I GOT MY trip to the Stockyards out of the way and was ready and waiting at a quarter to eight when Escott picked me up. He was in an ordinary suit, which was a relief to me because Hall-man's sounded like a white-tie-and-tails joint and I was fresh out of tuxedos.
"I may have a problem at this place," I said.
"What would that be?"
"Let's just say that I have a very restricted diet."
He opened and shut his mouth. "Dear me, I'm afraid I never even thought of that."
"Neither did I. Doing business over food is a very normal thing. We take it for granted.
Escott considered it. "Yes, I can see--you must have a tremendous amount of free time to be unfettered with having to stop and eat every four or five hours."
"I'd gladly go back to it if I could."
"Would you rather skip this evening, then?"
"No, I'll just say it's stomach trouble and nurse a coffee. As long as we're on my case I want to be along every inch of the way, if it's all right with you."
"I've no objections. I made more inquiries after Benny Galligar/O'Hara today, but with negative results."
"If he was in trouble with Paco, he's probably blown town by now."
"I agree. He's set a very sensible example for us."
"Yeah, too bad I ain't got any sense."
Mailman's was a white-tie place, after all. Escott must have noticed my lack when he went through my room last Monday, and I silently blessed him for his consideration in wearing a regular suit. Like many swank places in Chicago, Mailman's was cheek-and-jowl with less savory neighborhoods. The street it faced was a high-tax area with bright lights, expensive shops, and other classy restaurants, but cross the alley behind it and you were gambling with your skin. Sometimes it was a gang, sometimes a loan operator, but both types shared an avid interest in acquiring someone else's money. The cops had regular beats in the area, but could hardly prevent the odd out-of-towner from getting picked off by local hunters. When Escott got out of the car this time, he made a point of locking it.
A uniformed man at the canopied entrance guarded some potted palms and a red carpet that ran out to the curb. He held the door for us and bowed slightly.
"Good to see you again, Mr. Escott."
"Thank you, Mr. Burdge. Can you recommend anything tonight?"
"Any of the veal dishes, but stay away from the fish. Our regular fish chef is off tonight and his replacement did his training in the army."
"An inland army, no doubt."
"You got it."
We went in and checked our hats, telling the maitre d' we were still expecting one more and would wait by the door. It wasn't a long wait; at eight a gleaming new black Nash drove up and stopped next to the red carpet.
"I see you have similar tastes in cars," I commented.
"Well, he did give me such a good deal on my present transport a few years ago that I couldn't turn him down. I must say he still knows how to make an entrance, a natural talent. The stage lost a very fine actor in him."
The chauffeur was out and opening the rear door of the Nash; Burdge, the doorman, stood a little straighter and held the door to the restaurant.
It was some credit to his self-control that he wilted only a little when Coldfield emerged into the light. He was postcard perfect in a custom-tailored tuxedo with a satin-lined cape and a silver-headed stick. He carried the clothes comfortably, like Fred Astaire, albeit a much larger-sized Astaire with coal black skin and a beard. He sauntered up to the doorman, who was looking a bit confused as to how to handle the situation. Coldfield gave Burdge a look that banished any inclinations of refusing him entry, and then came in.
Escott tapped his hands together in soft applause. "Well played, sir. A pity it could not have been preserved on film."
Coldfield was pleased. "You said it, history is being made tonight." He nodded to me. "Ready to get tossed out with the best?' "I'd like to see anyone try."
The maitre d' was well trained; his eyebrows only bounced up an eighth of an inch and back down again before he got hold of himself.
"Your usual table, Mr. Escott?" he asked. In a minute I understood why.
Escott's usual table was in a discreet alcove off to one side of the main dining area. The man was only reminding Escott he wasn't trying to shuffle our dark companion out of sight. Whether he wanted to or not, I'd never know.
We sat and went through the business of ordering drinks and studying the menu. Playing my part, I read through it and shook my head.
"Anything wrong, Mr. Fleming?" Escott asked. 'I'm not up to eating anything yet. I got a bad burger for lunch and the thought of more food--" I made a queasy face and shrugged.
"What a pity, perhaps a little broth to recover? No?"
"No, thanks, I just gotta let things run their course so to speak. Don't mind me, you two go ahead and enjoy yourselves."
They did. Escott had veal, Coldfield a steak, and I watched the other patrons between our bouts of conversation. The smell of food did make me feel a little sick, but it was the memory of eating that really nettled me. I'd finally made it into a fancy place with someone else paying the bill, and all I could enjoy was the decor.
