Stop This Man! (13 page)

“What arm?”

“Anyway, looking at this place now, I would’ve knocked it over in the daytime, somehow.”

“And shoot the place up? That’s old-time stuff, Catell.”

“Not the way I do it. Uh, I think—Here she comes, Smiley!”

There was a last click inside the tumbler chamber and then Catell spun the wheel. The large bolts slid back into the door with an oily swish, making the door swing free on its hinges. Catell jumped fast, catching the door before it swung out of its frame.

“That goddamn live contact. That sonofabitchin’ live—”

He leaned against the door, sweating. “And this lousy door couldn’t have been hung straight. No, they had to hang it so it swings open.”

“Whatcha gonna do now, Catell?”

“I’ll yank that desk over, to hold the door. Then I’ll try burning part of the flange so I can slip through the crack and get that contact. And it better be where they said it was. Else we could be burning around here all night.”

“How in hell you gonna get a desk without that door swinging open on you?”

“Yeah, how? I’ll stay close up to the door. You move out of the beam and get the desk. That’ll spell you, too. How’s that?”

“Fine. Aren’t ya gonna ask can I move my arm?” Cautiously Smiley got out of the way of the beam.

“One more thing, Smiley. If it clicks, jump and we open the safe as is. We’ll grab some lettuce and the hell with that
door alarm. I figure we’re safe for about four minutes. O.K.?”

“O.K.”

No click.

Smiley got up, groaning, rubbing his arm.

“What time is it?” Catell asked.

“Eight-forty-five. Can you make it in time?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

A few minutes later Smiley had edged a desk up to the beam, and Catell, still leaning against the safe door, was getting down to the floor to pull the desk up close. Smiley was starting to maneuver the flashlight into line with the photoelectric cell.

“Tell me when,” Catell said.

“There’s a guy by the front windows,” Smiley said.

“Stay put. May be nothing.”

The shadow against the window moved away while the two men lay on the floor, immobile.

Then the side door opened. It opened fast and shut fast.

“Relax, Tony. Turtle speaking.”

“Stay where you are.”

It was dark enough in the large office so that distant objects were hard to make out.

“How much change in my pocket, that first day in the bar?”

“Ninety-eight cents.”

“O.K., Turtle, but don’t move. They got electric eyes up.”

“Tony, something’s up.”

Smiley’s hand with the flashlight made a short jitter.

“Topper didn’t show up, Tony. I waited four minutes, no car, no Topper.”

“What is this?” Smiley’s voice was shaky.

“You sure, Turtle?”

“Positive. Two blocks down, no car, four minutes late.”

“A frame! Smiley, move out of the beam and beat it. I’ll hold the safe till you get to the door. Go!”

In the silence of the dark room there was only the harsh breathing of Catell, leaning against the safe, and the sound of Smiley scraping across the floor where the other electric eye was.

They came in from all sides. Four of them burst through the front door, scattering behind desks and balustrades; four others swarmed through the side door, knocking the Turtle into the beam of the eye, stumbling over Smiley, who was still on the floor.

The alarm went off. The big bell over the front entrance started a dull rattle, getting sharper all the time. The wedge in the bell wasn’t holding. The men at the side door had grabbed Turtle and Smiley, and a voice from the front yelled, “Hands up and walk out slow. The whole place is sealed.”

Somebody flipped a switch, but the lights didn’t go on.

Catell rolled away from the safe into the shadows of the back, and the safe door swung open slowly. There was a moment’s complete silence as the light from inside the safe grew with the movement of the door. Then shots. Twice, four times.

“Cut it out, up front! We got two of them here.”

“Parker, that you?”

“Yessir. We got two here. Wait’ll we get the light.”

“They don’t work.”

“Down, everybody. Here comes the flashlight.”

One beam cut through the darkness, then two, three.

“Parker?”

“Yessir.”

“You and Litvinoff take the prisoners outside. Lobos, bring a flood through the side. Chester, you get one from the front. The rest stay down.”

They flooded the place with light, finding tools, Smiley’s cigarette stub, an empty suitcase, a desk moved out of place, and the safe open. Then they gathered outside to look at the prisoners.

“We got these two, and one from across the street.”

“Find anyone else inside?”

“Well, there were only supposed to be three.”

