Fred slapped Marcel's shoulder. “Awright, li'l brutha. Where's Marta now?”
“After we took Payne to the police, we dropped her off at the hotel,” Marcel replied. “Where's Martinez?”
“In bed, asleep. That man's been through the meat grinder. It's a wonder he's able to walk.” Fred stretched his arms and yawned. “What now?”
“We're at a standstill,” Farrell admitted. “Compasso's gone underground and he's got Margaret Wilde. Until we can figure out where he is, all we can do is wait for the telephone call to set up a meet for the trade. We can't trust him. The meet's liable to be an ambush.”
“You haven't told the cops about having the plates,” Marcel commented. “They're not gonna kiss your cheek when they find out you've been withholding evidence.”
“Or for harboring a fugitive,” Farrell replied. “But I can't take the chance of giving them everything until I know whether or not we can get Margaret back.” He looked at his watch. “It's 5:00. The note said they'd call tonight. Maybe we haven't got long to wait.”
Marcel looked at Fred. “Why don't you call Mickey and tell him to call in the boys. We might need them later.”
Fred nodded and went to make the call.
Farrell looked at Marcel. “You did good today, kid. You can cover my back anytime.”
Marcel smiled. A kiss from a beautiful woman and a laconic compliment from his cousin held the same magic for him today. He nodded his thanks. “Think I'll make some coffee. You hungry?”
“No,” Farrell replied. “But it's been a long week. Some food in our stomachs wouldn't be a bad thing. I think there's some cold cuts in the refrigerator.”
“I'll see what I can throw together,” the younger man said as he walked into the kitchen.
***
Daggett and Andrews, along with Eddie Park and Detective Landry, worked the taverns, corner grocery stores, and other points of congregation in the Negro neighborhoods in their search for a medium-sized brown man who kept to himself. Even in that neighborhood, a place known to nurture highly individualistic traits of character, the man was relatively unknown.
“What now, boss? We musta talked to two hundred people in this part of town today and nobody's seen a man in a green jacket and cap. Maybe that's just the costume he wears when he's downtown shootin' people.”
Daggett shook his head. “This is real pick and shovel work. I wonder how the others are making out.”
They returned to their car in time to hear their call sign coming from the radio. Daggett got inside and responded.
“Inspector Fifty-one, please meet Detective Gautier at Blue Note Pawnshop on North Rampart, over.”
“Fifty-one to Dispatch. What's the nature of the call, over?”
“Homicide involving pawnshop owner, over.”
“Roger. We're on our way.”
It took them about thirty-five minutes to make it downtown with their siren wailing. They arrived at the pawnshop just as the coroner's wagon pulled up in front. Daggett and Andrews held up their badges so the uniformed officers would make a path for them into the shop. They found Gautier beside the crumpled body of Theron Oswald.
“Somebody finally took care of that stinkin' piece of rat meat,” Andrews said as he stared at the body.
“What you got so far?” Daggett asked.
“It's a pretty complicated story,” Gautier replied. “Wesley Farrell and that kid, Aristide, who works for him, came into the squad room this afternoon with a guy in handcuffs and a girl. The fella has been impersonating a doctor, and he'd kidnapped a girl earlier today.”
Daggett scratched his head. “What's the punchline?”
“The phony doctor's name is Wilbur Lee Payne. He's an ex-con who served time in Huntsville with Dixie Ray Chavez. Farrell believes that there's some connection between him and the man who killed the banker yesterday.”
Daggett felt a humming deep inside him. “Tell me more.”
“Oswald was killed with a .45 automatic and Western brand ammunition, same as the bank killing. The guy fired several at Farrell in a building on South Cortez earlier in the day. I've had slugs and cartridge cases sent to Delgado for comparison, so we oughta hear something pretty soon.”
“If that's a coincidence, it's the biggest damn coincidence in the history of the world,” Daggett said. “Where's Farrell now?”
“He said he was goin' to his place on Basin. He knew you'd wanna talk to him.”
“Hell yes, I wanna talk to him. Let's go, Sam.”
Daggett turned and ran out the door before Andrews could react.
“Here we go again,” the heavy-set man complained.