We got our share of looks. One group quite obviously cut short their meal and left, their backs stiff with indignation. They wouldn't have minded or even noticed him if Coldfield had been part of the cleanup staff, but being a fellow customer was too much for their tender sensibilities. The maitre d' would have caught their verbal wrath had he been by the door as they left, but being an alert man he'd removed himself from the area in time. This graceless show was not lost on the other diners, who had been wondering what to do themselves. Happily, they had the good taste to mind their own business, and the conversation buzz soon returned to normal levels.
"You may have pulled this off, after all, Charles," Coldfield murmured.
"So it would seem. I should like to live to see the day--"
"Yeah, I know, I know. Well, you at least got me in here--"
"No, you got yourself."
"I'm hell on doormen," he agreed. "But you're just lucky."
"How so?"
"He had a pretty good idea I wasn't Jewish."
Halfway through the meal a waiter came up with a telephone. "An important call for you, Mr. Escott."
Escott said hello into the mouthpiece and scowled a lot. I couldn't quite hear what was being said on the other end, even if I had any business in doing so.
He shook his head. "No, I couldn't possibly, this is a very bad time What? All right, then, but hurry." He hung up and the phone was taken away.
"What's the problem?" I asked.
"I shall have to absent myself for a few minutes. One of my sources of information wants to talk and will only do so face-to-face. He's coming by to pick me up."
"Can't he come in?"
"Not this one. He likes to keep on the move, so we have to go through this little comedy now and then. We drive around the block a few times, then he drops me off. Strange fellow, but often useful. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I should be back in time for dessert." He stood up with a quaint little bow that only the English can get away with, and left.
Coldfield watched his departing back with an indulgent smile.
"How long have you known him?"
"Off 'n on, about fourteen years. Haven't seen much of him since he took up this private-agent stuff, but then I've been busy, too."
"Do you mind his kind of work?"
"Why should I? He doesn't seem to mind mine."
"What do you do?"
He gave me a look of mock surprise. "Why, I run a nightclub."
"At a considerable profit?"
"No point being in business if you don't make a profit."
" How long has he been a private agent?"
"Awhile."
"You play it close to the chest."
"That's how you survive in this town."
He never gave a direct answer to any questions that were too probing, and I asked quite a few before catching on. It must have been the reporter in me. After I figured things out, we stuck to neutral subjects and watched the place slowly empty. Then we watched the staff cleaning up. Our waiter hovered just within sight, broadcasting polite but clear signals that he thought it was time we left.
"Think he stiffed us for the check?" I said jokingly, looking at the clock on the wall. He'd been gone nearly forty minutes.
"No, they'll just put it on his account. He's been coming here for years."
I worried anyway. The phone call could have been a trick to get him outside. Coldfield read my face and told me to relax.
"Charles can take care of himself."
"I hope so."
We waited. A lone busboy in thick glasses shuffled around cleaning the tables. His walk and movements bothered me for some reason, and when I caught a glimpse of his blank face I knew why. His was the careful heavy-heeled, loose-limbed walk of the mentally retarded. He moved from table to table, cleaning up and wiping down, then looked at us and wondered why we hadn't left yet. He was about fifty, with overlong gray hair, a thrusting box-shaped forehead, and thick gray brows that grew across the bridge of his nose. His mouth was open slightly as he stared at us and then at the waiter, undecided on what to do.
"Maybe we should wait outside," Coldfield said.
The waiter came up and said something to the man, pointing to the kitchen. He nodded and went away.
"Yeah, we can do that."
We got up, much to the staff's relief, and went out into the warm, muggy air. The potted palms were inside by now and the doorman locked up behind us.
"Have you any idea who called him?"
He shook his head. "Come on, let's get my car."
Coldfield told his chauffeur to wait by the restaurant door in case Escott turned up, and got into the driver's seat and turned the key. He opened the other door for me and I barely shut it before we were moving.
He swung sharply around the block, his lips tight. He was worried, too.
We made a futile figure-eight circuit of the two facing blocks, so he pulled up and parked next to the canopy and cut the engine. Tension was coming off of him like heat, but he kept it controlled. His door wasn't slammed shut in frustration as he got out, and I tried to follow his example.
We hung around awhile longer. There was an alley between the restaurant and another building and I heard noise coming from it, but it was only the staff leaving for the night. They filtered out the side door one by one and the manager locked up. I spotted the doorman and went after him.
He'd seen Escott get into an old car with someone and they drove off, but I couldn't get him to be more specific. He hurried off to his ride home and I went back to Coldfield with the negative news.
His eyes were scanning up and down the street, his hands clenched tight on the silver knob of his stick. "Damn him and his work," he growled.
I silently agreed. A car cruised past but didn't stop. Each new set of headlights put our necks to swiveling, but in vain.