“Guess this is them.”

“What’s your name?”

“I wanna see my lawyer!”

“What’s yours?”

“Florence Nightingale.”

“Yours?”

“Catell.”

“Tessman, what was that name in the report?”

“Catell.”

“Guess that wraps it up. Take ‘em downtown. Parker, Lobos, you stay here. All right, boys, move it.”

At eleven o’clock that night, Catell moved slowly out of the storage room and back into the main office. Lobos sat up front, smoking in the dark. Parker sat by the desk at the side door, his head on his arms, snoring. The cold draft from the door woke Parker with a start, but by then Catell was half a block away. He got to Burbank three hours later.

Catell paid the taxi and walked up to the dark machine shop. At the back a hair of light was visible through a scratch in one of the painted windows. There were two cars at the side. One was a fish-tail convertible; the other was the getaway car.

The guy that stopped Catell inside the shop recognized him and let him pass. Catell walked past the machines, through the windowless room, and opened the door to the inner office without knocking.

“—is a funny sort of timing, Topper,” Smith was saying.

“But I saw them, Mr. Smith. I saw them—” And then Catell stepped inside the room.

Smith, leaning back in his chair, rolled the cigar around in his mouth. He looked at Catell, never changing his expression. It was calm, level, and just slightly interested. But Topper jumped.

“Why, you—how—” Controlling himself, he took a deep breath and said, “I see you made it, Catell.”

“Yeah.”

“How—what I mean is, did they follow you? Did you come alone?”

“Alone. Except for you, Topper.”

“You trying to be funny, Blue Lips?” Topper got up slowly, his eyes slits and his neck swelling over the white collar.

“Not funny, Topper. Serious.”

And while Smith sat in his chair, hands folded over his paunch, Catell’s hand whipped out, grazing Topper’s drawn lips. Topper had caught the jab with a fast block, and that was his mistake. With his full weight behind the punch, Catell, pivoting a half turn, rammed his other fist into Topper’s stomach. The man doubled over, gasping, when Catell fired a roundhouse at the contorted face. Something cracked, and through split lips three front teeth jagged out.

Topper crashed sideways across the desk, pushing phones and papers to the floor. Smith got up and stepped back. He was holding the cigar between his teeth.

When Topper kicked his leg out, catching Catell on the chest, he tried to follow the kick with a fast turn that would bring him back to his feet. But Catell stepped back and pulled. Holding on to Topper’s foot, he twisted and pushed. Topper slammed to the floor, screaming, one leg doubled over at a crazy angle. Then Catell knelt down over his chest.

Two minutes later he got up, leaving the ruined man curled on the floor.

“Do you carry a gun, Catell?” Smith came out from behind the desk; flicking some ashes on the floor.

“It belongs to Topper.”

“Give it to me.” Smith put out his hand.

Catell handed over the gun. Smith took it by the grip, and without seeming to aim he pulled the trigger. Three close shots crashed out and Topper twitched once, twice. Then he lay still.

“Too bad about Topper,” Smith said. “Valuable man.”

Then he walked around the puddle of blood on the floor. He pulled open a desk drawer and handed Catell two bills.

“Here’s your thousand. Got a way home?”

“No.”

“Take the limousine. And call me in a day or two.”

“So long.”

“See you, Catell.”

That night Catell didn’t go back to the Turtle’s room. He drove to Westwood and parked the car a few blocks from Lily’s apartment.

She opened the door for him, smiling a little. He could feel her warm body through the thin robe she was wearing. Walking to the bedroom with her, he could hear the fever
pounding in his ears. A hysterical tension trembled through his body, making objects change shape before his eyes, plucking at his muscles.

They sat on the bed, and then his head sank into her lap. She hummed to him while he moaned into the cloth of her robe.

“I see nothing but gloom,” Smiley said. “I see gloom turning the corner, bearing poisonous grub.”

The police guard came up to the cell. Balancing a tray in one hand, he started to fumble with his keys with the other.

“Lemme give you a helping hand, Inspector. You hold the tray and I’ll just—”

“Keep your hands off, Short Stuff! Maybe you think I’m stupid or something?”

“You’re gettin’ warm, Pop. You’re gettin’ real warm.”

