Don't Bleed on Me (A Mike Faraday P.I. Mystery Book 6) Page 2

  Chapter Two – A Long, Cool Drink

  1

  He was a short, broad-shouldered man, dressed in a light grey suit and soft tan shoes. He wore a lilac shirt and a blue bow tie with white dots seemed like a butterfly hanging under his big chin. A thin rim of sandy hair surrounded his pink bald head like a halo; he had ears that stood out like handles at the side of his face.

  He looked mild enough but I wouldn’t have made a book on it; there was a bulge under his left arm-pit that could have been made by fat, his wallet or by something else again. And I earned my living by sizing up people’s personalities. He was standing at the top of the bank too, right where I would I have to pass him by. I decided to play it easy.

  ‘Looking for something?’ he said.

  ‘I might,’ I said. ‘You never know in my line of business.’

  ‘What would that be?’ he asked.

  ‘Dried fruit importer,’ I said.

  He laughed. ‘A dangerous profession.’

  ‘Especially when the prunes start biting back,’ I said.

  He opened his teeth in silent mirth. ‘A sense of humor as well. Capital. Shall we walk?’

  ‘We may as well,’ I said. ‘Seeing that you’re at the top of the bank. Apart from what you’ve got up your sleeve.’

  ‘Or in my pocket,’ he said softly. ‘You’re sensible.’

  I shrugged. I climbed up the bank. He watched me closely. Near to he looked harder than he had seemed from a distance. His suit was stretched across his shoulders in a way that indicated solid muscle. He fell in alongside as we went back towards the road.

  ‘I own the spread up there,’ he said, waving his hand. ‘I thought you might like to join me for a drink.’

  His gesture indicated the house with the swim pool and the Chinese entrance gate.

  ‘And if I don’t care for a drink?’ I said.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘That would be something else again. But you look like a man with a thirst on him. Something long and cool, shall we say?’

  He dropped his hand back into his pocket in a way that was so natural and inevitable that it would have deceived nine people out of ten. I was the tenth. He hesitated for the slightest fraction and the air seemed suddenly to have grown close and thundery. Even the birds had stopped singing.

  ‘Why not?’ I said.

  The short man took his hand out of his pocket again and smiled another non-smile. As an expression of geniality it didn’t mean a thing. It was simply his professional manner that was as automatic and reflexive to him as the switching on and off of a bathroom light might be to an ordinary man; part of his stock in trade. I decided to test him out. I walked over to the other side of the road and fell in on his left hand, the side away from where his gun-arm would be; if he had a gun, that is.

  He frowned. As we walked up to the gate of his house that looked like something out of a Chinese painting he dropped behind for a moment; when he re-joined me he walked on my left. Again, it was beautifully done, but it still didn’t win him a stick of rock so far as I was concerned. We went in under the high bar of the gate and up a drive floored with green stone chippings. They crunched uneasily under our feet. The front of the house looked blank and dead in the stillness of the day and the warmth of the sunlight. There was no-one about. The water lapped softly at the edges of the turquoise tiled swim pool. The green wood shutters were closed over the windows of the top floor and there were dark shadows between the big stilts on which the house was set.

  There was a white Dodge sport job parked in one half of the double car port; the car port had cream plastic roofing that reflected back the shimmer of the sun.

  He paused as we got up near the car.

  ‘Before we get that drink,’ he said, ‘I’d be obliged if you’d give me a hand with the car. My staff are away today or I wouldn’t have troubled you. I saw you go by and thought you might help.’

  He stood there blinking in the sunshine and trying to look genial. He didn’t make a very good job of it.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘What seems to be wrong?’

  He led the way in under the plastic roofing; the stench of gasoline came up strong and hot in the confined space.

  ‘Something shorting out under the bonnet,’ he said. ‘I’m a child at this sort of thing.’

  He leaned in under the instrument dash; there was a click and the bonnet of the white Dodge came up sweetly. I watched him closely. He smiled again, licked his lips. I kept my eye on his right-hand pocket.

