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  Killer with a Key

  ( Johnny Killain - 2 )

  Dan Marlowe

  Dan Marlowe

  Killer with a Key

  CHAPTER 1

  Johnny Killain could see Jeff Landry's slender figure shiningly reflected from the bronzed walls of the service elevator, diminutive alongside his own bulk in its blue-gray uniform. He threw open the cab door and glanced out over the lobby before turning to look inquiringly at the blond man and nodding in the direction of the bar. “One for the road, Jeff? You might like Tommy's better.”

  Jeff Landry shook his head apologetically. “I know I've been poor company, Johnny, but it wasn't your drinks.”

  “So why rush off? You just got here. I don't see you all that often.”

  “Restless, I guess.”

  “Just what is it that's botherin' you, Jeff? An' in case you've forgotten I already asked you the same thing upstairs. You act like a man with something on his mind.”

  “It'll keep,” the slender man said lightly. “When am I going to see you over at my place? We put the animals to bed any time after eight, you know.”

  “I'll get over there, for sure. I know I keep sayin' that, but I will. Business bad, Jeff?”

  Jeff Landry's lips tightened. “Business is… well, actually, business is fine, Johnny.”

  “That's not what you started to say, though.”

  “No third degree, now.” The blond man smiled. He turned left, toward the foyer. “Don't mind my bad manners-please? And thanks for the drinks.”

  “I'll be over to lower the level on your bottle.”

  “You do that.” Jeff Landry waved as he exited, and Johnny looked after him thoughtfully. He had known Jeff Landry for some time, and this abrupt departure after such a short visit was out of character. He should probably get over to Jeff's and try to find out… he should probably He shrugged, inched a cigarette free from the pack in his breast pocket and moved toward the foyer and the street. On the sidewalk he breathed in the warm summer night, then slumped in spine-to-shoulders recumbency against the polished granite buttress of the hotel entrance as he lit his cigarette. The street was quiet; at this hour the neighborhood was quiet. The Hotel Duarte was quiet, too, Johnny reflected; they could use a little business.

  He half straightened from his drowsing introspection as a taxicab pulled into the curb in front of him. He flipped his cigarette out into the street and regretted it immediately when he saw that the cab was empty. He debated lighting another; it didn't seem worth the effort. “You. You, there, bellhop.”

  Johnny focused reluctantly on the long visored baseball cap and the pointing finger extended in his direction from the cab. He grunted uncharitably but propelled himself from the supporting wall. He crossed the sidewalk in the swaying shuffle dictated by nature's over-endowment of chest and shoulders, and his voice was a burred growl. “I'm listenin', Mac.”

  “You Johnny?” The baseball cap jerked a thumb back over its shoulder. “Woman wants to see you. Eight or ten doors up the street. She wouldn't let me bring her down here.”

  “Drunk?”

  The lean features under the cap squinted appraisingly. “I don't-she's anyhow walking. Not makin' a hell of a lot of sense, though, maybe you're right.”

  “She pay you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I'll take care of it.”

  “It's all yours, chum.” The cab pulled away and rolled west down Forty-fifth, and Johnny turned right and walked in the opposite direction, toward Sixth Avenue. In the light of the liquor store window next door to the hotel his bronzed, high-cheekboned face, rough yellow hair and pale, thick brows, frosty gray eyes and a nose that hooked left and right unexpectedly from unset breaks contributed to a hard-bitten effect.

  He walked purposefully. It wouldn't be the first time a female guest had gazed upon wine too freely flowing and requested anonymous re-entry to her room. Must be someone who knew him, though, since they'd used his name. It was pure hell handling a drunken woman; this would more than likely be a mess.

  “Johnny!” He pulled up at the husky, low-voiced call; he'd passed her. Whoever it was had ducked in behind the wooden door to a sleazy upstairs rooming house. He tried to make out features in the pale blur that was all he could distinguish as he walked toward her; in the shadows of the doorway he had one lightning-like teasing tug from his subconscious, and then recognition burst upon him. It rocked him. “Ellen! What are you doing here?”