The guard stepped back and put the tray on the floor. When he raised himself, the exertion had turned his bald head a shiny purple, and he puffed air through his white mustache.

“Nature is cruel,” Swensen said from the back of the cell. “Look at all that gorgeous hair under his nose, and nothing but bare rocks on top.”

“You guys don’t shut up I’ll take the food back,” said the guard.

“And eat it yourself?” Smiley asked.

“He’s bluffing,” Swensen said. “He come to poison us good and proper this tune. All this threatening is just a bluff.”

“Let’s see ya eat the stuff, Pop. I dare ya.”

Mumbling through his mustache, the guard unlocked the cell door. Then he stepped back to pick up the tray,
but stopped halfway down, grunting when he straightened up again.

“One of you guys come out here and pick that tray up.”

“So’s you won’t be blamed for the consequences? Swensen, whaddaya think of old Pop now? Pretty sharp, this switch, eh?”

“Pretty sharp. Experience, I’d say.”

“Whaddaya say, Tur—uh, Catell? Ya think we should do this thing for Poison Pop?”

“Give ‘im a thrill, Smiley. Go out there and make a break for it.”

“Come on, you nuts.” The guard sounded querulous. “One of you come out here and pick up that tray.”

“All right, men. When I give the signal, we rush him. One, two—”

The old man started to look confused. He stepped back.

Smiley said, “Good thing I can’t count to three, Pop. It saved your life.”

Then he stepped out of the cell and brought the tray back in.

“Knock on the bars when you’re done.” The guard was locking the door. “Knock on the bars and I pick up the tray.”

“Get that,” Smiley said “How’s he expect us to knock on the bars, us dead from poisoning and layin’ here stiff?”

“Buncha nuts,” said the guard, shuffling off.

“Poisoner!”

They started to eat, laughing about the old man and making small talk. But they didn’t feel right. They didn’t feel right about being caught in a double cross.

“That Catell sure got a friend in you, Turtle. You realize what this means?”

“That’s O.K. I been in stir but twice. Builds character, I always say.”

“Yeah? I rather be without character,” Smiley said. “Got a smoke?”

“Won’t be much for the Turtle,” Swensen put in. “What are they going to charge him with, lying to an officer of the law?”

“Associating with bad company. It’s us they got over a barrel, Swensen. I get faint just thinking about it.”

“Smith’ll come through. I’ve seen him come through before. So you get a few years, rest up. You know.”

“Swensen, for chrissakes, don’t talk like that. Me, I’m a vital boy. I can’t stand being locked up someplace.”

“Whaddaya yammering about? You had Rosie yesterday. Look at us with nothin’ to give us strength.”

“Ah, Rosie. Such a friendly, friendly girl.”

“Listen to that mush,” Swensen said. “And I bet he don’t even remember her face or the color of her hair.”

“I ain’t in the habit of remembering broads by unimportant details, Swensen.”

“Oh, Christ. A jump artist. Wait’ll they get you up to—”

“Catell. Up front.” The police guard opened the door.

“But we didn’t rattle the bars yet, Pop. Look,” and Smiley held his plate up. “We ain’t finished yet.”

The Turtle got up and, stepping over Swensen, went to the open door.

“Fare thee well, men. And whilst I’m off to the torture chambers, fear not, for Pop here will be with youse.”

“Come on, Catell, get a move on.”

They walked down the corridor that led to the door and the precinct desk.

“Keep in touch,” Smiley called. “You’re O.K.”

They put handcuffs on the Turtle and put him in a
police car. Then they drove him downtown, to the office of the FBI. The Turtle didn’t say anything during the long ride. He didn’t think that funny talk would make any difference any more.

Herron closed the folder, left his desk, and walked across the hall to the room they used for interrogations. There was a table in it, a water cooler, and a few chairs. On the wall was a two-year-old calendar with a big picture on top. It showed some kids jumping around in the water of an old swimming hole. A sign said, “No bathing.”

Herron sat down on the table and lit a cigarette. His palms were wet and he sucked on his cigarette with nervous puffs. Then the door opened. Two officers and the Turtle came in.

“Here he is, Herron. Friendly as all get-out.”

They unlocked the handcuffs and one of the men sat down at the table with a pad and pencil.