Another sound came from the alley--footsteps--but it was only the middle-aged busboy. He carried a box, which I remembered seeing him fiddling with in the alley while the other workers left. He walked past us, staring at Coldfield either in recognition or because of his color, and went on to the parking lot, disappearing around the corner. Almost immediately after, we heard a brief cutoff noise coming from a surprised human throat. Coldfield, the chauffeur, and I exchanged looks and hurried to investigate.
The busboy had his back to the brick wall of the restaurant, protectively clutching his box. In a semicircle around him were three young men still in their teens. Clustered by Escott's Nash were four more of the same type: hard-faced and hard-muscled street kids with all the social conscience of wharf rats. It didn't take a genius to figure they'd been trying to steal the last car in the lot, and the poor busboy had interrupted them.
For a few seconds we were all frozen and staring in a sort of tableau, each side summing up the other, then the chauffeur smoothly pulled out a .38 and held it at ready. He started to say something, but a long, thin shape arced out and smashed down on his thick arm. He swallowed his scream as his knees buckled and fell on top of his dropped gun. One more kid lurched out from his hiding place behind us, swinging an iron pipe down on the man's bowed head.
The time it took to raise the pipe up and down must have been brief, but to me he looked like he was moving through cold molasses. Without really thinking, I stepped in, plucked the pipe away from the kid, and hit him in the stomach with my free hand. I remembered in time to pull my punch, though. I didn't want to rupture his internal organs.
The other boys took this as a signal to attack, three of them going straight for Coldfield, who defended himself with his stick, giving as good an example of dirty street righting as I'd ever seen. He was big and holding out well enough, but we were still badly outnumbered. Two kids rushed in on me with knives, which I simply took away from them since they seemed so slow to me. I shoved them away and sent them staggering into a third kid, and the whole group went down. I used the breathing space to lift the chauffeur to one side, and grabbed his gun.
The three shots I fired at the sky did the trick. The punks disappeared like water into dry ground before the last echoes faded.
Coldfield was a little winded but none the worse for wear, except his tux would need some repair work. He came over and knelt by the chauffeur.
"Is it broken?"
The man felt the arm carefully and shook his head. "Nan, he caught me too high. Cracked maybe, be a hell of a bruise."
"We'll get the doc to look at it. I'll finish driving tonight. You okay?" he asked me.
I pretended to be breathless and nodded. "No problems."
"Goddamn punks. The streets just ain't safe anymore."
I was about to ask him if the streets in this town had ever been safe when I noticed the busboy cowering against the wall. "Hey! You all right?"
He hunched over his box, too shaken to move, the eyes behind his thick glasses were bugged halfway out of their sockets. I walked over slowly, trying to say reassuring things so as not to frighten him more. He let himself be led out into the glow from the street lights. His teeth were chattering. I asked him where he lived.
He moved his head vaguely around. "Bad boys hurt."
"Did they hurt you?"
"No." He stared at the chauffeur's arm. "Hurt?"
"Where do you live?"
"Number five." He held up five fingers and counted them off.
"That's very good. Where is number five?"
He counted again, this time going to ten in one rush and waited for my approval.
Coldfield sighed. "I hate to say it, but maybe we should just look for a cop who knows where he belongs."
"He might have an address on him. Have you got any papers?"
He looked blank.
"Wallet?" I tried. Another blank look. I pulled my own wallet out and showed him. "You got one, too?"
He fumbled in his pockets after putting his box down and found one. I opened mine and showed him the papers inside, but instead of following suit, he just stared at it. Impatiently, Coldfield took it from him, and the man instantly burst into tears of protest.
"Mine," he said feebly, and looked at me for help, his face streaming.
"Mine--"
Coldfield had backed away so he could get a better light on the wallet, then he folded it, stalked over, and punched the bus-boy in the face, knocking him flat. His eyes were blazing. "You goddamn son of a bitch!"
The chauffeur and I gaped, then looked at the busboy who was just coming to his feet, holding one side of his head. What we were seeing didn't clearly register at first, but it looked like part of the man's forehead had peeled bloodlessly away from the skull. He put his thumb under the loose flap and tore it completely away and rubbed gingerly at what would soon be a black eye.
"Do I get that catering job now?" Escott asked.
It took us all awhile to get on speaking terms again. I felt like punching him myself, but Escott apologized profusely, especially to the chauffeur. His original plan had been to get into his car and drive up to us, but the punks had interfered. Once the explanations were out Coldfield settled down.
"But I ain't sorry I hit you, 'cause I'd have done it anyway," he said, still annoyed. I remembered he hated surprises.
