The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (54 page)

A wash…or a canyon. Ten feet or two hundred. His stumbling run became a real run as he hurled himself, bending as far forward as he could, toward that edge and whatever awaited him.

There was a startled curse, then a yell, a momentary pause, and he veered sharply. A bullet slammed past him, and a gun barked. Kip left his feet in a long dive, hitting the edge in a roll that took him over the edge and sliding. He fell, brought up with a crunch and a mouthful of sand at the bottom of the wash. Lunging to his feet, wrists still bound behind him, he charged blindly into the darkness, down the wash. His feet were prickling with a thousand tiny needles at each step, but he ran, desperately, raw breath tearing at his lungs with each step.

Then, aware that his running was making too much sound, he slid to a stop, listening. There were running footsteps somewhere, and a shaft of light shot across the small plateau of a mine dump as the cabin door opened. He heard angry shouts; then a car started.

Kip Morgan had no idea where he was. His brain was pounding painfully, and he smarted from a dozen scratches and bruises. Yet he walked on, fighting his bonds with utter futility. The black maw of another wash opened on his right, and he turned into it. His feet found a steep path, and painstakingly he made his way up. Crouching to keep low, he crossed the skyline of the wash. He had no idea how far he walked, but he pushed on, wanting only distance between himself and his pursuers. As the first faint intimations of dawn lightened the sky, he crept around a boulder and, dropping to a sitting position, was almost immediately asleep.

The hot morning sun awakened him, and he staggered to his feet, aware of a dull throbbing in his hands. Twisting to get a look at them, he saw they were badly swollen and slightly blue. Frightened by the look of them, he looked around. Judging by the sun, he was on the eastern slope of a mountain. All about was desert, with no evidence of life anywhere. Not a sound disturbed the stillness of the morning.

Turning, he started to cross a shoulder of the mountain, sure he would find something on the western side. He must have been brought across to the eastern side during the night.

His mouth was dry, and he realized the intense heat, although only nine or ten o’clock, was having its effect. Stumbling over and through the rocks, he saw a stretch of road. It was the merest trail with no tracks upon it, but it had to go somewhere, so he followed it. When he had walked no more than a mile, he rounded a turn in the road and found himself at an abandoned mine. There was a ramshackle hoist house and gallows frame. He stumbled toward it.

The door hung on rusty hinges, and a rusty cable hung from the shiv wheel. As he neared the buildings, a pack rat scurried away from the door.

The tracks of several small animals led toward the wall of the mountain beyond the small ledge on which the mine stood. Following them, he found a trickle of water running from a rusty pipe thrust into the wall. When he had drunk, he walked back to the hoist house, searching for something with which to cut his bonds. There was always, around such places, rusty tools, tin cans, all manner of castoffs.

On the floor was the blade of a round-point shovel.

Dropping to his knees, he backed his feet toward the shovel and got it between them. Holding it with his feet, he began to saw steadily. The pain was excruciating, but stubbornly he refused to ease off even for a moment, and after a few minutes the rope parted, and he stripped the pieces from his wrists. He brought his hands around in front of him and stared at them.

They were grotesquely swollen, puffed like a child’s boxing gloves, with a tight band around his wrists showing where the ropes had pressed into his flesh. Returning to the spring, he dropped on his knees and held his wrists under the cold, dripping water.

For a long time, he knelt, uncertain how much good it was doing but enjoying the feel of the cold water. Slowly, very gently, he began to massage his hands. Finally, he gave up.

Taking a long drink, he turned away from the mine, glancing about for a weapon. He found a short length of rusted drill steel. He thrust it into his belt and headed down the road, carrying his arms bent at the elbows and his hands shoulder high because they hurt less that way. After he had walked a few miles, they began to feel better. A few steps farther, he glimpsed a paved highway, and the first truck along picked him up. “Not supposed to carry anybody,” the trucker said, “but you look like you could use help. Filling station at the edge of town. Have to drop you there.”

B
ACK IN
M
ARCY’S ROOM
, he ran the basin full of warm water to soak his hands. After a while, they began to feel better, and some of the swelling was gone. As they soaked, he considered the situation.