  Her hand gripped his arm convulsively as he stared down at her. In the partial darkness he could see bare arms and shoulders shimmering above her dress; there was sudden movement in the crook of the arm held protectively across her body, and it took him a moment longer to identify the small, lightish blob silhouetted against her dress as a white kitten. He poked an inquiring finger at it, and the kitten hissed at him. “Who's the passenger, Ellen?”

  She might never have heard him. “You've got to help me, Johnny!” She clung fiercely to his arm.

  “Did I ever say no to that proposition, kid?” The huskiness in his voice surprised him; it hadn't come out sounding quite as flippant as he had intended. A long time ago-well, six or seven years ago-Ellen Saxon had been married to Johnny Killain. Temporarily. Two short years temporarily, he reminded himself. Yeah, and one of you has never gotten over it.

  The hand on his arm tightened. “Hide me, Johnny. Please! Some place in the hotel. I've got to-think. Please, Johnny!”

  “Hide you? What's spooked you, kid?”

  He could hear the hysteria rising in her voice. “Please! Don't talk. Get me off the street. Please!”

  He tried to see her face more clearly, but the shadows prevented it. He shrugged in the gloom; Ellen was really upset, and she wasn't the type to become upset easily. Well, one thing at a time. First get her settled down-he took her arm. “Let's go. I'll register you in and get-”

  “No! No registering!” Panic soared in the so-well-remembered voice. “Please, Johnny! Just hide me!”

  He didn't like it. There aren't too many crimes you can commit around a hotel more serious than slipping in an unregistered person. He opened his mouth, then closed it. She was scared to death. Of somebody or something. She was scared, and she'd come to him. He drew her toward the sidewalk. “I'll load you on the service elevator from the alley. Nobody'll see us.”

  “You're sure?” With her first step she crowded up against him, and a little shiver ran through him. Cut it out, he told himself impatiently; all that was dead and buried five years ago. But the little shiver paid no attention to what he told himself.

  “Sure I'm sure. Come on.” He could feel her reluctance to move from the shelter of the doorway, and he increased the pressure on her arm. “Let's go, kid.” He noticed at once in the slightly better light on the sidewalk that her hair was different. Hell, in five years she'd probably had it cut five different ways. He'd liked it better the old way, though. He wondered if she remembered how she'd worn it then. How He only half heard the light squeal of brakes in the street behind them. He didn't begin to react until she had jerked free from his hand and backed away from him with the ridiculous kitten still on her arm and her mouth a little round O. He could see her throat swell suddenly, and her voice was a bugle in the upper register.

  “Johnny-!”

  The bugle blurted to a gargle as he slapped her firmly in the belly; she doubled and sat down like a well-oiled hinge. He was already on his way down to the sidewalk beside her when the four staccato reports went off behind him. Automatic, he told himself as he heard the splintering thud of the bullets in the rooming house's wooden door, and he rolled over to get his knees under him. He could see the dark sedan stopped right in the middle of the street. No sound from Ellen-no
time to look. With thick rage a solid thing in his throat he surged up and charged the sedan.

  A solitary brain cell registered the hasty rolling up of the front window on the driver's side an instant before Johnny rammed heavily against the door of the sedan. He grunted as he rebounded and smashed an impotent fist against the glass. He stooped, gripped the outer edge of the car frame and heaved mightily. The sedan rocked; Johnny bowed his back, and the motor roared. Tires screeched- he grabbed the door handle as he straightened, the sedan shot away from him with a rush of power and he was spun off into the street.

  He rolled over twice and struck the curb with his shoulder. A flickering blackness deeper than the after-midnight street darkness hovered for an instant and then cleared. Ellen knelt beside him in the gutter, and her voice was an urgent contralto litany. “Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!”

  He sat up dizzily. “All right, kid. Save it for when you need it.” He tried to look up at her and found himself at eye level with the solemn, unblinking gaze of the white kitten still in the crook of Ellen's arm. He nodded approvingly. “You got the right idea, Whitey. Let's not get too shook over this little corrida.” He heaved himself to his knees. “Come on, Ellen. No barricades out here if there should be a rebuttal.” She took his arm anxiously.