"I don't blame you for it, old man." Escott opened his trunk and stowed away the box which contained his clothes and makeup equipment. He brought out a flask and passed it around, which did a lot to improve the general atmosphere. "My question still stands: do I go in with the caterers?"
Coldfield sighed. "Yeah, why the hell not? If you get killed it'll even us up for tonight."
We went to the Shoe Box and Coldfield got busy arranging a doctor for his chauffeur. In the end one of his other men was summoned to drive him to the hospital, where the arm could be properly examined. He laid no blame on Escott for it, saying the car thieves would have been there anyway, and went off with his friend. As they walked down the hall I heard him giving a highly dramatic account of how he came by his injury and how the boss had stepped in and single-handedly saved the day. He'd probably get a lot of drinks out of that story, and Coldfield's reputation wouldn't suffer, either.
Drinks were waiting for us when our host had finished his business. He drained his own and sank into one of the overstuffed chairs. The radio was off and the club band apparently on break. The only noises now were the customers a few rooms away and someone banging around in a nearby kitchen.
"Hey, Jack." He jerked me back from wherever I'd drifted.
"Come on and have a drink. You deserve it after all that rumpus."
I joined them. Escott was perched on the edge of a couch, a sheet of paper in his hand and his forehead wrinkled. What's that?"
"A list of the stuff Paco has been shipping in and keeping, but don't ask me what they add up to; that's Charles's specialty." He went to the bar and made another drink. Returning, he nodded at my untouched glass.
"Don't you like my booze?"
"It's fine, I'm just not much of a drinker."
"You're more a fighter. I was busy, but saw some, and I've never seen anyone move that fast in my life."
"It's amazing what you can do when you're scared."
He snorted and raised his glass. "Here's to being scared."
I was going to pretend to sip, but it was no good, he was watching me too closely. I braced myself and gulped. The stuff dropped down my throat and hit my guts like hot lead.
Coldfield read my face all too clearly. "I guess you really aren't much of a drinker."
"Bad stomach is all, always had it." I kept gulping at nothing, trying to keep the stuff down, feeling like a balloon about to burst. Escott provided some distraction as he shook his head over the paper.
"There is definitely something to this, but I need more information.
Tomorrow I shall have to find out who actually ordered this and where it ends up after removal from the warehouse."
"All right, but just make sure you're at the caterers by six, or they leave without you. I'll let them know what you're trying to pull and tell them not to make a fuss. You goin' to do this act again?"
"Oh, yes."
"What about Jack? You said you wanted him in, too."
"Not exactly. I shall ask Mr. Fleming to remain nearby with the car. If things get too warm for me, I'll slip out and he can drive us away." He looked at me. "Are you all right?" He'd been too absorbed to pay attention earlier, but now his eyes darted from the empty glass to my face and he understood what had happened.
I tried a weak smile, but kept my lips firmly together, telegraphing to him that I had an urgent problem.
Escott thanked Coldfield, said that we had to get moving, and hustled me out of the Shoe Box and into the car in record time. After a short block I asked him to pull over. I couldn't stand it any longer. He did, I opened the door and leaned out for the explosion. The booze shot into the gutter like a burst from a firehose. I spat out the last drops, blinked at the dirty street below, and forgot to clutch the doorframe when the dizziness hit. Escott grabbed my arm to stop--
"Mr. Fleming?"
--me going over the rail into endless black water. A heavy hand on my neck forced my head down--
"Fleming?"
--retching, no air, blood pounding behind my eyes--
"Fleming!"
He yanked me upright and kept me from sliding under the dashboard.
"What's wrong? Fleming?"
"A dream on the boat."
" You remembered something--what?"
He had to wait a long minute for the shaking to pass, and my left hand was still trembling while I told him what I could. He looked at it, then up a me.
"Touched a nerve, has it?"
"It's almost over."
"Then you've had this kind of seizure before?"
"Seizure?"
"When I see someone going all boneless as you did, I call it a seizure, and you seem familiar with it."
"Yeah, I had one a few days ago when I tried to remember what happened before I woke up on the beach. It's like I'm not here anymore. I don't like that loss of control."
He made a sympathetic noise. "Was your last experience as dismaying as this one?"
"Unfortunately. Except last time I was trying on purpose to remember.
This time getting rid of that stuff--"
"Spontaneously triggered the memory?"
"Yeah, what you said."
He ah-hummed like a doctor and motioned for me to shut the door, then worked the gears and pointed the car in the general direction of my hotel.
"What's on your mind?" I asked.
"Just an idea I thought a reenactment of your final moments on the boat--"
"I get it, but it's kind of hard to reenact something if you don't know how it was enacted in the first place."
"We know you were beaten and shot."