  ‘I’ll have a look-see,’ I said. I had a pen-flashlight in my inside pocket and I got it out. The bald man stood aside and I walked around in front of him. I dropped the pen down on to the floor of the car-port. I bent down to pick it up. In the wing mirror of the Dodge I could see jug-ears. He reached down inside the body of the car and came up with a short, blunt-edge fire extinguisher. He whirled it above his head. I could see by the expression of his eyes that he was playing for keeps so I spun aside. The extinguisher came down with a crash on the car wing and a thin stream of foam came hissing out of the nozzle.

  He grunted but by this time I had got upright and put my right fist into his belly; to my surprise he was rock-hard here and though he sagged against the car and gave another grunt it didn’t stop him. I had the extinguisher arm by then and put the pressure on; saliva dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. The extinguisher twisted in his hand and he screamed as the liquid went into his eyes. He dropped it and whimpered in pain. The extinguisher went on squirting out foam over the cushions of the car. I put an arm-lock on and the sandy-fringed man rocked over the tonneau.

  ‘You chose the wrong man, old dear,’ I said softly. I brought the side of my hand down on the bridge of his nose with a crack. His eyes closed and he moaned. He started to go down and I slammed his head against the door panel to finish him off. He hit the concrete with a slap that seemed to rock the car-port and rolled over on his face. The hissing of the extinguisher went on.

  I went to the side of the house and listened; nothing moved in the garden except the tops of the trees, waving stiffly in the slight breeze. The sound of the birds went on. I went back into the car-port and picked up my pen. I put it back inside my pocket. I found I was breathing a little harder than I thought.

  The bald-headed man lay with his face to the concrete. I felt his heart. He was breathing heavily through his nose. I rolled him over so that he could get some air. He looked like he would be out around an hour. I lit a cigarette and studied him carefully. The thin hissing of the extinguisher finally ceased. The foam had made a mess of the Dodge interior. I pinched out the match between my thumb and forefinger and put it back in the box. I searched bald-head; he didn’t have a gun after all. The broad-shouldered man lay and breathed heavily at the plastic roofing.

  ‘You try something long and cool, chum,’ I said. I went out the car-port, treading softly on the grass and avoiding the gravel. I took the side entrance and went around the building. The place had that empty atmosphere that is quite unmistakable. We’d made enough row in the car-port to bring half a dozen people on the run if there’d been anybody home.

  There was a marble-floored terrace in rear of the building that must have cost more than the rented place I lived in over on Park West. There were one or two statues set on plinths up and down the terrace that looked like the real thing. There were cedarwood French doors that ran the length of the house here. I peered in; there was a library that must have been more than sixty feet long. The books in the shelves looked like they’d been read too; you can always tell when people buy books for show and when they actually read them. This looked like a real bibliophile’s lay-out. It didn’t tie in with the style of the man lying in the carport—if he did own the house, like he said.

  I frowned. I glanced around the garden; a lawn running to several acres faded out into the far distance; the waters of a lake sparkled behind a high hedge and farther off still, the fretted roof of a Chinese pavilion pricked the sky. I went down the
terrace trying the French doors, but they were all locked. I peeked through into several other rooms but there was no-one around.

  By now I had toured all the building and I had been away a quarter of an hour by my watch; it was time to get moving. I looked in the car-port as I passed but my friend in the grey suit hadn’t stirred from his position. It was a fine afternoon for a quiet sleep. I went back down the drive, my feet crunching loudly in the green gravel and the house sat and watched me from behind the green shutters.

  I walked back to the Buick and climbed in. I sat and finished off my cigarette. The wind sighed to itself in the tops of the trees and I wondered why truck-drivers got themselves killed and then disappeared and why well-dressed bibliophiles would want to get murderous with fire-extinguishers. But then I always do have trouble in figuring these things out at the beginning of a case. I began to see why Cardinal Bishop felt it was just a little too much for him to handle.

