired, in no mood for any crap from anybody. While the woman was still speechless, I added, “And, just for the record, I’ve been known to be sober! If it’s all the same to you, I’ll take my fee and go. You can save your high-handed tirades for an upstairs maid or somebody else!”
She indignantly harrumphed at my outburst, but grudgingly wrote me a check. As she did, the butler appeared, drawn by the raised voices. Violet handed me the payment. At the library door, I turned back to the old dame. “One last thing, Mrs. Babington. You might want to get the managing editors from your newspapers out here for a strategy meeting. The coppers will be here soon with plenty of questions you’ll have to answer.”
Her eyes shot to Talbot, who nodded slightly. Then they crawled back to me. “The news ferrets from the other city rags won’t be far behind. If you don’t put the story out there the way you want it told, the other dailies will make out of it whatever will sell to the public. You and your family may not come across as wrong numbers all the way around. I’m sure you’re well aware of the unsavory routine.” I pushed past Talbot and let myself out of the house.
Back in my LaSalle, I stopped for a second, lit another fag, and, rubbing my stubbled chin, wearily considered the events of the last couple of days. I didn’t figure on any trouble from The League for my part in the circumstances. They’d probably never even know of my involvement. This caper struck me as something McLaglen had cooked up by himself for a pile of dough on the side. My guess was his bosses were never supposed to see any cut of the one hundred G’s.
Now, if they even acknowledged him, he’d be so busy trying to explain himself to them to save his ass, he’d never get around to mentioning my name. More likely, they’d distance themselves from him and anything he’d done. And I could expect a visit from our city’s law soon. Paraphrasing Longfellow, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. When the dust finally settled, the Babington household might be unhappy after all. But not because anything I’d done.
I tickled the machine’s motor to life. Moving across the pea-gravel in front of the mansion, I thought about the place and Mrs. Violet Babington. The joint was like a fortress. The old lady would probably have the servants pour boiling oil on your head if you showed up uninvited. I might use many words to describe her and her little kingdom. But ‘gracious’ was not one of them.
I’d read somewhere Benjamin Franklin had said, “Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.” It had rung true in this case. Sort of. ©