"You want to beat me up and shoot me?" I said cautiously.
"It is only a suggestion, mind you."
"Let's keep it that way until I can think it over."
"As you wish. After all, I could lose my license by assaulting a client, even if it is in his best interest."
I watched the streets glide past, waiting for the tingling in my left hand to subside. "You still want me along tomorrow?"
He was surprised. "Why would you think otherwise?"
I made a fist and opened it, stretching the fingers. "Because of this. I might conk out on you."
"I'm willing to risk it."
"And because I've met some private inves--agents before, and usually the last thing they want is their clients breathing down their necks while they work."
"That is usually true, but then you don't breathe."
"Funny."
"Besides you are essential to our success. Surely you're aware of the extreme usefulness of your abilities?"
"For sneaking around unseen? Uh-huh, except I'm not too sure what I should be looking for."
"In this case, you might know it when you see it, like a half dozen crates marked as spare parts. You'll have much more freedom of movement than I. You need only to avoid getting caught."
"I figured that much, but how do I get there? I'm not up and around at six."
"You can use my car. I'll leave it at your hotel after I've finished my inquiries for the day. There will be a marked map on the seat showing you how to get to his place."
At a quarter to eight the next night I was out and following his neatly written and meticulous directions. In addition to the map was a sketch of the house and neighboring grounds, and an X marked a shrub-sheltered spot off the road where I could safely park. Paco took his privacy seriously. There were warnings about armed guards, high fences, and even watch dogs, all of which I intended to avoid.
The place was just far enough from town to give the illusion it was in the country. The land around was brilliantly lit by star and moonlight.
There was no darkness for my eyes, to rest in; even the deepest shadows under the trees had been reduced to soft gray patches devoid of mystery and fear. Darkness had been ended forever for me. Perhaps tonight I would see the man who was responsible.
Twenty careful minutes later I was crouched under the window Escott had designated, mentally keyed up but devoid of the usual physical signs of excitement. My lungs drew no quick gulps of air, my heart wasn't hammering in anticipation of action, I wasn't even sweating. My hands were paper dry. The only evidence of inner turbulence was the iron-hard stiffness that seized my spine. It did help me to keep very still while I waited; that alone was enough to make me invisible to the occasional patrolling guard. I was just another shadow in the bushes.
Escott softly called my name from the window. The coast was clear, inside and out. My body vanished, reappearing just behind him and still in a crouching position. I came out of it slowly, orienting. We were in a bathroom.
He'd been peering out the small window and then whirled with a stifled jump. "My God, but that's unnerving," he whispered, and I tried very hard not to smile at his reaction. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." I stared in fascination at his makeup job--it was perfect.
"How can you see through those glasses?"
He pulled out a sheet of paper with a rough sketch on it. "Here's the kitchen, where I'll be They've set me to washing dishes for now and I've got the window over the sink open if we need to talk. This is the dining room, the guests are still there, about thirty of them, give or take the odd gunman. The caterers are only allowed into these areas, the rest is your territory. Pace's office shouldn't be difficult to identify, but in particular you might seek out the basement. There is a locked door to it in the kitchen, but I'm willing to guess there's another entrance as well."
"You think the locked door is to protect more than just his liquor?"
"I certainly hope so. I want to know where he put all the money he borrowed from Slick Morelli."
"Anything in particular I should look for?"
"Whatever looks out of place in a normal house--or even this one for that matter. Perhaps even your list, if they're careless enough to leave it lying around. In the last week they could have acquired it from Benny Galligar."
"O'Hara."
"Whatever."
I nodded in agreement because he looked nervous. "Okay, don't worry about me. How long will you be here?"
"My group is supposed to leave around twelve. I'll have them drop me off near the car, and wait for you there. You should have as long as discretion allows."
It seemed like plenty of time and I said so. "You better get back to your dishes. If I turn up anything, I'll let you know."
"I've learned to be a patient man, Mr. Fleming. Good luck."
He slipped out the door and I was on my own, without even my reflection for company. I gave him time to get away, then floated out of the bathroom. Considering its proximity to the dining room and kitchen, it would have a regular parade of intruding patrons. Feeling my invisible way down the hall kept me safe, but I'd have to solidify soon to get some bearings. Two men walked past, their voices flat and muffled in my ears. I followed in their wake until they faded away. Pressing what would be my back against a wall, I tried a partial re-forming.
The confusing buzz of background noise became the familiar tones of clear conversation coming from a large room on my right, with double doors leading in to dinner. There was a T intersection down the hall on the left. I picked the left branch of the T and began opening doors.