So far, he had learned little, but he seemed to have upset Villani and his men. No doubt they believed he knew more than he did. He was positive they had murdered Tom Marcy, but he had no evidence of any description beyond the presence of a pin-striped suit, which might or might not be Tom’s.

He might go and swear out a warrant for kidnaping and assault, but proving it would be something else with the kind of lawyers Villani would have.

What did he know? Digging out the clippings again, he studied them and once more he studied the clipping about the fire. That alone failed to fit. What could be the connection?

Suddenly, it hit him. What if the body in the fire had not been the owner, as was believed?
What if the owner was involved in a plot to rook the insurance companies? With Villani supplying the bodies?

What about identification procedures? Fingerprints, teeth, measurements? Had the authorities checked out the bodies, or had they simply taken them for what they seemed to be? What did he mean,
bodies
? He had but one fire. Yet suppose there had been more?

Hastily, he dried his hands and took up the phone, dialing the number of the newspaper that published the item. In a matter of minutes, he had the name of the insurance company concerned. The city editor asked, “What’s the problem? Is there anything wrong up there?”

Morgan hesitated. The papers had always given him a fair shake during his fighting days, and some of their reporters were better investigators than he was and had ready access to the files.

“I’m not sure, but something smells to high heaven, and somebody is so upset over my nosing around that they’ve given me a lot of trouble. Three men have disappeared off skid row in the last few months, and somebody doesn’t seem to want it investigated.”

“Who is this talking?”

“Kip Morgan. I used to be a fighter; now I’m a private investigator.”

“I remember you. How about sending a man over to get your story?”

“Uh-uh. Just have somebody quietly check out George Villani, and two strongarm boys named Gus and Vinson.” He mentioned the clippings he had found and the fire. Then he gave them the address of the warehouse. “It isn’t much, but enough to make me think this may be insurance fraud.”

As he hung up, he reflected with satisfaction that now, if anything happened to him, the newspapers at least would have a lead. He needed fifteen minutes by cab to the offices of the insurance company. He had heard a good deal of Neal Stoska, the insurance company’s detective.

Stoska was a thin, angular man of fifty-odd, with shrewd, thoughtful eyes. “What is it you wish to know?” He leaned back in his swivel chair, studying Kip’s face, then his still-swollen hands.

“Your company insured a building up in Bakersfield that had a fire a short time ago. Is that right?”

“No,” Stoska replied. “We insured Leonard Buff, the man who was burned. Tri-State insured the building. Why do you ask?”

“I’m working on something, and there seems to be a connection. Did it look all right to you? I mean, did you sense anything phony about it?”

Stoska was impatient. “Morgan, we can’t discuss anything like that with just anybody who walks into this office. If I did suspect anything wrong, we’d be in no position to talk about it until we had some semblance of a case. Have you information for us?”

“Listen…” Kip sat back in his chair and told his story from the beginning. The Marcy case, the disappearance of Russell and Day, and what had happened to him. “It’s a wild yarn,” he added, “but it’s true, and I could use some help.”

“Your idea is that Marcy’s body was in the fire?”

“No, I believe it was Russell’s body. I think Marcy discovered something accidentally. My hunch is that he waited in the café for Russell when Slim applied for the job. Slim never came back, and it is possible Marcy saw Villani near the warehouse or with one of the men from the building. Something aroused his suspicions, and he was a man who loved his sister. In fact, his love for her was the only real thing in his life.”

“It’s all guesswork,” Stoska agreed, “but good guesswork. You had something you wanted me to check?”

“A recheck, possibly. It is the size of Slim Russell and the body you found. Slim was a war veteran, so you can probably get his information that way or from the police. No doubt they picked him up from time to time, and they may have a description.”

Stoska reached for the phone and at the same time pressed a button and ordered the file on Buff. “I want all we have on him,” he added. “Also, put through a call to Gordon at Tri-State and ask him to come over. Tell him it’s important.”

A voice sounded on the telephone, and Morgan smiled, for the sharp, somewhat nasal sound had to be Mooney. In reply to Stoska’s question, Mooney read off a brief description of Slim Russell. When Stoska hung up, he looked over at Morgan. “It fits,” he said. “At least, it’s close, very close.”