  I put the Buick in gear and tooled slowly down the canyon. The red-haired job was still sunning herself on the pool-patio as I passed. She gave me a lazy wave that disturbed my reasoning all the way back to L.A.

  2

  Stella leaned over my desk and arched her eyebrows in incredulity. ‘Seems like you always get in trouble as soon as my back’s turned,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I have that again?’

  I went through it once more. She grinned suddenly. ‘And you just left him lying there?’

  ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ I said. I lit a cigarette and walked over to the window and looked down at the boulevard; the traffic went by with a steady hum. Behind the partitioned-off alcove where we brewed the coffee the aroma of freshly-roasted beans came pleasantly to the nostrils. ‘Item one,’ I said. ‘A truck is hi-jacked and the driver murdered. Item two, the truck disappears.’

  ‘Then the body,’ put in Stella.

  ‘High marks for originality,’ I said. ‘Then a joker takes a swing at me. Ten to one he won’t be the owner of the house with the green shutters. That wouldn’t be very clever.’

  Stella ran a delicate finger through her honey-blonde hair and patted it into place. She wore a gold tailored suit that was held in by a black belt; her figure made pleasing undulations underneath it. She saw my glance and smiled; she went on patting her hair, confident in the ability of her profile to hold my attention.

  ‘This Mr. Bishop seems a nasty little man from what you say,’ she said.

  ‘And then some,’ I said. ‘His idea of getting tough is a straight three rounds with a Chihuahua. And then the dog would win on points.’

  Stella actually smiled at that; I went on smoking and looking at nothing in particular out of the window.

  ‘So where does it get us, Mike?’ asked Stella.

  ‘Nowhere,’ I said. ‘Except that the man with the fire extinguisher wasn’t there by accident. Odds are that he had something to do with the Kovacs kill.’

  ‘Which means you’ll have to look out there again,’ Stella said.

  I came over and sat down at my desk. Stella went and fussed with cups and saucers and pleasant liquids beyond the screen. I sat and finished my cigarette and waited for the coffee like one of Pavlov’s dogs. I guess I was becoming conditioned to Stella’s comforts. Which wasn’t entirely a good thing. Stella repeated her question. She put my coffee cup down on the blotter, fetched her own and sat down opposite.

  ‘I guess so,’ I said. ‘A look up the canyon seems to be indicated. Jug-ears may have had something to do with removing the body. He could have found the empty house and parked his car in the port and pretended to be the owner.’

  Stella cupped her hands round the coffee beaker and sipped thoughtfully.

  ‘My, we are a clever boy today,’ she said approvingly.

  ‘It’s all this sunlight,’ I said modestly. ‘Keeps the brain cells circulating.’

  ‘Or Archdeacon Pope or whatever he calls himself might be the biggest liar in Christendom,’ she said softly.

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ I said. I sipped at the black liquid in my cup. It grinned back up at me. Just then the phone buzzed.

  Stella’s body uncoiled out of her chair with a rustle and she languidly scooped up the phone from its cradle. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she handed it over to me.

  ‘The man himself,’ she said. She went back over to her own desk and picked up the extension, turned over her scratchpad.

  ‘Bishop here,’ said the voice.

  I sighed and settled back in my chair.

  ‘The answer is no,’ I said. ‘What’s the question?’

  Bishop’s voice, heavy with resignation and years of insult came over the wire. ‘Just wondered how you were making out.’

  ‘So-so,’ I said. ‘Nothing to report really. No body there. And some party with jug-ears and a natty line in suiting tried to part my hair with a fire-extinguisher.’

  Bishop’s breath went out in a loud puff at the other end and there was a long silence. I could feel his fright way off from where he was phoning.

  ‘Looks like I done right to come to you,’ he said at last.

  ‘You might say that,’ I admitted. ‘But the wear and tear will come out of your slice.’

  I heard a choking sound coming from the instrument; I held it away from my ear. Stella smiled at me, her hand over the mouthpiece of her own phone. When Bishop had recovered he started to make rather a lot of noise.

  ‘What’s your next move?’ he asked when he had calmed down.