There were plenty of closets, some small bedrooms apparently belonging to the permanent staff, and another bathroom. It was a water haul so I tried my luck with the other branch of the T and found more of the same, except for one encouragingly locked door. I ghosted through it and felt the floor drop away in a series of descending right angles. It was the other basement entrance. At the bottom landing was another locked door, which also proved useless for the owner.
Inside, I partially materialized and discovered the jackpot. It was a brightly lit laboratory crammed with the kind of stuff I'd last seen at college, when I'd slept through the required chemistry courses. It was nearly as big as my old classroom, but neater and newer looking. The one thing it didn't have in common with higher learning was the lantern-jawed mug sitting at his ease about five feet away from me. Only my lack of sudden movement and his complete absorption in a magazine kept him from spotting my intrusion. I vanished, got behind him, and reformed.
His face was unfamiliar, but his flashy clothes and callused knuckles were enough to identify his probable line of work. On a table next to him was a half glass of milk with crumbs floating on top and a plate of cookies that he occasionally dipped into. His magazine caught my eye--he was also interested in the Shadow's adventures and halfway through Terror Island. Someday I'd have to write Walter and tell him about his mobster fan.
Without disturbing him, I very quietly checked out the rest of the joint. At the far end a door with a glass panel set in it led to a dark service area for the furnace, and eventually went on to the kitchen stairs. There was also a locked wine cellar, a laundry, old furniture, and a lot of dust. Going back by way of the lab, I went back upstairs to the T, down its base, and explored another hall. This area was not very promising, with only some socializing rooms; nothing like an office until I got to the last door. It was locked, but no problem.
Paco liked to show off. The inside of his sanctum looked like a decorator's idea for a president's office. It was full of velvet and leather upholstery, black stained wood, and gold-framed oil paintings of conservative landscapes. The only portrait was of a bullish-looking man with heavy features and pop-eyes. He looked enough like Sanderson to have been a close relative. It was hard to judge how tall he was, for the painting was done on a larger-than-life scale. No memories stirred for me and I wondered how good a likeness it really was.
My training as a detective was limited to what I'd learned watching movies, so I started looking for a safe behind the paintings, but with no luck. The desk drawers were locked, and since Escott didn't want any obvious signs of intrusion I left them alone and sorted through the papers left on top. Nothing important was on them, just some notes about the party and a few doodles.
I tried upstairs and found only more bedrooms and baths, gave up, and snuck back to the kitchen. I could make little sense of the noise and muddle of voices there, and drifted outside to look through the windows.
The curtains were open and the sashes had been raised to let in some breeze. The kitchen was steamy and filled with people busy with mountains of food. Peering through one window, I was face-to-face with Escott, who was bent over a pile of dishes and up to his elbows in soap suds. I softly tapped for his attention and told him to go to the cellar door. He nodded dully, as if to himself, staying in character so well I had some doubts whether he'd really heard and understood. But a few minutes later, when I unlocked the door from the inside, he was turning the knob one second and standing next to me on the small landing the next.
I explained the problem with the laboratory: I could get in anywhere, but lacked his knowledge.
He pocketed the fake glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I can absent myself from the dishes long enough to have a good look. Lead the way."
We went straight to the glass-paneled door and from the safety of the dark on our side, looked in. His eyes lit up at the sight of all that equipment. He stared at everything for nearly a minute, then grabbed my arm and backed us away.
"What's it about?" I whispered.
He shook his head with a small, impatient movement. "I've got to get in there. Can you get rid of the guard?"
"How permanently?"
"Nothing fatal, if you don't mind--wait, he's moving."
We shrank deeper into the shadows, watching through the glass. The man left the magazine open on the table, massaged his back, stood, and stretched. He checked his watch, yawned, and unlocked the stairway door, then secured it again from the other side.
I darted forward, sieved through our door, and let Escott in. "You've only got a few minutes."
"How do you know?"
I pointed to the now-empty glass of milk. "He's headed for the can to get rid of that, so he won't take long."
"Excellent deduction," he approved, and went to work, prowling the length of the room, inspecting the variety of glass tubes and flasks, and poking nosily into cabinets. In one of them he found a handwritten notebook of some kind and in another was a small safe. He suppressed a bark of triumph, dropped on his haunches, and tried the handle. We were both surprised when it turned and the door swung open.
"What's inside?"
"Something odd," he said more to himself than to me. He opened the book, scanning page after page, visibly puzzled.
"Anything wrong?"
Too occupied to pay attention, he reexamined some sealed glass containers that seemed to be filled with liquid chrome. He tapped one and the convex surface vibrated like a molten mirror. Leaving them, he searched for and located a supply of chemicals in a walk-in closet. He read the labels but opened a container anyway to make sure of the contents. A smell like rotten eggs drifted into the air, and he looked like a kid who'd just gotten everything he ever wanted for Christmas.