  On the sidewalk beside them a high-pitched voice spoke in the accents of age. “Craziest thing I ever seen, Jack. You tryin' to tip him over in the street?” He was a thin, elderly man with wispy gray hair, and he looked at Johnny as at some strange animal.

  Johnny eased himself erect; it took an effort. Something seemed to be the matter with his right hand, and he looked down at it. He was still holding the door handle of the sedan; it took a little prying with his left hand to loosen it from his right palm, and it clattered into the gutter. He removed the jacket of his uniform, with a reminding twinge from his arm, and swung it over Ellen's bare shoulders; the white glow of her must be visible clear to Broadway, he thought.

  “Holy Maria!” the high-pitched voice said in awed accents. “Tore the handle right offa the door. Right offa the damn-”

  “Okay, Pop.” Johnny looked hard at him. “Stop racin' your motor. Blow. Deal 'em somewheres else. Fly away home.”

  The elderly man backed off precipitately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Sure.” He kept looking back over his shoulder.

  They did not seem to have attracted too much other attention, Johnny reflected, which considering the neighborhood and the hour was not too surprising. That couldn't reasonably be expected to endure indefinitely, though; as he again started Ellen toward the hotel he strained mentally to get a reaction from his one quick glimpse of the dark, shapeless figure that had been huddled over the steering wheel of the sedan. He shook his head; he didn't even know if it had been man, woman, or child.

  Ellen's pumps scuffed along beside him in the night mist on the alley cobblestones. He led her through the big iron door that led into the hotel's subbasement and along the narrow fifteen-foot passageway to the elevator. In its light he got his first good look at her; Ellen's lipstick grimaced at him like a clown's mouth in the pallor of her face as she tried to smile at him. “Same old Johnny.”

  “Same old Ellen.” Not really, though, he thought. The body that had been so youthfully promising had now spectacularly matured. Her dress did not hint at it; it stated it firmly. The eyes were the same-level, intelligent. Blue eyes that contrasted well with the dark hair and the duskily Indianized complexion. Her brows were black wings. He could see the indistinct tiny scar on the short upper lip, souvenir of a childhood accident. The tiny scar that appeared only when she was extremely fatigued or emotionally aroused. He remembered with a wrench the hours and the nights he had spent in provoking the appearance of the little scar; Ellen had always been a very generous person. Something seemed to ache dully behind his eyeballs. On Ellen's arm the kitten tongued a paw and transferred the paw to its small, serious face.

  She spoke tiredly from the depths of her exhaustion. “You didn't have to do that, Johnny. Or this, either. I realize it now. I shouldn't have asked you. I have no right. I just panicked-”

  He stopped her with a finger on her lips. “Some things don't change much, kid. Let's go upstairs.”

  Her voice was choked. “Johnny?”

  “Skip it, Ellen.” He extended a finger toward the kitten, and the white ruff around the small neck swelled angrily. “This kid is right on the muscle, isn't he? What's his name?”

  “He's a she. A Persian. I'm delivering-I call her Sassy.”

  “Suits her.” He tried to pin her eyes with his own, but she evaded him. “You gonna tell me now about this skirmish?”

  He could see the flesh tighten over her cheekbones as her features set rigidly. She shook her head. “Not now. Please.”

  “Right now, lady. You think this is something to fool around with after what just happened outside?”

  Her hand came up slowly in an effort to conceal the trembling of her lips. “Please, Johnny. I saw… I think I saw something-” She hesitated. “I'm not sure what I saw. I've got to think. I've-” Her body began to shake uncontrollably, and she moistened dry lips. “Let me rest a little, Johnny. Let me think. Then-then I'll talk to you… please.”

  He gave up. He would have to get her quieted down first; then he would get the whole story. He slid the shining bronze doors shut in a crash of metal, and the elevator ascended quietly.