“This is supposed to be Catell?” Herron swallowed hard a few times and stared at the Turtle. “You mean this guy is Catell and just a few days ago I shook hands with him in a nightclub not knowing he’s the guy I’ve been chasing all over the country?”

The Turtle looked down modestly.

“Sure it’s Catell. And like the tip said, we caught him red-handed, knocking over that safe.”

“Have his prints been taken?”

“Sure. Last night yet.”

“Did you run them through?”

“No, but we will, if you want. Shall I get them started on it?”

“I wish you would, Parker. And let me know right away.”

When Parker closed the door behind him, Herron got
off the table and walked around the Turtle, looking him over.

“I must say—uh—Catell, you don’t look much the way I figured. You don’t look much like your pictures, either.”

“Couldn’t have been a very flattering likelihood,” said the Turtle “You know how them mug shots distract a guy’s personality.”

“Yeah. I guess. Tell me, Catell, how’s your health been lately?”

“Lately? Fine, till yesterday.”

“Yeah? Then what?”

“Well, it’s like this: There was this guy they call Poison Pop; old geezer runs the clink at the Twenty-ninth Precinct in San Pedro. Now, soon as me and the boys—”

“Never mind. All right, Catell, let’s cut out the bull and get down to cases. I guess you know we got you dead to rights this time and anything you do to stall the investigation can only make things worse. You understand that?”

“You mean worse than life? What, I ask, can be worse than life?”

“Where’s the gold, Catell?”

“What gold?”

“When did you see it last?”

“See who?”

“Dick, you got that down? Catell, every attempt to stall this investigation will be held against you And just to get things straight, it might interest you to know that we are preparing a charge of assault with intent to kill. One of the guards at the university isn’t doing so hot.”

“Listen, Herron, you I can do without.”

“Now you listen, Catell—”

“Catell? You talking to me, Herron? Because if you are, Buster, you got the wrong man.”

Herron didn’t say anything for a moment. He watched the stenographer finish his entry.

“That’s the name you gave when arrested.”

“That’s the name
they
give
me
when I was arrested. For what, I know not. And now, if you please, who is Catell?”

“What’s your name?”

“Who’s Catell?”

“Listen, you. What I said before about co-operation still goes, no matter who you are. What’s your name?”

“I wanna lawyer.”

“All I want is your name, for chrissakes. You can give me your name without fear of self-incrimination, can’t you?”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what my handle was.”

“What is it?”

“Egbert.”

“Egbert? Egbert what?”

“Egbert the Terrible.”

“Oh, for chrissakes!”

“I useta be a wrestler. They gimme the handle on account—”

“What you got, Parker?” The door had opened and Parker came in with papers in his hand.

“They don’t match up, Herron. This guy ain’t Catell.”

“Didn’t I tell ya, Mr. Herron? Didn’t I just—”

“Aw, shut up. So who’s this guy, Parker?”

“Local dip. Two minor convictions.”

“And his name?”

“Turtforth. Egbert Turtforth. And get this: Used to be a specialty wrestler called Egbert the Terrible. Then for a while he was a magician with—”

“For the lovamike, get out of here. Hold him under
your own charges, drop him in a well, I don’t care what. Dick, let’s go. Wait till Jones hears about this. Christ, I can just see him now.”

They walked across the hall to the large room where Herron’s desk was.

“One blind alley after another. One funk after another. So help me, Dick, I don’t think there is such a guy as Catell. I think this whole thing is nothing but a sly way of testing a man’s sanity. Did you ever hear such a name as Egforth?”

“Egbert. Egbert Turtforth.”

“All right, all right. And I bet you can read that name backward and get a valuable clue on how to win a box top free. I have a good mind right now—”

“You’re wanted on line three, Herron.” An agent at one of the desks was holding the phone, waving at Herron to take the call at his own desk.

Herron picked up the receiver. “Agent Herron speaking, may I help you?”

It was a woman’s voice. It was a slurry voice that nevertheless made no attempt to disguise itself. “Hi, you Herron? Listen, I bet you haven’t found my boyfriend Catell yet, have you? Well, it’s time you got a little help around here. Wanna meet me?”

“Who’s this calling? Your name, please.”

“I’m in the Lifeboat, Beverly and La Cienaga, you know. You come on over, Mr. Herron. Ask for Selma.”