“Where did he go?” I said.
Morgana didn’t seem to hear either of us. She told it her own way. “I know Walter’s been watching her. When Deirdre went out tonight, Walter wasn’t here, so I followed her. To that gambling house! She’s gone there alone before. I told Walter. An hour ago. He ran out. Now he’ll see her for what she is!”
The righteous, fanatical girl trembled where she stood with the rest of us watching her. There was something pitiful about her. She was going to save her golden little boy, destroy the evil witch, open Walter’s spellbound eyes.
“Don’t be juvenile, Morgana!” Mrs. Radford said. “I’m sure Deirdre knows just what she is doing. Walter is being foolish again.”
In a way Mrs. Radford was a lot like Sammy Weiss. For Weiss it would all work out fine as long as he did nothing; his luck would change. For Gertrude Radford all one had to do was pay for something, buy someone, and everything was accomplished as she wanted it.
I walked to the door.
“Mr. Fortune!” Mrs. Radford snapped. “You will not bother Walter or Deirdre.”
I looked back. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Radford. You’ve done enough damage. I don’t take your orders.”
“George!” she said. “Morgana, get MacLeod.”
She turned to each of them. Ames poured another drink and looked at the floor. Morgana just stared at her mother. Neither of them moved. After a moment, Ames turned his back to the old woman, and to me. There was no anger on Mrs. Radford’s smooth face, only amazement.
“Stop him,” she said. “What’s wrong with you? George?”
I left her and them. MacLeod did not appear to stop me. I went out to my car. I didn’t have any doubt about what gambling house Morgana Radford had meant.
26
The parking lot of the big brown house was full of cars and empty of people. I saw Deirdre Fallon’s red Fiat. I didn’t see Walter Radford’s Jaguar. The lot was dark and swept by the wind. A mist of dry snow blew like drifting sand across the open lot from mounds at the edges.
When I parked and got out, the scouring wind made sounds that played tricks with my nerves. I was a long way from my own backyard. Costa’s silver Bentley was parked in its private space around the corner from the front entrance. I went inside.
The rooms were all going full blast, the elegant marks losing their money as fast as in any garage-floor crap game, if with more comfort and gentility. I stayed far in the background, my duffle coat on my arm. I did not see Walter or Deirdre Fallon. I chewed my lip for a time, then headed for the telephone booth inside the front door. I put on my coat and slid into the booth.
Costa’s office number would be private, but the club should have a listed number. It did. I dialed and watched through the glass as a houseman ambled to a wall telephone. I asked for Costa. I saw the houseman hesitate. I gave my name and said it was urgent. He told me to wait. I watched him press a button, and my line went on hold. He pressed another button, and almost stood at attention as he spoke into the phone. He nodded, and my line went off hold.
“Hello, baby, what’s up?” Costa’s easy voice said.
“I want to talk to you.”
“You know where to find me.”
“No, somewhere a little more public. I’m at the railroad station. Just drive up slow; I’ll see you.”
There was a silence. When his voice came back on the line, it could have sliced steel. “You putting me on, Fortune?”
“You better come,” I said. “Come right now, and come alone.”
I hung up. In the booth I sat down where I could see both the front door and the curtained entrance to Costa’s office. He had to come, if only to call my bluff. He appeared in less than two minutes, wearing a sleek black Chesterfield and an angry scowl. His coat bulged. He stopped to talk to the houseman. He was alone. I didn’t see Strega anywhere. I was a two-bit private eye, and a cripple, and I had counted on his pride. He strode out the front door. I slipped from the booth and followed him.
Outside, I saw him just turning the corner toward the Bentley. I slipped to the corner and peered around. The Bentley was only some twenty feet away. I waited until he had the door open and was sliding behind the wheel. Then I sprinted the twenty feet.
He was so busy he didn’t see me until I was leaning in the window, my old pistol in my hand. His black eyes looked up at me, and then he grinned. He curled a lip at my gun.
“Where’d you pick up the musket, baby?”
“I keep it around for courage,” I said. “Keep your hands on the wheel, and face front until I’m in the back.”
I slid into the back seat. His sleek black hair shined in the faint light reflected from the snow. He was watching me in the rear-view mirror, all his teeth flashing in the smile.
“You need courage, baby?” he asked in his easy voice.
“Someone is acting like I do,” I said.
“The Radford thing?”
“Yes. Where are they, Costa? Walter Radford and Miss Fallon?”
“Why would I know, baby?”
“I think you know.”
Costa moved. I pushed the pistol at him, but not too close. He put both his hands out in front of him.
“I like to see who I talk to, Fortune,” he said. “My hands are open. My coat’s buttoned. You got me alone. I’m turning.”
He turned until he could rest his hands on the back of the front seat. He leaned against the door, his dark eyes on me. I sat back far out of range. A Bentley is a big, roomy car.
“You think I killed old Jonathan after all, baby?” he said.
“No, Walter Radford killed his uncle.”
“So what’s the pitch?”
“Walter didn’t kill Paul Baron or the other two.”
“What other two?”
“Leo Zar, and a girl named Carla Devine.”
Even in the reflected light I saw his black eyes take on a hard sheen like well-polished ebony. He whistled through his teeth. I waited. Outside in the wind-swept parking lot no one appeared and nothing moved.
Costa said, “You think you know something, baby?”
“I know that after Walter killed Jonathan, Paul Baron came to his ‘rescue’ and set up a frame on Sammy Weiss. That gave Baron a real hold on Walter, with the murder knife as security. Or Baron thought it did. Mrs. Radford outfoxed him. She made a deal with his partner. So Baron got shot, and the other two were killed because they knew too much about the frame-up.”
“Baron had a partner? You mean all along?”
“It’s all that makes sense. Only someone Baron really trusted could have both killed him and set the second frame-up on Weiss. Someone who knew everything Baron was doing.”
“Who, baby?”
“Deirdre Fallon,” I said. “It has to be. She probably conned Walter into getting Baron to cover Jonathan’s murder in the first place. She was there; she got the idea.”
“I knew there was something about that one. It figures, yeh. She’s smooth; she’s been around. She didn’t figure with Walter.”
“No, she didn’t figure until the small blackmail turned into a big squeeze. Then Mrs. Radford bought off the big squeeze. The payoff was Walter himself. He was rich now, and he wanted Deirdre. All Deirdre had to do was get Baron out of the picture.”