Kip’s cab dropped him at Marilyn Marcy’s apartment, and he went up fast. She was alone, but dressed to go out.

“What is it?” She crossed the room to him. “You’ve found him? He’s…he’s dead, is that it?”

“Take it easy.” He dropped into a chair. “Fix me a drink, will you? Anything wet.” She was frightened of what he had come to tell her, and the activity might relieve the situation. “No, I haven’t found him, but you have talked too much.”

“I’ve talked?” She turned on him. “I’ve done no such thing! Why, I’ve—”

“Fix that drink and come over here. You did talk, and your talking got Vin Richards killed, and it almost got me killed. Right after you left my room, a guy attacked me with a knife in my hotel room. That was your doing, honey.”

“That’s nonsense! I told no one!”

“What about George?”

“What about him? Of course, I told him. I’ve told him everything. I’m engaged to him.”

“You won’t be for long,” he replied grimly. “Now just sit down and get this straight the first time. I haven’t time to waste, and I don’t want to go into any involved explanations. When I get through talking,” he accepted the drink, “you’ll probably call me a liar, but that’s neither here nor there. You hired me to do a job.”

“I don’t like the way you talk,” she said coldly, “and I don’t like you. You’re fired!”

“All right, I’m fired, but I am still on this case because it has become mighty personal since I last talked to you. Nobody puts the arm on me and gets away with it.

“Now just listen. You told George Villani about hiring Richards, and within a few days, Richards is dead. You told him about me, and somebody tried to kill me. Who else could have known where I was? Or that I was even hired? Who else knew about Richards?

“And get this: If your brother is dead, it was Villani who killed him or had him killed.”

She sat down abruptly, her face pale, eyes wide. She tasted her drink and put it down. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I never drink scotch.” She looked at him. “It just doesn’t add up. How could George be involved? George didn’t even know about Tom. I never told him. And why should he kill him? Why should he kill anybody?”

“Tom loved you. You were his little sister.” Morgan watched her over the glass, and he could see she was thinking now. Her anger and astonishment had faded. “What if Tom saw you with somebody he knew was bad? Don’t ask me how he knew, but Tom Marcy had been around, and he was always skating along the thin edge of the underworld. People down there hear things and they see things and nobody notices them, they’re just a bunch of outcasts and drunks.

“I don’t believe,” he added, “that Villani knew Tom Marcy was your brother. If he knew him it was only as somebody who was interfering. Or that’s how it could have been at first. When you told him about Richards and your brother being missing he may have put two and two together.”

Briefly he explained but said nothing about talking to the newspapers or the insurance company. “What does Villani do?” he asked then.

“Do?” She shrugged. “He’s a contractor of some sort. I have never talked business with him, but he seems prosperous, has a beautiful home in Beverly Hills, and owns some business property there.”

“Well, don’t ask him any questions now, just be your own sweet, beautiful self and leave him to me.”

The buzzer sounded and she came quickly to her feet. “That’s George now. He is coming to pick me up and I’d forgotten!”

“Don’t let it bother you, and be the best actress you can be. If he got suspicious now he might start on you. When a man kills as casually as he has he never knows when to stop.”

There was a tap on the door and Marilyn crossed to it, admitting George Villani.

He was a big man, broad-shouldered and deep in the chest. His eyes went to Morgan and changed perceptibly. “George? I want you to meet Kip Morgan. He’s the detective who is looking for my brother.”

“How do you do?” Villani was all charm. “Having any luck?”

“Sure.” Unable to resist the needle, Morgan added, “We hope to break the case in a matter of hours.”

Villani smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Isn’t that what detectives always say?”

Kip Morgan was irritated. He did not like this big, polished, easy-looking man, and some devil within him made him push it further. He had been hit, dragged, and banged around. A good suit of clothes had been ruined and he had a knot on the back of his head. All his resentment began to well to the surface. He knew it was both foolish and dangerous but he could not resist baiting him. Maybe it was this big man who was dating Marilyn, and maybe it was something else.