  CHAPTER 2

  The customer entered briskly through the wide glass doors of Stone's and walked directly to the watch trays. The stout young clerk in the white linen jacket paused in his early morning task of removing the lightweight linen dustcloths from the showcases and moved in behind the counter. The subdued indirect fluorescent lighting, the lush, heavy carpeting, the elaborately simple individual displays and the ornate marble staircase winding away to the offices on the second floor all contributed to the cathedral-like serenity which was the hallmark of Stone's, Jewelers.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You Manny Kessler? Tom Jenkins told me to look you up. Said you might have the Medallion in the Donada line.”

  Warmth came into the clerk's voice. “I'm Kessler, and we do have the Medallion, sir.” Jenkins? Tom Jenkins? Manny Kessler couldn't remember a Tom Jenkins, but he had not the slightest trouble at all in remembering that the Medallion was the most expensive ladies' number in the line. He opened a drawer beneath the counter and removed a glistening minuscule watch which he displayed on the black velvet pad of the showcase. “An exceptional value, sir.”

  The customer picked up the watch and turned it over in his hands appraisingly.

  “The very finest twenty-one jeweled movement, sir. And look at the styling. The very-”

  “I'll take it.”

  Manny nodded, and turned immediately to pick up a gift box from the back counter. A bit disconcerting to have the animals walk in off the street and jerk the merchandise right out of your hand, but a sale is a sale. Never offer to show them anything after they've pronounced the fatal words. Procrastination is the thief of commissions. “Charge, sir?”

  “Cash.” The customer fingered out four crisp new bills from a slim billfold. He picked up his wrapped package and a very small amount of change and left as rapidly as he had entered. Manny shrugged as he closed the register drawer. Not a bad start.

  He moved back in the direction of the still jacketed showcases, then detoured to the front of the shop. Behind the front window he paused; he was concealed from the eyes of passers-by by the heavy, dove-gray drapery which served as a window backdrop. He moved a fold slightly to one side and looked across the street.

  Sam was there.

  Sam was standing just behind the front window of his store across the street. Watching. Just standing and watching, as he had yesterday, last week and last month. Standing and staring across the street. You didn't really even need to see him, Manny thought to himself. You can feel him.

  He forced himself to move away from the window. Stop thinking about
it, he told himself. You're getting as bad as he is. Forget about Sam. An ulcer you need? Sam would like that. Sam would like that fine, but ulcers are too good for what Sam would wish for Richard Harrison Stone, Jr.

  He walked back to the showcases, but even as his hands deftly folded and creased and laid away his mind treacherously reverted to the front window of the store across the street. For the thousandth time he told himself wearily, will you cut it out? You hadn't been Sam's partner. Richard Harrison Stone, Jr. had been Sam's partner, and you didn't see Richard Harrison Stone, Jr. worrying about Sam.

  Manny stared down unseeingly at a folded dust cloth. Richard Harrison Stone, Jr. had insisted that his former partner Sam buy him out. He had had a number of reasons, all of which Sam had sought to brush aside. Sam hadn't wanted to buy out his young partner; Sam had the money, all right, but he was satisfied with things as they were. Still, if your partner wants out, what can you do? Sam had called Sol, who had been his lawyer for twenty years, and Sol had drawn up the papers.

  And three months later Richard Harrison Stone, Jr. had opened up across the street from Sam. Sam had just about torn the front door off his safe getting out his reduction of partnership papers and had found out in a hurry that there was no restrictive clause. Found out, too, in the first hysterical telephone call that Sol had acquired a new client- Richard Harrison Stone, Jr.

  Sam had found it out a little late, that was all. In business a man protects himself, or stands in windows looking across the street.

  Manny looked up at the glass doors as they opened again, glad of the interruption. The fat man came directly to him, bluff and hearty, and thrust a magazine clipping into his hand.

  “Need six of these,” he said breezily. He grinned toothily. “Promotion job. Got to be identical. You fix me up?”

  “Six?” Manny glanced down at the pictured Medallion. “Ah… six. Certainly. By two o'clock-”