***
As the shadows lengthened in the clearing near the Huey Long Bridge, Max Grossmann pretended to make himself comfortable in the large downstairs room. As time had gone by, he had managed to deduce that there were six men in the house, including Compasso. There appeared to be a woman held captive in a room upstairs that Compasso visited from time to time. Muted cries reached his ears during those moments. The fat man shuddered as he realized how easy it would be for Compasso to subject him to mistreatment if he so chose. He still had his gun, but he could never outshoot all six men, nor could he hold them at bay for very long. It would take help from outside to free him, and he was in a poor position to expect help from the police.
He had been in the house long enough that the other men had become used to him. They no longer even bothered to look up when he'd walk about, peruse books on the shelves, or stare out the window. In that time, he had thought of a plan. It was a reckless, insane gamble by most logic, but logic seemed to have no place in this set of circumstances.
He put his book down on the floor, rubbed his eyes, and stretched. He got up, walked to the window rubbing his back. As he looked about him, only one man was in earshot, but he was busy with a crossword puzzle. Slowly, Grossmann worked his way into the small room where Compasso had received him upon his arrival. There was a telephone in there, out of sight of the man working the puzzle.
Grossmann reached the room with his heart pounding in his chest. Casting a quick backward glance, he slipped around the entrance and crept to the telephone. He gave the operator a number then stood quaking as he listened to the clicks and pops in the line before it finally began to ring.
Farrell was walking up and down the floor, looking at his watch, wondering when the call would come. Marcel, who had been downstairs to use another phone, appeared at the stairway door. One look at Farrell's tense face and the brooding expressions of the other men told him nothing had happened. He had learned things from his call, which he wanted to discuss with his cousin, but behind him he heard the footsteps of men mounting the stairs. He turned and immediately recognized Israel Daggett and his partner. He stood aside to let them in. “Evening, Sergeant. We've been expecting you.”
Daggett put a hand on the younger man's shoulder and gave it a good-natured shake. “Mr. Farrell, you've been busy today. How much can you tell me about Theron Oswald and the man with the .45 automatic?”
“Have a seat,” Farrell said. “I'll tell you what I know. Maybe you can make some sense of it.”
Daggett and Andrews found seats and looked at Farrell expectantly.
“When I started looking for Luis Martinez, I discovered he was in trouble with a gangster named Compasso. About what, I didn't know. I found out pretty quickly that Compasso had brought in a man from outside, a Texan named Dixie Ray Chavez. Chavez had two goals: to hunt Martinez down and recover some engravings to make counterfeit fifties and twenties. When Chavez couldn't find Martinez, he began going to his friends. Linda Blanc was first. Somehow he found her cousin, Wisteria Mullins, the next night. When they couldn't tell him anything, he had to kill them.
“Martinez only had so many friends,” Farrell continued. “A fence named Theron Oswald and a nightclub owner named Wisteria were just about all. Oswald was easy to find and probably easy for the killer to manipulate.”
“And now he's dead. How did that happen?”
“Here's where it gets complicated. Martinez declared war on Compasso after his woman was killed. He hit on the idea of caching the plates with someone who'd keep them safe. Oswald was his obvious choice, because Oswald was already sitting on top of a fortune in stolen goods he was fencing. I'm guessing that sometime after Oswald received the plates by messenger, Chavez arrived on the scene. He saw Oswald was weak and easily scared and it gave him an idea. Instead of torturing or killing him, Chavez forced him to set Martinez up for a shakedown and execution.”
“But Martinez is alive, right?”
“He's asleep in the other room. He was shot while he was burning Compasso's boat near the Third District Ferry.”
Daggett's eyes widened at the news of Martinez's close proximity. “That was Matt Paret who shot him. Paret took some slugs, too, and later Captain Casey forced him to sing his lungs out about Compasso's operation.”
“That explains why nobody can find Compasso, I guess,” Farrell said. “Anyway, when Martinez phoned Oswald to set up a meet to get the plates, Oswald was already under the gun. In order to save himself, he had to give up Martinez. He was probably hoping that Martinez would die before he gave up the plates, which would get Oswald off the hook.”
“But that backfired.”
Farrell nodded. “Martinez was no in shape to make the meet, which Oswald set up in a building he owned on Cortez. I went there instead, found Chavez waiting for me. We burned a lot of powder at each other, but he got away. He probably figured Oswald had tried to turn the tables on him, so he went back and paid him off, not knowing the plates were less than ten feet away when he squeezed the trigger.”
“You found them?”
Farrell nodded. “Marcel, Fred and I met up there. Marcel was looking for a young girl who'd come here from Texas after a runaway boyfriend. The fellow turned out to be an ex-con with a tie to Chavez, but we couldn't get him to talk. He's down at the jail now and the girl's safely home in bed.”