"Come on, what is it?"
"No real heat source except those Bunsen burners," he muttered thoughtfully, "but that could be talked around. Well, well! We can leave now."
"Glad to hear it."
He returned everything to its place except the book, and we got out about ten seconds before the guard returned. He got comfortable with his magazine again and began reading.
"Why isn't he at the party?" I whispered.
"Probably shy. Come on."
Back at the kitchen stairs, he sat on the second lowest step, pulled out a small flashlight, and studied the book. Five minutes later he was shaking so hard with silent laughter he had to close it up to get his breath back.
He held it out to me. "If nothing else, this would be proof enough of Frank Paco's criminal tendencies, for is it not well-known that you can't cheat an honest man?"
"What is it?"
He rolled the Latin out slowly and with evident pleasure. ' 'Magnum opus."
"What great work?"
"Open the first page, read what is printed at the top."
" 'What is above is as that which is below, and what is below is as that which is above.' What's it about, burying people?"
"A kind of philosophy, a seeking for enlightenment which has since become corrupted and obscured by ignoble charlatans. You saw the mercury and sulfur. All that was lacking was a purifying furnace. This, my dear fellow, is alchemy."
"Alchemy," I repeated blankly. "Paco is trying to make gold?' "Pah! The man hasn't the education."
"He's got a tame chemist, then."
"More likely a chemist cum physics." He shook his head. "Not a genuine one, but a fraud in every sense of the word."
"A con man?"
"Precisely."
"Somebody's convinced Paco he can turn lead into gold?"
"Not lead, but mercury. It's next up from gold on the periodic table.
The notes in that book indicate they plan to use radium--"
"Radium?"
"--in some exotic process that will knock an atomic number or two from the mercury so they end up with either gold or platinum."
"That's impossible."
"In theory it seems quite possible, but that is just in theory."
"It is impossible?"
"Given the present state of science, yes, but the idea can be so beautifully profitable if presented in the right way to greedy and receptive ears. This is a confidence trickster of rare genius and no small audacity. It would be an honor to meet the fellow."
"But where can he get radium?"
"He doesn't have to get any--that's what I found in the safe."
"An unlocked safe? But radium is more expensive than gold."
"Astronomically more expensive and far more dangerous to have lying so casually around. Only four years ago there was a case of a Pittsburgh man who died horribly from ingesting a quack medicine containing radioactive salts. The radium they have tucked away in that unlocked safe is nothing more than a convincing substitute. No doubt it was purchased by the mark for a large sum of cash from the con artist's partner."
"So the phony radium and all this lab equipment are just so much window dressing?"
"A new twist to a very old game, don't you think?"
"Yeah, I also think that maybe Paco is wise to it and pulling the strings of the con man. He's got a lot of money swilling his booze upstairs and might take some of the greedier ones on a little tour down here."
"A good point," he admitted. "Again, I seem to have underestimated the opposition. All right, we discard the outside con man for the moment and put Paco in his place instead. He chooses a few gullible prospects from his guests, leads them to think he can make an unlimited quantity of gold by using radium as a modern-day Philosophers' Stone and offers them the opportunity to invest--"
"Or help buy the radium--"
"Then the experiments end in failure and Paco pockets the unspent cash."
"You think he borrowed the cash from Morelli to start with, just to build this lab?"
"It makes quite a convincing backdrop, does it not? I talked with Shoe again today and he was able to confirm that Paco had borrowed a quantity of cash from Morelli about a month ago, before you came to town."
"You don't think this is connected with me?"
"I really don't know. For the moment the most I'll say is that it seems unlikely."
"It's a beautiful situation, though."
"In what way?"
"Pace's left himself wide open--I mean if anything should happen to that lab"
"Are you suggesting we do something precipitant?"
"Any objections?"
"After what Paco nearly had done to me, I don't give a bloody damn what happens to him so long as it's something terribly unpleasant."
"You got any ideas?"
"Yes, but I want Shoe's people well clear of this before we do anything.
Is the car in place?"
"Just like you marked on the map."
"Good. I must ask you to go there and wait for me. The catering staff leaves at midnight."
"Sure, but what are you planning to do?"
We'd been too loud, or our voices had carried in some freak way, for the glass-windowed door to the lab opened and the basement lights flared on.
Escott's back was to them, and his body shielded mine with shadow. He slipped his thick glasses back on and whispered a one-word order for me to hide. The last I saw of him was his startled expression as I vanished.
"Hey! Who are you?" Heavy aggressive footsteps approached and braked.
