CHAPTER EIGHT
I could think of a few dozen things I didn’t like about the situation, not the least of which was the fact that the two dark-suited gentlemen who were my hosts began to speak to each other in German as they led me into an isolated house on an isolated hill. The skeleton man’s gun was out now, and my chance for a run was down to nothing. The gun was a big bulky Luger that could make a big bulky hole in a man, woman, child or tree.
The house itself was badly lit even with the lights turned on. Some of the furniture was covered with sheets, as if the owners were on a vacation. I was led to a wooden chair in the living room and told to sit down. I did. The skeleton man hovered over me with his gun while the short man with the neck muscles and a decided wheeze tied my hands behind me. He was good at it.
There appeared to be some Germanic debate between the two about how to handle me. I was pulling for the wheezer in spite of what he had done to my wrists. I had the distinct feeling that the smiling corpse did not like me, though I couldn’t remember having met him before. I was sure I would have remembered.
Skeleton won the debate and the wheezer walked to a radio on a table and turned it on loud. He found
“Mr. Peters,” said the skeleton, turning to me, “we have some questions for you to answer. If you answer them, we have no trouble and we take you back home with a minimum of pain.”
He was a clever one. I had to hand him that. He wasn’t telling me I would get off scot free if I talked. He figured I wouldn’t buy that. His hope was that I’d settle for a little abuse in exchange for freedom and not think about the likelihood of the abuse being eternal.
“There are some things I can tell you,” I said. “And some things I can’t. I’ve got a client.” I also figured that if I told them everything that I would no longer be needed. I wasn’t even sure of what “everything” was.
“We’ll start with what you can tell us, then,” said the skeleton man to the music of Guy Lombardo. Skeleton man was putting on a pair of gloves. “Before we begin, however, I’d like to know if you have any problems, illnesses we have to be careful of. We don’t want you to pass out before you give us what we need. You understand?”
We exchanged professional grins and I said I understood. I played Br’er Rabbit and told him I had ulcers. I had no ulcers. I also had no desire to be hit in the stomach, but considering the state of my head, I tried to steer him to my midsection. As useless as my head had been, it might still have a function in the future if I ever got there.
Skeleton hit me hard in the stomach to the accompaniment of Guy Lombardo playing “Happy Days are Here Again.” My satisfaction at having tricked the skeleton was tempered by the pain in my stomach and the taste of nausea in my mouth.
“I thought you wanted me awake,” I gasped.
“But I hit you so gently, Mr. Peters. Now, tell us why you killed Frye, the man in your office last night. We’ll start with that.”
“I didn’t kill him,” I said. “He tried to kill me and someone killed him after he knocked me out. That’s the truth.”
“Suppose you go over everything that happened,” he said, nodding to the man at the radio to run the volume down so he could hear me. “You must believe that we did not want Mr. Frye to kill you. He was, how do you say it, overzealous. We simply wanted to frighten you a bit. Please believe me.”
“I believe you,” I gasped, swallowing. Then I told him what happened the night before, leaving out the visit by Trudi Gurstwald and leaving out Hughes. When I got to the point about Frye’s message in blood and said he had written “unkind,” Fritz-the-skeleton looked puzzled, but Hans at the radio had an inspiration and started to babble something. Skeleton told him to be quiet.
“That was very good, Mr. Peters,” said Skeleton. “Now suppose you tell us how much you have found out in your quest to discover who supposedly stole some of Mr. Howard Hughes’ military plans. Yes, we know about that.”
“I can’t tell you any more,” I said, looking straight up at him. There was a little more I could tell him. I could have told him about the holes in Major Barton’s chest, assuming he hadn’t put them there. I could have told him about Bugsy Siegel. I didn’t think it meant much, but I decided not to tell him in the hope that stalling would keep me alive long enough to work something out.
Skeleton put his gloved hands together and shook his head sadly. “Mr. Peters,” he said. “We can easily cut your insides out so the birds can carry them home to their young. Would you like that?”
“You have a way with words,” I said, and he hit me again in the stomach. It was bad. If I had a bleeding ulcer, it would have been worse. Which gave me an idea. I bit the inside of my cheek hard. It hurt like hell, battling the ache in my stomach for the pain championship. I tasted blood, leaned forward and spit a red mass at Skeleton’s feet. He danced back quickly.
“Ulcer, bleeding,” I gasped and pretended to pass out.
I rolled my eyes back instantly and held them, looking somewhere into the top of my skull. Skeleton lifted my head by the hair and forced my right eye open. Since I was looking into my skull, I couldn’t see him, but my blank eye seemed to convince him I was out and bleeding internally from a ruptured ulcer.
The boys had a discussion in German, and I waited while they decided whether to kill me or keep me for a while. I was betting on their keeping me, since I hadn’t told them anything much yet. I was counting on them expecting a terrified man With internal injuries who would gladly talk to keep from further pain. The blood from my cut cheek dribbled down my partly open mouth. I was giving them the best show I could.
The radio went off, and I felt myself being dragged across the floor, one man on each arm. It didn’t do my wrists any good, but at least they weren’t dragging me by the feet and bumping my head.
A door opened and I felt myself thrown into a room. My chest hit something hard and I bounced into what I decided was a bed. My hands were tied tight behind me and hurting.
Hans and Fritz said something more in German and closed and locked a door. I opened my eyes to darkness and listened. They talked more and then I heard footsteps going out the front door and the faint slam of a car door.
From the other room, I heard the radio come on again, and whoever was left in there caught the end of
One thing was in my favor: they were sure I was unconscious and badly hurt. I knew I was awake and hurt, but not as badly as I was half the months of a given year. It took about five minutes to work my way off the bed without making too much noise. The radio helped cover me while the rusty springs did their best to give me away. I crawled under the bed with my face in the dusty carpet. I swallowed some blood to keep from sneezing and felt around for a sharp spring. I found one and as quietly as I could, ripped the cloth away to give it more room. Then I slowly worked the ropes against the sharp point of the spring. I went strand by strand on one spot, hoping I’d get through before Hans decided to take a look at me. I figured he’d at least listen through to the end of the show, which was just about what it took me to get the rope frayed enough so I could give it a tug and come free.
I had trouble getting my hands back in front of me and convincing the blood to recirculate. I was numb from the shoulders down, and it took about three minutes before there was any feeling in my arms and hands. I crawled out from under the bed and tested my legs just as Jay Joyston was saying, “And it shall be my duty as district attorney, not only to prosecute to the limit of the law all persons accused of crimes perpetrated within this country, but to defend with equal vigor the rights and privileges of all its citizens.”
I got behind the door just as the radio was clicked off. Heavy footsteps came toward me. I felt for a weapon and found a lamp on a table near the bed. The door came open and Hans the short wheezer stepped in. He flipped a wall switch and the light came bright in my hand. I gave it a pull, sending the room back into darkness and lunged, hitting him in the face with the base of the lamp. He staggered back into the living room and I came out, dropping