  ‘I’ll decide that,’ I told him. ‘You just keep your fat hide out of trouble and go on about your rent-collecting.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be in touch, Mr. Faraday,’ he said gloomily.

  ‘You do that,’ I said and slammed the phone down. Stella smiled again. She listened at her phone for a while longer and then put it back on its plastic cradle.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be a very great bond of affection between you and Mr. Bishop,’ she said.

  ‘You haven’t met him,’ I told her.

  She was still smiling when I closed the door behind me.

  Chapter Three – Man With a Tin Leg

  1

  The head office of Alcazar Trucking was on one of the main stems on the other side of town. It was an impressive lay-out. I sent in my card to Davidson via a blonde job with tip-tilted breasts that were difficult to avoid looking at. She was dressed in a blue candy-striped blouse that strained against whatever she’d got underneath and her blue skirt that looked like it had been painted on her bare skin was vibrating at 68 r.p.m., as she walked down the hall away from me. Front or back it was a pleasure or an ordeal, whichever way you looked at it.

  Speaking for myself I can take that sort of stuff all day. She came back soon after and gave me a chance to study the front view.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Faraday. Mr. Davidson’s down in the yard supervising loading operations. If you’d like to wait...’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ I said. ‘I’ll go down and see him if it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘Surely,’ she said. ‘You can see the bay from this window.’

  I looked across from the office-block to where row after row of steel-girdered roofs rose on concrete piers. On the tarmac aprons in front, ranks of big Chewy trucks stood waiting; the air was heavy with the low thunder of their engines and the distinctive smell of diesel fuel came up hot and acrid through the open window.

  ‘How will I know him?’ I asked.

  The blonde job smiled slightly. ‘You’ll know him, Mr. Faraday. He’s only got one leg.’

  I nodded, gave her one of my Grade A smiles and went on out. I walked down a broad staircase walled in bleached natural wood paneling and through an entrance hall full of girl typists, whose efforts sounded like a colony of woodpeckers having a field day. I got down the granite steps flanking the glass-fronted block and struck out across the tarmac. If I thought I was looking for some sort of cripple I soon revised my thinking. I spotted Davidson some way off; he wa
s about eight feet tall and proportionately broad. He was swearing at a truck driver and walking rapidly down the bays at the same time; I noticed he had a limp but that was all. The truckie was having to run to keep up with him.

  When I caught up he was just finishing blasting the driver out. The other was a big man too, with sandy hair, but when Davidson had finished with him he looked white around the gills, and about two feet tall. If Davidson had gone on I figured he would soon have bust out crying.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said when Davidson gave him a slot in the monologue and scuttled back towards his cab.

  Davidson turned a couple of steel-grey eyes on me. ‘What can I do for you?’ he said curtly. He wasn’t impolite but there was frost on the syllables as thick as cake-icing. I handed him the Photostat of my license in the plastic holder. He studied it for a moment with eyes that looked like hoods had come down over them.

  ‘Another one, eh?’ he said gently. He passed me the folder back. ‘I figured Bishop wasn’t man enough for the job. You figure you’re big enough, Mr. Faraday?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said easily. ‘A boy’s a boy and a man’s a man and Bishop’s neither.’

  He relaxed a little but his voice was just as frosty. ‘I’m not paying two fees just to have you trace a missing truck,’ he said.

  ‘Did I say anything about money?’ I asked.

  He scuffed the tarmac with the toe of a tan leather riding boot.

  ‘Well, maybe I was a little sharp off the mark,’ he admitted. ‘Everyone puts the bite on me for something around here.’

  I said nothing but waited for him to go on.

  ‘We’d better go in the office,’ he said. ‘We can talk better in there.’

  He caught me looking down at his leg. There was an identical brown boot on each foot so I guessed he was wearing one of the fancy tin sort.

  ‘Okinawa,’ he said softly. ‘But don’t waste your sympathy. You’ll find I can keep up all right.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I just wondered why your secretary had to mention it at all.’