“So now all we need is Compasso and the triggerman,” Daggett said. “Any ideas?”
“Uh-uh. But we hope to hear from him. There's another complication.”
Daggett gave an ironic smile. “Isn't there always? What's this one?”
“A woman named Margaret Wilde. She's been mixed up with Compasso, but years ago she was Martinez's girlfriend. She went out looking for Martinez on her ownâmaybe to turn him over, maybe to help himâI don't know. I met up with her while I was looking, and after I told her about the two women Compasso's man had killed, she changed sides. Thanks to her, I found a hideout Martinez was using over in Saint Charles Parish. When we didn't find Luis there, she insisted on staying behind while I came back to town. I found Luis getting doctored for a gunshot wound, but by the time we managed to return, Compasso's men had found it, and her. They're offering to swap her for the plates.”
Daggett grimaced. “I ought to call Captain Casey right now before this gets out of control.”
Farrell almost smiled. “It's already out of control. I should have called him myself by now. The phone's on the table if you want to do it.”
Daggett stretched out a hand to pick up the phone, and as he did so, it began to ring. Every eye in the room was riveted on the instrument as Farrell reached past the Negro detective and lifted the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Farrell?”
“It is. Who's calling?”
“My name is Max Grossmann. I'm Vice President for Foreign Investment at First National Bank of New Orleans. I am a prisoner of Santiago Compasso. There's a woman held here, too, and she's being tortured brutally.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“It's a bit hard to explain. You know, of course, of the Huey Long Bridge?”
“Of course. Are you near there?”
“Yes, near the foot on the New Orleans side. We're in a rather undeveloped area, but there's a marl road leading toward the river off Highway 90 about a mile from the bridge. It's a farm or some such with a large house and several outbuildings.”
“I can find it. How many men does Compasso have with him?”
“Six, including Compasso. They're heavily armed. I'm terribly frightened, Mr. Farrell. Please hurry.” He hung up the telephone before Farrell could reply.
Farrell put the phone down on the cradle then looked up to see every eye on him, including those of Luis Martinez, who had come silently into the room.
Daggett felt something electric emanate from Farrell. “What's the pitch?”
“That's our invitation to the dance. Compasso and five men are at a farm just off Highway 90 not far from the Huey Long Bridge. That's where they've got Margaret Wilde and a banker named Grossmann prisoner.”
Daggett snorted. “Don't be so sure Grossmann's there against his will. He's wanted for questioning in the murder of another executive at that same bank.”
“That may be, but he sounded plenty scared enough.” Farrell looked around the room at the other men. “Daggett, you're supposed to play this by the numbers, but by the time you get your troops mobilized, it might be too late for Margaret. Grossmann says they're torturing her.”
Martinez said something that might have been either a curse or a prayer, but no one seemed to hear.
“It's out of our jurisdiction, boss,” Andrews said softly. “But if you go, I go.”
“What if Compasso calls with instructions?” Daggett asked.
“It won't be dark for an hour, and that's probably the soonest Compasso will call. I'll have Harry stick by the phone and take the instructions, just like we've been waiting for them.” Farrell looked at the Negro detective, seeing the hesitation in his eyes. “If you want to come along, there's nobody I'd rather have. We might need a policeman before it's all over, even if he is out of his jurisdiction.”
“I'm no good at talking about stuff like this. Let's go and get it over with,” Daggett said. “I can radio our position after we get over the parish line. Maybe I can think of a story that'll keep me from getting fired after it's over.”
“When it's over, you'll be a hero. Fred, you go with Daggett and Andrews. Louie, you're with Marcel and me.”
None of the men said anything. They moved from their seats or places along the wall to follow Farrell down the stairs. He took a moment to fill Harry in, then he led the men outside to the waiting cars.
***
“What are you doing in here, Grossmann?” Compasso asked as he stood in the door to the study. He was in his shirtsleeves and his hair was in disarray. Grossmann fancied he could see flecks of red on the rolled sleeves of his shirt and on the pale skin of his arms.
“Looking for another book. A rather poor selection here, if I may say so.” He pulled a mildewed volume of some forgotten Southern poet from a shelf and blew dust from the top edge.
“We won't be here much longer, so don't get too engrossed in it.” Compasso walked past him to the table and sat down.
“Oh? Leaving soon, are we?”