"Hey! I'm talking to you! What are you doing here?"
"I wash up," Escott mumbled in the same voice he'd used to such good effect last night. I moved up behind the man; if there was going to be trouble, I wanted to be in a position to take care of it.
"Yeah? Well, what's to wash down here? You dunno, huh? Get back up to the kitchen. Gowan--move. It's more than your ass is worth if you come down here again."
They both trooped up the stairs. He pushed Escott out, locked the door, and clomped down again. He moved around the basement, checking to see if he missed anyone, but eventually returned to the lab with a weary sigh and shut off the lights. He sounded bored, which wasn't good. A bored man is on the lookout for distraction. Whatever Escott had in mind, we'd have to be careful.
I floated upstairs and outside, appearing at the window as before.
Escott was busy scrubbing, trying to catch up on lost time.
"I'll be at the car," I whispered.
He nodded as though in time to some unheard inner musk, and splashed another of pile of dishes into the soapy gray water.
The guards patrolling the estate were visible a mile off. I had no trouble avoiding them, but the dogs were another matter. They'd been on the other side of the grounds when I'd first arrived and were now making an importune circuit of my escape route. One of the men had a big mongrel on a short lead that caught my scent. Its ears went flat and he came charging, dragging his master. I like dogs, but this time my vanishing trick was never more welcome.
I was near a pine tree and used it to orient myself, hanging close to the trunk to keep from drifting in the slight wind. The man and dog approached and he let the animal sniff around. However, it did not like blundering into the space I was occupying, and at first contact the dog gave an unhappy yelp and decided to seek something else to threaten that was a little more within his experience. He broke away and ran off, his master in hot and annoyed pursuit.
It was way past time to quietly beat it out of there. The commotion was drawing the kind of attention that was only welcome in a three-ring circus. I formed up solid again and, moving fast, got away from the clown-and-dog act and found the fence I'd climbed coming in. It was a long five minutes of tearing through brush, brambles, and long grass to reach the car and something of an anticlimax once there, since I had nothing to do until Escott came. For the next couple of hours I plucked greenery from my clothes, kicked at stones, and ducked every time a set of headlights appeared on the nearby road.
Shortly after twelve a large truck rumbled up from Pace's and stopped for a few seconds. A single tall figure hopped from the back, waved to someone inside, and was left in the exhaust as the truck drove off.
There was a spring in Escott's step, as though he were on vacation and hadn't spent the evening washing dishes for a man who'd tried to have him killed.
"Sorry about that interruption. I'm certainly glad the fellow missed seeing you."
"You didn't get into trouble?"
"Not at all. I think the man was reluctant to inform anyone that a person of my apparent intellectual capacity managed to get down there in the first place, as it would make him look bad."
"Good, I didn't want to have to do anything he'd regret. You going to get rid of that face?"
"Yes, I'm beginning to sweat it off, anyway." He opened the Nash's trunk and turned on a small flashlight with a piece of red glass over the bulb instead of the usual clear covering. He noticed that I noticed. "You may have excellent night vision, but I must preserve my own as best I can."
He fixed the light so he could work, and hauled up a large metal box; the layered, unfolding kind used by fishermen to hold their lures and other equipment. Instead of spare hooks and lines, it contained a wide assortment of greasepaints, powders, brushes, sponges, and a dozen other things I couldn't identify in all the clutter. It was the only thing of his that was not starkly clean and neat.
Working quickly in what for him was very dim light, he removed the glasses, false forehead, some protruding teeth from his lower jaw, a ragged gray wig, and odd tufts of hair. He smeared cold cream on and wiped the rest of the makeup off on a thin towel that had seen better days, then closed the kit up. He shrugged out of the white dishwasher's coat and buttoned a dark shirt on in its place.
"Now we can get to work."
"My question still stands: what have you got planned?"
He reached into the trunk again and pulled out my answer.
"You're kidding. You carry that stuff around with you?"
"I try to be prepared and I am not kidding. You can put this where it will do the most good."
"Where? Up Frank Paco's--"
"Don't be crude. He has unwisely indebted himself to Slick Morelli to construct facilities to 'produce' his dream gold. You have suggested that if those facilities were destroyed--"
"Well, not in so many words"
"This could be a setback he can't afford."
"Couldn't he just start over?"
"I think not, since his credibility in the criminal community would be destroyed as well once the story got out, and I can make sure it does.
It's cost him a lot to set things up, and he might not be able to clear the debt with his creditor."
"He might get rubbed out."
"That is a possibility. If you have second thoughts let me know now, for this is a felony."
"My murder was a felony. Paco owes us both one, so let's go collect."