“In about another hour I'll phone Farrell and Martinez. We'll arrange a meet to get the plates, and then it'll be over. We can leave and reach the Texas border before tomorrow morning.”
“I really wish you'd reconsider forcing me to accompany you. I'll be no use to you at all. And driving south through Mexico this time of the year is singularly unappealing.”
Compasso looked up at him. “If you prefer, I can leave you here. Rojo will see to your comfort with great pleasure.”
Grossmann's face was impassive but he quailed inwardly. As frightened as he was of Compasso, he was that much more afraid of Rojo. Without bothering to reply, he took the book of poetry back into the living room. He consulted his watch. It was nearly twenty minutes past six.
He was feeling hungry, having been deprived of his dinner, so he walked to the kitchen. On the table he found the remains of a roasted chicken. It had been pretty well picked over, but there was a leg, a wing, and part of the left breast still on the bones. He sat down, wrenched the leg from the carcass, and bit a hunk out of it. It was wonderfully flavorful and juicy. He wondered as he chewed it if his proximity to violent death had anything to do with the heightened sense of taste he was experiencing. After a moment, he gave in to his senses and let his brain lie fallow. There was nothing he could do but wait, so he made himself as comfortable as he could. He still had his pistol, and help was coming. He would survive. He was convinced of it.
***
It was nearly dark by the time they had the gargantuan Huey P. Long Bridge in sight. It soared into the sky at a greater height than the tallest steamship mast, and boasted lanes for automobile traffic as well as railroad tracks. Farrell never went over it without experiencing an attack of vertigo.
They had driven through the semi-rural environs of Jefferson Parish without impediment. Marcel looked at his cousin, examining his face in an effort to know what went on in his mind at such times. He had seen Farrell in many moods, but whenever a fight loomed, some kind of inexplicable calm always took Farrell over. It was as though he had no fear of his own death, or perhaps he simply couldn't imagine it. With his vivid imagination, Marcel could imagine it all too easily. Only once had he been in the kind of fight they were approaching. All he could remember of it was the explosion of violence at the beginning and the eerie calm at the end.
As they passed the entrance ramp to the bridge, Farrell spoke in a low voice. “It won't be far past here. It's mostly trees and undeveloped land between here and Harahan. You got a gun, kid?”
“Yeah,” Marcel replied. He could think of nothing else to say.
“Yours is still in the trunk, Louie, but I don't think Daggett would like me giving it to you. Maybe you'd better hang back on the outside. You're still pretty weak.”
“I can still kick your ass,
chivato
. Margaret is in this mess because of me. You think I'm just gonna take a seat at ringside?”
Farrell laughed softly. “It's your funeralâ
viejo
.”
They drove a short distance before Farrell picked up the beginning of the marl road in his headlights. He slowed to a stop and cut his lights. Off to the west, he could see a glow of lights. “That has to be the farm Grossmann was talking about. There's nothing else out here to make that much light.” He got out of the car and motioned for the men in Daggett's car to come up.
The lights to the police car shut down along with the engine. Daggett's party got out of the car. Daggett and Fred approached Farrell's party while Andrews went to the trunk of the Dodge. He brought out a shotgun and two heavy flashlights. He handed one each to Fred and Marcel.
At Farrell's word, they started down the marl road until they came to the edge of the clearing. Lights were on in most of the downstairs windows. In the open door of the barn, they could plainly see the grillwork of a Lincoln limousine.
“How do you want to work this?” Daggett asked.
“Grossmann said Margaret's being held in an upstairs room,” Farrell said. “I'm going to find a way to get up there so I can set her free.”
Daggett grunted. “They'll fight if we give 'em much of a chance. There's too many of them to simply lie down. I'll give you ten minutes to get up there, then I'll have Fred and Andrews cover the back. Marcel can enter from the left side. I'll take the front and try to surprise them.”
“What about me?” Martinez asked.
“Martinez, you're under arrest. It's only because of Mr. Farrell that you're in this at all. Stick with me and watch my back. By the time cars get here from Jefferson Parish, you'll already be in my custody. That's all that'll keep them from arresting you, understand?”
“I understand.”
Daggett drew his .38-44 Smith & Wesson from under his arm as he looked at Farrell. “It's your party. Go blow out the candles.”
Farrell touched two fingers to the brim of his hat and disappeared into the trees. His disappearance was so sudden and complete that it took some of them by surprise.